Polski Obad przy *Claire’s*

Translation:  Polish Dinner at Claire’s.  Seems perhaps a bit random?  Like where is the kimchi, sichuan peppercorns, or star anice?…not to mention rice!  Yes.  We made a dinner that had nothing to do with Asia.  It was straight up Eastern European Block inspired.  My friend Sam and I have been tossing around the idea of doing a dinner party, but had kinda lagged on a concept.  We buckled down and decided to create a dinner from food from our neighboring neighborhood.  We spent an afternoon wandering around Greenpoint, sampling sausages, salads and many, many mashed potatoes from a delightful restaurant that threatens to twist the tongue if an attempt at pronunciation is made:  Lomzynianka.  We were inspired, and our taste buds did the talking.  They asserted their primal inclination and directed us to a dish of meat and beets.  Borscht.  You can’t not say ‘borscht’ without taking a cue from Borris and Natasha and pronouncing it like a Soviet gangster.  It’s just too fun.  Get gutteral.  After a few dips of our spoons into the thick tomatoe-y and beet-y broth, we were convinced.   A main dish winner was in the works in our minds.  With an addition of short ribs, the idea of borscht became the food focal point and from there on out, the side dishes just naturally lined up.

We walked around Little Poland and found sausages: liverwurst, kielbasa and blood sausage.  We bought sauerkraut, horseradish, fresh breads and loads of sour cream and mustard.  We munched along our journey, sampling hearty stuffed cabbage (a steal at $1.50 each) and pom poms (a donut/muffin with a chewy and crunchy top, filled with raspberry/blackberry jam and sprinkled with confectioners sugar).  We tossed around side dish thoughts while perusing deli isles scented with smoked trout, pickled herring and cured cucumbers.  Greenpoint opened up new ideas and refreshed old tastes for me (when I was a babe, my father used to pop pickled fish into his and my mouth as if we were snacking on M&Ms ).

We posted flyers in my neighborhood and donned a cheesy name:  Super Duper Supper.  Because that was our aim.  All three of us, me, Sam and Evyatar are keen on cooking for friends, but wanted an opportunity to cook for strangers too.

Twenty three people came to my house last Wednesday.  I knew one person, Michal, an old cook friend.  Everyone else was new.  Imagine that!  So excited.  We laid out a spread of charcuterie, and surprisingly enough, the blood sausage was the hit of the meat selection.  We set out rich butters to slather on the ryes, pumpernickel and sunflower wheat breads.  We topped radishes with smoked trout salad and sliced our house cured char.  People mingled and drank (as everyone followed instructions swimmingly well and BTOB–brought their own booze).  We laid a spread of salads and sides on our sensibly fashioned dining room table (two tables angled together at a diagonal so as to accompany the majority of the party.  A sweet little maneuvering on our part if I do say so myself).  The dinner party was on its way.

After some wine drinking, food grazing and many an introduction, we asked everyone to sit.  We plated banquet style and served out hot plates of braised short ribs, topped with horseradish sour cream, and a melange of fresh herbs atop a deep purple soup laden with carrots, potatoes, beets, turnips and onions.  We plated ourselves a serving and sat back and watched as people polished off bowls and wiped plates clean.  It’s a funny thought how satisfying it feels to feed people.  I wish I could do it for free all the time!  I get to practice cooking, and people eat up the creations.  Alas, this is not possible to do every time, so the idea of these dinners is a perfect venue where both parties win (i think/hope).

We stuffed people to the brim with cheese babkas and Symphony bar studded brownies, and toasted the evening with a shot of Polish potato vodka: “Na zdrowie!”  Cheers to an evening of fun, food and new friends.

So the next time we have a dinner party, please come by.  There are good people to meet, lots of wines to be drunk, and too much food to eat.  You’ll leave with smiles and full tummies.  And what really is better in life than that?

Bone Up

I went to my friend Sam’s the other day and he proceeded to clog my arteries with this delicious appetizer.  Which actually turned into the meal… because I ate more than one and then felt like a brick.

Season bones with salt and pepper.  Lay down in a hotel pan and roast at 350 degrees until marrow is soft to the touch and hot all the way through (you can test with a cake tester).  Meanwhile, slice two heads of garlic super thin and just barely cover with olive oil in a small pot.  Add thyme and a pinch of chili flake and place on the stove over the lowest flame possible.  Let it hang out, but don’t let the oil become too hot.  Just enough to warm the the oil through and infuse it with the garlicky goodness.  Grill off some crusty bread, spoon on some of the melty garlic and herbs, slather on marrow and then top with some freshly sliced shallots (a much needed zing and crunch to the luscious and rich concoction).  Refrain from ‘oohing’ too loudly.  Enjoy!

Tacos Delicioso!

I’m a California girl.  Trust me when I say that I know tacos.  I grew up living off tacos (and I admit to begging my mom for money to ride with my sisters to the local Taco Bell…but that’s besides the point!).  My dad would take us on weekend excursions searching out the most ‘authentico’ taqueria joints.  I remember one afternoon in particular when we drove over an hour north (that’s a long time to sit in the car when you’re a wee kid) to wait in line at a little whole in the wall.  But it was worth it.  My dad brought over plate after plate of tacos con carnitas, pollo, cecina–you name it, we ate it.  Doused in salsa roja and accompanied with pickled jalepenos, I looked forward to spicy afternoons filled with tacos.  Ever since those early days of south of the border food hunts, they have held a special place in my heart.  And I know that most people feel the same way.  A griddled tortilla, piled high with seasoned meats, various salsas y sauces, and crunchy lettuce and cilantro is apt to make any human smile.

But in New York, a good taco is hard to come by.  I’ve had many a decent taco, but not too many outstanding tacos.  I’m ready to say that the tacos I ate today were pretty lofty tacos.  I”m not going to say they were the best I’ve ever had…but they were damn tasty.

My friend Sam swung by my house today and we biked over to Wycoff and Star, near the Jefferson stop off the L train.  We went to the Tortilleria Mexicana Los Hermano and waited in line for about 10 minutes.  But every minute was enjoyable…watching the two cooks behind the counter building tacos, quesedillas and tostadas was like watching two skaters dance on ice.  They moved quickly and assembled the items in perfect harmony.  Ice skaters I tell you.  Every item was incredibly fresh.  Perfectly ripe avocados (for an extra 25 cents? yes please!), homemade salsas (obviously) and each tortilla was pressed to order.  I ordered a pollo and cecina taco (salted beef) and think I made ‘oo’ and ‘ah’ sounds after every bite.  On a gorgeous fall day, after a mini bike ride and good company, what can beat a $2.00 taco accompanied with pickled jalapenos for a perky piquant mouth experience?  Nada.

Tortilleria Mexicana Los Hermanos

271 Starr St
Brooklyn, NY 11237-2609
(718) 456-3422

Flourish for the Fall

I’m kinda getting used to this wild concept of seasons.  I’ve been averse to any temperatures that range outside of warm to hot for the past three years.  I flee New York once winter sets in.  But I have to say that Fall is becoming ever more appealing.  This past weekend, the season was truly celebrated at Stone Barn’s Harvest Fest.  Saturday morning was kicked off with a dozen or so vendors selling their food wares: homebaked apple pies and biscotti, spice roasted nuts, Dan Barber’s ground pork sloppy joes (deliciously seasoned but I could have used a bit more sloppy in the mix), hearty autumn soups, chocolate, breads and savory pies.

A bluegrass band was playing to a courtyard filled with parents and kids two-stepping to the tunes.  Hay stacks were piled everywhere.  And the misty morning put everyone in the eating mood.  I was working with my friends Michael and Diane Otsuka, who are opening their new baking shop today.  They were selling gorgeously crafted mini savory pies.  Diane used to be the chef of formerly acclaimed Verbena.  I hadn’t been living in New York then, so I wasn’t familiar with her cooking.  But I managed to work my way through each of her vegetable pies at least three times over and kept coming back for more.  Her pies packed so much flavor into three bites.  Ratatouille with feta, a mild curried sweet potato, baked beens with kale, and collard greens with garlic and lemon.  It was a whirlwind tour for your mouth through the Mediterranean, with stop-overs in England for a touch of Indian inspiration, and a a final landing in the South for some hardy greens and smoky beans.

I’ve worked with Michael for the past few years, occasionally crossing paths in our part-time catering careers.  He is so passionate about cooking and creating the perfect product.  About a year ago, he started telling me about his plans to open a business where he and his wife could once again work together (they used to co-run the kitchen at her restaurant).  I am so thrilled that they have come up with such a delicious product to sell.  And not only are they selling savory pies, but Michael has been working on creating breads with alternative flours.  I sampled every loaf he had to offer on Saturday and loved every bite…and I’m not a bread girl.  I don’t crave it, I don’t need it, I usually don’t love it.  But I kept finding myself inching back towards the cutting board and not so sneakily finishing off the scraps and ends that had been pushed to the side! So maybe I do enjoy breads after all…

Celebrate Fall and the launch of Flourish Bakery.  It’ll get you in the mood.  Bring on the pumpkins, the sweaters, the cider…and please throw in a bean pie for good measure!

http://www.flourishbakingcompany.com/

And for a little more background, check out Florence Fabricant’s write up:  http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/30/dining/30bake.html?_r=1

Things I learned at Starchefs

A mini list of things that come to mind after three days of demos and discussions.

1) To make a super crispy, wafer thin skin on a duck breast, freeze the duck by placing breast skin side down on a flat piece of dry ice and weigh it down for  25 mins.  Poke skin with pin or a pet brush (composed of many tiny metal spokes) to rupture membrane.  Same effect as scoring.  Place on a hot plancha and sear until perfectly browned.  Finish in oven.  Wow. 

2) For a crackling concept that will blow your mind:  remove skin from rack of pork bones.  Dehydrate until 13% water remains.  Grind skin to 5 mm granules and then adhere back on pork rack with tapioca starch slurry.  Freeze  rack in nitrogen.  Dip in warm water for a second.  Fry until mini cracklings cover loin.

3) By covering crystalized salt in oil, you preserve the crunchy texture when you season because the salt will not dissolve with water contact.

4) Beer floats are actually a delicious concept

5)  Pierre Gagnaire (whom I adore and slightly idolize) was given a market basket today and ended up creating 6-7 dishes.  Two of the dishes tasted exactly like Taco Bell’s Nachos Bell Grande.

6)If you mix sugar, vinegar and sodium bicarbonate (baking soda) and heat til 160-ish, and then dip something into this mixture (like prunes in the front), and then place in a kryo-vac, the air molecules expand and you are left with fluffy, puffed, crunchy, aerated charcoal-y looking things (in the back).

7) Jose Garcia and sous chefs Reuben and Brad demonstrated how to recreate a simple summer pleasure.  Mini corns can be reproduced by  shaving the kernels off the cob (about 10 mini corns needed per recreated corn), mixing them with methyl cellulose, and wrapping set corn water in the center (agar?), in oiled parchment to form the perfect shape.  Grill to finish.

8)  You can flavor alcohol with things such as bbq sauce, and then remove the solids by adding liquid nitrogen.  The liquid nitrogen also removes any water that is in the unadulterated alcohol, so some must be replaced if being used as a sipping alcohol.

9)  Chef Paco Torreblanca made gorgeous desserts and talked about how simplicity was his new direction.  He made gorgeous, uncomplicated flourishes. He started with white chocolate that he brushed on to the back of a sheet tray with a comb,  let it set in the fridge, and then brought it out to warm a bit.   He then took a small side spatula and dragged about an inch and a half of width down across the horizontal lines, creating many delicate flower garnishes.  So technically beautiful and simple!

10) Dave Arnold and Nils Noren demonstrated how to anesthetize a fish (sprinkling an illegal anesthetizer into the water!) and drain the blood.  By putting the fish to sleep, the fish doesn’t struggle when caught and therefore the muscles don’t contract and damage the flesh to the fish.  By sticking a thin wire up the spinal cord, you cut spinal connections and slow down the onset of rigor mortis.  And if you eat the fish immediately after letting out all the blood, the flesh is crispy and snappy.

There are so many things to comment on, but these were a few that really stuck out and made an impression.  I’m already counting down the days until next year…

Why Not Tip The Cooks?

I sat in the van, squished in the back between two other cooks, at 1:30 am on a Friday night.  I was returning to New York from a party I catered in Connecticut.  I was beaming.  My smile probably looked like the Cheshire Cat, all grin and teeth, while my eyes were trying their damn’dest to roll to the back of my head.  I worked fourteen hours at an ultra luxe wedding and the ride to and from the event was an added three hours.  That doesn’t include time to or from my house.  So I’m just going to call it an eighteen hour day.  But I was happy.  “Why?” you may ask.  Because I received a whopping $50 tip.

My mind was already racing to the grocery store, where I could buy several different flavors of yogurt, maybe a quart of milk, an indulgent snack of ice cream sandwiches, and maybe a few ears of corn from the farmer’s market.  Fifty dollars meant that I wouldn’t have to eat only family meal from work every day.  I could buy cereal!!!  My eyes, at this point, had no interest in staying open.  So I began to dream dreams of rice pudding and fudge sundaes.  Until the cook next to me started expressing her anger…

I feel like I’ve had a lot of these talks lately.  I keep catching up with cook friends, either in the early morning hours over a cup of coffee before work, or at night over a pint of coffee stout in the late hours after work.  So many conversations come back to the topic of money.  Because as a cook, we don’t make a whole lot of it.  And to be quite frank, I usually could care less about money.  I work for free too much; I offer my time and minimal skills whenever I think there’s an opportunity where I could learn from someone, sample new foods, see new techniques–pretty much anything that is going on within the food industry that seems appealing/entertaining/thought provoking, I am there.  Gratis.

But money, unfortunateley, is how life works.  And I’ve realized that if I’d like to continue traveling like I do, I must make more of this green stuff.  I don’t like the idea of working to make money, but I’m trying to be practical.  But as of late, I’ve gotten a bit frustrated over the pay scale within the restaurant industry.

My friend is the pastry sous chef over at Eleven Madison Park.  You know, the restaurant that just received four stars from the New York Times food critic.  She makes less than double a week than what I used to make working there as a cook.  She lives her life in that kitchen.  She’s in a land where ordering, scheduling cooks’ work weeks, coming up with dessert ideas and constantly churning out thousands of macaroons a week take up every moment, every thought, every bit of her life.  Shouldn’t this kind of work merit wages that reflect it?

Some friends have been working a six day, roughly 80+ hour work week for the past year.  Most of my friends who I work with now make $10 an hour.  And one of the chefs I work with just divulged that only two years ago, he was making $7/ hr as a sous chef.  I don’t much care about the money, but I’m starting to look at this job with one squinty eye.  How the hell can we work at some of the best restaurants in New York, and struggle to make ends meet?

The cook in the van laid it out for me.  She hated three things about our job.  First- male ego in the kitchen.  Okay, I agree.  It can be a bit ridiculous, but I think I can usually handle this (I may be lying through my teeth right now..).  Two- the hours.  Yes, we work long hours.  And they’re not easy hours.  But that is our job, so this statement kinda rolled off my back.  Three- the pay.  At first I thought, “Well, this is what we signed up for.  We happen to be emotionally invested in something that is minimally lucrative..”  Until she threw in the resounding retort “We’re the ones in the kitchen, busting our asses [excuse my French, but it is a quote] for long hours to create delicious food, while the servers bank roll on our hard work and passion!!”  I never quite looked at it that way.  I know there are inequalities in this world.  Like teachers.  And basketball players.  The pay scale doesn’t really work for me there.  And I’ve always just looked at front of the house and back of the house as two different players.  But when this cook threw in the word passion, I paid attention.  We do this job because we love it.  And if you don’t love being a cook, I can’t understand why you would ever choose it.  It’s hard, it’s tiring; you could be making better money filling up a trucker’s tank with fuel.  But a server…  We all know that most of them serve just to make money.  Most are actors, models, or in some other struggling field.  Most aren’t pursuing serving with a passion (yes, Danny Meyer’s restaurants may be the exception).  Their mindless pursuits for cash are earned off the kitchen’s sweaty brows.

After the four star review, reservations at EMP have obviously gone up, and so have the servers’ wages.  I’m told that it’s not uncommon for them to pull in roughly $2000 a week.  Compare that to the cook that’s sweating over the meat roast station for eight hours at a time, coming in to work 3 hours early (and not getting paid for those hours), scrubbing the kitchen from top to bottom after service, not leaving til 1 or 2 in the morning…and doing that 5 or 6 times a week.  Net result?  Roughly $400 dollars. Not to mention, your social circle basically reduces down to whoever you’re friends with in the kitchen.  Good luck on keeping up that relationship, or attending that baby shower.  Or buying a sweet gift for your baby bro’s birthday.  See my point?

Why hasn’t someone figured out how to level the playing field a little?  I know, I know.  Being in the kitchen means we “don’t have to deal with the customers.”  All servers will say this and roll their eyes.  Like they’re going into combat every night and barely surviving the ordeal.  With how they explain it, you’d expect them to come back with war wounds:  torn clothes, ratted hair and a missing tooth or two.  Yes, we don’t have to deal with picky customers.  But does that mean we shouldn’t be rewarded a bit for our hard work?  For our creativity?

When a food critic sits down in a restaurant, the decor is noted.  Service is critiqued.  Could the lighting be dimmer yet still appropriate?  Is the music too loud or considerately ambient?  Why thank you for not dripping that red wine on the white table cloth!  But really, the grade comes down to the food.  No restaurant is going to receive four stars if the food isn’t on the wow factor.  Eleven Madison didn’t only get bumped up to four star because of the dining room and the service.  The food elevated it there.  The food at Jean-Georges keeps it at four stars.  So why not pay a little love to the ones producing?

All I’m saying is isn’t it time we reconsider how the industry operates and stop coming up with excuses to not share the wealth?  Show the cooks a little love please.

Arthur Bryant’s BBQ

I’m really posting these pictures because I want to relive the moments I spent in Arthur Bryant’s Barbeque.  I had been in Missouri for three days and hadn’t had any real mid-west food (if we’re not counting beer).  We had gone to a chocolate shop/factory where I ate too many chocolate covered peanut butter filled pretzles, but that’s not real mid-America fare is it?  Well, maybe it is…

On our last day in Missouri, we finally got down to the good bits and went out of our way to eat at Arthur Bryant’s.  We had heard it was some of the best bbq in Kansas City, and perhaps the great state, so we decided to munch it out for ourselves.  I prepped myself with a massive first meal so I’d be ready for a hearty lunch.  The reasoning works in my head, okay?  Breakfast for myself  included oatmeal with peaches, a BLT (with homemade bacon and appenzell cheese) a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a creme brulee stout beer.  Excessive maybe.  But I was about to go above and beyond for lunch.

We arrived after an hour and a half of speedy driving and a few karaoke moments shared with R. Kelly.  Brook walked right up to the cashier and ordered beef brisket, a pulled pork sandwich, burnt ends, beans and a plate of fries.  He’s a pro.  He’s done this before.  I, on the other hand,  stood at the window, gaping, as the sandwich assembler lifted a door behind him.  He shone a light into the pit and illuminated a bevy of beautiful roasts, smoking away over a massive grill.  My friend nudged me in the ribs to make sure I was taking in the full enormity of the situation.  I was staring at all sorts of cuts from ribs to shoulders to butts.  I momentarily considered launching myself over the counter toward the pit of porky goodness…and then realized there were bank-like glass shields separating me from the sandwich man.  They’re probably there in the first place because some fool (with the same foolish thoughts as mine) actually followed through with the ‘grab the pork and run’ idea.  Instead, I held my breath and watched as the meat was cut, then basted with a paintbrush dripping with red sauce.  I grabbed the three meat laden plates and headed to the cashier to pick up the fries and three 42 oz. cokes.  Yes, I said 42 oz. cokes.  I think they super sized the McDonald’s super size!

We sat down and tried to share the dishes equally.  But that didn’t last long.  A free-for-all ensued and I ended up focusing on the burnt ends.  I also thoroughly enjoyed the pulled pork, but the beef brisket was a touch dry.  Even with the three bbq sauces for backup dippage, the brisket remained my least favorite dish.  I crunched a few pickles (neon green, just the way I like) and ate my fare share of fries.  They were a stunning accompaniment to the beef.  Skins on and thick cut–what more can you ask for from a fry?  We ate the meat, the cheap white bread that soaked up the juices and polished off every piece o’ potato.  But I couldn’t finish the coke… No room for liquids when there’s that much meat in the mix.

I was full to the maximum.  No room to even look at the food magazines that were in the car.

But I did have room for a Venezuelan hot chocolate with house-made marshmallows, and a few pieces of salted caramel chocolates…

What.  There’s always room for chocolate!

Eating Turtle’s hand???

I went to a short summer vacation with my sister to the southern part of Korea last week. We were planned to go to a beautiful island which is called ’so mae mul do’, but since typoon was coming, the plan was canceled and we went to a different famous cliff named as a ‘nak hwa am’. At there i saw an old lady who was selling something looked weird. She was saying ‘Get some turtle’s hand~!’. For the first time, i didn’t hear well, and i just feel sympathy and i approached to her. and i heard that she was saying ‘eat some turtle’s hand’. ‘ooooops…’

 

I stepped back. (When i was with Claire, she was always the brave and bold one, and i was not.:( ). She was saying once again, now looking and whishing me to get it. ‘Try turtle’s hand’

I know i’m a cook, so i shouldn’t say this kind of comment, but it just poped out of my lips even before i realized it. ‘Grandma~i’m scarred!!!’ and the next lady started laughing and telling me that’s not a real turtle’s hand. Then the old lady realized that i misunderstand and explained. It is called as turtle’s hand because it just looks so. They are conch family.but Don’t they just look like a turtle’s hand???? I could taste it after i heard the explanation…hue…heehee.They tasted just like a crab meat. sweet and salty. I think she just blanched them and you can use toothpick to pick the meat from the shell.

Eating turtle’s hand as a snack and walking around the cliff was just beautiful.:)

Locanda Verde Double Take

Yesterday was a gorgeous afternoon, albeit a tad bit humid.  I had spent about an hour at the soon-to-be-open new Oceana restaurant tasting oysters.  My friend Mehdi is starting in the kitchen there this Monday, so yesterday was a day spent educating both the back and front of the house on oysters:  where they come from (both originally and in today’s crustacean business), how they are raised, mixed with dash of New York’s history involving these mollusks, and finishing up with an oyster sampling.  I felt so lucky to be invited along, not only to see the near completed, gorgeously accented dining room, but to learn a little information about the tasty bivalves that I normally suck down non-contemplatively.  Now I will suck them down at least with some knowledge of the who’s, what’s, where’s and why’s behind the half shell.

So that was the start to my food filled day, and I have to say, starting with oysters is not a shabby way to commence.  I decided to walk from midtown down to Canal, where I had plans to meet up with some friends for dinner.  In all honesty though, I wasn’t looking forward to the food part.  Which is insane, you can be sure.  Me?  Not looking forward to the food part of the evening??  I wasn’t even sick (not like that would stop me either though…).  But I had been to the chosen locale already on Monday and didn’t have the most delicious experience.

We had met at Locanda Verde at 1pm for a lazy afternoon of consumption.  A bunch of cook friends and myself were all eager to see each other and eat at Andrew Carmellini’s newest restaurant.  I have never eaten at any of his other spots, but I have sampled many a tasting at food-centric events.  In my mind, if you can pull off a tasty bite at an event, your food is probably worth paying for in the establishment.  I’ve always enjoyed his tiny tastings, so I was optimistic.  I walked in and met my friends, sipping meager 12 oz. beers at the bar.  First note-to-self was ‘why were they pouring such scrimpy pours?’  No matter.  I’m not such a big beer drinker anyway, so they could pour an 8 oz. for all I cared!  We eyed the dessert counter, layered with beautiful glass cake displays, and decided upon a pre-meal Nutella cookie to ease the hunger pangs while we waited for the rest of our party.  Mehhh.  We all agreed that the cookie was unspectacular.  And how in the world is it possible to make Nutella unspectacular??  Now I was concerned.

We were shown to our table where we plopped down in our booth and immediately ordered off the condensed lunch menu.  To be honest, it was so condensed I wondered what we were missing out on from the dinner menu.  But we chose a few items to share for the table and each a main entree.  The lamb sliders came out first and were a great beginning to the meal.  Intensely lamb-y meatballs sandwiched between mini soft buns, topped with thinly sliced pickles and a tangy tomato sauce.  At lunch, the portions is three sliders with an accompaniment of arugula salad.  At dinner however, it’s more pricey, the dish only comes with two lamb burgers and there is no salad.  Locanda Verde, I’m not quite sure if I get where you’re coming from, with your 12 oz. beers and wimpy slider size.

At lunch, from there on out, the meal went downhill.  Quickly and steeply.  I ordered trout that was completely unseasoned, had flabby skin that kind of just drooped aside when I cut it (as opposed to a nice, crisp seared skin), and the yellow sauce pooled underneath was bland, under salted and only hinted at the presence of acidity.  We went around the table, passing dishes across and amidst one another.  And each bite I took from a plate was a bite I was willing to put back.  Three out of the six of us had ordered ‘Grandmother’s Ravioli.’  Our rationale was that if Carmellini was willing to stake his grandmother’s name on a dish, it had better be good.  He wasn’t going to make his lil’ old lady look bad, would he?  

He would.  And he did.  I would prefer Chef Boyardee’s ravioli any day. Seriously.  Either grandma had a bad recipe or it was poorly executed in the kitchen.  And the gigantone…a pasta so big in texture and bold in appearance was completely lackluster in flavor.  Even the porchetta–and it’s kinda hard to make any pork product taste plebeian–was hohum.  There wasn’t one dish that we ordered that made me want to bogart the plate, let alone trade half my dish for anyone else’s.  Hell, I would have given away my entree easily if only I felt I had eaten $19 worth of food!  The dishes were boring and the prices were expensive.  

So…we decided to continue ordering in hopes that we’d strike upon something sensational.  We scanned the dessert menu hoping that something sweet would salvage the lunch.  We all ordered gelato (they’re unwilling to mix scoops of ice cream at lunch…but at dinner you can mix to your heart’s content. ??  okay.).  My friend and I decided that we were in need of multiple gelati tastings, so split an order of the rice custard and the malted chocolate.  Four others fell whimsy to the rice custard as well.  

The desserts were dropped on the table…and unfortunately the one that was set before us was icy and frost-bitten.  We had been served the remnants of some long forgotten gelato that had been chipped into a pretty silver cup and garnished with shortbread cookies.  But the cookies couldn’t mask the gelato from the Ice Age, which crackled and sent ice spurs when we tapped it with our spoons.  I guess at least I should have been happy that our friends had bowls of creamy, delicious, and most importantly freshly churned gelati set before them.  We looked on jealously as they spooned lusciousness into their mouths…

I was done.  I was riled up and ready to come home and write about the letdown of Locanda Merde!!

But last night changed my mind.  Good thing I believe in second chances. Sometimes…

I arrived at the restaurant bar at 5:30, ‘glistening’ profusely from my long walk from midtown to Tribeca.  I gave my cheek kisses and promptly ordered an icy glass of Sangria.  Maybe the tasty starter drink made the ensuing meal more pleasant…or maybe there was a whole new kitchen staff instated last night?  Either way, last night was a completely different experience and a much, much more delicious one at that.

We were seated in the exact same booth (I hoped it wasn’t an unlucky booth) and we ordered.  Big.  We started with the lamb meatballs again.  Still delicious.  And then they quickly and fervently brought out every single one of our starters at once.  We were at first overwhelmed with the speed at which everything arrived, but then tucked right in and enjoyed the bounty that was before us.  Everything was good.  Seasoned well–and when it wasn’t, we asked for salt.   The octopus yielded to a spoon, the watermelon and tomato salad was sweet and refreshing, and the head cheese tasted exactly like a head cheese.  The dishes are a refined rustic;  small portions and more thoughtfully plated than at a down home, rrrrustic style Italian.  

But the bit of refinement also meant teeny portions.  For a plate of pasta at $17, I can’t help but feel I’m overpaying.  I don’t always need quantity when I go out to eat.  But there’s always that thought of ‘am I getting good value?’  And if it’s so delicious that I want to wipe my plate clean with my face, then I’m willing to pay for the quality.  Carmellini’s dishes aren’t fully at that level, so then I start questioning quantity value…

However, the pastas were much more appealing last night than they had been on Monday.  The gigantone was bold and chewy with a delicious lamb ragu.  The pesto was vibrant and silky.  And the two pitchers of Sangria washed everything down nicely!  The desserts too tied up the meal on a pleasant note.  A perfectly pleasing panna cotta with stewed figs and an almandine tarte with pistachio ice cream made me concede that this restaurant was better than bad.  It was good.  I don’t think I need to go back for a round three, but I’m glad to say it wasn’t an unsatisfactory experience.  I hope that our Monday meal was a fluke and that last night’s meal is the real deal.  I still think it’s overpriced for unexceptional dishes…but it’s nice.  Nothing more.  For amazing Italian, I think for now I’ll just stick with Lupa.

The Heat Goes On

Sichuan peppercorns, chili flake and pimentos can be found in abundance throughout China, but the South-Western regions in particular really amp up the heat factor.  Before I set out for a 5 1/2 week jaunt through this massive country, I made a very loose travel plan.  I would head North and West from Hong Kong and focus on eating 3-10+ times per day.  I wanted to experience Chinese cuisine (alot of it); in particular, the hot kind that numbs the face.  I’ve always been a big fan of foods that pique, and China delivers.  The culture, religion, way of life and history are also incredibly fascinating, so I figured I would experience a bit of all these aspects as I hunted along for some fiery foods.

Right after I crossed the border from Hong Kong into mainland China, I feasted on half a sheep with some friends of friends.  Over a platter of roasted mutton, I had told them my plan of heading directly to the Sichuan province after our meal.  They all demanded to know how I could pass on seeing the Great Wall while I was in China.  In my mind, the Great Wall would be there for years to come and I could always see it on my next trip.  But they made a hard case and I ended up heading East instead of West.  I skipped through the cities along the Eastern coast, trying every food I could find along the way.  In Shanghai I ate delicious vegetarian (mock Peking duck- shockingly delicious) and oodles of noodles.  In Bejiing I tried the real Peking version at a renowned restaurant that serves hundreds, if not thousands, of succulently fruitwood-roasted ducks a day.  I may or may not have ordered a serving meant for two people and polished it off myself!  Yes, Peking duck is that delicious that you don’t really care that you’re downing thousands of calories in duck fat in one sitting.  My face was aglow not only from the grin I had plastered on my face after I munched duck pancake dipped in plum sauce after consecutive duck pancake dipped in plum sauce, but from the slick grease that left a shimmery halo of fat around my lips.  Could there be anything more perfect in China?  I felt like Homer Simpson after he’s eaten a box of jelly glazed donuts.  Oh delicious attractiveness!

And then I went to the Great Wall and thought “yeah, I can get down with this country.”  I was glad I had made the few thousand mile detour.

My next favorite eating location was Xi’an.  This city is a pit stop for tourists.  It’s huge and under construction and has only a handful of non-historical things to see.  Most people go to Xi’an to see the Terra Cotta Warriors.  I too went to see the soldiers, but after an hour or so in the fabricated Disneyland that surrounds these beautiful, ancient relics, I was back to the city center wandering around the Muslim quarter.  Now here was something fascinating!  A Chinese Muslim community.  Imagine the food: lamb skewers heavily seasoned with paprika and garlic roasting over open fires, cauldrons containing mutton simmering away in alleys, rich soups with heavy broths melding together noodle, meat and herbs,  and sweet cakes and dried fruit stands posted up outside of ramshackle restaurants.  The streets were packed with locals and tourists, food was everywhere, and scents leapt off every vendor’s cart: smoke from grills being fanned mixed with the perfume of walnut stuffed persimmons being warmed in oil.  The quarter was abuzz with fragrances and sounds and everything revolved around eating.  I fell in love with the city the moment I set foot on the old streets.  I sampled desserts and meats, yogurts and soups.  Everything was definitively Muslim in appearance (the seasonings, the meats, the skull caps…), yet the Chinese aspects (overcrowded streets, chili, and noodles) intermingled perfectly with the latter and created a flavorful and memorable trip to Xi’an.

I finally made my way to my original destination: Sichuan.  I should have spent more time there… I knew I was going to fall  for  this part of China.  My very first day began the heated love affair.  I threw my backpack in the hostel room–I didn’t waste any time unpacking or even refreshing.  I set out onto the streets and began my search.  I walked towards and old monastery that was down a cobbled street and spotted two restaurants.  One was made of dark wood and intricately detailed with gold leaf designs.  The one on the opposite corner was plain, had bikes piled up in the front and there were a mess of people inside.  I joined the hot mess.  I had a bit of trouble ordering but eventually a woman that spoke a bit of English came to my rescue.  All throughout Sichuan I came across the problem of trying to order things spicy but would end up with not spicy food.  I guess the moment the word “la” (meaning hot or spicy) came out of my mouth, everyone assumed I didn’t want it. No matter how many thumbs up, head nods, or yes+”la“…I inevitable got unspiced food.  The woman started to order ‘no spice’ for me, but after much convincing, and her still looking incredibly skeptical, she ordered “mala” mien for me (the Sichuan specialty of numb heat).

We sat down and tucked into our bowls of noodles (I happened to order 2 different kinds!).  She told me that when she was little and going to school in the neighborhood, she used to have to walk past this popular noodle spot and only wish to eat a bowl of her favorite noodles.  But she was too poor and all she could do was whiff at the restaurant’s offerings.  Now she takes her son to her favorite noodle joint in all of Chengdu, and I happened to stumble into that very one.  She ordered me her favorite–a chewy white noodle laden in chili and oil–and I ordered a bright yellow noodle that had the consistency almost of jell-o.  She picked me the winner.  We sat with our heads over our bowls, slurping the noodles and whipping the oil up onto our chins.  It was a pretty good first experience of Sichuan food.

From there on out, I ate hot pot, soups, noodles, veggies and tofu all slathered in “mala” chili.  I have to admit that I thought the heat would be hotter in Sichuan.  There are parts of Hunan where the food is supposedly a hotter heat, but I didn’t have time to visit those regions.  You have to leave yourself reasons to go back, right?  I ended up having a woman write down on a piece of paper the phrase in Chinese that “I like it very spicy please,” so there would be no confusion at other restaurants.  Yet I would still receive bowls of soup sans chili.  I think that the Chinese just assume that a Western girl doesn’t want to burn her mouth.  How wrong they were.  I learned quickly that I could go into the kitchens with my bowl of unseasoned whatever and point out the ingredients that were missing from the dish.  I think they got a kick out of me asking for chili, and I ended up with a tastier version of whatever it was I had been served.

China was a bit difficult to travel around because of the language barrier, but it also made it exciting.  It was like playing a game half the time, trying to understand each other through huge hand movements, over exaggerated facial expressions and often times a few sounds might come into play to get a point across (think asking for the train station).  By traveling through seeking out local foods and ingredients, I got to really see what’s going on at the local level, as opposed to only visiting the Great Wall or the Terra Cotta soldiers.  I enjoyed perusing the markets looking for new vegetables, sipping the local teas on the trains with the old men and women, and sitting in the parks watching the aerobic dance classes jump around to the music “Barbie Girl.”  China was not only difficult, but exciting, crowded, crazy and spicy… and I can harldy wait to go back and eat in the gazillion towns and cities that I missed on this short first foray into the Orient.