An Effing Foodie

Roundup 2009: Soto, West Village, NYC

When Momma Foodie came in last Christmas, I focused in on our Big Production Japanese Splurge, Morimoto. 

But when I asked what her favorite eating experience was, she didn't go with the big dog; she said she liked Soto best, and could we please go back?

Done and done.  Ma Foodie's flight narrowly missed the blizzard; six hours out of coach from Hong Kong, the Family EF were tiptoeing through the quickly accumulating white into the also-white unmarked entrance of Sotohiro Kosugi's namesake, Soto.

It's no secret to regular readers--I tend to favor little restaurants to big, little plates to big, etc.  Even on a blizzard day, the small, spartan spaced slowly filled with smiling eaters who sipped sake and cooed over the beautiful little plates rolling out of the kitchen.

I didn't want to interrupt the mojo of the first fam dinner we'd had in a year with picture-taking, but here are a few stunners that were just too pretty to go undocumented:

Thin-sliced greenling (a bitty, sweet white-fleshed fish) with ponzu.

One-Minute Tai: Barely steamed red snapper with shoyu, ginger oil and scallion.  Like a pitch-perfect bite of steamed Chinese fish.

Super-fatty Scottish Salmon (Sake) Sashimi.

Chutoro (Fatty Tuna) Tartare with Avocado Mousse, American Caviar and Chives: Unctuous melty fish fat with fatty avocado fat and fatty fish roe.  Fattyfattyfat ace in the hole.

Mirugai (Geoduck) Sashimi: Crunchy, sweet and saline, and cut into exploding chrysanthemum clam poofs, to maximize the surface area and texture.  Family EF has eaten lots of giant clam tongue, and we've never came across this approach--a fun one to spring on the sushi-jaded.

Uni (Sea Urchin) over Black Yuba in Dashi: AKA, funky sea cheese a la tofu skin in bonito broth.  Creamy, briny, light and pungent, an unami wonderland.

And many, many other things that I wasn't diligent enough to clicky-click with my point-and-shoot.  We were busy passing, chuckling, teasing, and draining sake, none too eager to tromp back outside.  When there was no more room in our gullets for additional inventive seafood bits, we bundled a sleepy, happy Momma back into her rarely-used poofy coat.

She shook our gracious waiter's hand, and said she'd see him next year.

NYC Wintertime Treats: Shake Shack, the redhead, 2nd Ave Deli (and Random Acts of Hot Toddy)

I'm a crybaby wuss when it comes to the cold, so it tickles me when NY tosses out treats and winter work-arounds for those willing to brave the bluster (and those who've been felled by it).

--> To help ease the bitter, Bolshevikian line for Sports Dogs and 'Shroom Burgers, Shake Shack is meeting its Madison-Square-adjacent burger junkies halfway by offering a winter call-in service: Place your order in advance and they'll give you an exact time to go and pick it up.  Danke, Daddy Meyer!

--> Chances are if you've eaten a homey, rib-sticking Southern meal at the redhead (small caps theirs), you haven't saved room for this little beauty: The Hot Chocolate Car Bomb.  Thick hot chocolate, Guinness and Jameson's topped with a homemade Bailey's marshmallow, this absurdly sexy caloric KO is reason enough to hunker down at the bar before (or after!) the packed dinner rush.

--> Besides bequeathing us with the uber-handy mecha-list of soups, NYMag lets flu-bitten Midtowners in on a handy little tip: The reborn 2nd Ave Deli delivers half-gallon jars of their Chicken in the Pot.  For $24.45 (including the deposit on the jar), you get half a kosher chicken with feather-light matzo balls gently adrift in golden Jewish Penicillin, 6 half-sour pickles, coleslaw, and 4 slices of rye.

--> If chicken soup alone can't clear your head and warm your toes, a hot toddy will probably get you the rest of the way: Saveur and the NYT share some insights, history, and recipes for toasty toddies and their fancier cousins, Tom & Jerrys.

Holiday Gift Guide, 2009: Fancypants Nosh from the BKLYN Larder

I'm an unabashed fan of Franny's, the BKLYN Larder's big-sister venture, so when I got the Larder's newsletter for Christmas goodies, a little involuntary drooling and clapping may-or-may-not have happened.

 

Jasper Farm?

Mast Brothers?  (Going to visit their factory this weekend, stay tuned!)

Neal's Yard Stichelton???

To all who have been sweating presents and are in spitting distance of Park Slope, now's your chance:

• Call them at 718.783.1250 to place your order. (Or visit them in person!)
• They ask that you place your orders by December 20th.
• They are open 7 days a week, plus from 10 AM to 6 PM on Christmas-Eve-Day for to pick up said order.  (They'll thankfully be closed Christmas Day!)

Browse their cornucopia of baskets here.

They're doing catering, too, for all the Christmas cheer with none of the toiling! 

Same rules for ordering apply.  Don't corner or kid yourself--you know if you're too busy to cook!

Holiday Gift Guide Realness, 2009: Boozehounds and Bookworms

For the Boozer-in-the-Know:

I've always been partial to bourbon and Scotch as prezzies and balm, but this year Saveur did a couple of great articles on up-and-coming artisan spirits, namely single-malt Irish whiskeys, and small-batch Reposado mezcals.  Bring their meticulous tasting notes (here for the whiskeys, and here for mezcals) to your local upscale purveyor of booze, and help your friends warm their bones with spirits they're unlikely to have tried before.

For the Hungry New Yawka:

Some folks aren't partial to narrative cookbooks.  Or cussing.  Or pancake profanity.  You shouldn't give these people Kenny Shopsin's memoir/cookbook, aptly titled Eat Me: The Food and Philosophy of Kenny Shopsin (Hardcover, $16.47).  It's a priceless read, with quirky photos, rants, recipes and anecdotes from arguably NY's most feared and respected king of the flat-top. 

Not only does Kenny get into the strategy behind running a 900-item menu with a tiny kitchen, he is ruthlessly personal, sharing all about how his family grew up with Shopin's General Store, allowing us a peek into an insider's Village.  What works about the book is Kenny's conflicted narrative: He loves, loves his life's work, the food he's made, the people he's met--he wants to tell you all about it.  But he's not telling you to come-on-down.  The man is the abrasive (but loving) curator for a 12-seat fiefdom, and he'll cook for who he pleases, when he pleases, thank you.

Not everyone has the guff to face Shopsin and his vetting, but fortunately, all are welcome at Veselka, day or night.  I could go on and on about the justly famous bloody burger, pierogi, stuffed cabbage and borscht--but that would lead me away from shilling their newly released Veselka Cookbook: Recipes and Stories from the Landmark Restaurant in New York's East Village (Hardcover, $18.47 on Amazon). 

Besides teaching us how to make hearty Ukrainian staples for ourselves, it sheds a light on a diner that most drunken Village-rompers take for granted, a 50-year-old venture of an immigrant family that started as a candy store and blossomed into a cultural touchstone.  The cookbook can't replicate the experience of eating blintzes next to off-duty drag queens, but what can, really?

And Your Little Plates, Too: El Quinto Pino, Chelsea, NYC

I've gotten into a couple of lively discussions with friends about the small-plates phenomenon: It's a scam, a fussy, bourgeois conspiracy to leave wallets and bellies empty!

I hear ya.  I've no interest in leaving an establishment hungry and poor.  If you're going to get particular, I have more of a beef with the bare-bones steakhouse-style a la carte trend. ($50 for a steak, and you can't front me some mashed potatoes and creamed spinach?  BLOW.)

But as small plates go, I'll say this: I'm not always interested in engorging myself (snake-shaped EF slowly dissolving a cheeseburger-shaped bump).  Occasionally, it's nice just to get a couple of savory bites and linger over a bottle of wine with someone you haven't talked to in awhile.  When those occasions/cravings arise, I find myself in the neighborhood of El Quinto Pino.

DO NOT go there for dinner, or to celebrate the end of a Master Cleanse.  You'll just get pissy.  If you have babies, knuckledraggers, claustrophobia, or an aversion to tall stools, steer clear.  El Quinto Pino does tapas true to its word--you are here primarily to drink and eat a little something tasty as you do so. 

The staff is sweet and wine-savvy, so let them point you toward the perfect glass of Spanish varietal you've never had before.  Soft-Spoken Feisty Lady and I were happily sipping and surprised when the Fried Salt Cod (Soldaditos de Pavia, $7.50, pictured above) arrived.

I'm not sure what we were expecting, but the ratio was about 1:3 fluffy-fritter to cod, which moist and flaky, not salty at all.  Greaseless and crisp, they were like upscale fish fingers--we'd only wished there'd been a some sherry vinegar to splash on 'em (but then, I'm guessing the idea is that you're supposed to be drinking sherry while eating these).

Also in the piscine parade, some Marinated White Anchovies (Boquerones, $12), also known as God's 'lil toast-toppers:

(Not pictured, plate of crusty bread rounds.)  Clean and briny, they had a bracing vinegar kick and a goodly cloak of peppery, rich Spanish olive oil.  Top, dab, blot.  Repeat.

And then there's the much-loved, previously featured Uni Panini (toasted feather-light ficelle with sea urchin and mustard oil, $15).  If I weren't afraid of dying an impoverished,  mercury-related death, I'd eat one of these every day.

Drinking perchers can't live on fish alone, so please, get some Spanish-Style Cracklins (Torreznos, $6), which amount to freshly deep-fried thick bacon nuggets.  Patience.  Hot fat is delicious and hurtful.

Feel like something sweet?  Sometimes, they have a simple, pleasingly creamy rice pudding, but my favorite closer at El Quinto Pino is the frozen horchata cocktail.

Rainy Date Night in the LES: Clinton St. Bakery & Stuffed Artisan Cannolis

Times have been tight, and it occurred to me that it had been awhile since The Man and I had broken bread that wasn't a leftover reboot or suped-up pantry amalgam.  We popped out of the F train at Delancey St, wellies-grommeted and umbrella-armed, in search of good eats and bearable background noise.

Methinky the rain had scared off the suckers--this is the only time I'd seen Clinton St. Bakery without a cramped line snaking out.  The smiley hostess sat us in a booth by the window, and damp pedestrians looked in longingly as we sipped a giant Bloody Mary and split the soup of the day, beef barley ($6):

"Soup" is a bit of a misnomer--'twas much closer to porridge or risotto, but no complaints here.   Maybe because it was so nasty out, but the soft pearls of barley and tender cubes of beef, carrots and potatoes hit the spot, and the creamy chunks of avocado were a welcome hit of richness and freshness.

Not that starters are necessary at Clinton St.; The Man sprang for the Buttermilk Fried Chicken ($16), which turned out to be half an FN chicken with a mini loaf of jalapeno cornbread, honey, and coleslaw:

We've had crisper, more contiguous skin elsewhere, but the chicken itself couldn't be juicier, and the Tobasco and honey helped to speed The Man's poultry carnage. 

The Man succumbed to siren song of Vidalia Onion Rings (side order, $6):

Lightly sweet and crumbly-crunchy looplets--bits of their crust commingled with fried chicken crumbs in The Man's beard. 

Not that I was a shrinking violet, with my two-handed cheeseburger ($14, with cheddar):

But The Man loves me the way that I am (Read: Dripping beef and caramelized onion juices, BLAUGH).  'Twas more medium than the medium-rare I'd ordered, but with a sprinkle of salt and dabs of ketchup, the burger stars aligned well enough.

And you can't have a Date Night in a bakery without pie...

...warm Apple Lattice a la Mode ($7 sans ice cream, $10 with).  The pie is almost--almost--as good as their pancakes (which are available for dinner, GENIUS!).

We were in desperate need to walk off dinner...where better than in pursuit of breakfast?  Soft-Spoken Feisty Lady and I had tried to stop into Stuffed Artisan Cannolis the week before, only to find them shuttered before their posted closing time.

This time around they were still open, but there was only one lady to attend to a growing multitude of tubular-pastry-seeking-fiends, and a wonky credit card machine.  We managed to snag a box of a dozen mixed minis ($18) and get out of there before the sugar-craving hipsters went feral:

(L to R, top row: Pistachio, Dulce du Leche, 2 Mint Chocolate Chip, 2 Original; Bottom row: 2 Chocolate-Shelled Original, Peanut Butter Cup, Pumpkin Pie, Coco Loco, Cappucino)

'Twill come as no surprise that those with chocolate-covered shells fared best when we'd gotten to them the next day.  The mint-chocolate chip was a hair too minty in a disconcertingly toothpaste-ish way, and the Coco Loco tasted like shag rug suntan lotion, but The Man was really feeling the Peanut Butter Cup, and I favored the plain-with-chocolate-shell sort.

As overwhelmed as she was, the Cannoli Lady offered to fill any of their wares to order, so if you're a real stickler, have them do just that, and eat them on the spot (or call in any combination for an easy pickup).

And for sh*ts-n-giggles, there's also a ginourmous foot-long cannoli available for parties, to be crammed with the ricotta filling of your choosing.  Nothing begins or ends a conversation like 5 pounds of tubed cream.

Happy 10th Anniversary, Prune!

With lovely little neighborhood joints shuttering right and left, it was heartening to hear buzz about Prune's 10 year anniversary and celebratory prix-fixe menus, one for each week for the month of October.

Soft-Spoken Feisty Lady didn't bat an eye when I asked if she was interested in a little anniversary tripe.  The fixed menu would help to clip our ordering pointers and prevent our utter destruction by overeating.

Said prix-fixe are a loving amalgam of things that Gabrielle Hamilton has been offering for years.  Where else but Prune would manti, succotash and pavlova exist so naturally side-by-side?  The rabbit in vinegar sauce was a favorite of Big-Eyed, Curvy Bombshell and Heathie, dearly missed migrated eaters. 

We were a little surprised that the place wasn't choked with like-minded offal-eaters; people gradually trickled in, many of them ordering whole bronzino and other treats from the regular menu. 

(Pictured above: Pink and in the foreground = Italian Greyhound  = grapefruit with vodka and rosemary; caramel in the background = Pimm's Cup = gin, ginger ale, cucumber and lime.)

SSFL and I clinked glasses and fell to the Calf's Brains Fritto Misto. 

No, it's not all brains...just the rounded nubbin at 12 o'clock, golden and crusty on the outside, creamy within.  Think fried oysters, or cream croquettes.  The brain brought fried companions of apple slices and cippolini onions, plus browned butter and capers for dipping and zinging.

It may look small, but it was a pretty rich plate of food, and SSFL and I found ourselves wishing for a lemon wedge or some malt vinegar to help break things up a bit.

Continuing the welcome onslaught of offal, Trippa Milanese with Gremolata, otherwise known as tripe braised in wine and vinegar:

(Spooning up braised tripe and tender vegetables.)

EF: This is...(Making smacking sounds.)

SSFL: ...really light!

It's true...and we be fans of tripe, so it caught us off-guard.  A lot of the time, tripe is treated with strong flavors, seemingly to mask any inherent stomach-y funk (see tripe parmigiana or menudo). 

Gabrielle's tripe was meltingly soft, and infused the whole stew with a gelatinous roundness that was distinctly but not overbearingly meaty, without a lick of funk.  It was like eating an unset bowl of aspic, in a good way--bright, rich, and clear. 

The Bitter Greens salad it came with was a little spartan, but once mixed into the tripe, they rubbed up against the smooth unctuousness of the stew nicely.  

Dessert?  Spot-on.  Anticipating diner fatigue, Prune wisely set before us ethereally light single-servings of Pavlova with Lemon Curd:

Meringue can be a sugary, styrofoam mess, but this baby was light-yet-chewy in the way that lightly caramelized sugar should be, and the portion size, lemon curd and fresh fruit helped to rein in any threat of oversweetness.  Kiwis and Aussies would be proud of this one!

Prune-detractors tend to harp on how little the menu rotates, how small the operation is, or how Hamilton has not chosen to expand her empire.  As I'm bathed in the well-being of well-made bovine naughty bits, good dinner company, cocktail glow, and tea lights reflecting off of clean white walls and polished antique mirrors, I say with perfect faith: Those marketchasing phucktards can screw off.  Don't fix what ain't broken. 

(Raising a glass to ten more years.)

Shoutout: Ryan Skeen's Allen & Delancey, LES, NYC

The youngest Effing BroBro just celebrated the anniversary of his hatching!  Since Baby Bro is a fan of Resto and Irving Mill, the newly rebooted Allen & Delancey with Sir Ryan Skeen at the helm seemed mui appropro for the occasion.

(Being that it was a family outing and that the lighting can only be described as shadow-puppet sexy, I didn't bust my camera out.) 

But if any of you out there were wondering about Skeen's new environs and vittles, rest assured that his latest move is a fortuitous one.  The broodingly-gritty-pretty downtown digs flatter Skeen's familiar and delicious fall menu, and the accomplished cocktail-craft going on at the bar is a cherry on the proverbial organ meat sundae.

We had:

Grilled Lamb Belly with Bibb Lettuce, Curried Almonds, Goat Cheese & Grapefruit: Served miniaturized saam-style, the gaminess of the tender meat and creamy cheese nicely spiked by grapefruit supremes. SOOO tasty.  (Hope they serve these at the bar!)

Shellfish Tagliollini with Cockles, Mussels, Shrimp, Sea Urchin & Bacon (pictured here, scrolling): The pasta ribbons were satisfyingly chewy-but-elastic, bathed in a salty pork/briny-sweet seafood broth that we lapped up like Gentile kittens.

Poached Halibut with Italian Olives, Artichoke Barigoule & Roasted Tomato: Buttery, savory, balanced not only in flavor but texture.  Pescetarians need not fear being shortchanged here.

Roasted Strip Loin with Heirloom Tomato Panzanella & Bone Marrow (pictured here, scrolling): Rock beats scissors, and steak beats fish.  The marrow was merely a helpful boost for a beautiful, charred piece of cow, and the crispy bits of tomato-bread salad were a welcome interjection.  (Volume-geared beefheads be warned--the steak is of the sliced-for-you, portioned variety.)

Chocolate Sponge Cake Creme Brulee: Not my favorite, but brilly idea--a ramkin half-filled with moistened chocolate sponge cake, and topped with creme brulee.  A cake-smuggling dessert device.

Panna Cotta Cake with Strawberries and Blueberries (pictured here): I liked this hybrid a better--'twas a milk cake with a layer of panna cotta on top and fresh berries artfully arranged over all.  So pretty, fresh, tinglingly tart and dairy-touched.  Effing BroBro and I only wished that the dessert chef would consider placing the cake in a milk puddle (a la tres leches cake) so the panna cotta and cake would merge a little more smoothly.

Boiled Critters, and Keeping the Faith: Crab Boil @ Back Forty, East Village, NYC

Food peeps are notoriously predictable in their calendar of coverage--Summer means lots of writing on barbecue, grilling and burgers.  Not JUST burgers...retro burgers!  Nuevo burgers! Retro-nuevo burgers, so that we may justify another year of reinventing burgers!  GAHHH! 

I like drippy burgers and BBQ.  I can chase banh mi and prose-like cocktails with the best of them.  But with blogs and pubs piping out fall trends (what shall we pickle and braise now???) it's hard to work up excitement over food and food coverage of late, and that includes my own.

And then it became obvious...who gives a sh*t??  Procrastination makes fools of us all (okay, ME) and I'm not going to let 'lil things like seasonal propriety keep me from telling you what you should've ate this summer...and can still eat, if you're not too busy trying to chase the newest stupid foodie craze.

Case in point: The Back Forty Crab Boil.  Logic dictates that piles of steaming blue crabs on newspaper go the way of flipflops and white linen past Labor Day...but why?

The Decapod Destroyer (dear friend, employer, and all-round seafood enthusiast) and I had caught wind of the boiled crab bonanza last year, but sadly missed the cutoff date.  This year, we were 2 crazed otters on a mission...which yielded 3 weeks of "sorry, seats are sold out" auto replies.  Cruel, cruel summer. 

Thanks to coverage from NYMag and buzz from last year's crab boil series, it was more challenging to get 2 seats at a communal table of crab slurpers than it was to get a table at FN Babbo or Per Se.

But all was not lost!  Back Forty (run by Peter Hoffman of Savoy) showed rare and admirable traits in the restaurant industry: Compassion, AND response to customer loyalty and demand.

Because I had played the online reservation lottery a few times, the restaurant had my email address; they took it upon themselves to contact me, announcing that in order to accommodate the overwhelming popularity of the crab dinners, they were setting aside 5 days of nothing but all crabs, all the time, with people who had been rejected as the key audience.

How AWESOME is that??? 

This restored my faith in humanity, in hospitality, and that's no overstatement.  After years of building up a thick dining skin in NY, tolerating sub-par entitled service, price gouging, and impossible booking practices, Hoffman reversed the tide with something simple, distinct, and priceless: You want crab.  We want to serve you crab.  So come and let us serve you crab.

And serve crab they will, every Tuesday until the end of the month, September 29th.  To book a table, please visit Back Forty's site for the rundown on the crab rezzy procedure. 

halfsteak @ craftsteak, Meatpacking District, NYC

I've never been any kind of fiscal shape to be eating at Tom Colicchio's craft or craftsteak, so when I caught wind of halfsteak (all lack of caps theirs) and their recession-friendly comfort-menu concept, I figured it was a good way to wade past my repeated positive experiences at 'wichcraft.

When The Man and I walked into halfsteak, Dos Mattys were busy charming the lovely crustacean-dismantling young lady manning the adjacent raw bar, as Mattys are wont to do.

We settled into the clean, modern lounge-ish area allocated to halfsteak, prattled, told inappropriate stories, and crafted an ordering strategy (again, as Mattys are wont to do).

We're not the kind of people who can say no to chicken liver mousse ($6), and nor should you be when it's this earthy-schmaltzy slathery-savory. 

My beef: The cheekily faux-rustic mason-jar presentation made the mousse hard to get at, and the teeny brioche toast points (too pathetic to be pictured) were too fay to be borne.  

Toast is cheap.  If you're selling us upscale-satisfying, toss toast points around with abandon, dammit.  Strike one.

Luckily, gorgeous (complimentary!) Parker House Rolls filled the mousse-to-face delivery void nicely:

Score one!

The interplay of the 2 aforementioned items pretty well sums up the minus-one, plus-one dynamic of this meal.  As soon as you were about to clap down your silverware for good, some kind of saving grace would swoop in and temper your out-and-out frustration.

In the category of "Good-to-Meh but Twee" (all $6.50):

 

I think these were billed as "Corn and Crab Fritters": Warm, crunchy, strangely absent of crab.  AKA hush puppies.  'Twould be a better choice if you were perched at a bar and you were looking to pass the time.  By yourself.

Item #2 for "Good-to-Meh but Twee": Smoked Chicken Wings with White BBQ Sauce.

 

The Man and Dos Mattys were into the smoky notes and the richness imparted by the mysterious "white BBQ sauce".  To me, they were tiny chicken wings covered in mayo.  I mean, teeny.  Like the kitchen was breaking down baby poulet or cornish game hens and tossed these underdeveloped birdie arm bits into a pile.  MEH.

Item #3 for "Good-to-Meh but Twee": Fried Oysters with Summer-Afflicted Slaw (wording mine, cannot remember the menu's slaw schtick):

 

Pretty, no?  But guess what!  SO.  SMALL.  Think of cornmealed Kumamotos.  Taste-wise, these elicited a table-wide shoulder shrug...and we be fans of most bivalves, raw, fried or otherwise.  Sadness.

But not all was lost, sports fans!  The two salads ordered ($8 each) were dressed with a light hand, and registered favorably with all four of us.

The Romaine with Truffled Pecorino and Creamy Garlic was a shining example of all a good caesar-like salad could be: Crisp, salty, unami-rich-yet-fresh.

The Baby Greens with Roasted Beets and Sherry Vinegar were a great foil to the romaine, pulling its weight on the sweet-tart-refreshing side of the salad spectrum.

Repeated beef: Like the toast, romaine and mesclun are subpennies in the kitchen stratosphere.  Adding another handful to each salad won't hurt your bottom line, and will keep your guests feeling less wary.  Just sayin'.

The Man seemed to really enjoy his Bacon and Soft-Shell Crab 'Po Boy ($12):

...all a-burstin' with deep fried critter!

Spicy Matty wanted to be in love with his Lamb Ribs with Cucumber Raita ($9.50):

 

...but alas, not even a big-hearted guy like Spicy Matty could use the word love on these spice-crusted babies.  They were plenty tender and seasoned, but for all that was going on, they just tasted...flat.

Luckily, we were able to buffer Spicy Matty's disappointment with lovely bits of steak.  Mild Matty and myself were impressed with halfsteak signature dish, The Half-Steak Frites ($14.50):

 

Ain't she a burnished beaut'?  Stippled with the requisite fat and minerally juiciness, you'd be hard-pressed to find another steak of this quality at this price.  Bulk-steak eaters may be wincing at the mention of a half a steak, but if you're a first-course grazer that requires dessert (like moi), the 6-ounce portion of aged strip steak and fries is just right.