Happy Ending

Last week, Tony and I-- full of sushi and chicken katsu donburi-- were waddling out of Geido, one of my favorite restaurants, when we saw something a little unusual for the neighborhood: a grey and red parrot climbing the security gate of a clothing boutique.

There was a police officer and some other person on their mobile phones, looking up at the bird who was clearly lost and disoriented and probably a good deal freaked out. And likely cold. It is the middle of January, after all.

Despite my general aversion to non-deep-fried birds, I felt sad for my little avian brethren. I know I don't like being lost, disoriented, or cold. And I thought about the bird owner at home, fretting and feeling anxious.

But there wasn't much I could do; at least it seemed that the animal control folks would be on the case. So on T and I waddled into that chilly night (made a little less chilly by a stop at The Chocolate Room for hot chocolate floats).

So fast forward to Monday. I was leaving my shift at the Park Slope Food Coop when I stopped to look at the community bulletin board in the stairwell. Amid the ads for life coaches and used bikes for sale and rooms for rent was this:



Gracie!

Now while I didn't know the exact whereabouts of Gracie four days after I saw him, I did know that New York's finest had been involved at some point. When I called the number on the flyer to let them know their beloved pet might be in the care of animal control, I got great news: Gracie had been reunited with her owners the day before.

Lora, his owner, was predictably happy and relieved.

And seeing a happy ending in this sprawling, sometimes merciless megalopolis made me happy and relieved, too.

Signs from God

Eva and I were already brimming with pork from Fette Sau when we decided to head to the G train, agreeing we weren't going out of our way to find dessert. The dry-rubbed pork ribs were kind of dessert enough already.

As we bundled ourselves up from the cold on Metropolitan Avenue, we walked past a sparse but brightly lit storefront. On the window was the word "cupcakes."

Clearly, we were being given a message.

We were still standing on the sidewalk looking at each other with amazement over stumbling upon dessert so easily when the woman behind the counter poked her head out the doorway into the freezing air outside.

Would you like some free cupcakes? she asked.

You could have knocked us over with an icing spatula.

My verbatim answer was Yes! Do we look like idiots?

And with that, not one, not two, but SIX cupcakes were packed into a little, pink bakery box. We had two big and four tiny cupcakes between the two of us.

According to the proprietor, Cupcakeland had just opened two days ago, and they were trying to "make friends" in the neighborhood.

I wasn't about to tell her I don't live anywhere near that neighborhood.




We dug in as soon as we got on the train. Truth be told, we ate just one of the baby cupcakes each. I'll be doling out the rest to neighbors tomorrow. Too much of a good thing can give you a stomach ache. Especially when you ate three dinner rolls with your pulled pork and spicy sausage and baked beans and sauerkraut and potato salad and washed it down with a cherry soda.




Thanks, Cupcakeland! Your cupcakes were grand! And if you had a website I'd link to it!

How Swede It Is

I haven't been to an Ikea since 2006. One didn't exist in New York when I moved here, and when it finally did open a couple of years ago, I stayed far away from the hype and the crowds and the temptation to buy things I didn't need.

But I needed an adventure, so I boarded the #61B bus to Red Hook and was dropped off right at the entrance to Sweden's greatest contribution to mass production itself:

Now, a trip to Ikea in and of itself is not that much of an adventure; thanks to our friend standardization, if you've been to one Ikea, you've been to all (or most, at least). The adventure part for me was a trip to the cafeteria, where the infamous meatballs waited for me, piled high on the steam table.

I considered other options, like the chicken fingers and the broccoli-cheese soup, but for my first dining experience at the axis of pre-fabrication, only the meatballs would suffice. To my disappointment, there was no Swedish Chef-- only a rather grumpy woman who looked like she'd plated enough meatballs for one lifetime.

The normal portion of meatballs is huge: fifteen of them! I got the serving person to lovingly slop just ten on my plate, and I even got a little discount for getting the smaller portion, note to you all krona-pinchers out there.

I took my plate of meatballs, gravy, mashed potatoes, and lingonberry sauce to a window seat, where the view was wonderful, Statue of Liberty and all. I'm not sure why there was a yellow school bus in the parking lot, but I sure don't remember field trips that involved shopping when I was a kid.

I wasn't exactly excited about my meal at Ikea. After all, those köttbullar are rumored to be made from the sawdust off the warehouse floor! Wait, did I start that rumor? Anyway, they seemed benign enough. Possibly tasty, even.

And the innards seemed okay.

So my first taste of Ikea's signature dish? Well, the meatballs weren't nearly as bad as I thought they might be. They reminded me of frozen dinners I used to eat (and love) when I was a kid. And the lingonberry sauce was a nice touch. But the mashed potatoes were a disaster.

That's right. Disaster.

They had this really odd, smoked-meat taste that made me think I was about to find a piece of bacon in my potatoes. And the disappointment didn't come so much from not ever finding that piece of bacon in my potatoes but rather from eating something that wasn't supposed to taste like liquid smoke.

Blech.

IKEA FOOD: Don't eat the mashers!

As I walked out, I saw this panda who had a table all to herself...

...and where you might find me next Wednesday night: There's just no way I can't try them. Right?

Ikea equips shoppers with all the tools they'll need for a successful visit.

And despite the already low prices, there was a SALE! SALE! SALE!

The arrows keep you on the path, lest you wander off, lured by kitchen stools and light fixtures.

I wasn't actually at Ikea to shop, despite the tantalizing displays and prices. I breezed confidently past the Ektorps, Skänkas, and Kvartals, awed by the sheer volume of do-it-yourself furniture and headed down to the self-serve housewares, where I committed to taking nothing with me but pictures.

For instance, a picture of more wine glasses than you can shake a stick at. You can get a stick and you can stand next to those glasses, but that's all. That stick won't shake.

How about a stack of silicone ice cube molds...

...or an even bigger stack of plastic food trays?

Ikea toiletries? Yes, and there's shampoo, too, but it was out of stock.

Ikea is warehouse-shopping at its finest, cheapest, most disassembled.

By the cash register, there was a table of items that shoppers made a zero-hour decision to leave behind. It included a pink hippo, lighbulbs, a whisk, and some peanut shells, which don't look like they can be put back together with all the allen wrenches in the world.

I managed to leave with nothing but a ten-pack of batteries (hey, it was two bucks) and a few super cute hand puppets for some of the smaller people I come across in my life.

On my way out, I found my favorite Ikea treat of all: soft serve! Hot dogs were offered for fifty cents, but I was still recovering from the meatballs, thank you.

I ate my ice cream in the lobby where I pondered the mural made by students at P.S. 27.If this is what Ikea has to do to get in good with the neighbors, then I guess there are much worse ways to get in good with the neighbors. The one on the bottom left reads:

Oh Mom, you are as sweet as an ice cream cone
You do my hair in corn braids
and when I am sad you make me hot bowls of soup
You even love me

Tell me I didn't think that poem was so sweet that I didn't almost choke on my dessert. Because I almost did.

Back out in the sub-freezing day, it was only mid-afternoon but the sky was already turning pretty colors.

I strolled down Erie Basin Park, built by the Ikeans as part of their deal to set up shop in Red Hook. I learned where not to fish...

...where to recline...


...where to park my (non-existent) bike...

...and how far I have to go to get to Tierra del Fuego.

No adventure to Red Hook would be complete without a trip to my favorite bakery, Baked. I had a slice (and by slice I mean massive slab) of citrus cake with coconut frosting.

I had a giant, steamy mug of ginger tea to go with it, and let me tell you, there is no better combination than those two things together. I dare you to think of a better pair. You know what? Don't bother. You can't do it. It's impossible. Surrender to the citrus cake and ginger tea. I did, and I'm a much happier person for it.

That's why I'll be back in Red Hook again soon, eating cake and strolling through the park and probably not ordering the meatballs and definitely not those mashed potatoes but maybe-- maybe-- trolling for some sleekly designed Bergsbos and Bekväms.

¡Sí se puede!

When I moved to New York, I knew I would be giving up certain elements of California living that I had become quite attached to. Temperate weather. Driving a car. Looking west and seeing the Golden Gate Bridge. Hills. Fog. The pecan praline cookie at Sweet Adeline Bakeshop. Berkeley Bowl and Rainbow Grocery. Amazing Mexican food coming at me from every direction.

But I was headed to my favorite megalopolis, and I knew that of all those things I was leaving behind, there was at least a chance that I could maybe uncover a good burrito somewhere in these five boroughs.

Turns out it was a very small chance.

The burritos in this town, well, suck.

I've found some great tacos and huaraches, thanks to the Red Hook Ball Fields. But a good burrito? Aquí no existe.

I've seen some consistent problems with the burritos in these parts. The rice is this hard, flavorless, and oddly separate, à la Uncle Ben's. The salsas are bland and made with mealy, pallid tomatoes. The meat fillings are often dried out and either tasteless or aggressively salty. The black beans are overwhelmed by epazote or are tragically underseasoned or undercooked. Tortillas don't get pressed or steamed or even warmed up. In general, flavors just seem flat, dull, old, stale.

And, for the love of frijoles, nobody can roll a burrito in this town to save their vidas. The edges of the tortillas are just sort of folded over each other, but the burrito isn't rolled tight, as it needs to be. I have not once, in four years in New York, been able to eat a burrito with one hand. But I'm always given a fork and knife to eat my burrito with.

Who the hell wants to eat their burrito with a fork and knife?

¡Dios mio!

I should say that I have all but given up trying to find a good burrito in this town, and I've learned to be particularly weary of any burrito billed as "California-style"-- that will ensure that I'm in for a disaster. Each successive burrito experience becomes an exercise in frustration, which only serves to stoke my ire over the poor quality of something that is pulled off with widespread success in lots of other places.

Don't get me started on abortion rights, religious zealotry, or bad burritos. Unless you've got a lot of extra tiempo on your hands.

(In all fairness, I came close to a good experience at Calexico recently, where the meats were juicy and flavorful and the salsas were interesting, but waiting twenty minutes to get my food when I'm ordering at a counter and my food's being dropped off to me on a tray and the burrito still isn't rolled right? Think of the riots that would erupt if burrito preparation took more than forty seconds and any respectable California taqueria.)





So when I saw this article in the New York Times about Dos Toros, I was, understandably, skeptical. But what made me think twice was the mention that the owners of Gordo Taqueria in Berkeley, my home turf, are the proprietors of this new place. And though it's been many years since I've indulged in one of Gordo's signature quesadillas, bulging with meat and oozing with cheese, I have only happy memories of eating there.

I could see the steam table of fillings when I walked up to the counter. The meats looked juicy, the salsa looked fresh, the guacamole was bright green. I ordered a carnitas burrito with guacamole, and at nine bucks, I could see how my agitation level would be off the charts if the burrito failed to perform.


I watched the folks behind the counter begin to assemble my burrito. The person who pressed my tortilla (score one for the tortilla press!) exuded absolutely no culinary confidence whatsoever-- he handled that tortilla so gingerly I thought he was about to sing it a lullaby. It seemed from the way that he scooped my black beans and rice that he hadn't been working with long-handled spoons for very long either.

I started to worry-- just a tiny bit.

But then another guy took over, adding in the meat, and he piled on some glistening chunks of juicy pork that fell to pieces at the touch of the tongs. He layered on sour cream and guacamole and a nice pile of pico de gallo. And he put a little container of hot tomatillo salsa on the side for me.

I meant to watch him roll the burrito, but I was distracted by paying the cashier, so it was with a bit of trepidation and low-grade anxiety that I took my burrito to the window seat and set it on the reclaimed-wood counter and peeled back the foil wrapper, holding my breath, like Charlie Bucket did when he opened the Wonka bar that he bought with the money he found in the gutter.

And...
...ta da!

A burrito wrapped up snug and tight, just as god intended.

I picked that baby up with one hand and felt a surge of optimism and hope.
It felt heavy. It felt like it was tucked together well. It smelled great.

With the first, delicious bite, my angst dissipated. The rice was moist, the salsa was flavorful, the beans were of the right texture and did not stand out because of poor seasoning, the guacamole was creamy, and the pork was, well, fantastic.

And the proper rolling! For a brief moment, I imagined I was in San Francisco.
I added in a little of the tomatillo salsa, which had a hefty kick to it. But really, the burrito didn't need the extra seasoning. It was muy sabroso just as it was.

My idea was to eat half the burrito and save the other half for later.

Guess how that plan turned out.
Now relieved that access to a decent burrito is as easy as hopping on the Q train, I practically skipped out of the taqueria, blissful, quite full, and giving muchas gracias to the burrito gods.

¡Sí se puede!

Testafy

I broke a rule tonight.

I had dinner at franny's with James, Robert, and Robert's mom Rita.

Oh, that's not the rule I broke. I'm allowed to have dinner with them whenever I want.

And really, it's what I didn't do at dinner tonight. I didn't order the pork cheek and beef tongue terrine they've got on the menu there. And I always order it. Because it's delicious. And I love it.

I've had it many times. It has most-favored status amongst the staff. It's also lovingly known as "testa"-- Italian for "head"-- so called for the cheek and tongue parts from which it's made. The terrine is studded with whole, black peppercorns that turn soft and eatable as the terrine is made. A thin slice of it is served warm on a warm plate with two slices of olive oil-drizzled, rustic, Italian bread that's warmed in the wood oven.

The slice of terrine always comes with a garnish. Like the pickled fennel I had over the summer:


Or the salsa verde I had a couple of summers back:

Tonight the garnish was pickled grenada peppers, which smell like a spicy tropical fruit, floral and fragrant. But I don't have a picture of those peppers because, of course, I didn't order that dish tonight.

I'm not sure how it happened. It just did. Or should I say "didn't"?

I feel like I've failed the headcheese community somehow.

In any case, dinner was amazing, every bit of it, as usual: the molten-hot potato croquettes, the juicy tangerines with olives and horseradish, the zippy meyer lemon spaghetti, the white pizza with creamy ricotta, the flawless fior di latte gelato, the perfectly textured panna cotta.

It's good stuff.

So good I forgot to order the terrine. I guess that's easy enough to remedy if I just go back and get two.

And don't think I wouldn't.

New Amsterdam Market

At the site of the old Fulton Fish Market, under the cover of the South Street Viaduct, on the shore of the East River, on the morning after the season's first snowstorm, the New Amsterdam Market set up shop, five days before Christmas.



Lots of people came out in the knee-high snow and freezing air to sample and buy wares from local producers of breads, meats, produce, cheese, wine, and many, many other edibles.


But of all those people, there was just one I was interested in:
Eva!

Eva recently relocated back to New York from Germany, which is really good news for me. And my tummy. Eva is always down for a food adventure, and the New Amsterdam Market would certainly qualify as a food adventure..

We scoured the market and did a good amount of damage, despite our rapidly numbing extremeties, eating lots of lovely treats to warm us up.

We found msmen, brought to us by the folks at Hot Bread Kitchen.

There were stacks and stacks of the thin, flaky Moroccan flatbread, heated to order. There sure were a lot of them.
But we only ate one. Crazy, I know.

We nibbled on bits of chocolate from the Fine & Raw chocolate folks whose agave-sweetened confections live up to their name.


I bought a bag of dried kelp from She Sells Seaweed. I plan to make it into some of the sesame-seaweed brittle I sampled there. Know why?
Because it was delicious. Duh.

We ordered ice cream from The Bent Spoon-- one scoop of eggnog (spiked with rum and Courvoisier) and one scoop of refreshing "peppermint shtick" with little bits of candy throughout.
It might have been below freezing outside, but we weren't above eating ice cream before noon.

Provisions market was selling Neki's granola. If you haven't had, get it. It's good stuff.


Seeing that homemade quince paste from Saltie made me want to put together a cheese plate, stat.

The view was pretty.


The spicy pork rinds from Old Field Farm were looking good, too.


And Eva and I aren't too hard on the eyes either, if I may say so myself.


Quality Meats set up shop there with a fleet of sandwich presses making duck confit "hot pockets."


They were served with a cranberry apple relish on the side.

And Eva and I certainly relished every last bite of the steamy, hot duck tucked into all those flaky puff pastry layers.


A couple of tables down, Porchetta served their eponymous sandwich, in mini-version.


The meat was as juicy-tender-fatty as I remembered it when I last had lunch there.


Eva is a good friend. You can tell because I trust her enough to let her hold the sandwich while I took pictures. I don't give up my pork to just anyone.


We chased our snacks with hot apple cider from Breezy Hill Orchard, and not a moment too soon as I was really missing having feeling in my fingers.


We passed on the gingerbread people, cute and large as they were.


We didn't buy any of Juniper Moon Farm's wool either, thought it might have been nice to stuff skeins of it into my coat for insulation.


The eggnog samples from the Organic Valley cooperative was rich and tasty and Eva's first taste of it ever!


We bought slabs of pork rillettes and pâté from Old Field Farms. We didn't buy the slab of pancetta. I know, I know. This story seemed so credible right up until that last statement.


The next market has yet to be scheduled, but I plan to be there when it happens, with that amazing view of the Brooklyn Bridge and all the deliciousness up for grabs.


And with any luck, I'll have my dear friend to accompany me.
Welcome back to New York, Eva!

A Bite at Ben's

This summer I had the pleasure of dining at Ben's Chili Bowl, the landmark restaurant in Washington, D.C. By "dining" I really mean that I had breakfast, and by "breakfast" I mean that I ate two chili dogs, lots of potato chips, and a container of cole slaw washed down with a thick vanilla shake.

I had thought that one chili dog for breakfast would be fine.


But I felt like I couldn't leave without trying their signature dish: the half-smoke, named for it's half pork, half beef content. Smothered with chili sauce, raw onions, and mustard, of course.
*burp*

Excuse me.

As a consequence, and not surprisingly, I waddled out of Ben's Chili Bowl that morning, a belly full of one of the best breakfasts in recent memory.

Tony, on the other hand, had made a more traditional choice for breakfast-- french toast...


...with bacon and eggs...


...and a side of toast to boot.That Tony loves his bread. Yes he does.

That meal was three months ago, and I still think about that morning, and how blissfully I chowed down on those dogs. They were not only delicious, but they were also served up in a veritable D.C. institution. Ben's has seen its neighborhood through the last fifty years, from the Civil Rights Movement right on up to gentrification. It's a fixture of the community, a small, family-owned business that has found a way to survive and thrive through decades providing not just a hearty meal but a sense of constancy and stability.

They know who helps contribute to their success.


They let Bill Cosby and the Obamas eat there for free!


They're proud of their president.


They work really hard.


And their chili did, in fact, make my hot dog bark.


Though I've been there just once, I really grooved on the vibe of the place: the friendly service, the buzz of the workers, the stream of families coming in for breakfast on a lazy Saturday morning. So when I heard the news that the restaurant's founder, Ben Ali, died yesterday, I was sad. Restaurants like his, that serve not just as a place to eat but as a cornerstone to a community, are harder and harder to come by these days.


Thanks, Mr. Ali, for serving up delicious chili dogs with a little bit of history and good vibes on the side.