Ho Yuen Kee Vancouver

Like LA and San Francisco to the South Vancouver is a West coast hot spot for Chinese food. LA may have more variety and regional cuisines but Vancouver holds it's own with neighborhood restaurants, dim sum palaces and Asian food courts.
Sitting alone in a brightly lit (way too brightly lit) room where I was the only white face I looked around and ordered what nearly everyone seemed to be having -- dungeness crab on sticky rice. Chinese comfort food at its best and a dish I rarely see -- if ever, in LA or San Francisco surprisingly.
Another delicious Vancouver visit.

Lodge Bread: Culver City

Every food centric magazine or site in Los Angeles is talking about Lodge Bread these days. The tiny bakery is the brainchild and pet project of three chef friends -- Or Amsalam, Alan Craig, and Alexander Phaneuf. The three met cooking at a Los Angeles farm to table restaurant where by coincidence as their interest grew, more and more breads and tartines showed up on the menu.
Next step Phaneuf's backyard, where the three started baking for chef friends and local restaurants.
Last year a storefront. A tidy LA bread success story.
But the real story at Lodge Bread is the bread itself. Wild fermented, naturally leavened, whole grain loaves with a dark, thick, brown addictively crunchy crust. These are round, hearty, country loaves with complex almost sweet flavor from whole grains and the slightest sour tang from long fermentation. The bakery -- if you can call a small counter and a couple tables where patrons enjoy a menu of toasts that -- smells like warm bread tinged with tomatoes -- a pleasant vaguely acidic note, not unlike Ethiopian teff injera. Patrons devoted to flaky white baguettes or soft sandwich breads will be confused by Lodge's offerings. The mahogany brown loaves are unique. There are no others like them in the area and few in this country.
Oh, and did I mention they are delicious?

Au Pied De Cochon, Montreal

 I love everything about Montreal's racous shrine to animal fats, Au Pied De Cochon. The cooking may be serious but everything else is a bawdy ridiculous edible party brought to you by my new culinary hero, the bold, the daring, the fat centric devil may care Martin Picard.
A veritable temple to fois gras, there are croquettes, crepes, burgers, tarts and even poutine -- Montreal's classic dish of french fries, cheese curds and gravy -- featuring the controversial, creamy fattened liver.
Vegetarians beware. Picard's homage to traditional Quebec specialties rests heavily on his love for meat, in enormous portions. Duck, bison, goose, deer, horse (yikes) and of course the namesake pig are all featured in super rich dishes ideal to keep a lumberjack or trapper warm in cold Canadian winters and to assure he won't have to plan for a long retirement.
The menu is short on description but the wait staff, all seemingly truly delighted to be part of this pork fueled rave, are happy to describe any dish. I literally saw stars dancing in our waitress' eye as she gushed about the "meat pie" filled dumplings -- a play on Montreal's Christmas favorite tourtière.
"Every bite is like Christmas," Carol, our waitress, beamed. "Like my grandmother made when I was a little girl."
How do you say no to that?
We quickly ordered 6 dumplings.
Sure enough. Meat and cloves and wine and butter. It's a mouthful of Christmas and a most unusual dumpling served with house-made ketchup sauce. Delicious.
We wanted to try everything but Carol kept us in check. "Too much, too much," she declared. "The leg, dumplings and salad. Is already a lot."
We had no idea how right she was until the pig's trotter stuffed with foil gras, the restaurant's signature and perhaps most publicized dish arrived at the table swimming in a sea of creamy mushroom sauce and snowy beach of cheesy curd potato purée.

"Since I have been here," Carol explained. "Only one has ever eater it all."

That dish could easily feed four or even six sensible people. My willing friend and I were spurred on by the delicious hearty sauce and super tender meat which I later learned from a friendly line cook had been removed from the foot boned, roasted, re-stuffed and cooked sort of sous vide for more than 12 hours and then crisped in the restaurant's beautiful brick oven.

Oh and that salad? Pork cheeks, lardons, radishes and sunflower sprouts grown on the dining room window sill. A spicy, herby, fatty salad.

I suppose one could say that PDC is a lot of show. In another famous dish duck is cooked inside a can (instead of a sous vide bag) which is ceremoniously opened table side. Our dessert of peach preserves and most ginger spice cake topped with crème anglais and maple caramel sauce was given the same "canned" treatment. But this kitchen does not rely on gimmicks. This is real food, with sophisticated  voluptuous flavors expertly prepared and served with an undying sense of pride . . . and fun.

There is no other restaurant like it. I can't wait to come back. I think I am in love with Martin Picard.

Olive Et Gourmando, Montreal

Even in the rain Old Montreal has the feeling of a secret Christmas wonderland. The winding cobblestone streets give way to fanciful shops, elegantly rustic restaurants and not so secret treasures like Olive Et Gourmando.

Honestly it's just a little coffee shop. A little coffee shop where everything is homemade by bakers who believe that turning flour and butter into a reason to get up in the morning is a noble task. That joy in every little bite should be savored and not rushed. That sweet ricotta on crispy baguette toast or a flaky chocolate croissant may just be the highest form of expression. 

I settle in, surrounded by locals and bite into the cafe's signature breakfast sandwich labeled "in your face." With siracha, chorizo, and layered chilis, this deceptively simple sandwich screams my name while all around me gentle French sounds waft through the pastry-scented air. Though decidedly un-European (much of Montreal's cuisine and culture harkens back to it's French roots) this sandwich is delicious. So spicy you try to stop but so addictive you keep going. A perfect wake-up.

Olive Et Gourmando is exactly the kind of place everyone wishes were in her neighborhood. A charming spot for morning coffee and friends behind the counter.

My only complaint? O&G doesn't open until 9. Instead of a daily start it's a day's off treat. 

Maybe that's the way real treasures should be.

Belly and Snout: Filipino Stoner Treats

 I don't like hot dogs and I cannot under any circumstances tolerate American cheese. But still I couldn't resist the draw of the oddest of edible oddities, the bizarre fusion that is Belly and Snout. Obviously inspired by Korean taco master  Roy Choi, B&S doesn't exactly have the same kind of chef cred. None the less they are putting homemade Filipino style meats in tacos, on tater tots, and tucked into grilled cheese.

Longanisa grilled cheese combines house made sausage -- really tasty -- with plain old white bread, pickled vegetables and the dreaded bright orange American.  An immigrant sandwich.

First American cheese and then hot dogs. Topped with peanut braised oxtail, sisig (crisped pork flavored with bright vinegar), pork adobo (the beloved Filipino national stew), and plenty of bacon, garlic cream, and fried eggs the hot dogs themselves are inconsequential. They are the least interesting part of the hot dog combos but overall -- I don't know how -- it kind of works.

Though my friend loved the grilled cheese, more successful to me were the tacos. Truly delicious pork or chicken adobo topped with cilantro, onions, jalapeño slices, mayonnaise, sesame (peanuts on the pork) and radishes all wrapped up in a flour tortilla for $2. With one bite I could picture the lines of late night zombies counting their change for a late night snack.

I might have been in my elementary school cafeteria the last time I had a tater tot. Back then they just came with ketchup. At Belly and Snout they are topped -- just like the hot dogs with pork, pork, ad more pork -- including the excellent house made longanisa. The whole thing is crazy and somehow satisfying.

Sitting in the back eating area (I can't call it a dining room) with the TV blaring travel channel food shows I can't help but think if I were a drinker or stoner I'd probably see more of Belly and Snout instead of late night shame filled Del Taco runs popular in my reckless youth. As it is B&S is a curiosity I had to try once and might think of from time to time when caution take flight and fast food looms heavy.

Cafe Medina

I like Cafe Medina. There is always a wait and yet when I am in Vancouver I make a point of going for breakfast. Not just because the vaguely Middle Eastern/ North African spiced dishes feature some of my favorite flavors (sumac, harissa, chili)  but because Cafe Medina is fun, just plain fun.
Despite the constant onslaught, the servers are cheerful and the bartender -- as a solo diner I almost always sit at the bar to eat -- perfectly chatty.
I don't generally reach across a table to meet new people but every time I've eaten at Cafe Medina the person next to me has struck up a conversation and turned out to be interesting, good company.
The menu is interesting too. You can get standard egg dishes or more elaborate concoctions like breakfast paella, boulettes (lamb meatballs and eggs in spicy tomato sauce), or their take on cassoulet with garlic sausage, smoked bacon, red wine and tomatoes. I've never even tried the signature waffles though they top just about every table.
I love the fresh juices and house made sodas (rose hip and bergamot, citrus buttermilk anyone?). The coffee is delicious (I don't even understand how it is so good).
Everything is good -- maybe not exceptional or nuanced but it doesn't matter. Cafe Medina might just be the perfect breakfast place. If I lived closer I'd be a regular.

Ask For Luigi

Ask just about anyone or read any magazine article or blog post and you are likely to hear "Ask For Luigi." What's a good new restaurant? Where is the best Italian? Where should we have dinner?

Even the name of the tiny restaurant, according to chef owner JC Poirier, is an answer. A guide to ask for a friend, knowing you will be treated well when you, essentially, know someone on the inside.

It's hard not to know people quickly at Ask for Luigi. The 34 seats are terminally full with a line waiting at the door. Seats are close and wait staff literally shimmies from table to table holding platters of fresh pasta, appetizers and wine.

Everyone feels happy and relieved by the time a table opens and it shows. The dining room is cheerful and loud and every plate is met with delight.

I'm always fascinated by places this small. The night I visited there was a man at the front of house (the manager I assume) and 4 waitresses. In the open kitchen I saw the Chef de Cuisine and 3 line cooks. A fifth cook was tucked away in a back space prepping for the next day's lunch. To make money with so few seats and so large a staff a restaurant has to be highly efficient and chose dishes wisely so food comes out quickly and tables turn over to bring in the next group of waiting diners.
Prep work is the star at Ask For Luigi. Fresh pastas are ready to boil, sauces are simple or made earlier in the service, meatballs are par-cooked and turned in tasty red sauce as they are ordered. These aren't dishes wrapped in chef's egos or elaborate technique. This is, as AFL's manager says "pasta for the people."

The food is inventive and somewhat unexpected (I had a dish of rye flour penne with guanciale, broccoli rabe and egg yolk) but in attitude Ask For Luigi may be the most authentic Italian restaurant I've dined in outside of Italy itself.
At heart, though crammed with tourists, dating couples, foodies and bloggers, this is a neighborhood trattoria. You can stop in for a quick bite (minus the waiting time) on any night. The food will be good, ingredients fresh, and the staff friendly.

Underbelly Houston

 A couple months back, with no idea I'd be arriving in Houston, I read a chatty little article about chef Chris Shepherd. Though the story of chef Shepherd's culinary evolution and his love for the many immigrant communities in Houston and their collection of unique ingredients was interesting enough, what I remember most was Shepherd's description of his "pants free" days off -- eating pho noodles on his balcony in his underwear. That's how he met his neighbors he claims.
 Arriving in Houston I suddenly thought of that article and though I couldn't remember his name or his restaurant's but I remembered the big man who loves Vietnamese noodles.

Underbelly is loud and friendly celebration of Gulf Coast bounty. It's menu a collection of small plates (not that small) meant for sharing featuring the diverse ethnic ingredients chef Shepherd came to love while first working in Houston. I started with grouper, marinated in yogurt, dill, turmeric, and (at least according to one server but not another) cardamom. Cabbage and fresh greens dressed in a fish sauce spiked vinaigrette with cold rice noodles below seemed like a spring roll opened up and paired with a vaguely tandoori fish.
Underbelly is about the party. The fish, though tasty, was not portioned evenly so the ends were just overcooked while the middle was just under. The highest priced on the menu but into the open kitchen I can see bowl after bowl coming out. Nearly every table has one.

A big man and a big presence, when chef Shepherd walks through the open kitchen to the dining room he high fives line cooks, hugs a server, and meanders past diners in awe to have the chef himself in their midsts. The 2014 James Beard award winner says a few hellos, poses for a photo and settles down at a table of some (I assume) chef friends.

Chef Shepherd and I share a love for the Korean gochujang. And the restaurant's signature combination, the only dish my server tells me is always on the menu, braised goat and dumplings comes heavily sauced in the pepper paste. The meat is cooked to a near mashed potato softness and the rice dumplings -- though usually soft in Korean dishes -- are quickly crisped to add welcome texture to the dish.
Underbelly is not about finesse. It's about bold flavors and assertive combinations. It's about reaching across the table to taste your friend's dish. It's about a frat party of flavor.
Shepherd's dishes are interesting. The flavors are fun. But these are not dishes to eat alone. The first bite is exciting, even tantalizing. The next not quite as good. The third is more than enough. The dishes here oddly become less interesting as you eat them. They are shock value.
Go with friends so everyone gets that first great bite.

Pecan Lodge Dallas, TX

I am a barbecue bigot.
When I go looking for barbecue I somehow feel cheated if I don't land at a roadside trailer, dodgey neighborhood or woodyard shack. I search out the picture book "authentic," roadfood unrefined and well, gritty outposts as some sort of personal test merit badge of procurement.
Pecan Lodge is exactly the kind of place I generally avoid. Its new purpose built, well designed restaurant in the hipster filled Deep Ellum area of downtown Dallas is the domain of owner and pit master Justin Fourton (and his crew). Not the product of family generations of wood smoke bathed grizzled, sleepless meat cooks but a refugee from corporate America who started a catering company out of the Dallas Farmers Market that quickly grew to a sensation.
Staring down at Pecan Lodge's massive beef rib I think about my stereotyped view, perhaps more rooted in the past than the art of barbecue itself. Barbecue -- as I have always felt -- should be about the food and only the food. The smoke, the flavor, the piles of juicy meat. Not the atmosphere. So why do I so often object to pleasantries and assume a brick and mortar restaurant can't offer the true flavor of the pit?
Like all the best places you can smell the wood smoke from Pecan Lodge well before you can see the line, usually out the door. Following the lunch only tradition (though PL is open for dinner Friday and Saturday), they sell their long cooked meats by the pound until they run out. You order at the counter and pick up your tray before finding a seat. Get there early to get your first choice.
I think of Austin's Franklin Barbecue, the undisputed, world renowned king of Texas Barbecue and it's clean modern building and young James Beard award winning pit master chef.
Old stereotypes die hard in my heart but with the first bite of Pecan Lodge's meltingly tender, fatty, smoke filled brisket my romanticized visions of glorious Texas beef barbecue start to grow dim. The ribs are good but Pecan Lodge for me is all about the brisket. The sides are okay. I always try the sides but remember Anthony Bourdain's sage advice in barbecue to save room for the meat and meat alone. Pecan's macaroni and cheese is good -- very, very good. The cole slaw and okra are no better than the versions I make at home. The pickles are from a jar and the not plentiful (one of the online complaints about PL -- along with the prices) rolls (not thick slices of white bread here) are appropriately doughy and slightly sweet but nothing too special. But oh that brisket. Some the best ever and doused, if you choose from squirt bottles at the table, with the very untraditional (in Texas at least) Carolina style vinegar based sauce (I like it better than PL's more regionally familiar Texas style sauce) it's slightly spicy, puckery sweet perfection. The noise of the raucous dining hall fades away in between bites.
And yet brisket is not the Fourton's only triumph. In general I would never think to order anything but smoked meat in a barbecue place but so many online reviews raved about Pecan Lodge's fried chicken I had to take a bite. The pit master's wife, Diane, offers up her "Mamaw's" recipe. It is juicy and flavorful and better than mine. This is chicken that could capture area diners' attention if not for the tremendous brisket and barbecue theme of the Dallas restaurant.
To think I might have missed it all. I'll strive to be more open minded. It's so much easier to be open minded when your mouth is full.
After all, it's all about the food.

Stampede 66

If you spend any time at all searching the internet you will find several sites (or nearly every one) that list Stampede 66's fried chicken as some of the best in Dallas, certainly in the top 5. It's not the kind of place I usually like to go. I generally search out a mom and pop, locals only shack but with so many stellar reviews and walking distance from the hotel, Stampede 66 became hard to resist.
Walking in, the dining room is some sort of Texas stereotype Disneyland covered in barnwood, branded panels, massive steer horns and a glowing rattlesnake that crowns the row of tables closest to the bar. It is, as D Magazine described, " A yeehaw assault on the senses."
I was seated at a "rusty" metal table, oddly oval making it uncomfortably far from the banquette no matter where I sat. Patrick, my ebullient server, immediately greeted me with such charm I soon forgot about the table shape and turned to fried chicken. The reason for my journey.
As Patrick described the mission of the restaurant by local celeb and 5th generation Texan chef Stephan Pyles is to honor the traditional home cooking of the Lone Star State with modern cooking techniques. If press releases are to be believed the chicken recipe came from Pyles' grandmother which the chef improved by injecting the meat with Texas wildflower honey before coating in seasoned flour and buttermilk.
At dinner the chicken comes out with homemade tatter tots and buttermilk biscuits which I probably would like better. At lunch propped in a cute little galvanized bucket the "seasoned fries" were limp -- I assume they had waited for the chicken to finish cooking -- and heavy with I think cumin that had a slightly earthy, even muddy flavor. If Patrick had a flaw as a server it's that he didn't ask why I hadn't touched the fries. Even during a busy lunch service he should notice and let the kitchen know how guests are reacting the food.
The chicken was fine. Not the best I've ever had but certainly better quality meat than generally served at the mom and pop joints I love. The breast was big and meaty and though it seems the batter was a tiny bit over cooked (I think the oil was too hot so the crust shattered and separated from the meat as soon as I bit in) the meat was moist and tender and cooked all the way through -- no small feat when frying a piece that large. Very impressive frying.
The flavor again carried that hint of cumin that seems just a touch muddy (even the little jar of pickles, my favorite part of the meal had that same spice). Fine but not great. I didn't eat it all.
Overall I don't think Stampede 66 would be on my 10 best list -- especially if the fried chicken is, as reported, their best dish. Fine but not stellar.

Italian In Baltimore

My mother made apple strudel. It wasn't delicate pastry. It wasn't beautiful. She didn't make many dishes but my mother made apple strudel for holiday dinners and family events and a couple years ago when she passed away I wanted apple strudel after the service.
I checked the internet and called around and found of all places an Italian bakery, Piedigrotta, that opened long after I lived in the city that reviews declared made a flaky delicious apple strudel.
In heavily accented English and out of practice Italian (Italish? Englian??) we negotiated the platters and arranged for my niece to pick them up. I never went in or met the woman on the phone -- until now.
Hoping the train down for the day my niece Jess picked me up (along with her husband Eric and daughter Juniper) and we went straight to Piedigrotta. Finally. I couldn't believe my eyes.
On the outskirts of Baltimore's campy and cozy Little Italy stood a dream bakery and more. Sure you might see the desserts and gelato first -- that's straight ahead. But turn to your left and be overwhelmed by an enormous array of ready made savories including delicate gnocchi, risottos, vegetables, flatbreads and more to eat at the nearby tables or take home to the family. An enormous selection. We were headed to my brother's where Baltimore favorites pit beef and polish sausage were already on the menu but -- being dedicated food tourists -- we had to try.
"Do you make all of these yourself?' I asked Signora Iannaccone.
"Dis all me" She said smiling. " You no like you come tell me."
I loved it all already. We took home platters (filled to the brim -- I'm sure more than usual for the measly $8 each we paid) of gnocchi, mushroom ravioli, and a stellar pizza rustica -- an Easter holiday savory pie filled with eggs and cheese and cured meats.
La Signora quickly started slicing an egg bread studded with candied lemon and offered us a plate across the counter.

Were we going to have something to eat there, she inquired as she strolled towards the pastry case.
After asking her favorite treat La Signora quickly described nearly every pastry and cookie in the case but she stopped lovingly at a puff pastry creation she called "diplomatica."
"Dis is deh real Italian Napoleon," she declared.

Forks in hand we four settled down to espressos (not the baby) and cakes. It seemed positively unpatriotic not to try the diplomatica with that kind of declaration. And we added a tiramisu cake -- made with soft layers of sponge instead of the usual lady fingers.
La signora's husband, Carminantonio Iannaccone -- by the way, is -- to his own account credited with the invention of tiramisu. The world's supposedly highest selling dessert.
Surpassing it's more familiar cousin, the diplomatica is everything pastry should be -- crisp, flaky, sweet but not cloying with a delicate ricotta pastry cream and tiny slivers of raw sugar adding crunch to spectaularly airy baked layers. After one bite I realize I don't care who invented it, I don't ever want to make it and I don't ever want to live without it.
What is this couple doing on a sleepy side street in Baltimore?

Low On Atmosphere, High On Flavor

 I can't resist the siren call of Chinatown. In any city.
In New York -- though the most authentic and probably best Asian food really shows up in Flushing, Queens -- Manhattan's ever growing Chinatown offers plenty of great cheap choices if you know where to look. Over my days in New York I walk the streets looking for those out of the way or sometimes known dive spots known for food not frills.

Walking in with a horde of Asian school kids pressing in for after school snacks and curious tourists I line up at the tiny front counter at Prosperity Dumpling and order Fujian wonton soup -- deep chicken rich stock with tiny thin skinned wontons that practically float down my throat. Prosperity's "dining room" -- a couple of stools and a counter  -- would make most high school locker rooms seem appetizing so I take my soup and sip as I stroll.

I actually go out of my way to find Taste of Northern China. I knew that the "restaurant's " name is not on their sign and that the entrance is not on the street with the their address, I still walked by it several times.

Barely a building -- more a vinyl tent attached to an open collection of appliances one might generously call a kitchen, Taste of Northern China has garnered a stellar reputation among eaters willing to saunter past the storage shed and grocery back room atmosphere to order at the tiny perch by the cash register.

 There are soups and huddled Chinese bent over styrofoam bowls but I am here for the skewers. Each about a dollar and quickly grilled by a friendly young girl then sprinkled with the house's spice blend -- cumin and chile and other tastes I can't identify. My favorite, a consensus among blogging visitors, is the fatty crispy lamb. Probably the tastiest dollar you can spend in Chinatown.

Elegant by comparison, the collection of mismatched chairs and cracked formica that is Tasty Handpulled Noodles stills seems inviting to tunnel-visioned diners and Chinese natives looking for big bowls of warming soups and chewy, stretchy deliciously fresh noodles. The broth may be a bit bland -- it's easily bolstered by the chili oil and chopped cilantro on nearly every table -- but when the winds blow fiercely through the city I long to settle at a table that needs to be wiped for steaming noodles and pan-fried dumplings.

Russ and Daughters . . . Cafe

I've been a fan of Russ and Daughter's Appetizing store for many years. So when one of the Russ daughters herself confided in me that they were planning to open a cafe I could hardly wait. But, I wondered, would others be excited? When old-time places are falling by the wayside (or being re-invented with varying success by young and sometimes irreverent chefs) would there be an audience or worse yet would the family try to "modernize" and re-invent what has been so successful for all these years.
On this trip to New York -- my first since that fateful visit -- I learned I needn't have worried. Not only did Russ and Daughters maintain the smoke fish and old fashioned dishes that made them famous and beloved they also modernized a bit, tastefully in a shiny bright 40's (or maybe 50's) inspired diner  that looks like a new version of the old shop. The everlasting line at the door is proof there is no shortage of audience. I settled in at the counter between a couple of New York gals after the dishes they knew from childhood and an art student from China, with little English and curious about the dishes on offer.
I'm always happy to sit down to lox and bagels or whitefish salad and the cafe offers all of my smoke fish favorites on "boards" laid out with cream cheese, condiments, and house-made bagels (the bialy's -- my personal favorite -- are still from Lower East Side stalwart Kossars). But today -- rounding up a pretty successful tour of NY matzoh ball soups -- I had to try.
Now what I really want -- my holy grail of matzoh ball soups --is a completely not kosher for passover combination of egg noodles, kreplach (Jewish wontons?), and Matzoh balls all in a flavorful chicken broth with carrots and celery. I vaguely remember something like that in a deli years ago and I have been looking since then. The grail not achieved, I have to say Russ and Daughters might be the most flavorful soup I found in the city (there are still a few places on my list to try). Rich and chickeny but not heavy or fatty. Heavy on flavor but still light.
I'm sure arguments have started over matzoh balls -- I probably have witnessed a few. Some people like them light and fluffy with a soft delicate texture, deemed "floaters" by the matzoh ball cognoscenti. Others declare "sinkers" heavy dumplings with firm, solid centers the only proper soup accompaniment. Me? I think there is place for both and I am not so fussy about the style of matzoh ball (perhaps because without trying I have made each kind myself) as long as it is flavorful and soaks up the chicken flavor of the soup (and hopefully) the chicken fat in the dumpling batter. Russ and Daughters delivers on flavor and I was glad of it on a cold windy New York spring day.
Along side my soup, kasha and varniskas -- buckwheat groats tossed with bow tie pasta and, at Russ and Daughters though I have never seen it before, topped with a poached egg. My grandmother made this dish and I'm not sure I have had it made this well since she passed away in the 1970s. Kasha is hard to cook. It can be horribly dry or scorch easily. I've only tried once or twice and it always seems to need gravy for moisture and flavor. As it's stirred the poached egg yolk coast the grains and I remember my grandmother's way of beating an egg into the grains they cooked.
"How is the kasha?" The New York gal next to me asked.
"Like my grandmothers," I reply.
"She made it with a poached egg?"
"No," I explained. "But it tastes like hers it feels like hers."
My new friend understood.

New York Pizza

New Yorkers are fiercely proud of their pizza and with good reason. Their thin crispy crust -- nearly crackery -- is perfect for folding at the middle and holding in the chewy melted mozzarella.
But, ask New Yorkers where the best pizza is and you may start a neighborhood riot.
After much research and many internet opinions, I decided to set my pizza course for geographically desirable and genuinely famous John's of Bleeker street, New York pizza since 1929.
John's is always crowded, only takes cash, and won't sell slices -- NY's favorite street food. Only whole pies with bright, fresh tasting sauce and runny, chewy, nearly molten cheese. Another gift from New York's legion of Italian immigrants.

Mile End Deli: The Continuing Search For Matzoh Ball Soup

So many food magazines, tv shows and blogs have gushed about Mile End Deli I was surprised it wasn't bigger . . . and busier.

I settled at the counter of recycled bowling alley wood looking into the tiny kitchen and ordered matzo ball soup, ignoring for a moment one of the specialties of this modern Montreal-style deli, poutine -- french fries with cheese curds and gravy. I was on a mission. 

Much as I'd read, Mile End's Matzoh balls are light due to a dash of baking powder which makes them not kosher for passover, the holiday where they are traditionally served (no leavening is allowed), but fluffy and flavorful. The vegetables are unusually crunchy and the broth flavorful if a little salty -- maybe over-reduced from a day in the hot pots.

Between bites I chatted with the not overly friendly, slightly bored waiter-host.

"How did you hear about us?" he inquired.

"You're everywhere." I said referring to the constant stream of press the Brooklyn deli has received.

He nodded knowingly.

I confessed I had never eaten the other house specialty, Montreal style smoked meat. He offered up a tasting dish. $7 for 4 small slices.

Judging from Mile End's version, smoked meat, American pastrami's Northern cousin, is less fatty and more heavily, well, smoked. Pastrami is more assertively spiced and brined. Smoked meat is dry cured and has a denser texture. It seems like what would result if Texas barbecue and Katz's pastrami had a beefy brisket baby. I like it.

"This could become a problem," I say. "It's not really like anything else."

The waiter leaned heavily on the counter and nodded in agreement. "When I haven't been at work for a few days I start to crave it," he explained.

I munched my slices with a bit of spicy mustard and watched Mile End's young cook prepare their smoked meat burger and bags of yummy looking fries. 

Then suddenly I looked a little closer.

At first she was just another tattooed twenty-something but I noticed something on her arm. I couldn't believe my eyes.

Her back to me, I ask "Does your arm say Petaluma?"

She turned quickly to give me a better view and I saw not just the name of the little town near our Norcal ranchette but an image of one of my favorite hometown icons -- a fluffy baby chick from a former hatchery on Petaluma Blvd. How often I've dreamed of owning that very sign.

Suddenly we were all friends sharing hometown stories and favorite landmarks.

When I least expect it I am blindsided by a Cheers moment in hipster, artisanal Brooklyn. It's not such a big city after all.

2nd Ave Deli

It's not what it once was.
Years ago the 2nd avenue deli really was on 2nd avenue in the section of NY's East Village that once housed the city's renown Yiddish Theaters. The deli's front door sat squarely on the "Yiddish Walk of Fame" and the landmark eatery survived both the changing neighborhood and the, still unsolved, murder of owner Abe Lebewohl during a robbery. Then after years of service and late night knishes the deli closed following a rent dispute with its landlord and after a year reopened in quiet Murray Hill, more than 20 blocks North and not on 2nd avenue.
The building is new and much smaller, the waiters much friendlier (and Latino) but the food is the same. Probably not the best deli in town but comforting and familiar with a few stand out specialties. The pickles are crisp and sour, the chopped liver rich and meaty with no eggs mixed in, the sandwiches ample without being comically overstuffed. When I woke up craving matzoh ball soup there was one place to start, 2nd Ave Deli.
Same as ever, the broth was genuinely chicken flavored with tasty slices of carrots and one large not quite fluffy matzoh ball. Not an easy grain to keep light, the kasha I requested in the soup was almost painfully dry but still this bowl satisfies no matter the address.

Zucker's Bagels and Smoked Fish

Back in the 90's when many of New York's old time bagel shops were closing up, Matt Pomerantz of Zucker's Bagels decided to start baking.  With no experience, just a fondness for ethnic foods and a childhood spent working at his parents' Lower East Side clothing store, Pomerantz opened his first store serving fresh bagels and a selection of deli fish specialties from Acme, the largest fish smoker in the ti-state area.
As bagels have become more common with chains spreading all across the states with Zucker's New York still carries the tradition of bagels the way they used to be.  At each location the bagels are hand, not machine, rolled and briefly boiled to create the sheen and chewy outer texture bagel eaters crave. Slathered with way too much cream cheese and glossy smooth lox every day at Zucker's is a Sunday morning treat, even Wednesday afternoon.

Falafel In New York

I'm not sure why there is so much good falafel in New York. Pretty much every neighborhood has at least a better than average place and some much better. Filling, cheap and generally open late falafel is good anytime food.
Most times when I find myself in the village looking for tasty chick pea treats I head to Mamoun's, a local chain with a carry out window. But today with winter cold and afternoon wind settling in I slipped into another mini chain, Taim a bright spot in the West Village. Taim is all vegetarian. They offer a selection of salads and sides and three flavors of falafel, green, red and spicy. The spicy, laced with harissa, is usually my first choice but the green with hints of cilantro and mint seemed just right on an afternoon where I was dying to see a bit of spring to come. Though offered as a sandwich or platter today my falafel came as a side to a tasty plate of Sabich, thin slices of eggplant fried to order and topped with Srug a traditional Yemeni hot sauce -- my favorite Taim menu item along with savory Moroccan carrots.

Ivan Ramen

I've been following the cooking career of Long Island native Ivan Orkin for quite some time now. The self described "Japanophile" became a ramen master in of all placed Tokyo -- winning awards for his modern renditions of the traditional favorite. Food magazine have been gushing about him for years -- imagine an American conquering the Japanese palate. When Orkin opened his first American outpost on Manhattan's hipster heavy Lower East Side I vowed to sit at his counter. I love ramen and am a regular at several Los Angeles outposts.

As luck would have it I looked up and found myself mere blocks away from Ivan Ramen's Orchard Ave outpost. 

I settled in with a view into the small kitchen and ordered one of my favorites, spicy chili ramen. And, because Orkin has made a name with inventive combinations of traditional flavors, deep fried pork meatballs. These came out scorching hot with a creamy buttermilk dressing and drizzles of slightly sweet soy based sauce. Bonito flakes covered the top. The pork meatballs were amazingly light with a crisp panko based crust. But overall not very well seasoned and not special enough to warrant the extra calories.

Unlike other ramen shops I frequent, Ivan Ramen charges for the egg in the broth which is a standard topping. Much has been made in the press of the waitstaff's pushing the toppings that turn an already heftily priced bowl of broth and noodles into a $20 (for all of the add ons -- roasted tomato, egg, and pork) not quite quick soup lunch. 

Bowls seemed to be coming out of the kitchen a little slowly even though the restaurant was not terribly crowded. My deep red broth was flavorful and searing, painfully hot with chiles but not temperature. The soup was oddly lukewarm and the egg actually cold. A kitchen misfire that cheated me of the warming delicious feeling I was craving on a cold windy day. 

The kitchen didn't mean to serve lukewarm broth and I thought about sending it back. But the noodles drew me in. Chewy delicious rye based ramen noodles custom made for Ivan Ramen. Though the kitchen may be inconsistent I'd go back and probably happily lay down $20 for another chance at those noodles. Maybe they will get right next time.

Staten Island Red sauce

There's a certain kind of soulful neighborhood Italian restaurant that I think doesn't really exist outside of the NY area. Casual family friendly spots, priced for the working class that offer a vast menu of Italian American specialties and crisp crust pizza.
Everyone has his favorite. A new friend recently took a group of us to his red sauce spot of choice, Denino's of Staten Island.
As we sat down the table was already covered with eggplant, chicken and shrimp parmigiana platters -- topped with a heavy but tasty red sauce and gooey, dreamy melted mozzarella. The sideboard held crisp green salads and one of my favorites, cold scungilli salad. Scungilli, a long-time Italian American favorite, has practically disappeared from the menu of Italian restaurants though under the English name whelks they are becoming an ingredient of the moment among celebrity chefs and hipsters alike. I forgot how much I like scungilli.
Next came lightly fried calamari with both spicy and mild red sauce for dipping. The food kept coming.
I thought it was over and then came the pizza. Crisp, hot, covered in melted cheese. Wide slices just right for folding over before a first joyous bite.
Though chefs in the city are trying to claim and create chains of the area's red sauce tradition with "joints" like Parm and Carbone, the real thing still exists, and while there still are family owned restaurants and delis serving up hearty red sauce on stacks of paper plates and hero rolls I'll be there.