VittlesVamp

Croissant Curmudgeonry

It's Passover. I should be thinking about all things unleavened. Instead I am thinking about croissant. Yes, puffy, flaky, buttery croissant.

But, there is a new trend that is turning the classic croissant into a fad-riffic Instagram star -- I call it croiss-insanity. Bakeries across the country are contorting croissant dough around a never-ending merry-go-round of unorthodox ingredients. Think purple yam, cod roe, black garlic, white miso, chamomile tea, and pineapple jelly. The New York Times calls them "frankenpastries."

I have tried to be open-minded.

The croiss-insanity pictured above is called an "everything croissant" and was purchased at my local Joe's Coffee. It was so very wrong. It didn't taste bad, mind you. It just wasn't a croissant. It wasn't an everything bagel. And, in the end, it wasn't enough of either to be anything I wanted to eat.

I ventured to Supermoon Bakery on the Lower East Side, where they have a croissant described as: "dual core croissant with matcha creme patissiere and lemon curd, topped with white chocolate shards." Don't get me started on the "cruffins." Each croiss-insanity was spotlighted in a precise, highly photogenic line on the counter, like a parade of overeager models strutting down the catwalk for the paparazzi. And, oh the paparazzi arrived. They descended in the form of foreign tourists. They thrust their cell phones in front of each other to snap the odd colorful frankenpastries, grabbing at a bit of social media foodie glory.

I think it is time for me to close my mind now - snap it shut tight.

Give me a perfect plain croissant with a bit of raspberry jam and I will be more than content. A chocolate croissant also has a place in my heart (and stomach). And, an almond croissant, when made expertly, is a thing of beauty as well.

I have no need for this newfangled breed of pastry. You can keep my "everything" on a bagel, thank you very much.

Best Taco Ever? It's In Philly

I had a hard time thinking this spot was going to be a big win. A weird little taco joint in Philadelphia's Italian Market that opens a the ungodly hour of 6am to accommodate workers getting off the night shift? My friend John insisted we go and go early - and John usually is right in these things.

Right he was.

At first glance, El Compadre seems more than a bit makeshift. Ice cold agua frescas are poured outside the door, as customers line up to order tacos and tortas. As soon as you get past the doorframe you are asked to order from whatever hunks of meat the kitchen has on hand. Accompaniments? Find them on a tiny table to the right. Pile on whatever suits you.

Doesn't sound like the makings of a gourmand fantasy - right?

Wrong.

The hunks of meat in question are glorious. Simply remarkable. In particular, the barbacoa, meltingly tender lamb, is a stand-out. And, the tortillas for the tacos? Handmade in the kitchen from masa ground from local Lancaster County corn. Warm, they emit the nose-tickling aroma of fresh corn on the cob.

Toppings range from marinated nopale leaves and bright green cilantro to chopped white onion and housemade guacamole.

These were unquestionably the best tacos of my life. Seriously. Best. Tacos. Of. My. Life.

And, El Compadre's presence in the Italian Market isn't a Mexican oddity among a sea of pasta stores and pastry shops on the strip. Slowly, but surely, the Italian Market has welcomed a new set of immigrants, becoming home to Mexican butchers and tortilla makers too. As a result, there seems to be a South of the Border vibe in the land of Rocky Balboa and cheesesteaks. And, if El Compadre's tacos are an indication of what Philadelphia has to look forward to by way of Mexican fare, I think we can confidently say - Viva La Ciudad de Amor Fraternal!

Tati Is In Town

Those in the know have primed their livers accordingly.

My pal Tati has descended upon New York, intent on drinking in every last gulp of good times this city has to offer. I am excited to see her in the morning - ready to take on a veritable whirligig of executive chefs, pastry chefs, sous chefs, bartenders, somms, ice cream makers, cheesemongers, butchers, sandwich makers, wine merchants, and more.

Not sure how to categorize my friend Peter, who owns Shelsky's, but I know she's planning on a stop there to get her fill of herring. Lots of herring. Copious amounts of herring.

Tati is one of the most gregarious gals I know - and dang if, in addition to making "all gone" with a school of herring, she can't polish off a bottle of pink champagne like a pro. Haling from Russia, she has a way around a bottle of vodka too. It's impressive. She's impressive.

I wish I could live up to her revelries, but I always fall short - needing to down glasses of water instead of a cocktail or vino, when she is imbibing. And, let me be perfectly clear, my friend stays perfectly sober. Well, maybe a buzz...

Still, she's a marvel.

In the past, unbeknownst to Miss Tati, I would bribe bartenders to give me soda water instead of another drink, garnishing it just so, as not to give up the charade that I was matching her drink for drink.

Now, I know better. And, I am coming clean.

I may admire Tati's stamina and her unbridled joy - but I am a cheaper date. That has to count for something, right?

At the very least, it should leave us a bit more moolah to hit a few of New York's hot spots this weekend. I can't wait!