BISTRO LA BONNE SOUPE

The fairly non-descript room

Le problème is that the soup is not bonne.  It was okay, at best, even on the blusteriest of blustery, prematurely winter-esque autumn nights, where soup could not even conceive of a more suitable context.  In addition, the mood is cozy and pleasant, table packed with smiling patrons who seem content to be exactly where they are.  The majority of the, too, seemed to be French gleaned from casual eavesdropping, which I hoped would be as prosperous an omen as the make a case for in Chinese restaurants.  This, however, was unfortunately NOT the case.

Jungle painting above our table

I shrugged off the dismissive non-welcome by a passing employee as a result of the unanticipated inclement weather creating an influx of diners.  I eventually found my way to an open table, upstairs, and sort of self-seated and waited for my tablemate.  A server came by to inquire about beverages, and guided me toward the wine list already on the table.  He had this sort of louche and glib manner that he someone made seem amusingly charming, probably due to his (relatively young) age, and was sort of stereotypically "French" in a Ratatouille sort of way.  Water glass filled, friend arrived, ordering began. 

Half-eaten "salad"

We had chosen the spot on short notice simply due to its name, given the weather, and its proximity to the theatre we would soon be attending.  As neither of us had discovered the full array of dinner option that La Bonne Soup does offer, we hadn't allowed enough time for a formal meal, instead planned on a quick homey bowl to warm up and belly-fill before the show.  I actually started to lean toward a ratatouille-filled omelet, and then a mushroom crepe sounded really good, but alors!! We were at La Bonne SOUPE.  Let them eat soup- and so we did.  There was a mulligatawny lentil concoction as the daily special (of which there was surprisingly only one) that our server explained was really more of just a lentil soup, of which I'm not familiar with the precise differentiation he was implying, his tone indicated maybe it wasn't his first choice.  Thus, I went with a Crème Andalouse, described as a tomato based cream of vegetables, yet was

Creme Andalouse

 somehow devoid of any vegetable flavor and certainly lacked creaminess.  What arrived was a rather insipid bowl of sour tomato broth, opaque but watery, which tasted mostly of unripened tomatoes.  Despite the premature snowfall, tomatoes were not long off the market, as well as being some of the most preservable types of produce, so the unpalatable concoction had no excuses.  It was actually difficult to finish the bowl, done so mostly by soaking slices of the generic baguette from the little basket on the table, whose starchy blandness cut the potage's acidity.  I had to eat SOMEthing, as the show ahead of us was a good two hours long, and there wasn't time to re-order.  A side dish of green beans was probably the best thing I had that evening, and that's probably just because I'm such a vegephile, 'cause  they were pretty greasy, although welcomely garlicky and tender yet still vibrantly

Mushroom-Barley

 emerald.  Mushroom barley didn't fare much better, it was thin and under seasoned, the paucity of chewy grains and chopped fungus sinking wantonly to the bottom.  You had the option to "meal-size" your soup order, which bumped up the price $13 to add a salad, glass of house wine and dessert.  That is, if you can count a plate of oversize flaps of romaine with some meager shreds of carrot atop a salad.  Even the dressing was d.i.y.: each table bequeathed a bottle of a house peppercorn-ranch type dressing, conspicuously un-French and weirdly Applebee's-esque.  The red on hand was a generic blend, neither offensive nor intriguing. 

Mousse au chocolat

After we finished our soup, we were offered dessert, which we would've gladly gone without given the quality of everything else, but since it was included, we waited for our mousse au chocolat (the other option given was crēme caramel), deprived the more appealing sounding option of a warm apple tarte tatin , or most of all, Le Colonel, an ambiguously undefined sweet that cost three or four dollars more than anything else.  Neither did it have any representation on Yelp!, which makes it all the more intriguing and mysterious.  Not intriguing enough, however, to actually go back and have to eat again at L.B.S. to find out. 

48 West 55th Street (Between 5th and 6th Avenues)

Tel : (212) 586-7650

DON ANGIE

There's little I love more than when a place lives up to the hype, is worth the wait, and just makes you happy to be there.  This, in a nutshell, is Don Angie.  As a husband and wife team, I'm assuming the "Don" part of the name has the mafioso derivation meaning "Boss" and that that is Angie.  'Cause her husband and partner's name is Scott Tacinelli, so unless they have a very open marriage with some Don character floating around in the b.o.h., Ms. Rito wears the pants in the family, or at least got titular bragging rights.   Before partnering with Mr. Tacinelli, Ms. Rito worked at Major Food Group's  now-defunct Torrisi Italian Specialties and their wildly popular juggernaut, Carbone, influences which gleam in their new West Village speak-easy-esque little joint.  It has much of the cache expected of any Italian-American, tiled floors and flickering votive candles, but with a distinctly modern approach, and exquisitely executed.

The menu reads with a deceptive simplicity, but the food that arrives is exciting, novel, plucky, and never overwrought,-but definitely not "traditional".  We didn't know quite what to expect of a chrysanthemum salad, except I assured my tablemates it wouldn't be a bowl of dowdy flowers (chrysanthemums are typical presents given to the mourning in Italy, anyways, so it was safe to say we'd probably be getting greens, much like dandelions).  What arrived, however, appeared more like a pile of fluffy shredded cheese than a salad at all, but once the delicately flavored greens were lifted from underneath the voluminous shroud of practically aerated parmesan, it surrendered a bit of its bravado, and coalesced into the salad proportionately.  We split the salad among three with ample quantity for all, although I loved it so
 much I could've probably finished the whole thing solo.  No bread basket is provided, but the stuffed garlic flatbread is tasty as all get out, much like a crackling-thin white pizza gooey with cheese and stealthily filled with shreds of spinach, like an Italian grandma trying to get you to eat your vegetables.   But Don Angie is in no way strictly Italian: they don't shy away from such cosmopolitan ingredients as a burnt porcini dashi in their crudo, labne accompanying a Bbq Calamari or a tamarind glaze on the prosciutto e melone.   








Main courses offer the same inventiveness.  Chicken Scarpariello goes way off-script from the classic with a tender breast, sliced and blackened alongside spicy nubs of sausage, and draped with deep purple sprigs of basil and lusty Anaheim chiles sautéed with chewy, hammy capocollo.  Orata alla Griglia  was a firmer, meatier filet than usual, amply sided with fat orbs of Israeli couscous-style pasta rife with scungilli and clams, and lubricated with a zesty buttermilk sauce.  But don't think that the classic Italian pastas have been neglected: there is a signature lasagna

for two, cleverly furled into scrolls and wading in a saucy bath of cheesy tomato sauce.  Certainly untraditional, but also not cheap: it's $64, which breaks down to about ten dollars more than most of their other pasta offerings (although judging from Instagram it very well may be worth it).  Equally luscious, however, was the Garganelli Gigante, featuring chewy rolled-up noodles in a broken meatball ragu so heavily sauced it almost looked like a chunky bowl of tomato soup upon arrival.  Its flavor was lighter and brighter than expected, though, while remaining rustic and hearty and unequivocally

rib-sticking.  We weren't certain if
 the pasta courses would be primi-sized portions or main course, given their reasonable prices (in the low twenties aside from the lasagna), but while they're not behemoth Carmine's-esque family-sized platters, they are substantial and filling.   They certainly leave room for a side dish or two, as well, as neither options, neither the
Pastas nor the Mains, are conspicuously veg-heavy.  Thus, side dishes from the garden are
 recommended.  And even if you DIDN'T need to amplify your five-a-day the  broccoli is kind of a must-have, its deeply charred florets dusted in pecorino, their nuttiness enhanced with a flourish of toasted sesame seeds.  The Eggplant Agrodolce is just as good, the tangy sauce balancing the eggplant's earthiness, cooked down soft and studded with pignoli for nice crunchy moments.



We had eaten beyond the reasonable prospect for dessert, although a Lemon Sgroppino might've capped things off delicately enough.  Other options include a Black Cocoa Tiramisu with marsala caramel and mascarpone, and while I'm not a huge tiramisu fan, that one sounds worth returning for.  And return, I would.



103 Greenwich Ave,
tel (212) 889-8884

HORTUS

Hortus runs pretty short on horticultural, surprisingly enough.  Not that the preamble on their website states that that is their focus- it in fact makes no mention of a produce-based sensibility, but I could find no other decent justification for the name.  But the Hortus team is wildly proficient in other areas, so I'll forgive the misleading name.  Our proprietors helm from such lofty institutions as Blanca, Per Se and Daniel, so their capability wasn't in question.  Their roots are in South Korea, and the menu showcases Asian ingredients in a New American style, flirting with that "fusion" label that people so often want to avoid.  But here is works rather seamlessly, and to good end.

The restaurant is very attractive, although so far, sparsely populated (at least on the night which I visited). The bar was completely empty, and only one other table held guests when we arrived; several more showed up throughout the course of the night, but it still never reached more than 30% capacity.  Some of this might have to do with the enormous scaffolding obfuscating the beautiful entrance: they're not gonna get any drive-by traffic so long as that stays up, so hopefully it is very temporary.  Downstairs, a long bar extends the length of the room underneath glowing globe lights, and I imagine it
 will have a much livelier energy once a few souls fill the sculpted-seat wooden barstools, but seeing it empty as a dungeon was disheartening.  Up the stairs you pass a mezzanine area with cushioned lounge seating and a striking light fixture, what would look to be an appealing private room or an extension of the bar
 for quieter cocktails.  In the main dining room the modern design continues, featuring more glowy lighting, sleek glossy surfaces and elegant, silvery-blue velvet seats.


Cocktails are strictly sochu-based, but there is also sake and beer, and an extensive wine list, heavy on French but fairly balanced, as well in price, with bottles starting at $38 and only one champagne topping $200.  I love the heavy-duty golden "H" magnets that hold the menu pages together: I have to wonder how many of those will, as time goes on, go missing to dining guests with such names as Henry or Helga.  Those magnet-constrained pages include the "General" menu (aka "food), a fairly concise selection, although it curiously unfolds, after some raw bar options, with a cheese & charcuterie selection, which is probably not the first thing you'd
think of in a predominently Asian-ish restaurant.  After those, there are "To Start" and "To Shares",
although we ended up sharing the starters as well as the larger format plates.  It was difficult, however, to share the Charcoal Grilled Eggplant, both for its size (just a half a Japanese one) and because it was so good.   Meaty minced pork nuzzled into melty mozzarella atop the cushiony nightshade with a flounce of crispy pine-nut studded bread crumbs.  I perceive that a gluten-sensitive type might be challenged at Hortus: as many chefs have a sort of go-to additive in their repertoire, the chef here seems to  like to add
 bread crumbs, which I enjoyed immensely, but they're fairly ubiquitous.  They imparted a
 garlicky crunch to Asian Aglio e Olio, a tangle of thick pappardelle-style rice noodles with bean sprouts and bok choy, whose natural subtlety was vaulted into life with fiery bits of dried chiles slicked in oil beneath... none of which were mentioned on the menu, so the piquancy was an unexpected surprise.  There were some peanuts in there, too, adding another booby-trap for the allergy affected.



Moving ahead, there were four shareable entrees: Pork, Beef, Chicken or Seafood, from whence we chose the latter deuce.  Oh yes: vegetarians would be pretty screwed here, too.  There are a handful of dishes one could piece-meal together, but they are few and far between, and probably not very balanced.  But a pescatarian would be thrilled with the bowl of steamed cod, scallops, mussels, shrimp and tiny baby octopi that arrive in a handsome pewter bowl.  You can't see the broth in the photograph below, which they very well may have added tableside and I did not notice, but you cannot miss it once it's there, nor for its enticingly alluring perfume or it nourishing, complex flavor.  The seafood was fresher than fresh, tender and toothsome, but it was the broth that kept me hogging the bowl to my advantage.
 The Chicken was a little less exciting, but still skillfully presented.  It was faintly sweet, with a spiced glaze and a char-grilled pepper sliced on the side that imparted varying degrees of incendiarism, the maximum of which I happen to get at first-nibble, putting me out of commission for a spell, aided to great extent by a couple of the crunchy, multi-colored fried potatoes we
 ordered as a side dish to tamp the burn.  The grilled cabbage that came alongside was kind of the only vegetable we encountered after the eggplant, aside from some token garnish-esque ones that presented themselves more as ingredients.  There was kimchi and pickles offered as sides, but I consider those more condiments.  For a restaurant called Hortus, the horti are pretty M.I.A.

Finishing up, you've but one choice: a rice pudding with fresh mango, dusted with pulverized black lime.  I don't have a problem with offering but one dessert option, but if you're gonna go that route, you have to nail it.  This doesn't.  The rice is too dense, lacking any type of pudding consistency whatsoever, and while the lime dust adds a bit of intrigue, the whole dish isn't quite sweet enough to balance its tang.  Now, had they called it sticky rice, it might have gone over better, but names matter.  If you're  going to call it pudding, make it pudding.  If you're going to call yourself Hortus, throw in some flora... the Greenmarket is but a stone's throw away.

  271 5TH AVENUE (BETWEEN E 29TH & 30TH ST.)
PHONE 646-858-3784

Diversion PDX: DEPARTURE

Departure is a departure from Portland's typical restaurant scene in a couple of senses: the lofty space atop the iconic Meier & Frank building (now the luxurious Nines Hotel) is modern, glossy and expansive,  channeling a modern airport concourse quite contrastingly to the more typical rustic, quirky, bird-studded and wood-planked aesthetic of its
brethren.  Also, the price points are remarkably high for Portland standards, some of which may have to do with Executive Chef Gregory Gourdet's quasi-celebrity status, but given that Departure is what vaulted him into his notoriety,
perhaps he just followed in the footsteps of his mentor, Jean-Georges Vongerichten, under whom he first staged. At any rate,
neither point seem to have deterred its audience, as the room was bustling and OpenTable showed a fairly full dance card, depending on the day.

Our server, adorably introduced herself as Virginia, could not have been sweeter, putting up with my dad's corniness and handling her duties with grace and efficiency.  As she explained, the plates arrived as they were readied and in no particular order, although sensibly our salad came out first, and while it was a lovely crock of local greens, it took the derivation of its name much too literally- it was assaultingly salty, so much so that by forkful #3 my lips were shriveling in protest.  Had we not been sharing amongst three it probably would've been
 unfinishable, and while Virginia offered to have the kitchen re-make it, we instead treated it like a devilishly salty amuse, and quaffed a somewhat lackluster 14 Hands Pinto Gris a bit too voraciously, and in retrospect I would've preferred the riesling or Vermentino on offer, or a pick from their well-described and complexly festive cocktail list.













Next up came a plate of "wings", which I think were actually super juicy thigh meat wrapped around a wing bone, breaded softly and doused in a sticky sweet sauce,  just a whisper of heat augmenting their naughtiness.  There is a solid menu of sushi and dim sum options which may have offered welcome  respite from the flavor-bomb trail upon which we had partook, but luckily the miso scallops provided a moment of subtlety, plated more simply with some roasted squash and lightly dressed in yuzu and chili.  Wok fired brussels sprouts reassumed the
 seasoning aggression, slathered in kimchi miso and freckled with black sesame, but could've used a bit more fire from that wok, both to tenderize the sprouts and contribute some depth with a nice smoky char.    Tom Yum soup had a tangy, spicy slap, redolent with fermented funk, lemongrass and galangal  and boxing with tender ivory chunks of halibut, whole shrimp and scallops.  It was perhaps the best example of how each of these individual dishes do not necessarily play well together, making Departure a better destination for drinking food rather than traditional dinner and drinks.    By the time our
last dish arrived, both our palates and our stomachs had already reached capacity, and a dense, starchy softball of crab and sausage studded rice didn't get finished, and while
 not necessarily for any aversion, it didn't really entice me for more than two bites.   It also eliminated any possibility for dessert, though, which was most unfortunate 'cause that berry and rhubarb tart with coconut curd and cream OR the jackfruit mousse with DURIAN!, guava and pineapple ice both had my name written all over them.

Would I go back?  I wouldn't not.... I'd definitely recommend it for a social destination moreso than a dining one: cocktails, a few small plates and definitely dessert either in the lofty, airy dining room or better yet, on the panoramic deck outside if the weather cooperates.  I might wish that (as always) Chef Gourdet spent a little more time on-site (evidently he remotely oversees more than actively participates), because overall, things might need a little reigning in.


525 SW MORRISON STREET, 15TH FL
PORTLAND, OR 97204 
TEL: 503.802.5370

ROCCO'S TACOS

Rocco's Tacos has a few things going for it. Unfortunately, few of those things are the food. Whoever designed the room deserves a bonus, but one wishes some of that creative's ingenuity and integrity would've rubbed off on the chef.  Or is there a chef?  I doubt it, or at least s/he's not on site, given that there are Rocco's franchises spanning from southern Florida all the way up to this joint in Brooklyn.

There is a distinct otherworldly, pan-galaxial party going on here, though.  Like a futuristic Trekkie disco fiesta. Star-shaped lanterns are suspended from the ceiling, speckled to release a twinkly
 spectrum of illumination.   Star Trek masks are painted with classic Day of the Dead embellishments, and massive looming paintings of skulls both enchant and haunt.  

The servers are clad in generic black t-shirts and pants- and for the most part their demeanor is similarly bleak.  All of this notwithstanding, the place is bewilderingly busy, but then again the first thing you see on their website is "Where will you tequila dance", which implies that maybe the most important things at Rocco's the drinks and the party.



That's nothing to shake a stick at: the festive atmosphere certainly made the mostly sub-mediocre food seem at least mediocre.  That said, we started off with some super tasty homemade chips, warm and crisp and dusted with a mild savory blend of spices.  They're good enough with the guac smashed tableside in an attractive grey stone molcajete: it would not be a bad idea to double down with these and a pitcher of margaritas and just leave it at that.  The house salsa (which seemed to me more a pico de gallo) was fine: a but watery and little sweet, but

 some salsa is certainly requisite 'cause the food isn't hyper-seasoned.  Even the boring little ensalada mixta benefitted from a few ladelfuls of the sauce, since it's oil-slicked leaves were a little greasy and didn't have a lot else going on but for some scant pepitas, and cotija cheese that mostly sank to the bottom.



If you do end up here, you're best off in a big group, because the menu is pretty huge, and I'm guessing there are proxy better options than what we ordered, but still, this place is no Empellon.  The fish tacos (which I would've preferred  grilled or blackened, but my tablemate had them battered and fried) are $6.50 each, so a monstrous portion of three hulking tacos requires a voracious appetite is required to finish.  They're  served upright in their little custom metal holder, sporting a nice golden crust but the fish (mahi-mahi) was a little fishy.  They were shrouded generously with a jalapeño-flecked slaw, and sided with soupy black beans and rice.   Fish (understandably) are the pricier tacos, along with camarones, carne asado and chorizo.  The pollo, carne molido, cochinitas achiote and hongos are a couple bucks less.











The pollo al carbón from the Especiales de la Casa may have gotten a little too close to the carbón;  was dry and tough, although the salty-sweet grilled plantains helped loosen things up a bit.  Vegetarian enchiladas were another story, almost entirely bereft of the tomatillo sauce that would have actually made them enchiladas.  Instead, they were basically two soft corn tacos, not even properly furled shut, just lolling open and grotesquely cloaked in melted cheese.  The filling was a mostly steamed cauliflower and some roasted peppers, with some ruddy sauce inside that somewhat compensated for the dry exterior.  They were plated with a mild, tender yellow rice and a horrifying coagulated clod of crusty, sticky refried beans, reminiscent of the Old El Paso canned variety, but even worse.

And then, like murky, ominous clouds parting to reveal a glimmer of late morning sun, dessert arrived.  They serve a fantastic très leches, soaked in a light, eggy custard and topped with a toasted marshmallowy crown of fluff, ridiculously sweet but delightful.  And yes, I admit that perhaps the cake tasted even better after all of  the lackluster fare that preceded it, but if you go straight from the chips-salsa-and-guac beginning to that three-milk finale and forget whatever happened in between, Rocco's turns out not to be half bad.  And maybe that is exactly what margaritas are for.

                                                       So, like the big mural says, "May the force be with you."

339 Adams Street

tel . 718.246.8226

STUDIO at The Freehand Hotel

The Happy Cooking guys continue on their successful track.   They're nudging up on Major Food Group in my rankings..... and that is a lofty position.  Studio opened up in the Freehand Hotel, for which Game Stulman's unstoppable restaurant group is entirely responsible- and that's a lot of moving parts.  We've already awarded Simon & The Whale with glowing approval, and in addition they handle all room service, the adjacent bar The Broken Shaker as well as the exclusive George Washington Bar upstairs.  Across a foyer from the latter lies Studio,  which chalks up no differently.  It's a wonderfully lofty space, deep cerulean walls and potted palms channel somewhere vacationy, somewhere desirably unManhattany.  And even though the feel of the room might imply a tropical clime, it still feels like an escape
 even in the midst of a New York City hot and humid summer, when even midtown's muggy heat rivals similarly tropical destinations. Here it feels a little Moroccan, or Turkish, which is also the vibe reflected in the menu.


For me, the menu is like one of those that you might wish had the Alta Option, where for $600 you can have one of every single item offered.  The food is simple in preparation but rampant with exotic spices like ras el hanout, and heavy on the tumeric, sumac and cumin.   Mezze  kick things off with rich dips like black eyed pea-hummus with braised oxtail or a garlicky spinach yogurt, perfect for swabbing up with thick, oiled slabs of yogurt and whole wheat sourdough flatbreads, worth ordering for the
 extra six bucks.  The other categories are small Plates, Sides and Mains, some of the best dishes of the night coming from the former.  A brilliant jewel-toned array of heirloom tomatoes fresh from the farmer's market just blocks away are nuzzled into a creamy tahini-based puree flecked with pungent scallions and drizzled with verdant basil oil.  A special salad that night featured the last of the market asparagus, fresh tender spears rife with the heady perfume of the most fragrant campfire ever, piled with tufts of friseé and cooled with yogurt.


We tried - or make that my TABLEmates tried- the chicken cigarillos, which before I got a decent picture they had more or less devoured, but I snapped a shot of the last remaining one, greaselessly golden crisp batons plumped with savory spiced ground chicken, with a squiggle of savory yogurt sauce and dusting of sumac.  Of course, quick as they were gone from my table is a quick as they were removed from the menu, so my shoddy picture (and description) is double useless since you can't order them anymore, anyways.






 I was initially disappointed (unjustifiably) that the carrot side dish that arrived was not an array of colorful greenmarket specimens encrusted in Moroccan spices and roasted 'til their spindly ends crisped up with char, but instead this salady slaw tenderized raw carrot ribbons to a noodle-like consistency, amplifying their natural sweetness with golden raisins and ruby pomegranate seeds.  I missed any parsley as stated on the menu, but a delicate tangle of frondy pea shoots more than compensated.  But this too, has ebbed away in favor of a shaved cauliflower with herbed labneh: it seems the offerings at Studio are seasonally ephemeral, so expect plenty of variation from what I ate to when you visit.

Main courses incur the same temperamentality, but the consistent quality endures.  One stable option is a grain bowl including black kale and avocado, to which we  added roasted chicken to appease the omnivore.  A spritz of pepitas and nutty sesame seeds contributed nice crunchy moments to the trendy mainstay.   A meatier option featured juicy slabs of sliced skirt steak slathered in (zhoug, shug, schug, zhough, or here) zhug, the hippest condiment of the moment, draped over a bounty of frilly frisee and first-of-the market green beans.   A whole trout looked decidedly forlorn on the plate, but he was a deceptively plump and tasty fish, flaky fleshed mystically flavored from the inside out, and served with a little pile of sweetly chewy roasted beets and a magnificent uber-garlic aioli that I was generous enough to share dabs of with everyone, and it improved everything it touched.







And I can say that unreservedly, because we didn't get dessert (something aioli should never be a part of).  Sweet options tend starchy, although quirky and innovative. We didn't end up opting for any of the Black Sesame Sponge Cake, Baklava Ice Cream, Labneh Cheesecake or Cookie Platter with pistachios and blueberry tahini, but you get where things are going.  Certainly wouldn't have turned something down if another one of my tablemates had wanted to partake, but nothing jumped out at us- and we were pretty full.

So add it to the list of all of Happy Cooking's success stories, with the added bonus of having a built-in audience from the hotel downstairs, and I'm guessing Studio will have good staying power.  And a much more transporting atmosphere once this summer's atrocious heat and humidity have dissipated, and Studio's reenactment of a balmy tropical elsewhere becomes even more attractive.




23 Lexington Avenue
Freehand Hotel, Mezzanine Floor