Yes, yes, y’all: Trufflepalooza, Locanda Verde.

Locanda Verde trufflepalooza.  Who was there?  Yeah.  This guy (and BG)

I tried to enter the Eater giveaway contest, but to no avail.  I was honest with them.  I told them I wanted a truffle dinner for $50.  No sob story, no bullshit.  I guess honesty isn’t always the best policy.

Not discouraged, we showed up anyway, at 6.45pm.  While a reservation we did not have, we did have a will, and a way.  Out of either sheer luck or some other magic that BG has, she got us on an imaginary list, which supposedly had a table set aside for us at 8.15pm.

Yeah, right.

We went over to Bubby’s for a quick drink, to kill some time, since it was only 7pm.  I had a Jameson on the rocks, since nothing spells “good pre-dinner drink” like Jameson.  This got a good buzz going in anticipation of the truffle explosion that was about to go down inside my mouth.  We called at 7.45pm, just to see.  Eureka!  Our table was ready.

We ran over lickety-split.  BG had rapport.

We got there an the regular menus and the truffle menu was set before us.  The smell of freshly-shaven white truffles permeated the air.  I realized upon sitting down that I had never eaten at Locanda Verde on a standard night.  I had been there for the fried chicken dinner, and once prior to the HORN’s engagement night for drinks, but never just for some pasta and a salad.  Since I was about to take in some fresh white truffles, I was ok with this.

I was especially ok with this since I saw the menu at which I was staring.  If you pretended that you were sitting at Locanda Verde on December 7th, 2009, you’d be looking at this:

I made it large for legibility

Not wanting to have any regrets, we ordered the whole thing.  I mean, how can you go wrong, right?  A bottle of Pacherhof Sylvaner, and we were on our way.

Since the menu is above, I’ll just provide details by course (apologies, the pictures are a bit dark; as you may recall from the fried chicken installment, the lighting at LV is not exactly blinding.  I’ve made the pictures bigger, which may or may not help):

Starters– the mushroom ragu was good, but, to be honest, the wild mushrooms dominated the palate.  All you could really taste was the earthiness of mushroom and the richness of the egg yolk and polenta.  Not that that was a bad thing, but it was a bit overwhelming.  The white truffle flavor came through, but it could have been a bit stronger for my taste.

On the other hand, the carne cruda was a truffle explosion.  This took me back to the first steak tartare that I ever truly loved, at Alain Ducasse’s Spoon in Paris.  I had never had a steak tartare that could match that one… until now.  The truffle was dominant in flavor, but the fattiness of the meat was a perfect stage for the pungent fungi to shine.  The carne arrived with a fresh shaving of white truffle on top, which didn’t hurt, either.  Now, I think there was definitely some truffle oil in there, too, which some may consider to be a cheap move.  But in this case, it worked.  I was a fan.

It's really much better tasting than it looked, I promise.

With truffles fresh on our breath, we were then served our main courses.  The garganelle verde was a green like I had never seen before from a fresh pasta.  I was honestly not sure what to expect flavor-wise, but was pleasantly surprised by the outstanding texture.  The pasta was very fresh and light tasting, which complemented the somewhat bland richness of the braised veal.  As with the first course, there was a lack of truffle flavor, as it was hidden by the rich saltiness of the veal and the butter and the creaminess of the overall dish.

But again, as with the starter courses, I was thoroughly pleased with the ravioli.  First off, anything with the oyster of the chicken is going to do it for me.  I can barely find it, much less exclusively prepare and serve it.  Second of all, the dish was again intensely flavored with white truffles, probably with some oiled help, but also enhanced by the use of the chicken jus for the sauce and the relative lack of richness in the dish.  I have come to the conclusion that for truffles to truly shine, there needs to be a perfect balance of fat and salt  in order to let the fungus come through.  With an extreme in either direction, the truffle flavor is lost, and it makes you sad that you missed something.  However, as I said, the ravioli didn’t leave anything to be desired.  If I had only this and the tartare, I would have been just fine.

Normally, the truffles would stop at this point.  No way, hombre.  This was a THREE course truffle dinner, and this was a once-in-a-lifetime-until-they-see-the-returns-that-this-night-got-in-terms-of-the-total-number-of-covers-event.  So let’s bring on the truffle desserts.

I must admit, I was a little bit nervous when it came to desserts.  I mean, seriously?  I’ve had eggplant and chocolate (not bad), olive oil ice cream (good if made well), basil ice cream (really good if made well, à la the bent spoon in princeton, nj), and other strange desserts that I can’t remember at this moment.  But truffles?

Yes.  Truffles.

First off, truffle ice cream is an acquired taste.  Since I don’t really have a sweet tooth, it took me .2 seconds to acquire it.  I wish that the first dish had a scoop of this ice cream on it instead of the poached egg.  It was that savory.  Somehow the savoriness also made it seem like it wasn’t even cold.  I have no idea how it was even a solid, to be honest.  It just tasted like solid truffle oil with shaved truffle on top.  It had little walnut shortbread cookies and salted chestnuts with it, which only enhanced the salty milkshake quality.

But, the problem is, I can’t really say that I didn’t enjoy it.  I strangely enjoyed it a lot.  And I can’t quite pinpoint why.

The truffle-honey cake was good.  I’ll leave it at that.  I wasn’t in love with the combination of the bosc pears and whipped ricotta and truffles and cake and honey.  It felt like a salty cake.  I think this one was a stretch.  I may have been biased since I don’t really enjoy Italian-style cakes (the sight of panettone this weekend gave me the shivers and, I’m sorry, but olive oil cake is just a waste of time) but it didn’t do it for me.  It tasted like truffles, though, so I suppose it was “mission accomplished.”  And with that, my Monday night dinner was finished.

All in, I have to give it up to the boys at Locanda Verde.  They have suckered me into eating at the restaurant twice in as many months for this special dinners.  ”Affordable” prix fixe menus are the hot trend du jour, and these guys are really doing it the right way.  Based on the food I got and their food costs, do I know that they are coming out ahead on $50 per head?  Of course.  Do I care?  Not really.  Will I go back to Locanda Verde?  Probably.

And that’s just good business right there.

A man, a plan. Squash, beets.

I have made time to make dinner for myself two nights in a row now.  While I usually do eat at home during the week, I rarely make it a big production.  For the past two nights, however, I have found myself wanting more than mere sustenance.  I have wanted to eat something a) fresh b) relatively healthy and c) tasty.

I was off from work on Wednesday, so I made the trek down to the Westside Market on the UWS.  I was going to go to Fairway, but didn’t feel like it, to be honest.  It was already 5.30pm an I knew the lines would be out of control already.

Totally unsure of what I was going to make, I picked up a few random items and decided I would challenge myself: parsnips, a butternut squash, Saga blue cheese, a couple of tomatoes (I know, I know, not seasonal, but they looked pretty decent), baby arugula, bartlett pears, gala apples, vegetable stock, this great pre-made roasted artichoke couscous they have there, and some other stuff unrelated to this blog post (cereal and soy milk if you must know.  burgerboy like soy milk).

I got home with no idea as to what I was going to do with these random ingredients.  Since I have been doing a lot of traveling and galavanting about town, I have had little time to keep my refrigerator very stocked.  I took a quick inventory of the fridge: random condiments of various ages, corn tortillas, couple of Ronnybrook yogurts and an eggnog, an old ziploc bag with dark miso, baking soda, a bottle of club soda, ground flaxseed (yes, I am an 80 year-old man. And I am allergic to salmon, so I need to get my omega-3’s, ok?), and some really old coffee grounds.  The freezer was not much better.  Although that black chicken is looking ready to be used and abused.

Slightly discouraged and ready to call up Land Thai, which I have saved in my phonebook, I gave one quick glance in the far drawer.  This drawer takes a lot of effort to open, because it requires the refrigerator door to be fully opened, which requires moderate agility and effort based on the configuration of my apartment.

Here is a diagram.

The drawer is on the left side of the fridge.  See, that requires some work.

Anyway, I opened this drawer and discovered… BEETS!  I had bought them a few weeks back from the Rexcroft Farm at the D’ag farmer’s market, and they provided me with the inspiration that I needed.  I was going to make a roasted beet, pear, and blue cheese salad with arugula and toasted butternut squash seeds, and a butternut squash mash over the roasted artichoke couscous.  BAM.  How’s that for some quick thinking?

I threw the beets into the oven at about 375 degrees and let them work their magic while I prepped the rest of my dishes.  I cubed up the butternut squash and toasted the seeds with some cumin, cayenne pepper, and salt, and set those aside to top my salad (after snacking on about half of them).  Then it was time to make a bartlett pear wish it had never been picked from the tree.

Look at those skills.  That’s my handy steel in the background. I really showed that pear who is boss.  I think it looks like a big grub or something like you’d see on Andrew Zimmern’s show.

There’s another view.  I thought it was cool.

I pulled the beets out of the oven and let them cool down a bit as I prepared the butternut squash.  For that, I took the cubed butternut squash (pretty good-sized chunks, maybe an 1-1.5″), threw about a cup and half or so into a non-stick pan with some oil, browned them, then added a little water into the pan and covered it to steam the squash through.  When they were fork-tender, I dusted them lightly with some cumin and a little rubbed sage, added a touch of brown sugar to glaze them, and threw in some freshly chopped green onions.  Done.

With that completed, I put my knife skills to the test yet again, this time with the beets.  They didn’t look as cool so i didn’t take a picture.    But I did take a picture of the finished product.

Look at that sweet action.  Look at that layering, look at the attention to spacing and composition.  Look at those nuggets of creamy blue cheese and crunchy bits of butternut squash seeds poking through the spicy baby arugula.  So many simple flavors, coming through in a symphony of salty and sweet, creamy and crunchy.  Dressing, you ask?  Something this good needs only a light-handed pour of some organic olive oil and a few splashes of balsamic vinegar.  It kinda reminds me of a culinary school 101-type dish.  Since I didn’t go to culinary school, I am ok with that.  Well, technically, I did go to a culinary school, but I didn’t learn to cook there.

I also had my couscous on the side, but it looked a little more bland by comparison.  But it tasted damn good.  And just so you guys don’t think I am out of control with portion size, the plate below is not a full-sized dinner plate, I promise.

Tune in next time for but’nut squash, part 2: Faux-sotto, or, “I wish I had a ricer.”

Turkey Osso Buco, and a tribute to a legend.

A few years back, before I found out that my entire database of Thanksgiving memories was built on a corporately fragmented hard drive, but after I had built enough of a true database to know that I did not like traditionally roasted turkey, my family started to mix it up on Turkey Day.

One year, it was a Thanksgiving goose (roasted on potatoes that cooked in the goose fat… how could that have been bad?).  Another year, a lavender-smoked duck.  Another year, another piece of fowl.  Something about the Burgerrati family just yearns to rebel against the Thanksgiving tradition.

This year not being an exception, it was decided that this year’s feast would feature a new addition to the mix: the turkey osso buco.  My stepmom found a recipe from Giada (I know, I know), and it couldn’t have been simpler.

It’s a few quick steps: brown the turkey in oil after a light dusting of flour  (the recipe calls for the breast and thigh, but the breast is not necessary at all, just stick with the dark meat, including the drumstick), add the mirepoix, cook until soft, add some white wine and some tomato paste, add the turkey back into the pot and cover with stock.  Pop it into the oven and let it do it’s thang.  Couldn’t be easier.

Oh yeah, and on top is a little gremolata (parsley, lemon zest, garlic, rosemary, salt/pepper).  Yep, be jealous.

The best part is, you don’t even need to do this on Thanksgiving– it’s anytime food.

Now, on to another piece of business.  As you all know, I just got back from a little journey to the left coast.  And, as I always do, I stopped by In-n-Out.  I just can’t resist its charm.  I even took pictures of my lunch, and was all ready to write a great post about the feelings that I-N-O evinces from my very soul.  It was going to get me published in a national publication (again- ZING!).  It would be my master oeuvre.

Imagine my dismay when I see this.  Quelle horreur!  What the hell, Nick?  You took my glory.  You are already a well-known blogger man, give some love to the little guys!  But you know what, I am going to do it anyway.  And, check out that link again, and look at the comments.  Look who started typing I-N-O first.  Yeah, burgerblogger, that’s who.

In any case, I got to experience the joy that is In-n-Out when I was back home.  While I was in high school, a location opened about a quarter-mile from my house.  This was a great addition to the ‘hood, and it allowed me to start experiencing burgers for more than just a patty of ground beef on a bun.  When this location opened, it turned out to be one of the few places on which both my mom and I could agree that we liked the food.  It was one of the few places that my mom would get excited about if I mentioned I wanted to go there.  That memory has stayed with me, and I reserve my In-in-Out trips for when I am staying at her house.

There it is- the lunch of champions.  A glorious 880 calories.

Yes.

Dear Ronnybrook: You have a rival.

But they are only in LA, so I guess you’re not really going to be competing for share.  And they are not organic or hormone-free, so again, not really competition.

Anyway, while out in LA over the past week, I had the pleasure of trying Broguiere’s milk.  It’s the last old-school, glass-bottled dairy left in the LA area.  It’s located in Montebello, but widely available in various grocery stores all over.

When I first saw the product, I was at the grocery store with burgermom, and I noticed the glass bottles in the dairy aisle.  ”Hmm, this looks just like Ronnybrook bottles.”  My mom then told me that they were featured on an episode of California Gold, a local PBS show featuring Huell Howser (an incredibly cheesy show highlighting local events and places in California).  Not really wanting to buy milk or the egg nog, since I was only in town for a couple of days, we passed on it and finished our shopping.

The next night, after watching the Newshour (my mom does not have cable, so TV options are limited), California Gold was on, and was featuring, what do you know, Broguiere’s Dairy!  My mom and I watched the show, and watched them make their famous chocolate milk, which is still hand-made in big steel tanks by adding one part chocolate syrup to 10 parts whole milk.

Huell downed a sip, and made it out to be incredible.  It looked pretty good.  Interest scale: 5.5 out of 10.

Then, being around the holidays, they had an additional featurette on the eggnog.  Again, it is mixed by hand, in the same steel tanks, but contains a decadently golden custard base and additional heavy cream.  Huell again exclaimed his praises, and said it was the best thing out there since the Broguiere’s chocolate milk.  Interest scale: 10 out of 10.

So burgermom and I headed out to the local How’s at about 9 o’clock.  My mom doesn’t keep anything sweet in the house, so this was going to be our dessert after a lovely skirt steak with roasted fingerling potatoes and brussels sprouts.

We got back from the store and got our glasswares ready.  The chocolate milk went first, since the nog would probably kill anything remaining on the palate.  The chocolate milk was very good.  I would still say that the Ronnybrook chocolate milk is a bit better.  You can tell with Broguiere’s that they’re not using the best chocolate syrup out there, so the quality is really buoyed by the freshness of the whole milk they are using.  This didn’t stop my mom from downing about three-fourths of the bottle, but I was not resoundingly singing its praises.

Then came the eggnog.  The nog features Huell’s face on it, and it has done so for about the last nine years, since the story originally came out on California Gold.  The nog has just started hitting the shelves, and I must say that I was glad I was there to experience it.  I am going to go out on a limb and say it is the best eggnog I have ever had.  There, I said it.  It’s thick, it’s rich, it’s heavily spiced, it is Christmas in a glass.  It has that slight heat from the nutmeg and spices that gives it depth, and the copious amounts of egg and heavy cream give it a whole lot of body.  This, I must say, is better than the eggnog produced by Ronnybrook.  It hurts to type it, but it’s the truth.  If you are ever in LA over the holidays, do yourself a huge favor and get some.

But wait, there’s more!

When drinking/eating this eggnog, I thought that it would be tremendous if put into an ice cream maker.  Since Thanksgiving dinner was coming up, what better occasion to try it out.  I took to the interweb to see if others have done it, since I was surely not the first person to have this revelation.  Alas, others had.  Many complained that the finished product was not creamy enough, instead coming together as a spongey, almost stringy product.  A delicious one, but not exactly ice cream like, either.  I decided to then cut it with some lean milk (to balance out what I am guessing is the coagulant-like qualities of the egg yolks giving the nog its golden hue) and some bourbon (to prevent the ice cream from getting too icy).

I mixed everything together in a bowl (one and one-half cup nog, one cup 2% milk, and a couple of tablespoons of bourbon) pulled out the ice cream maker at burgerdad’s house.  At first, the product looked like any other ice cream being freshly made.

Pretty uneventful for a few minutes.  I was hoping that my own thoughtfully prepared mixture would beat LA Chowhounders whose recipes couldn’t cut the custard (what a pun!).  After about ten minutes or so in the maker, though, the signs started pointing towards ice cream land.

Things seemed to be working out alright.  It looked a little icy, possibly from the skim milk addition, but it still seemed to be working out.  A quick taste still confirmed that it had that same richness, and the bourbon didn’t hurt, either.

Here’s how it was another five minutes or so later.  You can see that there there is some slight ice build-up on the cutter, but on the bottom right-hand corner, you can see that some of creaminess was still coming through, and the taste was still great.

At that stage, it was done.  Took it out, and it was still creamy, some of that initial icy-ness was gone.  I was quite pleased with the finished product.  However, after a couple of hours in the freezer, it unfortunately lost some of its initial creaminess and was a bit icy, almost like a blend of a sorbet and an ice cream.  While this was nice accompanied with a fresh slice of pumpkin pie and whipped cream, it was not ideal if served alone.

Not deterred, I am writing down some notes that I had in terms of the mix:

- Continue to cut the eggnog with milk, but use whole milk instead.  While the skim milk was a good idea in theory, in practice it was not really the best.

- Transfer the ice cream out of its maker when done, and put into something that will not remain quite as cold (such as a plastic container).  I think this would have prevented a little bit of the change in consistency.

- Use more bourbon.  Just because.  And maybe for its low freeze point.  But mostly just because.

Yet another reason to get this nog.  If only I had an ice cream maker here in NYC…

It’s turkey time.

 

It must almost be Thanksgiving.

It seems like all I do these days is go to Kennedy Airport and head off to faraway lands.  Today I’m heading to the left coast, to pay a visit to the burgerrents.  And, of course, it is thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is a great holiday.  I mean, when else can you unabashedly stuff your face with rich foods, using the excuse, “well, it is thanksgiving…”?  Never.  Except maybe Christmas, New Year’s, your birthday, groundhog day, every other Monday, and Friday.  Oh, and saturday.

Growing up, Thanksgiving always meant stuffing and canned cranberry jelly.  To this day, I still look forward to eating both of those items on the magical fourth Thursday in November.  Now, as a little kid, I was slightly fooled about the Thanksgiving stuffing that my dad used to make.  My mom, being a foreigner, didn’t really know too much about stuffing, and made it out that my dad’s stuffing was this revelation, a recipe handed down from generation to generation (although, in retrospect, I highly doubt my italian-born great-grandmother knew what Thanksgiving stuffing was).

In any event, the smell of my dad’s stuffing permeated the house on Thanksgiving Day, and the taste was always delightful.  I hoped that some day, I, too, would be able to make this magical delicacy.

A few years ago, I got my chance.  I was asked to cook Thanksgiving dinner for my family a couple of family friends.  I started to plan months in advance, thinking about how the timing would work, and how my culinary skills would astound and amaze my guests.  There would be butternut squash soup with toasted pine nuts, pancetta, and a sage cream, mashed potatoes with rosemary and caramelized shallots, chickpea flat bread with rosemary and gorgonzola, turkey, and, of course, my great-great-great-great grandmother’s super-secret recipe for turkey stuffing.

I knew that it had one ingredient: breakfast sausage.  It never really dawned on me that again, a foreigner would not have breakfast sausage.  Especially not Jimmy Dean breakfast sausage.  I guess this was another one of those things that I was fooled about, just like Uncle Ben being my uncle.

That was an honest mistake.  I thought he was just really tanned.

Anyway, I asked my dad if he had the recipe.  Thinking he would say, “yes, son, I can give you the recipe, but promise me you’ll guard it with your life.”  Then, he would pull it out of his wallet: a frayed, worn-to-the-point-of-being-like-cotton recipe card, written in ancient script (aka, cursive).  He would hand it to me with a look of pride, as I, his only son, would inherit the stuffing recipe.

Imagine my dismay when he told me, “Uhh, I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I think the recipe is from the package of Pepperidge Farm stuffing.  I mean, it’s just sausage, celery, and onions.”

WHAT?!

PEPPERIDGE FARM?  My entire childhood was based on a recipe that some “test kitchen” at the Campbell’s Company came up with?  Jimmy Dean® Old Fashioned Breakfast sausage™, onions, LUCKY Brand celery, Swanson®-brand chicken stock for moisture, and a bag of Pepperidge Farm®-brand stuffing (Original™ or Herb Seasoned™), baked for about 45 minutes in a Pyrex® a pre-heated 350-degree General Electric Monogram™ oven was not a Burgeretti family recipe?  Are you kidding me?  I was duped by corporate america?

Apparently I had been.

I always knew that the cranberry jelly came from a can, so that wasn’t really a problem for me.  But this whole stuffing thing basically meant that my entire Thanksgiving history was based on a corporate sham.  A rich, meaty, delicious sham, but a sham nonetheless.  What was next?  Was mom’s Easter “alphabet-shaped pasta in a sweet and highly viscous red tomato-sauce-like sauce” also a widely available commercial product?

Couldn’t be.

In other news, here’s a picture of a grass-fed sirloin steak I made last night.  Just thought I’d share.  I’d also like to give a shout-out to chanterelle mushrooms, just because they are awesome.  Especially when they are cooked in a pan that has leftover black truffle bits and butter in it.  I’m just saying, they are delicious.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

 

MMM, salty.

In today’s MediaPost email blast, there was an article about Diamond Crystal Salt’s new advertising campaign, which features a microsite called Salt101, which features information about Diamond Crysal salt and features Alton Brown.

Now, normally I wouldn’t visit a brand’s microsite, unless it was the age-old classic, “will it blend?”  However, a quick visit to the site actually entertained me for a good 15 minutes, as I learned why I should buy Diamond salt now, in all of its various forms and shapes and sizes.  It also had a few interesting ideas and applications of salt, most of which are admittedly common among foodie circles, but are probably lesser-known among the masses.

The videos are short but entertaining, and are organized into two areas: the kitchen and the lab.  The former tackles home cooking and uses of salt, while the latter focuses on the science stuff.  Whoever produced these shorts was probably watching Wes Anderson movies for a few weeks straight prior to makng the videos, because each one is like watching Life Aquatic or the Royal Tenenbaums.  Either way, the site was well worth the visit.

avec Chicago, aka, “how much more fat can I eat?”

I found myself in Chicago this past weekend, you know, just for a change in scenery.  And an interview that could change my ENTIRE FUTURE.  Not that there was any pressure or anything.

Anyway, I like Chicago a lot, and from what I’ve heard, it’s becoming quite the culinary center of the midwest.  Maybe I’m biased since I was born there, but I always have felt some sort of strange connection with the place, even though I have never lived there as an adult, and I have only visited it a couple times while cognizant of my surroundings (although I was a very astute toddler).

I arrived on Friday evening, after nearly having a panic attack that my flight would be delayed hours and hours because of the storm, and I wanted to be on my A-game before the BIG INTERVIEW.  Fortunately, everything went as planned, and I found myself at the Hotel Allegro (it’s a KIMPTON property, fools!), located on West Randolph and North La Salle.

Now, for a little bit of a background– Thursday night, I had gone to Lupa for a work dinner, and chatted with my new buddy Mike, who happens to be a manager at Lupa, and also happens to be a native Chicagoan.  I asked him for some solid recommendations, being that I would be rollin’ solo in Chi-town.  He dropped me an email with a litany of places, and I knew that I would be lucky to get to even one of them.

(For those of you who are curious: “Chicago restaurants: Blackbird and avec. Schwa. Doug’s Dogs. If you wanna go very fancy then you must try one of the best restaurants in the world: Alinea. I also have a good blues club: rosa’s. I have more ideas but that’s the top of my head.
Brunch at Anne Sather. If you get up North go to Sarki’s in Wilmette or wings at Buffalo Joes in Evanston. Deep dish pizza at Giordanos. Walker bros pancake house on greenbay rd in Wilmette.”)

Looking on Google maps on my phone, I saw that Avec was a mere stone’s throw away from my hotel.  With a grumbling stomach, I headed west on a mission.  Upon arrival, I was slightly scared by the fact that there was a mass of people waiting both outside and in.  It was already 730 and I needed at least a good night’s sleep before the BIG INTERVIEW.

However, Avec looks like this:

See the big bar?  This is where I was hoping I could make my move.  Being a solo diner, I nonchalantly walked up to the host and said, “hey man, how are you doing?  I’m all by my lonesome tonight.”  Now, at the time, and actually up until I just wrote that down, I didn’t realize how much like a pick-up line that probably sounded.  In retrospect, it would have sounded maybe a little bit cooler had I said it to the hostess (featured picture left) instead of the large awkward man (also featured left, sorta).  Either way, my point was that I was eating alone on a Friday night, and I had to make it sound cool.

I was surprisingly seated within about 5-10 minutes, after which the hostess APOLOGIZED that I had to wait.  I knew I wasn’t in NYC anymore when that happened.  I’m so used to feeling like I need to apologize when I make restaurant hosts do their jobs.  ”Sorry I decided to eat here and ruin your staring contest with the Opentable screen– should I come back?  I hear there is an open reservation for two at 10:45?”

Anyway, I sat down and perused the menu, which was composed of mostly small plates.  Now, small plates are truly only “small plates” when you are eating with someone else.  When you are by yourself, it’s more like eating four meals.  But I was hungry, so it was all good.

The menu was great, and I can only imagine what it would be like if I could have tried more than only a handful of things– they had great looking and smelling flatbreads, and a laundry list of pork and offal products.  I knew that I had to go with the braised berkshire cheeks with blood sausage and cabbage, and also the stuffed dates with chorizo, wrapped in bacon.  At this point, I felt that I had already too much on my plate, so I decided to ask my man behind the bar how much more I would need:

“How hungry are you?”

- I mean, I can eat (that’s my code for saying, are you calling me a wimp?  I can eat more than anyone you know.)

“Well, what are you thinking?”

- Definitely the pork cheeks, and the dates

“Aight, we’ll do a half order of the dates and the cheeks.  Maybe one more thing.  The squash is good, the fish is good, the salad is actually pretty good”

- (I knew this guy was speaking my language when he said, “the salad is actually good”) What about the veal liver?

[Looking extremely pleased, like I had just passed the "lonely loser at the bar on a Friday night surrounded by couples" test and unlocked our everlasting friendship] “You like the gamey stuff, huh? Excellent.  Let’s get it started.”

 

I then entered the world of arterial pain.  First, the dates arrived.

Now, it might be hard to tell from the photo, but “date” is really a misnomer here.  I would call it “bacon wrapped chorizo ball with a touch of date.”  It was served with a freshly heated mini spanish bread loaf, and came in a spicy-sweet tomato-based sauce.  It was tremendous.  This paired with a nice carafe of rioja was going to be put in a good spirit for the rest of the evening.

After devouring a half-order of the dates, which was probably enough to be my meal, the seared veal liver arrived.  I didn’t get a chance to take a picture because I immediately started to stuff my face with it.  It was a simple veal liver accompanied by parsnips, rapini, and bacon.  The liver itself had a little bit of gristle, which is to be expected, but the flavor was excellent and the bacon was a perfect complement without overpowering the dish.  I was innard heaven.

Now, between the two dishes, I probably had consumed far more than I needed to.  Bear in mind, people around me were getting TWO dishes, sharing them, and leaving.  I was by myself and was outlasting people by a good hour.  The time was about 9 o’clock, and I still hadn’t done my preparations.  But in the moment, I didn’t care.  I was eating great food and was in a good place.  Much better than staring at a TV while stressing out.

I finished my carafe of rioja and decided to live a little and get a beer.  I got a Belgian La Binchoise Amber Reserve Speciale, which paired nicely with my (second to) last course: the braised pork cheeks, served with blood sausage and cabbage, barley and artichokes.

Just a little side note at this point.  You see how all of the dishes arrive in a vessel from which you are supposed to serve yourself?  Well, they continued to give me a clean plate with every course, and despite the fact that I was eating by myself, I continued to serve myself small portions, as though I would leave the rest for someone else.  It made me feel like a dignified gentleman, and not some sort of ruffian eating from the serving bowl.

Now, back to the cheeks.  They were amazing.  I don’t know if it was the euphoria from eating my favorite part of my favorite animal, or some sort of other drug-like quality of the dish, but I was in heaven.  I can still remember the feeling from eating it, not just the taste.  I am a bit partial since I love blood sausage, as announced in my DBGB post, but the dish was perfectly balanced, with salty but creamy sausage pieces and chewy barley bits and sweet artichoke bits and big pork cheek bits.  It was chock full of bits.  I could only muster a satisfied thumbs-up when my buddy the bartender would walk by to see what was going on.  When I finally was able to get a couple of words out, I could just say, “this is awesome, man.  You guys are rockin’ it.”

I finished everything in that bowl (in four smaller servings) and poured out every last bit of the sauce (the bowl had a nice pouring spout).  When the guy took away the plate, I finally plead guilty to having over-eaten.

“You good?”

- Man, I’m cashed.  Everything was awesome.

“Alright man, I was gonna say, if you had room in your stomach, you should get the pasta, it’s phenomenal.”

I had seen the pasta.  It looked phenomenal.  But the time was 9.40 and I still had that little meeting (yeah, I had downplayed it by this point) in the morning.  But the pasta looked so good.  I saw man orders of it go out from my bar/kitchen vantage point.  So creamy, so delicious-looking.

- I’m gonna have to come back for that.  For sure…  But let me do some cheese.”

So I got some cheese.  Some Tomme de Savoie and some Torta del Casar, to be exact.  It came with more of that delicious bread and a small parsley and marcona almond salad.  And my buddy threw another beer at me just for kicks.  Maybe he saw how sad I was when I looked at the pasta on the menu: “Housemade pasta with veal and offal bolognese, cream and fresh herbs.”  It was like a dish created just for me.  It didn’t even say what offal were included, and it didn’t matter to me.  A quick google search yielded this twitter update from some dude that I don’t know: “Avec was en fuego last eve..lots of offal…pumpkin/ginger soup w/ crispy veal heart, awesome and the offal Bolognese, terrific.”

I wish I could have twittered about eating offal bolognese.

In retrospect, the fact that I ordered some cheese is completely understandable.  He employed a little of asking if I wanted another big thing (“that’s way too much food”) made me feel obligated to get another small thing (“I suppose it’s just some cheese”).  It’s simple psychology, as explained by Richard Cialdini in his book Influence, and I fell for it like a sucker.

But I didn’t care.  The meal was great, and I couldn’t have been happier and in better spirits, for that, umm, I think I had something in the morning I had to go to…

Anyway, just go to Avec if you’re in Chicago.  But take a friend.  My buddy at the bar also recommended a place called Belly Shack, which is on North Michigan near Armitage (surprised I didn’t see it, I was walking around up there).  I didn’t get a chance to check it out, but I’d like to.

The Return: Minetta Tavern Redux.

A lazy tune plays over speakers, the tinny brass melodies permeate the air. The soft golden lighting casts a nostalgic hue over the scene at the bar.  Sipping a scotch on the rocks at the bar, I can’t help but think of countless others who have been in the same situation as I, and just as content.

A lonely madame sits at the bar, gazing into what should be smoke-filled air.  She listens to conversations of those around her, yet she herself is without companionship, at least for the moment…

A suave blond gentleman enters the scene, he appears to know everyone, and everyone appears to know him. Or perhaps they are just pretending.  He. looks around before wandering to the bar for an aperitif.  Receiving it, he retreats to a corner of the bar.  Perhaps it was all an act.

A cold whiskey warms to soul while it numbs the senses.  A good night to come.

Ok, maybe the scene at Minetta Tavern this past friday wasn’t so reminiscent of James Joyce, but it was still pretty good.  BG’s dad hooked up the friday night reservation, and out of the kindness of his heart, also paid the bill.

We first sat down to what I was sure would be another great meal at Minetta Tavern.  The black label was a must, but the steaks were to be the main event for the evening.  Kicking it off, I ordered an appetizer special of day boat scallops and mushrooms, which ended up being a delicious mixture of mushrooms, scallops, and butter.  I mean, how could you go wrong?  Some other apps at the table included fresh heirloom salad (I suppose the “healthy choice”), a puréed soup of some sort with oysters, roasted beet salad, and salt-cod stuffed calamari.

All that out of the way, it was time to relive a magical memory that I had experienced six months prior.  The black. label. burger.

Yes, the black label burger was an intermezzo. It came out, divided in thirds (for me, BG, and the BGD).  I didn’t waste any time, going straight in without adding anything to it, which is exactly how I had done it the time before.  It was as tremendous as ever.  Thinking about it now makes my mouth water.  No, seriously, it does.  It’s that good.  One third wasn’t enough.  I wanted more.  But I knew that a whole lot of red meat was on its way.

And it arrived.  The côte de boeuf, shared among three of us, even though the menu indicates that it’s for two.  I don’t think that I know two people who could polish that bad boy off.  It came with three giant bones split open for the roasted marrow action (a BB favorite), and a plethora of delicious meat.  And we rocked it.  We rocked it till the cows came home.  It was just a blur of carnage that my arteries have yet to forget.  I fully recommend it, but maybe, just maybe, start with something light and do the black label if (ok, when) you have room for it.

For dessert, we had the chocolate soufflé, which was light and fluffy like a soufflé should be, with a subtle egginess that made it like rich velvet on the tongue.  Chocolatey velvet, that is.  The perfect end to another fantastic meal at Minetta.

It already feels like it’s time to go back.

Update: Feel free to poison yourself at will.

After major outcry on the FDAs ban on raw Gulf oysters in the summer, the organization is now delaying its decision until further studies are done.

Although the initial proposal would not have gone into effect for some time, this gives ample time for a realistic solution to be developed in conjunction with local Gulf Coast fisheries (I hope, at least).  Since when did food politics get so one-sided, anyway?
BB was in Chicago for the weekend– a food update to come shortly.  I also owe all of you guys a much-delayed entry on Minetta Tavern.  Mea culpa, mea culpa.

The world may not be your oyster.

According to an article in today’s The Los Angeles Times, Louisiana legislature may ban the consumption of raw oysters harvested during the warm months.  Don’t they listen to the old “no oysters in months without an ‘r’?” adage?  Why does uncle sam need to tell them how to live their lives?

I’m certainly no fan of getting poisoned by a bivalve mollusk.  You eat a raw oyster in July, you’re potentially asking for it.  Eat one in September, and you’re singin’ a tune.

The legislation is meeting opposition among locals, who say that the machinery required to “treat” raw oysters is expensive and it’s going to harm more than it’s going to help.  To quote a man from the article: “To protect everybody from everything, we’d stop driving in cars. We’d stop driving in planes. We’d stop getting out of bed.’

I’d like him to find me a plane in which one can drive, because I think that would be pretty cool.  But I have to disagree that I would stop getting out of bed in order to stay protected from things.  After all, my roof could collapse, I could get bed sores, I could even look dumb because of bed-head.  Basically, nowhere is safe.

That said, I applaud Louisiana for making people follow age-old expressions.  Those rhymes were invented for a reason– to save lives.  Next time you’re at the grocery store or rummaging through your fridge, remember these little ditties:

- “A bulging can can kill you, man.”

- “Mayonnaise in the sun, that’ll be no fun.”

- “If fish smells fishy, your tummy might feel squishy.”

- “Don’t eat that raw chicken, it’ll give you the shits.”

You’re welcome.