Tapeo 29

Tapeo 29
29 Clinton St.
212-979-0002

I first met Michelle in my second month of college during the ultimate guilty pleasure of sorority rush. My sister, Lauren, basically projectile vomited when I told her I wanted to pledge, but I didn't let her incessant ridicule sway me. Kappa Kappa Gamma, I'm so happy that I am a!

It might appear inane to a skeptical outsider, but sorority rush has the perfect recipe for my kind of delight: take one tablespoon of high drama, a dash of comedy, one cup of chaos, a teaspoon of black pants, and a hint of female bonding. Mix together, and Voila!

So there I was, one tiny, shell-shocked Floridian, wondering how my unpolished self would fit in amongst my predominantly New York-bred sorority sisters. That's when Michelle took me in. I now realize she finished the job my mother had tried to do for years. She went to the gym; I followed. She put products in her hair; I bought a straightener. She took classes seriously; I got my first "C"-less report card in 13 years. But perhaps the most extraordinary gift Michele gave me was the size of a book, filled with funny little pages that had all kinds of numbers and dates. "It's called a planner, " Michelle said. "Now you can write down your appointments, so you won't be so confused all the time."

"People do that?" I asked skeptically.

"You bet! Give it a shot!"

"Umm. Okay."

So when Michelle gives me advice, I tend to listen. And Michelle thinks it's high time I write a bad review. Because the truth is, not EVERYTHING I eat sends me into states of cosmic euphoria.

It's hard for me to even write a whole lot about the food at Tapeo 29. It was THAT forgettable. I went with Cornelia and Sarah, my favorite blonde and red-headed counterparts. The three of us are pretty easy to please. Cornelia and Sarah are perhaps the world's most patient people. Sarah demonstrated this by basically being my high school french teacher (I couldn't help it; I didn't want to learn to conjugate verbs, I just wanted to eat crepes!) And Cornelia didn't even laugh when, during high school, I sheepishly admitted to her that I didn't know how to work my oven.

Despite our consistently sunny and patient demeanors, we all mutually agreed to avoid Tapeo 29 for good. I asked for egg whites in my omelette (hey, if I was piggy all the time, I would actually turn into Mario Batali), and was given an exasperated "yes" by the server. I mean, that's a pretty standard brunch request, right? She made it sound like I was pulling a Meg Ryan from "When Harry Met Sally."

Cornelia and I ordered the Tapeo 29 omelette, served with eggs, lox, scallions, goat cheese, and a side of the potatoes. The home fries were not at all crispy, and the omelette was bland and watery. Sarah ordered the Flamenco eggs, served with a piquant tomato sauce and chorizo. That seemed to be the most successful dish, although nobody's tails were really wagging.

The place claims to be all you can drink, but was so understaffed that day, we basically had to hunt our server down, get down on hands and knees, and beg for our drinks (it was a Bloody Mary! It's worth it!). So if you are in that part of town, take my advice and stick with the Lower East Side standbys like Essex or Schiller's. Order your egg whites with your head held high!

Ivo and Lulu

Ivo and Lulu
558 Broome St
212-226-4399

I visited France for the first time when I was 13 years old -- the summer before eighth grade. It was a family vacation, and it kills me to acknowledge my teenage brattiness, but I complained incessantly about "having" to go. I couldn't help it! I wanted to spend the summer watching re-runs of Saved By The Bell and playing spin the bottle with my barely pubescent guy friends. I was far too cool to go on a family vacation, and I even dyed my hair red in protest (really I just wanted to look like Claire Danes in My So Called Life). Well, red is not my color, and my complaining was lost on my parents. My mother promised me I would eat some of the best meals of my life, so I shut my little snout and decided to have an open mind.

We arrived in Paris and immediately hit the town. I felt rejuvenated; glancing at streets filled with croissants and eclairs gave me a profound sense of excitement. However, my happiness came to a screeching halt when I entered the Paris Metro during rush hour. There is no real way for me to describe the stench I inhaled. My 13 year-old brain hadn't yet learned how to be discreet, and I let out a gasp of horror so loud people must have thought I was a pschizophrenic. I glared at my mother. I was deceived! How could people that smelled of such rancid B.O. produce the delectable food she had been raving about?

Don't get me wrong -- I love the French! I watch French films, devour crepes, worship freedom frites, and even find Gerard Depardieu's nose sexy. I mean, their national anthem is a little dramatic (Marchons! Marchons!), but at least it sounds cool. My newly teenaged brain, however, didn't yet know these things, and not even daydreaming about my favorite heartthrobs (Zach Morris and Jordan Catalano) could distract me from my disappointment.

Of course, the story ends happily because that night, I begrudgingly tried escargot for the first time. The little snails I sampled put me in a state of such euphoria I could have easily marched down to the crowded Metro and french kissed every single passenger. Smelly subway or not, the French can cook. That trip was a culinary journey to remember -- from the escargot to my first sip of champagne, I have been been an avid lover of snails and bubbly ever since.

I've had a hard time finding stellar French food in NYC that won't break the bank. Per Se or Le Bernadin are unrealistic, and my neighborhood bistros are all cute, but uninspired. I had heard about Ivo and Lulu for a couple of years and was intrigued by the unique menu and affordable prices, accentuated by its BYOB policy. We went with Hal, our buddy and favorite hedgie, whose career pursuits have taken him to some of the finest restaurants in the country. The restaurant is very chic and loungey -- a little loud, but it was Saturday night at 9 PM. Hal immediately commented on how unique the menu was, from the spinach mousse to the venison pate.

We started with the pear salad -- roasted fruit marinated with honey and topped with creamy blue cheese. Pear and blue cheese go together like peanut butter and chocolate; the sweetness of the fruit combined with the sharpness of the blue cheese is tres, tres magnifique. We also ordered the grilled avocado, which came stuffed with a creamy spinach mouse and shitake mushrooms, dressed in a sesame vinaigrette. This dish was so elegant, so sleek, and so striking that if it were alive, it would be Michelle Obama's arms. The word spinach mousse might scare you, but the the combination of the spinach and heavy cream, engulfed by a big, bold avocado brought me to my knees. The sesame vinaigrette was light and fresh, the perfect compliment.

What would a french meal be without escargot? When the server brought our order to the table, we immediately dove in. When escargot is around, I can't do a whole lot of talking. And if it's really good, I am in my own fantasy world, happily atop the Eiffel Tower savoring the city lights with champagne in one hand and a snail in the other. Maybe Catherine Denueve is there too, and we are both wearing berets. I guess that's what separates the good food from the unforgettable. The food that brings back memories and creates stories, real or imagined. And Ivo and Lulu nailed it. To quote Jeremy, "I think this is the best French food I have ever had."

But wait, there's more. We split boar and sage sausages for our entree -- uniquely spicy little links served over couscous and a fabulously inventive blueberry sauce. The fruit in the sauce lightened the dish up and gave it a hint of a "breakfast for dinner" feeling. We ended our treasure of a meal with the mango mousse. It looked a bit like an orange cloud when served on the plate, and how fitting, seeing as the dessert felt like a gift from heaven. Wouldn't it be amazing if Mango Mousse grew on trees?

So, bring your spirit of choice and head to Ivo and Lulu. Take a bite of the escargot, sop up the remnant sauce with some bread, and create your own private Parisian paradise.

There Is No Love Sincerer Than The Love Of Food

Dovetail
103 West 77th Street
212-362-3800

I first read the phrase "there is no love sincerer than the love of food" on a Carrabas menu when I was in tenth grade. I was so inspired by this statement that I made it the subject of a creative writing paper in my English class. My teacher gave me an A, a grade I hadn't seen for what felt like several decades. I was so shocked to receive it I wondered aloud if she had added a little something extra to her coffee when she was grading. My loquaciousness had a tendency to get me kicked out of class until teachers discovered that that only worsened the problem, as I was caught loudly hugging and gabbing with everyone that walked through the halls. This teacher, however, let me off the hook as she was shocked by the depths of my passion for half moon ravioli.

For years I credited the fine folks at Carrabas for inspiring me to receive my first (and as it turned out, my last) A in tenth grade. But a couple of weeks ago, as I watched The Iron Chef on The Food Network, I heard the host say, "To quote the great George Bernard Shaw, 'There is no love sincerer than the love of food." Oops.

So, George Bernard Shaw has become my new hero. And I believe this statement could not be more appropriate to have in mind as Valentines Day '09 came around. Whether you are single, married, dating, womanizing, man-eating, or even considering the priesthood, we are all united by a common love of eating. No matter what, I believe everyone should celebrate V-Day by indulging their palate with one of the great loves of their lives, whether it be pastries, pastas, or pork butts.

In my case, I celebrated with two of the three. We decided to do brunch to avoid Manhattan V-Day dinner crowds and tabs, and made a 1pm reservation at Dovetail. My friend, Cornelia, had raved about this Upper West Side Establishment ever since she spent time there as an intern. I have to admit I was a bit nervous upon arrival. It has the sort of minimalist decor that fools you into thinking it's casual until you spot someone like Diane Sawyer sipping a cappuccino a table away. It's serious food for serious people, and there I am in my three year-old skirt from TJ Maxx that has a slight hole in it. "Relax," I said to myself. After all, it's only visible up close.

I immediately started chatting with my Prada suit-clad server and was delighted to discover that behind his fancy attire, he was just as piggy as me. He spoke beautifully about the chef's signature dishes. I got so excited, I practically oinked. Brunch is 28 dollars pp, and in addition to whatever main course you select, you are provided with nibbles before and after your entree.

The first treat brought to our table was an assortment of sweet and savory breads. The standout was definitely the Gruyere cookie. It was like a Cheez-It touched by a culinary angel. Once we went through the ENTIRE basket, one of what felt like 40 different servers brought us another plate of snacks. The dish included a mini yogurt/honey parfait, a shot of parsnip soup, a mini cucumber sandwich, and the tiniest duck meatball I had ever seen. The thick and creamy whole milk yogurt combined with the fresh honey and nut-heavy granola was the unanimous favorite. It's the kind of breakfast you imagine would be served to Charles and Camillia on a Grecian vacation.

I chose the lamb meatloaf for my entree, and Jeremy ordered the duck goulash, which we were told is the chef's signature dish. I think the meatloaf should be renamed a "deconstructed gyro," seeing as it is served open faced with crusty bread, mixed greens, and a seductively delicious tzatziki. The term "meatloaf" has always sounded a tad vulgar to me and does not seem fitting for a dish so simple and elegant.

Although the meatloaf was my entree selection, the server made a tiny error and put the duck goulash in front of me. I decided to take a bite before handing it over to Jeremy, and as soon as I did, one person came into my mind. Oddly, it was Sigmund Freud. One of Freud's more significant theories is that there are no real mistakes in life. I always thought one look at my tenth grade geometry tests would have changed Sigmund's mind, but after that bite, the theory finally made sense. The dish was culinary poetry, and divine intervention caused it to land in front of me. I didn't want to hand it over to Jeremy, and I briefly thought of taking the dish, sprinting to Central Park, and hiding while I devoured every bite. The plate consists of duck confit ragu served over a bed of cavatelli and root vegetables, dressed with a poached hen egg. Watching the yolk spill into the ragu was like seeing Salma Hayek walk the red carpet in a low-cut gown -- a moment of unearthly beauty.

I did give the dish to Jeremy, and although it felt like sacrificing my first born, I managed to steal about half. The final course was a selection of sweet treats, and although my stomach was begging me to stop, my eyes forced me to push through. We were served a plethora of little treats, nothing supremely unusual, but all delicious. My favorite was the butterscotch pudding; Jeremy liked the home-made passion fruit marshmallow.

So take a trip uptown, downtown, crosstown, or over a bridge to Dovetail. Order the goulash and remind yourself how sincere true love can be.

Po

Manhattan Brooklyn
31 Cornelia Street 276 Smith Street
212-645-2189 718-875-1980

I think of myself as being made of three parts. In my head, I am Jewish - a tad neurotic with a dash of self deprecating humor. In my heart, I am British - I worship Kate Winslet, Shakespeare, and yes, I admit, Harry Potter. But in my stomach, I am nothing other than one big, fat, meatball-eating, Tony Soprano-fearing Italian. Several years ago, there was an episode of Sex and The City that posed the question, "How many great loves can one woman have in her life?" I think Carrie decided on two. Well, if that's the case, Italian food is one of mine.

Po is not the best restaurant in the city. An evening at Blue Hill or Momofuko Ko or Dovetail will offer you the most exciting and innovative culinary experience. But when I dine out, I don't follow my heart or my head. I go with my gut. And nothing quite satisfies it like Po. So while it is not, nor ever will be, the best place to eat in the city, it will always be my favorite.

Jeremy and I visited Po for the first time two years ago -- a couple of weeks after it opened a location on Smith Street in Brooklyn. A minute after we sat down, they brought us two complimentary pieces of white bean bruschetta. I immediately dove in, and after one bite, my inner pig's tale began wagging furiously. Something about the simplicity of white beans, chunks of garlic, olive oil, and fresh country bread offers such pure deliciousness of flavor that I was tempted to ask for five more pieces, until I realized that only one order was free. For dinner, we ordered the Pasta alla Amatriciana, the cured tuna, and a side of fregula. The Amatriciana is sort of like a red-sauce version of carbonara, strands of al dente spaghetti covered in a thick red sauce with garlic, onion, and generous chunks of bacon. After one bite, I fell in love with this dish so hard I actually understood what people meant when they talk about love at first sight -- and wondered if Tom Cruise wasn't a wackjob after all. I quickly came to my senses -- not wanting disturbing thoughts of Scientology and Katie Holmes to distract me from my pleasure -- and begged the owner to tell me his secret. He just smiled in his casually hip way and said, "it's really just the wild boar bacon." The fregula, which is similar to Israeli couscous, is divinely fluffy and buttery, infused with the perfect flavors of pumpkin and green onion. And the cured tuna is a meal in itself, served with white beans, artichokes, and a fabulously spicy vinaigrette.

The Pasta alla Amatriciana became a Fatal Attraction-like obsession for me. In fact, Jeremy and I traveled to the villages, coasts, and cities of Italy searching for a better, more authentic version of this dish. We had some great meals, particularly one truffled pasta dish that was so inspired I tried to convince Jeremy to abandon New York and move to Italy ("come on, they could use therapists and real estate investors in Positano!"), but we could not for the life of us find an Amatriciana we liked more than the one served at Po. I couldn't wait to tell the owner this when we arrived back in the states, until my brother-in-law told me about a new addition to the menu he insisted I try: the guinea hen. I agreed, skeptically thinking to myself "how exciting could a piece of baby chicken really be? My stomach likes pasta, not poultry!" I guess moments like that tell you that sometimes your gut is full of crap, and your head can tell you a thing or two. Trusting my bro-in-law was the smartest thing I ever did because this dish is a damn miracle. I think about it in the shower. I think about it before I go to bed. I think about it at work, when I'd rather be eating it instead. The guinea hen is grilled and cooked in saba, a delicious grape juice-like marinade that is used to season meat. It is a very generous portion, served over a bed of the addictive pumpkin fregula. I don't know if it's the saba, the meat, or the fregula, but this dish eviscerated my poultry snobbery forever. I'd start a freaking guinea hen farm if I could.

I usually skip dessert, but my inner pigginess is so appreciated at Po they always brings us a few sweet surprises. My favorite so far is the cherry panna cotta, even though it is probably 1,000 calories, something about the custard feels wonderfully airy and light. I guess that's the other reason Po is my favorite place to eat: it's not about the scene (though it is hip and classy in its unassuming way), the owners just want to make you happy. So for a little pig like me, who fantasizes about truffles, not diamonds, who would spend 500 dollars on Per Se over Prada any day of the week, Po feels like a second home. I'll never say an unkind word about a baby chicken again.

Food, fire, and frivolity at Ostia

Meatballs

Grilled Vegetables and Goat Cheese

113 Seventh Ave. South, at Christopher St.
212-924-2305

Years ago, when I was merely a freshman in college, I was in a play about sex and power in the New York City 90s. On opening night, as the curtain went up, I lit a cigarette and my hair promptly caught on fire. What happened next is a blur. All I can remember is a collective gasp and that I somehow managed to put the fire out with my hands.

After I realized that my nose hadn’t melted off my face, I briefly thought of running out of the theatre, withdrawing from school and moving back home to the Florida beaches for the rest of my life. But a fleeting image of the wrinkled old tan lady from the film “There’s Something About Mary” brought me to my senses, and I was able to continue in the play. So what if the smell of burnt chicken permeated the entire auditorium. I was an actress!

This past Thursday, at the restaurant Ostia in the West Village, I was reminded of that smell. As my friend and I were leaning in to pose for a picture, her curly locks brushed the lurid flame from the tabletop candle and went up in a blaze. It was like reliving some horrific actor’s nightmare. My friend immediately doused the fire and fled to the bathroom only to hear a nearby waitress yell, “It smells like burnt chicken in here!” Five minutes later we were laughing about the incident and the rest of the evening became a total, unmitigated blast.

I share this story because I believe it is very apropos of my dining experience at Ostia. The food is very good but it is not the star of the show. The ambiance is. The staff makes you feel right at home creating a casually hip vibe that is perfect for re-living old memories and forming fabulous new ones. That’s the reason to visit this unassuming little joint. Ostia is actually a tapas bar describing itself as a “modern Spanish establishment with old world sensitivity.” I completely obliterated my health kick once again and went to town. In this case, Seville. We ordered the patatas bravas (fried potato wedges served with spicy aioli), pisto con cana de cabra (grilled vegetables sprinkled with goat cheese), setas a la parilla (sautéed mushrooms), tortilla con setas (potato omelet with mushrooms) and pintxo moruno (pork skerewers). Lots of tasty little things, but nothing came close to the coquette de Jamon Serrano (ham croquettes) and these meatballs that were so delicious, I wouldn’t have noticed if my entire head of hair was covered in flames. I was so thrilled by these little pleasure balls I completely forgot to remember the name of the dish. Sometimes you have to forgo the details in order to embrace your inner pig. If you’re there just ask them to fry you up some balls. That will at least get their attention.

The ham croquettes were blissful, deep fried pieces of finely chopped serrano and cheese flanked by a garlicky crust so crispy, I ordered another round. It was ridiculous, I know, to insist on one more order of this dish. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have insisted on six or seven.

Next time I am in, I’ll save the calories spent on the under-seasoned potato omelet and stick to the meats and cheeses. The patatas bravas were good, particularly when doused in a pimento-based spicy aioli, but the dish was a bit uninspired. Next time, I’ll sample the chorizo a la cerveza en salsa picante (spicy paprika sausage in beer) and the trio de quesos (selection of three cheeses). So take a trip down Ostia. Perhaps you need to add a little fire to your life.

Pork Skewers Ham Croquettes, Sauteed Mushrooms Patatas Bravas

Tips

My plugged in and brilliant friend Cornelia sent me these links:

http://newyork.metromix.com/restaurants/photogallery/101-new-restaurants/359003/content
http://nymag.com/daily/food/2009/01/glamburger_on_a_budget.html

The top refers to a plethora of the new buzzworthy joints, the bottom just happens to be a fantastic deal. Apparently, Irving Mill's Glamburgers are worthy of a Gold Medal. And for the Monday night special, they basically come with a free beer. Burgers and free beer? In NYC? On second thought, THAT is my idea of heaven.

Char No 4

196 Smith st., near Baltic
718-643-2106

BLT

Pork Nuggets

About a week ago, I vowed to Jeremy that January of 2009 was going to be a month of total health for me in body, mind, and soul. No booze, no fried food, no negative attitude! Well, Friday night at Char No. 4, I completely neglected my body, but certainly fed my mind and soul! To get an accurate picture of this pork lover’s oasis, imagine what would happen to the Waffle House if Wolfgang Puck came in and reinvented its menu. That is what I would like to see when I enter the gates of heaven. Wolfgang Puck frying up hash browns at the waffle house.

We arrived around 7:30 with our fellow foodist friend, Cornelia, and waited for over an hour to snag three seats at the bar. Next time, I’ll make reservations; I still live under the false hope that dining in Brooklyn allows you to avoid such Manhattan-like behavior. We ordered three starters: lamb cured pastrami, crispy cheddar cheese curds, and smoked and fried pork nuggets. Eating one of those panko-crusted cheese curds drenched in pimento sauce made me silently weep for all vegans. Cheesy, buttery, deep fried morsels of pleasure. The lamb pastrami was good, particularly with the fixings of coriander aioli, pickled onion and crusted bread. I have to be honest though, once you have devoured the pastrami at Katz’s, its hard for any deli meat to compete. I have to be somewhat convinced that my pastrami sandwich is going to give me a heart attack in order for me to fully enjoy it. Next, we tried the deep fried pork nuggets. We popped one in and simultaneously gasped. This time, Jeremy did cry. “I feel so bad for my father!” Jeremy yelled, and knowing full well we would be horrifying him and all of our other kosher relatives, we ordered another round. The pork nuggets are deep fried, a tad spicy, and served with a hot sauce that tasted mainly of siracha. Not only are these nuggets just salty, spicy heaven, but the texture is miraculous. They literally melt in your mouth. Like my mama always said, I like my taste buds to be assaulted. This dish gets the job done. And the best part is that it’s four dollars! You can pig out and NOT overspend (pun intended).

For dinner, we ordered the house-smoked BLT, the chopped pork sandwich, and a side of sautéed kale. The chopped pork sandwich was meaty and delicious, but the BLT was downright Oscar worthy. I never knew bacon could taste that way. It was like learning that the person closest to you has a hidden superpower. The meat is braised and fried, served on crusty bread with a healthy dose of spicy mayo and, of course, lettuce and tomato. The kale was also insane, covered with homemade apple sauce and… surprise… chunks of house-cured bacon.

In order to not completely obliterate my January health kick, I managed to make it through the evening without booze , but the bourbon-centric cocktails Jeremy and Cornelia ordered looked so good, I briefly considered making out with both of them just to get a taste.

The place is not perfect – service is so rushed and harried I almost forgot I was in Brooklyn, but the food overshadows any such flaw. So any time you need a splurge (in calories, not price –the place is very moderate) take the trip to Smith Street’s new spot. See if just one order of pork nuggets is enough for you.Chopped Pork Sandwich

Lamb cured Pastrami