MEMOIRS OF AN UBEREATER

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

2009-07-02T07:42:00.003-04:00

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

"The Ubereater has to go!"

"We absolutely loved it."

"Amazing!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ruby's Burgers are the Gem of NoLita

2009-06-11T06:35:00.009-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These are the types of burgers cravings are made of.

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

And what it is - is outstanding.

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

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

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

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

2009-05-28T08:00:00.001-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can't argue with you there.

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

Myrtle Beach Sailing Charters

Bar Carrera: Getting to the Bottom of Tapas

2009-05-22T07:25:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

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

I speak of Bar Carrera.

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

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

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

And speaking of food...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Smith is One of a Kind

2009-05-04T23:40:00.012-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It can't be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sausage and Peppers Done The Ubereater Way

2009-04-24T07:09:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For this I am truly grateful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-The Ubereater

The Uberchef Spotlight: Rethinking Gnocchi Bolognese

2009-04-09T17:16:00.014-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ti amo fratellino! Buon lavoro!

Defonte's Sandwiches Are My Heroes

2009-04-08T01:28:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

The answer is NOW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 1: The Italian Stallion (#3)

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

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

Day 2: The Pork Hero (#34)

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

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

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

Day 3: The Valentino Special (#2)

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

Day 4: The Hot Roast Beef (#20)

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

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

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

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

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

Need I say more?

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

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

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

Big - Bold - Beautiful - BUDDAKAN

2009-03-27T08:02:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so the meal begins...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-03-10T07:52:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artisanal Sin: Doubting Di Fara Pizza

2009-03-05T21:16:00.022-05:00

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

There I said it.

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

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

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

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

Now let me explain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Belcourt Culinary Justice is Served

2009-02-20T09:00:00.004-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Bold statement indeed, but it's the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-02-11T07:00:00.004-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-02-04T07:30:00.003-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what about that pie?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The "Shake Shack" Redemption: Bringing A Whole New Meaning to Hospitality

2009-01-27T21:35:00.006-05:00

As a follow up to my acrimonious analysis of the Upper West Side Shake Shack a few weeks back, I have an inherent obligation as a devout member of the culinary church, to revise and revisit my original critique.

As it turns out, in reaction to my article, the folks at Union Square Hospitality Group exhibited an immediate interest in what I had to say, having reached out to me with the hopes of not only fully understanding the source of my angst, but also making clear that the Restaurant Group's main goal was to hear, and thus address the concerns of its customers - however caustic they may be.

At this point, while I was truly impressed at Management's non-confrontational, entirely welcoming response to my scathing letter of discontent, I was really taken aback when the life force behind the institution that is the Shack, extended me an invite to join him over a burger to discuss how the fairly new Upper West Side location was working to remedy its logistical hiccups and weather the inevitable barrage of awkward growing pains.

How could I say no?

I had the pleasure of sitting down with The Shack Shack's Managing Partner, Randy Garutti, a down-to-earth guy (and fellow North Jerseyan) who's passion for all things "Shack" is undeniable. Over a double Shackburger, and a peculiarly satisfying shake (that I believe contained chunks of biscuits), he took the time to make sure I understood that the Shack's number 1 priority is its customer base, and that already in the works, was an effort to revamp the space to be more fluid and customer-friendly.

Needless to say, Mr. Garutti's willingness to hear me out, as a loyal (and temporarily) disgruntled customer is nothing short of remarkable in a food service industry that is notorious for caring about everything BUT the customer. His concern for my commentary was neither fulsome nor patronizing, but instead, quite genuine, encouraging, and much appreciated at that - a true testament to the standards by which the Union Square Hospitality Group chooses to do business.

Some might feel I'm being overly effusive here, but I disagree. Nowadays, as if running the business itself isn't enough, the culinary world must shoulder the burden of mitigating the constant backlash of rhetoric and indignant invective put forth by a bustling community of brusque bloggers hell bent on hastily spewing hatred, discontent, and general ill-will toward any and every restaurant that happens to find them out of sorts. This is not to say that some of it isn't deserved (must I remind you of Il Corallo Trattoria?), but more often than not, in fact almost always, quick judgments supercede paced reactions. Notwithstanding the blogosphere's reckless ways, there remain those, such as myself, who choose to criticize, not out of spite, or disdain, but with passion fueled by an inner hope that harsh words will breed even harsher action.

The truth of the matter is, as bloggers, and overall critics of all things edible, we very quickly forget that the restaurant world need not pit the eaters against the owners. As in any business, there will always be those players that are selfish, uncooperative, and downright pig-headed about how they wish to operate. To that extent then, I think we can all agree that, in no other industry does a genuine, whole-hearted, soulfully zealous interest in your customer's feelings, go such a long way in distinguishing yourself from the rest of the pack. So simple, yet so hard for so many to implement. Marketing 101 tells us it is more costly to gain a new customer than it is to keep a current one. Nobody can argue that.

In the end, I want to thank Mr. Garutti, the Shake Shack, and The Union Square Hospitality Group, first for its professionalism and humility in response to my rather cold remarks, and second, for once again reminding me that within the nasty, cut-throat world of serving food, there still exists, however little in number, a handful of organizations dedicated to providing a superior standard of service and quality by following one of the modern day business world's cardinal rules...Listen to your customers.

Who wouldn't eat to that.

-The Ubereater

Molly's Shebeen Shoulda Been Better Than That!

2009-01-19T21:20:00.006-05:00

It's not my nature to ever want to speak poorly of an establishment steeped in tradition and well regarded for its ability to withstand the test of time - especially in a world as fickle as that of the culinary persuasion.

Unfortunately, along the way in my travels, I inevitably encounter a place whose food simply cannot keep up with its reputation. It can often be the case for these ageless eateries that they've steeped, arguably, in the pot of tradition for too long. I would submit that there are a handful of eating establishments in New York City's whose reputations not only precede them, but actually preclude them from any sort of objective reality. It's not that I don't respect the tradition of this food, nor am I insensitive to the visages of yesteryear that so many of us still cherish in today's over-gentrified New York; it's just that it appears as though we have reached a point where we give these joints a pass simply for their lasting power.

The most germane example in this case, would be Corner Bistro in my West Village neighborhood. It's old, well-known for its highly celebrated burgers, and continues to command a cult-following, yet its "bistro-burgers" just aren't any good. Many vehemently disagree, others quietly concur, but I couldn't' feel more strongly about this. CB is BS - to put it simply.

That said, a recent trip to Molly's Pub and Shebeen, Gramercy's much respected Irish Pub, managed to conjure up Corner Bistro-type feelings when I attacked its often-recommended burger.

In the authenticity department, Molly's passes with flying colors. Burger aside for a moment, the establishment as a whole is easily one of the coolest old-school joints in all Manhattan. Sawdust-covered floors (a la McSorley's), a low-level ceiling spattered with sparse lighting, and barely navigable original tique wooden booths along the wall make this place an exceptional specimen of another New York, from perhaps a simpler time. Throw in the fact that actual Irish people run this place, and it's hard to criticize what they're doing here as a whole.

But I will anyway.

Strictly from a culinary perspective, Molly's burger, hailed for its girth and breadth of texture, is actually quite disappointing. Unlike most places, especially Pubs, whose burgers fail miserably at attaining mediocrity due to a sheer lack of care, it isn't cutting corners that is Molly's problem. I would go as far as to say, Molly's is trying too hard.

My bacon cheeseburger was delivered as promised: large, rotund, and almost steroidal. Thick, crunchy loop-the-loops of bacon traverse a truly massive hunk of ground beef draped, almost coated, by a bright orange layer of cheddar cheese (below). This brawny beast of bovinity is accompanied by a tornado of what must be house-made onion rings. Though I rarely order rings, these are really good and are the smooth, battered variety, and not those grainy, breaded ones that come out of a bag.

But I wasn't here for the rings.

Visually there is no doubt this burger is impressive, but its achievements end there. Off the bat, the patty itself is way too thick, which makes its extremely difficult, almost impossible in fact, to cook properly. If there is anyone out there that loves a massive burger it's me, but whereas I once pined for burgers that required jaw dislocation for consumption, I have come to realize that with burgers, bigger is not better (more however, is). Molly's burger is roughly 2+inches at its widest point - a thickness that requires an extended period of cooking in order to achieve medium rare doneness in the center - of course in achieving that doneness you've, by that time, overcooked, and ostensibly, dried out the exterior layers of the burger, leaving you with an earth-like burger: a crunchy crispy juicless crust around a slightly less dry mantle which envelops the core of properly cooked meat. Furthermore, regardless of the type of meat used (chuck vs sirloin, etc), the thickness dilemma will always superceded the quality of meat, rendering it dry and grainy, and of course, without flavor.

All that said, though I certainly appreciate its mass, the burger at Molly's is not nearly as good as its made out to be, plain and simple. It does have potential though.

In fairness. I think Molly's problem is in the "How" and not the "What". A downsized patty, and an upgraded bun (the run-of-the-mill sesame seed buns just dont' cut it anymore), would together do wonders for this classic neighborhood favorite, making it easier to cook them properly while increasing the flavor profile of the actual compilation of ingredients.

I have the utmost respect for Molly's and all it has accomplished in this cold, bipolar City of ours but given my commitment to exposing the best, the worst, and all that falls in between, in this City, it behooves me to question tradition and ask whether what was once believed to be true, is in fact, still true - an existential proclamation by the Ubereater? - or an obscure explanation for eating more burgers.

That's for you to decide.

Molly's Pub and Shebeen (map it)
Food (Burger): C+ Too thick, difficult to eat, and has a tendency to be dry, generously dressed
Ambiance: A - A true Irish Pub and the heavy brogued Bartenders to prove it.
Service: A- Satisfactory, typical bar/pub type service
In a thought: "Come for the nostalgia, come for the experience, come for a beer, but don't come for the burger."

Go Ahead...Ushiwakamaru...I Dare You

2009-01-16T06:20:00.004-05:00

It has recently occurred to me that I, as the Ubereater, have yet to write about sushi in any sort of capacity thus far. A fact that is much more a result of feasibility than likability. Ironically, it was as a Sushi Scout for Chicago's Red Eye, that the beginnings of the Ubereater would take root. (Photo's Here)

Probably the most sensible reason behind my silence on the sushi experience in the City is that I simply haven't been eating a lot of stuff since I moved back to NYC. And, I would argue, for good reason.

It seems to be the case, at least in my mind, that the New York sushi scene is somewhat of a microcosm of the pre-Obama American socio-economic continuum - on one end, the very distinct, but undeniably exquisite upper class - think Nobu, Morimoto, and Blue Ribbon - and on the other, a bulging mass of the nameless bourgeoisie - think Midtown at lunchtime - that clamor to stay perilously balanced along the wobbling poverty line.

So what am I getting at? Well, frankly, on the high end, I think the Sushi scene is New York is a little too fancy for its own good, and on the low end, its reputation is at stake. Unlike Chicago, a city teeming with middle-ground, self-improving BYO sushi spots offering an enticing combination of value and quality, New York seems to be uninhabitable land for the down-to-earth sushi experience. Pardon the pun, but it's feast or famine in terms of sushi selection in New York - either you embrace the opulence of $80 plates at Nobu, or you're hunching over a pre-made, pre-sliced thoroughly-refrigerated Spicy Tuna roll from some obscure, thrice-shuttered Midtown lunch spot that happens to also serve Buffalo Wings and Roast Beef on Thursdays.

Obviously I don't fault New York for its gazillions of hole-in-the-wall gems - these are the lifeblood to my calling - but this format is just not conducive to sushi from my perspective. I need more. I need something fulfilling and uplifting. I don't want to see soysauce-stained paper-menus and complimentary miso soup. I'm oh so tired of the hackneyed all-you-can-eat gimmicks, and early-bird special teasers that have cursed the mid-range sushi market. These are vapid visions of a sushi eating experience not yet found in my eyes here in New York. Somewhere along the line, sushi's valiant journey from novelty, to cultural movement, to annoying trend, to bastardized business concept is nothing short of remarkable, if not entirely disappointing. And yet this does not at all mean that greatness no longer exists.

Can it be true that above-average quality and undeniable value remain forbidden to marry in this liberal culinary landscape of ours?

In one word: Ushiwakamaru.

What?

In one short meal, my aforementioned diatribe of disdain directed towards decrying the dearth of value-packed sushi in New York City, is for all intents and purposes, now moot - thanks to Ushiwakamaru in Greenwich Village.

Located on Houston Street between MacDougal and Sullivan Street, Ushiwakamaru's metallic facade and dim lighthing are easy to miss, as you descend below street-level into this sub-terranean den of deliciousness.

The space itself is fairly small, but not at all cramped, and quite cozy - split almost evenly between 2 rows of tables on one side - and the bar on the other. There is a certain element of maturity to this place that right off the bat, turns me on. Cue the trio of riotous, sake-soaked Japanese men gabbing with the sushi zen master behind the counter, and I was eerily comfortable here - even if I was the weird 6'1" Italian guy wearing sweat pants and sneakers.

The menu is well-varied, though in terms of maki rolls, which Meghan and I often stick head for first, the selection is limited to maybe 6 - 8 classic preparations. You wont' find any "Alaska" or "Philadelphia" rolls here - instead the rolls are simple and to the point. We ordered 4 maki rolls, each unique unto its own right, each absolutely wonderful.

The rolls came out in succession, and the timing was much needed. The Pickled Radish (below) was my way of starting things off with a little bit crunch. A wonderful texture and subtle tartness of the radish suited the beginning of the meal well, especially at only $4.

The Spicy Tuna (below) is EASILY the best that's ever crossed my lips. Tender, perfectly constructed, and not overworked, this is a much needed reminder of why we all started eating sushi in the first place. It's a shame the Spicy Tuna roll is now the Double Cheeseburger of the Sushi world, but that doesn't mean Ushiwakamaru's version still isn't enlightening, and addictive. Because it is, and at $9, more than fairly priced.

As much as I loved the Spicy Tuna, the Fatty Tuna (below, $10) was just unreal. These morsels of wonder literally melted in your mouth, sporting a slight sweetness that went perfect with a dab of wasabi, which was REAL wasabi by the way, not that stuff that looks like mint toothpaste. Though not usually my first point of interest, I can't ignore how well constructed The Fatty Tuna roll was. Tight enough to stay together when you pick it up, but not so overpacked that you have to chew what you're eating. The flavors spoke volumes to the quality of the fish, the texture screamed it. The fish was the freshest I've ever tasted.

Rounding out the meal was the Soft Shell Crab roll which arrived as wider, more thinly-sliced discs of still-warm, lightly-battered soft shell crab, enveloped by tangy sticky rice. Crunchy on the interior, and silky smooth everywhere else, this was the exemplar of a roll I order almost everywhere I go. Simply oustanding.

Honest digs, a soft-spoken, accommodating waitstaff (who all wear kimonos by the way), and a jocular chef all come together to make Ushiwakamaru THE sushi experience I had been longing for since I moved back East.

Let it be known that humble homey spot on Houston Street is not "cheap" in today's polluted sense of the word, which usually implies exceptional quantity at ridiculous cost, but instead, embodies to the fullest degree of a concept that seems to have eluded the our City's saturated sushi world. That conept of course being VALUE.

So, go ahead, Ushiwakamaru...I dare you.

Ushiwakamaru (map it)
Food: A (subtle, yet incredible flavors without compromising texture)
Ambiance: A (the most comfortable I've been to date in NYC when out for sushi - warm, homey and welcoming)
Service: A (helpful, accomodating, fluid to the point of non-existent - masters at the craft)
In a thought: Hands down the most exciting and heartwarming sushi experience to date in the City.

How Fitting that Potatoes Love a Good Murphy: Resurrecting a Jersey Classic

2009-01-08T22:30:00.003-05:00

After an extraordinarily successful year in ubereating, it is needless to say, that I am excited for what 2009 has in store for The Ubereater himself. As is always the case, with the start of a new year, comes the opportunity to start fresh - to start anew - and of course eat even more.

To that effect, one of my many goals of 2009, aside from telling more stories, more often, is to expand the overall scope of Memoirs of an Ubereater, to be a reliable culinary reference, as well as a hotbed discussion center for any and every opinion there is about all aspects of food.

Food is, and always will be, the most salient aspect of my life, and while my love for all there is to eat in New York City is unwavering and everlasting, I mustn't ever neglect the genesis of that love - the catalyst to my culinary crusade. And that's the food of the home.

So while I may always remain focused on navigating New York's lavish labyrinth of hole-in-wall grub joints and PageSix-worthy dining rooms, 2009 will see a marked improvement in the attention I give to the food of the home...and specifically my home.

That said, as a Jersey-born Italian, there are certain components to the North Jersey Italian table that are immortal. One that has recently come back to the forefront of my repertoire of consumption is Potatoes Murphy.

Anyone who grew up in North Jersey and has been out at a local Italian restaurant has seen something "Murphy" on the menu, be it chicken, veal, or pork chops. To clarify, old-school Italian-american fare, which runs rampant in my North Jersey homeland, rests on 5 pillars of preparation, each boasting its own unique combination of ingredients:

1) Picatta
2) Francese
3) Cacciatore
4) Savoy
5) Murphy.

The beauty of these five preparations is that they are just that...preparations. They are methods rather than recipes, governed only by the what, and never by how much or how little.

So what the hell is something "Murphy".

Traditionally, the "Murphy" presentation involves a pan-coddled thoroughly sauteed melange of vinegar, cherry peppers, onions, potatoes, and some sort of salt-cured meat, usually sausage, used as a "dressing" over anything from Chicken (on or off the bone), to Veal, to Double-Cut pork chops. What's more, the proportion of ingredients is entirely arbitrary in so much as the vinegar, and vinegar peppers remain the centerpiece of the dish.

Every Murphy is different, and yet they're all, at a very basic level, the same.

Philosophy aside, the wicked combination of tart and heat you get from the vinegar soaked peppers is classic Murphy, and is so palatable, in my opinion, that the "Murphy" mix on its own, as its own entity, sans any major protein, morphs into an entirely new creation, known forever within my family as Potatoes Murphy.

In recent years, with my favorite restaurant closing (RIP Mama Lucia's), and having moved away from the East coast for a while, I had all but fully given up on "Murphy" before my father, Papa Ubereater, so valiantly resurrected this epic epicurean elder of a dish from the ashes of obscurity.

And so was born my father's Potatoes Murphy, a respectful nod to its roots, with an updated approach to content (bacon! in lieu of salsiccia!).

Here is Papa Ubereater (along with the rest of the Ubereater family), on the morn of Christmas Day (we like to eat early) in an unscripted, uncoached, and overtly unabated segment discussing his Potatoes Murphy as only he can:

Needless to say, the Ubereater approves.

Looking to recreate the old days? Email ubereater@gmail.com for a rough recipe.

Shake Shack on the Upper West Side - An Operational Abomination

2009-01-04T10:50:00.007-05:00

Here is a complaint I sent to the famous hamburger blog A Hamburger Today...

To Mr. Burger-

This morning I write you for the first time to vent my utter disgust with how poorly designed and run the Upper West Side Shake Shack truly is. It should be known that I am a true Shack-lover and have professed my deep admiration for these sumptuously salt-crusted burgers before. That said, yesterday was my first experience at the new Shake Shack at Columbus and 77th.

What an abomination.

Not because of my double Shackburger, which was certainly enjoyable (at least initially), but the absolute mess of an operation this place is.

I just could not get over how logistically incompetent this spot was. The majority of the main room is designed to snake the line of people back and forth 3 times before getting to the counter to order. Once there, and your order is completed, in traditional 'shack fashion, you wait for your buzzer to go off to let you know your order is ready. Unfortunately, there is no place to wait. The waiting area is the butt-end of the line for people waiting to order, and to complicate things, they put the condiments station right by the last register at the counter, creating an orgy of mayhem and mishaps that completely and utterly ruined my dining experience. Strollers, packs of kids, people juggling trays, employees trying to get to the overflowing garbages. Just a mess.

The confluence of this one area is so terribly thought out that you literally cannot move in either direction without running the risk of bumping into someone looking to get on line, trying to grab more napkins, or budging through the queue of people to retrieve his order at the counter. It is total chaos to say the least.

Of course if you survive this agonizing 10 minutes, you are rewarded with a comely cradle of shacktastic goodness just asking to be devoured as soon as you take your seat. Its simple beauty and close resemblance to its downtown Madison Square Park-borne cousins may very well be worth your troubles. Piping hot, steeped in a gooey miasma of cheese and pucker-punched shack sauce, the excitement of imminent consumption makes everything all better as you make way to your seat. Hot and scrumptious, and so fulfilling, this is the reason you brave the crowds and tackle the shackburger.

Now if only you could actually sit down and eat it.

As bad as the set-up may be for receiving and corralling customers waiting for food, the seating arrangements are categorically worse. There are only two options, either try your luck at finding a seat at one of the picnic style benches in narrow sun-room to the right, or go downstairs to another dining area. Either way you're out of luck. Upstairs, you have to wait for a seat in the sun-room, while dodging customers coming in and out, as well as ducking left and right as people get their orders and go back to the condiments station. Discouraged by upstairs, you can head downstairs to window-less basement dining area where people seem to linger, and the line accumulates at the very base of the steps (working its way upward of course). I must've walked back and forth between the two 4 times, all while balancing my ever-cooling-off burger on my tray as to ensure I didn't lose it to the floor.

My buddy and I ended up eating on the ledge of the veranda on the steps before our companions were lucky enough to snag a table for us in the "sun-room".

Absolute chaos.

We ended up getting a table for four, but by then (and i'm talking about 25 minutes), the damage had been done. All the excitement, the anticipation, the inspiration involved with sitting down to one of these works of art was gone. The mass of people with nowhere and everywhere to go had divested me of every last ounce of appreciation for what I was about to eat, and eat in 1 minute mind you.

In the end, while I may have inhaled my burger handedly, I swallowed my pride begrudgingly. This is not the Shake Shack experience I've come to love and adore. This was something else. Some bastard step-child of another father struggling to find its niche within the family.

Let it be known, I still love the Shake Shack, and still would argue it is the most satisfying burger in the city, all around, but have to qualify that comment by further clarifying that in making that statement, I am referring only to the original Shack in Madison Square Park.

As the Ubereater, my job is not simply to eat harder, but to eat smarter. I am so inclined to voice my feelings here because I know Mr. Meyer and his restaurant group are dedicated to quality in food as well as experience. The UWS Shack possesses the former, but you'd be hard pressed to appreciate it based on the latter.

All that said, my torrid love affair with the shack will continue to thrive, though from now on, we will rendezvous only at Madison Square.

Regards,

The Ubereater
www.ubereater.com

Artichoke Pizza's Sensational Sicilian Slice

2009-01-03T11:30:00.000-05:00

In my first tale of Artichoke Basille Pizzeria and Brewery (let's just call it Artichoke), I spoke highly of the sicilian slice (though I disagree now with my description of a "dense layer of cheese"), citing this newfangled NYC player in the pizza scene, as "brawny" and "masculine". Today, I need to rewrite my experience, or at least, elaborate on my initial relationship with the square pie, for it has developed into something much more serious.

Since it's buzz-filled opening almost a year ago, Artichoke Basille pizza, now (in)famous pizza pie has warranted every reaction under the sun. "Too heavy", "bland", "sloppy", "heavenly" - you name it, somewhere in cyberspace, somebody has lamented its inadequacies - or extolled its other-worldly virtues. There is no doubt the craziest of the crazies who lead New York's relentless pizza community have gone out of their way weigh in on Artichoke's rather unorthodox business model (sporadic hours), and seemingly lethargic response to increasing demand (by lethargic I might mean indifferent).

All that said, as the Ubereater, it is my duty to ignore that mess - to think nothing of such criticisms, and instead understand that no matter, this is about the pizza. Thus, it is my duty to throw my hat in the ring, and dole out my two-cents on what this pie is all about. The sicilian kind anyway.

And my first comment is, Stop the whining.

I'll admit, in those beginning days of hysteria, I waited 30 minutes for a slice of this supposed magical pie. The pie that would turn pizza puritans' beliefs on their head. I wasn't wild about it but I did, and when I finally was able to savor these much-anticipated creations (hunched over a pigeon-shit-covered ledge on 14th street mind you), I was, at the very least, impressed. So much so, I ran 2 slices home to Meghan so she could understand the source of my excitement. (I didn't mention the ledge upon my arrival for good reason).

Fast forward 8 months, and a bazillion online reviews later, and Artichoke continues to flourish as one of New York's premier pie spots, having survived an initial media-created hype that can execute any promising food venture, regardless of its merit, in no time at all. The haters may or may not have given up, and yet those who believe in what they're producing in this closet of a space, continue to return.

So on a bitter cold December day, pining for a substantial slice of pie, I decided I'd head back to Artichoke to see what was happening, with the hope of sampling this savory treat devoid of any the extraneous extracurricular chit chat and disdainful discourse that straddled this spot from the get-go. I don't care about any of it at this point. I just want my pie.

No line. No wait. Beautiful. Seeing as this was my appetizer before lunch at another location, I conservatively stuck to 1 slice of the sicilian pie. I would later determine this move to be nothing short of stupid.

The sicilian slice was unbelievably satisfying - if not, mind-blowing. Hyperbole? Not even. Though I remember this square slice being very good 8 months prior, this time around, everything had changed, at least in my mind, for the better.

Among the many visions and ideas that tend to haunt my mind on a daily basis, the perfect, most satiating slice of sicilian pizza has always occupied a small corner of my twisted head. The dough, the gravy, the cheese, the texture - all pre-determined, all self-distinguishing, all outright phenomenal.

The slice as a whole is really a confluence of several wonderful ingredients that all make sense. The dough is sturdy, stocky and broad-shouldered, acting as the perfect platform for its cacophonous collection of slightly-burned mozzarella, sweet red gravy, and vast lilly-pads of aromatic basil leaves interspersed with large, oven-crusted crumbles of parmiggiano reggiano cheese.

The construction clearly demonstrates these guys know what theyr'e doing. Artichoke's sicilian slice, and correctly so, thankfully and pleasingly reminds you that true sicilian pie is first about the dough, then about the gravy, and lastly about the cheese. Each bite packs a humongous punch of salty parmiggiano, fresh basil, and modest amount of red gravy, that together compliment the dough, and not the other way around.

Quite simply, this Artichoke's sicilian slice embodies every aspect of what I've envisioned throughout the years, as the quintessential slice of sicilian pie. In fact, my interaction with sicilian pie has forever now, been limited only to long-time Clifton pizza parlor Bruno's, whose girthier, more expansive square pie has remained near and dear to my heart for a decade now.

So, what's my two cents? (Though I think I may have given you more than two cents by now). Outside of all the self-serving reviews, over-exposure, and righetous analysis that has surrounded this spot for what seems to be its entire existence thus far, I can honestly and truthfully say, the pie, or specifically, the sicilian slice is the exquisite. (The round slice and the eponymous Artichoke variation are for another day).

I've eaten a lot of pizza in my day, and there is probably no other food, over which I've so laboriously agonized in terms of striving for finding true excellence.

Therefore, it is not out of some self-absorbed, contrarian foodie urge, or introspective gastronomic itch that I am compelled to so vividly laud this wonderful sicilian pie, but out of my innate, ubereating nature as a calm and collected culinary citizen, that I'd like to emphasize Artichoke's sicilian pie's true amazingness. Because it is truly outstanding.

A compulsion that begs perhaps a more simple concept - why the hell didn't I get another slice?

Artichoke Basille's Pizza and Brewery
328 E. 14th St., nr. First Ave.
212-228-2004

Blue 9 Burger Leaves You Feeling..Well...Blue

2008-12-16T22:00:00.003-05:00

Originally planning to hit S'mac, the claustrophobic East Village hot spot dedicated to the fine art of Mac N' Cheese preparations, we realized our group of 9 and the pinsized joint weren't going to work. After minimal wandering, and running into a ridiculous lunch time wait at The Smith (what the hell?), we found ourselves at one of the most chat-worthy of the many burger spots that straddle 3rd avenue: Blue 9 Burger.

Seeing as I take great pride in keeping up with the food scene, especially as it pertains to burgers, I was well aware going into this eating excursion that Blue 9 consistently finds its away on the bevy of "Top 10 Burger in the City" lists that orbit cyberspace today. (Something you are reminded of by the giant white sign plopped in the window).

That said, with high hopes, moderate expectations, and some element of relief knowing I can cross off yet another "must-try" on long short-list of culinary feats, I tackled Blue 9 burger.

Firstly, while I realize it's irrelevant to the burger itself, I can't help but comment on Blue 9's rather depressing interior. Admittedly, I can be too eager at times to crown places as depressing, but at the same time my Ubereating nature makes it impossible to remain completely objective about my surroundings, regardless of the circumstances.

And Blue 9 is no exception. The place is dingy, dark, and somewhat dungeon-like. Drab walls, dim-lighting and a strangely out of commission smoothie bar are immediate mood killers. It feels like you're eating at Chapter 11 bankruptcy-protected, bank-owned Checkers located in someone's half-finished basement in Corona, Queens (no offense). It goes without saying, that the burger at this point, had better be out of this world.

I went for the double cheeseburger, with nothing on it. There isn't much in the way of fixin's at Blue 9, aside from pre-packed side portions of Thousand Island dressing available upon the request. Instead, the specialty of the house is the "Mango Salsa", a creamy, pinkish-red homogenous sauce that you "pump" yourself. As a whole, though cosmetically underwhelming, my double-decker was remarkably satisfying. A oil-glistened run-of-the-mill bun is home to two, griddle-crisped beef patties wearing a scant, though thoroughly melted layer of tangy orange cheddar cheese. The meat is grainy, loosely-packed, and well seasoned and takes to the cheese well - creating an aspect to this burger that, dare I say it, eerily reminds me The Shake Shack. Of course, with its flaccid, Joe-Schmo-bun, and minimal "wetness", the comparison, however controversial, stops right there. In terms of the New York City burger continuum that ranges from craptastic fast-food chain on one end, to haute hamburger couture al a' Zaitzeff at the other, I would say Blue 9 falls somewhere just below Five Guys. Not fast food, but certainly not clean enough to prevent you from hating yourself after you eat it.

Blue 9's burger, in terms of flavor, certainly hits the mark, but its beleaguered appearance and sadly scant dressings, are a turn off. This is the retarded younger brother to The Shake Shack and I won't be going back.

So where should you head in search of a quality burger? Head a block south to The Smith. The Roasted Tomato and Cheddar Soup and the Burger together, will do the trick.

Blue 9 Burger
92 Third Avenue
212-979-0053
Food: A
Ambiance: D
Service: Bare minimum.

Babbo Baby, Babbo!

2008-12-05T07:30:00.003-05:00

Back in the beginning of the year, I had compiled a list of eateries I pledged to visit in 2008. 10 months, and two trips later, and I am finally prepared to discuss my larger-than-life experiences at Mario Batali’s epic Babbo.

I am compelled to recant the story of this West Village legend’s extraordinary knack for offering a an unforgettably pointed meal – easily one of the best eating experiences yet as the Ubereater. As memorable for its pomp as it was its circumstance, Babbo, on our first occasion was the backdrop to the “closing ceremonies” to Meghan’s multi-mooned, never-ending birthday celebration, while the second go-round was a surprise visit concocted by yours truly. Either way, both meals were entirely and undoubtedly exquisite.

That said, just a stone’s throw beyond the shady sights and silly sounds of MacDougal St, this exceptionally elusive eatery has for a decade, remained an oasis of acuity thriving in surroundings coveted historically for their obscurity. A trip through nearby Washington Square Park will certainly prove that point.

Let it be known that before you can enjoy the toothsome treasures of Babbo, you actually have to get in to Babbo – and that requires a reservation, which in case you weren’t aware, is nearly impossible to come by. As one of the most coveted tables in the City, booking a table at this bastion of Batali brawn requires determination, a dose of luck, and what has to be some sort of divine intervention. If you can break through the ever-busy reservation line (which took 20 minutes of constant redialing to accomplish on both occasions) while remembering the well-documented 30-day policy, you will emerge victorious, exhausted, and most of all, hungry. But I can tell you, it’s well worth it.

Along a picturesque sliver of Waverly place, half-way between the sempiternal honking and hollering of 6^th avenue and the sneaky skulduggery of Washington Square Park, sits Mario Batali’s baby…Babbo. A yellow pastel facade tattooed in bold, oversized black and red lettering make its dramatic and vibrant exterior a far cry from the humble signage and muted colors that adorn nearby siblings Lupa and OTTO.

Inside, rich crème-colored walls, a svelte mahogany bar, and a vaulted ceiling, together, govern the front of the house which is part wine bar, part waiting area that becomes cramped rather quickly as the 6 o’clock hour approaches. A confident, grown-up feel should be your first clue to this fine establishment’s historic role as the self-made eldest child in the ever-growing family of bustling Batali establishments. Clearly, it is this certain air of free-spirited sensibility that attracts moonstruck couples, established professionals, and devout foodies alike. Still, dim lighting mixed with loud rock music takes a back seat to even louder conversation, conjuring, quite perfectly, that classic “Batali” ambiance, which at Babbo, remains a healthful reminder that just because you’re mature and have a few bucks in your pocket, doesn’t mean you’re enslaved to stuffy dining rooms, table-side violinists, and a uniformed servers. At Babbo, only the food is livelier than the people.

The semi-cluttered front graduates to a more open set arrangement in a back room anchored by a regal staircase that splits the room into two levels, the downstairs being a bit more casual than the second floor.

But on to food.

Our meal could not commence quickly enough as a tasty sampling of chickpeas marinated in red pepper-flake-flecked olive oil was a welcoming treat.

Starting things off, I opted for the Cotechino, a seasonal italian delicacy, often served in the winter - especially New Year's Eve, rests on a bed of lentils heavily dressed in sweet and syrupy well-aged balsamic vinegar from Modena. Made from pork, fat back, and a number of pungent spices, including cinnamon and clove, this savory, succulent meat product is sliced into thick discs that rest neatly on a pile of al dente lentils. Admittedly, with its strong odor and major mouthfeel, Cotechino is somewhat of an acquired taste that is probably more difficult to accept in terms of its gritty, corrugated texture than the sweet and savory flavor combination that nowadays, most of us have come to enjoy.

Cotechino fully consumed (and rather quickly at that), the Tortelloni with Dried orange and wild fennel pollen (below), arrives as assembly of delicate, butter-soft packages of tongue-puckering goat cheese every so slightly infused with a hint of citrus orange and a dusting of super subtle fennel pollen. The acidity from the orange and the tang of the cheese eliminate every last memory of what you thought tortelloni, their little siblings, tortellini, should be, or ever will be again in your eyes.

Even more exciting, the Spaghettini with Lobster and Budding chives (below), is definitely one of the top 5 pasta dishes to be had in the City. A heaping portion of thin tubular spaghettini come ensconced in a sanguineous fire red zesty tomato sauce, blessed with large, plump hunks of tender lobster to form a devilishly handsome portrait of pasta spiked with roughly chopped spicy chives that more than finish the job. There is something about all the pasta preparations at not only Babbo, but Lupa and Otto as well, that set these seemingly simple combinations apart from anything else. There is a certain element to Batali’s food, and especially at Babbo, that so effortlessly finds a way to use simple means to achieve an exquisite end and the spaghettini at Babbo could not any more perfect an example.

Reeling from the Primi, the Secondi waste no time making their entrance. The Grilled Guinea Hen (below) is a high rising compilation of the game bird’s juicy, succulent dark meat set atop a bed of sweet stringy spaghetti squash. A crispy well-grilled skin, and an abundance of black truffle vinaigrette round out yet another one of Babbo’s peculiarly perfect plates.

But it gets even better. Lucky for me, Babbo offers one of my all time favorite meals – a double-cut, insanely thick Pork Chop, accompanied by cherry peppers and cipollini. Hewing to my preference that this perfect piece of pig is cooked medium rare, this pork chop embodied everything I love about this classic dish. Tender, silky pork embraces the tart, hot, vinegary red cherry peppers joined by lighly sauteed bell peppers and greens, that altogether, form one of the greatest culinary symphonies ever. I couldn’t have been more pleased with my chop, and for that reason, found myself taking my time to eat it.

That never happens.

An artfully pan seared Sea Bass, veal ragu pasta, and a mind-blowing veal cutlet only further affirm what I’m pretty sure I already knew. Babbo doesn’t miss a beat. And probably never will.

This certainly isn’t the first time someone lauded the subtle yet inescapably enjoyable nuances of the food at Babbo, and yet I still, in some ways, I feel as though many strive to eat here for all the wrong reasons. I suppose there will always be a contingency of poseurs and non-believers whose efforts to assimilate with the who’s who overtly trump their interest in what on the plate in front of them. So be it.

At the same time, I take solace in knowing there are just as many (probably more) out there who appreciate Babbo’s truly remarkable ability to, after a decade, continue to so handily please the palettes of anyone and everyone who’s ever eaten there. The restaurant’s resilience and uncanny ability to remain among the most sought after of meals in Manhattan is almost as noteworthy as the down-to-earth precision of the food itself.

I recently caught up with Mario on my street early in the morning, while on my way to work. Stopped at the corner of MacDougal and Eest 3^rd, there I found myself standing next to the man whose restaurants I so dearly enjoyed – whose work and passion I so profusely appreciated. Can it be? Realizing the uniqueness of the moment, I introduced myself as a “huge fan of his work” (the "Ubereater" would've been a bit much). His response, a surprisingly soft-spoken, perhaps indifferent, “Thank You” didn’t deter me from asserting that the Biscotti and Sweet Wine dessert at Lupa is my favorite in all the city. “Thank you” he quietly uttered once again as he made his way across the street, and further from my direction.

"Was it something I said?"

Fine then. Next time, I’ll have to tell him about the pork chop.

Babbo

110 Waverly Place (Between 6th Ave & MacDougal)

Food: A (if ever there were a restaurant that deserved an A, it's this one)

Service: A (like a well-oiled machine, they keep the meal moving, the food coming, and offer enough interaction to heighten the meal, as opposed to hastening it)

Ambiance: A (casual, but self-respecting as we all should be)

Brown Cafe in Black and White

2008-11-13T23:57:00.000-05:00

In the wild and crazy brunch scene that fearlessly devours the better part of Saturday and Sunday in this city, it is probably true that at one time or another you've caught yourself waiting in line for a $15 omelet to be washed down with a $6 glass of orange juice - all the while asking yourself why, and better yet how, you exactly managed to get yourself into such a predicament. Mind you this omelet is probably made with imported Pancetta, locally produced cheese, and organic "yes we can" eggs - but is it really worth it?

The answer most of the time to this question is a fervent "no". In fact, if there is anything about eating in the New York that truly bothers me, it's brunch. It is an entirely illegitimate pseudo-meal that is more or less breakfast parading around in its mother's sexy lingerie half-hoping to be outed. Like Rupaul circa 1993, Brunch is the transsexual of the culinary world - once breakfast, almost lunch - nobody knows what the hell it is, and even more telling, nobody seems to care to find out. I've always felt as though brunch is the emasculated version of breakfast. If, as in the romance languages, English nouns carried gender, brunch would most certainly be a feminine word, while breakfast would be its masculine counterpart. More clearly - if breakfast is Robert DeNiro, then Brunch is Richard Simmons.

And when was the last time a guy connected with his inner manhood upon uttering the words, "What time are we doing brunch fellas??"

Like everything else in our greedy little world today, we have managed to compromise the valor, honesty, and purity of a working man's meal through unfettered infatuation with hedonistic refinement.

And with all that said, rather ironically, I have come to actually enjoy brunch. Not for its epicene disposition, or its dainty displays, but for its exquisite exhibition of flavor and surprising ability to join civilly (not marry), savory with sweet. This brings me to my recent morning meal at Brown Cafe on the Lower East Side, where humble surroundings encase noble culinary excellence.

A short walk from the F train's Essex/Delancey stop, this truly tiny cafe rests on the gritty corner of Ludlow and Hester in a section of the Lower East Side that couldn't be any more Lower East Side. Right at home among the weather-beaten sidewalks, excoriated metal storefronts, and countless crop of sign-less bodegas, Brown's windows and mute white facade are probably the most tame for the block.

Outfitted with a small (albeit quite sleek) coffee bar on one side, a birch-colored wooden bench lines the other to provide seating for 5 or 6 tables. Immaculate, simple, and open all at once, Brown Cafe is as fit and trim an establishment as I've ever seen in this bottomless pit of shoebox shops we call New York City. And thankfully, so is the food.

Seemingly more and more popular along the brunch (-er breakfast) circuit these days, I was utterly and thoroughly impressed with my baked eggs, which was the menu item that originally compelled me want to check this place out. Re-evaluating my menu choices as I often do, I can't help but refer back to the centuries-old Knight's epic statement at the end of Indiana Jones the Last Crusade..."You have chosen...wisely."

Indeed I did.

Within minutes I was happy to find sitting before me, a piping hot mini-skillet home to a comely culinary cacophony of food groups. Together, tall, bulbous sunny-side up egg yolks butt heads with brawny chunks of sausage amidst a semi-firm cloud-white sea of perfectly cooked egg-whites and melted mozzy - specked carefully with bitter leeks and slightly sweet roasted peppers. Flanked by a proportionately-sized mixed green salad, two hearty slices of Bastone, and a small bowl of roasted potatoes, this treacherously tasty triad of protein, carbohydrates, and fiber is more than worthy of the svelte cutting board on which they are served. To be served on a plate would be outlandish.

Here, the presentation is outdone only by the undeniable freshness of the ingredients - which for me goes a long way. When it comes to something like baked eggs, less is more, and Brown's version celebrates the eggs, with the help of the added ingredients, not in spite of them.

A strong cup of coffee, and laid back yet attentive service made this one of the more relaxing morning meal's I've had in the city. Absent from the long lines of androgynous Euro-couples with matching hair-styles, snooty over-pierced hipster hostesses with harsh bangs, deafening dining room noise, and of course, requisite egregious price-gouging, the concept of brunch - or breakfast at an hour when everyone else seems to wake up around here - isn't so bad after all.

Brown Cafe is as impressive a presentation for brunch as I've yet to see in Manhattan. This cozy shop's simple, earthy approach to its food has brought to light, quite aptly, the possibility that brunch, sans the ear drum busting bells and whistles of campy culinary cache', can actually be had in peace, and at reasonable prices.

So, while its grandiose reputation of caste and class will always precede itself, a new iteration of our old conceptions of brunch has risen to the forefront, availing hungry, down-to-earth New Yorkers the opportunity to gorge themselves on honestly prepared, hearty foods that embrace their high-quality ingredients instead of exploiting them.

Take that Richard Simmons.

Brown Cafe (map it)

Food: A (simple, smart, and honest)
Service: A (polite, interested, and natural)
Ambiance: A (relaxing, humble, and sleek)
In a thought: "Redefining brunch, and making me a believer along the way."

Bite of the Day - 10/29/2008 - Homemade Meatballs at Adrienne's Pizza Bar

2008-10-28T23:31:00.009-04:00

It's been too long since I've last checked in, which, somehow, someway, has been over two weeks ago. I have the combination of long days at work, and extended weekends outside the city to thank for my injunction of involuntary incommunicado.

Yet, like any storm, the vortex of confusion, mental consumption, and work-related angst has dissipated as quickly as it formed, leaving me, the Ubereater, as eager, and hungry as ever.

So what better way to return from this harrowing hiatus than with a quick, and poignant bite of the day about an edible treat that, as one of the most enticing, most fulfilling, most familiar foods of our existence, remains painfully under appreciated, dare I say it, overlooked, among the concentric culinary circles that tell the story of eating in our great city. I speak of the almighty Meatball, and more specifically, the homemade meatballs at Adrienne's Pizza Bar in the Financial District.

You are already aware of my deep love for the square pie at Adrienne's made abundantly clear in one of my very first posts as the Ubereater. But what you may not know is that the meatballs at this Stone Street dynamo are some of the best you'll ever have. In fact, they will rekindle your innate love for the simple, but oh so sexy meatball.

Having made their way on to the menu no more than year ago, these perfectly formed globes of gastronomic glory wade leisurely in a moat of hearty, almost-ragu-like red gravy. Slightly bigger than a golf-ball, and tender on the outside, each specimen is packed to just the right consistency, so as to make sure to give way to a firm use of the fork without crumbling into a zillion pieces.

The velvety red gravy is as deserving of recognition as the meatballs themselves, bringing a tart, slow-cooked acidity to the meat, walking the fine line between a thick ragu, and a thin, more liquid marinara. There is no question this gravy may very well be the perfect dressing for these meatballs. Neither thick, nor watery, these beauts are almost buoyant in Adrienne's curiously tangy red gravy.

Without question my relationship with meatballs had all but completely disappeared over the past few years as these age-old treats fell hard from the graces of tradition as attention to detail gave way to fast-food mass production. Still, after a childhood marked by a true appreciation for the homemade meatball, I had all but given on a food my grandmother was able to make so perfectly.

And then came Adrienne's, where on a stage lit vibrantly by a a backdrop of near-perfect, mind-blowing Square Pies, world-shakingly wonderful meatballs do more than hold their own.

Try the meatballs at Adrienne's, and you too can become a believer.

Bite of the Day - 10/14/2008 - Meatball Sub at Crosby Connection

2008-10-14T22:57:00.004-04:00

Those familiar with my views on the sandwich situation in the city (which I began to touch upon when discussing Alidoro a few months back), already know that I seem to struggle to find quality sub sandwiches in Manhattan.

Since then I have had better luck in the sandwich department, be it with Alidoro's crazy tender rolls, and Sullivan Street Bakery's insanely perfect caprese, (more to come on that later), there is a little garage of a place, literally, in Greenwich Village known as the Crosby Connection that serves up quite a mean selectin of hot and cold sandwiches. This time around, I'd like to highlight CC's Meatball Sub.

Though these days, I don't find myself eating many meatball sandwiches, Crosby's definitely the best I've had in a while. Big, giant meatballs, loosely packed and well-seasoned, do a great job of filling out the soft, pliable roll that handles a not-too-heavy-handed helping of red gravy and chards of mozzarella. This puppy is a thing of beauty and a truly admirable exemplar of the classic Meatball Sub, which too many times shows itself as an over-nuked mess of mushy bread, cheese, and gravy that falls apart when you pick it up.

Crosby's stays together without fail, until it reaches your mouth of course.

Go out and get yourself one.

Crosby Connection
(212) 677-8444