We hit Borough Market, bought everything that couldn't run away, and then turned our loot into pizza (click to enlarge). There were three types of salami involved, Coolea, St. Tola and fresh Mozzerella cheeses, pesto and some enormously wonderful olives.
The messy results are after the jump. Hint: Cheese melts.
New Year's Eve, 2007. We dumped a lot of new potatoes, bacon, onions and spices into a casserole dish. Then dumped in the goose fat. The original intention was to roast the potatoes, but since they were sitting in a full inch of goose-grease, they deep fried instead.
The delicious conclusion after the jump.
The Veal & Pork Meatball sub from Paragon (San Francisco). We ate the last ones, before they were taken off the menu (the chef got bored - I suspect it was because nobody would order anything else).
In the background,you can see the side of Macaroni & Cheese. It was delicious too.
Yes, I'm hungry.
Breakfast sandwiches are good (if belated) idea - especially over here, where bacon on bread is the breakfast of champions.
But, good god, do something about the photography. For a major fast food brand, this ad looks like one of those horrifying delivery menus that 'Tandoori Chicken & Pizza' slip under our front door.
The full unholy glory lurks after the jump. Beware.
From Consumerist:
An Arby's customer gets chopped beef instead of sliced beef. The customer complains. An actual human being responds. With an explanation. And an apology. And some coupons.
I'm a little baffled about the validity of the complaint in the first place. You're eating at Arby's - complaining about your beef's topography seems a little finicky. However, the Arby's response was pretty impressive. Well done, beef-shavers.
So (and here's a phrase I never expected to type on this blog)...
I'm on a diet.
"St. John will close from the end of June for a much needed programme of refurbishment and maintenance.
After fifteen years fairly intensive labour, our kitchen, bar, dining room and back of house areas need a little attention and a few upgrades and so over a six week period from June 27th, Smithfield will close following supper service on June 26th until Monday 18th August 2008.
St. John Bread and Wine will remain open for the duration of the works and our reservations desk will continue to operate as normal over the summer, as will online reservations for Spitalfields and for bookings following Smithfield’s re-opening."
We had breakfast at Bread and Wine last weekend, and can confirm that the 'little' St. John is still delicious. But a two-month closure of the Smithfield restaurant is a terrifying prospect.
This bustling Italian restaurant sits in a quiet Amsterdam neighborhood, facing one of the city's many canals. The menu is brief, but it is accompanied by a lengthy list of daily specials. Like many good restaurants, the food is at the mercy of the chefs' daily whims, rather than held to a prescribed menu.
The lobby of the St. Martin's Lane Hotel:
A picture is worth a thousand words. And just staring at this one is easily worth a thousand calories.
Anne had this legendary portion of 'Wagon Wheel Bolognese' at Rosebud on Rush. The dish is one of Rosebud's specialities - a childishly fun mix of wagon wheels and the creamy heartiness of proper Bolognese sauce (beef and veal).
The fork is there to provide scale - this dish was enormous. Although it still paled in comparison to...
I mentioned it earlier in a 'Week in Meat' post, but Cafe Vergnano deserves a rant of its very own.
The steampunk beastie shown above is an Elektra Belle Epoque Q-1C espresso machine, which is handmade by Italian goblins in the bowels of a timeless glass mountain, reaching a mile into the air.
The first day of every new century, the largest goblins set one brand-new Elektra Belle Epoque Q-1C espresso machine on the top of the mountain. Ambitious cafe owners, coffee snobs and disgruntled baristas make a pilgrimage to this event from all over the world.
This is the interior wall of the Medici ('the Med') - a gastronomic pleasuredrome in the heart of Chicago's Hyde Park neighborhood.
Populated by college students (generally when their parents are in town or when their monthly check clears - it isn't that cheap), the Med serves sticky cinnamon rolls, personal-sized deep pan pizzas and huge squishy hamburgers.
The only flaw? No liquour license, but they serve fresh squeezed orange juice to make up for it...
The Medici
1327 E. 57th Street
Chicago, Illinois
60637
(773) 667-7394
Seriously, does this make anyone else uncomfortable?
An interesting little article from Gridskipper, Gawker's site for totally cool urban dwellers (like you and me) (well, mostly you. But I dream of a day when T-Bones caps are in again...).
The article has a few flaws - a peculiar reference to 'Kansas City pulled pork' and a painfully irritating java applet that makes my browser jam - but the comments are worth it. The original author invited participation (BBQ is a community sport), and got it - in spades.
As depressing as it may be to my heartland soul, there may be some decent BBQ in NYC after all. Shucks.
Ok, the field experience isn't mine, but this is a great blog entry by Eugene Wei about a meal at super-trendy-cutting-edge-power-princess-karma-punch! restaurant Moto.
I've never eaten at one of the new 'molecular gastronomy' places (I think the London outpost would be The Fat Duck) - has anyone?
Ever since I started my new job, I've been eating a ridiculous amount of Subway sandwiches. 'Ridiculous' because I'd encountered about three in my life until about four months ago, and now I devour that number every week.
The main reason I'd avoided Subway so long (and so well) is because of the inconveniently-named Jared, and his ghastly advertisements. It doesn't take a great deal imagination to realize that sharing a name with this git can spell more than a few uncomfortable hours on the playground.
Fortunately, the wisdom of the global corporation has prevailed, and if Jared is continuing to moan his poignant testimonials, I can't hear him from London.
"In the span of a day last Wednesday, in Kansas City, I had a barbequed turkey sandwich (Gates Barbeque) and barbequed pork (Arthur Bryant's Barbeque). First of all, barbequed meat done right is better than Ruth's Chris sirloin. Secondly, the Gates turkey had a slight edge. Superb sauce. I'm not saying Kansas City is Boston or Seattle on my list of top cities, but I am saying if I lived there, barbeque would be lunch and dinner 14 times a week. Or more." - Peter King (Sports Illustrated)
Another Dublin highlight was a hearty portion of Eggs McSwiggan. Say it out loud - such a fantastic name shouldn't be read silently.
Ours were served at the Elephant and Castle, a gourmet diner in the heart of Temple Bar. (Be warned, they don't take reservations, and we completely failed twice to get in for dinner. We only snuck in for breakfast by staking out their front door for a half-hour before they opened. And there was a queue for that as well...)
One highlight from our jaunt to Dublin - thanks to Anne:
The Carnivore had obviously called in a couple of favors with the gods, because we had spectacular weather. Friday night was pleasant enough for the easy amble over to Shanahan's in a light frock and heels. We arrived early and spent an hour and a half in the bar chatting with the barkeep and tasting whiskeys. The C fell especially in love with the ultra-smooth Redbreast and the smokey, peaty Connemara.
When I was taking in high school French, one of our assignments was to write a menu of twenty items for an imaginary restaurant.
Between my culinary tunnel-vision and my C- mastery of the language, this was an incredible challenge. Although my trusty Collins dictionary could provide me translations of 'beef', 'ham' and 'cheese', I couldn't, for the life of me, stretch my imagination to twenty items. Combinations helped (if I remember correctly 'ham and cheese' was a starter, while 'beef and ham' was a main), but the F was inevitable.
Little did I know, this restaurant actually exists. My adolescent carnivorous dream-land is alive and well. If only I had taken Spanish...
I am completely incapable of reviewing the food at Gourmet Burger Kitchen.
Why is this? Was it a mind-blowing culinary experience? Do the immeasurable beauty of the burgers actually defy all description?
No. It's because the service was so bad we walked out.
What is it with West London? I've been so eager to condemn this entire semi-suburban region for so long, only to be drawn back from the edge by one breath-taking culinary experience after another.
The latest was lunch at the Electric Brasserie - the stately culinary addition to the highly-acclaimed Electric Cinema. On Anne's recommendation, we spent the morning hustling around the market and arrived at the Brasserie in time for lunch. We were absolutely starving (three hours of finding antique towel-hooks will WEAR YOU OUT) but the Brasserie guardian informed us that it would be a forty-five minute wait.
Starving, dusty, out-of-sorts and surrounded by alternative restaurants. Even under those conditions, it took only a single glance at the food around us for us to decide - 45 minutes or two days, we'd wait for a table.
The Brixton Academy is one of South London's most prestigious musical venues. With a capacity of almost 5,000, it's one of London's largest non-arena concert venues - and has been repeatedly awarded NME's 'Venue of the Year' (although it is worth noting that the Carling NME Award going to the Carling Brixton Academy is a slightly dubious distinction). It's a comfortable venue with very good audio-visual jiggery-pokery (the recent DJ Shadow gig was a testament to the venue's capacity from technological wizardry).
Like with Emirates Stadium, the entertainment provided is the best of its kind. The Brixton Academy plays host to some of the best bands throughout the world, and it's musical reputation is absolutely secure.
From Anne, in San Francisco:
Although Paragon has several locations in the bay area, and although they're all reputed to be quite good, I've only ever eaten at the Paragon on the corner of Second and Townsend, hard by the ballpark where the Giants play. My mother's lived virtually next door to Paragon for nearly five years now, and we've been eating there since it opened. And it's always delicious.
The menu is relatively brief and features a number of standards. The lunch menu leans more towards sandwiches and salads (the Paragon burger and the grilled cheese are personal favorites), and the dinner offerings are generally pretty conventional - steak, fish, the ubiqutious burger, and pasta. But there are stand-out items on the menu, also: the side of mac and cheese is always perfectly done, warm and gooey on the inside with a fabulous crust of cheese on top; the pasta specials are spectacular (mom's meal tonight was a spicy pasta with perfectly flavoured veal meatballs); the fish specials are universally delicious. A quick glance at a San Francisco foodie website suggests that the grilled cheese sandwich is a favorite with many visitors.
I recently had the opportunity to explore two of London's legendary arenas: Emirates Stadium, home to Arsenal Football Club, and Brixton Academy, one of the city's most heralded concert venues.
With the suicidal fervor of any true fan, I treated myself to lunch at the former and dinner at the latter. Both of which meals, just to allay any suspicions about my sanity, were absolutely dire. The question, however, remains - which was worse?
The stadium of the future! The food of the distant past!
I've definitely been remiss in not mentioning the 'Dino Jaws' exhibit at the Natural History Museum (London). The city's foremost collection of prehistoric critters has organised an exhibition based on the eating habits of our reptilian predecessors.
We are forever in their shadow. Sure, we can put down the occasional 30 oz cheeseburger, but, compared to the noble T. Rex?
Apparently my taste is more consistant than I thought, as, stumbling through some old files, I found the following pieces of timeless food ephemera:
The main dining room of Lawry's (Chicago)...
Continue reading "Desert Island Steaks - The Graphic Novel" »
A guest entry from Pickin' Paul, the Prince of Pickles:
The receptionist looked at me as if I’d just asked directions to a lap dancing club. “Do you know where I can find some BBQ sauce” I repeated “You know like Gates or Hayward’s…” I added helpfully. Her eyebrows rose further. This wasn’t getting any easier.
Since reading this post, I’ve been wanting to try some proper BBQ sauce. Previously, I thought that Hayward’s was a British pickle producer and that all BBQ sauces were just vinegary, over sweetened gunk you slopped over cheap, burnt meat. But the way Jared writes about BBQ sauce you know it must be pretty special – and he likes St John so his taste can’t be that bad.
An upcoming trip to Chicago provided the ideal opportunity to try some proper Mid-West BBQ and to stock up on some sauce. Or so I thought. But Jared advised that all the best BBQ places in Chicago are in “neighborhoods that you really, really, really should never go near.” And, as I wasn’t prepared to die just to try burnt ends, I’d just have to stock up on some sauces to experiment with a home – what could be easier.
After writing my review of Lon's, and my extravagent praise of their buffalo strip, I decided to go a bit High Fidelity and see what my five desert island steaks would be - so, in no particular order:
The whirlwind visit to Phoenix ended on an unmatched high note - Lon's. Frequently rated one of Phoenix's best dining experiences, the restaurant is set in a beautiful ranch house. Although a ten minute drive from the bustling heart of Phoenix, the rustic glamour of the setting gives a feeling of isolation. Fortunately, the glamour is the only rustic part.
Lon Megargee's The Buffalo Hunter (c1945)
Formerly the home of Alonzo (Lon) Megargee, a flamboyant Western artist, the ranch house is certainly the domain of an artist of a different sort - Michael Rusconi. It is a rare that I pay attention to a chef's name, but in this case, I might contemplate a commemorative tattoo (or, barring that, maybe an engraved Zippo).
Five quick thoughts on the Capital Grille:
1) For a recent addition in a steakhouse 'chain', they've made it look like the Capital Grille has been here for forty years. This is mostly a good thing, although the massive oil portrait of Barry Goldwater is off-putting.
2) What is an 'award-winning wine list'? Does it have typography by Chip Kidd? Given the choice, I'd rather have an badly art-directed list of award-winning wines. Sarcasm aside, the waiter used this phrase frequently (it also appears on the website), to the point where we wickedly ordered 'award-winning cocktails' instead (I had an 'award-winning bourbon'). Should I have expected otherwise of a 'grille'?
Upon my arrival in Phoenix, I went straight from the airport to the Teepee, a delicious Mexican restaurant on 41st and Indian School Road. A Friday night, the place was hopping - football (presumably not live) on the television, pitchers of frozen Margaritas passing from hand to hand. While waiting for a table, I admired the many autographed photos hanging in the bar. Apparently Larry Bird enjoyed a burrito here once and a Playboy Bunny proudly scrawled that 'The TeePee has what I CRAVE' (much to Hef's chagrin). The place of honor (that is, right beside the bar), is taken by a massive shrine to President George W. Bush. Surrounded by 'Viva Bush!' stickers and newspaper clippings, the President is giving his glossy grin, arms draped around the more respectable members of the kitchen staff.
Finding a Republican in Arizona isn't so difficult - it's one of the Redder states in the union - the home to such luminaries as Barry Goldwater (deceased) and John McCain (very much alive). As a stronghold of Conservatism, Arizona is a frequent stopping point for politicians on some cause or another. For example, for two years running, our annual pool-side holiday has been disagreeably interrupted by Dick Cheney and his cronies on fundraising expeditions (fortunately, high security measures prevent me from glimpsing the Vice-President in a Speedo). Still, there's a difference between a passing glimpse of McCain in the airport and finding one of your favorite restaurants draped in Presidential iconography.
Cocoon is one of the more recent additions to the empire of "pan-Asian fusion" (that is, "culturally inconsistant") expensive dining.
Like many of its fellows, Cocoon's dishes are meant to be shared. You, personally, are possessed of no more than a small bowl for rice (rice shared with your neighbor) and a delicately forged dish for soy sauce. As the proper food arrives, haughty waitresses set delicate china dishes (that is, "pan-Asia dishes") in the middle of the table, fostering a Verseilles style land-grab.
This is made somewhat easier by the fact that the tables, like everything else in Cocoon, are round. The chairs are round. The bar is round. The lights are round. Even the glasses are distinctly spherical. Combined with the low ceilings, Crayola Flesh-toned colour scheme and the warm lighting, it creates a distinctly womb-like effect. Which, I suppose, helps lessen the hostility that would otherwise come from fighting for shared resources (that is, 'nigiri').
The photo says it all. Gorgeous 64 oz porterhouse, flanked by a two-pound lobster tail, surrounded by hearty vintage reds. And referred to, nonchalantly, as the children's menu.
In a city that takes meat more seriously than human life, the Chop House is the traditional center of carnivorous excellence. The restaurant prides itself on simplicity and focus.
Courtesy of Anne, a review of Rules. In Haiku. Naturally.
Late August. My mom
takes us to Rules - the oldest
London restaurant.
Famous for its pies,
you can also shoot your own
game to eat later.
Mom's bird still had feet.
The grouse taught us that it tastes
better with toppings.
The Carnivore's meal
was pretty decent too, but
mine was patently best.
I had spotted pork
belly (from Gloucester), which I
highly recommend.
A vat of Stilton,
however, made dessert the
most impressive course.
Rules
35 Maiden Lane
WC2E 7LB
0207 836 5314
www.rules.co.uk
Whenever you're starting to despair about the impersonal mediocrity of West End dining, drop into Joe Allen. While my previous WC2 experiences were about appalling service and glorified fast food, Joe Allen thankfully brought me back to a classic world of classic food and well-trained staff.
Even visually, Joe Allen's elegance shines through. It's like the basement version of Frankie and Johnny's - possibly the best steakhouse in the world. You enter through a discreetly marked doorway, descend a flight of aged wooden stairs (with proper brass handrails) and enter a comforting world of vintage theatre posters and tantalizing meaty smells. Be it the height of the British summer (commonly known as 'that Thursday in July'), you still feel like you've somehow wandered into a timeless and isolated world of perpetual evening.
The design of Canteen's self-consciously minimalistic interior is slightly weakened by the Wagamama's refugee tables, but the squashy cushions were most appreciated by all, especially once the orgy of foodstuffs began.
The envy of the starters was a seriously potted duck, which had the consistently of foie gras, and was highly appreciated by all. The soup (Leek & Potato) was disappointing, which, frankly, was expected. What's the point of soup without meat in it? Honestly, would you eat a bowl of hot ketchup? (Yes, probably...) No.
The pork belly went down well, and there was much enthusiastic crackling-crunching from the my compatriots, although the roast potatoes, cooked in duck fat, are much more worthy of mention.
Consider them thus mentioned.
I personally went for a daintier dish of mutton pie, which, although disappointingly only mid-sized, and decently-filled, had a phenomenally buttery crust.
The 'side' of macaroni and cheese (the British tendency to leave out the conjunction is both is disconcerting and lazy) went down well, but lacked salt. Fortunately, I'm is ever-ready to add beloved sodium chloride - God's gift to unhealthily free-flowing arteries. Still, for those less adventurous in the field of self-condimenting, it stood as a solid metaphor for the Canteen experience. Everything was there - but, frankly, it just lacked the extra push to goodness.
The Bite: Needs salt.
Canteen
2 Crispin Place
Spitalfields
E1 6DW
0845 6861122
Brilliantly, I just found a review referring to PJ's Bar and Grill as having a 'Bostonian feel'. Granted, I'm not from Boston, but the first bar that springs to mind is Cheers.
And if there ever were a more painful contrast, it'd be PJ's.
PJ's is a delightfully dark hole in the wall on Wellington Street, sandwiched between Cafe Rouge and a few other forgettable pre-theatre restaurants. To give credit where it's due, they do use a small portion of this valuable real estate for a bar, which, upon entering, gives PJ's a pleasant feel of cosmopolitan belonging.
And, definitely, the food was very good. My steakburger (see the earlier post) was, in fact, made of steak, and was a surprisingly dense mouthful of meat. And a companion's salad actually looked properly substantial. (Although you do get the feeling that Cheers never served a salad, and didn't bother with the expensive meat...)
The restaurant itself is littered with tiny brass plaques - similar to those the Victorians used to label the latest prehistoric find - each proudly bearing a svelte nickname or incomprehensible pseudonym. They have clearly gone out of their way to reward their loyal clientele.
And, frankly, their loyal clientele deserve far more than that. [You know this review was going to turn somewhere, didn't you?] After being seated in the corner, we were promptly ignored. Despite four of us being placed at a table set for three, I still wound up having to steal my own flatware and menu from the table behind me. Later, a request to change a drink order was received by the sort of horror normally reserved for failed operations.
A shocking transformation took place at the end of the meal, when our sullen, disinterested waitress was replaced by her Good Twin, who actually seemed to care about us. I'm not sure why she bothered as, like most restaurants, the service was added on automatically (although the card scanner did still prompt us to add a tip...).
It was an unpleasant, if not rare, occasion in which good food was marred by bad service. Perhaps the most upsetting part was the fact that they're billed as 'American style', where the reverse is more often true.
PJ's Restaurant and Bar
30 Wellington Street
WC2E 7DA
020 7240 7529
The Bite: A place where nobody wanted to know my name.
