Ritz Bites

Best Manners: Blue Hill NYC

A few weeks after our fabulous anniversary dinner at Blue Hill this summer, I was surprised by an extra gesture that arrived in the mail: a real, actual paper thank you note!

I've gotten thank you cards from stores and eager salespeople, but never a restaurant. Way to earn extra points in my book. Anyone who's ever given me a gift knows I'm a bit of an OCD fascist when it comes to thank you etiquette. (And to those with whom I have lapsed in this department, I'm sincerely sorry. I'm happy to mail you an apology.) I might be a quasi-environmentalist who prefers to eliminate paper waste, but I love pretty paper products and will never be offended by receiving a thank you card via US Mail, even if the message is on the terse and impersonal side.

  This unbleached recycled card made the memories of the farm-to-table meal at the cozy Village restaurant linger that much more deliciously in my mind: the poached egg salad with corn and mushrooms and gently blanketed with translucent crudo ribbons; pork chop served with a hunk of crisp pork belly and green peas; and rustic lamb. The pretentious, overly precious "cherry tomatoes on the fence" amuse bouche trick? A little less so.

I can't, however, remember when or how I gave them my home address; maybe I signed a comment card? Dunno. Too much Charbonniere 2004 Chateauneuf du Pape.

Update: my sister waited in line for the hay ride at the Stone Barns Harvest Festival today behind  behind Jon friggin' Stewart and his family. Clearly Blue Hill is pleasing important people in the right places. Forget about little ol' me. I wonder what Dan Barber & Co send Mr. Stewart...

Blue Hill NYC
75 Washington Pl
New York, NY 10011
212.539.1776

The higher end of a weekend in San Francisco

Because I haven't spent a ton of time in San Francisco, especially in recent years, it was time to hit some of the classics. But asking for advice from friends and colleagues was quickly overwhelming.

Too many places. Too much good food. Too hard to decide. (Big problems, I know.) So I left it to fate, and my  trusty eater brother-in-arms MOP noticed a rez at Jardiniere on the Saturday night. I'm glad to cede OpenTable.com stalking to someone whose taste in food I trust.

Jardiniere's been around long enough that the taxi drivers know where it is, but it's not played out. At least not to my foreign SoCal eyes. The Nouveau touches, like the swag iron railings, make it feel like Fancy Special Occasion Place but also fun. I wish more restaurants had a balcony with such panoramic good views of other eaters and the room.

The menu again presented more tough choices, a situation for which the tasting menu took care of everything. And thankfully, everything was great. If only there weren't so many other restaurants to hit up on the next trip, I'd gladly go back just to order the luscious potato gnocchi with lobster, chanterelles and shallot jus topped with just about the best bread crumbs I'd ever tasted; the duck breast with blackberries, farro, and foie gras terrine; and the interesting wine pairings that totally did us in.

The meal felt like a perfect meeting of Northern California and France. If only international relations were this triumphant.

When I told Cicely that our other dinner plan included dinner at Zuni, she pointed out its CP-equivalent iconic status in her mind. Shame on me for never having been! (She didn't really say that. Instead I thought it.)

Compared to Jardiniere, Zuni's menu was well, not as exciting. But it's an impeccably sourced, sustainable apples and oranges comparison. Zuni is closer to the level of what a highly competent home cook can make, many of whom I know are Zuni fans.

Yet its comfort and sincerity is 100% Bay Area (4% "health surcharge" for the city's universal health care program!), and the food will never go out of style. Roasted chicken with bread salad, mustard greens, and pine nuts and currants (a Catalonia-inspired riff I often borrow) is indeed firmly in the Judy Rodgers canon. The crazy $48 price tag for a chicken who lived a happy life is also pure current day S.F. 

I've done my foodie duty. And just shot my street cred by using that word.
 

The best kind of vacation

My favorite type of travel -- and way of living, really -- is hanging out with good peeps and spending days going from one eating and drinking establishment to the next.

San Francisco makes doing that very easy. Even in a mere 48 hours you can get a lot accomplished.

Blue Bottle was ground zero for all social and caffeine-oriented activity. We didn't try their siphon brew because it's hard to wean us off the cappuccio, and apples vs. apples makes for better taste testing. But the apparatus is quite a thing to behold, as is the clean interior tucked inside an historic building at the edge of newly redesigned Mint Plaza. Limited seating means a focus on the coffee and friends (or strangers sitting next to you given the forced-friendly arrangement), not spending $3 to fritter hours away on the laptop. I also like the name of the intersection.

No trip to SF is complete without a visit to the Ferry Building. Check. Purchases at the Ferry Plaza Wine Merchant (Tintilla de Rota and Malvasia from Lipari), then a carafe of rose with charcuterie plate. Done and done.

Judging by the line spilling out the door at Tartine on a late Sunday afternoon, you'd never know that a major chunk of the Mission's residents have decamped for Burning Man. I get it. Pressed cheese sandwiches and perfect desserts are always in demand.

I never ever thought in a million billion years that there could be such a thing as too much insanely creamy smooth meringue. Tartine's blow torches are getting put to very good use for this noble cause. Yet as much as it hurt to leave some over on the plate, I couldn't finish all of the miraculous meringue frosting that encased the layers of cake and mild lemon curd. Truly a top 10 dessert for this citrus lover.

Now I can't think past the cake. Will cover dinners later.

   

Shut out of Slow Food Nation (sort of)

Here we are in San Francisco for the weekend. Slow Food Nation was the original impetus for the trip, but since I botched my chance to get tickets to the Tasting Pavilion -- which were being sold on Craig's List for upwards of 5X face value, apparently -- and other events, that wasn't happening. So, no tasting pavilion for us, but our font-of-SF-food-tips friend Tracie told us over delicious, perfect cocktails at Bourbon & Branch that it was like, ridiculous waits for a few bites of food. That made me feel a lot better. 

Instead we're spending a lovely, relaxing, pre-birthday, friend-filled, child-free, food/coffee/booze-soaked weekend up north, albeit one with a little too much time being spent along Market Street. But the open-to-the-public SFN Marketplace gave us enough of an idea of what the whole festival thing is about. (Proximity to Blue Bottle just around the corner helped get me over the initial disappointment, and it totally kicks Ritual and definitely Four Barrel's asses.)

To summarize: it was basically like a big farmers' market with better graphic design and lots of maps. Plus a nearly oppressive amount of geographically detailed information. I can't say the selection of products totally blew me away, since a lot of it was familiar: Weiser Family potatoes, Far West Fungi that I visited at the Ferry Building this afternoon, Let's Be Frank, etc. But we had some tasty bites of edifying eats, including the hand pulled noddles made with unbleached organic flour from Giusto's of South San Francisco (you get the idea about locational specificity overload) from the Imperial Tea Court.

Certain design elements were the highlight, like the shipping container turned info booth, the convivial group tables that used scaffolding components, and the awesome earthworks-y outdoor garden. Food plus public space is the most pleasing type of formula, and this one added up to something pretty cool.

Update: Turns out the Victory Garden will stay until November.

Can Jet Blue and JFK hurry these plans along?

What a killer plan. Way to get the architecture/preservation nerds and the foodie jet set aligned! If only they could get this super duper terminal open by next week for our use.

Farewell to Florent...

My professional training and experience is entirely based on the fact that urban neighborhoods change. I accept and celebrate how things come, things go. Such are the endlessly fascinating and complicated cycles of city life.

Still, I'm really sad that Florent is no more.

Back in May, we received the best treatment I've ever had with kids in tow, anywhere. Crayons and coloring pages were brought to us, drinks were served in plastic cups (a moment of the practical trumping the environmental), frequent attention was paid to make sure we had all we needed.

The food satisfied young and old(er) alike. And relatively speaking, James was shockingly well-behaved; he stayed at the table the entire meal, which these days is unheard of. He somehow knew to not totally ruin the meal. My friend Rosanna hung in with us like a champ.

Did Florent Morellet envision his namesake all-hours restaurant as becoming that dreaded of all phrases, "kid friendly"? Of course not, but he stuck to restaurateursim as its best -- responding to the needs of his customers, whether outrageous drag queens or rowdy small kids. Florent evolved alongside the neighborhood it helped define, for better or for worse.

Just like other things associated with Florent, its loss will be felt for some time, even if physically the place will remain.

Take the A train to ... Mamajuana Cafe

Though the charms of way upper Manhattan are many, there are some drawbacks. My sister can't help but rant with raging jealousy of how even in some unlikely corner of Brooklyn you can find a stellar bakery and cool bar.
We all love Inwood, with the great parks, lively residential vibe, Revolutionary War era historic sites and many mofongo houses, but it has a long way to go in the eating department.

Some fine things in one's backyard, however, can go unnoticed. So good thing we finally took a walk down to Mamajuana Cafe on Dyckman.

The scene is jumping on a Wednesday night. Watching the crowd and live music are the best things going here, which is an eclectic hybrid of vaguely Spanish/ Caribbean rustic sensibilities meets a northern Manhattan nightspot. Some design details are sort of puzzling, but they're definitely not off-the-rack Home Depot type materials. Despite the big city location (granted not on the Sex and the City tour route), Mamajuana feels welcoming as a small village watering hole.

Garlic fries, ceviche, and octopus dishes aren't anything to write home about. (Note to the kitchen: it's not very difficult to make fries with fresh potatoes.) It's best thought of as tapas to absorb the good booze offerings. A mojito with tamarind puree rounds out the tartness to make a robust cocktail. And they don't skimp on the rum either -- meaning the namesake drink will be for the next visit.

Mamajuana Cafe
247 Dyckman Street
New York, NY 10034
212.304.0140

Gordon Ramsay on the 46th Floor

The next few posts will be about getting through the backlog of our trip to NYC.

Is it fair to judge a chef and restaurant by the quality of room service?

In this case, I say sure. As Gordon Ramsay prepares to open the doors to his latest Sunset Boulevard outpost, I won't rush to experience his West Coast digs. I've already had a brush with the GR kitchen at the hotel where we camped out at for a few days in New York last week. The London NYC houses Gordon's eponymous restaurant, and all other food options lower on the hierarchy apparently have something to do with the man himself and his Michelin starred kitchens.

Now, I LOVE room service. My Eloise fantasies often trump any common sense about it. Food delivered to the room is ususally cold, bland, poorly textured, or all of the above. But hey -- it's always fun.

Frank Bruni's dream assignment that was published last year set my expectations of The London's "in room dining" quite high. Out of the six hotels where he sampled room service, The London ranked top. Since we can't go out much, good room service (and roomy suites) appealed when booking our stay. I suspect, however, that perhaps Mr. Bruni didn't check in under a pseudonym.

Dinner brought to the 46th floor on a Friday night was certainly several cuts above average. Yet service was fine, nothing to write home about. That tray of food pictured above fed me, a 19-month-old, and a four-year-old. It consisted of an overly dressed Caesar salad that made me feel slightly ill, a very tasty chicken breast with delectably crisp skin and rich mushrooms, creamed potatoes (think butter with some potatoes mixed in for good measure), green peas, and a glass of ABC pinot.  [Yes! Jim Clendenen still has that amazing hair in his glam shot.] It came on simple elegant dishes placed on ubiquitous Chilewich place mats. 

It cost $100. At least the chicken was excellent, and if it was cold, that was at least partially my fault since the kids have to get fed first. I'm sure what's served in the dining room is immeasurably better than in the privacy of your own room. But still... Breakfast in the dining room the next morning? Our trio ate very modestly (scrambled eggs, one order French toast, coffee, juice) for $64. In less than 24 hours I was exasperated by the Midtown tourist economy.

We'll see what happens when GR (maybe) comes to L.A. this week.

Memories of coques, and savory tarts at home

This L.A. Times article about Catalan coca combined with the rain makes me crave stuff baked on top of carbs. I've been looking back at my photos from the atmospheric L'Antic Bocoi del Gòtic restaurant in Barcelona, where in June 2006 we enjoyed marvelous coques, and I've experimented again with easy savory tarts.

If a restaurant serving coques with quality cheeses and beautiful toppings like thinly sliced ham and dates (at left) and sharp arugula and walnuts (right) opened in L.A., tushies would be filling seats in no time. And the hearty salad topped with cheese and surrounded by the typical Catalan combination of currants and pine nuts, plus artful splatters of balsamic reduction, is also easily reproduced here using local ingredients.

In the meantime, or at least until I try the recipe featured in the article, I turn to Trader Joe's Artisan Puff Pastry. Super buttery, no fakey shortening ingredients like Pepperidge Farms, and the sheets are conveniently packaged flat in large squares.

Apologies for getting dangerously close to Rachael Ray territory, but my favorite topping of late is TJs frozen artichoke hearts. Frozen 'chokes have none of the waterlogged texture or gross marinades that plague canned and jarred ones. After defrosting them in the microwave, I combine with caramelized onions and/or shallots and sautee other compatible ingredients, like bacon, shitake mushrooms or asparagus.

Lightly brush the dough with butter, spread the mixture on, lightly top with shredded cheese of your choice, and bake at 425 for 15 minutes or so. It's another great "pantry dish" -- or rather "freezer dish" -- to have at your disposal.

5,000 calories on a plate

Spending a weekend in Nashville is the perfect way to get reacquainted with the pleasures of intra-American tourism. 

Big doses of music and culture at the astoundingly fascinating Country Music Hall of Fame, and then consuming INSANE amounts of calories per sitting got us in the right state of mind. The posh and not at all creepy historic Hotel Hermitage was the best staging ground for a busy few days, too. PLUS all you can eat Christmas cookies and mulled cider in the lobby.

Encroaching suburban sprawl and new ownership have changed the character of the Loveless Cafe. No longer a rural outpost with a filthy filthy kitchen and modest accommodations at the edge of the Natchez Trace Parkway, crowds still gather for the famous biscuits, jams, country ham, and fried chicken.  Some Chowhounders on the Southern board fear the theme parkish direction of the Loveless complex, which would be a pity.  We still bought our share of aprons and magnets.  (My sister had brought me a shirt from her visit a couple years ago.) 

Maybe it's not the best Nashville has to offer, but the fried chicken was crispy, the pulled pork succulent, and the biscuits plenty fluffy. I cannot imagine a single plate of food I've ever seen with more transfats and calories than the Loveless Sampler. They should give out Lipitor next to the toothpicks and business cards.

Unfortunately for me, black pepper seemed to be a dominant flavoring agent in all the traditional food we ate in Nashville. It's something I use lightly and don't have much tolerance for.

Regardless of seasoning or technique, atmosphere and setting triumph above all. It takes a cold, hard heart not to enjoy boiled turnip greens and unremarkable mashed potatoes eaten outdoors under florescent lights in a chicken wire and wood shed. That's what you do at Hog Heaven, where four people eat for 20 bucks.

Best of all, the BBQ joint is sandwiched between a honky tonk joint and McDonald's, all along side Centennial Park, home of Nashville's very own Parthenon replica.  Again, too much pepper in the veggies; the pulled pork sandwich was the way to go.  But when a kindly drunk woman stumbled out of the bar next door to gush about our son's cuteness and bestow blessings, leaving a sonic trail of country twang in her wake, I was fully won over.