A Gourmand's Life

1. Moist Brisket, Beef Rib, Kreuz's Sausage, Hill Country


2. White Clam Pizza, Veloce


3. Shiromaru Hakata Ramen, Ippudo

4. Steamed Pork and Chive Dumplings, Tasty Hand Pulled Noodles

5. Catfish Banh-mi, Baoguette

Over the last decade New York City has quietly been amassing a solid collection of Japanese restaurants that can hold their own anywhere outside of Japan. In addition to old school sushi meccas Kurumazushi and Sushi Yasuda, we have been graced by the freewheeling Masa Takayama and his elaborate Michelin three star spectacle, as well as an assortment of quality izakayas, yakitoris and ramen shops. The latest trend has been a slow influx of establishments specializing in the formal Kaiseki cuisine of Kyoto.

As it was My Friend The Vegan’s birthday recently, I decided to take him to Kajitsu, a restaurant that premiered in April of 2009 and impressively garnered a Michelin star in its first year. The restaurant specializes in a form of Kaiseki known as Shojin, a strictly vegetarian cuisine developed over centuries by the Buddhist monks of Japan. The chef is Masato Nishihara, who, at the tender age of 32, has ten years under his belt at Kitcho, one of the most venerated Kaiseki restaurants in Kyoto and also the recent recipient of three Michelin stars.

The restaurant, reached by descending a few stairs from street level, has one or two window tables up front, followed by a dining counter in the center of the space and a small, separate dining room in the back, again with just a few tables. The décor is all slate and blond woods, the atmosphere serene and quiet. This is not the place for raucous celebrations.

Nishihara offers only two set menus that share the same core dishes. The larger menu adds extra small plates, a soba course and an extra dessert course. The first dish to arrive was Steamed Hearts of Palm with Plum Sauce, Daikon and Menegi, or young Japanese scallion shoots. Fresh hearts of palm have a lovely delicate flavor but they are prized primarily for their texture, which is similar to an artichoke heart. The accompaniments are doled out minimally so as not to overwhelm the main ingredient. This was a perfect course to begin with, simple and refreshing.



The next dish was Sake Kasu Soup with Daikon and Leeks, Enoki Mushrooms, Japanese Taro and White Miso. The soup is made with sake lees, or what has been left after the sake has been pressed, which imparts a subtle, fruity flavor that combines well with the sweet overtones from the miso. Silky and delicate, this is quite different, and good.


The next dish was 7 Gem Sushi Roll, Plum Nama-fu, Roasted Nuts and Sea Beans, tossed with Tea Leaves, Lotus Roots, Soybeans, Cashews, Peanuts, Pinenuts, Mizuna and Cherry Tomatoes. This was a plate made up of three components - a sushi roll with 7 different vegetables, a mix of assorted nuts, beans and leaves, and a flower shaped from nama-fu, or wheat gluten, in this case imported from a 250 year-old factory in Kyoto.



The sushi roll was certainly beauiful, but the combination of nuts and beans was the star of the dish - the textures are carefully blended and the seasoning, particularly from the tea leaves and sea beans, is quite unusual. Nama-fu is certainly an authentic and vitally important component of Shojin cuisine, not some wierd imitation meat dreamed up by a hippie in Birkenstocks. Still, it is challenging for me. As much as I have gotten used to eating just about everything, and rid myself of petty dislikes, squishy is the one texture that I still have trouble with, and nama-fu has it in spades.

It was the main player of the next course, Grilled Nama-fu with Steamed Napa Cabbage, probably the simplest dish of the night. Grilling the nama-fu and topping it with sea salt does give it a meaty aroma, but the texture was still an issue.



Reflecting the time he spent working in a soba restaurant in Japan, Nishihara makes fresh soba every day, and for our main course he deep fried the noodles and topped them with a melange of fresh vegetables. This would seem to be at odds with the reverance typically shown to this most prized of Japanese products, but our server indicated that this dish - of Chinese origin - has been a mainstay in Buddhist monasteries. The Seasonal Vegetable Stew over Fried Homemade Soba Noodles includes cauliflower, fresh bamboo shoots flown in from Japan, trumpet royale mushrooms, carrots, asparagus and lily bulbs. Surprisingly, the flavor of the soba is adhanced by the frying and holds up through the vegetables and sauce. This was the most familiar dish of the meal, but delightful just the same, with the fresh bamboo shoots the real revelation.
 
 
 
Our last savory course was Steamed Rice with Grilled Baby Turnip, Crispy Turnip Leaves and Housemade Pickles. I am sure the turnip leaves  and pickles adhanced the dish, but I don't really recall them. What I remember was perhaps the best little bowl of rice I have had in a lifetime in which I have consumed enough rice - of every imaginable variety - to feed a small Asian country. Warm, subtly nutty and fragrant, it was perfection in rice cookery.
 
 
Desserts began with a Sesame Milk Brulee with Dried Persimmons Soaked in Rum, which had an acrid, pungent element that did not appeal to me. Still, there were candies to follow, from the 100 year-old Suetomi Sweet Shop in Kyoto. The tradition of these sweets, called wagashi, dates back to ancient tea ceremonies where they served as accompaniments to matcha, powdered green tea. I didn't get much from the combination - I guess the East-West divide was too much to cross, as it usually is between me and Asian sweets.

There are few young chefs around with a pedigree to match that of George Mendes. A protégé of Bouley, Mendes was executive sous chef of Lespinasse in Washington D.C. under Sandro Gamba, and then Chef de cuisine at Tocqueville, one of the more underrated restaurants in New York, stopping for stages along the way with the likes of Verge, Ducasse and Berasetegui. His first solo venture, Aldea, is the type of place that is becoming increasingly unfamiliar in the city of astronomical rents– the small, chef-owned and cuisine-driven restaurant.


This is a narrow space with modernist white décor bordering on the antiseptic, although there are splashes of aqua blue here and there to warm things up, as well as an open kitchen equipped with a small food bar where it is possible to dine a few feet from the action. From this perch I began with two dishes from the small plates section of the menu. The first, Sea Urchin Toast with Cauliflower, Cream, Sea Lettuce and Lime, was a bit disappointing – the urchin roe, while fresh, lacked the briny, oceanic bite you find in the best specimens.



The second small plate, Knollcrest Egg with Bacalao, Black Olives and Potato, has been described as a play on Brandade, but the slightly chunky salt cod puree topping the softly cooked egg reminded me more of the Venetian Baccala Mantecato. The balance of flavors is excellent – the dish is smartly conceived and well executed.



Next came Baby Cuttlefish with Caramelized Lychee, Mentaiko and Squid Ink. This brought back fond memories of a similar dish of baby cuttlefish cooked a la plancha at Hisop in Barcelona. The squid ink and mentaiko provide appropriate earthy and salty notes, but the lychee, as it does in the Shaved Foie Gras at Momofuku Ko, is so sweet that it knocks the whole dish off kilter. I propose banning lychees from savory cuisine.

One of the more popular dishes at Aldea is the Arroz de Pato, a dish that harkens to the chef’s Portuguese heritage. It is simply rice that has been caramelized and combined with chunks of duck confit, bits of chorizo, olive and duck cracklings, as well as dots of apricot puree to mix in at will. For a rice aficionado, it is a delightful dish, assertively homey and delicious, but it is probably not beyond the reach of a moderately talented home cook.



I finished with an interesting dessert of Caramelized Brioche, Blood Orange Gel, Crème Fraiche and Pink Peppercorn Ice Cream. The brioche had a nice textural contrast and the blood orange and crème fraiche balanced the sweetness nicely. Only the ice cream seemed devoid of the floral hit of pink peppercorn.




The wine list features an eclectic variety of Portuguese varietals from numerous producers. I drank the Porca de Murca Reserva, a blend of the indigenous varietals Godello and Cercial as well as 50% barrel fermented Semillon, which provided more body and structure then what is found in many Portuguese whites.

This was undoubtedly an interesting meal if a slightly disappointing one. Mendes clearly intends to use his modern French and Spanish techniques to modernize Portuguese cuisine, much the way Jordi Vila incorporates traditional Catalonian ingredients like Codfish Tripe and Espardenyas into his molecular gastronomy at Alkimia in Barcelona. But the results here are not as compelling – Mendes doesn’t so much combine the traditional and the modern as go back and forth between them, and the ingredients are not as evocative.

Make no mistake, though, this is a serious restaurant from a serious talent, and I look forward to many more meals here to see how it evolves.

Aldea

Before consideration of Danny Meyer’s new Roman trattoria, Maiolino, I would like to observe a brief moment of silence in memory of Wakiya, the shockingly underrated Chinese restaurant that formerly occupied this space in the Gramercy Park Hotel. It may not have been perfect, but it was the closest thing we had in New York to serious Chinese haute cuisine, while bringing another good Italian restaurant to Manhattan is like selling coal to Newcastle. But this is Danny Meyer, after all; undeterred by the fact that New York has more good Italian food then anywhere outside of Italy, he has pulled out all the stops, bringing in chef Nick Anderer, a graduate of Babbo, off the bench from Gramercy Tavern. The result is a smashing success.

The restaurant occupies the same narrow space as its predecessor, except that the bar has been moved to an alcove at the front of the room, widening the actual dining area considerably. The décor features a tasteful amalgamation of trattoria effects, featuring bread and salume stations opposite one another, but the effect is not kitschy, thanks in part to the large windows facing the park that firmly establish a sense of place.

We were seated at a wooden booth that was strangely reminiscent of a church pew - and about as comfortable – at least until we were able to configure the cushioned pillows in an acceptable manner. There isn’t a table in New York City more challenging and awkward to get in and out of – even the staff acknowledges the joke and is willing to assist. Whether you appreciate this location along the side of the room will depend on your mood for the evening. It offers much privacy - so much, in fact, - that you may feel like you are on the outside looking in.

When the food begins to arrive any quibbles you are nursing will soon be forgotten. Roman food, for many years considered insignificant in the hierarchy of regional Italian cuisines, has come of age lately, largely due to the crazy success of Mario Batali and Mark Ladner at Lupa. We sampled a pantheon of Roman dishes, but before that we could not resist a plate from that Salume station, and were rewarded with ethereal slices of extraordinarily unctuous mortadella from Emilia-Romagna in addition to prosciutto from San Daniele and Tuscan salami from Paul Oliveto’s Fra’Mani in Berkeley.

A homey but delicate Stracciatella alla Romana began the proceedings, followed by Trippe alla Trastervina, thin slices of tripe barely coated with a light tomato sauce and tossed with Pecorino and a bit of mint. I am a devotee of tripe in all guises, and this preparation, similar to the version served at Babbo, is one of my favorites.




Zampina di Maiolino is the trotter of a suckling pig (more about the rest of him later) that has been braised until just barely holding together, and then fried to create a joyous textural combination. It is served over beautifully stewed beans and topped with celery leaves.




My least favorite antipasti was the Animelle, or Lamb Sweetbreads, which had fine flavor but were slightly overcooked.

As expected, Anderer nails the pastas. Cacio e Pepe perhaps defines the tenets of Italian cuisine better then any other dish. It is nothing but pasta, in this case a terrific homemade tonnarelli, Pecorino Romano, black pepper and a touch of olive oil or butter. Nothing could be simpler, yet the results can be magical, and the version at Maialino is excellent, rivaling Lupa's.




I didn't see the need for having the Paccheri alla Gricia on the menu since it is basically the same sauce as Cacio e Pepe only with the addition of Guanciale, but if anything it is an even better dish, the smokiness prevalent but not overwhelming, and the paccheri -  basically shorter, fatter rigatoni - stealing the show on their own. The homemade pastas here are really outstanding.

Spaghetti Carbonara was straightforward but exemplary, creamy but with a nice bite from the Guanciale.

Like the Bollito Misto at Del Posto, the Maialino, or slow roasted sucking pig, is a signature dish that eliminates the usually fruitless search for an appealing secondi, often the downfall of Italian restaurants. Redolent of fresh rosemary, the succulent meat is served with strips of beautifully crisped skin, the whole thing resting on a bed of roasted potatoes.

I have renewed my love affair with good coffee since Stumptown Roasters arrived a few blocks from my office in New York. Visiting often can provide an inexpensive education in direct trade, single origin coffees including Ethiopian Yerga Cheffe, Burundi Kinyovu and Indonesian Gajah Aceh. But the one that knocked my socks off was the Panama Esmerelda Especial Mario San Jose they were serving up one morning.

This Geisha varietal coffee features an initial explosive palate of sweetness, followed by floral, spice and citrus notes that I had never encountered in this intensity before. I happened to be speaking to the director of coffee service at Dean & DeLuca the next day, and she explained how rare and expensive this coffee was. I returned to Stumptown and found that it sells for $70 per 12 oz. bag. Clearly, it pays to stop by often here – you never know what they might be brewing.

All coffees are prepared in a French Press, and I have not encountered a single cup that was too strong or bitter to drink black, my preferred method. But even I have broken down and ordered a few lattes, and they were the best I have ever had, with the possible exception of Blue Bottle in San Francisco. Mochas are made with syrup from Mast Brothers Chocolate, house Hair Bender espresso blend and milk from Hudson Valley Fresh. Fresh whipped cream and a dose of cocoa powder top things off, perfect for a mid-afternoon pick me up.

Pastries have been a mixed bag here from day one. It would help if they were not displayed so haphazardly, and without identification. While I have been having a serious relationship with the Caramelized French Toast brought in from Café Pedlar - one that is sure to end in heartbreak for my waistline - I haven’t been impressed by their other offerings. There is an evolving group of items from the pastry kitchen at the Ace Hotel as well. I don’t know what a Rum-Glazed Ciabatta Donut tastes like, but I intend to find out.

I am not sure what dressing the staff up as members of a barbershop quartet adds to the experience, but nonetheless the baristas are friendly, knowledgeable and unflappable under pressure.

Stumptown Roasters is a welcome import to the New York food scene.

Stumptown Roasters

If you have been reading my meal notes you have realized by now that I am not one of those sad individuals who populate sites like Yelp with elaborate tales of their mistreatment at the hands of reservationists, hostesses, and servers. Really, I am amazed that these people ever want to dine out at all, given the horrible treatment they claim to receive on a regular basis. To the contrary, service in New York City is actually at an all time height of proficiency. It is with this disclaimer that I am compelled to point out that my recent visit to The Minetta Tavern was the worst restaurant experience I have had since, well…Balthazar, about five years ago, when three of us were forced into a table that could comfortably fit one dwarf, and I was subsequently shaken down by the coat check girl.

Many have complained about the reservation process at Minetta, but it is no less onerous than at some other places, particularly new ones, that restrict reservations between 5:30 and 10:30 to build hype. Hell, Babbo still does that. And at least you can get in here, although that turned out to be a pyrrhic victory for us.

Our adventure began upon our prompt arrival, when we announced our reservation and were told that staff just needed a moment to begin seating. After a few minutes wedged in the tiny bar area a waiter approached to offer us a table - in the front bar section. When I politely refused I was escorted back to the hostess stand and told quite sternly - in no uncertain terms - that all dining room tables were being held for reservations. When I reiterated that I had a reservation, one of the hostesses, apparently pausing for her neurons to fire,  suddenly blurted out, “Oh, so you have a reservation!”

This permitted us the privilege of being escorted back to the tiny space that serves as the dining room. Restaurateur Keith McNally added the ubiquitous black and white tiled floor, red banquettes and period photos, but this space needed a lot more than some retro touches. You may find the vintage kitsch and vaguely speakeasy meets bistro setting to be quaint or hip. I found it decrepit and claustrophobic, the latter attribute made much more prevalent by the ridiculous spacing of tables. If you occupy a two top be prepared to listen to every word of the conversation taking place at your adjoining table and hope that it is not as banal as the one we endured - you are literally an inch away from boredom. Pity the incontinent person who is seated on the banquette. They will have to have their dinner companion stand up to allow a waiter to pull the table out into the center of the room to permit their exit. Their counterpart doesn’t fare any better – servers bumped into my seat at least a dozen times, without apology.

The menu created by chefs Lee Hanson and Riad Nasr, who are responsible for the perfectly pleasant if nondescript food at Balthazar, is a clever combination of French regional bistro and American tavern classics. I began with one of the former, Crème Billi Bi, the mussel soup from Normandy. This is a characteristic bisque, enhanced by a garnish of Bouchot mussels - both in and out of their shells – that are much more plump and flavorful then their cousins from PEI. The presentation was lovely, but the soup itself was a bit wan, lacking an intense mussel stock and some salt.


My wife chose a special, Risotto with Nantucket Bay Scallops, Cauliflower and Lemon that once again featured an excellent seasonal product undercut by a lack of execution, in this case rice that was terribly undercooked.

We decided to continue with the lauded prime, dry-aged Grilled Cote de Boeuf for two, ordered medium- rare. Our waiter pointed out that the kitchen cooks somewhat on the rare side. The result was sadly typical of what many American steakhouses turn out as a medium-rare steak – incinerated on the outside and virtually raw in the middle – that resulted in alternating bites of acrid char and flabby, rubbery meat. As with the other dishes we sampled, there is an understanding of product here – this started out as a nice piece of meat. But undercooking steak this marbled is a bad idea; the intramuscular fat does not have a chance to render, leaving the meat resistant to both slicing and chewing. I initially shrugged this off as my mistake – after all, I was warned. But when I came to my senses I realized that diners should not have to play a guessing game to have their steak cooked properly. If I order it medium rare, goddammit, cook it medium rare.


I was looking forward to Aligot potatoes, a specialty of the Auvergne region in France that is difficult to find on a menu in this country. Consisting of mashed potatoes whipped with grated Cantal cheese, the dish should be a silky, elastic puree. As executed here, it is gluey, and worst of all, barely tepid. Sadly, with $125 worth of food in front of me, the only thing worth eating was the roasted bone marrow thoughtfully included with the steak, and a side dish of carrots.

A glutton for punishment, I took up my server’s offer of cheese, which is carried around the room on a little dish. He proceeded to describe the choices - “This one is goat, this one is cow, this one is sheep, this one has a washed rind and this one is like a Roquefort.” After staring at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend the depth of his ignorance, I decided to take my chances with the Chocolate Soufflé for two. Despite the fact that there is no mention of it on the menu, he announced that they would have to serve the soufflé without Crème Anglaise, because they didn’t have any, and offered Vanilla ice cream as an alternative. The soufflé looked nice until he plunged his spoon into the center and came up with about two tablespoons of melted chocolate for each of us, which he plopped in little puddles on our plates. Only the dried up edges of the soufflé remained. Considering the rest of the meal, expecting this kitchen to be able to cook a soufflé properly was wishful thinking.

I am genuinely surprised at the attention this place has received from people who should know much better. Kitchens can have off nights, but not this off, and there is never an excuse for the rudeness displayed by the front of the house, as well as the genuine incompetence of our server, other than that they are in the employ of the anti-Meyer of restaurateurs, for whom no slight or discomfort is beyond his reach.

And yes, they charged us for the ice cream.

Ok, so I'm a little late with this post. It should be titled, "Kishu Mandarins Were Here", since my family and I have already blown through our 10 pound box of these organic, heirloom Mandarins from Churchill Orchard in Ojai, California, and the season is already over. However, I strongly encourage you to sign up to their mailing list for next season, because you won't find better citrus fruit anywhere. These little golf ball sized beauties are incredibly easy to peel, seedless, and best of all, possess a dazzling sweetness that even the best Clementines from Spain can only aspire to.


The fruit is usually shipped the same day that it is picked, meaning that even here in New York you will be eating fruit only two or three days off the tree. The difference is amazing, which is why I like to supplement my available fruit supply throughout the year with unique products available directly from growers.

If you can't wait until next year, Churchill is now taking orders for their Pixie Tangerines, available beginning in late March. I haven't had them, but if they're anything like their little cousins, they will be worth trying.

Churchill Orchard