A Seafood Gem (Okay, a Pearl)

Mario Batali, American chef and restaurateur. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Salt Shrimp

Whether you like Mario Batali or not – I obviously do, if you’ve seen my blog posts – you have to respect a chef/restaurant owner who has four restaurants on Michelin’s 2014 NYC Star Ratings list. What I want to know, though, without him giving shameless self promotion, is what restaurants someone like Mario enjoys for himself. And here it is: http://www.lifestylemirror.com/life/food-drink/1232978581/best-restaurants-in-nyc-mario-batali-favorites/.He, however, eats on a celebrity income; I, on the other hand, pretend to do that once or twice a year. His restaurants, in comparison to other star chefs’, are quite affordable though. As I’m perusing the list of NYC restaurants, it’s “skip, too expensive”, “skip”, “oh, this is a possibility”… I remember Cornelia Street because it’s where Mario’s first NYC restaurant (no longer his) opened in 1993  is located, and it is the first Batali eatery I ever patronized, and thus the catalyst for my sickening Batali dining mania. Po’ was quaint and narrow, and I was introduced to Mario while he was cooking in the tiniest commercial kitchen I had seen, sweating alongside only a salad guy and a dishwasher. He was young in his stardom, recognized from Malto Mario, and hadn’t laid the foundation of the Batali/Bastianich empire yet.

I digressed heavily, so let me open the shell and reveal the Pearl! It is across and a few numbers up the street from Po’. After reading the endless raving reviews about Pearl Oyster Bar having the best lobster roll in NYC, I couldn’t wait any longer and headed there the following evening in the rain and cold. Parking couldn’t have been easier – right around the corner on Bleeker.

I pride myself on preparedness, so I knew that they don’t take reservations and to expect an hour wait. There was no chance of the Wicked Hungry Witch appearing, but her cousin was still trying to show up when the aromas from the kitchen reached my olfactory nerves. We arrived nearly 8:00 on a Friday night, were told it would be 45 minutes but were seated by 8:20. One side of the restaurant is all bar where many ate; the other is all restaurant slightly bigger than Seafood Gourmet in NJ.

Plate after plate was ushered by with a meaty lobster roll and a mountain of shoe-string fries. The fries and the idea of a mostly cold dinner turned my steadfast entrée choice into something completely different and even less expensive. The bouillabaisse grabbed me by the throat and shouted, “Speak my name now to the waiter!” With no hesitation I ordered it ($23), and it threatened my mouth with a good time and succeeded. There was no evidence of sand inside any of the shellfish, and the broth was popping with flavor. It was prefaced with a few spoonfuls of the clam and smoked bacon chowder appetizer- another good choice.

Our waiter was not too knowledgeable of the dishes. When asked what seafood was in the bouillabaisse, he included oyster, which I thought was peculiar. I’m glad he was wrong. When asked about the pot of steamers starter as to whether they were steamed clams or steamers, he replied, “steamed clams,” which dissuaded my companion from ordering them. Soon after, we saw a pot of actual steamers at another table, and my companion quickly educated him. We had two other waiters (which was confusing) that were a bit more experienced, but all were friendly. That would be my only negative criticism.

The apple and sour cherry pie sounded like it had potential for dessert. It just had potential; that’s all. Then again, it takes more than a little effort to impress me with desserts. I’m spoiled by the standards of the Swiss Miss W.

Thank you, Mario, for sharing one of your favorite dining spots with us non-celebrity types.

 

Hake with Brussel Sprouts

Chef’s Table is True to Its Name

Chef’s Table at Brooklyn Fare is true to its moniker; It is not the guests’ table. This is Chef Ramirez’s house and his rules (that seem reminiscent of an undisclosed Seinfeld episode).

I had been looking forward for months to this celebratory dinner and am ashamed to admit that I was not more educated about the restaurant when it was suggested. When I read what little description I could find about the potential dishes,  the princess awaited her chariot to set out for an evening of exquisite, perhaps unknown foods that the mouth could discover for the first time. With only 18 seats, no menu, and Chef Ramirez preparing each of the 20 or so plates in front of the patrons’ eyes, I was prepared to be part of an elite group. But something felt a little cold when we entered the small room: The shared “table”/counter is stainless steel; the stools are metal; the cooking apparatus was steel; and there was a cluster of copper pots over the cooking stage area. The glass door was locked behind us when the final eight were seated. My eyeballs rolled around rapidly without moving my head like a painting in a horror flick. I immediately understood there was a certain decorum that needed to be followed that was more stringent than anywhere I’ve eaten. It was a bit unsettling; I had never set foot in such a restricting environment and a fleeting second of prison whizzed by until the aromas corrected my train of thought. The following second, images of an operating room flew through my head and were reinforced by the surgical tweezers the professionals held daintily to decorate the presentations and precisely garnish with microgreens and edible flowers. One millimeter misplacement seemed it would cause trouble.

The Chef and his assistants were already delivering plate number six to the first group of 10 guests, so it offered us a sneak preview of dishes to come our way. It was not the workings of a typical commercial kitchen – it was a silent ballet with art being sculpted atop each white canvas. There was no speaking, just coordinated movement among the team. Chef Ramirez, with his shaved head and glasses blended into the environment – he looked cold, yet I observed him admirably, knowing that familiar intense facial expression of concentration geared for perfection.

I had been forewarned by a friend who had dined here recently that no photos are allowed. I asked disappointingly, “You mean no flash?” No – no photos, period. My dining experiences generally don’t end when I leave a restaurant (unless I want to forget); I like to recall what I ate and at least re-live the meal visually. How were so many courses going to remain in my memory when I relay the details of the evening to others? My friend had the idea of texting himself minimal details of each one when the woman in the moat between us and the “kitchen” placed down and described the dishes. Every ingredient was obviously not divulged; that was for our palettes to decipher. By the 9th course, the server leaned in and said, “I’m sorry; we have a rule of no note-taking.” While it sounded absurd, of course he abided  and put the phone away. Now, there would be minimal recall. I leaned back and forward hoping, twisting to see Marilu Henner with her H-SAM memory. It would be the perfect way to avoid this regulation.

At least 10 minutes later, Chef Ramirez creepily appeared behind and between me and my friend: “How are you?” directed at both of us. “Very good; thank you,” I replied. He faced my friend and sternly said, “Stop taking notes!” Words followed, but it was all a blurred mumble as I regressed to grammar school being reprimanded by a teacher. It was extremely rare. From that point on, the dining experience changed. In order for one to be ‘scolded’ for breaking a rule, that person needs to be made aware of the rule. It would have been a good idea at the beginning of the meal or at the time of reservation for the cruel rules to be provided. It was slightly embarrassing because the woman next to us asked what that was all about. She made the side-lips, nose-scrunched face I felt was my expression also.

Somehow the food gradually cleansed the growing irritation that moment brought upon us. Maybe it was the foam in many of the plates that soothed the beast. The tastings shot off with cucumber sorbet with cucumber foam resting atop to awake our tongues and let us know the epicurean journey was beginning. Next, served in an egg-shaped holder set on a magnetized, angled plate was raw island oyster with a granny smith apple custard and puffed rice pieces. My belly was just getting tantalized. I wondered if all these raw bites would satiate my hunger, as good as they were. Following was blue nose, a coldwater (fits the theme) fish from New Zealand with jicama and cilantro. The king salmon with trout roe was then claimed as my favorite thus far. The anticipation was growing. The star butter fish with pickled daikon and fresh wasabi would’ve normally been impressive but fell back a slot after the last dish. Then came two superb winners one after another: knife jaw fish with cucumber and cucumber blossom, and golden eye snapper with crispy kelp and shiso. My new bff (best food favorite) changed every few minutes. The new one was red sea perch with black vinegar dressing. My least favorite , and I had been avoiding sea urchin crawling into my life until this moment, but it was still good: Hokkaido uni with black truffle and…..the disciplinary moment hits.

I remember some cooked items being turbot, scallops with ramps and chewy abalone, and the homerun poached lobster with langostine ravioli. The desserts fell a little short for me starting with a three-cheese selection, followed by a plate of air, which was frozen melted chocolate, and a chocolate ganache with cherry sauce. Overall, the taste and presentation deserve an A+ for artistry. My tummy was comforably full with no buttons needing to be undone, but Chef Ramirez failed to make us feel welcome in his house. He walked out of there and hailed a cab – not a word to any of the diners who are filling his pockets.

Same Food, Different Name: Former Red Hen Showcases its Golden Egg – Chef/Owner

The Red Hen flew the coop..well not really. Red Hen Bistro just has a new name – Robert Andrew’s Kitchen, which is more suitable because it’s all about Robert. I’m not bragging about him; it’s just that he handles his kitchen all by his lonesome self. Why, because he’s a perfectionist at his craft and doesn’t want any dish going out beneath his standard of excellence.

flatbread with tomato and white bean dip

And so we returned to the same location with only a different name on the door and some updated selections on the menu for spring. I don’t always like change, but this change is sublime. Quite honestly, my meal is not affected by the name on the door. We were seated at the table in the front window that faces all the other diners, feeling like we were looking upon our people. These were not ‘my people’ for sure. What has happened to eating etiquette?

Two tables in front of and perpendicular to us, there was a man in his 50s who received the succulent-looking pistachio-crusted rack of lamb. I ogled as he shoveled all of the vegetables forkful upon forkful into his gaping mouth. Echoes of my childhood filled the air: “Chew what’s in your mouth before putting more in.” It was like observing an eagle landing in a field with its wings spread to prevent a predator from stealing its food. Then, he began to attack the bones, picking them up and gnawing on them like a dog in training for a street fight. These were not ‘my people’.

We felt like we were hosting our own dinner party, and we were the guests of honor or royalty. The other diners glanced our way from time to time. I had fun pretending they were the peasants, but even jesters would have better manners. My attention was immediately pulled away from the savage beast when our appetizers floated down from the heavens onto our table: seared day boat scallops/fennel vinaigrette/parsley oil/blood orange salad/buttermilk foam/snow pea shoots (yes, that was one dish) and African adobo spiced tuna, seared/mango and avocado salsa/champagne cucumber noodles/crispy plantain chips. All the components played nicely together and were harmonious in color and contrasting textures. The hostess stopped in mid-question when she saw the enjoyment worn upon my facial expressions: “how is….” I said I hoped I wasn’t too loud with my mmmm’s.

Spiced Tuna

  My preference is to order a different entrée than my dining partner so I can sneak a taste of more than one. But the description of the new Chilean Sea Bass dish (pan roasted/caramelized shitake mushrooms/shaved asparagus with shallot and pancetta vinaigrette/crispy potato dumplings) hooked my selfishness to explore every morsel on that plate without having to share a bite and to be able to steal more of it if he couldn’t finish. During my last few bites, I glanced up to now see a 60-something couple directly in front of us, texting and playing games on their phones as their food is being placed in front of them. Really? I overheard the woman comment earlier on the amuse bouche (mushroom flan with vegetable ratatouille and braised short rib meat in an egg shell) how it tasted like rice pilaf! She was so immersed in her video game, she didn’t even taste or know what she was eating. It actually took some effort not to tell her that there was no rice in there. It was slanderous and disrespectful to Robert’s artful and carefully crafted creation. She was not worthy.

Chilean Sea Bass

It took every spoonful of the banana croissant bread pudding to ease my mind and distract me from the kingdom of dining criminals before us. Oh, where has the honor gone for the culinary arts? I swear I am not a food snob; my mother just taught me how to respect and appreciate food and eat like a human.