If all goes well, I should be in Lisbon, Portugal right now. Ensconced in a lovely apartment in the Baixa District, I'll be here for two weeks of work and merriment. Needless to say, I look forward to sipping glasses of fine Port, listening to the strains of Fado, and enjoying one too many Pasteis de Nata (aka Portuguese Egg Custard Tarts).
I had very low expectations when I headed into the new DeKalb Market Hall. It tries to offer something everybody. Artisanal donuts? Check! Italian heroes? Check! Shanghai street food? Check! Gourmet grilled cheese? Check! Polish pierogi? Check! Pit barbecue? Check! Lower East Side-pedigreed pickles? Check!
Not a good sign.
And, since hipsters like shiny nostalgic things, the hall sports more than its fair share of faux-vintage neon signs.
Also not a good sign.
That said, it also lays claim to an outpost of a legendary New York deli...
Dare I hold out hope? I brought my pal Brooklyn Fit Chick along for the grazing to make sure that more than one palate - and plate - was put to the test.
Biting into a Grilled Beef Bahn Mi from Bunker, it seemed like DeKalb was going to be failing that test...
To put it kindly, the sandwich was insipid. I don't know how it's possible to create a lackluster Bahn Mi with the inclusion of Vietnamese pickled vegetables and jalapeno peppers, but somehow it was done.
We consoled ourselves with a pickle from Guss' and took several turns around the place to see if there was another stall worth a go. After much debate, we settled on two.
First up was BK Jani for authentic Pakistani fare. We ordered the spicy Seekh Kebab platter, complete with crisp Roti bread, a mild cucumber salad, and sweet roasted red peppers...
Then we tucked into Turkish food with a Berlin twist from Kotti Berliner Doner Kebab, greedily plunging our forks into their namesake Kotti Chicken Salad, drizzled with Harissa-style chili sauce and herb-garlic yogurt...
These delectable plates filled our tummies and restored our faith. I'll definitely be back for more.
Repeat after me: "Hall-elujah!"
Despite its humble 1950's and 60's beginnings and central focus on commonplace iceberg lettuce, the Wedge Salad is embraced by today's chefs as a stalwart starter. And, there is good reason why. It's delicious.
The salad pictured above is from Sugarcane Raw Bar & Grill in Brooklyn. Its crisp iceberg crunch was perfectly off-set by soft blue cheese, gorgeously caramelized bacon, a scattering of tomatoes and chive, and a hint of sherry vinegar. Paper thin slices of red onion and radishes adorned the plate for good measure. We're talking old-fashioned comfort food, presented with contemporary panache and full-on flavor.
The last Wedge Salad I presented in my home was a New Orleans riff on the classic, featuring a Champagne Vinegar-Shallot Vinaigrette and Shrimp Remoulade. It was undeniably yummy, but now I have a hankering to make the real deal for my next soiree.
Blue cheese and bacon? How could I go wrong? Well, gloppy, overly sweet Blue Cheese Dressing could spell disaster. Same goes if you use a blue cheese that is too aggressive.
Happily, if I do go in the traditional Wedge Salad direction, I have a family recipe for Blue Cheese Dressing at-the-ready. Give it a try. My aunt knew what she was doing when she came up with this one...
Aunt Jo's Blue Cheese Dressing
8oz Danish blue cheese
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 cup sour cream
1 cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon country-style Dijon mustard
Soften blue cheese for a half-hour. Add vinegar and mash with a fork to combine. Sprinkle over the onion and garlic powders and the pepper, mashing the seasonings in lightly.
In a separate bowl, combine sour cream, mayo, and mustard. Add cheese mixture into the bowl and combine. Refrigerate for at least 3 hours before serving to let flavors meld.
I'm about to embark upon my annual 24-hour fast in the name of Yom Kippur and its blow-out-sale on penitence and redemption.
I have most certainly sinned over the course of the last year. This is a necessary Yom.
But there is only one major sin in the culinary realm that I can think off -- mad kitchen skills envy. The object of my jealousy is my pal Nick and his gift when it comes to making pasta.
Just take a look at the glorious squid ink fettuccine he made. In its raw form, it looks like a Jackson Pollack. Don't you agree?
Well, it wasn't just beautiful. It was delicious too. Here it is served up with a coconut milk-rich Thai curry...
Notice the crustaceans to ensure that this was full-fledged sin for a nice Jewish gal from "Lawn Giland."
Sin is so darn tasty!
And, with that timely confession, I'm off to have my "final meal" before the holiday begins.
Change the "u" to an "e" in this post's title and I might be talking about the latest indie film starring Ben Stiller. Instead, I'm going to talk about a gaping hole in my life.
That hole is better known as my stomach -- a stomach which has gotten used to reveling in carnivorous carne delights during my August stay in Buenos Aires. Instead of visiting Argentina this summer, I spent the last two weeks of the month in San Francisco, where Kombucha was celebrated on every street corner.
My tastebuds and stomach did not like.
So, when a friend of a friend started waxing poetically about the city's many fine burgers, my ears perked up considerably. Thankfully, one stop -- Black Sands Brewery -- was literally right smack dab around the corner from the apartment where I was staying in Lower Haight. Their hamburger had been described to me as "a classed up In-N-Out." That description wasn't praise enough, as this was a specimen of beefy beauty. Pictured above, I'm sure you can see where the In-N-Out comparison isn't totally off-base, but one bite into this juicy double-patty, special sauce-laden lovely and you know that the ingredients are what bring this baby together. It's got gooey melted American cheese and shredded iceberg, which I recognize as a middling ingredients at best, but the quality of the meat in the smashed patties really shines through and the oozing and tang of the processed cheese and crunch of the cool lettuce just plain worked. This burger was "stellar" to say the least.
Another nearby hamburger fix was had at a popular burger and barbeque joint called 4505 Burgers & BBQ. Meat they had aplenty. I almost succumbed to the day's special of whole smoked hog, but I was on a burger quest, so a cheeseburger was had. This was a one quarter pound grass fed beef patty with leaves of iceberg, thin slices of onion, Gruyere cheese, and a couple slices of bacon on a griddled bun. It was good. Very good in fact. It was potentially made better by the seating situation, dining on picnic benches near the kitchen while sipping an ice cold IPA. Still, I'm giving it a "very good."
The last burger on my tour of the city, led me to the chainstore cluttered streets of the Marina on a day that topped 100 degrees. Despite the record-setting temperature, talk of Causwells' Americana Burger -- accompanied by a mound of frizzled onions -- was like a siren's call. The fact that the restaurant didn't have A/C (unsurprising for a city that rarely breaks 68 in August) didn't deter. And biting into its two meaty patties, grease dribbling down my chin, I was glad I'd braved the sweltering heat. That said, I do think it is the addition of the thin, crisp, fried onions, which I piled on top, that put this burger into "mighty fine" territory. Without them, I'm not sure the burger would have seemed so special.
These three burgers didn't quite make up for the summer's lack of Argentinian beef slathered in Chimichurri, but they most certainly took the edge off. And, I'm sure they did my arteries some good too! (Cue Ben Stiller coming in to hand me a glass of Kombucha.)
You see a sign like this on the side of a mountain and you're pulling into the parking lot. That's the long and the short of it.
The mountain in question was simply part of the "foothills" heading towards the Rocky Mountain National Park, but I was impressed by the scenery nonetheless. I was equally impressed by Colorado's cherry abundance. For a cherry fan, the Colorado Cherry Company in Lyons was a tart, sweet, bright red slice of heaven. And, yes, Cherry Pie was on hand, as was Cherry Butter, Cherry Jam, Cherry Chipotle Hot Sauce, and much much more. But, it was the juice that called to me...
I juiced my way through the Rockies, going all in on the Tart Red Cherry Juice. Can't call it a "juice cleanse" per se, but it was fine sipping accompanied by extremely fine scenery. And, since the Colorado Cherry Company ships, you might be seeing some Cherry Juice cocktail experimentation in Brooklyn quite soon.
Humidity that you can cut with a knife. Temperatures hovering around 90 degrees fahrenheit. No air conditioning. A steaming hot bowl of soup.
Doesn't sound like a combination that would illicit pleasure. But, pleasure was had.
My "in-the-know" food-riffic friend Peter led the way. It was a hot sticky summer evening and the man had a bowl of ramen on the brain. In specific, he couldn't stop raving about a new spot called Za-Ya Ramen at the far end of Court Street in the netherworld between Carroll Gardens, the Gowanus Expressway, and Red Hook. We had to go.
The place is barebones, but clean within an inch of its life. No A/C, so heat from the day and the open kitchen permeated the room.
Sweat aside, I soon felt transported by a small bowl of Zuke-don, ruby red raw tuna, served with sweet onions, scallions, and soy dressing on bed of warm rice. Delicate and rich all at once. Then we tucked into a plate of Chicken Karaage, perfectly crisp pieces of boneless fried chicken with spicy mayo for dipping.
Then came the big bowls, mine brimming with a vegetable broth so intense that it was creamy and packed with umami. It was served with sweet corn, shiitake mushrooms, scallions, cucumber, lotus root chips, and a soft-boiled egg for good measure. And then there were the noodles, delectable noodles with a bit of give and chew. I wanted the slurping to go on forever.
Do I wish that Za-Ya Ramen had air-conditioning? Yes. But, that won't stop me from slurping up more of their genius ramen before autumn arrives. It's so worth it.
Did you think I got my fill of Indian cuisine in India? Hell to the no!
Luckily for me, one of my clients is located in the middle of Manhattan's Curry Hill, allowing for easy access to top-notch Indian eats without the 20 hour flight. One of my fave menu picks? A lunchtime thali. What's "thali" you ask? Why it's a platter with numerous tastes of several different dishes - a prix fixe of sorts. You could even liken it to an Indian pu pu platter - or to my mind, the happiest of Happy Meals.
No decisions to be made. A wide array of flavors and textures. Well-priced. All in all, a winner lunch.
Still need to be convinced? Take a look at the thali above, from Pippali on East 27th Street.
I just can't imagine any all-you-can-eat Indian buffet being as soul satisfying. To be sure, it is a feast for the stomach. But, it is also a feast for the eyes.
Let me know if you're game to try one. If so, I'm all in on a thali lunch date!
It's taken a while for me to write a proper post about my all-time favorite neighborhood Italian go-to. Why? My excuse has always been that I can never get a good photo of the food at dinner. Just too dark. But really, I might just have wanted to keep the place to myself.
Well, the latter has been shot to hell. A lot of people are "in the know" about Brooklyn Heights' Noodle Pudding. That's right: Noodle Pudding. Horrible name for an Italian restaurant - a direct translation of owner Tony Migliaccio's last name. But, oh, what a fantastic neighborhood spot! So good that people line up to wait for a table, despite its cash-only policy and low-key vibe.
Everything is fresh. Seriously fresh.
Vinnie's Montauk Bass on the menu? It was likely brought into the restaurant by Vinnie that morning, still flapping its gils.
The Tagliata, a dish of sliced "fresh meat" prime rib with rock salt and rosemary, accompanied by super crispy potatoes and thin green beans, is a carnivore's dream come true.
And, the pastas? Just take a gander of the snapshot above. Homemade Garganelli, served Cacio e Pepe-style with farm-fresh asparagus and a bright yellow egg yolk. The risottos are equally gorgeous.
Dessert isn't an afterthought either, with solid classics like Tiramisu at-the-ready. Still, I'm often content with a few slices of sweet watermelon from the kitchen. And, if nothing sweet from the kitchen appeals that evening, there is nothing wrong with an espresso and shot of Sambuca to finish off a classic Italian meal in the County of Kings.
But, to be clear, I have yet to be disappointed by anything that comes out of Tony's kitchen. Noodle Pudding's menu is ever-changing based on what's best at the market that day - and that unwavering commitment to quality is evident on the plate.
What doesn't change at Noodle Pudding, for the most part, is the staff. Tony keeps very good people. Great people. People I like to see behind the bar and table-side on a regular basis.
Oh, and he keeps a bevy of regular customers too. So, regular, that he put small brass plaques on the bar to mark out a couple of regulars' territory. (I know your next question. I'm there often, but I don't warrant a plaque!)
There. I did it. I wrote a post about Noodle Pudding. Don't think it'll land me plaque-qualifying status, but as long as I still can get a seat once in a while, I'll be just fine.
Death reached my doorstep last week. My refrigerator died in an untimely fashion in the height of summer.
Aargh!
You don't know how good you have it until it's gone. And, my fridge and freezer was most certainly a goner. Hundreds of dollars of food needed to be tossed.
It was a sad day in my kitchen.
But, there was little time to mourn. As we all well-know from "The Lion King," the circle of life persists. A new refrigerator would be had.
I sought counsel from Consumer Reports and then placed an order for a LG French door unit that arrived late Friday. And, as the delivery team gently put the new refrigerator into place, I had an epiphany.
I had failed my previous fridge. It was a warhorse in my home, and yet I hadn't given it the love and admiration it deserved.
Things had been so different with another major kitchen appliance: my trusty dishwasher. Within moments of it entering my home, I was besotted and immediately decided that a name was called for. What name? Sven. Seriously. I like thinking that Sven is my buff manservant, at-the-ready, with dish cleaning expertise. Five course dinner party for six? Clean-up isn't a worry. "Make it all clean for me, Sven!," I cry out. And, he does.
It's a great relationship - and one, I suddenly realized, that had been going for about a decade.
Now, I need to make the same kind of commitment to the newest appliance in my home. So, please meet Loretta. She is beautiful and tough - and can be cold as ice when she needs to be (which is always).
She is going to fit in around here just fine!
Only a few years ago, freshly shucked oysters were a rarity on New York City menus. Platters of uncooked bivalves were solely the purview of seafood specialists like the Grand Central Oyster Bar or Soho's Aquagrill.
No more.
Oyster happy hours are everywhere in these days, and I am delighted by the trend. I never tire of oysters. There are so many kinds to enjoy and they have such evocative names -- from Moonstone to Malpeque and Belon to Beau Soliel. Slurping down a half-dozen sweet or salty beauties is a joyful endeavor. It's like a brief seaside trip without getting sand where it doesn't belong.
I'm partial to West Coast lovelies like Kumamotos, but I can be taken by a plump East Coaster as well. All depends on the mood -- the mood and the mignonette.
And, is it true about oysters putting you in the mood for love?
Depends on my mood, the mignonette, the Moonstones, the Malpeques, and the man in question.
Visitors to my Brooklyn apartment are typically treated to a healthy dose of hospitality. Often that comes with a shaken or stirred cocktail, nibbles aplenty, and once in a while it arrives with a flurry of coursed out dishes meant to tempt, soothe, and delight.
And, typically, new visitors to my home are not only struck by the hospitality at Chez Vamp, but are also taken by a collection of magazines on my coffee table -- a pile of Garden & Gun issues that sport cover photos of hunting dogs, Southern beach scenes, and mouthwatering food and drink from below the Mason-Dixon line.
What is a nice gal in New York City doing with a subscription to a magazine called -- of all things -- Garden & Gun?
Did you not just read the earlier sentence about the dogs, beaches, and food?!?
This is a magazine about the modern South -- but a bit mythologized and curated by design. From tales of roadtriping and partying from New Orleans-based author Julia Reed to an essay of a bad dog gone good by non-fiction writer S. C. Gwynne to thoughts on Mardi Gras and the importance of bees from literary legend and humorist Roy Blount Jr, the writing is top-notch.
Plus, a wealth of insights on Southern travel, books, music, and more.
And, then there are the photos. Lush. Sly. Transporting.
Oh, and did I mention the recipes?
More than once, the magazine has inspired me to whip up a bit of Dixie. Most recently, I tried my hand at making James Beard Award winning cookbook author Virginia Willis' cast-iron skillet Blueberry Cobbler (pictured above).
It was divine. Are you surprised?
I anticipate that my kitchen will be taking many a "trip down South" this summer, compliments of recipes and inspiration from Garden & Gun. If you're lucky, you'll get an invite to my table.
Word to the wise though: don't mock the mag. It might not be the hand that feeds you, but it's certainly feeding this home cook's imagination.
