Review: Balboa Sushi House

Is there a restaurant more inviting than the Balboa Sushi House? With its profusion of house plants standing in pots and hanging from hooks, its fish tanks, and assortment of lamps, baubles and knick knacks everywhere, it feels more like a college-town coffee house than Japanese restaurant.

The service -- that is to say, the friendly lady who runs the place -- is no different: warm, comfortable, relaxing. Last night we had to see some folks on Balboa, and by the time we were done, we figured we might as well grab a bite in the neighborhood and pray that La Malita Monkeypants wouldn't get too cranky.

She got cranky. We had to hold and feed her, which meant putting the hot soup to the side. After bringing our orders, Mrs. Balboa Sushi House did a remarkable thing. She cooed a bit over Lila then asked to hold her. Uh...well...sure! we said. There was only one other customer, so she held her for at least fifteen minutes. We ate in peace and listened as our hostess showed Lila around the room and spoke universal baby-language with her.

As for the food, it's run of the mill Japanese. My hot soba had nice large pieces of broccoli and cauliflower and didn't skimp on the chicken. The gyoza were light but devilishly crispy. Fanch's bento box was nothing special. It was nothing to make a detour for, and there are much better sushi options within a block or two. But it's a great place to go when your priorities are a cozy room, a hot bowl of noodles, and a few minutes of babysitting.

Puck Me? No, Puck You

Here's Anthony Bourdain on Wolfgang Puck's bone to pick with foie gras. Typical Fight Club sandwich:

"I think he should stop worrying about cruelty to animals and start worrying about all the customers he's flopping his crap on at airports. ... He got squeezed and pressured and phone-called from all angles, and like a good German shopkeeper he folded and sold out the people hiding in the cellar next door. I got no respect."

http://tinyurl.com/2z6b26

Yuck? Pork Tri-tip and Broccoli

Maybe this is a yuck stretch, but it's something that meets the main criterion for this kind of post: impromptu combination of leftovers. I heated up a cast-iron pan where I roasted a split chicken breast the night before, adding a little olive oil to the caked-on spices and fat. Chopped up some thin slices of pork tri-tip into diagonals, and threw them in when the pan sizzled. Then tossed in steamed broccoli and about a tablespoon of dry sherry to deglaze. Two or three minutes later, I spooned out a stir-fry of sorts.

Yuck? Scrambled Eggs and Anchovies

I used white anchovies, the kind marinated in a vinagry brine, not the salty brown slivers from the tin. This is probably cheating, because I can eat anchovies all by themselves. But I wondered if the textures of scrambled eggs and soft salty fish would mesh. They did, but I think a key is to scramble the eggs to firmness with even a bit of brown around the edges. Runny scrambled eggs and anchovies would be less appealing, though it certainly wouldn't stop me.

Review: Kazu Sushi

The world's pelagic fish population might not be around when Miss Monkeypants is old enough to eat sushi, so we figured she should at least have some exposure before it's too late.

Friday night we bundled her off to Kazu Sushi on Irving between 9th and 10th -- it used to be Chika, and it's unclear if the ownership or just the name changed.

It had a few problems. The room was chilly, and the space heater deployed across from our table didn't help much because -- oops! -- it wasn't plugged in, as I found out about half way through the meal. Not surprising -- the staff was a bit scattered. But they remained friendly and happy to coo over a newborn. They were impressed, as were the couple at the next table visiting from Portsmouth, N.H., that she could take the hubbub; at one point she sat in my lap, sipped from a bottle, and surveyed the scene. (For what it's worth, the Portsmouth woman's brother, who lives here, told her Kazu was his favorite sushi place. I didn't ask for his name.)

The food was better. The numerous specials were all in transliterated Japanese. I asked our waitress to describe them in English, but it was rudimentary information at best. (A typical exchange: "What's this?" "Rrr, mmm, how to say, eh...pork." "Pork?" "Yessu. Pork. Glillu.")

I ordered a couple mystery dishes, just for the hell of it. It's one of my favorite activities: sampling apps that only a native Japanese might love. (Monkfish liver pate is one of these that have tentatively crossed the line into sushi-bar acceptance in certain American quarters.) The gamble paid off with the shishamo, small grilled anchovies or smelt, perhaps, that were eaten whole, head and all. It fell flat with the cold soggy pickled... I think they were sardines.

I loved the sushi we ordered: nothing too wacky, a white tuna tataki roll and a dragon roll with spicy salmon.

Coming soon: The Fanch reviews an invasive species, the grand opening of Pacific Catch where the beloved Canvas Cafe used to be.

Gary Danko Wants His Umami

The video I shot recently got good play over the weekend on WSJ.com:

Yay! This was a heck of a lot of fun. My colleague Stacey Delo also makes a lot of the work look easy. Have me over for soup and ask me about it.

Review: House of Banquet

I am a simple man. On Sundays, unless I've committed to beaten eggs in my Calphalon, I'm crazy for the cuisines of the Far East -- particularly those heavy on the dumplings. Doing errands on foot and on the early side yesterday, I sought out the sit-down places of inner Clement. After a false start across the street (dim sum for take-out, or for taking into a separate seating area, meh), I ended up at House of Banquet, a double-decked establishment that I never conceived of visiting before.

The hostess sees me coming and opens the door to let me in. She smiles when I ask if dim sum was being served. "Upstairs," she said. "Every day." OK, sold. I head up.

As you can see from this image, courtesy of House of Banquet's Web site, you could have a little fun with the dining room's interior desecration. Gold drapes over mirrors, octagon-shaped light wells, chairs in orange, blue or beige upholstery set off by a massive mural: all the design touches of Johan van der Smut, a Dutch scalawag better known as Goldmember. At the very least it's stimulating. The piped-in music is some R&B station, so I'm taking this all in to Junior Walker's "Shotgun" and then "Good Times" by Chic. Yeah, baby.

Here's something else that's interesting: These kinds of establishments apparently are up to certain other standards. Not saying anything. All of the chairs at my table, for example, were stained. (Orange isn't that good at hiding blotches of soy sauce or who knows what.) My plate and tea cup were chipped more than once; you couldn't miss it. The headwaiter approaches, and he seems like a nice guy, looking good in a jacket and tie with a blue collared shirt. He's really nice, asking me if I want anything in particular. Yes, I say: I'd like Shanghai-style pork and ginger dumplings. He'll get that for me, he says. I can't help but notice that his jacket is soiled, enough so that you can tell even five feet away. He could get it laundered, but maybe he's busy and keeps this one handy at the restaurant. I don't think he minds, and he stops at the table of three Chinese ladies next to me to kibbitz every now and then. They love it and don't seem to mention it. Just saying.

The carts start making their way across the floor with their pork buns and porridge and chicken feet and assorted other delicacies, and the waitress makes an effort to try to translate, with the help of the Chinese ladies. They have a few laughs and don't come up with anything in English. No matter; I know this drill. I pick up a couple things I've had before and some newish things, like chive dumplings and a variation of siu mai that looks like Japanese gyoza. My neighbors giggle. I'm having fun eating the buns with my hands, listening to "1999" followed by Big Boi's "The Way You Move."

The headwaiter stops by a couple times, checking on my teapot, asking "Everything OK here?" in a casual manner. Yes, it is. I end with a special dessert, four green-tea puffs in little crinkle cups, with poppy seeds and paste inside. The ladies approve, going "Waaah!" when they're brought out. I'm sure they're flash-fried, but are not oily at all, capping the steamed indulgences earlier with savory-sweet decadence.

I put a $20 into the tab booklet and head out; the headwaiter gives me a head bob and thanks me again. The hostess downstairs smiles. "How was everything?" Great, I say. See you next time. Bye bye.

Yuck? Dover Sole and Croissant

Thawing a chicken to roast and yet peckish, I take out the last fillet of sole left over from the improvised cioppino the other night. I cut a croissant from Schubert's in half and toast it quick. Topped it with the warmed fillet, which was pan-fried in a little butter and seasoned later with lemon juice. A little taramosalata, and bam!

Very good. Croissants make most things very good.

Review: Little Star

I'll keep this short, as this is a restaurant review without the restaurant. Twice we've had takeout from Little Star, and twice we've peed in our pants over how good it is. Last night: a deep-dish sausage and green pepper, and a thin-crust with chicken, feta and artichoke hearts. We have one slice of deep dish left today, and we're going to fight over who gets it.