An Effing Foodie

Happiest of Happy Hours: Sweet Maine Shrimp at Savoy, SoHo, NYC

Last Sunday was pretty wretched for wandering--The Man and I could only be grateful that it was rain and not snow whipping around us as we navigated to Prince and Crosby.

Savoy has always held a special place in my bosom; the true-blue fireplace, the warm lighting and blond wood glow, the U-shaped bar with its slate slab of Saxelby cheeses and terrifying bar stools that invite you to lean back and crack your head open. 

Snug and low-key, Peter Hoffman's Savoy was far, far ahead of Greenmarket and localvore fetishism, and she (yep, I made the restaurant a she) carries herself as lady always-in-the-know should--with understated elegance, confidence, and natural charm.

On this sodden Sunday, Savoy never looked more inviting.  The Man and I found ourselves just in time for Happy Hour, wherein certain cocktails are $8, special wines $6, and an array of bar snacks are $4-10, like deviled eggs with sumac and chili-lime chicharrónes.

Our favorite tipples were the Pimm's Pear ($8, spiced pear infusion, lemon, Pimm's #1, poire william) and the Jack Rose ($12, pomegranate, applejack, lemon); fruity without being cloying, bracing and sunny.  If you're feeling strong, they have a mighty, mighty Harvest Manhattan ($12), a classic whiskey warmer scented with pumpkin liqueur and maple.

I'd remembered an item in the NYT mentioning that this year's Maine shrimp harvest was particularly bountiful, and barely smothered a squeal when I saw said shrimp on the Bar Snacks menu.

These critters are not the cocktail super-size-me variety; they're wee, super-seasonal, sweet, and pink even before cooking.  I've had them mounded nigiri-style in sushi bars before, but never cooked.

I may or may not have made touchdown arms when the shrimp arrived ($8, with a creamy-not-pushy heirloom citrus tartar):

HEADS ON!  YEAAAAH!  It's goooood! 

(Click the piccie for enlarged, full-power stare-back shrimp effect.)

Deep-fried with shells and noggins intact may be strange to newbies, but it's hands-down my favorite kind of fried shrimp (think salt-pepper shrimp in Cantonese restaurants).  The shells become the oceanic equivalent of potato chips, sealing in the briny brilliance of the sweet shrimp.

Some may be inclined to peel these babies, discard the heads, or suck said heads and consider the job done.  Not me (or The Man, for that matter); we gobbled them down from tip to tail, and enjoyed every tomalley-rich, crispy sea-candy bit.

Like all good things, Maine shrimp are fleeting, so cross your fingers and go on down to Savoy for a welcome reminder that winter isn't all turnips and pigs feet.

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 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.

Day-Trippin': Peekskill Brewery and Restaurant, Peekskill, New York

Update, 10/12/09: In case you're curious about the sit-down restaurant, the NY Times posted a review a day after this post.

A dear friend of mine shared a great flick called The Station Agent--it's one of those quiet films that brims with understated human quirks, tenderness, humor, and a good dose of unassuming beauty. 

I won't get into plot synopsis or anything, but much of the film was shot in a tiny non-town called Newfoundland, NJ, and watching the characters follow train tracks and dip their ankles in lakes sparked a hippie wanderlust in me. 

So it was a happy coinkydink that I found myself in Peekskill, NY, not a week later.  Peekskill-proper leaves something to be desired, but the train station for this town is right on the bank of the Hudson, with a perfect-sunset-park on the river-side of the tracks...

...and the Peekskill Brewery just on the other side.  The intrepid Pour Some Sugar On Me had caught wind of this lil gem, and a homegrown pub is a better excuse than most to take a long Hudson drive on a bright, pretty day.

Like Daddy-O or the now-defunct Little D's Eatery (sob), Peekskill Brewery is a neighborhood haunt that makes you wonder why your own neighborhood isn't so lucky.  Some of the food invokes upscale-pub (burgers, pulled pork, wings, fish-n-chips), but some tilts toward bistro/ international drinking food (croque monsieur, steamed mussels, herb-roasted chicken).

The common thread in the spread?  As the name implies, Peekskill Brewery prides itself on beer-nerdery, and all the food (whether in the restaurant wing or in the pub) is geared toward pairing with their rainbow of yeasty bubbles, including 3 of their own custom draughts and beer-babies like Ommegang and Smuttynose. 

Let's face it, most bars (particularly beer-geared ones, however fancypants their aspirations) aren't places you want to be in until after dark, if only to avoid sunlight vertigo.  Not so here.  Peekskill Brewery is the daywalker of its kind--given the choice, I'd rather while away an afternoon than an evening here, soaking up the sunshine, suds, and gracious staff.

PSSOM and I planted ourselves in the short end of the L-shaped bar, to better soak up the rays through sparkling clean windows and read the chalkboard specials menu. Fried oysters for $8??? Yes, please!

Fried oysters are hit-or-miss with me (I was born to slurp), but these were textbook classics on how frizzled bivavles should be--crisp but not greasy, custardy and bustingly briny within.  And at half the price for subpar gussied-up lies in the city.  More.  MOOOOORE.

The Brewery Sliders were similarly juicy (4 for $12) and way tastier than their hot-dog-bun appearance might imply. (Martin's Potato Rolls, please?):

But as I learned on a later visit to The Man, the Sliders pale in miniaturized comparison to the 8-oz. Brew Burger ($9, $10 with cheese, birds-eye view pictured above):

Beefy, dripping, packed just right (neither cemented meatloaf nor fall-apart) cooked to temperature (medium-rare) she could have used a little more salt, but otherwise, this IS HOW EVERY BAR BURGER SHOULD BE.  Under $10, and a handful of multicolored drooling satisfaction.

Other prime sandwich options: PSSOM and I couldn't pass up the Croque Madame ($11), a hot mess of a ham-n-cheese covered in bechamel and a fried egg. 

Yup, we be wretched, gluttonous creatures...but look at her.  That's an oozy pile of primordial dairy love.  Pass the Tabasco.

Old Dogs, New Fish, and Cocktails on the Down-Low: Crif Dogs, Jimmy's No. 43, PDT (East Village, NYC)

When it's a sunny-but-not-TOO-sunny day in New York, it's hard to imagine voluntarily drinking in a bar that's dark before sundown.  But one late afternoon, Soft-Spoken Feisty Lady and I found ourselves traversing the basement stairs to the subterranean gloom of Jimmy's No. 43 for two good reasons:

1. Happy Hour Draft Specials (Daily, Noon - 6 PM), $4 American Microbrew Pints
2. New Catch Holland Herring from Russ & Daughters

There was a ton of press about these seasonal piscine visitors from the E.U.; worthy of festivals in their native Holland, herring are a definitive cornerstone of the Dutch diet, as readily available a street food as hot dogs are in NY.  New herring--the first catch of the spring--are especially cherished, eaten spanking-fresh and unadorned.

I'd just finished off a book about regional Dutch food and quirky herring eating procedures (AKA haringhappen), so I was eager to put all those diagrams of smiling, fish-gulping Dutch folk to good use.

C'mon.  There's nothing more appealing than a couple of chicks tossing back herring and beer like so much drunken, back-talking sea lion.

We went with one order of the "traditional-style" New Holland Herring ($7):

 

...which quickly became two orders (and would have multiplied to 3 had good graces and budget not intervened).  SSFL and I had no problem polishing ours off: Tilt your trap back, lower the fish into said trap by the tail, chew, order more.

Garnished minimally with chopped onion, these lightly cured fish were fatty, tender, and redolent of the sea--like giant, high-grade anchovies. 

Dutch Delight mentions that the new herring aren't raw "in the strictest sense": On the herring ships, they are immediately gutted, salted, and frozen.  So basically you've got curing and quick-freeze to buffer you against any narsty Baltic-borne parasites.

We also got the training-wheels version of the Holland Herring, perched atop ricotta and toast ($7):

Pretty, but we both felt the delivery mode sublimated the briny goodness of the herring.  Go hard or go home.

Woman cannot (afford to) survive on herring alone, so we gave into an order of Fraegola with Sugar Snap Peas, Mint, and Pecorino ($12?):

Simple, verdant, and definitely replicable in a home kitchen--I'd add a poached egg, but I tend to think everything needs an egg on top.  I wanted to think the mint helped us from walking out reeking entirely of fish and onions.

It may have still been light out when we emerged from Jimmy's, feeling happy and suitably appetized...but not full.  So we went in pursuit of vaguely less seasonal, basement-based prey:

That's a Spicy Redneck ($4.75), with a small (???) side of tater tots ($2.50), a la Crif Dawgs.

Spicy Redneck = Deep-Fried Hot Dog (Wrapped in Bacon) + Chili + Chopped Jalapenos + Cole Slaw

No worries, I've made peace with my maker.

Bring Me...The Plate: Daddy-O, West Village, NYC

Tripping on a good bar is one of the things I love best about NYC.  Granted, I was guided here by a roving group of revelers almost a year ago, but every time I've found myself in the neighborhood, this little place was just packed.

Daddy-O is a happy conglomeration of 3 things you almost NEVER see together in a Manhattan Bar anymore:

1. A long list of cocktails that are well-made and balanced, but not priced to the point where you'd have to call the barkeep a "mixologist".  Cheers!
2. A short menu packed with reasonably priced barfood that's tasty, filling, and skirts the line between gritty and precious.  It's a cheeky kinda greasy that's easy to love, and the kitchen is wide open until 4 AM.
3. A lit wall PACKED with brown liquor: If you're a whiskey whisperer, this little corner bar has got your back.  Aforementioned cocktails include commendable quaffables that embrace bourbon, scotch, and dark rum.

Soft-Spoken Feisty Lady and I wandered in around dinnertime on a Friday evening, during a rare, blessed lull, so our experience with the service is probably not what you're going to typically encounter.  Go early, or on an off-day, and you can expect a steady stream of libations and eats from laid-back-yet-attentive servers.

I've only heard about the legendary Garbage Plate of Rochester, but being that it shares the same basic dish-DNA as a plate lunch, it's a reference I've carried near my heart, and is on the list of roadfood goals (along with the original buffalo wings from Anchor Bar).

So when I glanced on an item called "The Plate" on Daddy-O's short menu, my Spidey-senses tingled.  We were in the presence of a homage to the Garbage Plate!  Granted, SSFL and I were supposed to be on our way elsewhere for dinner...

...but the power of The Plate could not be denied.

Stuff It, Stockings: Emergency Effing Presents!

Tick-tock!  By now, friends/drinking buddies/loose acquaintances/clients/distant relatives have made their way out of the woodwork to pounce on your unsuspecting, holiday-bewildered self, and good 'ol standards and practices dictates that they must each get a well-thought-out bauble...or bottle. 

So, here's a list to ease the effing way!

For the sweet folk:

Bee Raw Honeys: Unpasteurized, single-variety honeys that will make you grateful for myopic, monogamous bees.  Try the frosting-like, buttery Sweet Yellow Clover or Star Thistle on toast (or better yet, biscuits!), the rich-n-tangy Wild Raspberry drizzled on blue cheese, or the darkly funky Buckwheat in your gingerbread or oatmeal.

Can't choose/commit/decide? No worries, for those who've been VERY good, they offer varietal variety packs! 

Need sweets more pimpin', less hippy? Yarra Valley Truffle Honey is a half-step from liquid gold, making it ridiculously easy to look like a cheese plate genius. 

(If you're in NYC, Murray's carries both Bee Raw and Yarra Valley honeys--the selection varies, but I've seen Bee Raw at Dean & Deluca, Whole Foods, and the Food Emporium as well!)

For the cheese nerds and otherwise cheese-curious:

Invite a friend out for a night of queso-based bonding with Murray's cheese classes (with an emphasis the booze-oriented ones); you can brush up on the basics, learn a thing or two about bourbon pairings (like the one I went to!) or expand your knowledge of all things stinky.

(By the by...I am currently not and have never worked for Murray's...all this super-schillin' merely demonstrates how pathetically dependent I am on them for tokens of good tidings and moments of personal indulgence.)

For those in need of a more potent yuletide fix:

Compass Box Whiskey: Sorry kids, these are not single-malt, but vatted malt (i.e., blended) Scotch whiskeys--don't let the lack of trendiness deter you, though.  The Peat Monster is a great find for all the gruffed-voiced loves in your life; the almost floral Hedonism and Asyla will help to ease the Scotch-uninitiated; and winter nights are that much cozier with Orangerie and a square or two of dark chocolate. 

Four Roses: No need to cross an ocean for solid brown booze--described as a "high-rye" bourbon, Four Roses has a spicy, fruity complexity that was practically made for spiking eggnog and dipping Grandpa's dentures.

Cabrito's Aptly Pegged Happy Hour!

Over La Weekend, I heard some wonderful news from a lovely bird!

Remember Cabrito?  The little corner of Mexican contentment on Carmine?

Well, now's the time to go, folks! More specifically, Monday through Friday, between 4 PM and 7 PM, whence they are offering:

A PBR with any taco at $8:

 

Top, Chorizo Taco, Beer-Battered Fish Taco; Bottom, Lengua (Tongue) Taco

Famous Frijoles Puercos (That's beans larded with housemade chorizo, people! YOU NEED IT!), $4:

Additional incentives:

• Jalapeño Rellenos (stuffed with red snapper, raisins, peptitas (pumpkin seeds) & capers), $2
• PBR & Well Shot, $7
• Hornitos Plata Margaritas, Single $7, Pitchers $40

So the next time you're wandering Bleeker, tilt westward for a happy, boozy surprise...you've earned it!  There's no reason it can't be warmer weather in your gullet.

Tall-Table Noshing: Vintage Irving, Union Square, NYC

Most of the time, I'm not an eater with a plan.  Given the choice, I'd much rather wander with a fellow intrepid noshmonkey and a craving than adhere to a predetermined gustatory destination.

Luckily, Soft-Spoken Feisty Lady (SSFL) shares this disposition, and demonstrates great patience as we comb through blocks of window-mounted menus for our next meal.

Even luckier are the days where we don't have to meander far at all!  Mere steps from being spit up from the subway, we stumbled on a spiffy-new yet unassuming space, offering much in the way of wine, thought-out cocktails and small plates: Vintage Irving.

I hadn't heard much about it, apart from the fact that they tout absinthe cocktails, but the cheese offerings, an uber-nerdy wine/beer list (that includes a glossary of terms for pairing), and super-sweet gentleman host pretty much sealed the deal.

SSFL and I planted ourselves at the tall-stooled communal tables, and contemplated booze.

"One of us should get an absinthe cocktail."

<Hesitation.> "Yeah...Do you like Pernod?"

"Nope."

"Neither do I."

So we dodged the Green Fairy, and settled with rose and a dirty martini instead--SSFL's martini came equipped with a "dirty" ice cube of olive brine.

(Um, I thought salted water doesn't freeze.  Did Mr. Wizard lead me astray???)

As I sipped my wine and worked my way through the descriptive, text-heavy menu, I noticed a chemical, burning smell.

And realized that I'd lit the back of the plastic-covered menu with a tea light.

Such are the hazards of short, klutzy folk breaking bread at tall tables.