Dateline: Bloomington, Ind., home of my sister the folklore grad student and her engineer fiance. A few things to report on the culinary front:
* Befitting a liberal college town smack in the middle of one of the reddest states in the union, the Saturday farmer's market had plenty of fresh greens (mustard greens, arugula, beautiful heads of lettuce, herbs), two grumpy alte kackers making kettle corn, a dairy-and-egg stand with Biblical passages on the product labels, a sign-up booth for Obama '08, and a guy selling beer bratwurst at 9 am. I went for the bratwurst (kraut, sweet peppers, French's mustard). Then I went for the BBQ chicken tamal two booths down (topped with a homemade tomatillo sauce). Then I couldn't resist a bag of cracked black walnuts ($3).
The Biblical dairy stand had a sign that read "Cow shares available." I asked the blond fresh-faced man what that meant. Selling raw milk is illegal, but if you own the cow -- or a share of the cow -- you can do whatever you want with the milk, even drink it unpasteurized, the way God intended. Clever, eh?
* The best restaurant in town, Tallent, was the site of our dinner Thursday night. Just my sister and I, we decided to share everything and, befitting our foodieness and over-education, got down to giving it all a full-court critique. The waiter realized what he was in for early on when, asking if our salt cod cakes were good, we said "Yes, but could you tell us what the herb is that gives the accompanying garnish a slight taste of anise?" (Can you guess? A hint: it wasn't fennel.) He stuttered a bit, backed up a few steps, and said he'd ask the kitchen.
When ordering main courses, I couldn't decide between the halibut with local morels and fiddleheads and the lamb platter. My sister said, well, if you've never had morels, you really should, and so I did. The waiter heard all this, but when my halibut arrived, there were no morels to be found. So....where are the morels? I asked the waiter. He mumbled something about the kitchen running out, but only having enough to use for garnish on the other dishes, and I said, geez, that was sort of the reason I ordered the dish. Which, being privy to the earlier conversation, he knew full well. He wandered away without any resolution.
A couple bites into my halibut, a waitress who seemed to have more authority came over and apologized. The kitchen had apparently forgotten to tell the wait staff about the lack of morels, perhaps true, perhaps covering our waiter's ass. She comped the halibut dish and let me order something else gratis.
I went for the steak frites (appetizer portion).
I appreciated Tallent's efforts: local and sustainable ingredients whenever possible, creative yet unpretentious twists to nearly every dish, friendly service and a wonderful warm room. But $25-to-35 entrees demand scrutiny, and if things don't add up, you've done your diners a disservice.
* If you're ever in Bloomington, eat breakfast at the Runcible Spoon.
* Today my sister is grilling in the backyard, but afterwards we'll wander a few blocks to the local winery and sample the fruit wines.
* Best meal of the weekend: tie goes to two dishes, both by my sister. 1) Shrimp and hearts-of-palm salad. 2) Baked phyllo triangles stuffed with zucchini, goat cheese and roasted pine nuts. With luck, she'll join us Bistrovians soon and grace us with her recipes.
* Answer to the fennel question: it was French tarragon.
5/13/07
5/12/07
Adesso, Perbacco
As readers of this space know, I've had a thing for the spendy place downtown. As Jomo knows all too well, I finally was able to sit at table and partake. I report, you decide if it's a mash note.
During a hectic work week, I had planned on just after-work drinks with the lovely Kristen, before she headed off to the dining room beyond the bar with her fellow personal-finance staffers. (We bumped into da Fanch on the way in, and I'm proud to say that she has now seen the mysterious Jomo in person. Not to be confused with Mysterious Jomo.) But the pretty ornery personal-finance editor wouldn't have any of it: No way I was leaving.
At least three times I excused myself. He insisted he was buying me dinner. Actually, the company was buying, and interestingly, there was an extra spot. I'm still writing him a thank-you note.
There were nine of us in total, and we were at the far end upstairs, but we were not alone the whole night. The waiter pointed our evening's host to the super Tuscans on the wine list, and suggested several appetizers. I counted two waiters in shirts and ties, a woman who walks the floor and helps with wine and assorted runners pouring, clearing, checking.
We began with hamachi crudo, large serving plates of house salumi with pork paté (SFGate photo here), fritto misto, salt cod in a brandade style with crostini and the absolutely dynamite burata, which is folded soft cheeses that make a sort of pillow. I must be missing something, but I did note how divine the homemade rolls were -- warm, toothsome, a little sour and dusted with a touch of flour. I can't remember the last time I ate a dinner roll.
Then for our second courses, I had the salad of so-called little gems, which are like baby Romaine leaves. Burton, sitting across from me, insisted I have some of his octopus, which was bore a slight char from the grill. I'm having that when I go back.
My main dish was the Berkshire pork chop with borlotti beans, braised red chard and roasted tomatoes. It was a plump piece of pig patterned with a crosshatch from the grill, and it was perhaps the best-prepared chop I've ever had. The color within was similar to that of a flatiron steak ordered medium, and other than a little fat trimming, all of it was delectable.
For dessert, I paired homemade hazelnut cookies with a Vino Santo, and the cookies blew everyone away. Their looks were deceiving, because they seemed so rich but were so light to the touch.
On the way out later, I ask Umberto, the omniscient force on the floor at Perbacco, about the dish. "We start with a superior product," he said, and then comes the brining. As I said, Umberto knows.
We also had a little chat about the china cups for the servings of gelato, molded to have a slight dent to look and feel like Dixie cups. Umberto said that when they saw them, they thought they were the coolest.
Perbacco has staked out something people like -- upscale Italian -- and brings it with both barrels but none of the haute attitude. Burton did mention that the reservation was quite difficult to negotiate. Note for next time: Sample the five-hour pork sugo and/or roasted veal ragout. Maybe I can talk the parents into it, now that summer's coming. Also, study the wine list, since it's likely I'll be buying, as soon as the raise or Uncle Rupert comes through. I promise, Umberto.
During a hectic work week, I had planned on just after-work drinks with the lovely Kristen, before she headed off to the dining room beyond the bar with her fellow personal-finance staffers. (We bumped into da Fanch on the way in, and I'm proud to say that she has now seen the mysterious Jomo in person. Not to be confused with Mysterious Jomo.) But the pretty ornery personal-finance editor wouldn't have any of it: No way I was leaving.
At least three times I excused myself. He insisted he was buying me dinner. Actually, the company was buying, and interestingly, there was an extra spot. I'm still writing him a thank-you note.
There were nine of us in total, and we were at the far end upstairs, but we were not alone the whole night. The waiter pointed our evening's host to the super Tuscans on the wine list, and suggested several appetizers. I counted two waiters in shirts and ties, a woman who walks the floor and helps with wine and assorted runners pouring, clearing, checking.
We began with hamachi crudo, large serving plates of house salumi with pork paté (SFGate photo here), fritto misto, salt cod in a brandade style with crostini and the absolutely dynamite burata, which is folded soft cheeses that make a sort of pillow. I must be missing something, but I did note how divine the homemade rolls were -- warm, toothsome, a little sour and dusted with a touch of flour. I can't remember the last time I ate a dinner roll.
Then for our second courses, I had the salad of so-called little gems, which are like baby Romaine leaves. Burton, sitting across from me, insisted I have some of his octopus, which was bore a slight char from the grill. I'm having that when I go back.
My main dish was the Berkshire pork chop with borlotti beans, braised red chard and roasted tomatoes. It was a plump piece of pig patterned with a crosshatch from the grill, and it was perhaps the best-prepared chop I've ever had. The color within was similar to that of a flatiron steak ordered medium, and other than a little fat trimming, all of it was delectable.
For dessert, I paired homemade hazelnut cookies with a Vino Santo, and the cookies blew everyone away. Their looks were deceiving, because they seemed so rich but were so light to the touch.
On the way out later, I ask Umberto, the omniscient force on the floor at Perbacco, about the dish. "We start with a superior product," he said, and then comes the brining. As I said, Umberto knows.
We also had a little chat about the china cups for the servings of gelato, molded to have a slight dent to look and feel like Dixie cups. Umberto said that when they saw them, they thought they were the coolest.
Perbacco has staked out something people like -- upscale Italian -- and brings it with both barrels but none of the haute attitude. Burton did mention that the reservation was quite difficult to negotiate. Note for next time: Sample the five-hour pork sugo and/or roasted veal ragout. Maybe I can talk the parents into it, now that summer's coming. Also, study the wine list, since it's likely I'll be buying, as soon as the raise or Uncle Rupert comes through. I promise, Umberto.
5/6/07
The Ramjet of Pepper Grinders
I was going to take the rather unexpected step of writing in praise of paper pepper packets -- I've traditionally been morally opposed to pre-ground pepper, but during a recent lunch at my desk without a grinder available, I discovered that the stuff isn't so bad, it's better than nothing, the packaging typically has a somewhat retro charm (and it's recyclable!) -- and the alliteration is cute -- but I came up with something better.
Do you know what a ramjet is? It's a high-speed jet engine that, in contrast to a normal jet engine, contains neither a compressor nor a turbine. It's therefore simpler: The geometry of the thing is sufficient to sustain the processes that make it go.
Last holiday season, my mother stuffed a little pepper grinder into my stocking. I was initially attracted by the aesthetics of it: all stainless steel and industrial-looking. I discovered that it's really no more than a piston. A plug, which you pump with your thumb, moves thru a hole at the bottom of a larger cylinder. Where the plug and cylinder rub against each other, the plug is textured like the surface of an iron file. A chamber higher up in the cylinder holds the peppercorns. They get drawn into the gap between the plug and the cylinder, are crushed et voilà. A spring returns the plug to its resting position when you release it with your thumb.
The mechanism is thus much simpler than a traditional grinder but it's elegant and it works. It wouldn't do for a lot of grinding, and those with BlackBerry thumb should stay away, but it's a nifty little gadget nonetheless. Although I haven't tested this hypothesis yet, I suspect it would be less likely to gum up with softer peppercorns (for example, green or red) than traditional grinders, a problem I've had in the past.
And it's just the right size to find a place on my desk at work. Paper pepper packets, we were like two ships passing in the night.
5/4/07
Many Apples Olives
I'm in Many Apples (Anthony's epithet for Minneapolis). Last night, some coworkers and I had dinner at 112 Eatery in the Warehouse District.
Someone ordered an appetizer that consisted of olives served alongside candied nuts. The olives had a subtle taste of anise. Intriguing combination. I couldn't tell what the source of it was. Fennel? Might be interesting to experiment with a hint of sambuca or other anise-y ingredient.
5/3/07
Happy Hour on the Wolfgang Puck Express
While the eclectic lady is several floors upstairs shaking her head at the styles and price tags, I'm down in Macy's Cellar to see if I can find a cheap-ass splatter screen. $20 for an Oxo? Too much. I'm going to try Chinatown.
Since I'm here, and there's no telling whether K's trying anything on, I sidle up to Wolfgang Puck's sushi bar. First thing I notice: "Happy Hour / Monday - Friday / 5 - close / Sushi Rolls 1/2 price." Score.
I order the freshwater eel and avocado, along with the yellowtail and green onion. 12 pieces of sushi, $7 with tip. (Also I notice that miso soup is $2; beer pints are $3 to $4.) Just as I'm polishing off the pickled ginger, Kristen taps my shoulder and lets me know she's getting a cookie across the food court. "Wait for me," I say, paying.
By the time I look up she's already at the cookie counter. She buys me the Mexican chocolate chip, which has cinnamon. I love her so.
No need to elaborate on the ambience or the warmth of the staff. ("I'm tired. I need a new job," I heard the head waiter exclaim. Join the club, buddy.) What could you possibly expect? It's pretty good and fresh and you're in the basement of Macy's, undermining Wolfgang Puck by hitting happy hour. Check it out before theater or while waiting for the ladies.
Since I'm here, and there's no telling whether K's trying anything on, I sidle up to Wolfgang Puck's sushi bar. First thing I notice: "Happy Hour / Monday - Friday / 5 - close / Sushi Rolls 1/2 price." Score.
I order the freshwater eel and avocado, along with the yellowtail and green onion. 12 pieces of sushi, $7 with tip. (Also I notice that miso soup is $2; beer pints are $3 to $4.) Just as I'm polishing off the pickled ginger, Kristen taps my shoulder and lets me know she's getting a cookie across the food court. "Wait for me," I say, paying.
By the time I look up she's already at the cookie counter. She buys me the Mexican chocolate chip, which has cinnamon. I love her so.
No need to elaborate on the ambience or the warmth of the staff. ("I'm tired. I need a new job," I heard the head waiter exclaim. Join the club, buddy.) What could you possibly expect? It's pretty good and fresh and you're in the basement of Macy's, undermining Wolfgang Puck by hitting happy hour. Check it out before theater or while waiting for the ladies.
5/1/07
On Bacon Shrimp Fried Rice
Theory
Googling my leftovers, I came across this recipe for bacon shrimp fried rice.
After some pondering, I concluded that I'm uncomfortable with all these ingredients being thrown into the pan together.
I can see the shrimp and bacon together.
I'd be content with a separate complement of steamed broccoli.
The rice, also, could be on its own.
The mushrooms are the unknown. They could go with the shrimp/bacon (probably my preference, although they should be minced, not sliced) or with the rice.
A premise of my critique is that the ingredients should not all be chopped into small pieces. Too much noise and not enough signal.
You can't have too many actors on-stage unless they're organized into clear groupings, patterns and hierarchies (cf. Balanchine). Without, it's just a mob scene.
Praxis
Serve the bacon and shrimp sauté on top of a bed of fried rice (use the mushrooms in the rice after all). Steamed broccoli goes on the side. Be artful, as always.
Bacon and shrimp sauté: bacon, minced onion, shrimp, soy sauce, sherry.
Fried rice: onion, garlic, mushroom, egg, rice, sugar, salt.
Googling my leftovers, I came across this recipe for bacon shrimp fried rice.
After some pondering, I concluded that I'm uncomfortable with all these ingredients being thrown into the pan together.
I can see the shrimp and bacon together.
I'd be content with a separate complement of steamed broccoli.
The rice, also, could be on its own.
The mushrooms are the unknown. They could go with the shrimp/bacon (probably my preference, although they should be minced, not sliced) or with the rice.
A premise of my critique is that the ingredients should not all be chopped into small pieces. Too much noise and not enough signal.
You can't have too many actors on-stage unless they're organized into clear groupings, patterns and hierarchies (cf. Balanchine). Without, it's just a mob scene.
Praxis
Serve the bacon and shrimp sauté on top of a bed of fried rice (use the mushrooms in the rice after all). Steamed broccoli goes on the side. Be artful, as always.
Bacon and shrimp sauté: bacon, minced onion, shrimp, soy sauce, sherry.
Fried rice: onion, garlic, mushroom, egg, rice, sugar, salt.
4/26/07
La Zuppa
Feeling a little under the weather and as always overbooking the to-do list for the evening (always thwarted, of course, by unforeseen events like a sink-spout malfunction, which now is on Saturday's to-do list), it's time to pull the quart of TJ's tomato and red pepper soup from the earthquake-food stash. After a quick swing by the natural store (a stopgap) for pricey low-sodium, no-MSG chicken stock, I get back in the kitchen and slice some zucchini and dice some shallots.
I saute these in olive oil, then mix in the soup and stock. While that's coming to temperature, I've got some polenta slices browning in a cast-iron skillet. Once the soup boils a bit, I throw in some almost-done turkey meatballs that I'd set aside from making big pasta over the weekend. It's now or never for these guys.
Once everything's done, I pop in a couple of cubes of frozen basil, again from TJ's, to finish the soup. I ladle out healthy scoops into pasta bowls, place the round polenta slices (did I mention the polenta is TJ's?) in the middle and grate some Pecorino at table. Main-course soup in about 20 minutes. I'm exhausted.
I saute these in olive oil, then mix in the soup and stock. While that's coming to temperature, I've got some polenta slices browning in a cast-iron skillet. Once the soup boils a bit, I throw in some almost-done turkey meatballs that I'd set aside from making big pasta over the weekend. It's now or never for these guys.
Once everything's done, I pop in a couple of cubes of frozen basil, again from TJ's, to finish the soup. I ladle out healthy scoops into pasta bowls, place the round polenta slices (did I mention the polenta is TJ's?) in the middle and grate some Pecorino at table. Main-course soup in about 20 minutes. I'm exhausted.
Pizza My Combo
Tonight's toppings at the Bistro Hugo: arugula, crimini mushrooms, French country ham, and red spring onion. Best ever? C'est possible.
4/25/07
Mangez Le Couscous!
Gather 'round the tagine, kids. I've got an easy couscous recipe, which we tested on Elbo last night. He gave it the classic Bonanos Thumbs-Up And Belly-Rub, so we must have done something right.
We used two recipes, one for vegetarian couscous, a second for Moroccan kefta (meatballs).
Print those out if you wish and make the following changes, as I did, or try your own.
For the couscous:
Instead of zucchini, I used asparagus.
Instead of vegetable broth, I used chicken broth.
Instead of 3 tomatoes, I used half a can of TJ's peeled unsalted tomatoes.
I added most of a can of chickpeas, drained and rinsed. I added them toward the end to keep them firm.
I also found the spices generally lacking, so I added more. You can do much of this adjustment at the end when you've removed the veggies and you're reducing the remaining liquid to a sauce.
For the kefta:
Instead of ground lamb, I used ground turkey.
Instead of ground ginger, I grated fresh ginger.
I added a few dashes of worcestershire sauce and 1/2 teaspoon of dried crushed mint. Mint is good.
It's also good to let the meat mixture sit for a few hours in the fridge before cooking. Let the flavors combine.
We put the kefta in a pan under the broiler. They took longer to cook than advertised, but keep a close eye on them. Once they start to brown on one side, they'll go quickly, so turn them over to get brown on the other side. They'll also release a lot of liquid, so use a tall-sided pan that won't slosh over the rim. We did not use skewers -- they were fine sitting on the floor of the pan, which we spritzed with olive oil spray.
Tip for couscous: you can use water, but the more broth you substitute for water, the better the couscous. If you want to add things to the couscous -- green onion, walnuts, raisins, currants -- do so after it's cooked. You don't want soggy nuts, believe me.
We used two recipes, one for vegetarian couscous, a second for Moroccan kefta (meatballs).
Print those out if you wish and make the following changes, as I did, or try your own.
For the couscous:
Instead of zucchini, I used asparagus.
Instead of vegetable broth, I used chicken broth.
Instead of 3 tomatoes, I used half a can of TJ's peeled unsalted tomatoes.
I added most of a can of chickpeas, drained and rinsed. I added them toward the end to keep them firm.
I also found the spices generally lacking, so I added more. You can do much of this adjustment at the end when you've removed the veggies and you're reducing the remaining liquid to a sauce.
For the kefta:
Instead of ground lamb, I used ground turkey.
Instead of ground ginger, I grated fresh ginger.
I added a few dashes of worcestershire sauce and 1/2 teaspoon of dried crushed mint. Mint is good.
It's also good to let the meat mixture sit for a few hours in the fridge before cooking. Let the flavors combine.
We put the kefta in a pan under the broiler. They took longer to cook than advertised, but keep a close eye on them. Once they start to brown on one side, they'll go quickly, so turn them over to get brown on the other side. They'll also release a lot of liquid, so use a tall-sided pan that won't slosh over the rim. We did not use skewers -- they were fine sitting on the floor of the pan, which we spritzed with olive oil spray.
Tip for couscous: you can use water, but the more broth you substitute for water, the better the couscous. If you want to add things to the couscous -- green onion, walnuts, raisins, currants -- do so after it's cooked. You don't want soggy nuts, believe me.
4/24/07
Yogurt Curry Makes the World Go Round
Here's a wonderful way to escape the chicken-again blues. Make a marinade of plain yogurt, spice up with curry powder, and let the chicken soak in it for an hour. Adjust the flavor of the marinade as you see fit. I like squeezing in a clove of garlic, a generous amount of lemon zest (instead of juice, so it doesn't curdle or water down the yogurt), salt, pepper, perhaps a shake of paprika and a dash of worcestershire, and a lot of dried crushed mint. Make sure you get the right flavor BEFORE you dunk the chicken.
Pre-heat oven to 400, arrange the pieces on foil, bake until nearly done. Half-way through, flip the birds and spoon on more yogurt sauce, assuming you have some left over. When they're almost ready, spoon a bit more sauce on them and pop in the broiler for a few minutes.
Even if they overcook a bit, they remain juicy thanks to the yogurt.
Pre-heat oven to 400, arrange the pieces on foil, bake until nearly done. Half-way through, flip the birds and spoon on more yogurt sauce, assuming you have some left over. When they're almost ready, spoon a bit more sauce on them and pop in the broiler for a few minutes.
Even if they overcook a bit, they remain juicy thanks to the yogurt.
4/18/07
Finger Lickin
I'm setting myself up for a charge of hypocrisy. Here it comes. Duck!
Chicken, actually. I think drumsticks are fun, and only one week after I bitterly complain about infantile mashed potatoes. I prefer inconsistency to hypocrisy.
Inspired by how goddamn cheap they are ($2 for a pack of 5 at TJ's), I bought two packs. Emily had two ideas:
1) Egged then breaded with a corn meal-flour-spice-herb mixture. The proportions, roughly: 1 c corn meal, 1 c flour, salt and pepper, assortment of dried herbs, a few red pepper flakes, garlic powder and a tablespoon of finely grated parm.
2) Marinated in a soy-Asian glaze: soy, rice vinegar, sherry (the recipe called for mirin), grated ginger and finely minced garlic. Maybe a squeeze of lemon. Add or subtract as taste requires.
Both were very good at first, but the faux fried chicken got soggy quickly. Nonetheless a drumstick dinner was a great change of pace. Next time, we bust out the pomegranate-mint glaze.
There's not much to it but to concoct whatever breading or marinade you like. With a liquid marinade, the 'sticks can soak for hours. Then line them up on a large oiled oven sheet. Preheat to 450. Start them there for a few minutes, then reduce heat to 400. Check them after 30; they make take a bit longer.
Something bene to nota: One must be vigilant buying the TJ's house brand chicken parts. On a few occasions I've opened the packages to find a strong odor. Buy only the most recently packed. Or better yet, go for the kosher brands, though they may not offer drumstick-only packs.
Chicken, actually. I think drumsticks are fun, and only one week after I bitterly complain about infantile mashed potatoes. I prefer inconsistency to hypocrisy.
Inspired by how goddamn cheap they are ($2 for a pack of 5 at TJ's), I bought two packs. Emily had two ideas:
1) Egged then breaded with a corn meal-flour-spice-herb mixture. The proportions, roughly: 1 c corn meal, 1 c flour, salt and pepper, assortment of dried herbs, a few red pepper flakes, garlic powder and a tablespoon of finely grated parm.
2) Marinated in a soy-Asian glaze: soy, rice vinegar, sherry (the recipe called for mirin), grated ginger and finely minced garlic. Maybe a squeeze of lemon. Add or subtract as taste requires.
Both were very good at first, but the faux fried chicken got soggy quickly. Nonetheless a drumstick dinner was a great change of pace. Next time, we bust out the pomegranate-mint glaze.
There's not much to it but to concoct whatever breading or marinade you like. With a liquid marinade, the 'sticks can soak for hours. Then line them up on a large oiled oven sheet. Preheat to 450. Start them there for a few minutes, then reduce heat to 400. Check them after 30; they make take a bit longer.
Something bene to nota: One must be vigilant buying the TJ's house brand chicken parts. On a few occasions I've opened the packages to find a strong odor. Buy only the most recently packed. Or better yet, go for the kosher brands, though they may not offer drumstick-only packs.
4/16/07
Latitude and Longitude
After so many years of living and now visiting my home island, you wonder when you'll bump into a local version of seared ahi tuna and Caesar salad. Well, the time finally has arrived.
We've seen the same thing in K's hometown of Bethlehem, Pa.: People flee to the big city and sweat it out in the kitchens, working their way up until they say, "Hey, maybe we should try this at home." Granted, Aguadilla and Isabela, P.R. are a lot farther than Bethlehem to Bouley and the Flatiron district, but you get the idea. When people tire of Moravian sugar cakes and apple butter, they want Alice Waters' stuff.
Restaurant 18'67" (check your GPS) is cut from the same cloth. K and I did split a Caesar to start, and then I was reminded of my dad's favorite saying: You're still in Puerto Rico. I asked for cracked pepper, and the waitress spaced it out and went back to her station to add up some tabs. I flagged the other server on the floor, who brought a pepper shaker from another table, because no, they didn't have a spice mill for the salad. Why am I not surprised?
The wife changed the pace from the rice and beans with linguine with pesto and beurre blanc. Beurre blanc! I had braised pork loin stuffed with chorizo sausage in guava sauce, along with rice and beans. (I don't see a reason to change the pace. The pork was tender, the guava not too sweet and pink beans as good here as they are everywhere else, including Vangy's.) It was a Tuesday, which means it's two entrees for $20 -- a steal. No wonder it's crowded with surfers and gringo ex-pats.
The place is funny: Looks like they took over some retail space, complete with the track lighting and acoustic tile, next to a Chinese restaurant. They put a kitchen in back and a cut a door for an adjacent bar. The manager (could be the owner) wears a newsboy's cap. Pool games were 50 cents and there were drunk barflies on both nights we visited. I think I heard some Nirvana. I thought of my favorite chiperos, Alex and Elbo.
We've seen the same thing in K's hometown of Bethlehem, Pa.: People flee to the big city and sweat it out in the kitchens, working their way up until they say, "Hey, maybe we should try this at home." Granted, Aguadilla and Isabela, P.R. are a lot farther than Bethlehem to Bouley and the Flatiron district, but you get the idea. When people tire of Moravian sugar cakes and apple butter, they want Alice Waters' stuff.
Restaurant 18'67" (check your GPS) is cut from the same cloth. K and I did split a Caesar to start, and then I was reminded of my dad's favorite saying: You're still in Puerto Rico. I asked for cracked pepper, and the waitress spaced it out and went back to her station to add up some tabs. I flagged the other server on the floor, who brought a pepper shaker from another table, because no, they didn't have a spice mill for the salad. Why am I not surprised?
The wife changed the pace from the rice and beans with linguine with pesto and beurre blanc. Beurre blanc! I had braised pork loin stuffed with chorizo sausage in guava sauce, along with rice and beans. (I don't see a reason to change the pace. The pork was tender, the guava not too sweet and pink beans as good here as they are everywhere else, including Vangy's.) It was a Tuesday, which means it's two entrees for $20 -- a steal. No wonder it's crowded with surfers and gringo ex-pats.
The place is funny: Looks like they took over some retail space, complete with the track lighting and acoustic tile, next to a Chinese restaurant. They put a kitchen in back and a cut a door for an adjacent bar. The manager (could be the owner) wears a newsboy's cap. Pool games were 50 cents and there were drunk barflies on both nights we visited. I think I heard some Nirvana. I thought of my favorite chiperos, Alex and Elbo.
4/12/07
Review: Q
A neighborhood standby that for several years I've shied away from. Now I know why. As I well remember, the noise level is unacceptable. The acoustics are not good to begin with, but the staff compounds the problem by playing The Clash (a fine band) and Cake (also fun, but not when I'm trying to hear and chew at the same time).
I was impressed by the waitress's wine help. I asked for something red, dry, not too "fruit-forward" (her words) to go with my fish. She had a couple ideas, and I don't think she was faking it. The one I chose didn't appeal to me, unfortunately, but I'll let that slide. I'm no expert.
For a comfort joint, the food was lackluster. Chili-crusted mahi on corn 'n' black bean cakes: nice idea. Tiny portion. Too fussy and kind of bland. The snow peas on the side were cold. Ugh. The Fanch's steak was undercooked; it happens. She sent it back with no protest from the waitress. She was the best part of the meal.
Another complaint, which is no fault of Q, per se, more just a cranky rant in general: Mashed potatoes are the culinary equivalent of adults talking about their favorite cartoons. Grow up, for God's sake. For $50, the Fanch and I walked away a little dyspeptic.
I haven't had a good restaurant meal in a while, and I grow weary.
I was impressed by the waitress's wine help. I asked for something red, dry, not too "fruit-forward" (her words) to go with my fish. She had a couple ideas, and I don't think she was faking it. The one I chose didn't appeal to me, unfortunately, but I'll let that slide. I'm no expert.
For a comfort joint, the food was lackluster. Chili-crusted mahi on corn 'n' black bean cakes: nice idea. Tiny portion. Too fussy and kind of bland. The snow peas on the side were cold. Ugh. The Fanch's steak was undercooked; it happens. She sent it back with no protest from the waitress. She was the best part of the meal.
Another complaint, which is no fault of Q, per se, more just a cranky rant in general: Mashed potatoes are the culinary equivalent of adults talking about their favorite cartoons. Grow up, for God's sake. For $50, the Fanch and I walked away a little dyspeptic.
I haven't had a good restaurant meal in a while, and I grow weary.
4/11/07
Review: Ciao, Bella
Skipping here a bit away from my report from the Caribbean to report from a busy corner of Geary, the one in the Inner Richmond just down from Nizario's with a Burger King on one corner, a Toyota dealer on another and a Kragen across the street. Kristen and I were going to eat downtown but didn't want to wander to North Beach and deal. We had settled on Italian, and I'll admit that I obsessed about where to go closer to the western neighborhoods. Bella was the best I could come up with, and K had even hit it before. Worth an official visit.
Maybe my skepticism was healthy, but it wasn't on the mark. Readers will recall that I go easy on the starches, but we each had fresh ravioli that knocked our socks off.
We sat sidesaddle on a banquette and watched traffic roll westward in the late light with something sparkling, as is our wont. The prosecco rosé was of a grapefruit color like the Handley I used to get shipped over from Mendo County, like the flower floating in a glass goblet on the table next to the tea light in the brandy snifter. The location is interesting, to say the least, and the Chron makes note of this in its two reviews. How many times have I staggered in two doors up the block for a slice but never checked out the corner? What of the parking gods, gracious or hellacious? If we weren't on public transit, it's likely we wouldn't have landed here.
Anyway, the small antipasto plate was good for two, with roasted eggplant, zucchini, cured salumi, a little fresh mozzarella and some dark olives, and for $3 more I bet the large would be a nice nosh for four.
I leaned toward the specials, which are listed on a separate page. Should I have the veal lasagna or the Vin Santo-braised short ribs? Looking for something lighter, I tried the lobster ravioli with tomato-cream sauce. K had the chicken ravioli in tomatoes and basil, off the regular menu (both $15).
The entrees were light, perfectly seasoned, very well paired with the prosecco, without the heaviness of butter or anything else. The tomato-cream sauce, sometimes known as the rossini, lets you have the best of both worlds, but instead of pinkish my plate showed some of the robustness of the beverage and the flower on the table, but not as much intensity as the tomatoes on Kristen's dish, which distinctly was made with chicken but also not dry or bland or overdone. Two versions of ravioli, both flawless, soft as pillows and handing the flavor to the fillings.
We had the hostess and a waiter checking in on us, fetching us fresh drinks and also comping us zabaglione with berries, mint, cinnamon and demi spoons. That was very nice. Without tip, the tab was $75.
For those who say that I'm fastidious and find fault with everything, even a nearly perfect dining experience, I know you're waiting so I won't disappoint: The table needed shimming.
Next post: latitude and longitude.
Maybe my skepticism was healthy, but it wasn't on the mark. Readers will recall that I go easy on the starches, but we each had fresh ravioli that knocked our socks off.
We sat sidesaddle on a banquette and watched traffic roll westward in the late light with something sparkling, as is our wont. The prosecco rosé was of a grapefruit color like the Handley I used to get shipped over from Mendo County, like the flower floating in a glass goblet on the table next to the tea light in the brandy snifter. The location is interesting, to say the least, and the Chron makes note of this in its two reviews. How many times have I staggered in two doors up the block for a slice but never checked out the corner? What of the parking gods, gracious or hellacious? If we weren't on public transit, it's likely we wouldn't have landed here.
Anyway, the small antipasto plate was good for two, with roasted eggplant, zucchini, cured salumi, a little fresh mozzarella and some dark olives, and for $3 more I bet the large would be a nice nosh for four.
I leaned toward the specials, which are listed on a separate page. Should I have the veal lasagna or the Vin Santo-braised short ribs? Looking for something lighter, I tried the lobster ravioli with tomato-cream sauce. K had the chicken ravioli in tomatoes and basil, off the regular menu (both $15).
The entrees were light, perfectly seasoned, very well paired with the prosecco, without the heaviness of butter or anything else. The tomato-cream sauce, sometimes known as the rossini, lets you have the best of both worlds, but instead of pinkish my plate showed some of the robustness of the beverage and the flower on the table, but not as much intensity as the tomatoes on Kristen's dish, which distinctly was made with chicken but also not dry or bland or overdone. Two versions of ravioli, both flawless, soft as pillows and handing the flavor to the fillings.
We had the hostess and a waiter checking in on us, fetching us fresh drinks and also comping us zabaglione with berries, mint, cinnamon and demi spoons. That was very nice. Without tip, the tab was $75.
For those who say that I'm fastidious and find fault with everything, even a nearly perfect dining experience, I know you're waiting so I won't disappoint: The table needed shimming.
Next post: latitude and longitude.
4/9/07
El Pescador
I imagine if you grew up in New York City that for special gatherings and family occasions you trek down to the delicatessen, or maybe in Los Angeles or San Francisco there's a particular dim sum place the folks like. Where I grew up, a town that I now describe as the Perth of Puerto Rico (this gets a laugh every time), the trip was to the Southwest coast to an area known as Joyuda, where there still are more than 40 restaurants serving slight variations of the same things.
Think of seafood places from Maine down to Maryland. Sure, each one has something a little different, but there are few surprises or standouts.
In Joyuda, there's one place called Brisas that brings out a plate of stewed rice with everything. Raítos was famous for its empanadilla fritters, which are like empanadas, only bigger, more bad for you and meant to be eaten with your hands. Since K and I were on the Northwest coast, a little research brought up Mesón Gastronómico El Pescador (sorry, no URL) on the waterfront of Isabela.
Now this place may have had basically the same menu available on Puerto Rican coasts everywhere -- white fishes like snapper, shellfish like lobster, rice and beans, plantains -- El Pescador distinguished itself by executing each dish and course perfectly, no misses, save for one, but let me begin to explain.
A seafood dinner in Puerto Rico means you kick off with ice-cold beer (a considerate, efficient wait staff knows this, and tonight was no exception) and with some appetizers, the fried kind. My Medalla, brewed in my hometown of Mayagüez, came out with a frosty mug as I put in our starters: bolitas de mero and arañitas. The former are fish croquettes, most likely grouper lightly battered, and the latter are bundles of shredded plantain that I believe are double-fried, dipped in a salt-water bath in between for extra crispiness. The "little spiders" usually are the size of a half-dollar, but these were quite a bit larger than that, but I assure you that they didn't last.
The bolitas had exactly the right texture and hints of the sea; I'm pretty sure grouper lends itself best to this. You dip them in a Frenchy dressing, and you understand the true sense of an appetizer. The coolness, dryness and carbonation of the brew is a near-unbeatable pairing. You settle down a little bit and look around the room; someone's painted an oil of the life-size fisherman sculpture that's out in front. There are some clippings here and there; the Mesón has gotten some press, along with the kiosks that dot the small waterfront. The dive across the square offers clams, oysters, fluorescent lights and video poker. It's cute, tropical, very Puerto Rico. The waitress clears appetizer plates and asks if I want another beer. Yes, I do. Here come the small green salads with a slice of tomato and cucumber, more Frenchy dressing.
For our main courses, I am having a fillet of snapper with mojo entomatado, in the Creole style with tomatoes, peppers and onions. It's something I've enjoyed many, many times and still do, although I vary it slightly from time to time. (Notice the pattern? Next time I'm getting the whole snapper, which was featured in a newspaper clipping and looked dynamite.) K ventures for the chicken breast, which is a steal at $10.98, but I'm a little apprehensive.
A: "Are you sure you want the chicken?"
K: "There's no salmon."
A: "I know, but there's shrimp, lobster ... other fish ... um ... OK ... fine."
Let's get this chicken out of the way. It's a breast, pounded flat and then grilled till done, seasoned with maybe a little salt and nothing else. Kristen calls it a pancake. (In a later deconstruction, we realize that swordfish would have been one acceptable salmon sub.) She makes a couple of stabs at it, and we end up taking it home to snack between resort breakfasts and knockout dinners. God bless her, K digs into her rice and beans and tostones.
Now for the snapper, known here as chillo: It's like the New York strip of seafood entrees. It can be had a million ways and I can't remember seeing it wrecked. Wonderful with lemon and butter, breaded, baked or broiled, with chimichurri or the mojo, it's soft and delicate, the fish of fishes, yielding gently to the fork like the steaks in Nebraska or Montana or wherever, where you find your place setting don't include a knife, except the shorty for the butter.
So there you have the welcome-home combo: fish in Creole sauce, rice and beans, fried plantains, cold beer. (Mr. Chicken, the staple in every American pot, is a scratch. Sea bass my ass, we'll spot the richer swimmers next time.)
Dessert is the house specialty: el nido, or "the nest," a strawberry coated in chocolate, cookie crumbs and crushed almonds, sitting in a tiny pastry shell. K approves. We'll be back.
Next post: latitude and longitude.
Think of seafood places from Maine down to Maryland. Sure, each one has something a little different, but there are few surprises or standouts.
In Joyuda, there's one place called Brisas that brings out a plate of stewed rice with everything. Raítos was famous for its empanadilla fritters, which are like empanadas, only bigger, more bad for you and meant to be eaten with your hands. Since K and I were on the Northwest coast, a little research brought up Mesón Gastronómico El Pescador (sorry, no URL) on the waterfront of Isabela.
Now this place may have had basically the same menu available on Puerto Rican coasts everywhere -- white fishes like snapper, shellfish like lobster, rice and beans, plantains -- El Pescador distinguished itself by executing each dish and course perfectly, no misses, save for one, but let me begin to explain.
A seafood dinner in Puerto Rico means you kick off with ice-cold beer (a considerate, efficient wait staff knows this, and tonight was no exception) and with some appetizers, the fried kind. My Medalla, brewed in my hometown of Mayagüez, came out with a frosty mug as I put in our starters: bolitas de mero and arañitas. The former are fish croquettes, most likely grouper lightly battered, and the latter are bundles of shredded plantain that I believe are double-fried, dipped in a salt-water bath in between for extra crispiness. The "little spiders" usually are the size of a half-dollar, but these were quite a bit larger than that, but I assure you that they didn't last.
The bolitas had exactly the right texture and hints of the sea; I'm pretty sure grouper lends itself best to this. You dip them in a Frenchy dressing, and you understand the true sense of an appetizer. The coolness, dryness and carbonation of the brew is a near-unbeatable pairing. You settle down a little bit and look around the room; someone's painted an oil of the life-size fisherman sculpture that's out in front. There are some clippings here and there; the Mesón has gotten some press, along with the kiosks that dot the small waterfront. The dive across the square offers clams, oysters, fluorescent lights and video poker. It's cute, tropical, very Puerto Rico. The waitress clears appetizer plates and asks if I want another beer. Yes, I do. Here come the small green salads with a slice of tomato and cucumber, more Frenchy dressing.
For our main courses, I am having a fillet of snapper with mojo entomatado, in the Creole style with tomatoes, peppers and onions. It's something I've enjoyed many, many times and still do, although I vary it slightly from time to time. (Notice the pattern? Next time I'm getting the whole snapper, which was featured in a newspaper clipping and looked dynamite.) K ventures for the chicken breast, which is a steal at $10.98, but I'm a little apprehensive.
A: "Are you sure you want the chicken?"
K: "There's no salmon."
A: "I know, but there's shrimp, lobster ... other fish ... um ... OK ... fine."
Let's get this chicken out of the way. It's a breast, pounded flat and then grilled till done, seasoned with maybe a little salt and nothing else. Kristen calls it a pancake. (In a later deconstruction, we realize that swordfish would have been one acceptable salmon sub.) She makes a couple of stabs at it, and we end up taking it home to snack between resort breakfasts and knockout dinners. God bless her, K digs into her rice and beans and tostones.
Now for the snapper, known here as chillo: It's like the New York strip of seafood entrees. It can be had a million ways and I can't remember seeing it wrecked. Wonderful with lemon and butter, breaded, baked or broiled, with chimichurri or the mojo, it's soft and delicate, the fish of fishes, yielding gently to the fork like the steaks in Nebraska or Montana or wherever, where you find your place setting don't include a knife, except the shorty for the butter.
So there you have the welcome-home combo: fish in Creole sauce, rice and beans, fried plantains, cold beer. (Mr. Chicken, the staple in every American pot, is a scratch. Sea bass my ass, we'll spot the richer swimmers next time.)
Dessert is the house specialty: el nido, or "the nest," a strawberry coated in chocolate, cookie crumbs and crushed almonds, sitting in a tiny pastry shell. K approves. We'll be back.
Next post: latitude and longitude.
4/7/07
In the House with Mama Vangy
After five hours on one plane, missing the quick layover in Miami (funky jet stream) and waiting three more for the next jump to San Juan, then flying almost three hours before undertaking the two-hour, white-knuckle drive on the autopista to Mayagüez, it was time for some Vangy food. Mmhm. Food's cooking.
The first day's menu featured arroz con pollo con habichuelas, pretty self-explanatory. We also got bacalao, which is salt codfish, and viandas, the assorted, yamlike, starchy tubers that you dress with Spanish olive oil. My aunt Jossette also made guineos en almibar, which are ripe bananas in nectar. No idea why this dish is that popular, but it is very sweet and goes with an otherwise salty cuisine.
There also was the requisite mixed salad, and as an appetizer one of Vangy's "secretaries" fried up some surullitos, or sticks of cornmeal. No doubt in my mind why these are popular, especially with a cervecita, a can of Bud or Coors Light or whatever that's eight or 10 ounces (not too much, stays cold).
A few days later, we're back. For a change of pace, there's arroz con gandules, or pigeon peas. The main event is pasteles, tamale-like bundles made with plantain or yucca masa and stuffed with chicken, olives and finely chopped onions, peppers, raisins, love. (If you're having yucca, they're more savory and come in a beautiful sunshine-yellow color, as opposed to the smokiness and dark, exotic tone of the maduro masa. ) Today's "secretary" also had some boneless beef ribs. You know, in case the pasteles weren't enough.
For sides, green-plantain tostones (shown in their glorious fry) also came out with some more salad. There wasn't much difference between these two meals in terms of authenticity or taste, but for some reason the second time I couldn't stop eating. Kristen's eyes got really big as I put away three pasteles, most of the ribs, spoonfuls of the stewed gandules that had small balls of plantain thrown in.
Vangy also told Kristen that she needed to learn to have beer with her Puerto Rican food -- the best advice on record from a grandmother-in-law.
Next post: el pescado.
The first day's menu featured arroz con pollo con habichuelas, pretty self-explanatory. We also got bacalao, which is salt codfish, and viandas, the assorted, yamlike, starchy tubers that you dress with Spanish olive oil. My aunt Jossette also made guineos en almibar, which are ripe bananas in nectar. No idea why this dish is that popular, but it is very sweet and goes with an otherwise salty cuisine.
There also was the requisite mixed salad, and as an appetizer one of Vangy's "secretaries" fried up some surullitos, or sticks of cornmeal. No doubt in my mind why these are popular, especially with a cervecita, a can of Bud or Coors Light or whatever that's eight or 10 ounces (not too much, stays cold).
A few days later, we're back. For a change of pace, there's arroz con gandules, or pigeon peas. The main event is pasteles, tamale-like bundles made with plantain or yucca masa and stuffed with chicken, olives and finely chopped onions, peppers, raisins, love. (If you're having yucca, they're more savory and come in a beautiful sunshine-yellow color, as opposed to the smokiness and dark, exotic tone of the maduro masa. ) Today's "secretary" also had some boneless beef ribs. You know, in case the pasteles weren't enough.
For sides, green-plantain tostones (shown in their glorious fry) also came out with some more salad. There wasn't much difference between these two meals in terms of authenticity or taste, but for some reason the second time I couldn't stop eating. Kristen's eyes got really big as I put away three pasteles, most of the ribs, spoonfuls of the stewed gandules that had small balls of plantain thrown in.
Vangy also told Kristen that she needed to learn to have beer with her Puerto Rican food -- the best advice on record from a grandmother-in-law.
Next post: el pescado.
4/3/07
Buffaloed
A quick recommendation: Almost as good as TJ's frozen buffalo burgers are the chili-lime chicken burgers. Not bad in a pinch. However, stay away from the salmon burgers and the turkey burgers with embedded bits of corn and peas.
User-Generated Discontent, redux
I say redux as a shorthand to say "You read it here first." Turns out the Chron had this big story while I was away on frigging food bloggers having all this fun being more than a little annoying.
Looks like the Fifth and Mission gang whiffed at the First Rule of Cyberspace, which is recognizing that people who spend at least a dozen hours a day glued to computers want more than anything to be recognized. Now the fur is flying in the most tiresome and predictable way. “We ARE important! How dare some restauraeur dish like that? I’ll never eat at that place, ever!”
One thing I’d like more than anything is for people who say they’ve never been so offended and will never spend their dollars here or there, ever, to actually stick to their pledges and stay home, in front of their computers. That way I and restaurant staffers everywhere can relax. The market for dining out is big and forgiving enough.
In a future post, I'll relate my favorite restaurant story, from the Pijp in Amsterdam -- one that would never have happened, ever, if I hadn't been such a mensch.
Looks like the Fifth and Mission gang whiffed at the First Rule of Cyberspace, which is recognizing that people who spend at least a dozen hours a day glued to computers want more than anything to be recognized. Now the fur is flying in the most tiresome and predictable way. “We ARE important! How dare some restauraeur dish like that? I’ll never eat at that place, ever!”
One thing I’d like more than anything is for people who say they’ve never been so offended and will never spend their dollars here or there, ever, to actually stick to their pledges and stay home, in front of their computers. That way I and restaurant staffers everywhere can relax. The market for dining out is big and forgiving enough.
In a future post, I'll relate my favorite restaurant story, from the Pijp in Amsterdam -- one that would never have happened, ever, if I hadn't been such a mensch.
4/2/07
Back like Plumpjack
After nine days of letting the hair down with the little lady, K and I went to get cleaned up and then got a little snack at Pizza Inferno, that place on Sutter and Fillmore, which actually wasn't bad at all.
The place, full of lively color with a couple of flat screens (tonight featuring the NCAA final), specializes in square pizzas that could be a little thinner and crisper, but let me assure you that they are lightly sauced and that the ingredients are fresh and toothsome. (You can also just have some olive oil brushed on.) The tap also featured Arrogant Bastard Ale from a brewery I've never even heard of. (Turns out during weekdays they have a happy hour on pints and pitchers, as well as a two-for-one pizza deal until 6:30.)
K and I split a salad and a fancy veggie with artichoke hearts, Roma tomatoes, roasted peppers and maybe other goodies, and you think that it's not enough food, but it is. The highlight was the vinaigrette on the salad, Knockout, probably the best I've had. The waiter even said as much when we ordered.
Rest assured that I've got quite a bit to report from my excellent, excellent meals abroad. Stay tuned.
The place, full of lively color with a couple of flat screens (tonight featuring the NCAA final), specializes in square pizzas that could be a little thinner and crisper, but let me assure you that they are lightly sauced and that the ingredients are fresh and toothsome. (You can also just have some olive oil brushed on.) The tap also featured Arrogant Bastard Ale from a brewery I've never even heard of. (Turns out during weekdays they have a happy hour on pints and pitchers, as well as a two-for-one pizza deal until 6:30.)
K and I split a salad and a fancy veggie with artichoke hearts, Roma tomatoes, roasted peppers and maybe other goodies, and you think that it's not enough food, but it is. The highlight was the vinaigrette on the salad, Knockout, probably the best I've had. The waiter even said as much when we ordered.
Rest assured that I've got quite a bit to report from my excellent, excellent meals abroad. Stay tuned.
3/22/07
Review: La Vie
I've waited a couple weeks to write this one up, which should tell you something right there.
Uh-oh.
I liked certain things. Ingredients were crisp, fresh, light. But two problems overwhelmed the smaller positives. First, the terrible service. Our waiter did the egregious head-turn a couple times when we signalled for his attention. Trust me, I was a waiter. I know the move. The joint was busy, but not that busy. We had to ask for several things -- water, an extra fork, this or that condiment -- more than once before they arrived.
The second neg was the cost, not justified by the quality, especially in a town with plenty of decent options for cheap Viet. I don't remember offhand the prices, but they were at least the level of Le Soleil without the creativity of that menu, the attention of the staff, or the loving care put into Le Soleil's recent makeover.
Here's where price and service converged to ill effect: It being crab season, and there being five of us, we wanted to rip one apart. "Is one enough?" we asked the waiter? "Mmm, I think at least two," he said. "Two for five people." OK, we said, and started to debate which two flavors (garlic, black bean, salt and pepper, tamarind, etc). Offhand I asked, "By the way, how much per crab?"
The waiter shifted his weight and looked a bit disappointed. "Thirty-eight dollars."
Right. Two for five people. Mmkay. He botched the upsell and pissed off the customer in the process. With the other dishes we were ordering, one crab was plenty, and he knew it. Sorry, but I won't go back. C'est la vie.
Uh-oh.
I liked certain things. Ingredients were crisp, fresh, light. But two problems overwhelmed the smaller positives. First, the terrible service. Our waiter did the egregious head-turn a couple times when we signalled for his attention. Trust me, I was a waiter. I know the move. The joint was busy, but not that busy. We had to ask for several things -- water, an extra fork, this or that condiment -- more than once before they arrived.
The second neg was the cost, not justified by the quality, especially in a town with plenty of decent options for cheap Viet. I don't remember offhand the prices, but they were at least the level of Le Soleil without the creativity of that menu, the attention of the staff, or the loving care put into Le Soleil's recent makeover.
Here's where price and service converged to ill effect: It being crab season, and there being five of us, we wanted to rip one apart. "Is one enough?" we asked the waiter? "Mmm, I think at least two," he said. "Two for five people." OK, we said, and started to debate which two flavors (garlic, black bean, salt and pepper, tamarind, etc). Offhand I asked, "By the way, how much per crab?"
The waiter shifted his weight and looked a bit disappointed. "Thirty-eight dollars."
Right. Two for five people. Mmkay. He botched the upsell and pissed off the customer in the process. With the other dishes we were ordering, one crab was plenty, and he knew it. Sorry, but I won't go back. C'est la vie.
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