Romancing the Scone

Romantic hysteria at Boqueria

2012-02-15T22:10:00.000-08:00

Tapas is not the least bit trite in Manhattan, judging from the surplus of lookers brunching at the Soho spot of Boqueria. The beloved den tickles the palates of weight-wary New Yorkers with pronounced Spanish flavors in small plates format. Communal tables and treetop two seaters shooting off from an open kitchen create a smart layout that produces a natural convivial vibe. Me and my dining cohort Finale seemed to find ourselves caught between a sea of lovey dovey couples who courted each other over pitchers of sangria, almond stuffed dates and mountains of seafood paella. We puckered up to servings of a vixenous red Mimosa and traditional Sangria to start, which bulged with fruity punch but seemed to miss that healthy shock of alcohol.

From that sweet surge, we then segued to a helping of earthy decadence through the Salteado de Setas, a dish of sauteed wild mushrooms peeking out from a blanket of piquant Manchego cheese. A wedge of Tortilla Espanola, a triangular puzzle piece yanked from a giant, rotund "cake" landed on our table as more of a pie rather than the described omelet. Still, we cooed over the buttery potatoes encased in the dense, egg batter. The slab of wood anchoring the tortilla was simple but charming, particularly when touched with a zig zag of salty aioli and smattering of glistening olives. As for the third dish we ordered, a straightforward goat cheese omelet, it tasted rather bland and pedestrian, like something you could whip up at home on a lethargic Sunday morning. Thankfully, a companion of Patatas Bravas - crispy potatoes - offset the omelet's lackluster persona with their charred skin and bits of garlic.

If you'd like to peddle back to the tapas days of yore, Boqueria is your girl, spinning out true-to-form Spanish flavors in compact dishes, all to be enjoyed in a vibrant environment, as if you're in the throes of the Boqueria market itself. The only thing to stomach are the lovely dovey couples.

Boqueria (Soho location)
171 Spring St
Ph: 212-343-4255
Web site: www.boquerianyc.com

Heros for hipsters

2012-02-12T09:37:00.000-08:00

It's a bit of a mismatch that the hip Ace Hotel occupies a patch of Manhattan's garment district. The hotel's strong emphasis on vintage-inspired aesthetics clashes with the nabe's surplus of discount plastic baubles and faux snakeskin handbags. I often wonder if these vendors and shopkeepers fear an avalanche of brooding guys and gals, clad in skinny jeans, old timey vests and black-rimmed glasses, invading their rough-and-tumble digs. Are there "hipster crossing" signs planted somewhere, alerting residents and delivery trucks of this prevalent demographic?

Culinary offerings within the hotel cater to a smug hipster palate. There's the much-squawked about Breslin, Amy Bloomfield's trademark signature gastropub where lamb burgers get flipped and rustic chicken liver transforms into a regal parfait. Nearby, Bloomfield's seafood suite, the John Dory, doles out oysters and ceviche in a nautical green and blue setting. Even the brewmaster at the Ace Hotel is Stumptown coffee, the independent java roaster from Portland, the ultimate Hipster metropolis. And just around the corner is No. 7 Sub, an extension of the No. & restaurant and hero shop based in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

To suit its funky hipster audience, No. 7 Sub melds together off-beat ingredients that round out to a surprisingly cohesive sandwich of hoagie lengths. Though I could have chowed down to a quirky zucchini parm or General Tso's tofu, I gravitated toward the most standard sub on the list - a corned beef brisket. My meat tooth was severely aching that day. A shoebox of a spot, No. 7 sub is meant for taking out, not lounging around. Even if you score a swatch of space at the counter, there's not much to physically fawn over other than a collection of abstract paintings, the wintry scene outdoors and the viewable kitchen. It's as if they're dangling their minimalist approach blatantly in your face.

I scooted out and took my corned beef sub into the pitch-black corridors of the Ace Hotel's lobby. Even if you're not lucky enough to be a guest of this James Dean-cool hotel, you can still drop by to simply hang out. Complimentary Wi-Fi, a speakeasy type bar and plush chairs are just a few of its top draws. I plopped down on a stately chair covered with worn cushions, finding myself caught between a pair of programmer types and another duo gabbing away on their film projects. Because of the Ace's dim lighting, my sub's mug shot resulted in a fuzzy, faceless look. Essentially, it's a slim sandwich roughly measuring to 9 inches or so. The bread boasts a balanced marriage of chewy and crusty. And though it's not towering with corned beef and Swiss cheese, there's enough to sate a normal hunger. A sweet and savory mystery sauce awakens the succulent corned beef brisket, devoid of fat, by the way. At $9, these casual subs fetch a pretty penny, but with dismal delis and cafeterias peddling mediocre sandwiches at only one or two dollars less, the hipster price for this hipster food is quite a bargain. With such eclectic offerings at No. 7 sub, it's no wonder the place is bombarded by hipsters, prepping their jaws for gnawing away on one sub after another. Sooner or later, those skinny jeans will prove to feel a bit snug.

No. 7 Sub
1188 Broadway between 28/29 St
New York, NY 10001
Ph: 212-532-1680
Web site: http://no7sub.com

Sweet nothings

2012-02-09T16:12:00.000-08:00

As adventurous as I am with auditioning eccentric foods, I admit I'm not that daring when it comes to sampling offal. I simply can't dismiss the thought that these are throwaway parts coming straight from the deep insides of an animal. The most audacious move I'll make is snuggling up to a heap of pate but that's liver cranked out to a refined, molded texture, not slammed onto the plate in one colossal hunk. I can trade quips with cow's tongue as long as the meat gets shredded into fine pieces like what you encounter in a taco. A slab of tongue jutting out from a sandwich, on the other hand, is too lifelike and rustic for conservative me. I'll save such a mischievous dish for the likes of Mick Jagger.

I've been curious about sweetbreads ever since it made its celebratory splash here in the States, crowding the tabletops of contemporary gastropubs and old-world Italian restaurants alike. Circa 2008 is when they gained notoriety here in Manhattan, though I'm sure they were widely trumpeted beforehand by bon vivants in the know. A colloquial cover-up for the thymus gland of a calf, sweetbreads are a delicacy in Southern European and Middle Eastern cultures, where not a flesh or organ of the animal goes to waste. In preparation for a dinner outing at celebrity chef Alex Stratta's Bigoli, a tony Italian hotspot affixed to a row of equally tony town homes, I studied the restaurant's menu the night before. It features a heavy crop of peasant-style dishes, including pappardelle with braised oxtail, pork chop Prosciutto, warm duck salad and our star specialty, sweetbread ravioli. This discovery was met with part jubilance and part reluctance. Though I was ecstatic to try them, my teeth chattered with trepidation.

I was dining with a vegetarian friend, whose normal cocoa complexion turned to a shade of latte when I revealed the not-so-sweet identity of sweetbreads. I think she practically choked on her sourdough bread and pesto (which is the tops of all pestos we've ever eaten, may I add). “So what do you think of the sweetbreads,” I queried our water, a tall but aw-shucks kind of guy who probably finds offal awful? He smiled tersely. “Uh...it's sweet,” he answered awkwardly, voice quivering and eyes darting away. “Sweet,” I asked impatiently? “You know what sweetbreads are don't you?” I didn't mean to insult him, but I didn't fancy his meek answer. “Yes,” he nodded. “They're, uh, well you know...” He was stammering and nervously clasping his hands, as if being questioned by the NYPD. “Thymus glands,” I finished with a perturbed hint to my voice. I couldn't quite discern if he had trouble recalling the true identity of sweetbreads or if he was trying to thwart off an en route gag reflex for uttering the barbaric words, “thymus glands.” “How are they prepared,” I quizzed him? “Are the sweetbreads pureed and stuffed in the ravioli?” “They are,” he replied, this time almost scholarly. “But on the top of the ravioli, you'll also get whole pieces of sweetbread.”

I gulped. The pureed sweetbread would be a breeze to handle, but unadulterated, brawny chunks of sweetbread? Well, I simply just had to muster up the courage for such alpha fare. As I waited for this prized dish to arrive, I wondered if I should have opted for the pappardelle with braised oxtail instead? Oh how I love the thick ribbons of egg-y pappardelle and succulent oxtail meat! It was too late to change my order and besides, I needed to sate my curiosity with these renegade sweetbreads. An elegant shallow bowl arrived, anchoring the much coveted meal of the evening. A quintet of ravioli as cute as toy flying saucers came crowned with blocks of sweetbread which mimicked the look of tofu (and how I wished they were tofu at that very moment). I forked into the ravioli with confidence. Ironically, the pasta itself tasted thick and egg-y, much like the pappardelle that I was wistfully longing for. Now for the insides (no pun intended). Combined with Parmigiano and broken down to teeny bits, the sweetbreads weren't offensive at all. Taste wise, it possessed a tinge of iron and mild earthiness. There was a slight pungency and pasty texture similar to pate. As for those hefty blocks of sweetbreads, I wish I could profess the same sentiments. The taste itself was sophisticated and clean, reminding me very much of seared foie gras, but the animalistic scent was overpowering. As I brought each forkful towards my mouth and nostrils, I nearly passed out. Even as I smothered the sweetbreads with copious amounts of brown butter, the aroma still managed to rise up and offend. I couldn't withstand this butcher-like smell. Even when popped into my mouth, the scent still tickled my nostrils. I only managed to down one whole piece of sweetbread. As for the rest, I left them still and untouched and shoved my plate away in disdain. I sucked up every last bit of the ravioli, however, proud of my sweetbread prowess, albeit pureed. The waiter whizzed by and noticed the remaining sweetbread. “Didn't like them, huh.” he asked with an obvious smirk on his face? “Pureed and stuffed in the ravioli, they're delicious,” I replied. “Whole however, the smell is just too strong to take.”

Despite my aversion to sweetbreads' natural odor, I would certainly eat it again pureed or slathered in a clever sauce that can mask the sinister smell. It's daring enough just to eat it, but who's daring enough to breathe in the scent, too?

Bigoli140 W. 13th St.
New York, NY
Ph: 212-647-1001
Web site: http://www.bigolirestaurant.com/

Say bonjour to Dominique Ansel

2012-02-05T16:00:00.000-08:00

When engrossed in eyeing all the vogue wares that Soho has to offer, pause from your retail expedition and unload at Dominique Ansel Bakery. This wedge of a bakery set on the west end of Spring Street gets lost in the frenzy of frilly boutiques and odds and ends shops. Despite the bakery's modest front, the goods inside embody a Parisian chicness. The man peeking out from behind the namesake, after all, is a Daniel pastry alum who marries his classic French training with a modern sensibility. Ansel churns out such of-the-now treats like the salted caramel eclair, salted pistachio cream puff and a lemon yuzu tart that appeal to hip appetites. He's wise enough to also stay true to traditional French treats, as seen in his bevy of pastel meringues and stacks of candy-colored macarons. Buttery croissants and coquettish madelines are also a prominent fixture among Ansel's assortment of old-hat French fare. The heated atrium in the back allots customers a snapshot of the wintry scene outdoors from an indoor vantage point. Pull up to a perfectly circular passion fruit chocolate cake encased within a glazed shell of chocolate and adorned with abstract chocolate bark. The tangy fruit tucked inside offsets the richness of the chocolate cake. A crackly chocolate base adds a bonus texture. Ansel's “Mini Me” cake looms large on flavor. Layers of dense and mousse chocolate complement one another while kisses of chocolate meringues provide whimsical décor and an airy pop in the mouth. And if you can't plunk down the beaucoup wads of cash for haute platforms, you can still feel rather supreme eating these haute desserts.

Dominique Ansel Bakery189 Spring St.
New York, NY
Ph: 212-219-2773
Web site: http://www.dominiqueansel.com/

Get loco for Choco Bolo

2012-02-05T15:53:00.000-08:00

Lazy Sunday afternoons should be languished away at cozy bakeries where nibbling on decadent cakes and sipping rich cupfuls of coffee concoctions is a leisurely NYC sport. The Choco Bolo outpost on Soho's Spring Street is especially welcoming, it's warm, yet upbeat atmosphere calling to mind dreamy moments in your own den at home. The parlor is as slim as a vintage cigarette case, but the limited legroom seems to pull strangers together. You can't help but strike up a jovial conversation or bump elbows with the patron sitting next door to you (play the video at the bottom to get a sense of the lively scene). The understated furniture seeps with style: the most notable fashionable elements are the recycled buttons puncturing the chair cushions and banquette seats, for example. Pristine white walls whisper a minimalist attitude.

Many of the menu items draw their inspiration from the French. For a weighty mid-day snack, try gobbling up every morsel of Choco Bolo's gargantuan ham and cheese croissant, if you so dare. Heavy slices of ham and Swiss cheese protrude from crisp and buttery croissant. Though quadruple digits in calories, the overall feel and taste is clean and classic. Daintier appetites will take pleasure in a cigar-shaped phyllo treat packed with a crumbly almond paste (a mess to handle). And those with extreme lavish inclinations can sample slivers of Choco Bolo's signature ganache cakes. Zesty orange awakens the depths of the cocoa flavors of one cake while pistachio bits flavor another with a nutty sass. Secure an intimate seat by the window, where you partake in another leisurely NYC sport – people gawking.

Choco Bolo (Soho branch)55 A Spring St.
New York, NY
Ph: 212-343-CAKE
Web site: www.chocobolo.com

It's a dog eat dog world....

2012-01-29T21:06:00.000-08:00

Much bark has been circulating throughout Manhattan regarding the recent debut of Japadog, a hot dog cafe imported from not Japan itself, but food-crazed Vancouver. Novelty lovers are intrigued by the quintessential Japanese "accoutrements" adorning the franks which transform once-upon-a-time plain dogs to edible masterpieces. Staid relish and sauerkraut - by all means classic condiments - get dismissed for fishy bonito flakes, a bevy of dried shrimp and even a heap of Yakisoba noodles. And vegetarians can enjoy a fair chomp of Japadog as well with franks made from the wonders of edamame and mock meat. Even celebrities ranging from social media titan Mark Zuckerberg to rap maven Ice Cube frequent the halls of Japadog. But is Japadog all bark and no bite? Matt and I set out to taste test the cooking chops of this offbeat brand, hoping to discover that it offered more than just another imaginative Japanese gimmick.

The Gotham City branch is rightfully planted in the heart of skittery St. Marks Place, home of other Japanese food dens, tchotchke shops and affordable take-out joints. Droves of NYU students and East Villagers litter the neighborhood, habitually on the lookout for cheap thrills and hipster fads. Let's pray Japadog won't be a fleeting past time. We ordered our gourmet wieners at the counter, fast food style, and witnessed the devoted kitchen staff in action, even catching one peppy fella gliding a mini blow torch across a newly decorated hot dog. As we waited for someone to bellow out our number, we sunk ourselves into the pop-art scenery, admiring the trendy, but unpretentious interior. Contemporary typography bursting in orange matches up to cherry red space-aged stools and geometric stack-able chairs. Even sans the hot dogs, it's a happy environment to escape to when the brash Manhattan madness wears you down to gossamer textures.

To raise the stakes in our taste testing, we shared a trio of come-hither dogs, first biting into the Tonkatsu dog. Traditional panko-crusted pork cutlets, formed into mini size, sat cheek-to-cheek against a Kurobuta pork sausage. A double exposure to the pig if you will. With minimal grease, the pork cutlets didn't bungle the meatiness of the dog or soak the bread. Drizzled on top was a zig zag of sweet and tangy Tonkatsu sauc. Zesty shreds of cabbage completed the package. We forged ahead with another "twofer," this time sampling an Arabiki sausage link (ground pork) snuggled up to a pair of croquettes - Japanese mashed potato patties also coated in Panko. Like the pork cutlets, the Tonkatsu-dressed croquettes held scant drops of grease. We loved the stark contrast between the snappy frank and the supple croquettes. Lastly, we divvied up an order of Japadog's signature wiener, the Terimayo, aptly named for the Teriyaki sauce and mayo that smothers a plump beef dog. A pile of seaweed chiseled to matchsticks was the final installment of "stock" Japanese flavors to accessorize this hot dog. Of the three, we liked the Terimayo the least, but in its defense, it's tough to measure up to two counterparts jammed with hearty accessories (the pork cutlets and the croquettes). Overall, the franks at Japadog are chubby and juicy. The flair isn't just flair. They're fresh, plentiful and strategically thought out to yield hot dogs with character and substance. Even the bread impressed us: monstrous vessels that were subtly toasted plus successful in keeping themselves intact.

A penchant for producing whimsical but serious hot dogs isn't Japadog's only bailiwick. The "shaked fries," are prized for their crisp texture and skinny shape. We ordered the Schichimi and garlic, potent spuds heated up with a dash of Nanami Togarashi spice (hot pepper). The condiment bar at Japadog brims with jars of sauerkraut, relish, pickles, peppers and that ubiquitous bottle of Sriracha sauce. Unless you order your hot dog Plain Jane (and for shame if you do!), there's no need to disrupt your bundles of well-outfitted franks with extra doo dads. If you need to erase the savory film that lingers on your tongue, Japadog's got the solution for dessert: tame your sweet tooth with the Ice Age, three scoops of ice cream crammed in - what else - a deep-fried bun. Fork or spoon are optional.

Japadog
30 St. Marks Place
New York, NY
Ph: N/A
Web site: http://www.japadog.com

Miles away

2012-01-27T22:50:00.000-08:00

On the water's edge of Seneca Lake towers a classic estate exuding regal mystique, sharply jabbed by the leafless branches of the trees that dot the sprawling properly. It may look like the small-town retreat of a bombastic tycoon or just another vacation hut shared among a slew of Kennedys, but this stunning structure is home to Miles Wine Cellars in Himrod, NY. Once you unravel yourself from the svelte Greek revival columns and saunter your way into the tasting room, you'll be surprised to find a homey enclave much more approachable than what the pristine exterior conveys. A cozy bar gives off a living room feel, helping to alleviate the jittery nerves of novice oenophiles still green in their sniffing and swirling skills. Even the lanky wine tender joined us for a convivial glass, bridging the sometimes distant gap between taster and salesperson. The adjacent shop spills with boxes of wine, with bottles casually jutting out, ready for the snatching.

Likes its competitors all across the Finger Lakes, Miles boasts its own spin on the Reisling, but it's celebrated for its fleet of sultry reds, too. We practically swallowed the 2009 Lemberger, a deep plum wine popping with lip-smacking berry flavor and delivering inklings of cinnamon and fig. It's a seductive little number that can charm the gamy reserve of lamb and venison and nip at the sweetness of chocolate. A 50/50 split of Merlot and Cab Franc forms the sophisticated 2007 Milestone. Aged in oak barrels for two years, the flavors are timeless, generously doling out robust tobacco and raspberry to the palate. The whimsical title of "Call Me a Cab" wooed us but so did the depths of its flavors. Peppery components that entwine with decadent blackcurrants meld well with zesty, old-hat dishes probably sitting in your fridge like chili, pizza and Buffalo chicken wings. These down home meals deserve a worldly wine pairing, too.

So how does Miles distinguish itself from its vino neighbors of the Finger Lakes? What may rattle you a bit is that Miles even brews its own batch of Pale Ale by the name of Callista. The sudsy concoction is light and crisp, dazzling frothy imbibers with its Pilsner base and notes of caramel. What may illicit some gasps and gulps are the ghoulish characters who supposedly roam the corridors of this immaculate building. To pay tribute to these sociable ghosts, the proprietors have even conjured up an impish wine called "Ghost," a haunting blend of Chardonnay and Cayuga corked in a specially made bottle etched with an ethereal image of a mademoiselle and the classic estate she lives in. Let's make those spirits a double....

Miles Wine Cellars
168 Randall Rd
Himrod, NY
Ph: 607-243-7742
Web sites: www.mileswinecellars.com

Frostbitten

2012-01-24T20:43:00.000-08:00

It wasn't the shrewd chills of Seneca Lake that chapped our lips, but the wintry splashes of a crisp 2010 Frost Cuvee. Instead of wrapping ourselves around a mug of steamy hot apple cider to thwart off the bitter cold of Geneva, NY, Matt and I puckered up to this proprietary ice-capped brew to pay homage to the wicked weather. The renegade blend of Reisling, Gewurztraminer, Chardonnay, Pinot Noir and Sauvignon Blanc delivers beguiling apricot and peachy flavors with a hint of rose and citrus and finally tapers off with a spicy finish. It's clean and unfussy, a surprising outcome for such experimental components.

Frost Cuvee can be scooped up from the lush wine collection of Hermann J. Wiemer, right off of the rambling road of Route 14. A native of the Mosel Valley in Germany, Wiemer leveraged his expertise of producing Reislings in his home country to cultivating Reislings in the core of the Finger Lakes, where the cunning lake effect climate rivals that of its European competitor. We sampled droplets of Wiemer's signature wine, a 2010 dry Reisling, exuding lime and apricot tastes and ripples of grapefruit. Also for the sipping was a puddle of 2010 Gewurztraminer - though an inescapable tongue twister, it was a breeze to down, exhibiting a flirty aroma of freshly plucked rose petals and summery peaches while featuring a zesty criss-cross of lime and spicy flavors.Wiemer's complex reds are also worthy of a sample: we savored a supple mingling of cherries and juniper berries in a 2008 Pinot Noir and swirled around with a 2008 Cabernet Franc, rich with plum and berry tastes and sprinkled with specks of white peppercorn.

Prepare to be marveled by the gargantuan barn that houses the Wiemer tasting room and winery. It may appear ho-hum at first sight, but the well-designed interior belies the boring outdoors. We cooed over the charming boutique wine shop that flaunted bottles in tight-knit brigades and re-purposed barrels as sipping counters. The room achieves a wave of warmth from the low, intimate ceilings and rays of sunlight. Behind the looking glass of sliding doors, towering stainless steel wine tanks and a cluster of casks greeted us, resting peacefully beneath handsome beams and a sky-high roof. Rows upon rows of riddling racks give the palatial environment an "industry" feel while wooing tourists with its decorative, rustic appeal.

As you creep along the scenic wine route of Geneva Lake, don't forget to dip your toes into the chilly lake effect of Frost Cuvee...reserve the hot apple cider for the summertime.

Hermann J. Wiemer Tasting Room and Winery
3962 Old Route 14
Dundee, NY
Ph: 607-243-7971
Web site: www.wiemer.com

Lentils: the little giant of the legume world

2012-01-18T11:53:00.000-08:00

From a velvety red puree in Ethiopia (mesir wat) to a robust soup in Italy (minestra di lenticchie), lentils have graced the tabletops of homes and restaurants the world over for thousands of years, first taking root in the South Asian part of the globe, then fanning out to other areas like the Middle East, Africa and Europe. Read more on FaveDiets...

Red Dove Tavern takes flight

2012-01-16T21:44:00.000-08:00

In a region overgrown with lush vineyards and the tasting rooms that sprout from their sides, the Red Dove Tavern is an epicurean maverick, swooping gaily into the Finger Lakes with its gastropub moxie. It's a strategic move that far surpasses the need to sink into the gastropub trend feverishly sweeping the nation. With the farm-to-table movement burgeoning in this Napa Valley of the East, Red Dove Tavern plays good neighbor, collecting the seasonal treats of Mother Earth as cultivated by its nearby culinary artisans. Perhaps it was a calculated decision, perhaps it was just pure whimsy, but the proprietor's option to set up shop on a downtown Genena, NY, block is paramount to its success: this quaint college town harbors its fair share of sudsy bars to please an undergrad set but also offers up a decent smattering of gourmet restaurants for visiting oenophiles. Red Dove Tavern straddles itself somewhere between these two scenarios, executing choice dishes at forgiving prices, to be enjoyed in a relaxed, no-frills environment.

Matt and I had risen from a heavenly slumber, much needed after engaging in four industrial-strength wine tastings. (At least here in Geneva, wine sample is a misnomer. Our so-called sips rivaled the size of wine gushing out of casks.) Well rested and feeling gluttonous all over again, we sliced through the sharp New York State air to plant ourselves down within the warm tones of Red Dove Tavern, eager to feast upon a small-town gastropub meal stamped with Finger Lakes style. With most Hobart and William Smith Colleges students still dawdling about on holiday, the serene venue seemed unpopular at first blush, but a gaggle of denizens gripped the edge of the bar, including a trio of college-aged youth entangled in an animated discussion of the shuttering of Gourmet magazine. (Well, well, I thought...Geneva is indeed bursting with foodies.)

The menu features a well-balanced list of meat and seafood entrees with a sprinkling of vegetarian small plates. We rotated our wanton palates among three dishes to achieve the full experience of Red Dove Tavern's gastropub sensibility, first starting off with two tapas-portion options. Not often do we stumble upon duck wings on a menu, even here within the creases of gourmand metropolitan NYC. Our flapping game bird landed on our table as mammoth pieces well suited to serve as weapons for Bamm-Bamm Rubble. We dunked the hefty wings into a puddle of featherweight coconut curry sauce, appreciating the fact it didn't mask the smoky characteristics of the duck meat. Mac and cheese is always the dutiful darling of any gastropub restaurant and here at Red Dove Tavern, the kitchen bakes it to an al dente level with a douse of mild white cheddar cheese and a scattering of portobello mushrooms. We wistfully yearned for more funghi, but we surmised the tavern opted not to mar the flavor of the delicate white cheddar with a surplus of earthy mushrooms.

Trout is the signature catch of the Finger Lakes, cry the locals. We paid homage to this regional "delicacy" with the tavern's whole, head-on trout. The submissive critter was prepared Mediterranean style and served in a rustic fashion: slices of lemon protruded from its grilled underbelly while an avalanche of crunchy fried salami and teeny marbles of capers rolled down from its side. "This is one of the best trouts I've ever had," I remarked to the waiter, savoring the bits of moist fish meat and crackly skin (I love it when fish shows some skin; Matt is a bit more reserved when it comes to such recklessness). The waiter beamed and scuttled back to the kitchen to pass my praise to the chef. Truthfully, we found ourselves rather stuffed halftime through the trout but we pushed forward with scraping up as much meat as we could from this robust creature. The thought of a leftover fish cavity lolling around in our pristine Victorian room of the Bragdon House Bed and Breakfast appalled us. We did box up the sides for the purpose of late-night snacking: durable sheets of garden-fresh kale braised with slices of garlic and golden-brown polenta fries (tasting disappointingly flat and under-seasoned).

As with most gastropubs, the alcoholic potions at Red Dove Tavern overflow with variety, though doling out a fleet of international wines seems like a slap in the face to the local vineyards. We ordered a pitcher of New York State lager whose moniker escapes me. As we struggled to down every final drop, I quickly looked up and smiled wryly at the all-too familiar tin pressed ceiling, the quintessential accessory for gastropubs that's on the cusp of becoming a cliche. Overrated interior staple aside, the rest of the tavern appears simple and unpretentious, reflecting its m.o. of just being itself instead of caving into the pressures of looking like a gastropub from head to toe (communal wooden furniture, a spillage of vintage decor, Art Deco barware, etc.) I bet somewhere in the back of Red Dove Tavern, though, there's a staff member gussied up in suspenders and a Dali-like mustache.

Red Dove Tavern
30 Castle St.
Geneva, NY
Ph: 315-781-2020
Web site: www.reddovetavern.com

Rabbit confit: a hare-raising experiment

2012-01-13T22:29:00.000-08:00

The notion of making confit at home can instantly stir up feelings of trepidation, maybe a brush of self-doubt. We're so accustomed to nibbling on duck confit at elbows-off-the-table French bistros or swallowing pork belly confit at elbows-on-the-bar gastropubs that we wouldn't dare execute a batch of our own from the ground up. Something this stylishly edible must be daunting to tackle within the casual confines of a home kitchen, is usually what plagues people's minds.

On the contrary, confit is one of the most effortless cooking techniques to pursue, and ultimately conquer. The overall delivery itself of assembling a confit dish from soup to nuts beckons for beaucoup time, but during key steps, you can tend to other domestic matters. Some recipes call for overnight marinating periods, while others suggest you allow the meat to absorb the flavors post baking for a lengthy week. It was the "oui-oui" speaking French who pioneered this classic method, first cooking duck and goose in a bath of its own rendered fat to preserve the meat back in the day before refrigeration was born. Nowadays, preservation isn't the foremost concern among confit connoisseurs: they indulge in this gourmet treat for the sheer succulence of it all. The fat lends an unctuous flavor to the meat and massages the muscles so to speak for tender results.

Duck fat is the premiere choice, but you can also submerge your meat in a pool of melted lard or bacon fat leftover in the pan from your morning breakfast (I've got a jar of this mischievous stuff resting in the fridge). For those of you who detest such fatty and grotesque ingredients, ease up: you can confit meat with various cooking oils as well. Matt and I confited a cooperative 3-pound rabbit in a sexy lather of olive oil to yield the recipe below from Chef Michael Psilakis. Squeezing every last droplet from our half-full bottle, we still didn't have a sufficient amount of the olive oil to cover the rabbit entirely. Solution: midway through the baking process, we flipped the meat over so that the underside got its fair share of glistening olive oil. The steps below are tres child's play, that you're practically blushing, sheepish to admit the scant hardship you contended with to create such a cosmopolitan dish. The rustic method of rubbing the seasonings in and out of the rabbit, particularly using the whole cloves of garlic, harks back to provincial French days. We skipped the juniper berries, merely because we couldn't find any. That missing link of course didn't stop the confit of hare from acquiring its potently herb-y flavor. The meat was off-the-bone tender, just what we dreamed it to feel. We paired it with a side of steamed broccoli, dressed up with a dab of butter and a clump of oil mixed with the now cushion-soft cloves of garlic. I imagine the shreds of rabbit meat would tangle themselves well between wide ribbons of pappardelle. Make rabbit sliders and jam the meat within the comfy setting of a potato roll. With Easter just around the bend, well, you know who should hog the spotlight.

Rabbit Confit
Source: Michael Psilakis

Ingredients:

1 whole rabbit, skinned and cut into 8 pieces (6, in our case)

1 shallot, peeled

10 cloves garlic, peeled

3 fresh bay leaves or 6 dried leaves

8 cloves

15 to 20 or so whole black peppercorns

8 star anise pods

16 juniper berries (fine to omit if you can't find any)

6 cardamom pods

10 sprigs fresh thyme (we used dried)

4 sprigs fresh rosemary (we used dried for this, too)

1 teaspoon mustard seeds (yellow or brown)

Kosher salt and cracked black pepper

About 3 to 6 cups or so oil

Lemon wedges for squeezing (we omitted this)

Directions:

1. Preheat the oven to 300°F (148° C). Rinse the rabbit under cold running water and pat dry with paper towels.
2. In a heavy lidded 4-quart or larger pot or a large Dutch oven, combine the rabbit with the shallot, garlic cloves, bay leaves, cloves, peppercorns, star anise pods, juniper berries, cardamom pods, thyme, rosemary, mustard seeds, and 1 tablespoon of kosher salt. Add enough oil to cover the meat by about half an inch. Place a piece of parchment paper cut to fit your pot on the surface of the oil. Cover the pot with its lid and transfer to the oven. Check the contents of the pot occasionally—the oil should never come to a full simmer. You may need to reduce the heat. Cook until the meat is tender but not falling apart, about 3 hours. Remove the pot from the oven. (To make the confit in advance, you can cool the rabbit to room temperature and refrigerate overnight or up to 3 days. You must slowly heat the pieces in confit oil in a warm oven before grilling or searing, otherwise the center will be cold.)
3. Preheat a charcoal or gas grill or ridged cast-iron grill pan until hot but not smoking. Lift the pieces out of the confit oil and season with pepper. Reserve the oil until serving time. Lightly sear the meat just long enough to warm it and imbue it with a smoky char flavor (remember, the rabbit is already cooked, you just want to warm it through).

Guzzling back at galloping speed

2012-01-10T20:58:00.000-08:00

As the maverick sibling to its Three Brothers wineries, stalwart War Horse Brewing Company quenches the thirst of a beer guzzling clientele executing bespoke brews and hoppy know-how. But the microbrewey doesn't veer off too dramatically from the use of the Finger Lakes' signature ingredient, the Reisling grape: the rebel artisan is a pioneering force here in the Napa Valley of the East, holding the prestigious distinction of being the first brewery in the U.S. to craft Reisling Ale, a smug combination of wheat beer and Reisling.

In perennial search of off beat blends, Matt and I first drooled over this 2-in-1 beverage from miles away when we learned about it on the internet during idle research at home. Once tucked inside the manly tasting room, constructed to mimic a World War II aircraft hangar, the once elusive potion suddenly dangled in front of our vulnerable eyes. We sipped the ginger-colored drink with brevity but didn't experience any fireworks, a la first kiss. Reisling Ale sort of fell flat on us...it doled out little fizz and held back on the pop. The grapey and malt flavors seemed to vy for the attention of our tastebuds, but at the end of each drop, ultimately cancelled each other out. Our palates grasped for more flavor. Needless to say, we didn't exactly grab a growler of this stuff to tote home. Fellow patrons think otherwise - the Reisling Ale is War Horse's bestseller.

Despite what we deemed to be a lackluster elixir, we could gather that War Horse produces this drink with unadulterated passion and tasteful craftsmanship, tossing aside any notion of dunking in gourmet additives or otherworldly ingredients. The brew masters simply mixed regional Reisling grapes into the depths of a good old-fashioned American wheat beer. Reisling Ale is not the gimmicky imp you'd imagine it to be. If gimmicks are what you're hankering for though, the setting of the War Horse tasting room itself is over-the-top, with a cliched image of Rosie the Rivoter commanding a wall of jutting model airplanes and sappy black-and-white photos standing in the way of a barbaric quaff.

Though the tepid Reisling ale left us feeling a bit crestfallen, the rest of War Horse's parade of frothy cups perked our spirits up. We yelped, "bombs away" with the Peace Bomber, a stealthy Vienna Lager that first jets off with caramel notes then touches down with a malt finish. The light-bodied frame treats you to a clean and crisp experience. Next, we segued with War Horse's spin on the India Pale Ale. The prominence of American-bred hops will jolt you out of your revelry, while a malty flavor takes second billing. With the alcohol revved up to 6% alcohol, it's a potent brew so we sipped gingerly. Crafted with pale, chocolate and dark crystal malts, the Black American Lager delivers creamy lux edged with hints of dark cocoa. Although it's an industrial strength dark beer, it ends on a flawlessly clean note. We closed our tasting with a "dessert" of homespun root beer, an innocuous beverage you can feed to your kids. Bubbling up with bonafide root, bark and herbed flavors, this nostalgic drink evokes soda shop thrills. This non-alcoholic dose of savory pop was my favorite concoction of the bunch, despite its goody-two shoes personality.

Land at War Horse for the sheer novelty of the hangar copycat or the curiosity of the Reisling Ale, but remember to salute the brewery's brigade of specialty craft beers. Down them at galloping speed with Rosie the Rivoter joining in on the sudsy debauchery - "we can do it" she believes.

War Horse Brewing Company
623 Lerch Road
Geneva, NY
Ph: 315-585-4432

Web site: http://www.3brotherswinery.com/War-Horse/war-horse.html

Trash talkin'

2012-01-08T20:05:00.000-08:00

When it comes to Momofuku compost cookies, eating trash never tasted so lavish and rich. This playful cookie comes from the ingenious team at Momofuku Milk Bar, a fifth of David Chang's Asian-inspired empire that dots the lower half of Manhattan. For those of us such as myself who have yet to flirt with the morsels of Chang and his crew, this recipe allows us to get a bit closer to their celebrated cooking chops without biting our knuckles over a bloated waiting list. The sweet and salty snack gets its whimsical moniker from the use of leftover ingredients and the crumbled, yet compact texture it yields (therefore mimicking a compost). Ironically, there were no pretzels or potato chips to rummage around for in the pantry, so those coveted items had to be purchased. Half of a Lindt dark chocolate bar, peeking coyly from its silver wrapper, was squatting in the fridge, but I had to augment this component of "favorite baking ingredients" with a no-name dark chocolate brand (surprisingly, it fared better in richness than I thought, though it did leave behind a lingering cheap cocoa taste on the palate).

Sans my Kitchen Aid Mixer, the Zeus of all domestic appliances, I'm at a loss, now regarding the ancient hand mixer with contempt and disdain. By default, I used this cumbersome tool while on holiday at Matt's house. Paired with a sturdy Nordic Ware Bowl, the experience proved stable and rather fun in that school-of-hard-knocks kind of way. I cut the mixing time of the eggs in half because speaking bluntly, I wasn't about to hold my arm up for 10 minutes, twirling the concoction around to no end. My objective was to produce a cookie of chunky textures so I crushed some of the pretzels but snapped the other pieces in half. I broke the dark chocolate into rough shards and vanquished the whole potato chips into meek piles of dust. And I'm shocking myself these days: normally, when I buy a regional ingredient or staple, I tend to use it once or twice then just let it whittle away in the cupboard for years, collecting dust and shielding it from light. This brash act of abadonment comes from a tapered-off interest in the product or simple forgetfulness. The versatility of Steen's cane syrup has provided me the multi-use luxury of making a glaze for ham, the sweet glue that keeps bacon jam intact and now, a lustrous sheen for Momofuku compost cookies - all through the course of four short months.

"Tra-a-a-shca-a-a-n cookies," my better half Matt belted out in a sing-song manner as I pulled the tawdry treats from the blazing hot oven. At 400 degrees and for a short ten minutes, the edges get crisp while the core stays soft and buttery. The cookies are monstrous in size, but the freakish girth makes sense - you need a wide circumference to support the various chips of chocolate and pretzels and sprinkles of potato chips dispersed throughout the dessert. Most boutique bakeries tend to create gargantuan-sized cookies, anyway, and it seems Momofuku Milk Bar prescribes to that ideal.

These compost beauties produce multi-layered sensations of crispy and chewy, sweet and salty, gooey and stiff. I love how the pretzels take on a nutty crunch and how the potato chips remind me of airy Rice Krispies. Despite all the incredible combination of flavors, you'll only be able to handle one Momofuku compost cookie, finding yourself sugar trashed from the excess decadence.

Momofuku Compost Cookies
Source: By way of Amateur Gourmet

Ingredients:

1 cup butter (that’s two sticks, unsalted)
1 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup light brown sugar
1 Tbsp corn syrup (I used the ever-versatile Steen's as an understudy)
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 large eggs
1 3/4 cups all purpose flour
2 tsps baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
2 tsps Kosher salt
1 1/2 cups your favorite baking ingredients (options: chocolate chips, Raisenettes, Rollos, Cocoa Krispies; I used pieces of dark chocolate)
1 1/2 cups your favorite snack foods (chips, pretzels, etc. - I used a combo of the two)

Instructions:

1. In a stand mixer with the paddle attachment, cream butter, sugars and corn syrup on medium high for two to three minutes until fluffy and pale yellow in color (it's fine if you're not in possession of this dream machine; an old-fashioned mixer will still perform wonders). Scrape down the sides with a spatula.

2. On a lower speed, add eggs and vanilla to incorporate. Increase mixing speed to medium-high and start a timer for 10 minutes. During this time the sugar granules will fully dissolve, the mixture will become an almost pale white color and your creamed mixture will double in size.

3. When time is up, on a lower speed, add the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Mix 45 – 60 seconds just until your dough comes together and all remnants of dry ingredients have incorporated. Do not walk away from your mixer during this time or you will risk over mixing the dough. Scrape down the sides of the mixing bowl with a spatula.4. On the same low speed, add in the hodgepodge of your favorite baking ingredients and mix for 30 – 45 seconds until they evenly mix into the dough. Add in your favorite snack foods last, paddling again on low speed until they are just incorporated.

5. Using a 6 oz. ice cream scoop, portion cookie dough onto a parchment lined sheetpan.

6. Wrap scooped cookie dough tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate for a minimum of one hour or up to 1 week.

DO NOT BAKE your cookies from room temperature or they will not hold their shape.

7. Heat the oven to 400 F. Take the plastic off your cookies and bake 9 to 11 minutes. While in the oven, the cookies will puff, crackle and spread. At 9 minutes, the cookies should be browned on the edges and just beginning to brown towards the center. Leave the cookies in the oven for the additional minutes if these colors don’t match up and your cookies still seem pale and doughy on the surface. My batch baked golden brown in 10 minutes.

8. Cool the cookies completely on the sheet pan before transferring to a plate or an airtight container or tin for storage. At room temp, they’ll keep five days.

Hot diggity dog!

2012-01-05T14:04:00.000-08:00

Tricked-out hot dogs are en vogue in America, teasing wagging tongues with genius accoutrements that most likely were never dreamed of back in the days when chili was the top exotic condiment to dress a frank. D's Six Pack & Dogz follows the craze religiously, cranking out dogs smothered in heavyweight garnishes creative enough to dazzle a foodie set but approachable enough to please a beer-guzzling crowd, as its name suggests. Beer signs and sports paraphernalia in the Monroeville, PA, branch fit snugly like puzzle pieces with D's ultra casual menu, but tables covered with bygone images from 19th century general goods catalogs are better suited for a hip gastropub. Our hip-slung waiter also looked liked an odd piece within the meathead scene at D's. His James Dean swagger was backed up by a slight, slicked-back pompadour, Elvis style. He was cordial, but sluggish, perhaps a bit bitter for having to toil away on the afternoon eve of New Year's day, serving wieners and booze to already rip-roaring customers.

I chowed down to the Red Alert, a hot-headed dog loaded with an avalanche of fiery jalapeno and pickled peppers and sprinkled with a snow of cayenne pepper. The chunks of blazing peppers revealed a plump all-beef grilled puppy that yielded a subtle snap and generous juiciness. A poppy seed studded bun, an unlikely gourmet option in this pub-heavy venue, served as the vessel to hold all components securely together. My brother abandoned his Pittsburgh roots to toy with the Chicago dog, a well-outfitted frank spilling with relish, onions, pickles, tomatoes, peppers, mustard and just a touch of celery salt to round the flavors out with spark. Other frisky dogs at D's include a stretchy mac and cheese and the Roethlisberger-inspired Big Ben (a fries and coleslaw number - the essential Pittsburgh toppings).

For a featherweight, but satisfying side, bypass staid fries and sample an extra large basket of D's home-fried chips for size. Our spicy Cajun-dusted slices of spuds produced a dichotomy of crunchy and chewy textures, which is exactly how I fancy my artisan chips to feel. We ordered a heap of blue cheese dressing to slather upon our chips, but the Cajun seasoning alone sufficed for devilish flavor.

D's list of beer options extends beyond the regional Yuengling and Rolling Rock. Grab a six pack to go and mix and match your set with D's domestic and international offerings. Or stay put for a while and kick back on a towering microbrew in between your slovenly bites. If you lean toward something dark and full-bodied, gurgle about with the Duck Rabbit Milk Stout. The lactose-based sweetness balances the deep roasted grains and dark chocolate finale.

You could order other greasy pub goodies like gooey pizza pies, lip-smacking chicken wings and the arch nemesis, the burger, but do as the name encourages and immerse yourself into a decorated hot dog, plus variety six pack of brewskis. Wagging tongues shall be tamed.

D's Six Pack & Dogz
Web site: www.ds6pax.com

Monroeville, PA
4320 Northern Pike
Ph: 412-856-5666

Swissvale, PA

1118 South Braddock Avenue

Ph: 412-241-4666

Got milk?

2012-01-02T19:39:00.000-08:00

Spotted: Schneider Valley Farms milk in whole and 2% trickling down from a titanic Schaefer dispenser in the midst of an austere breakfast nook at Comfort Inn of all places. The Pittsburgh-based dairy product distinguishes itself from the tiers of dry bagels and muffins and limp bacon and omelets with its red, white and blue typography, a true reflection of the dairy artisan's 1930s debut. The industrial dispenser rounds out the simple vintage look. Nearby Seneca, PA, supplies this milk for Lamar, PA, residents and businesses, including this Comfort Inn post. We love bumping into these regional finds during road trips, especially gems still branded with their original logo such as this. This chip of dairy pop culture perked up an otherwise ordinary overnight respite.

Ergo, Argo

2011-12-31T08:19:00.000-08:00

Leave it to a couple of dewy eyed downtown hipsters to nab the next phenomena in gourmet tea, the Starbucks for tea connoisseurs if you may. Ergo, Argo. Budding thespian and tea gastronomer Ethan and sultry songstress Sarah cajoled me into joining them for a session of hot tea on an on-the-cusp of a bitingly chilly Saturday evening. Ethan was fresh off of his debut performance in The Burmese Project, an Experimental Theater Wing production of NYU. We wandered up and down Broadway in search of the ideal tea hideaway and eventually bumped into the Argo post on University Place.

"Let's just go here," they said, shrugging casually, as if Argo was just another passe tea haven already crossed off of every urbanite's list of must-dos. I, of course, wasn't privy to such an "it" tea spot. Lucky for me, this duo of hipsters is always patient with my slow grasp to trends. Argo is a Windy City import that recently gusted its way into the Big Apple with its brigade of crisp and frothy teas, whipping up concoctions with all-natural ingredients directly procured from top-drawer local and global growers. But Argo doesn't brew tea just for the sake of tinkering with far-flung ingredients and cosmopolitan techniques. Argo is the socially conscious wonder we all strive to be, regularly donating to non-profit charities and promoting the conservation of natural resources, while heeding the advice of their customers and giving their staff members a platform to speak.

The atmosphere exudes a bothersome starkness to it, softened only by the bright photos of tea beverages popping from a lighted menu board and the charged-up tea baristas brewing hard behind the counter. This location in particular is flooded with NYU students furtively highlighting in their textbooks and pounding upon the keys of their iPads and laptops. It's like a typical studious scene lifted from a Starbucks. Ethan and Sarah even bumped into a cohort of theirs from the theater, who was probably wondering what a youthful twosome like them was doing blazing through the downtown scene with a Golden Girl like me. But tea, much like coffee, is the kind of soothing drink that spans all generations and brings people of variant ages together.

Argo keeps up well with the fashionable flavors of this millennium, mixing dessert-like drinks in the form of Earl Grey vanilla creme and hibiscus steamer plus delivering bar-inspired numbers like Mojitea and Tea Sangria. Even if you're not a born team imbiber, you'll fawn over the richness of these potions and the mock coffee characteristics they take on. Clever-handed Argo also infuses and poaches tea into the ingredients of its salads and paninis, thereby providing a "bite" of herbal exotica into the tea-goer's experience. By the way, you can scoop up tea leaves by the pound from sleek dispensers mounted against the wall like rigid soldiers. (And psssst to all you hounds of the bean: Argo will even heat up some cups of hush-hush coffee for you.)

Ethan and Sarah both ordered a steamy mate latte while I dallied with the tea version of red velvet cake. The foamy mixture of red tea, raspberry syrup and white chocolate literally translated into the tastes of a raspberry white chocolate chip cookie and not a bonafide slice of red velvet cake. Where were the hits of cocoa or smear of cream cheese frosting? Despite the misnomer, I enjoyed the unadulterated decadence of this brew, sipping every droplet from top to bottom. It was sugary enough to tame a jumpy sweet tooth while strong enough to zap me with a zig zag of energy.

Now I wonder, is there a haute hot cocoa bar somewhere in the city that I'm still in the dark about?

Web site (lists various locations in Manhattan, Chicago, St. Louis and Boston):
http://www.argotea.com/

Dinner on the Upper West Side

2011-12-29T13:11:00.000-08:00

The phrase alone - dinner on the Upper West Side - summons up an image of society ladies dining in a tony establishment, diminutive gloved hands delicately wiping the corners of their mouths with stiff napkins. On the contrary, the scene was more humble and personal than that upper-crust nonsense. I was beckoned by friends Jason and Randi to join them for a gastro pub-style supper at their snug apartment, just West of Broadway and only steps away from The Juilliard School.

This invitation-only gathering at their private quarters alloted me the opportunity to finally sample Jason's celebrated cooking chops. As a personal chef in Manhattan, Jason has been charged with executing clever dishes for convivial cocktail parties and quiet, intimate dinners, wowing guests with his modern American meets gastropub style. Slivers of shrimp tacos lounge side-by-side with fried aged Gouda sweetened by juniper-thyme honey. Classic foie gras is spread upon contemporary cinnamon-challah French toast and spiked with flamed bourbon peaches. Let the games begin when he cooks up venison stew, za'atar crusted loin of lamb, braised lamb shank and pan seared duck breast. Even the couple's apartment signifies a food maven's hideaway: open cartons reveal cans of imported tomatoes and the fridge is stocked with hunks of various meats, including pre-made pork confit reserved for midnight snacking.

While Randi and I gabbed pensively about vintage-inspired fashion (we sure do adore analyzing our Anthropologie, Milly and Tibi), Jason fixed us a duet of bruschetta, plunked down on a brawny wooden cutting board, a la gastropub. One crusty, sesame studded bread supported colossal drops of earthy hen of the woods mushrooms and cannellini bean ragout while another one boasted Jason's deep-vaulted recipe for Sunday Sauce - a zesty and meaty all-day tomato and pork concoction adorned with braised fennel.

The crackerjack of a chef scuttled back to the kitchen to pan sear our veal chops on the must-have accessory Jason believes any serious cook should own: the cast-iron skillet. Hearing the pan sizzling and spattering, I surmised I was in for a youthful bovine treat. On impeccably pure white plates - the kind of basic but en vogue dish seen at restaurants - our chef de cuisine set our bias-cut strips of veal atop braised brussel sprouts with cuts of Niman Ranch bacon. My order of veal was seared to a stunning medium-rare finish, its interior tender meat flaunting a graceful pink color and the exterior featuring a salty and peppery crust. A puddle of piquant porcini sauce added another layer of succulence to the bacon-flavored brussel sprouts and provided an umami-awakening twist to the supple mound of sweet potato-parsnip puree. My contribution of full-bodied South African Merlot went hand-in-hand with the veal's subtle red-meat bite. We cinched the evening with my batch of Tandy cake, its batter moistened by a heap of sour cream.

Resident canine Lucas is a bit of a bon vivant himself, clamoring for nibbles of our veal chops and maybe sips of Merlot. We fed him mock bacon strips geared toward dogs to temper his ravenous excitement. I'm sure with a personal chef for an owner, he still gets showered with some gourmet human treats on occasion. I'd say this doggy lives pretty decadently here on the Upper West Side!

New Yorkers, fall in love with Chef Jason's rustic spin on gourmet food. Visit his web site for more details on fulfilling your swanky dinner party with his gastropub ingenuity: jasonskitchen.net. Be on the lookout for a Q and A session with bonus recipe.

Slurping up oysters on Christmas morning

2011-12-28T19:07:00.000-08:00

Legend has it that oyster stew made its slithery and lavish way from Ireland to the States during the potato famine of the mid 1800s. Upon settling in the grand US of A, the Irish substituted oysters for ling fish, the suddenly elusive staple they were so accustomed to enjoying in their Christmas Eve stew back in the motherland. As time progressed, various ethnic households in America began attaching themselves to this revamped Irish tradition, drowning themselves in the rich broth and briny taste of the sea. Prized for its soulful characteristics, oyster stew is slurped at many American homes on Christmas Eve, the kind of heart-stamped soup that brings about feelings of warmth and camaraderie among family.

A similar sense of good fellowship was also present when we gathered closely around the kitchen table of Matt's mom (Vicki) and stepdad (Ron) in Manns Choice, PA, to partake in a hearty dose of oyster stew ourselves. We slightly tweaked tradition by reserving the fragrant brew for an early morning Christmas breakfast. Extended family members puttered along the drive way car by car and bounced in bellowing a gleeful "merry Christmas" and "happy holidays."

Our eyes rolled back toward our heads, drunk with cheer from the nautical liquor of the oysters and the creamy but light textures of the stew. This wanton crew dove in for seconds of Vicki's knockabout batch, no doubt also drawn to the kicked-up jabs of onions and stream of lusty Worcestershire sauce. Button-shaped oyster crackers provided a nice touch of crunch as they floated shiftlessly in the stew. Minutes later, their soggy disposition upped the oyster stew's heartiness.

Fried oyster critters were also on hand during this vibrant morning. Family members took turns dipping the Parmesan and panko-coated babies into the deep fryer. Some folks topped their bowls of stew with these golden-crusted bivalves while others jammed them into slices of Italian bread to create a robust sandwich, the oyster 'po boy of Christmas morning if you will. Fully sated with this season's bevy of oysters, we ended the morning with cups of heavy duty coffee, mugs of cider tinged with a bit of naughtiness and Christmas cookies galore, homemade by Vicki (pizzells, potato candy, sugar cookies, fruit bars). The only thing we were shucking this day was our weighted down belly!

The thrill of the Chase

2011-12-28T12:53:00.000-08:00

It was another sultry hot August afternoon in the Big Easy. Sunblock plastered on our already perspiring skin and shades affixed to my eyes, Matt and I conquered the blistery hot concrete of the French Quarter to amble our way toward the Mid-City/Esplanade area for some "skirt chasing." A NOLA landmark since the bygone 40s, Dooky Chase's has fed downhome Creole cuisine to the raging appetites of political dignitaries (Obama, Bush Jr.), local business titans and curious wide-eyed tourists. Chances are, proprietor Leah Chase, a celebrated Creole chef who named the lyrical-sounding restaurant after her dear husband, sports skirts that graze well below her knees, given the fact she's in her 80s now.

We knew the journey via foot to Dooky Chase's would be an arduous one, at least 20 minutes in the incorrigible heat. After imbibing one sugary potion after another in boozy NOLA, we were desperate for the cardio. During our jaunty walk toward the fringe of the French Quarter, we sideswiped a youthful gal with questionable reputation, jiggling along on the street bra-less. In lieu of a short skirt, she donned a pair of short shorts and knee-high suede boots, an odd choice of footwear for the wretchedly hot NOLA temperatures. "Um, excuse me miss," I asked with some trepidation, "which way do we go to head to Orleans Ave?"

She flashed us a frightful smile, revealing jagged Lego teeth but a surprising warmth. "You make a right over there," she pointed, unleashing a wicked breath tainted with the aroma of hard liquor. "But I'll warn you, you'll walk through some rough streets. You're best bet is to take a cab." With that, she sharply turned on her heel and continued to trot along, leaving us dumbfounded at her less than savory appearance. Presumably, this scantily outfitted gal with the potent breath was a "nocturnal servant," straight from a stint at a brothel or two. Incidentally, I spotted her again the next morning on my way to fetch coffee and pralines. She still bounced about in the same short shorts, knee high suede boots and bra-less upper half.

"If someone like that strongly thinks we should take a cab instead of walking, then you know it's truly a rough part of town," Matt remarked with commanding pep.

"That's true, but why don't we just take a chance and walk it...get some good exercise and just ignore any creepsters that get in our way," I insisted?

You see, as an urban dweller for the past 12 years, I've plowed through some menacing streets, dodging sinister characters and strolling by boarded row homes and greasy hole-in-the-walls. I've deployed the same basic strategy time after time to prevent any down-on-my-luck encounters: walk with an air of unadulterated aplomb. It's incredible how strolling along with a straight back, stoic smile and head titled up can ward off even the most devilish of characters. The minute you show any signs of discomfort, you're an immediate target.

I explained this tactic to Matt but he shook his head vigorously, persisting that we needed to take a cab to Dooky Chase's. He's a well-traveled military vet who operates with caution and a wary eye. This walkathon through the doomy parts of NOLA was certainly one not to approach with a rash attitude. We engaged in a few more rounds of squabbling and I finally surrendered, scurrying across the street along with him to hail down a cab. As cliche as it sounds, the sun was beating down on us. And even these outskirts of the French Quarter alone looked foreboding. What kinds of thugs and streetwalkers would we confront en route to Mid-City/Esplanade, we wondered?

"Ahhhh, Dooky Chase's," the cab driver guessed correctly when we asked him to take us to 2301 Orleans Ave. Apparently, he's a seasoned pro when it comes to carting around other Creole-hungry visitors to this NOLA culinary giant. We sped pass run-down bridges and dilapidated homes, along with vehicle-ladened mini highways that didn't seem to give an inch of leeway for crossing pedestrians. Just a smattering of sketchy folks were within eyesight, but the general area felt dismal and dangerous all at once.

"You're right," I admitted to Matt woefully. "This is a funky part of town. I'm so glad I listened to you." He sweetly patted my hand.

Upon arrival at our much-dreamed-about destination, we tumbled out of the cab and came face-to-face with Dooky Chase's run-down facade. Washed out by Hurricane Katrina, the building still harbors a bit of wear and tear with its weathered doors and windows and craggy bricks. The original Dooky Chase's sign still sways about in all its vintage glory. The interior is a glamorous dining room that belies the restaurant's shoddy exterior. A wall draped in rich red paint supports a collection of modern African-American art and surrounds a bevy of regal, red and gold striped chairs that tug at the edges of crisp white tablecloths. The hostess was dripping in smiles and looked like she could be a next of kin to the Chases with her latte skin and dancing eyes. The early lunch crowd included a handful of newbie tourists and what looked like Dooky Chase's denizens judging from their business casual attire and unfeathered ease into feasting upon the buffet.

We followed suit, launching our lunch hour with the restaurant's beef and vegetable soup, served table side with a bounty of garlic toast. It was a lumberjack of a brew brimming with chunks of fresh tomatoes, peas, carrots, onions and cabbage and anchored by charitable chops of beef.

I wrestled with 2 1/2 plates of Leah Chases's treats, including: a zesty diced beet salad, tangy marinated mushroom medley, a chunky, cafe-style tuna salad, buttered noodles studded with peppers and a potato salad seasoned with Creole mustard. I clung for dear life to the hot-tempered links of Creole sausage and smacked my greedy lips over the succulent and crunchy fried chicken. I also got a little ga ga over the mustard greens with its pungent and earthy flavors -- the ugly/beautiful aspect of this snazzy NOLA lunch.

Our extravaganza closed with the house peach cobbler, a classic dessert in Creole cuisine. The extra charred top didn't meddle with the gooey sweet underpinnings or the bulging slices of fresh peaches.

Was this chic Creole buffet worth the thrill of the Chase? While every bit of morsel tasted fresh-off-the farm and coated our stomachs with homespun goodness, I would have liked to see more original Creole dishes as part of the line-up - perhaps swapping the beef stew for gumbo or turtle soup, featuring a few seafood dishes like crawfish etouffee or shrimp Creole or supplementing the dessert section with pecan pie or blackberry cobbler. Organizing the logistics to officially reach Dooky Chase's proved to be a bit of a challenge, but along the way, at least we got to chat up a free-spirited nighthawk in the flesh, an unlikely but reliable source for NOLA geography. We bet she knows her way around Crescent City rather well.

Dooky Chase's
2301 Orleans Ave.
New Orleans, LA
Ph: 504-821-0535
Web site: N/A

Tofu stew: the "all the time favorite"

2011-12-27T13:22:00.000-08:00

The brutal Manhattan air that slapped our cheeks with blood-numbing force caused Matt and I to crave a fiery stew, one that sticks to our ribs with its hearty goodness while spiking our tongues with nervy heat. The source for such head-rushing fare? Koreatown, more specifically Won Jo restaurant and even more specifically, soonjubu jjigae (tofu stew).

Manhattan's Koreatown, naturally, booms with a surplus of restaurants, some chic in style and name (sassy Miss Korea) while others dole out fast Korean fare at a fair shake (the much visited Woorijip spills with penny pinching undergrads). I've been consecutively drawn to Won Jo this year, favoring its pared down decor, mild scene and just a soft hint of Korean pop music enlivening the joint. It's just as popular as its neighboring competitors yet somehow, the setting is more peaceful and intimate at Won Jo. The upstairs dining room is reserved for a BBQ'ing crowd while patrons ordering plated entrees are ushered to the downstairs enclave.

We settled at Won Jo on a frigid Saturday night to embrace the tofu stew, what the restaurant whimsically lists on its menu as the "all the time favorite." The go-to dish for wintry times, this heartwarming soup soothes the soul with its blocks of silky tofu bobbing along in a sea of bubbling red-orange broth. The vixenous hue is derived from sprinkles of kochukaru (red pepper powder). Served in a traditional stone "cauldron," the brew possesses a prominent fishy taste, courtesy of the rich anchovy stock. We could detect stalwart doses of garlic and sesame oil, along with biting cuts of scallions and bold slices of green chili pepper. I ordered my soonjubu jjigae with a heap of seafood, discovering benevolent shrimp lazily floating by (including one fella with his head still attached), clams still nestled in their shells and random pieces of squid and octopus swimming idly about. Always drop in spoonfuls of sticky Korean rice to further enhance the stew's robust quality. Even the occasional tofu enthusiast will suddenly be convinced to consume this heady batch daily.

The banchan at Won Jo should not take second billing to the tofu stew. These complimentary small plates that precede the main meal are dainty in looks but large-scale in flavor. We loved dunking the fruity hot kimchi of cabbage, zucchini and daikon into our stew, elevating the hearty textures to extreme top levels. Lightly dressed with sesame oil and chili, the spaghetti daikon and tangle of Korean spinach cleansed our savory palates with their minty fresh flavors. As for the dried anchovies, these suckers speak for themselves with their chewy bite and salty characteristics. They're ghastly to many, but if these pliable critters are used to permeate the broth of tofu stew, they can't detest them that much, can they?

Won Jo
23 W. 32nd St.
New York, NJ
Ph: 212-695-5815
Web sitel: www.newwonjo.com

Christmas in a jar: gifting bacon jam and Indonesian peanut sauce

2011-12-26T17:01:00.000-08:00

Even the most kitchen crafty epicurean will lean upon the onslaught of jarred edibles crowding the shelves of grocery shops for convenient gourmet, especially during the holiday frenzy. But part of the charm of the holidays is cramming time into that traditional harried pace to create bespoke treats to gift to loved ones. Homemade goods exemplify an intimate and personal gesture that even the snazziest contraption dominating the market simply can't compete with. I was feeling particularly domestic this Christmas - perhaps the overabundance of holiday cooking shows spilling from the tv or the flashing garlands of lights swaying in the windows of every abode from brownstones in Manhattan to farm homes in rural PA inspired me to get festive in the kitchen. Or simply speaking, those jarred edibles in the supermarket all gussied up in their velvet bows and kitschy labels prompted me to whip up some copycats at home.

I honed in on two ubiquitous and much-cherished ingredients: bacon and peanut butter. By way of Martha Stewart, traditional strips of bacon transformed into a modern-day sweet and salty jam. Thank you to my mom, who handed down her historic template of a recipe for Indonesian peanut sauce, a savory and sweet concoction that boasts a bit of our heritage. The recipients of these artisan gifts were Matt's parents. Once the holidays taper off, I'll make a batch of each treat for Matt, who's been patiently salivating for the sticky-fingers bacon and goo of heady peanut sauce. The perennial availability of bacon and peanut butter make these goodies the ideal year-round gift, no matter what your lucky loved one is celebrating.

Bacon Jam
The once trendy bacon is now a daily staple gracing the tabletops of restaurants and bakeries galore, seen snugly wrapped around plump duck breasts or sprinkled upon cupcakes to offset a cloyingly sweet icing. Bacon jam takes its cue from the latter, marrying the sweet flavors of brown sugar and maple syrup with the salty bacon and savory morsels of garlic and onions.

Martha suggests cutting up slinky strips of 1 1/2 pounds of bacon to yield three cups of jam. Piled high and huddled closely together on a cutting board, the once-inch pieces of swine evoke a trip to the butcher shop:

Fry the bacon in a wide skillet until the fat is rendered and the meat is lightly browned, about 20 minutes. Unless you own a behemoth of a frying pan conjured up from the Roman Empire, you'll need to heat these babies up in two separate skillets to ensure all pieces are thoroughly and evenly cooked. Drain the bacon on a paper towel and reserve one tablespoon or a tad more of bacon grease from one of the skillets. Saute 2 diced yellow onions of medium girth (or 1 big tearjerker) and 3 smashed cloves of garlic in the greasy bath until the onions get translucent, roughly 6 minutes.

Add 1/2 cup cider vinegar, 1/4 cup of pure maple syrup (I used Steen's cane syrup as a back-up), 1/2 cup of packed brown sugar and 3/4 cup of brewed coffee into the sauteed onions and garlic, stirring and scraping up any browned bits from the bottom and sides of the skillet with a wooden spoon, about 2 minutes.

I accidentally skipped the step of adding the bacon into the mixture and instead, dumped the pork and liquid sauce into a 6-quart crock pot and swirled everything around. Yes, a crock pot! As contemporary as bacon jam sounds, this recipe calls for a classic crock pot to meld the salty cuts of bacon and sweet seasonings together. Set your trusty equipment on high then let the liquid reach a syrupy consistency after 3 1/2 to 4 hours, uncovered. It's that hands off, my dear fellow cooks. The most labor intensive part of making bacon jam is slicing the bacon itself.

Halfway through the process, you'll catch a strong whiff of the cider vinegar clouding the kitchen. The aroma smells like white wine with a tinge of tartness. It smells concurrently comfortable and gourmet. I let the bacon jam simmer for a solid 4 hours in the crock pot, swiping samples to test the flavors and textures. Near the finish line, it tasted equal parts sweet and salty. It achieved a sticky texture left behind just a tiny puddle of liquid. Per Martha, you're to let it cool then give it a spin in the ye old food processor. But for those who harbor an affinity for rustic looks and textures, leave the bacon jam as their chunky selves like I did.

I've been obsessed with re-purposing condiment and jelly jars for this reason alone - to present homespun treats in stylish glass containers. Secure a ribbon around the rim and attach an artful tag with handwritten instructions and boom, you've got a charming edible trinket. Boost the appearance a notch by slapping a label onto the jar. The bacon jam can be stored in the fridge for up to 4 weeks. I suspect it tastes heavenly spread on some crusty bread and finished off with a dollop of goat cheese or sauteed mushrooms, maybe a bit of fig. Scoop it directly from the jar and aim straight for your mouth if you dare.

Indonesian Peanut Sauce
My uber talented chef of a mother has been lugging around her original recipe for Indonesian peanut sauce in her back pocket for years often imparting a dab of this and a dollop of that. In other words, no hard-nosed measurements. She delivers this versatile sauce to smother over grilled satay or pour over gado gado, a traditional Indonesian salad composed of steamed vegetables, tofu and hard-boiled eggs. Though versions of peanut sauce are omnipresent in other Asian cultures including Malaysia and Thailand, it doesn't necessarily need to accompany Asian dishes only. Tell your giftee he or she can weave peanut sauce into everyday cuisine - use it as a sauce for pasta, a dressing for salad, a dip for veggies or a companion to grilled meat.

This is the kind of flexible recipe you can adjust to the palate of your target audience or your own natural taste instincts. I borrowed my mother's recipe as a framework and taste tested along the way to determine what I needed to scale back on or amp the peanut sauce with.

From your pantry, or fresh off of a quick jaunt to the grocery store, take out two 16 ounce jars of creamy peanut butter that will result in two generous pounds and then some of peanut sauce. Line up a bottle of kecap manis (Indonesian for "sweet ketchup") or use soy sauce mixed with honey as an alternative. Take out a bottle of Sambal Oelek or any kind of hot sauce as a substitute. Dig up some brown sugar and a bottle of vinegar. My mom normally doesn't use coconut milk in her peanut sauce recipe, but I like to add a smudge of it or so for added flavor and a brawnier consistency. Chaokoh is the best brand on the market - it's thick and rich, not watery.

In a large pot, bring 4 cups of water and the creamy peanut butter to a boil then decrease it to a simmer. Meanwhile, saute about 1 1/2 large shallots and about 8 cloves that have been diced to uniform pieces until the shallots have become clear. Plunk the shallots and cloves into the peanut bath, but don't feel you need to use the entire batch. This can be pulled back as well, depending upon your personal taste. Add about 1/4 cup of coconut milk if you choose to use it. Make sure to keep it at a 1/4 cup tops since excess amounts of coconut milk can create a pudding-like texture to your peanut sauce. I sprinkled in about 5 tablespoons of brown sugar, but feel free to add or subtract based on your sugary inclinations. You definitely don't want to mask the nuttiness of the peanut sauce with a flood of Sambal Oelek nor do you want to leave your recipient gasping for milk to quell the heat. Unless your giftee is a chili hound, I suggest keeping the Sambal Oelek at a reasonable minimum, about 5 tablespoons, and instruct your giftees to vamp up the fire on their own if they need to. Drop in about 4 tablespoons of kecap manis for sticky sweetness and about 4 tablespoons of vinegar to bring all the ingredients together. Stir everything together until heated through. And though it's an effortless operation to make such an exotic condiment, the true toil comes in the care you dispense when you taste test the ingredients to achieve that pitch-perfect blend.

Home on the range

2011-12-19T17:29:00.000-08:00

It's rather fitting that Matt and I pan-fried a pair of bison filets on Sunday night since the grandiose bison was our high school mascot (we can hear the tiger and eagle crowds roaring with laughter now). A listless but famished mood propelled us to hibernate in my cluttered but cozy Jersey City apartment, while cooking up a lavish meal of simple components. He procured the Hulk-like steaks from Dietrich Meats, a Pennsylvania Dutch butcher shop and country store situated on the fringe of Interstate 78 in Krumsville, PA. The minute we yanked open the parchment paper, we caught a potent whiff of the steaks' grassy aroma, an obvious reflection of the animal's prairie diet. Scant abstract streaks of fat give the bison an unctuous edge but don't meddle with its clean flavor. The steaks flaunted a subdued maroon color unlike the sometimes ghoulish red hue of beef.

We sprinkled our hunks of meat with sea salt and freshly ground Tellicherry pepper then slathered them in a generous sheen of vegetable oil. I love crushing spices with a good old-fashioned mortar and pestle - there's certainly something rustic and intimate about using traditional means rather than modern methods. Once the pan sizzled with heat, we carefully placed the beauties into their smoky treatment. We seared them for five minutes, then flipped them over for a three-minute cook-up, salivating in anticipation for that pitch perfect medium-well temperature. Our cooperative bison rested for ten minutes. Upon cutting the charred meat on the bias, we yelped gleefully over the pink interior and the juices that trickled out. Eureka - we achieved our objective.

Accompanied by roasted potatoes, bison filets create a straightforward but chic Sunday night supper. Drizzle the beast with sauteed shallots and a red wine reduction. I used a Spanish onion as a back-up, but ideally, the natural sweetness of shallots are more appropriate to complement heavy red wine (in this case, a Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon). The sauce lifts the clean flavor and lean and tender textures without smothering the bison so to speak. Years later the ghost of bison still haunts us, but now in a more sophisticated and adult setting. Go bisons!

This season, have a ball with holiday truffles from Jacques Torres Chocolate

2011-12-14T21:45:00.000-08:00

Surprise that sweet confection in your life with a set of limited edition holiday truffles from legendary chocolatier Jacques Torres. The master of chocolate and his crew of jovial elves have hand-crafted a 25-piece collection of premium truffles that showcase his trademark decadence and love of bespoke ingredients. Inside the sparkling thin chocolate shells are luscious seasonal flavors that evoke the festive holidays. Chocoholics will swoon over pumpkin pie, for example, a delicate blend of pumpkin pie and milk chocolate ganache surrounded by a gold, milk chocolate shell. Traditionally paired with savory dishes, cranberry chutney gets the sweet treatment inside a deep red dark chocolate shell dusted with a rainbow luster. Even the old-school oatmeal cookie takes the form of a contemporary truffle with its rich white chocolate ganache and spicy kicks of nutmeg, cinnamon and vanilla, topped off by a pinch of salt.

The Limited Edition Holiday Truffle Box is only $42, but quantities are limited. Hitch your reindeer to your sleigh and fly from DUMBO to Amsterdam Avenue to scoop up this unique and scrumptious gift idea via Jacques Torres's various chocolate shops. Those living in true snow country can simply shop online at www.mrchocolate.com. Don't forget to gift yourself a box of these edible ornaments, too!

C'est bon!

2011-12-10T23:22:00.000-08:00

What regularly tops my list of must-eats are burger and fries, a legendary American duo that can liven up a blue mood or create waves of happy hysteria to an already bubbly disposition. A simpler assessment is that it's downright tasty, especially when made to order in a bespoke manner. I recently tackled the circuitous route to Jane and W. 4th streets in hopes of sampling Corner Bistro's spin on this American staple, what many New Yorkers tout as the creme de la creme of all ground beef patties in Gotham City. The atmosphere was exactly what I was craving - greasy, midnight dark and dripping with a bit of ale, kind of like your cherished college bar of long ago. Much to my dismay it was crammed with throngs of burger-hungry patrons. Not even a swatch of space at the bar was available for a lone diner such as myself.

I left in a huff and rounded the corner to 8th Avenue feeling dismal and dejected. I needed a burger stat, and not a thawed hockey puck from a fast food joint nor an impeccably rotund mound of sirloin served on white porcelain from a chi chi spot. Somewhere dingy, unpretentious, the real deal and maybe on the quirky side...somewhere like La Bonbonnierre. Don't let the fashionably French name fool you. This is a rare, greasy spoon diner in the West Village that protrudes from its neighbors of tony restaurants and coffee shops. The vintage Coca Cola logos out front that flank the bold-faced name of the eatery hint around that this place is chock full of throwback qualities. I spotted the brigade of vinyl stools lining the counter and beamed.

With a goofy, star-struck grin on my face, I was ready to bombard the place but without first opening the door for one of the employees, who was lugging fistfuls of trash bags to throw on the curb. The ruddy-faced fella didn't even say thank you. But I engaged the curmudgeon in conversation anyway.

"Excuse me," I belted out in a sing-song manner.

"Yeah," he sneered, obviously bothered that I dared to jump start a discussion with him.

Several pedestrians stood between us, whizzing by in that infamous harried Manhattan pace. "I'm listening," he continued impatiently.

"Just...waiting...for these...people to pass," I stammered, as I lost my footing from the speeding bodies that nudged me. "Pardon me for asking such a question, but are your burgers freshly made?"

I had to ask. Some faux diners exist in the Big Apple, pretending to deliver fresh, down home goods, but plunking down defrosted meals instead. I bit my lip and furrowed my eyebrows nervously, fearing this cranky New Yorker would take offense at such an audacious inquiry.

"Oh definitely," he replied in a friendlier tone of voice. "You should come in and try it." I was startled at his suddenly soft and affable personality.

I followed him into the sunny-bright environment and instantly found a home at this often cold-shouldered city. Though it's as compact as a bonbonierre, (a lavish trinket box filled with confections handed out as wedding favors), it certainly didn't look like the insides of one. The proprietor doesn't bother with stylish graphics or a cohesive decorating aesthetic, relying instead on its renegade, anything-goes look and feel. Many gaudy Christmas decorations dot the place, including a wiggling plastic Santa who croons "Jingle Bell Rock" over and over again. I love the onslaught of Formica tables and the occasional vintage advertising popping out from corners. On your steep decline down to the basement, where you'll conduct your business in a powder room that feels as comfy as your bathroom at home, you'll stumble upon a vivid olive oil ad. La Bonbonniere has an obsession with ephemera -- a parade of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, posters and postcards crowd the walls in a mosaic scheme. Once you can focus in on this newsworthy mural, you'll find that the Hollywood likes of Julianne Moore, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Julian Casablancas have dined here as well.

As I studied the menu, the waiter brought me a tall glass of iced water. No surprise. It was his proper mannerisms that puzzled me. "Though I've served you a glass of water," he stated formally, with his hands literally clasped together, "you may feel free to order another beverage from the menu." I almost erupted in laughter from this regal behavior. It contrasted sharply from the dusty surroundings and his short-order cook uniform. I found myself especially thirsty this evening and just stuck to my ice-clinking serving of H2O. Side note: nab a glass of wine here for only $6.75 (a bargain here in NYC).

The cover of the menu is blazoned with a kitschy 50s style cartoon of a chef that you wish you could just sneak home to frame. Inside, the usual celebrated list of diner favorites are featured: omelets, pancakes, waffles, chicken salad, tuna salad, grilled cheese, hot dogs, chicken Parmesan, chili, etc. Specials of the day like La Bonbonniere's bread pudding, corned beef and Virginia ham, are jotted down on Post-it notes. The eatery obviously makes no apologies for its rough-hewn method of making announcements. Perhaps I wasn't concentrating intently enough, but I didn't see burgers printed anywhere on the menu. I summoned my waiter. "I'll just order a good-old fashioned cheeseburger with fries,"I said defiantly, "cooked medium please and give me onions, lettuce and tomatoes." He nodded and turned abruptly on his heels.

I watched the cook in action as he assembled my burger and fries right there in the open kitchen. I also scanned the dining room to analyze the clientele. The charming assortment of folks included a stout gentleman poring through stacks of newspapers, a psychedelic rock couple, beefy frat boy types and a middle-aged man bonding with his elementary school aged son. Suddenly, a troupe of club kids cartwheeled in and sprawled themselves out across three tables. Later, one of the girls quipped to her peers, "They keep playing the same song over and over again. It's tiring. Aren't you getting tired of hearing it too?" I bet she didn't realize "Jingle Bell Rock" was spewing out of the plastic Santa's derriere. I was tempted to explain to her the source of the song but didn't want her to think I was some lonely old broad desperate for idle chit chat and company.

A trio of hipsters then walked in and planted themselves two tables in front of me. "No way," one of them exclaimed as he opened up the menu. "There's *uckin Post-it notes in the menu. That's the sh*t!" He then snapped away with his smart phone. Apparently, I wasn't the only one captivated by these hand-written announcements.

Now for the burger itself and its companion of fries. The burger at La Bonbonniere isn't the most lustrous patty of slung ground beef in NYC, but it's tasty enough. It was cooked to my desired medium and squirted out plenty of juices, not to mention boasted a beautiful char. But it lacked some seasoning and that inexplicable zing to distinguish it from other burgers. The sesame bun was too crumbly and dismantled at even the gentlest touch from my hands. I fancied how the slice of cheddar cheese still held to its firm structure and didn't melt into a slovenly mess. As ancillary as they are, the cook offered up generous cuts of onions, lettuce and tomatoes. Their colossal girths redeemed the mini, mini portion of house made coleslaw (crisp and tangy) jammed snugly inside a condiment cup - you know, those ridged paper vessels you fill with ketchup, mustard or mayo at your favorite fast food joint. Long but thick cuts of spuds were a welcomed break from the steak fries that can sometimes make you gag or the slender fries that cough up minimal substance.

Stumbling upon this West Village jewel at a time when I was craving a burger in a unique setting could not have been more opportune, especially when the wall-to-wall-burger enthusiasts packing the space of my first choice couldn't even allot an inch of room for one extra hungry soul. Though the burger was bon, and not superb, the entertainment comes unmatched at La Bonbonniere. The diner is a trinket box in itself, bursting with eclectic staff and patrons, tacky entertainment and maverick inclinations. No wonder the Hollywood set loves it here.

La Bonbonniere
28 Eighth Ave.
New York, NY
Ph: 212-741-9266
Web site: N/A

Something smells fishy...but tastes rather glamorous

2011-12-08T22:40:00.000-08:00

I often wonder how sardines got such a bad rap in this country. Is there a throwback Warner Brothers episode of Elmer Fudd eating a sardine sandwich then spitting it out? I have very few friends who profess an unrequited love for this underdog of a fish. A larger fraction likes it but won't bother to craft it up in the kitchen. An even bigger chunk of people abhor it all together, opting to swim with the fishes (pardon the pub) than toy with a horrid sardine.

But crinkle your nose no more. Instead of giving in to the disdain of the masses, why not shimmy up to this underrated fish? It didn't always grace the dinner table growing up, but when it did appear, it arrived simply sauteed with onions and freshly ground chili seasonings. My mom always had a knockabout skill of transforming the ghastly into the golden. Often times, she used the Asian sardines, which arrived in chubby cuts from their circular can. The taste was pungent and possessed a glossy sheen derived from their natural oils.

Sardines packed snugly in a flat tin can are mild in their fishy taste, contrary to popular belief. Fresh sardines would be a dream to hover over the grill or sizzle on a pan, but the canned version is just as cosmopolitan as its freshly caught counterparts. Sardines are not just a throwaway fish to eat in desperate times. They're a sophisticated delicacy meant to be taken seriously. The Best of Gourmet (an "ancient" 2003 version) offers up this glamorous first course involving a mash-up of cannellini beans to balance out the sardine's sea-strong taste and soak up the fish's heavy drops of oil. It's such a fancy yet no-fuss recipe that you'll instantly forget the sardines were plucked straight from the can. You'll also forget that you're nibbling on sardines in the first place.

Sardines and bean bruschetta
Source: The Best of Gourmet, 2003

Ingredients:

1 can of cannellini beans, rinsed and drained (about 16 to 19 oz)
1 1/2 teaspoons of fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons of olive oil
1 garlic clove, minced
4 1/2 inch thick slices of country-style bread
2 oz of arugula or watercress (5 cups)

Instructions:
Mash beans and half of sardines in a bowl with a fork (handle the fish delicately as the meat is quite fragile and can crumble at the slightest touch). I left some of the beans whole to give the dish an extra rustic look. Stir in lemon juice, 1 tablespoon of oil, garlic and salt and pepper to taste. Toast bread, then brush with the remaining 2 tablespoons of oil. Top toasts with arugula, bean mixture and remaining sardines.

Buon appetito in the heart of Pittsburgh

2011-12-07T20:41:00.000-08:00

The second you amble into Lidia's Pittsburgh, you're enveloped by recognizable Gotham City traits - bulbous chandeliers signaling East Village eccentricity, Mondrian-inspired windowpanes evoking a MOMA cafe and a warehouse-turned-dining space reflecting Meat Packing District gritty chic. In truth, the stylish space is not planted in the core of the Big Apple, but within the folds of Pittsburgh's strip district. It's an amusing discovery that this kind of large-scale restaurant exists in such a small-scale city, but perhaps that's the oddball conception owner Lidia Bastianich was going for when she was laying out the blueprint for her namesake venue. The titan of Italian cuisine, who owns an empire of Italian restaurants in her native New York, plus one place that juts out in Kansas City, breathes her crackerjack expertise of Italian know-how into a traditionally tranquil city with a low-profile epicurean scene.

Even at just a cursory glance, the menu possesses a bit of ADD. There's no distinction between North and South Italian cuisine but a mixed media of selections that take their cue from all sections of the boot-shaped country. Dishes embrace a rustic and country style, with an ample line-up of sinewy specialties that seem tailored for the quintessential Western PA meat-and-potatoes-clientele. Seasonal selections like butternut squash ravioli and heritage farm chicken can be bundled up into a $35 prix fixed menu. Familiar favorites get an unconventional twist - gnocchi drenched with a braised duck ragu, for instance, or the osso buco featuring braised heritage pork. The New York pricetags blend with the New York interior, making the tony restaurant more like a celebratory destination than an everyday dinner spot.

And so Lidia's seemed like the appropriate setting to trumpet my older brother's birthday. We were placed at a corner circular table, away from the buzzing patrons yet close enough to still be a part of this in crowd. Our dinner was launched with a trio of carbs: svelte bread sticks that snapped with substance, standard, but peasant-style slices of crusty white bread and the scene stealer - toasty focaccia adorned with sea salt and rosemary. In place of trite butter, we lavished our breads with two housemade spreads sitting in a puddle of olive oil - cannelini beans churned with Kalamata olives and hummus creamed with hints of basil. These alternative toppings are another prime example of Lidia's rustic inclinations and creative acumen.

We acted out the perennial family tradition of ordering fried calamari as an appetizer - an intimate habit we've lived out for years if the dish happens to be featured on the menu. Out came our fritto misto ($10.50), a jolly plate of delicately battered squid, shrimp, zucchini, peppers and onions accompanied by a pool of zesty marinara sauce. The dish seemed scaled back in seafood, but the balance of maritime nibbles and garden-fresh bites was the proper way to deliver a true fritto misto.

The birthday boy is a born meat tooth who loves to settle into a mammoth hunk of beef or pork for dinner. No whimpy fish of the day or meek cannelloni for this brutish fella. This special occasion beckoned an order of Lidia's menacing 20-ounce ribeye steak ($38). The heap of tender meat arrived with stunning grill marks and an entourage of fried potatoes, broccoli rabe and roasted tomatoes. Not a speck of meat was left at the end of the night.

I snagged forkfuls of my mom's pasta tasting trio, the restaurant's signature dish that boasts the three pastas of the day. Compared to the other minty priced plates, this bespoke pasta extravaganza is a value at $18 for unlimited helpings. It's rare that the average human can gorge on plate after plate of pasta, but any unfinished mounds of round 2, or 3 or 4 can be packed in a to-go box. Three different servers sidle up to the table to spoon out their respective pasta, imparting that personable and attentive touch diners clamor for. It's apparent that from this day's threesome of noodles, Lidia strategically thought of opposite textures and flavors that would complement each other. Roomy parcels of homemade ravioli held a feathery mixture of ricotta cheese and spinach. For a more audacious bite, imported fusilli cooked al dente leashed out a a flurry of flames with its chili-prominent tomato sauce. We then quelled the heat with egg-y ribbons of fettucini tossed about in a sinful butter sauce.

When I untangled myself from my mom's pasta, I concentrated upon my own dish of the night: a charitable heap of Spaghetti alla Trapanese ($23.50). Almond pesto clung to al dente strands of imported spaghetti while cherry tomatoes lolled about and breaded shrimp and calamari languidly rested. Lidia's succeeds in executing a surprisingly hearty pasta dish that seems custom made for the lumberjack appetites of steel lugging Pittsburghers. But I have a few comments about this nautical number: though the overpowering flavor and fragrance of almond are best presented in small batches, the almond pesto wrapped around the spaghetti was too subtle. My tastebuds were gnawing for more almond. The minimal amount of three cherry tomatoes was a stingy move on Lidia's part, especially compared to the excess of seafood. And though the shrimp and squid were tender to the bite, I would have preferred these critters to be sauteed in the nude rather than battered and fried. They signaled chintzy boardwalk fare rather than Italian chic cuisine.

My younger brother picked a prix fixed set from the seasonal menu, first starting off with a crisp beet and apple salad dressed up with a crown of frisee and crumbles of goat cheese. He loved the mingling of earthy, tart and pungent flavors. A hunk of Stinco d'Agnello Brasato came armed with layers upon layers of lamb meat, but he fancied the sweet potato hash with more passion.

We all dove into greedy spoonfuls of his dessert, the last piece of his prix fixed trio. The paramount ingredient of the season, the cranberry, was transformed into a light sherbet and baked into a chewy chocolate biscotti. Its lip-puckering flavors paired well with the rich chocolate cake. We arranged for the birthday boy to be treated to a gratis wedge of fluffy tiramisu, minus the embarrassing celebratory sing along from the restaurant staff (and with that assurance, my brother's look of dread transformed into instant joy and relief). The chocolate sauce spelling "Happy Birthday" across the plate was both charming and artful.

Despite the sky-rocketing prices that fit like a baggy suit on this tiny frame of a city, Lidia's summons a visit, especially when you need a sophisticated, yet approachable venue to honor milestones and special occasions. Behind the big name of Lidia Bastianich is rustic Italian food that for the most part is delivered with a refined spin. Come here to witness old world Italian locking lips with Gotham City swagger. Maybe the lip gloss is infused with almond extract.

Lidia's Italy
1400 Smallman St.
Pittsburgh, PA
Ph: 412-552-0150
Web site: http://www.lidias-pittsburgh.com

Pop quiz: name that fruit

2011-12-02T21:22:00.000-08:00

It's nearly impossible to brush pass this sensuous fruit at the grocery store without doing a double take. The shape is Marilyn Monroe voluptuous while the orange color is muted, yet attractive. Ubiquitous across many countries, it also grows in other shades and utilized in varying ways. In the U.S., the fruit is native to the East Coast and contains high volumes of vitamin C and calcium. Veer toward the Midwest and you'll discover households folding this otherworldly fruit into down-home steamed pudding. Sometimes, its timber is used to make instruments. Over in the far East, countries like China, Korea and Japan turn it into dried fruit after letting it bask in the sun for two to three weeks. Some versions can be eaten while still firm, whereas other types are best devoured when fully ripe. The taste is delicately sweet as if made for the taste buds of newborn babies. At home, dice it up, toss it with thyme and Parmesan cheese then saute it in a pan with olive oil. You'll adore the criss-cross flavors of sweet and savory. Dissect the fruit, and you'll find it possesses the same inner layout of a tomato. But it's not a tomato, nor an orange, nor an apple. Can you name this versatile fruit?

Turning my world upside down with cranberries

2011-12-02T19:02:00.000-08:00

I'm fixated with upside down cakes, a red-hot fascination that first emerged when I baked traditional pineapple circa Valentine's Day of this year. Admittedly, I've failed to whip up any more of this classic American dessert but I've certainly been daydreaming about it with glazed eyes and a goofy grin on my face. The pineapple rings and maraschino cherries entrapped within the hardened casing of brown sugar remind me of artful Murano glass. That complementary combo of moist yellow cake, tart fruit and caramel decadence is epic genius, Americana style. An even more intense feeling surfaced as the weather switched from mild to nippy and my body started begging for fatty chicken pot pies and gooey desserts. The yearning called for a timely sophomore spin at fixing pineapple upside down cake.

But after encountering offbeat upside cakes all across the web that involved refreshing pears and subtly sweet persimmons instead of the standard pineapple, I began to grasp for the unconventional. On Smitten Kitchen, I was smitten myself by the author's recipe for cranberry upside down cake, an unexpected addition to the carousel of traditional Thanksgiving desserts. And I did just that - bake it for the annual Thanksgiving soiree at Matt's aunt's house. Pre-baking phase, the cranberries floating in the melted brown sugar and butter looked like a facsimile of cranberry bogs. Post baking, the cranberries resembled shiny marbles caught in a tarp of glossy brown sugar. I experienced a bit of a baker's high when my knife seamlessly separated the cake from the pan and I flipped the sticky sensation onto a platter without so much of a bump, scratch or runaway cranberry. Just our luck, Matt and I were too stuffed to swipe even a sliver or forkful of the cake, but per Aunt Sandy, it tasted "yummy and moist." With cranberries a main fixture on the Christmas scene as well, there's no reason why I can't make another cranberry upside cake before the end of the year. And this time, I hope to chow down to a few hearty slices!

Cranberry Upside Down Cake
Source: Smitten Kitchen

Ingredients:

Unsalted butter or cooking spray for the baking pan
2/3 cup (5 ounces or 142 grams) packed light brown sugar
12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks, 6 ounces or 171 grams) unsalted butter, melted
1 tablespoon unsulphured molasses (or honey)
2 cups (8 1/2 ounces or 242 grams) all-purpose flour
1 cup (7 ounces or 198 grams) sugar
2 teaspoons (9 grams) baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup (8 1/2 ounces or 242 grams) sour cream
2 cups (8 ounces or 230 grams) fresh or frozen cranberries (you could add a half-cup more, if you, too, can never have enough cranberries)
Optional flavorings: 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract, 1/4 teaspoon almond extract, 1 tablespoon orange or lemon juice or 1/4 teaspoon zest, 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon, few gratings of fresh nutmeg or a combination thereof
Whipped cream, optional

Instructions:

Preheat oven to 375°F. Grease a 9-inch round cake pan with butter and cover the bottom with parchment paper. In a medium saucepan over medium heat, combine the brown sugar, 4 tablespoons (1/4 cup) of the melted butter, molasses and 1/4 cup water and bring to a boil. Stir well and pour into prepared cake pan. Set pan aside.

Sift the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt together into a bowl or onto a sheet of waxed paper and set aside. In the bowl of an electric mixture fitted with the whisk attachment beat the eggs and sour cream together at medium speed until well blended. Add optional flavorings of your choice. Scrape down the bowl and add remaining melted butter (1/2 cup) and beat until combined. Add flour mixture and beat until smooth.

Add the cranberries to the prepared baking pan and gently press the fruit into an even layer. Dollop the batter on top and use an offset spatula to gently nudge it into place without disturbing the cranberries underneath. Bake on the center rack (with a tray underneath to catch drips… just in case; mine did not overflow but came stressfully close) until golden and a tester inserted into just the cake comes out clean, around 30 to 35 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool in pan for 15 minutes. Run a thin knife around the inside of the pan then insert over a flat platter that is larger than your cake pan, to catch any puddling or jumping cranberries. Remove the parchment paper.

Lounging around under the shade

2011-12-01T17:13:00.000-08:00

The polished and unruffled look of Pittburgh's Soba Lounge seems more appropriate nestled inside a frou-frou hotel than a bygone Victorian house. Creasless white tablecloths set against a backdrop of dusky lighting and rocky walls dripping with water create the ideal mood for a discreet rendezvous or business negotiation. Yet despite the crisp surroundings, a certain warmth permeates the air, making it a welcoming spot to celebrate milestones or indulge in date night. A perennial favorite to the food-forward occupants of the fashionable Shadyside neighborhood it sits in, Soba Lounge assembles a genius Pan-Asian menu dotted with unexpected elements like seasonal butternut squash and fresh celeriac-fennel. Immediately, this all sounds like fussy fusion food, but the upper-crust cuisine is stalwart proof that this low-key steel city offers more than casual wings, burgers, take-out Chinese and those french fries-stuffed sandwiches, stamped with Pittsburgh pride. For such a small-town metropolis, the prices at Soba Lounge come alarmingly steep...Big Apple steep. Seared tuna is priced at a staggering $34, for instance. Chicken ramen, albeit sultry ramen, is yours for a high $22. It's as if you're dining in Gramercy Park plunking down that kind of shimmery cash.

Right away, you can glide into the true-to-form lounge next door for lesser-priced appetizers and uber-festive cocktails. A sexy vibe attracts plenty of single epicureans who drop by in droves donning matching Grecian-goddess tops (think bat wing sleeves and shirred fronts). I silently applauded one patron who was literally relishing his solitude, wedged at a corner table sipping his elixir and staying affixed to the t.v. That kind of loner confidence doesn't come easy on a Saturday night when everyone around you is either paired up or grouped in. I was escorted by my brother who concurred that leftover turkey and mashed potatoes can taste drab after several helpings. Soba Lounge's edgy Pan-Asian food would serve as the remedy to an overdose of turkey and all its trimmings. We snagged an open table in the center of the floor that alloted us a panoramic view of the lounge.

Soba Lounge's creative cocktails give the restaurant as a whole extra gravitas. Some are crowned with quirky names like Dirty Pickle...Offer You Can't Refuse...and Mariner's Bliss, a nautical blend of Smith & Cross Navy strength rum, Luxardo maraschino cherries, cardamom, syrup, egg white and Peruvian and orange bitters. Brother puddled about with a guy-friendly Amstel Light ($4.50) while I wrestled with the colossal Harvest (also honing in at a NYC price of $10) as an homage to the prevalence of autumn. It's a hitch-up-your-skirt golden brew of kabocha-infused vodka, kabocha syrup, cinnamon syrup, elderflower liqueur and allspice liqueur. The gloppy characteristics and liberal hand of vodka and liqueurs coerce you to sip the drink and methodically revel in its herb-y notes.

We squabbled vehemently as normal siblings do over the appetizer options. Fresh off the heels of a session with calamari the night before, we couldn't help but crave it again. A sizable portion of delicately battered squid ($9) arrived on a sleek rectangular plate. Some restaurants turn out calamari that's tender but rarely moist. Soba Lounge delivers in both respects while executing a crisp exterior. We wondered if the kitchen dipped the rings and tentacles in milk to achieve the moistness. But it's the sensuous dressing that gives this squid its je ne sais quoi. The potent maritime flavor of uni is churned into a slick emulsion then spiked with chile, mint and garlic. Fragrant and toasty dots of sesame oil cap off the mix of heady flavors.

Roti at Soba Lounge doesn't come in the form of the classic charred flatbread, but arrives as fried wonton triangles with a pliable structure ($10). Despite their flexibility, they're sturdy enough to support a trio of contrasting spreads with a common mouth-watering sensibility: smooth, tahini-heavy hummus seasoned with red curry, a chunky rendition of baba ghanoush flaunting a healthy dose of heat and cool cucumbers drowning in a minty yogurt sauce to offset the rich ingredients. The abundance in portions was too much for us to clean up from morsel to morsel. Very seldom do we see chic restaurants such as this produce equal billing in quantity and quality.

Service is conducted with military precision but staff still conjures up a smile and small talk to make you feel welcomed in this stylish venue. I shuttered the night with a tall glass of mojito ($9), an unusual choice for a breezy November night. However, the benevolent sprigs of mint and layer of rum are worth the unseasonal refresher. If your pockets are running shallow, cozy up to the real-life lounge of Soba Lounge for vixenous Pan-Asian appetizers and party-mode cocktails. You'll be happy you skipped the sweet and sour chicken at your neighborhood Chinese joint for this opulent fare.

Soba Lounge
5847 Ellsworth Ave.
Pittsburgh, PA
Ph: 412-362-5656
Web site: http://www.bigburrito.com/soba/about/

From canned pumpkin...to seasonal muffins

2011-11-28T20:59:00.000-08:00

Pumpkin becomes all the rage once autumn is upon us and serves as a key ingredient, if not the centerpiece, once Halloween and Thanksgiving awaken from their yearly slumber. Though we shudder at the thought of incorporating anything that slithers from a can, a few staples like canned jack fruit, coconut milk and crushed tomatoes are operative ingredients that even the most gourmet of chefs fawn over. Canned pumpkin is another precious go-to, especially to zealous bakers who don't hesitate to plop it into their seasonal creations. Its smooth texture is a breeze to scrape out and the rusty color, a true looker.

This muffin recipe courtesy of Taste of Home, that doyenne of all things home on the range, calls for 2/3 of canned pumpkin and 1/2 cup of buttermilk for a double dose of moistness. I replaced the molasses with good old-fashioned honey and shoved aside the pumpkin pie spice with an understudy of nutmeg. The crumbly streusel crown played as an appropriate contrast to the cushion-like interior. Doll-sized muffin tins produced 18 muffins, 2 to pop in our mouths and the rest of the batch to tote along to Matt's mom's house for a Thanksgiving primer.

Pumpkin Streusel Muffins
Source: Taste of Home

Ingredients:

1/4 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
2/3 cup canned pumpkin (Libby is a popular brand)
1/2 cup buttermilk
2 eggs, lightly beaten
2 tablespoons molasses (or honey)
1 teaspoon grated orange peel
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 to 1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice (or nutmeg)
1/4 teaspoon salt

For the streusel topping:

1/3 cup all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons brown sugar
2 tablespoons cold butter

Directions:

In a large bowl, cream butter and sugars until light and fluffy. Beat in the pumpkin, buttermilk, eggs, molasses and orange peel. Combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder, pumpkin pie spice and salt; gradually add to pumpkin mixture just until blended.
For topping, combine brown sugar and flour. Cut in butter until mixture is crumbly. Sprinkle over batter. Bake at 375° for 20-25 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the muffin comes out clean. Cool in pan for 5 minutes before removing to a wire rack. Yield: 1 dozen.

Bare bones

2011-11-27T18:32:00.000-08:00

Never overlook the versatility of leftover turkey. The remaining meat reigns as the obvious choice to "beef" up the rest of your holiday weekend, but don't discard the underdog carcass. During these lean days when using up all your resources is de rigueur, utilizing the carcass is a smart and economical move. My mom and I dunked the mangy frame into a pot of gently simmering water for the purpose of creating turkey broth. Chunks of meat still clung to the bones, giving this scrubbed down bird an extra rustic appearance. We slid in stalks of celery and carrot, along with cuts of onion, that earlier surrounded and rested beneath the turkey during the baking process. Rubbed with rosemary, garlic, coriander and butter, this pre-seasoned turkey permeated the broth with an herb-y kick. No further flavors were necessary.

The trimmed down turkey simmered on the stove for a solid 90 minutes. It looked ghastly protruding from the pot, but after straining the concoction and yanking off every shred of meat from every crevice, we ended up with a golden broth. Just a dash of salt and pepper enhanced the savory flavors. I found it more hedonistic in taste than homemade chicken broth. And the level of richness was just right, not too unctuous as we feared it would taste. With a gaggle of simple egg noodles, you've got a filling winter-time soup at the ready. Dumping any unused broth is a sin - freeze it, as you may need the broth to flavor risotto or create other homemade soups in the future.

Turkey carcass: it's the sleeper leftover hit of the Thanksgiving holiday.

Home sweet home

2011-11-27T13:41:00.000-08:00

"Raj, before we fly out tonight, can you take us to a traditional Indian tea house," I begged our tour driver, a warm-hearted soul with an ironically stern face and gruff voice?

We had left behind a barren stretch of highway and zipped pass dusty villages in a toy-sized but trusty car, finally returning to the cosmopolitan fervor of Delhi after our five hour drive from Agra, home of the grandiose Taj Mahal.

"Yes, but I know a place where you can have tea far better than what you can find in a tea house," replied Raj defiantly as he navigated the compact car around the sudden pop ups of rickshaws and motorbikes.

'Where," my mom and I asked in unison?

"My house in South Delhi," he continued, his voice tinged with pride. "And while drinking homemade chai tea, you will have a traditional Indian vegetarian dinner cooked by my wife."

"Wow, thank you," we exclaimed in half surprise and half gratitude. My mom and I exchanged grins and raised our eyebrows. "This is going to be quite Anthony Bourdain of us," I gushed to my mom. "He loves having meals in people's homes and loves being the guest of honor."

For some with skittish inclinations, this gesture of hospitality may seem daunting and downright risky. Why visit the home of a man you barely know? In an otherworldly country miles and miles away from any sense of familiarity? But being the adventurous travelers that we are, we couldn't bypass such a genuine invitation and this exclusive peek into the life of a Delhi family. Over the course of four days traveling through the streets and sites of India's Golden Triangle, we got to know Raj on a deeper level than tour driver and passenger. Behind the navy blue uniform and rough-and-tumble personality was a tender man who played part driver, part historian and part pal. Between shuttling us to artisan factories and imparting vital information on monuments and temples the guide books forgot to include, Raj regaled us with stories about his children and quizzed us on our life here in the U.S. While driving through the rocky roads that wrapped around Jaigarh Fort, he would spot peacock feathers along the way, leap out of the car and collect them for my greedy hands. Today, they flaunt their vivid colors from a porcelain vase sitting atop a secretary's desk, reminding me instantly of Raj's chivalry and kindness each time I see them. Upon learning we loved to snap photos of unique and native subjects, Raj would abruptly break each time something unusual crossed our paths - from a herd of goats briskly trotting along the street to dignified buffalo resting lazily in a pool.

"You will bring your bags to my home and repack...organize your things" Raj practically demanded. "And you can just relax in my home before I drop you off at the airport." He had this knack for being bossy but in an endearing way that left you no choice but to obey his commands. His open attitude made us feel at ease and we found his trust in us just as amusing and unexpected as our trust in him.

We worshiped with a congregation of all denominations at the Lotus Temple...ducked pesky salespeople at Dilli Haat then shopped and ate, wide-eyed and childlike, at Sarojini Market before folding ourselves into the warmth of Raj and his family's home. As we made our way to his village, the sky overturned from blue to black in a ghoulish flash, with no shades of transitional orange or purple in between. He tucked the car underneath a sinister-looking bridge. "Don't worry," Raj urged, catching the look of fright on my face. "It's safe." Nevertheless, we brought every piece of luggage, plastic bag and mini tote with us.

Waiting for us was Raj's youngest son, a late teen with the lean and toned build of a dancer that his father had earlier described him to have. He grabbed our heftiest suitcase and walked feverishly ahead of us, gripping the bag with his right hand alone. We crossed the street and reluctantly strolled into the entrance of a storybook market. The noisy clamor and rush of shoppers caused us to almost lose our footing. Could we zig zag throughout this bustling maze with aplomb, we wondered, or would the glaring lights and brutish sounds be too much for our senses? We squeezed past harried villagers and stopped briefly on occasion to inspect fresh carts of tomatoes and spinach and peer into open sacks of fragrant spices. Women were squatting on the ground, holding out their arms and hands for their turn at getting decorated with henna, a signal that the festival of women was only a day away. The surrounding sounds of vendors yelping and bells tinkering were jarring, yet somehow comforting. This was not a scene straight from a guidebook, but an obscure, esoteric wonderland that only we seemed to be privy to.

We abruptly abandoned the flurry of the narrow corridors and rounded a sharp corner to enter a roomy complex occupied by open-air homes of matching boxy shapes and cigarette case sizes. The atmosphere was dense and black, but welcoming, not threatening. "My entire family lives here," Raj explained, "Brothers, in-laws, nieces, nephews..." He led us into a multi-purpose room that tripled as a space to watch t.v., sit down to a family meal and take a siesta. The trappings looked bare bones but possessed a strange cheeriness to them: primitive armoires towered above a mini fridge that seemed more fitting in a dorm room than a family compound. Stacks of neatly folded clothes standing at attention in a corner reflected hard, domestic work. As our eyes surveyed this cozy enclave, we heard a booming thud. Raj had thrown our bulging luggage onto the bed.

"Isn't the luggage dirty," my mother yelped? "Put it on the floor. Your bed will be dusty and dirty."

"Nope," responded Raj with his usual defiance. "It's fine where it is." His stubborn personality could be unnerving but charming.

He pointed to a card table and a duo of fold-out chairs. "Sit there," Raj demanded. "I'll be back."

Raj returned with a pair of China cups steaming with tea and a stunning petite woman brimming with a grin wider than the length of her stature. "This is my wife, Pushpa" Raj said, setting his sturdy hands upon her delicate shoulders. We exchanged light handshakes but jubilant smiles, nodding rapidly to express our enthusiasm. She didn't breathe a word of English, yet we sensed an immediate connection, bonded by the hospitality the family so gallantly extended and that my mom and I so unabashedly embraced. Pushpa's loud orange and turquoise embroidered tunic belied her doll-like features and graceful demeanor. We thanked her countlessly for inviting us to her warm home and carving out the time to cook us an authentic vegetarian Indian meal. As Raj translated our words, Pushpa's cheeks flushed with pink, a humble reaction that matched her humble home.

She scurried back to her jewel-box kitchen, where the quintessential Indian tools of stainless steel pots and pans awaited her. Just as Pushpa left, Raj's middle son, bounced in, bearing chubby triangles of samosas fetched from a village vendor. He was stout and chipper, the ideal conduit for these traditional Indian snacks that result in feelings of euphoria. We tore off hearty bites of the crispy shell and devoured the spicy potato mixture hiding inside, pausing to gingerly sip the home-brewed chai tea. Every drop was creamy, sweet and fiery. "That's made with fresh buffalo milk," Raj explained with dignity. "Ahhhh," we replied. "No wonder it tastes so milky and pure." We also nibbled on crunchy golden snacks that popped with an egg-y base, rattling noisily about in their stainless steel bowl. Their whimsical shape and airy texture reminded me of La Choy chow mein noodles.

"Come," urged Raj as we gulped down the last drops of tea and put down our heavy samosas. "Let me introduce you to some of my family." As we followed Raj's lead, we peered into the kitchen and witnessed Pushpa hard at work: she was sprawled on the floor, straddling a steel bowl between her legs while peeling a trove of lush cucumbers. She looked up and smiled, never missing a beat...not a drop of sweat visible on her flawless face...happy to toil away for her guests. Later, we snapped a photo of Pushpa tending to the stove, exuding a radiant glow. This unassuming, but well-equipped kitchen was like a palace to this modest queen.

Just a few feet away stood the living quarters of Raj's brother and his family. The main room was similar in versatility and simplicity to Raj's multi-faceted space. A statuesque beauty with almost Western features was Raj's sister in law. She giggled excitedly upon meeting our acquaintance and straightaway boasted the henna that studded her hands. Her mother twirled about in her cobalt blue sari, smiling wildly to reveal weathered teeth but a sparkling soul. She chattered away in Hindi, desperate to communicate with us, and settling instead for warm smiles and an ethereal connection. The preteen son bedecked in scholarly glasses was the one who gushed a stream of English words, a language he was currently learning in school. He spewed off with passion about his studies and the upcoming Diwali celebration. But we suspected he was more enthralled to showcase his command of the English language, not the topics he discussed at hand. The daughter was a timid creature who barely uttered a word or flashed a hint of a smile. Raj joked he likes to compare her aloof personality to that of a cat's. "I like to tease her and ask her if she wants mouse tandoori for dinner."

Around the corner was the home of Raj's eldest brother and his brood. Their central room also served as a multi-layered den for eating, sleeping and dining purposes. Structured like a Redwood tree, the brother stood tall and menacing, his intimidating persona softened only by the sarong that circled his thick waist. He offered us a glass of wine, but we politely declined, unsure of how a twosome of broads from the U.S. swilling back wine would appear to this innocuous family. We did, however, on-the-spot accept his daughter-in-law's home-whipped curry, a glop of yogurt colored and seasoned with yellow curry and spiked with fresh pods of red chile. We were entranced by the curry's heat, but its muddy textures proved too rich for us. Three spoonfuls of curry remained in my glass bowl while my mom indulged in merely three spoonfuls of the stuff. The family by no means felt jilted over our inability to properly finish off their craftsmanship...they felt content enough that we expressed the curiosity to sample it. The brother's grandchildren, a feisty boy of 8 and precocious girl of 4, spun around the room belting out their roaring laughter and high-pitched screams. Though we didn't speak each other's language, we felt an instant kinship with one another. Not only did the daughter-in-law impart dollops of her home-spun curry, she shared photos of her vibrant tot posing like a Bollywood starlet. We felt as though we were dropping in on the home of old, not newfound friends.

We scuttled back to Raj's unit, taking note of each family's personalized kitchen along the way. The glamorous sister-in-law with the Western looks was wrestling with some cooking utensils, contemplating her next strategy, based on the pensive look on her face. Pushpa's feast awaited us, a stainless steel tray for each of us supporting a mound of rice and two stainless steel bowls capped off with soup and vegetables. This presentation was no-frills, yet homey. "The rice is cooked with butter," described Raj. We nodded in appreciation, savoring the once loose basmati rice now bonded together by fatty butter and adorned with cumin seeds. We encounter dal soup regularly here in hyper-ethnic Jersey City, but never as soothing and authentic as Pushpa's home-whipped creation. Confetti-sized bits of dal - also known as lentils - floated around a porridge-like broth fragrant with cumin, ginger and cilantro. Its golden color was derived from a dash of turmeric. Pushpa's aloo gobi delivered like a stew: chunky cuts of potato and cauliflower felt soft like marshmallows yet were heavy enough to sate our hunger. It also drew its mustard hue from the ubiquitous turmeric. Traditionally aggressive seasonings such as masala, cumin, coriander, ginger and cilantro were mixed in with a subtle hand so as not to alarm our palates.

My mom and I were on the cusp of getting full, but we continued to welcome the carousel of dishes. Raj sliced a red onion for us tableside, a common side vegetable that offsets the rich dishes. He was also armed with a pile of cucumbers that we had caught Pushpa peeling earlier in the evening. "What are the cucumbers seasoned with," I queried Raj, eyeing the specks of red and black that clung to the vegetable? "Chili pepper and black salt," he answered matter-of-factly. The potent flavors vamped up the naturally clean and refreshing taste of the cucumbers. It's a demure salad that can mesh well with any meal.

Pushpa even made her own chapati, an unleavened Indian flatbread simply formed by wheat flour and water. The dough is rolled out as thin as a tortilla shell and gets heated on a flat skillet. Pushpa's version bubbled up with air pockets but flaunted several charred spots that gave it a smoky edge. By this point, Raj's family members weaved in and out of the room, gawking at us in awe...these strangers from a strange land scooping up and relishing their trademark vegetarian food. Raj cozied up to his own tray of rice, soup and aloo gobi and settled comfortably on the bed to fixate his eyes upon the soccer game that was jutting out of the t.v. screen. Puspha had retreated back to the kitchen...I wondered if she was too sheepish to join us in our festive camaraderie or was it custom for the lady of the household to take her supper last, after her guests and her spouse finished their meals? Her sons milled around the room, continuing to survey us in fascination. We asked them to join us, but they sweetly refused, holding up their hands and half smiling. Perhaps it's standard for the children to eat at a later time as well. Pushpa's brother sauntered in and quickly made himself at home, settling also to a tray of his sister's home cooking and the soccer match blaring from the t.v.

As much as we swooned over Pushpa's gastronomical handiwork, my mom and I were full, our stomachs ready to burst from the excess of robust and savory offerings. Though Raj encouraged us to eat more, we surrendered, shifting our attention from munching on chapati to repacking and tidying up our luggage. While we refolded our clothes and re-wrapped fragile souvenirs, we braked to exchange phone numbers and e-mail addresses. Raj's oldest son, a broad-shouldered guy with infectious energy summoned me to his study so that we could search for each other's profiles on Facebook. It was another unpretentious room with sparse trappings - a fold-out bed, small bookcase, desk and computer. And yet to him, it felt like that proverbial corner office. The preteen boy thundered in to dole out cups of vanilla ice cream procured from another village vendor. I was too bloated to accept this sweet finale, but his brown eyes twinkling behind his bifocals made me melt (no pun intended) so I spooned up as much of the ice cream as I could. The joyous 8-year-old, grandson of Raj's eldest brother, twirled his tongue around a special cone of vanilla and chocolate ice cream, creating audible slurping sounds in between each lick. I couldn't help but mimic those whimsical slurping sounds. He blushed and cast his eyes down...the rest of the room giggled ferociously. A dab of slapstick fun can seal the connection between people of different cultures.

"Ok," announced Raj as he stuck his head into the office. "It's time for me to take you to the airport." My heart shot down to my stomach like a meteor hitting the Earth. I wasn't quite ready to bid everyone adieu. I had instantly grown attached to Raj's family, despite our short duration in their complex. Judging from my mom's dejected expression, she too, yearned to stick around. To us, they represented the highest hierarchy of human beings every person should strive to be: open, generous, loving, gracious and humble. We reluctantly shook hands and distributed hugs, denying the fact that we were parting from this rambunctious, happy crew of mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, cousins, siblings, aunts and uncles. Bound for our home in the U.S., our wish was to remain in this new home for good. But we headed back out to the narrow alleys teeming with flashy sari shops and produce hawkers, gingerly tiptoeing around women getting painted with henna while trying to rival Raj's giant steps. The preteen and 8-year-old tagged along on the walk to the parking lot, impressing us with their snake-like moves as they dodged vendors with clinking wares dangling from their shoulders through the cramped corridors.

"Come back as soon as possible," the preteen begged as we loaded our bags back into the toy-sized car. "We will," we assured him, doubtful but wistful that we would fulfill this promise. As Raj jerked the car out of its wedge of a space, we exchanged exuberant waves with these playful boys, as if we were saying farewell to lifelong friends, not newly acquainted pals. Raj's head son joined us on our journey to the Indira Gandhi International Airport, smug to be serving as co-pilot. For us, it was a family member we didn't have to detach ourselves from just yet. As we jetted on wheels through South Delhi's lively streets, we careened by glitzy hotels pulsing with their florescent lights, but their modern style was no match to the comforting surroundings we had just parted ways with.

The airport loomed before us with its wide landscapes and glass buildings. I gulped in nervousness, not for our airborne trip nor for the upheavals that can come with checking in for a flight. I was too scared to say goodbye to Raj...fearing the ensuing flood of tears.. the sense of security we were about to let go of...the good times that were about to come to an end. My mom and I looked at each other in pain and said, "This is it. It's time to go."

And in a flash, we hopped out of that reliable toy-sized car and said our goodbyes. Not ones to ever suppress our emotions, my mom and I let the tears trickle down as we shook Raj and his son's hands and gripped their shoulders, careful not to dispense any further signs of affection. "Don't cry," Raj insisted, but his eyes glistened with tears and his voice slightly quivered. "Thank you for everything," we choked and gave them one final look and wave before we headed inside to prepare ourselves for departure.

While we waited for takeoff, we marveled over the evening's series of events. Spending time with Raj and his family in his village and being treated to a home-cooked meal were far more meaningful than visiting the Taj Mahal, more endearing than sitting atop a camel and elephant and richer in experience than strolling through the Red Fort and Palace of Winds. No shiny bauble or intricately patterned kurti could compete with the deep kinship we felt with this spiritual and giving family. It's an intangible souvenir that will always remind us that even when you're in the midst of a foreign land, the feeling of home can come about from the most unique of sources.

A flaky and buttery morning (finally)

2011-11-12T12:50:00.000-08:00

I've never excelled at baking biscuits from scratch - the delivery typically comes in the form of a hockey puck or a crumbly cookie. Did I knead the dough too aggressively, I questioned myself? Was the butter not cold enough, I wondered? Discontented with my lack of Betty Crocker acumen, I'd toss these lackluster biscuits straight into the trashcan. I was feeling extra adventurous and domestic this morning, not to mention resourceful, wishing to use up some leftover buttermilk and Parmesan cheese that was squatting in the fridge. I gathered up every inch of gumption to once again, try my hand at baking up a batch of biscuits from scratch. My goal was to achieve flaky and buttery textures with a golden top. This straightforward but conscientious recipe from Vanilla Garlic helped me execute those characteristics that I once only dreamed of. And the addition of cheese brings a savory edge to this country staple. Any cheese will do, whether tangy blue cheese as Vanilla Garlic suggests or the salty Parmesan that I had on hand. A few stalks of scallions usually linger around in my produce drawer, but I chuckled in part surprise and part aggravation that during this random moment, I had run out of the ever-versatile ingredient. I incorporated leftover shallots as my back-up and later reveled in the sweet and sharp flavors that stood out prominently in the biscuits.

I followed the recipe diligently - using my bare hands instead of a mixing spoon and kneading the dough at minimum. I also took the extra step of chilling the butter in the fridge when I felt it was turning warm from my hands. I split the dough in half then cut the half in thirds. I stored the second half of dough in the freezer to bake for another day. Biscuits are best savored straight from the oven so I only baked half of this batch. And even that was too excessive for a solo glutton to conquer. I'm not as neat or precise as Vanilla Garlic. My biscuit squares look more like jagged rocks not like the geometric Lego blocks he produces. Texture wise, however, they were cottony soft and flaky. As for flavor, the heady cheese and shallots aligned harmoniously with the butter. My oven can be moody - surly one minute, hot headed the next minute and in between, it's sometimes a bit brash. I baked these biscuits at 350 for the first 12 minutes then upped the heat to 375 for the last 4 minutes. The result was a well baked interior and golden brown exterior. I accidentally skipped the addition of salt to the biscuit tops, but later sprinkled it post baking. A standard Kosher or sea salt will do.

After this morning's success, I'm feeling smug and confident. What a switch up in fate that the biscuits zoomed straight for my mouth rather than the deep abyss of a trashcan.

Blue Cheese-Scallion Biscuits (or in my case, Parmesan-Shallot Biscuits)
Source: Vanilla Garlic

Ingredients:

2 cups + 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/2 ground mustard (If, like me, you're without any kind of mustard, feel free to omit this ingredient)
1/4 teaspoon salt
a few grinds of black pepper
1 teaspoon sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
7 tablespoons butter (make sure it's cold as ice!)
2 scallions, finely chopped (or shallots, onions, chives, etc.)
2 ounces blue cheese (or any kind of cheese)
3/4 cup buttermilk
Red, Kosher, Maldon, or black salt for topping (optional, but suggested.)

Instructions:

1. Preheat the oven to 425F. In a large bowl whisk together the flour, mustard, salt, sugar, pepper, and baking powder if using. Set aside.

2. Dice the butter and toss with the flour mixture until finely coated. Add the scallions and blue cheese and toss until finely coated. Add the buttermilk and mix with your hands until it just comes together. (You will get messy. Just accept it.) Do not over-knead.

3. Form into an 8x8 square on a lightly floured service. Cut into squares and top with a bit of high-quality salt. Bake for 12-16 minutes or until golden.

Joseph Leonard, we meet again (and this time, I'm sizing you up)

2011-11-11T22:01:00.000-08:00

Nearly a year had whizzed by since I had relished in the chic and cozy setting of Joseph Leonard. And my recent reunion with this en vogue hot spot was purely by chance. Leon and I originally set our sights for a late brunch at sister restaurant Jeffrey's Grocery, but the glossy-looking staff was wrapping up the day's goods to make room for the upcoming dinner crowd. We headed westward to its next of kin. On a languid Sunday, Joseph Leonard is always abuzz with the West Village's best dressed and best tressed - 20 somethings circling the floor in their swing coats while tossing their lush locks and more senior clientele devouring the New York Times, trying to look blase in their premium denim. The restaurant still boasts fun, vintage accessories that look freshly procured from an auction - endearing items such as antique suitcases and rusty oscillating fans that blend perfectly with the exposed brick interior.

The wedge of a venue is an optical illusion. It appears miniscule but hidden nooks and crannies will surprise you with their clever usage of space. Despite brimming with style vixens and their hangers on, Leon and I managed to score a two-by-two counter tucked in the back corner. The intimate spot allowed us an equally intimate view into the open kitchen, where rocker type chefs traded quips and bellowed instructions to each other across the floor. Imagine the likes of us sitting side by side, Leon, a towering 6 foot 5 gentleman and me, a wispy 5 footer. We looked like a pair of cartoon characters, circa 1950s.

Our appetites proved similarly voracious in stature. Leon ordered the house favorite, a fried chicken sandwich of Flinstone-era girth. A thick slab of chicken breast coated in a crunchy batter jutted out from a set of sesame buns. No wonder it's the beloved choice of many: underneath the country coating, the chicken felt moist and velvety. Pliable made-from-scratch potato chips added a touch of home.

I conquered the chili con carne, loaded with the once obscure but now fashionable oxtail meat. This massive bowl seemed to surpass me in size. Rich red beans sat in a muddy bath of spicy tomato sauce. The brawny shreds of oxtail served as a decadent alternative to the everyday beef. Mashing the runny egg yolks into the stew created a rustic experience. And who ever feels sheepish from dunking toast into the sludgy waters of a chili con carne?

Though we closed the brunch hour, the staff didn't seem to mind that we lingered around to suck in every last morsel and bask in the warm environment. Soon, the supper crowd began to trickle in, swishing by in their Sunday best, Manhattan style. Two doll-sized chocolate chip cookies - fresh from the oven - topped our check. Joseph Leonard isn't losing thousands from spoiling customers with this gratis mini dessert, but the gesture is large on thought. Size matters, after all.

Joseph Leonard
170 Waverly Place
New York, NY
Ph: 646-429-8383Web site: josephleonard.com

Hola Mexico!

2011-11-10T21:38:00.000-08:00

Craving some North African grub as I was strolling along Journal Square's Sip Avenue, I was taken aback to discover that a newbie Mexican taqueria had replaced La Goulette, the once purveyor of so-so falafel but sludgy, stews and fluffy couscous. The line-up of stools at this North African cafe was always vacant and the venue as a whole, despite the vibrant red and yellow paint that plastered the walls, possessed an eerie dreariness to it. So perhaps it's not such an alarm after all that La Goulette shuttered its doors and windows for good.

Now we have Mi Mariachi before us, just as cliched as its predecessor in terms of decor. Floppy sombreros and striped ponchos, for example, have taken the place of handsome tagines to give patrons that "authentic" cultural flair. The same army of worn stools remain as does the compact, open kitchen peeking from behind a counter piled high with packages of soft tortilla. Reception from its crew came off chilly, unusual behavior for a restaurant trying to establish and retain a customer base during these inaugural days. For this working class section of Jersey City, the price tags come steep: $5.99 to $7.99 for a casual torta and breakfast platters averaging $5.99. As one of the few, if not only, authentic Mexican restaurants in the area, Mi Mariachi may feel that these glitzy prices are warranted.

I settled into a working girl's lunch of no-frills tacos that totaled $5. Though the tortilla shells arrived pre-made, yanked from one of those piled high packages, the interior components taste all-around fresh and savory. Tender shreds of grilled chicken and beef frolic with just-snipped cilantro, onions and chili and cumin seasonings. Homespun salsa verde provided extra heat and tang. It's an oddball beverage to wash down this spicy lunch, but I embraced myself around classic cafe con leche, always potent and always soulful.

A couple of youngsters outfitted in the popular urban wear of short leather jackets, skinny jeans and high-top sneakers raided this lunch hour, but Mi Mariachi essentially found itself lonely and somber. Despite the high prices, I hope it will soon attract a steady stream of patrons or this corner of Journal Square will be a revolving door of international offerings.

Mi Mariachi
213 Sip Ave.
Jersey City, NJ
Ph: 201-222-7719
Web site: N/A

A brownie with double the sass

2011-11-07T21:45:00.000-08:00

Chocolate-covered pretzels...chocolate chip cookies studded with sea salt...caramel salted latte...who isn't ga ga for a sweet and salty snack? For gastronomes whose tendencies are equal parts salty and equal parts sweet, these treats will fix that concurrent craving. The sweetness cuts the lip-puckering zap of the salt while the saltiness offsets the onslaught of tooth-tingling sugar. Cooking Light magazine meets the needs of sweet and salty hounds with this ultra-decadent brownie recipe. One of the perils of working from home sweet home is that the kitchen is within arm's reach. I happened to half intentionally and half haphazardly place this batch of brownies in visible view inside my fridge. So when I reach for the jug of spring water or hunt for essential ingredients, my hand gravitates toward another swipe of this incorrigible dessert, looking like a minx with her luminous white icing and abstract zig zags of chocolate. Since last night, I've plowed through a third of these brownies. In between work calls, they serve as a sugary pick-me-up. And in front of the local news, they bring comfort to stories of blight and crime. A couple of hours before a workout, they're the last hurrah for the day.

Ironically, I found the brownies to feel a bit on the dry and listless side when I took my first chomp last night. I scrunched my face up and released a childish "blech." After cooling in the fridge for 12 hours, however, it took on dense and rich properties too irresistible to ignore. As a general rule, use a quality brand of cocoa made with Dutched cocoa for deep flavor. Fine bakers will plunk down a hefty sum for the Droste brand but more economical brands such as Saco Foods's premium cocoa will also pass muster (and I simply adore the retro chef cartoon complete with a kerchief). As I spread the icing across the cooled brownie, I struggled to cover every inch of the brownie. It looked too scant and too thin. About another 2 tablespoons of butter, 1/4 of powdered sugar, two tablespoons of brown sugar, extra splashes of evaporated milk and just a droplet of vanilla gave me the thick and full coverage needed to ice this special cocoa extravaganza. I used a glamorous dark chocolate produced by France's Valrhona to drizzle atop the white icing. It's made of 70 percent cocoa and yields a jovial snap. The minute I opened the slim case, I could instantly breathe in the intense dark chocolate aromas wafting from the wrapping. The crystals of fleur de sel and the cloyingly sweet icing clung to each other like soul mates, reviving the whole opposites attract cliche.

Salted Caramel Brownies
Source: Cooking Light, September 2011

Ingredients:

3/4 cup of flour
1 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
6 tablespoons butter, melted
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Cooking spray

Topping:

1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
3 1/2 tablespoons evaporated fat-free milk, divided
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 cup powdered sugar
1 ounce bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
1/8 teaspoon coarse sea salt

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 350°.
2. To prepare brownies, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 4 ingredients (through baking powder) in a large bowl, stirring well with a whisk. Combine 6 tablespoons butter, eggs, and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Add butter mixture to flour mixture; stir to combine. Scrape batter into a 9-inch square metal baking pan lightly coated with cooking spray. Bake at 350° for 19 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out with moist crumbs clinging. Cool in pan on a wire rack.
3. To prepare topping, melt 1/4 cup butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Add 1/4 cup brown sugar and 1 1/2 tablespoons milk; cook 2 minutes. Remove from heat. Add vanilla and powdered sugar; stir with a whisk until smooth. Spread mixture evenly over cooled brownies. Let stand 20 minutes or until set.
4. Combine 2 tablespoons milk and chocolate in a microwave-safe bowl; microwave at HIGH for 45 seconds or until melted, stirring after 20 seconds. Stir just until smooth; drizzle over caramel. Sprinkle with sea salt; let stand until set. Cut into squares.

Green with envy

2011-11-05T21:48:00.000-07:00

Edamame isn't just a preceding snack to sushi anymore. The Japanese soybeans can be crushed in the food processor to create a chunky dip of lush green colors. It's an earthy alternative to the sometimes predictable hummus. In this recipe from Healthy Green Kitchen, shallots and garlic add biting flavors and a half scoop of avocado give the gritty edamame textures a buttery complement. Since avocado browns immediately, save the task of splitting it for last. I threw in another dollop of avocado from the second half...as for the rest, I sprinkled it with salt and aimed it straight for my mouth. On the subject of salt, you need to impart a slap, not a pinch to vamp this dip up. Despite the provocative components, it tastes bland and flat at first. If you're feeling experimental, add a few drops of sesame oil for smokiness or chili flakes for heat.

Like the little black dress, this edamame dip suits multiple scenarios. It takes on guacamole characteristics with its vivid green colors and garlic and avocado ingredients. The lumpy textures pair well with crisp tortilla chips. This little green dip can also be used as a substantial spread for crostini or panini and an accompaniment for salmon or chicken. I fancy it as pesto for pasta, thanks to the fragrant basil laced throughout the dip. Just as every wardrobe needs the little black dress, every kitchen needs the little green dip.

Ingredients:

one 14-ounce bag frozen shelled edamame, unthawed
1/2 ripe avocado (and then some)
1 shallot, peeled and sliced into quarters
1 clove of garlic, peeled
2 teaspoons olive oil or more, if needed, to create a smoother dip
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice or more to taste
1 large handful fresh basil or more to taste
pinch of sea salt (I used a slap)

Instructions:

1. Cook edamame in large saucepan of boiling salted water until tender, 3-4 minutes. Drain, reserving 1/2 cup cooking liquid.

2. Place cooked edamame, avocado, shallot, garlic, oil, lemon juice and 1/4 cup reserved cooking liquid in food processor. Season with the sea salt. Blend in more cooking liquid or a little more olive oil if too chunky/thick.

Purple haze

2011-11-05T08:45:00.000-07:00

The gastronomical geniuses of America's Test Kitchen bring Cooking for Two to your kitchen library, a how-to page turner erupting with domestic and global dishes. Recipes are scaled back to portions suited for a cozy twosome or a solo gastronome with double the appetite. The cookbook is inked with the same intricate instructions and clever tricks printed in its other publications such as Cook's Illustrated and Cook's Country. Professionals and novices alike have grown attached to the cooking empire's honest and often heartfelt, step by step descriptions that don't betray all the testing and toiling taking place in the "laboratories." To chefs of all levels, the Cooking for Two reads both like a suspenseful novel and a scientific textbook. Could you imagine the expressions on straphangers' faces if you buried your nose in the book while rumbling along on the subway?

It's an excellent source for those exasperated with wasting excess ingredients or tinkering with how to trim a bulk-sized recipe into a compact meal. Matt's mom Vicki had gifted me the 2011 edition of this beautifully written and photographed tome over the summer and now, after decompressing from multiple sojourns far flung and local, I'm delving in and tackling away. Even when Matt and I find ourselves apart, Cooking for Two can still happily serve for one. The extra half can be set aside as leftovers or ravished in a flash...for a solo gastronome such as myself with double the appetite.

Lately, I've been fond of vegetarian meals that eat like a fleshy feast. It's quite the bizarre turn of events for a traditional carnivore who always opts for meat at the dinner table. Most likely, the newfound attraction is a result of the various vegetarian meals my mom and I flirted then fell in love with when we toured India's Golden Triangle last month. Cooking for Two's eggplant casserole recipe gnawed at my sense of taste. The mad scientists at America's Test Kitchen created this dish as a modern take to the standard eggplant parmesan. Here in the multi-ethnic neighborhood of Journal Square, the international grocery stores need to stay competitive to draw in and maintain their customers. Latino-focused Twin City supermarket haughtily sells its eggplant for $2.79 a pound, while South Asian Apna Bazaar will shock you with its dollar per pound offering.

This dish is clean, but savory in taste. It also sates a pulsating hunger, even for born meat-tooths. In place of soggy, breaded eggplant are pure slices of eggplants baked with a dash of salt and olive oil. If you need to use two baking sheets to cook your eggplant, separate the slices into batches of similar circumference for uniform cooking. Fiddle around with your oven settings as kitchen toys vary from household to household. I found the book's 450 degree suggestion too harsh and brought it down to 400.After the eggplant browns, that pesky moisture often associated with the vegetable vanishes and a deep natural flavor stands at the forefront.An accessible can of crushed tomatoes provides the appropriate tang and acidity, minus the extra labor and heaviness of freshly chopped tomatoes. I gravitated toward the Luigi Vitelli brand because, well, the vintage label radiates like a piece of art. Too bad I pitched the can before I could take a glamor shot of its lush mug. For the richness the tasters clamored after, the chefs incorporated a mixture of ricotta, egg yolk and Parmesan into the recipe. Whole Foods is usually the purveyor I run to for fresh, locally whipped ricotta. I hunted down a pouch of Panko at nearby Phil Am supermarket. Mixed with Parmesan and garlic, the Japanese bread crumbs create a playfully crunchy and sharp-tasting topping. So-long bread crumbs in a canister....

Eggplant Casserole with Tomato Sauce and Mozzarella
Source: Cooking for Two

You will need a shallow 8 1/2 by 5 1/2 baking dish with straight sides that are no more than 2 inches high for this recipe.

Ingredients:

3 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium eggplant (about 1 pound), sliced into 3/-inch-thick rounds
Salt and pepper
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 1/4 cups canned crushed tomatoes
1 tablespoon chopped fresh basil
4 ounces whole-milk or part-skim ricotta cheese (about 1/2 cup)
1 ounce Parmesan cheese, grated (about 1/2 cup)
1 large egg yolk
4 ounces whole milk mozzarella cheese (about 1 cup)
1/2 cup Panko bread crumbs

Instructions:

1. Adjust oven rack to middle position and heat oven to 450 degrees. Line rimmed baking sheet(s) with parchment paper and brush with 1 tablespoon oil. Toss eggplant with 1 tablespoon more oil and 1/2 teaspoon salt and arrange in a single layer on prepared baking sheet. Roast eggplant until golden brown, 35 to 45 minutes, flipping halfway through. Let eggplant cool until needed. Reduce oven temperature to 375 degrees.
2. Meanwhile, heat 2 teaspoons more oil and 2 teaspoons minced garlic in small saucepan over medium heat until fragrant not brown, 1 to 2 minutes. Stir in tomatoes, bring to simmer, and cook until sauce is thickened and measures about 1 cup, 3 to 5 minutes. Turn off the heat, stir in basil and season with salt and pepper to taste. Cover to keep warm.
3. In medium bowl, mix together ricotta, 6 tablespoons Parmesan, egg yolk, 1/8 teaspoon salt and 1/8 teaspoon pepper.
4. Evenly layer 1/4 cup tomato sauce, half of roasted eggplant, 1/4 more cup tomato sauce, half of ricotta mixture and 1/2 cup mozzarella into the 8 1/2 by 5 1/2-inch baking dish, in that order. Repeat layering process. (Casserole can be covered with plastic wrap and refrigerated for up to 1 day; remove plastic wrap and proceed as directed, increasing covered baking time to 35 minutes.)
5. Cover dish tightly with aluminum foil that has been sprayed with vegetable oil spray (or use nonstick foil). Bake until filling is bubbling, about 25 minutes.
6. Meanwhile, mix remaining 1 teaspoon oil, remaining 1 teaspoon minced garlic, remaining 2 tablespoons Parmesan, and Panko together in medium bowl; season with salt and pepper to taste. Remove foil from casserole, sprinkle with Panko mixture, and continue to bake until topping is spotty brown and crisp, 20 to 25 minutes. Let casserole cool for 10 minutes before serving.

The shop around the corner

2011-11-01T22:40:00.000-07:00

Housed in a Swiss chalet copycat, Clark's Deli and Catering is Johnstown's answer to the corner bodega...and it literally sits on the corner of Menoher and Diamond boulevards. On the one hand, this quirky grab bag is a convenient store equipped with energy drinks, beef jerky, cigarettes and faux cappuccino. But deeper into the shop, an intimate kitchenette reveals jovial staff on the brink of whistling like the Seven Dwarfs assembling Clark's popular subs and whipping up regional favorites like kielbasa and haluski, a la minute. Patrons can lunch in the tiny, but cozy dining space or take their deli treats outside to enjoy beneath patio table umbrellas, weather permitting of course.

A genuine neighborhood feel definitely hovers in the air and is especially apparent when staff greets regulars with instant hellos and how are yous. Just a walkable jaunt and zippy drive from many Westmont and Southmont homes, it's one of the neighborhoods' favorite spots to nab an emergency meal or robust platters for parties. Matt and I have perked our mornings up with Clark's breakfast pizza, a hearty pie dripping in cheddar cheese and studded with benevolent servings of scrambled eggs and bacon. "Don's Special" is a signature sub perhaps stamped with this moniker for the simple, honest main ingredients of salami and ham that give the dish its distinction. Sweet tooths will revel in the home-spun no-bake and raisin-filled cookies on display in portable glass cases. But the true show stopper at Clark's is its line-up of homemade gobs coming in red velvet, chocolate and banana flavors. These chubby gobs are bold in looks and flavor. The banana gob in particular is infused with a surge of that authentic mashed-up banana ingredient. "Slices" of the gob cake taste moist and rich and the creamy filling is a 50/50 balance of sweet and salty. Try landing this kind of luxurious snack at a corner bodega in Manhattan.

Clark's Deli and Catering
1003 Menoher Blvd
Johnstown, PA
Ph: 814-255-5735
Web site: www.clarkscornerstore.biz/

Trick or treating the adult way

2011-10-31T21:30:00.000-07:00

Even the slippery slush and bone-chilling temperatures couldn't thwart off Halloween enthusiasts from bombarding an alcohol and candy pairing at Bottlerocket in the Flatiron District, proving once again the human race holds an untamable sweet tooth and a kindred spirit (literally) with wicked libations. The vast hall of Bottlerocket mimics a museum showroom, with never ending bottles of global wine standing at stiff attention on spacious racks. Roaring laughter and upbeat chatter from oenophiles and liquor hounds echoed throughout the shop, creating a party atmosphere in the otherwise serene space.

An island spilling with wine, booze and snacks served as a communal vantage point for participants to mesh and mingle with one another. The vino preceded the hard liquor to keep folks' palates thriving and refined. First up was a sample of bubbly chardonnay from France's ooh la la Charles De Fere. The peppery heat of paprika-dusted popcorn was quelled by the wine's crisp structure and prevalence of apple, lemon and apricot flavors. With its spring-like aromas and ingredients, the chardonnay was a timely escape from the brash autumn season.

Timeless candy corn always appears on Halloween tabletops. Even adults still revere them for their unmistakable chewy texture and overly sugary taste. If that excess of sugar is bothersome, a sip of Newton's red label 2010 chardonnay from Northern California will bring forth a sophisticated caramel finish, quite the departure from the usual "junky" taste. The wine's creamy coating and decadent honey notes help make it the go-to white wine for all seasons.

Also hailing from Northern California is Rockface 2007 Cabernet Sauvignon. Hints of cherries tickle the nostrils and aggressive components of plum and licorice stomp across the tongue. The full-bodied output and deep richness accentuated the bitter intensity of a Hershey's dark chocolate kiss. Rockface is bold enough to also pair with burgers, steaks and mushrooms.

Some vinos balked at the next stage of the tasting - an audacious session of candy and hard liquor - but later appreciated the premium offerings. Gnawing away on a chunk of caramel yielded a sweet coating from Compass Box's Oak Cross Malt Scotch Whiskey, aptly named to embody the duo of American oak aging (vanilla results) and French oak aging (clove outcome). This is the innocuous and frilly way of downing whiskey straight up. Next door, a heavy bottle of Bootlegger Vodka, distilled here in the heart of the Big Apple, looked monstrous and ominous but the taste proved smooth and delicate. It's a sipping vodka meant to enjoy as is. Lemon wedges dipped in legendary Pop Rocks provided a dynamite tartness to the no-frills liquor.

In true bar fashion, a youthful dark-tressed gal mixed autumn-inspired cocktails to keep the bash bumping. Refreshing and fruity Razor Apple was a sharp contrast between the juniper-based gin and tangy flavors of apple cider, Cointreau and lemon juice. It's a lighthearted elixir to plunge into and gulp in a whip. Bottlerocket paid homage to the city's boudoir fiasco with Bed Bugs. Bat-shaped confetti candy swam in a fizzy and potent combination of Kraken rum, ginger beer and lime juice, teaching us that something good can always come out of something bad. Cheers to a tipsy Halloween!

Bottlerocket
5 W. 19th St.
New York, NY
Ph: 212-929-2323
Web site: www.bottlerocketwine.com

Besh in the flesh

2011-10-30T09:44:00.000-07:00

Many coo over his all-American good looks, while others emulate his dapper fashion sense of bow ties and seersucker suits. Some folks admire the former Marine for his instrumental participation in capturing Kuwait International Airport during Operation Desert Storm. And it was clear that the dining room full of nerdy food bloggers at NOLA's IFBC 2011 all adore Chef John Besh for his natural acumen in the kitchen. As he skipped jubilantly across the stage, the crowd welcomed the Louisiana native with cheers and whistles. The hometown hero is wildly lauded for his gourmet take on Louisiana cuisine, displaying constant innovation while remaining faithful to his local roots. Likewise, his patriotism is not only reflected in his military career, but in the good old-fashioned American fare he delivers at restaurants like Besh Steak and the newly minted American Sector. The dashing chef is personable and down to earth, not what you expect from a culinary celebrity who spearheads an empire of critically acclaimed restaurants and occasionally pops up on cooking competitions and glossy T.V. features. It's that affable personality that prompts folks to hang on to the keynote speaker's every word. As Besh discussed the prominent fishing culture of his beloved state and described his transition into a round-the-clock chef, bloggers' mouths stood agape and their hearts went pitter patter.

As much as we loved getting a taste of Besh in the flesh, we also howled and moaned over the extravagant dinner the Hotel Monteleone's head chef, Randy Buck, prepared for we blogging bon vivants. The three-course meal, plus wine, was the velvet red bow that tied the weekend together. While we swiped casual bites off of trays and chugged back Abita beer the previous days, we sat down to a formal setting crowned with immaculately designed food on our final evening. Some of us charged into the airy dining space still plastered in our daytime wear of jeans and tees and others sashayed in with kiss-lock clutches and seamless sheaths. Regardless of our attire, we all felt rather smug and special as if we were being ushered into a grand yet top-secret event.

Food bloggers are an eccentric breed, after all. We love to document the food we eat and cook through words, photographs and videos to obsessive extremes. Only a fellow food blogger can understand why I must capture a roast chicken's back side and front side or why the quest to find alternatives to the word "delicious" is ongoing. Buttoned-up dinners such as this usually take place at a wedding reception or awards ceremony, where folks to the left and right look quizzical when you start snapping away at pictures of your steak. Here at IFBC 2011, photographing was the norm. We nodded and smiled as expressions of our kinship and later traded photos like baseball cards.

We unraveled our origami-folded napkins and tinkered with our polished silverware. To gently spark the evening, Chef Buck served this gastronomically discerning crowd an artfully crafted tower of seafood. In a "puddle" of cucumber gelee stood a dariole of lump crab meat held intact by a sharp and dense ravigote. The nautical masterpiece was adorned with a jumbo grilled shrimp partially concealed by an entanglement of watercress caviar and dollop of tangy aioli. The jiggly texture of a gelee is an acquired liking but spooned with the meaty crab, it didn't feel as "mad scientist" bizarre. A glass of toasty cava with peachy notes from Juve y Camps Reserva de la Familia Gran complemented the dish's cool composure.

An assertive red compilation of earthy spices, deep berries and rich mocha from Italy's Allegrini Palazzo della Jorre brought out the heady flavors of the beef Perigourdine and its accessories. For someone who usually finds the sinewy characteristics of a steak too daunting to chew and swallow, this manly cut of beef was tender to the touch. An avalanche of black summer truffles tumbled down thick slices of velvety roasted duck fois gras. The smattering of potato galette felt too dry and lifeless but the endives flaunted its charred treatment and the striped beets showed off their magenta hue and caramelized flavor.

An impeccably squared creme brulee closed our starry night of first-class bites and the matching A-list players of Besh and Buck. The classic French dessert was infused with the French-born Valrhona white chocolate, a fitting, pure ingredient to jive with the intense citrus flavors of the blood orange coulis. The traditional layer of glassy burnt sugar was accompanied by a non-traditional, collapsible sugar sculpture of abstract form. Sips of cloyingly sweet oranges, raisins, caramel, toffee and vanilla from the Campbells Muscat of Rutherglen, Australia seemed to be harvested for this dessert alone.

Johnny Dee's maritime love potion

2011-10-26T07:10:00.000-07:00

A dish I haven't dished about yet is Baltimore's signature shrimp salad, specifically in sandwich form. It's an elusive number to sniff out here in Gotham City, especially when lobster rolls and oysters tend to stalwartly strut their stuff across the casual seafood scene. As a Charm City expat, the hunt for this simple, but gratifying sandwich in the Big Apple can be frustrating and bordering on delusional. Scouring deeply through restaurant menus, I've surfaced with zero results. Many will argue such an omission from NYC's culinary landscape is a plus, as it preserves Baltimore's clinch to this trademark sandwich. A jaunt back to this sleeper foodie town is the only instant solution when the craving for lightly dressed shrimp sets in.

It's by no means posh or complicated. The steamed crustaceans are gingerly folded into a humble mixture of mayonnaise, lemon juice, dill and sometimes Old Bay and celery...maybe even a smattering of diced onion. The type of bread is up to the hedonist, but most favor a brawny Kaiser roll to parallel the brood of plump shrimp. A jaw of Frankenstein measurements is essential for an all-encompassing chomp, but a shrimp or two may still tumble down in the process. Engulfed in a mess, with maybe mayo smeared across my blouse and one of the prized prawns literally falling prey to the dusty floor, I would give up on the hand-held method and knife and fork my way through the succulent shrimp. The bread I would greedily reserve for the end, lifting it up like toast and savoring the lingering dressing lodged inside the crevices.

During my Baltimore days, I enjoyed first-rate shrimp salad sandwich with a happy hour crowd at Bay Cafe and with a stiffer work crew at Victor's Cafe, among other countless settings and venues. (Though I ponder if I ever ordered shrimp salad on a date? Probably not unless the fella harbored a fetish for fishy breath.) But oddly enough, the most esteemed shrimp salad sandwich I've ever swallowed took place four years after I defected from Charm City and have nestled comfortably into the confines of the sixth borough known as Jersey City. The naughty culprit responsible for this best dressed sandwich is Johnny Dee's, an obscure hang out wedged inside a mini shopping plaza in Parkville. Introduced to me by my close Baltimore chum Stef, Johnny Dee's has truthfully been enjoying an illustrious 50-year marathon as a Baltimore heavyweight. Once again, I learn of such an esoteric Baltimore treasure only after I move away.

Johnny Dee's prompts you to yelp daddy oh, oh, oh! The environment is a stunner in that quirky Baltimore way. Quite frankly, the lounge looks like a lounge: under the low ceiling, a largely senior crowd sits languidly on the retro leather chairs and sets their old-school cocktails on mid-century style tables with mini legs. Even the lighting is dusky and provocative. John Waters could very well commission Johnny Dee's lounge into a set for his next movie. I expected the pop tune of "Why Do Fools Fall in Love?" to burst from the speakers. Next door, the bar embodies that of any Baltimore bar: rowdy Ravens and Orioles fans from frat boy age to two generations back mingling together effortlessly as if no staggering age difference existed between them. The waitresses rattle off in that infamous Baltimore lilt and exude a stream of small-city warmth.

But let's revisit the star topic at hand: Johnny Dee's perennial hit, the shrimp salad sandwich. I opted for the Kaiser roll to anchor my fleet of prawns. "Somehow I knew you'd pick that," remarked Stef with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She was hinting at my lumberjack appetite rather than at my decision to follow the masses. I concentrated on each bite, nibbling graciously one minute to capture each flavor but then taking deeper strides the next minute because the sandwich was too incredible tasting to simply fidget and toy with...so why not tackle it with gusto? Copious amounts of pudgy shrimp popped in my mouth, reflecting their just-netted freshness. The coverage of mayo was ideal - not excessive and not lacking. Bits of celery were scant, but somehow pulled the sandwich together with a touch of flavor. It didn't even need sprigs of dill to give it va va va voom. This shrimp salad as it stood boasted perfection. I asked for a topping of lettuce, tomatoes and onions for color and a boost of produce. "Raw onions," inquired the waitress? I nodded rather sheepishly. "Oh great," exclaimed Stef! "You'll have shrimp and raw onion breath." Poor girl...it was she, a trustworthy, loyal friend, instead of a kick-him-to-the-curb date who had to suffer through my fishy aura. Johnny Dee's, I love you so! Your aphrodisiac of shrimp salad sandwich works like a charm. I'll come armed with breath freshener next time.

Johnny Dee's
1706 Joan Avenue
Baltimore, MD
Ph: 410-665-7000

Web site: N/A

Market value

2011-10-23T20:52:00.000-07:00

There's an inviting element to the Sarojini Nagar Market in SW Delhi, unlike the creepy corridors of Chandni Chowk or the tourist-hungry halls of Dilli Haat. Maybe the sudden geometric corners pleasantly surprising us with racks of kurtis (Indian tunics) or chuski stalls (crushed ice doused in syrups) are attached to this feeling of warmth. Perhaps the festive sights of madams getting inked with henna and families scooping up sweets in preparation for Karva Chauth contributed to the homey quality. It's a shame we discovered this gem of a booming bazaar on our last day in India for the wares are bang for your buck and the culinary offerings are as fashionable and affordable as the saris dangling in the windows. In truth, it was our knockabout tour driver Raj who introduced us to the Sarojini Nagar market. He willfully dropped us off to roam the retail wilds like uninhibited Bengal tigers.

We sauntered by vendors hawking glass bangles and rubber sandals to get to the heart of the market. What we adored about India is that generally, no matter where we turned, we encountered waves and waves of color, which always brought our moods to jovial extremes. The components of this market are no exception. I spotted a brigade of bright, camel-printed nightgowns dancing in the breeze. I harbor this hedonistic obsession for clothes and housewares printed with camels and elephants. Their appearance are doubly cute and exotic. I scored a red camel-printed nightgown for less than 200 rupees ($4 U.S.). Cinched at the waist with a skinny belt and ending with a pair of wedges, the getup creates a striking daytime look for touring a museum or brunching with friends.

On this mid-afternoon outing, we found ourselves parched. North India this time of year is still scorching hot, but what's thankfully missing is the balmy discomfort of a Baltimore or U.S. Virgin Island. We sought out authentic Indian beverages to quench our thirsts and came upon this convenience shop of sorts called Bhupal Store to source our liquid commodities. India seems to lack in large-scale supermarkets, but it's flooded with these mom and pop venues jam-packed with snacks, candies, toiletries and office supplies. My mom went for a splash of pulpy mango juice while I refreshed myself with a box of subtly tart lychee juice.

We continued to galavant through the mini streets of Sarojini Nagar market while breathing in the spicy aromas bouncing off of the food carts. "People of all economic levels come to this market," Raj explained. So even the wealthiest of Delhi's elite and the most humble of paupers can vie for the same set of melamine dishes and stand cheek to cheek munching on chubby samosas. Mahendra Sweets was teeming with ladies and gents...some immaculately dressed, while others were covered in simpler garb, pointing to traditional Indian desserts like roly poly gulab jamun soaked in rosewater and chalky burfi chiseled into jagged square shapes. Cheery staff members dropped these exquisite confections into snug gift boxes, to then later be wrapped in metallic paper at a separate station. We picked up a bundle of sweets for Raj and his family, ensuring every inch of real estate inside the box was occupied by some piece of dessert.

Nearby, a chipper fellow robed in red dropped two disks of potatoes into a massive frying pan filled with gurgling oil. The antique-like equipment looked strong and dignified, as though it was plucked straight out of the military camp of Shah Jahan. Called aloo tikki, literally translated into potato croquette, these celebrated spuds of North India are typically crowned with chutneys and curry sauces, and if you own a gargantuan appetite, sandwiched between burger-style buns. The aloo tikki appealed to us, with its soft outer layer morphing into a crisp exterior, but we weren't quite in the mood to nosh just yet. We returned to swirling around the market vendors, stopping abruptly to rub fabrics between our fingers...circling about men's kurtis dropping down from ceilings a la skeletons...and tinkering around with chandelier earrings. My mom got tangled in a row of muumuus and eventually emerged gripping a geometric-printed number she scooped up for 200 rupees ($4 U.S.). I locked eyes with a floral-embroidered kurti sewn with delicate piping and finished off with faux diamond buttons, eventually opting for a magenta and green color combination for just 300 rupees ($6 U.S.).

The "melody" of aloo tikki frying in the pan gnawed at our appetite. In our path stood Khatta Meetha, where at the forefront, diligent boys dipped the mounds of potato into a colossal frying pan and also crammed hollow pani puri balls with an assortment of fillings. We took our aloo tikki plain, minus the excess of brutish burger buns and sludge of curry sauce (simmering in a cauldron next to the frying pan). But it didn't taste the least bit drab, despite the minimalist set up. Inside, a mixture of fiery corn and peas burst like firecrackers off of our tongues. We ordered a double for 50 rupees ($1 U.S.) and shared one to start. Friends in the States had vehemently cautioned us to avoid all street food. But Khatt Meetha's outdoor cooking post looked clean and polished. We dared ourselves to dally with the concrete grub and later came up sated and unscathed.

Such a happy-go-lucky approach was directed toward procuring a bevy of momos. We brushed pass the whimsical specialty in a bustling night market by our hotel in Karol Bagh, feeling squeamish about sampling the street side delicacy. On our last day in India, we got more audacious with our gastronomical adventures. With the northeast part of India kissing the borders of Nepal, these half moon dumplings bunched at the top have trickled into the interior, pleasing the palates of both native Indians and the Nepalese population alike. This ho-hum guy manages a no-frills momos stand equipped with a stacked steamer. For just a throwaway 30 rupees (60 cents U.S.), we feasted upon 8 sizable pieces of chicken momo. The simple flour and water dough housed chunky ground meat and shreds of carrots and celery. We skipped the aggressive heat of the chili sauce, fearing the consequence of a volcanic eruption in our stomachs. I guess we weren't such risk takers after all!

I washed this hearty snack down with a silky concoction from next door. The one-stop shop cranks out chuskis, churns shake after shake and steams tubs of corn kernels. Who knows why I bypassed the sultry flavors of a badam or rose shake for a standard coffee shake (60 cents U.S.), but my caffeinated beverage was still a knockout, frothy at the top and bordering on a dessert with its dollops of vanilla ice cream.

After peeking in a few vibrant sari tailor shops and sifting through boyish T-shirts, we finished our tour of the Sarojini Nagar market at a prosperous snack venue going by the dismal name of Cake and Dairy Shop. The cantankerous shopkeepers are an off crew of men who don't at all match the exuberant edible knick knacks they sell. Here, you can snag made-to-order kathi rolls, sacks of crunchy Indian chips, ice cream on a stick and even the Western giant known as pizza if you're so inclined. India's British roots are reflected in the glass case boasting heaps of Cadbury chocolates. At only 20 rupees (40 cents U.S.), the 5 Star bar is a comprehensive block of milk chocolate embracing the gooey textures of nougat and caramel and crackly rice crispies. The addition of raisins and peanuts create a "heartier" treat. We were drawn to the novelty of this grandfatherly "barista" tending to the whirs and spatters of the Nescafe machine. Forty cents U.S. will fetch you a small size of latte served in star-printed paper cups, but not so much of a smile!

Though prices are fixed at Sarojini Nagar Market, you can shop in confidence knowing you're facing decent quality items for the best bargain-basement prices. You can save yourself from the perils of haggling and pushy salespeople and throw yourself in the animated environment full of eclectic discoveries. Nab a brightly-patterned kurti, maybe a sari of sorbet color. Then pause for an aloo tikki burger or a parcel of momos. Make music from the jingles and jangles of glass bangles. Break for a tall order of badam shake. Play spectator to demure ladies getting painted with henna. This is a multi-layered market abuzz with edible fashion and fashionable edibles.

When in Rome (or Kuwait City)

2011-10-21T12:23:00.000-07:00

Kuwait City may lack the energy of Manhattan or the creativity of Yogyakarta, but it's a flavorful metropolis that's still worth a peek and a taste. It didn't stand prominently on our list of must-sees, but on our way to Delhi, my mom and I popped in for a 24-hour whirlwind tour because...well, why not? As one of the richest countries in the world, Kuwait doesn't feel a need to lean on tourism to draw in the cash. In truth, there's minimal to do in this oil producing titan. If you've conquered the Kuwait Towers and maybe a few museums, then your getaway is complete. Pepper this mini package with authentic Middle Eastern cuisine and you've suddenly gone deluxe. A Kuwait resident for three years, our chum Diana introduced us to all her cherished culinary haunts, treating us to an insider's look of what the locals eat and drink. Through stark highways and pass palatial estates, we nabbed delicacies from cozy enclaves and vibrant supermarkets. Our once capsulized jaunt stretched into a robust gastronomical excursion.

Bess Fooll, Bess Felafel
Just around the bend from the Fahaheel seafood market is this unassuming Middle Eastern casual spot, focusing its expertise upon traditional foul and falafel. It's a rather plain environment with just a speck of personality, but back in the corner, employees tend to the sizzling wood burning oven baking up saucers of tender pita bread. And the falafel here holds plenty of zing, crisp oval-shaped mounds of fried chickpeas accessorized with a cool yogurt dressing, ripe tomatoes and freshly snipped parsley. We particularly adored the side of pickled chili peppers, glistening with their vinegar overcoat and tasting concurrently sharp and fiery.

Sultan Center
When venturing abroad, one can always stumble upon drinks stirred with the most unique of ingredients. Next door to Falhaheel is Sultan Center supermarket, stocked with funky non-alcoholic elixirs galore too dizzying to choose from. We finally honed in on a carton of banana flavored milk produced by ABC along with a petite bottle of laban made by Almarai. The marina by the rear of the shopping plaza offers a lustrous view of downtown Kuwait. Though by nature Kuwait is chilly in looks, the perennial sun adds a warm glow to the stoic buildings and crisp concrete. We sipped our beverages while basking in the heat and with eyes affixed to the city scene before us. Banana lovers will enjoy lapping up every drop of this milk. The flavor is all natural, not that artificial banana garbage present in cheap candy. Laban is an acquired taste. The muddy texture and potent tang of this yogurt specialty is meant to savor in lingering doses, not one seamless gulp.

Batriq
Locals love to tease Batriq for its letter "B" blatantly resembling McDonald's upright "M." Diana swung by this sliver of a post near Salmiya to pick us up pizza-shaped cheese pastries. "It's the only branch of the Batriq chain that offers this fatatir," she described triumphantly. Harking back to the Americana 50s, youthful Kuwait gents scurry to the sides of customers' cars to take orders (sans the roller skates and skirts). We brought our piping hot fatatir to a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, an American West Coast import popular among Kuwaitis. The bread is soft, but charred and possesses a sandy characteristic. Tucked inside is a thick layer of salty cheese, much like haloumi. The taut texture is easy to gobble up, unlike most cheese that transforms to a gooey mess when heated. "Some Indonesians love Batriq's fatatir so much, they bring them on the plane with them when they head home," Diana exclaimed.

Kurdo
A few doors away from the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in Salmiya is Kurdo, a mini Kuwaiti chain cooking up a bevy of native kebabs, sausages, hot dogs and burgers. Diana cajoled us into ordering a chicken shawarma, Kurdo's reigning specialty. On top of our hefty beverages and the luxurious fatatir, this final treat seemed excessive, but one shawarma to later share at the airport was conquerable. I chuckled over the staff and their uniform who reminded me of Lego figures: chipper young Kuwaitis plastered in bright yellow overalls, jaunty caps and playful polo shirts. The elephantine towers of chicken meat are shaved into thin slices and stuffed inside charred flour wraps - a more durable and refined version of tortilla. We cooed over the simple but incredible flavors of the grilled meat, peppers, onions and cheese and the sidekick of pickled carrots and cucumbers. In retrospect, we should have ordered two shawarmas! The hot dog shaped styrofoam container was almost too darling to pitch.

A sweet milestone: the Big Apple celebrates the 40th anniversary of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

2011-10-19T16:01:00.000-07:00

Rusty Goffe, the original Oompa Loompa, with his gang in tow
at the New York Public Library

As classic as a milk chocolate bar, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory still maintains a cult following, captivating folks who once sported rompers and pigtails and are now all grown up yet still young at heart to sneak in a viewing of this wanderlust of a movie. Likewise, the film draws in the youthful fans of today, who find the timeless quality of the film and sweeping, vibrant colors alluring and saccharine sweet. According to Rusty Goffe, one of the original Oompa-Loompas, director Mel Stuart intentionally omitted vehicles from Willy Wonka to lock the scenes into an ambiguous time period. Along with a brigade of acting Oompa Loompas, Goffe recently raided iconic landmarks of Manhattan to herald the 40th anniversary of the film, gregariously greeting fans and doling out "golden tickets" to recipients who later exchanged these "movie props" for DVDs of the film at chocolatier Jacque Torres's Hudson Street shop. Much coveted was the special Blu-Ray and DVD collector's edition, presented to the first 50 lucky fans to attend the sugar-rush bash.

Doling out the golden ticket

Patricia Geary (left) of Highlands Ranch, CO,
and Kelly Griffin, of Aurora, CO, enjoy some
Oompa-Loompa shenanigans during their 3-day visit to the Big Apple

Even more ageless is the whimsical "Oompa-Loompa" song, you know, the trademark tune these miniature characters belt out in the film as they bid each naughty child adieu. Ruddy-faced Oompa-Loompas below strut across the steps of the New York Public Library to the popular rhyme, boasting their sprightly dance moves while showing some leg in the form of black and white striped stockings.

Though luscious candy looms large in the film, so do the serious themes of honesty and the omnipresent obesity in today's world, as Goffe straightforwardly explains:

Beneath the frilly green wigs are a pair of rough-and-tumble blokes

Leon Joosen, an animation director from Harlem,
believes "looking for that golden ticket
is a symbol of today's tough economic times"

Chef Torres's chocolate factory and boutique coated in chocolate galore, played as the consummate backdrop for sweet-toothed fans to meet the director and cast members in person. Throngs of Willy Wonka aficionados queued patiently for their opportunity to exchange quips with Julie Dawn Cole (Veruca Salt), Denise Nickerson (Violet Beauregarde) and Paris Themmen (Mike Tee Vee). The aroma of gourmet chocolate wafted throughout Torres's real-life wonderland, a sweet reprieve from the urban grittiness of New York City. Long-time Willy Wonka fan Bill Moore, an animation director from Elizabeth, NJ, describes it's the movie's sense of escapism that got him hooked when he was a child and continues to hypnotize him as an adult:

Torres's bespoke chocolates...

...and his signature hot chocolate

Guests nibbled on Torres's bespoke bon bons, molded into abstract shapes and filled with wondrous flavors including chai tea and pineapple pastis. Chewy cookies injected with the chocolatier's signature hot chocolate possessed the colossal girth of Violet Beauregarde's ballooned body. In between bites, fans sipped upon samples of the sludgy hot chocolate. Such decadent treats would prompt the likes of Veruca Salt to bellow:

Though full-fledged adults now, the cast still projects a youthful energy and aesthetic, as timeless as the movie itself. Goffe is exuberant and chipper, as if ready to launch into a series of cartwheels across the floor. Cole is a blond bombshell outfitted in slick red, a glamorous contrast from the bratty Veruca she portrayed in the movie. Still spunky and diminutive is Nickerson, who played precocious Violet in Willy Wonka. If you plunked a cowboy hat on his head, you'd swear Themmen never aged a bit. Forty years later, he still manages to cling to his Hardy Boys good looks. Even Mel Stuart stands ready for battle, possessing the boundless drive that any talented and ambitious director should have. Missing this evening was the protagonist himself, Charlie Bucket, played by Peter Ostrum, who today works as a veterinarian in upstate New York. The crew mingled with each other effortlessly, chuckling and chiding each other as if they never left the set of Willy Wonka. Nickerson recalls the team's camaraderie:

Julie Dawn Cole and Mel Stuart

At the end of this festive occasion, Torres and his confectioners unveiled a special chocolate sculpture that commemorates Willy Wonka's 40th anniversary. When the monsieur of the chocolate world crosses with the otherworldly candy land of Willy Wonka, you get nothing short of a sweet ending.

"Pour me another," says Torres

Unveiling the 40th Anniversary chocolate sculpture

Go fish...in Kuwait City

2011-10-17T05:04:00.000-07:00

Kuwait City is blanketed with a pristine quality. My mom and I dropped in for 24 hours plus en route to New Delhi and were instantly struck by the city's polished, almost austere look. The Fahaheel fish market on Gulf Road doesn't evade this flawless aesthetic. It's the antithesis of the typical seafood market where dingy, slippery floors compete with an overly fishy aroma. Housed in an airy building possessing the prominent vibe of Grand Central Station, Fahaheel is an endless stretch of seafood stalls flaunting the freshest goods caught straight from the Persian Gulf. Everything looks and smells clean, thereby making for a pleasant shopping and sight-seeing experience. Shrimp tails and fish fins jut out from buckets spilling with ice, prepped for delivery to their respective vendors on the floor. Salivating customers outfitted in jeans and t-shirts, dishdashas and jilbabs mingle about to inspect and select the wares.

Try these critters on for size: behemoth females crabs boasting their assets of rustic eggs are stacked neatly together as if ready for battle. Fish of otherworldly lengths and widths are tempting to lug home for the sheer fun of it. Pink-orange shrimp with their protruding beady eyes seem alien-like with their colossal girth. Our friend Diana scooped up two pounds of chubby milk fish for an economical 3 bucks. Watch below as a Fahaheel fellow shaves the scales away. It's incredible how impeccably lustrous all this seafood looks, as if they underwent a rigorous scrubbing of sorts after their capture.

Destination: Saigon

2011-10-04T18:42:00.000-07:00

I spent the last year circling Saigon but never quite landed. With the corners of my mouth drooling, I'd make a mad dash to the storefront only to find the shopkeeper locking the door or the interior clouded with darkness. Other times, I'd cuddle to a bowl of wonton noodle soup or hopscotch my chopsticks across bamboo steamers bulging with dim sum then suddenly murmur to myself, "Oh yeah, I could have gone to that banh mi place on Broome Street." Or simply, I'd be sucking in ice cold bubble tea in a bakery on the opposite end of Chinatown, nestled too comfortably in my cozy little spot that I didn't want to budge. Ironically, I could never conjure up the name of this Vietnamese deli. I'd fondly remember her as "that banh mi place on Broome Street."

Post a culinary sampling of the Lower East Side, we found ourselves famished for something of sustenance The banh mi was an easy target, a traditional Vietnamese sandwich of sturdy bread and hefty components we never tire of. I pulled Matt's arm as we trampled through the mass of weekend shoppers and camera-strapped tourists littering Grand Street and the Bowery. A couple of sharp turns through another gaggle of Chinatown-crazed folks led us to Broome Street, where I spied the deli's French Colonial-printed awning up ahead. At last, we touched down to Saigon.

The shop leverages its miniature space with stacked canisters of Cafe du Monde coffee, plastic-wrapped puddings sitting side by side and at-the-ready basil seed and black jelly glass drinks glaring at you from the fridge. And if those beverages don't allure you with their cosmopolitan ingredients, ask them to whip up a serving of sugarcane juice or cucumber juice for a farmer's market fresh taste.

As for the star staple, the banh mi, Saigon offers a well-rounded mix of traditional and unique sandwiches. Though offbeat banh mi ingredients like pungent sardines and faux curry chicken meat tugged at our appetites, we stuck to the classics. Matt leans toward meatier banh mi "stuffings." At just $4.50, the house special is a stout submarine packed wall to wall with sweet glazed barbeque pork and layers of Vietnamese ham and pork roll. I always love the cool touch of the traditional pate sandwich ($4.50), the little black dress if you will of the banh mi world. The pate bundles it all up together to create an unctuous, unforgettable taste. At Saigon, the generous spread of textured pate rivals the size of the stacked slices of fresh pork roll and ham. It's earned the name of "Pate Supreme." Crammed with this bevy of meat is an overabundance of crunchy carrots and daikon, rough-torn pieces of cilantro and svelte cucumbers. Hidden in the crunchy but firm French bread are scant jalapeno, the adult version of a surprise toy in a cereal box. Chomp into the banh mi in the front, middle or back and you're bound to be hit with a fiery explosion. A banh mi is probably one of the few sandwiches that actually looks pretty. The kitschy colors are reminiscent of French Colonial Saigon - bright, vintage and stylish. Saigon is more than just "that banh mi place on Broome Street." She's a must-go destination and a substantial slice of Vietnamese culture.

Saigon
369 Broome St.
New York, NY
Ph: 212-219-8341
Web site: www.vietnamese-sandwich.com

Sampling the LES

2011-10-01T19:07:00.000-07:00

The Lower East Side (LES) brims with culinary culture, old and new. Though it's gentrified around the edges, the core still harbors old-world heritage, reflecting the various ethnic groups that migrated here during the last couple of centuries to cultivate a new life. Traditional food of the Jewish and Chinese populations, for example, continue to loom large, despite the glossy modern bars and restaurants barging in to take up space and woo the gastronomes of Gotham City. Another side of the LES is fairly prominent - specialized shops and eateries that proudly boast their artisanal quality and know how. They're the type of culinary therapy geared toward food aficionados who squirm with delight over crinkly vintage wrapping or a $20 pound of ooh la-la cheese. Matt and I embarked on a culinary tour of the LES led by the Sidewalks of New York, taking in bites of the two faces of this gritty neighborhood while learning historical tidbits. It's a comprehensive excursion requiring walking shoes and an outpouring of energy. Seasoned New Yorkers and wide-eyed newbies will love learning from this educational tour, but gluttons must take note...the samples equal...well, the size of samples. Don't expect heavy hors d'oeuvres that can rival the size of a normal lunch (and I do realize my concept of "normal" is grossly abnormal for others). For a robust meal, you'll have to venture out on your own for top-to-bottom chomps of Prosperity Dumpling or Goodfella's Pizza. Here's where we visited and what we nibbled on:

Yonah Schimmel Knishery
"Those flat, Hot-Pocket style of knishes you get are not the real thing," our tour guide sternly barked. An LES favorite since 1910, the Yonah Schimmel Knishery on Houston Street dusted off their shelves to serve us wedges cut from plump, dome-shaped knishes, house made on the premises, of course. The authentic filling of mashed potato and a velvety, flour shell made up for the proprietor's lack of warmth. (My flashy smile was met with a growl from the curmudgeon standing stiffly behind the counter.) Add a dollop of spicy brown musard to your knish for a pungent kick. The place is dank and somber-looking but photos from yesteryear and a book of scrawled musings from customers give the joint some character.

Katz's Deli
We mozied East along Houston Street and dropped in on Katz's, home of velvety pastrami and site of a certain infamous scene from Where Harry Met Sally. Since its inception in the late 1800s, Katz's has been a worldwide favorite, even still rallying for parents to "send a salami to your boy in the Army," as they did during World War II. Busboys today still buzz away across the floor, collecting the empty trays of famished tourists who swallow their stacks of deli sandwiches and gulp down their bowls of Matzo ball soup. Our gang of 20 parked ourveles in a private section carved in the back of the cafeteria-style space. Since I've locked lips with Katz's pastrami already, I let first timer Matt fork into most of the pink slices of meat. The slices of vinegar-soaked beef trimmed with pepper and jiggling with unctuous fat evaporated in my mouth just like the first time.

Goodfella's
On the outside, Goodfella's looks like a generic Italian spot peddling mediocre Italian food of the spaghetti and meatball variety. In truth, the newcomer is the LES edition of this popular NYC pizza chain, lauded for its thin crust pizza, piping hot from the blazing confines of a brick oven. We munched away on a slice of cheese pizza, casual street style right in the midst of Orchard Street, careful not to let the olive oil trickle down to our shirts. The crust was crispy but still flopped about, drenched with a zesty tomato sauce and covered with a tarp of gooey mozzarella cheese.

Economy Candy
Sugar break! The sweet spot named Economy Candy is a toothsome wonderland sure to put Willy Wonka to shame and make your family dentist blush. This kingdom of sugar has been selling a balanced inventory of nostalgic goods and modern treats since the 1930s, even weaving in Middle Eastern pistachios and dried fruit by the pound. Check out the brief sweep above of Economy Candy's colorful bins and barrels.

Essex Street Market
The neighborhood indoor market whittles away space for vendors to hawk their fruits, vegetables, breads and gourmet goods. We swiped by Saxelby to window shop upon unusual cheese made locally and beyond, and peeked quickly into the rough-and-tumble world of Shopsin's, home to a multi-storied menu and a cantankerous chef. On a good day, step outside to witness brawny NYPD lapping haphazardly around in their cars cradling delicate banh mi sandwiches in their hands.

Prosperity Dumpling House
Dumpling houses in Chinatown are just as plentiful as trinket shops selling mandarin-collar blouses and wind-up dragons. I've been to many a dumpling abode (Vanessa's on Eldridge Street and a no name dollar joint in an alley off of Mott Street, for instance), but Properity was a first. Like other dumpling dens, Prosperity is a tiny slot, providing only a couple of standing-room-only counters for dining-in customers. Our massive crew took matters outside to enjoy these parcels of savory goodies in excess elbow room. Perhaps I've eaten too many dumplings in my life that I couldn't quite distinguish the taste of this one from ones found at other competitors, but nevertheless, I loved the crisp half moon skin hugging the succulent interior of ground pork and chives.

History Lesson
This slender structure once housed the offices for the Forward, a Jewish-American newspaper that began publication in New York in 1897. The Yiddish-language daily was loosely affiliated with the Socialist Party of America, thereby achieving a widespread circulation and political gain during the first three decades of the 20th century.Today, the Forward exists as a weekly publication printed in Yiddish and English.

The Pickle Guys
The briny aroma wafting along Essex Street comes from the handiwork of the Pickle Guys. Head pickler Alan Kaufman scoffs at the jarred pickles of today to opt for the traditional method of long ago: bulbous barrels brine pickles, turnips, watermelon and peppers in garlic and spices with not an inkling of preservatives. The cramped space is permeated with tart and savory scents. Visible barrels with their floating contents give the place an old-fashioned look. A classic pickle of behemoth girth yields a snappy crunch and tastes subtle in its briny coverage.

Doughnut Plant
We capped off our afternoon with a sugar rush at Doughnut Plant, where owner Mark Israel handcrafts his collection of eggless doughnuts based on his grandfather's heirloom recipe. Flavors come in an array of offbeat flavors including green tea, ginger, coconut and pumpkin. On hand for sampling was milky tres leches and chocolate blackout - essentially death by chocolate capsulized in a doughnut. Unlike most doughnuts, the ones at this bespoke factory melt in your mouth thanks to their cushiony texture. Others tend to hold a stiffer bite and dry feel.

Trendspotting: pepper infused cocktails

2011-09-29T17:07:00.000-07:00

I've noticed a fiery trend blazing across the Latin American dens of NYC: cocktails flavored with tangible pieces of pepper. This is especially apparent within magaritas, that traditional tequila-based potion now getting vamped up with not-so-traditional ingredients of marmalade and rosewater.

At Oficina Latina, a rowdy Pan American restaurant in Soho, mixologists drop a rotund chunk of scotch bonnet pepper into the cilantro and avocado margarita, lending a heated kick to the refreshing and buttery beverage. I can only imagine the endless tears gushing out of my eye sockets if I were to accidentally bite into this devil of a pepper. The flavor from the floating pepper alone that permeates the drink is spicy enough.

At Teqa, a tequeria in Murray Hill spearheaded by the personal chef of NYC darling, Derek Jeter, bartenders send off an innovative cucumber margarita to a spicy-thirsty crowd. Clean tastes of agave spirits and a cucumber puree get a swift kick in the rear from a giant jalapeno, bobbing dangerously up and down like Jaws. The finishing touch is the lip-puckering chili salt clinging to the rim of the glass. This is the kind of sizzling cocktail that makes your insides go haywire.

Leave the peppers alone, boys and girls. You don't dare pluck them out of the glass and crunch away as you would do with a celery stick from a Bloody Mary!

Look what popped up...

2011-09-29T15:35:00.000-07:00

Clark's is a tony bodega, if you will, located in the well-to-do enclave of Southmont in Johnstown. The combo deli/caterer carries a plump selection of regional treats and rare foodie finds. I peeked into the ice cream chest and bumped into these stylishly packaged Popsicle Pop-Ups in orange burst. I usually stumble upon Pop-Ups wrapped in the traditional rainbow paper so was taken aback at these fashionable beauties. Are the autumn colors a nod to the season or do they pay homage to the throwback look of the 70s when velour brown and orange jumpsuits were all the rage? Maybe they're simply aligning with the orange burst flavor. Whatever the case, these frozen treats surely popped out.

Canoolding with Mie Jakarta

2011-09-29T15:04:00.000-07:00

Batagor

On an usually blistery evening earlier in the month, I made the double-subway commute from Jersey City to Elmhust Queens, to meet Ethan of the Tea Gastronomer for supper at Mie Jakarta. This low-key eatery is just one of a handful of Indonesian restaurants representing the ballooning Indo community in multi-ethnic Elmhurst. Dining here is like popping in on a quintessential Jakarta warung (cafe/shop) -- mismatched framed Indonesian art covers the walls of the sliver of a space while a folksy curtain shields the off-limits kitchen in the back. A squad of 20-something servers make up the staff, greeting you with a Javanese accent and gliding along with Jakarta city swiftness. We loved scanning the tables for Indonesian expats devouring food of their native land. Mie Jakarta is concurrently inviting and exotic, feeling miles and miles away from harsh and staid Manhattan.

Iced coffee

The menu represents a snapshot of authentic snacks and dishes reared on the island of Java. And now that Satay Junction in the West Village has shuttered its doors for good, we can justify our arduous trek to Queens to nab true Javanese cuisine. Sio May is always a prominent staple at family gatherings and parties. Here at Mie Jakarta, the proprietors cling to tradition: swaddling the craggy, steamed fish cakes with wonton skin and drowning them with a spicy peanut sauce. Another relevant dish is Ayam Opor, featured on the menu as one of Mie Jakarta's heartier plates. Drumsticks, wings and chicken thighs absorb a sludgy stew of coconut milk accented with hints of candlenuts, turmeric and coriander. We bypassed rich elixirs of Es Alpukat (Iced Avocado with chocolate) and Es Teler (a fruit cocktail shaken and stirred with coconut milk and sweet condensed milk) to toast to our reunion with soda-shop glasses of potent iced Javanese coffee.

Mie ayam komplit

Since we journeyed all the way to Elmhurst, we willingly plunked down extra dollars to rev our dinner up with an appetizer. Deep-fried just a tad, Batagor involves chunks of dense fish cakes wrapped with wonton skin and smothered in the ubiquitous spicy peanut butter sauce. The number of fish cakes outnumbered their companions of a single hard boiled egg and deep-fried squares of tofu, making this dish bang for our buck. We couldn't help but be gauche that night - chomping noisily away on the chewy fish cakes and licking our forks dry of the savory sauce.

Broth for mie komplit

Mie translates to noodles and with a straightforward title like Mie Jakarta, you can bet that noodles are the main draw here. Both Ethan and I shivered from the crisp air and sought refuge in the cafe's noodle soups. He embraced the Mie Ayam Komplit, wavy egg noodles concealed by generous toppings of chicken, fried wonton (pangsit) and greens. Perky beef balls, fish balls and tofu bobbed along in a clear chicken broth served separately for the patron to dunk over the bowl of noodles and their accoutrements. The dish as a whole is reminiscent of the pangsit mie set you get at Jakarta's Bakmi Gajah Mada. Though I harbored a dash of food envy over his interactive "dunk and slurp" soup, I savored every drop and sucked in every noodle of my Bakso Jakarta. That same heady, but light chicken broth held a mound of double noodles - thick egg tubes interlocked with clear thin strands. The folks at Mie Jakarta smartly deploy a few of the same ingredients throughout its varying dishes. Just as the Sio May and the Batagor get drenched in the same peanut sauce, the pristine white cuts of tofu are seen in the Batagor as well as across the soups. I enjoyed a plentiful heap of tofu myself in my Bakso Jakarta. Likewise, my bouncy beef balls are the same roly poly ones found in Ethan's Mie Ayam Komplit.

Bakso Jakarta

Nothing at Mie Jakarta surpasses the $7 mark, making this economical, but genuine Indonesian experience worth every exasperating subway switch and heart-palpitating stair climb. We chuckled in irony that night: our post-dinner Margaritas from Mexican Radio fetched more than our soups at $10 per glass. That's New York for you: you can eat on the cheap but drink like a spendthrift.

Mie Jakarta
8620 Whitney Ave.
Elmhurst, NY 11373
Web site: N/A
Ph: 718-606-8025