Monthly Archives: March 2006

Occasionally, I go completely retarded and go to the same place for lunch ten times in three weeks – only if it’s really, really good, though.  My current obsession is, I’m happy to relate, Alidoro, on Sullivan between Prince and Spring.  Some of you may recall my initial mention in a Quick Bites column a few weeks ago – that blurb didn’t really do the place justice.  I’m not sure I’m the best person to actually do the place justice (one of the friends who introduced my girlfriend and I to the place has consistently offered to guest-review), but let me make the attempt, and hopefully I won’t then be the only one who gets embarrassed because he’s in there like three times a week.

The wall of Italian products, including my favorite cookies (the apple-filled ones – much better than it sounds, trust me) will attempt to distract, as will the movie posters which haven’t quite been wall-mounted yet.  Half the remaining area is taken up by a gelato cart and an espresso machine, neither of which is in use as of this writing.

You’ll have time to look at all this, though, once you’ve perused the extensive menu.  The sandwiches of Alidoro have names, and though the ingredients list isn’t all that diverse, you’ll need time to figure out which of the many combinations tickles your fancy.  I did a poor job of scanning the menu the first time and ended up with the Pinocchio ($10), which is a rather underwhelming combination of prosciutto, sopressata, mozzarella, sweet peppers, and olive pate.

Mind you, that sandwich wasn’t underwhelming because of the ingredients, but rather because the ingredients don’t fit together terribly well (yes, not all sandwiches are created equal – I’m looking at you, Dagwood Bumstead).  At Alidoro, I’ve only liked the olive pate, for example, on a sandwich featuring tuna – the special Capitano sandwich ($10.50) featured on a card taped to the front counter, which features a canned Sicilian tuna that will knock your socks off without using mayo, along with Italian baby onions, arugula, and he afore-mentioned olive pate, mozzarella, and sweet peppers.  The card also offers a version with prosciutto, which I think is totally messed up.

A better context in which to sample the prosciutto is in the Mischa ($9.50), which features that meat with provolone, hot peppers with a good balance of spice to flavor, and the ubiquitous arugula, which is always exceedingly fresh.  Did you know the British call arugula “rocket?”  They’re damn goofy, they are.  Another good introductory sandwich is the Fellini ($9.50), with hot peppers and arugula again, as well as sopressata and mozzarella.  Quite tasty.

I’ve still not cracked into the more exotic possibilities – a semi-soft Italian cheese known as Bel Paese, a caponata of eggplant, artichoke hearts, sun dried tomatoes, smoked mozzarella, salami, and smoked chicken breast await my whims, as well as sardines.  Sardines?  Hmm.

The last decision to make before ordering is between kinds of bread.  I’ve had better luck with two of the breads that cost extra: my favorite remains the semolina ($.50), which is crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, and has a strong flavor to match its outer dusting of sesame seeds.  Others may prefer the sfilatino ($1.50) bread, which is flour-dusted and quite chewy, if not as absorbent.  I’ve not yet tried the focaccia or tramezzino breads ($1 and $1.50, respectively) – the latter is frequently sold out, in fact.

I’m going to make a conscious effort to go to some of my other favorite sandwich places soon, for a little compare-contrast.  It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.  Suggestions are welcomed, either via e-mail or by comment.  For now, I’ll probably be sneaking off to Alidoro in a bit.  I’m an addict, what can I say?

I was up on 54th Street hanging out again last night – not far from 9th Avenue’s multifaceted dining strip, happily.  At 9:15, my buddy stepped away from the Neumann and we stepped out to grab a bite.  After a few recommendations were parried about, we settled on Mee Noodle Shop, on the corner of 9th and 53rd Street.  I’m happy to say that, like the young Warren Sapp, the noodle shop handles itself with more aplomb than you’d expect from a place of its size and standing.

The menu is, by the way, as enormous as the shop is tiny.  There’s got to be at least 100 ways to order noodles in this shop, though neither of us availed ourselves of them.  No, I was feeling less like a noodle and more like a tofu cube, so I opted for the “Special Platter” category (what makes these special, I always wonder to myself) and its “mapo tofu w. meat sauce over rice.”

Now, the experienced Sichuan diner will realize that ordering mapo tofu can be a blow-your-head-off experience.  With this iteration, it was practically the exact opposite – the most danger I was in all evening was from eating tofu that hadn’t quite cooled enough yet.  Indeed, the sauce was admirably bland, with much of the flavor coming from the clusters of ground meat, reminding me more than slightly of a tomato-less Bolognese sauce.  The tofu itself was creamy, if not entirely bursting with the flavor of the sauce, and the rice was, of course, sticky.

My buddy’s mu shu pork was, we agreed, possessed of a pleasing seared flavor, but certainly was not burnt.  The pork itself was in narrow, inch-long strips – though he didn’t eat it in the traditional American-Chinese style (loading the pancake with hoisin and pork), one wouldn’t have a problem with a loaded pancake’s contents falling out with each bite.  The pancake, I should note, was pretty generic, and neither of us tried the hoisin.

When the check came, we had whatever the reverse of sticker shock is – two hungry dudes had just gorged themselves for $12.55.  My tofu was $4.55, incredibly.

I know I often slag places that can’t seem to find their spice rack, but for some reason, Mee Noodle Shop didn’t provoke that reaction in me, even before I realized just how cheap my meal was.  In fact, I’d gladly go back, even though I’m sort of scratching my head as to why.  Mee Noodle Shop – the ultimate in unaccountably pleasing blandness!  I really should go into advertising.

I’m fortunate enough to get linked to by Gawker occasionally – yesterday’s Blogorrhea being the most recent example (two cokeheads and a burger, coming right up!).  A Gawker link is a BIG DEAL to a small site such as this.  Obviously, I get a crapload more hits than usual (about 1,500 yesterday), and a lot of new people reading my reviews.  Unlike when, say, Yahoo! linked to me, most of Gawker’s readers are NYC-based, young, underemployed, and probably seriously embittered about all three.  These are generally the kind of readers I think would enjoy my blog the most anyway, so I’m really happy Jesse and/or Jessica keep featuring me.

You don’t get far on the internet, though, without the ever-popular backlash, and I’m proud to say that my backlash started yesterday, with my first comment-haters.  Actually, they were my first tip that Gawker had linked to me, because I usually figure that most of the people who read my blog on a regular basis actually LIKE it.  At any rate, it warmed my heart, so thanks for the memories.

I thought that couldn’t be beat, but, today, a quick stroll through my Site Meter’s “Referring URL” section (which tells me which website you, the reader, have arrived from) yielded the best-yet piece of hate-age, in article form.  If you don’t feel like reading the whole thing, I’ll summarize: the burgers at Corner B are too lean to be any good, and, because of my high opinion of said burgers, I’m an idiot.

Folks, I’ve truly arrived – the long-form haters have spoken.  I could not possibly be any prouder right now.

(By the way, if you did read the entry and are confused – a good possibility, considering – Ron Popeil is an inventor of products sold on television.  No, I don’t know what the deal is, either.)

My girlfriend puts up with some wackiness from me from time to time – for instance, when we leave the house without a destination in mind, I’m prone to wandering from restaurant to restaurant feeling dissatisfied with the posted menu.  Smith Street is probably the worst offender – wandering from Bergen Street southwards, I can consistently say, is one of the least satisfying potential-meal walks I know of.  Besides the excellent Boerum Hill Food Company, the slightly-expensive Bar Tabac, and the Dominican El Nuevo Cibao, there aren’t a lot of reasonably-priced places that ENTICE.

I can’t be the only one who’s noticed this.  In the past six months, a plethora of closings have occurred: Cholita (allegedly for health violations), Tabouleh, Village 247, and lately, Banania Café have all fallen under the axe.  I’d say that places like Rosemary Restaurant (is that the name?) and Union Smith Café are probably next, because they never seem to have anyone in them.

With Union Smith Café, I can probably see why.  Dining there last night was an experience that I’m not sure I’d repeat, and not just because of the food.  The hostess had a plastic-like fake smile and seemed to speak from between clenched teeth, and the waitress seemed totally nonplussed by our food choices, and seemed moderately insulted when we declined to order any of the $6.50 desserts, which she went out of her way to describe as “delicious,” in a rather strange instance of overselling.  I don’t know, maybe it was a bad night?  Not the way to promote a return visit, though.

Perhaps we should have taken her reticence as a warning, because neither of our pastas exceeded the Olive Garden’s quality level.  My orecchiette with pancetta and peas ($9.50) were swimming in a layering of cream sauce and what seemed like it ought to be pesto, based on the color.  Sadly, there was not enough flavor to determine its actual content.  The tiny chunks of pancetta offered a little fatty smokiness, but not enough.

My girlfriend’s gnocchi ($10.50) also came with two sauces, side-by-side: one red sauce, which I’d swear was canned, and one actually flavorful pesto.  The cloves of garlic we crunched into made us happy, but the soggy-ish gnocchi didn’t.

One perk of dining there on Tuesday – every bottle of wine was 50% off.  We opted for the a half-bottle of French white (sorry, wine fans – I forgot to note what it was, but it was the only half-bottle available), which ran us only $11.  I can see coming here with a big group of wine drinkers, I guess, but if the food’s no good, what’s the difference between drinking the bottles in a restaurant and drinking them at home?  The big table?  The onion focaccia that seemed on the border of stale, with an olive oil/balsamic dip featuring too-old vinegar?  I digress.

I’m kind of sorry I didn’t try the hamburger, because my girlfriend said it had gotten a good mark in someone’s book.  I doubt, though, whether it would have impressed me, having eaten Corner Bistro the night before.  

It’s not often that I feel like standing in line for a meal, and it’s even less often that I feel like standing in a cramped, stinky space for an interminate amount of time while starving.  Just about the only place you’ll ever find me doing so, in fact, is the Corner Bistro, on the corner of West 4th Street and Jane St (at 8th Avenue).

Let’s be frank: the Corner B is a dive bar poorly adapted to restaurant status.  Its atmosphere reminds more of O’Connor’s than Burger Joint, and the place is unlikely to please your neat freak friends.  Add to this the fact that at any normal mealtime (and late into the evening indeed on weekend evenings), you’ll need to wait in a line that can stretch outside – and if you’re not inside, you’ll be scarfing McSorley’s ale (a small-ish mug of which is only $2.50, thankfully) as fast as possible to deal with the complete claustrophobia of the situation, as well as the wait staff, some members of which get surlier as the line gets longer.  Look out for flying elbows and burgers, in other words.

Though it is tempting from a purely logistical standpoint to denigrate the place (translation: if I slag it, will I be able to get a table faster?), I can’t even begin to do so, because the Corner Bistro is, hands down, the best burger I’ve ever been served in a restaurant.  I should disclaim that I haven’t tried every burger in town (P.J. Clarke’s and Peter Luger’s being two strong-but-yet-untested competitors), but the Bistro has thus far slain the legendary Shake Shack, the well-regarded Burger Joint, the less-regarded mini-Burger Joint, the also-miniature burgers of Schnack, Roll N’ Roaster’s old-time fast-food-style sandwich, the faux-Californian Blue 9, the late and lamented McHale’s, the eponymous Goodburger…plus probably dozens of places you’ve never heard of in cities across the nation.  It even bests Sophmoricles’ famous burger recipe, somehow.

Making their status even more impressive, Corner B doesn’t utilize any fancy cooking techniques – they broil the burgers ($5.50) in a continuous process, in an oven that’s not much bigger than something you’d find in a small apartment kitchen.  You want cheese?  It’s added towards the end, and, for a quarter extra, it doesn’t make or break the experience.  My girlfriend loves the Bistro Burger, which adds a couple of slices of bacon to the mix for a few quarters more.  Just stay away from the chili burger, which drowns your perfectly medium-rare patty in, well, needless chili.

The patty itself is a thick, juicy, fall-apart-if-you-put-it-down beast – I’d be very surprised if this meat was ever frozen, and I’m nearly certain the patties are hand-shaped.  Again, I’m continually amazed at the accuracy of cooking temperature – when you order a burger medium-rare, a medium-rare burger emerges from the kitchen.  Same with medium and medium-well, though there’s no telling what might happen if a patron ordered his or her burger well-done (my preference would be to take them out back and shoot them, but I’m a bloody burger partisan at heart).

The condiments, in case you care, are raw onions, tomatoes, pickles, and lettuce – ketchup is left to be applied tableside, but the burger oozes enough liquid without it.  The fries, cut even thinner than Goodburger’s, taste of beef and are probably cooked in beef fat.  No vegetarians need apply, I guess.  The potato-shard-like taste is improved when adulterated with salt or ketchup, I’d say, and two people can probably share a plate ($2.00).

Last night, my girlfriend’s father and sister accompanied us to the Bistro and found the burgers as good as we had promised – no small feat, as North Carolina has its fair share of amazing burger shacks.  Of course, the dinner conversation, in between bites of burger, covered a few more bombastic meals; the yet-unreviewed Uncle Bino’s and its delectable pig’s ear/liver stir fry was surely the most popular topic of conversation.  I’d be happy to take you there this summer, Liz – just say the word.

My roommate is always wierded out by empty restaurants.  Surely, he wonders almost every time I drag him in one, they must be empty for a reason?  I usually respond with some variant of my opinion that people are charlatans, but only after we’ve tasted the food.

This time, he probably breathed a sigh of relief.  Inviting two of our friends to Hadramout, recently reviewed in the Voice, we had arrived early and gone for a drink at the nearby Last Exit.  When they called to tell us of their arrival, they had not made it to the abandoned and subterranean Hadramout, but stopped several doors earlier and one floor higher at the rather more generically-named Yemen Café.

Of course, he wasn’t relieved because of the differing location, but rather because Yemen Café was comparatively jam-packed with families, couples, and groups.  Plenty of folks filtered in and out, as well, for a cup of the excellent Yemeni tea, which tasted like cinnamon and honey, though Pepsi proved to be a more popular drink among those dining in.

Of the dishes served to other tables, I can easily say that the leg of lamb was most popular: I saw shank after shank whisked through the dining room.  We didn’t opt for one (definitely on the next visit), but I did have an admirable rack of baby lamb arrive on the side of my salta.  It wasn’t roasted in your grandmother’s style and served with mint jelly, mind you, but the meat was falling off the bone and flavorful without being skanky.  The salta itself, described as the Yemeni national dish, was a stew of various vegetables and a fenugreek puree whipped to resemble egg whites (“houlbeh”).  Despite arriving in an impressive sizzling metal pan, wowing my friends, I can’t say the stew’s flavor was all that distinctive.

Better was my roommate’s “special Yemeni fateh,” a stew made with diced lamb and day-old pita, coated with an orange gravy.  Indeed, Orange seemed to be the theme color of many of the dishes – one friend ordered gelbah, which was a similarly colored lamb stew arrangement (less gravied than seasoned, though), served with a side of rice.  And our other friend, whose refusal to eat lamb was the source of much slightly hilarious commentary, did well with the entrée-sized appetizer of white kidney beans, served with another orange sauce, this time quite oniony.

The best part of the meal was absolutely the pita bread.  Arriving first with the soup course, and acting as an admirable sop for that savory brown lamb broth, the bread was finished nearly-instantly, only to be replaced by another freshly cooked loaf.  This process was repeated until we couldn’t possibly stomach any more bread, lamb, or anything else.  It’s better bread than Bedouin Tent, for sure, and not just because it doesn’t turn rock-solid after it cools.

Between the soup course and the entrees, we were treated to a salad.  Comprising one chunk of feta cheese, a couple olives, and a salad dressing that resembled the hot sauce served with the soup (which you NEED to use, by the way), it was a nice thought, even if it probably just took more stomach space that could have been used for pita and lamb.

I have no idea whether Hadramout’s stews would be more satisfying, but I’ll be back to Yemen Café for a cup of tea and as much lamb and pita as I can stomach.  

Our trip to the Queen’s Hideaway had been a long time coming.  A first trip during brunch hours proved unsuccessful, due to the fact that brunch is no longer served there (though the proprietors have hinted at resuming brunch at some point).  Second, third, and fourth attempts were stymied by, respectively, closure, closure for renovations, and illness on my part.  Finally, all the stars aligned last night, after the anticipation had built to a probably-unreasonable level – would the Queen’s Hideaway prove worthy of the hype?

Reservations are probably a good idea, but my girlfriend and I managed to waltz in unannounced and score a table, disturbing the owner’s dogs, who had been slumbering underneath it.  We were surprised when a wine list came along with the menu, but BYOB is apparently still available, though the corkage fee isn’t insignificant ($5).  Arriving on our table roughly concurrently were peanuts, boiled with what looked like dried red chiles.  My girlfriend exclaimed her excitement and explained that boiled peanuts are a southern roadside staple.  I’m pretty sure I like the Fenway ballpark peanuts better, but I suppose that’s what the Waffle-House-IHOP line will do for a relationship.

The menu, for the unfamiliar, is written on a daily basis, based on availably fresh ingredients, greenmarket produce, organic, etc.  I mention this not because it’s any guarantee of goodness, but rather to warn that the dish I liked, or that you heard recommended in some other article, probably won’t be available.  It’s probably good if you’re open to new flavor and texture combinations, at least.

Our appetizer, which was a fritter of black eyed peas in a spongy, almost fishy squash batter ($4), quickly tested our open-mindedness.  The included “Hideaway hot sauce” was a bit of a mystery, but the included lemons are absolutely to be squeezed over the batter balls – they make the dish.

For her main, my girlfriend ordered an oyster casserole ($16), which promised to include artichoke hearts, chestnuts, and leeks.  She found it to be good, particularly the oyster parts, but thought that the rest seemed a bit mush-like.  I agree, and I thought it was a rather artichoke-y mush – not being a big fan of said artichoke hearts.  (Old habits die hard.)  Included were two biscuits, on the harder side, which reminded both of us of shortbread in their buttery wonderfulness.  We wanted a bag of them to take home.

I was more impressed with my pulled pork dish ($17) – it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that the proprietor had smoked it herself, and it was served in two amazing crepe-like cornmeal cakes, making these the best dry enchiladas I’ve had, possibly ever.  The bed of plantains and yams were sweet enough without being cooked in maple syrup rum, I think, but you may disagree.

We unfortunately didn’t save room for dessert (I blame having Alidoro for lunch again – those sandwiches are huge!), but the beignets and chocolate-blood orange parfait (called, mysteriously, “fool”) seemed intriguing.

I may well be back to sample the desserts.  Despite being slightly overpriced (I give credit for the home-made factor, like Shopsin’s), the food has the capability of being unique and amazing, though, with only four entrees, you’ve got to make sure everyone’s willing to eat anything.  As for getting there – it still sucks.  Cursed G-train, why do you taunt the hipsters and the Polish people so?

My girlfriend and I skipped a planned outing last night because my eyes were acting up (I get the most ridiculously sensitive watery eyes when I’ve got a cold), so I don’t have anything major to report, I’m afraid.  We did have some good delivery from Pongal, the Michelin-starred Southern Indian restaurant on 1st Avenue and 64th Street – although I find their dosas a bit soggy when delivered, their spicing is impeccable.

Thankfully this wasn’t a stomach flu, so I ended up eating a hell of a lot of Boerum Hill Food Company last weekend – even at my most feverish, I had a craving for the perfectly flavorful/bland chicken in their tacos and enchiladas.  I also had a damn good plate of breakfast nachos there, as well as an excellent Irish lamb stew at Ceol.  I guess the spicy stuff doesn’t appeal as much when you’re unwell?

I had an EXCELLENT sandwich from Alidoro for lunch today that was worthy of note – the Fellini, which consists of sopressata, mozzarella, arugula and hot peppers.  I had it on a semolina baguette, and it was amazing.  Just what the doctor ordered.

Hopefully I’ll have another update or two before the end of the week – at any rate, look for normal post volume to resume next week.  Stay well!

Hey gang,
Sorry for the lack of eats yesterday and (likely) today.  I had to leave work early Friday with the flu, and I’m still recovering.  The good news?  Spring’s just around the corner…my favorite time of year, and a great time to be wandering around in strange neighborhoods.

The Tuck Shop’s menu claims that “waking and baking is our job,” pun very much intended. While my inner stoner respects that existence, and my inner drunkard celebrates its proximity to many favorite watering holes (it’s located on 1st St. between 1st and 2nd Ave.), my inner food critic kind of wishes the pies were a little fresher. That said, if you want a pie with ground beef, the Tuck Shop’s traditional pie ($5) is where it’s at. Spiced nicely and not over-greased, it was far better than the mysterious special “steak and Guinness” pie, which didn’t taste much like Guinness or the advertised horseradish. The sausage roll ($3) was less disappointing; a combination of ground pork and sage easily outpaces the average pizzeria’s rolled offerings. We were offered dessert, but to the proprietor’s great surprise, he was completely out of desserts. That’s what happens when you smoke up with a full refrigerator, pal – take it from one who knows.

My roommate’s birthday party was at O’Connor’s on 5th Avenue (Brooklyn) last week, and my task before getting to the bar was to pick up some kind of quick dinner. O’Connor’s is a little far from the main restaurant area of Park Slope, so I was happy to find City Sub around the corner on Bergen St. (a couple doors down from Melt). More or less like a Subway taken to its logical quality extreme, the menu advertises the use of real Hellmann’s mayonnaise (that’s Best Foods to those of you out west), and the wall boasts of Boar’s Head meats. Most of the sandwiches are between $6 and $7, and they’ll toast the bread (in a charming array of toaster ovens) and nuke the meat and cheese (in a less charming array of microwaves) if you so desire.

At the other end of the sandwich spectrum is Alidoro, at 105 Sullivan St. in Manhattan – a particular favorite and recommendation of some friends of my girlfriend. At the opposite side of the sandwich spectrum from City Sub, Alidoro offers an array of named Italian subs – most of the names, somewhat unsurprisingly, end in vowels. I picked the Pinnochio ($10), which combined prosciutto, sopressata, mozzarella, sweet peppers and olive pate. My girlfriend opted for the Mischa (9.50), which took the same prosciutto and stacked it with provolone, hot peppers, and arugula. Both were excellent. Besides the standard white or wheat bread, three other kinds are available: Semolina (an extra 50 cents), sfilatino (a mini-baguette that costs $1.50 more), and tramezzino ($1.50). According to Google, the word “tramezzino” was made up by the fascists in the 30’s, purportedly to combat the encroachment of the English word “sandwich.” When the guy behind the counter berates the poor girl in the back, resist the urge to compare him to Mussolini.

Finally, if you missed it, this vid is pretty funny, and on topic:
http://www.devilducky.com/media/40841/