Diversion: PDX/LAURELHURST MARKET

"Keep Portland Weird!" is painted in huge, white block letters upon a brick wall across the street from the new Laurelhurst Market: new as in the old market of the same name was a bodega of sorts, of dubious legitimacy, purveying an even sketchier array of random commodities . But the Market in its current incarnation exhibits neither nefarious quality, now a restaurant of outstanding repute which also houses a small, locavore-esque butcher shop where you can purchase the meatier comestibles available on the restaurant's menu, as well as sandwiches (made with fresh, local Fleur de Lis bread) and beverages to eat in or take away. Despite the spare, industrial decor and exposed ceiling beams that arch across the dining room from the market to the bar, the interior is warm, rustic and inviting. Little twinkly votive candles and lights glowing off a collection of shiny pots and pans in the open kitchen create a convivial atmosphere. Just in front, chef David Kriefels keeps a hawk-eyed watch on each plate from mis to service, maintaining superlative quality control
certainly not exclusive solely to those beans (You know, the ones your mother would have made if she loved you, which is what is charmingly noted at the bottom of the menu). The no-reservations policy ubiquitous to Portland's casual dining scene fuels a steady crowd at the small bar, which boasts a nice little cast of cocktails and a very reasonably priced wine list, heavy on the reds. They even had a mourvedre (which I've been dying to try) by the glass: a plush, fruity little varietal from the centuries old grape that is enjoying a resurgence in popularity, and the one they poured here proves why.

Laurelhurst Market is primarily a steak house, but almost anything on the offer has such robust flavor that you won't miss meat even if you don't order it. A spa-sounding endive and grapefruit salad
with Dungeness and chervil flaunted those crisp, juicy leaves lavished with rich, sweet morsels of crab, brightened with citrus and nestled in a creamy, smooth puree of sunchokes. All those sprightly ingredients join forces to a decadent effect. We bumped a side dish of perfectly roasted beets with pistachios up to appetizer status, and while their strawberry gastrique was mostly undetectable but for a meager puddle hidden underneath, it did pair quite winsomely with the salad (though, admittedly, we should have left it in its side dish category where it would've performed more deftly. Note to self: obey the chef!).

The menu breaks mains down into steaks and entrees, the former including every-which-cut of bovinity imaginable, where you can choose your cut from the daily offerings which , although specified a la carte, arrive with thoughtful accoutrements. They are a little veggie-scant, though, which provides a tremendous opportunity to take advantage of the solid array of ridiculously good side dishes. I definitely could've made a superb repast simply with a tasting plate of three or four of them. The steak frites arrive with a mountain of exceptional hand cut fries, and I saw some enormous Walla Walla sweet onion rings crowning the ribeye at the next table. Neither of those, however, could have been appreciably better than the brussels sprouts, uber-roasted to an almost melting tenderness, charred crispy on the edges by no stinginess of heat and oil, although they were supposed to have been prepared with lemon, anchovy and piment d'espelette, which if they were was with a very subtle hand.

Entrees include more meat, a few poultries, and a daily fish, prepared with a few more creative liberties than the steaks, and put the emphasis on umami-rich ingredients like mushrooms, wine-based sauces, truffles, and rich reductions.
Tournedos of filet mignon, the most expensive dish on the menu at $36 (but well worth it!) justifies its price with a rich lobe of fois gras, scored and sprinkled with a crispy nest of delicate celeriac frites, surrounded by a moat of truffled sherry gastrique upon a creamy potato puree. As rich and regal as it might sound, it tasted even voluptuously more so, fancifully toeing the line of excess but remaining just a crispy frite's-width shy. Idaho rainbow troutshone as the daily catch, hearty enough to rival the meats: two generous skin-on filets splayed atop a savory-sweet puree of butternut squash, and roasted chunks of fennel, parsnips and apple… an absolute bargain for a mere $20.

Desserts are wholly unnecessary here, but equally unmissable. Most are classics or riffs thereof: an affogato uses a rich chocolate sorbet instead of vanilla gelato, a superlative tarte tatin is buttery beneath melting vanilla bean ice cream. A little homework, however, nudged us toward a dulce de leche cheesecake with jammy Oregon huckleberries, described by
some internet commentator (with whom I cannot argue) as "knee-buckling". The substantial crumby graham cracker crust cradles dense creamy cheesecake, caramelly sweet with a smooth milky tang. This dessert has been on the menu since the beginning, and our waitress assured us it isn't going anywhere (be thankful). Just as good was a dense bread pudding, rife with tangy dried cherries and crusty on the edges of its little individual ramekin, and topped with a sweet mascarpone cream, whipped into weightlessness.

I'm amazed they can consistently produce food this exceptional at such reasonable prices. As does a good sister restaurant, it vigorously inspires a visit to Simpatica Dining Hall upon my next return to Portland. If this is the city's version of weird, I'm all for it. I guess, like they say, you can't take the trailer out of the girl.





Laurelhurst Market
3155 E. Burnside, Portland OR 97214
restaurant 503-206-3097
butcher shop 503-206-3099

Diversion: PDX/ PARK KITCHEN

A dwindling number of Portland hotspots continue to remain open on Christmas Eve, so our options diminish or demand repeat visits. But Park Kitchen, a relative newcomer on the scene, wouldn't need need this as a qualifier in order to best much of the competition. Glistening, rain-slicked city streets border the stretch of park blocks framed by the huge windows in the dining room. The restaurant is divided into two sections as you enter a small vestibule at the bottom of a steep staircase leading to office space above. A bustly, livelier section enclosing the bar and a view of the open kitchen is found through the door on your right, while a slightly more formal, and definitely more spacious room is behind the door on the right, which was our destination. Both rooms are a bit spare of decor- lots of rough hewn wood and picnic-type tables and chairs. But the food is definitely the focus, so in addition to the very gracious service, any lack of design frivolity pretty much went unnoticed.

And of course, dinner on Christmas Eve isn't just any old meal. Normally the menu is broken down into small hot and cold plates, and large plates serving as entrees or shareable portions. This evening's offerings, however, included a prix-fixe with two choices among each of four courses, or a full chef's choice tasting menu. Given the size of our group, the tasting menu was really the most prudent choice… and it proved the most delicious one, too. As well the chef, Scott Dolich, has received well-deserved national acclaim , I was happy to put my stomach in his hands. We began simply, with small crostini smeared
with creamy goat cheese cradling a small pile of tender, sweet beets and a flounce of greenery: festively hued and achieving the creamy/crunchy/sweet/salty quadrifecta. A salad that had initially tempted me towards the prix-fixe menu happily appeared also on ours: a leafy toss of richly bitter radicchio, roasted shaved butternut
squash and crunchy pepita brittle sprinkled with pomegranate seeds. Another salad would have been a worthy lunchtime main: fluttery leaves of butter lettuce and rare seared flank steak with blue cheese and tangy
sherried onions- which also signaled me to slow down (or rather, share more), given that we were barely through a quarter of the meal. Luckily, next arrived my least favorite dish (strictly a matter of personal preference), which was a bright salad of shaved fennel and juicy citrus, which was … um,
"poignantly" spruced up with a school of marinated anchovies I could have done without. My brother-in-law, however, channeled his inner Chinook and cleaned that plate almost single-handedly; anchovy lovers unite. (Thank god for divergent palates.) My chance to hog a bit came with the roasted beet salad,a lovely array of sunny golden beets and vivid orange segments tossed with baby greens, crumbles of goat cheese and a nutty toasted almond tahini. The night's all-around crowd-pleaser, however, had to be the jumbo-size chickpea fries. Garbanzos mashed and mixed with a little flour and confit onions, formed into long (a good eight inches!), rectangular planks and deep-fried to a golden umber outside, rendering the inside to a nutty, earthy, beany smoothness. Pair those with some of the sweetly pungent pumpkin ketchup and everyone wanted to take some home. Another fried delicacy was the salt cod fritters with malt vinegar. Breaking open their crunchy ochre crust released an aromatic puff of steam, revealing an impossibly creamy filling of oceany salt cod puree that literally sang when dribbled with its tangy vinegar sauce.

So maybe at this point we were just shy of halfway
through, with some of the best yet to come. A pork belly dish
(for all those pork belly afficionados) nuzzled a meaty quadrangle with toothsome turnips in a sweet, rich broth underneath a frizzle of crisp, julienned celeriac remoulade. More noteworthy,
however, was a stunning dish of porky meatballs in a buttery tomato sauce with cabbage and minced herbs. Neither of those, however, were technically main courses, as the final two arrived: seared black cod
on a bed a meaty pocha beans and melted cipollinis. The fish itself had a distinct fishy flavor, not wholly off-putting, but noticeable. (I prefer black cod steamed, which usually avoids bringing out that pronounced flavor). The last savory course was a
rarer-than-rare lamb with parsnips and trumpet mushrooms. By now, as I'm doing all this by memory, the details escape me, both a fault of an undocumented menu, an abundance of plates (too many of which were superlative), a lapse of time before writing this, and a vigorous appreciation of our Gruner Veltliner. But then came the desserts as defibrillators to my food coma. I'm not so much a chocolate person, but the
crust on the warm chocolate tart was like the cookie component of an Oreo on crack. Softly poached pear fanned out languidly on top of the rich, fudgy filling, spilling into a pool of cool pear puree dusted with a gingery crumb. Even better (is it possible?) was the molten apple crisp, a humble looking dish of hot, syrupy apple chunks beneath a nutty oaten crust with a meltingur-vanilla ice cream submitting to the oven-hot concoction below. I, who never partake of dessert without the bitter balancing cup of joe, hadn't room for even a single drop more. For the eight of us dining, there were three crisps and three tarts.. and there was nary a teaspoon of any of the crisps left post-facto.

It was an inordinate amount of food, compounded by the fact that each individual dish was so good you didn't want to stop eating it to save room for the next. But it was a holiday, after all, so it was not only merry Christmas to all, but bon appetit to all… and to all a good night.

FISH TAG: Two Chefs with One Stone

A real-feel temperature of 19 degrees and fifty-seven city blocks wouldn't keep me from following Michael Psilakis to wherever he hangs his toque. His departure from Anthos (and Upstairs) was as heart-breaking as his pairing with Ryan Skeen at Fish Tag is exhilarating. Psilakis' "divorce" from Donatella Arpaia as they parted ways to embark upon their own projects resulted in his dissociation with the revolutionary Anthos, the restaurant he made famous for not only its novel take on modern Greek food, but also his irrefutable and unwavering genius in the kitchen. I have eaten foodstuffs that I don't even LIKE, that in his hands are transformed into gustatory miracles. Thankfully, at Fish Tag, that experience is duplicated. Psilakis paired with Ryan Skeen, sort of a wild child of the industry, who has made more of a notorious name for himself than notable. Just like Psilakis, though, I have enjoyed everything Skeen has had his hand in, although obviously I never had to work with him. But so he's got an unwieldy streak; so many geniuses do. At any rate, the two chefs, for whom I have not one, single derogatory comment to make, neither culinarily nor character, have joined forces in an unassuming little nook of a place sandwiched between the stoops of two Upper West Side apartment buildings. Quite easy to miss but for the handsome metal fish suspended before the front window, and a facade harkening up some of Psilakis's Greek roots.

The restaurant's name comes from the price tags tacked to the tails of local market's finest selections. The menu is not just fish-centric, it is all-out, back-and-forth, upside-down and right-side-up maritime. There are only two dishes that don't feature fish, a Greek "Spoon" Salad and a lamb burger, something to which I, personally, would only entrust to Michael himself, or else April (Bloomfield), and though we didn't order it, I'm sure it is worthy, if for whatever reason you end up at Fish Tag... but you don't eat fish. We started with another salad instead, a briny mix of traditional Greek salad ingredients (cucumber, tomato, olives, onion, pepper and feta) plus charred dandelion greens and thinly sliced radishes. For me (an olive nay-sayer), I could've done without the kalamatas, but the salad was still tasty in spite of them. And this one included several tail-on, head-on, shell-on (eyeballs and legs and antennae on!) deep fried shrimp.... the ocean's brilliant answer to the potato chip. An even better salad, however, is the Chicory, Wild Arugula and Bulghar one, a hearty (huge!) mound of the greens and the grain, plus a fantasy mix of bell peppers, breakfast radish, thinly sliced fennel bulb, big chunks of chewy dates, roasted pistachios, smoked almonds, and just a touch of finely minced green olive. Its beauty transcends the plate to palate, bound together only by the juice pomegranate and the heft of its ingredients. Another fantastic starter is the Bacala & Skordalia Brandade "Melt", a crusty slice of thickly cut, rustic bread slathered in a creamy, garlicky skordalia and rich brandade, then topped with some tart and toothsome confit tomato, a rich daub of smoked eggplant puree and capped with a generous shaving of kefaloteri cheese and delicate leaves of baby arugula. I could've easily called it quits after the bulghar salad and the sumptuous crostini "melt", but the food was so good my imagination as to what else he could come up with was going wild, even as my appetite was waning. Smoked octopus danced just beyond the edge of tenderness to a achieve a hearty density capable of standing up to the pungent chorizo, bitter rapini and earthy king oyster mushrooms. I would have had little more of the lemon that was mentioned on the menu to have shown up also in dish, but sincerely, that is really nit-picking.

On to the big stuff- although the menu is not broken down into traditional divisions, and there are starred dishes who's primary component (a fish or crustacean) can be ordered simply grilled with a side of rapini and potatoes. But I'd recommend letting the chef(s) do their jobs and ordering straight from the menu. A simple grilled striped bass with lemon and capers is flawless, the flesh moist and skin crisp, and kissed with an exceptionally fragrant spritz of lemon. But there are more exciting preparations to be had. Dense medallions of sturgeon are topped with a generous dollop of its own eggs, propping up ruffly fronds of celery and translucent slices of radish. Roasted beets are both pureed and smeared beneath the fish, and flank the dish in big chunks anointed with a smooth
horseradish cream. Museum-worthy platings reinforce the composition of flavors here.... these dishes are GORGEOUS. The one dish we had, however, who's appearance slightly belied its grandeur was the sheep's milk dumplings. These ethereal gnocchi, pillow-soft (I'd always read that, but I'd never experienced the bliss of an definitive example), full of mild, milky flavor, nestled in a thick cheesy, gravy brimming with tender bay scallops just barely bigger than
pearls, generous morsels of the freshest blue crab, and vivified with a gentle breath of aji amarillo pepper to add a hint of sweet heat. I'll eat my hat if Ryan didn't have his hand in this one. This dish is coming in on the tail end of the year, but if it doesn't top the list of 2010's Best Dishes, I might quit this "job". (I'm kidding. I wouldn't do that. I'd just know all the list-writers are incompetent and that I should have been them.) It was so good, I seriously want it again. Right. Now. The one dish I am horrified to admit that I was just this shy of having enough gumption to order was the branzino stuffed with headcheese. I was derailed by that filling, but as it was described, wrapped in caul fat and served with mushrooms confit... well, somebody get it and tell me how awesome it was. I'm sure I missed out.

No desserts here (nor had we room). But somehow a little dish of chestnut and fig gelato seemed so suitable that we ordered it anyways, along with tiny cups of impressive espresso.. sometimes you just have to fling your belt off with wild abandon. That's how Psilakis and Skeen seem to approach their cooking (and perhaps their lives), and you'll be all more content because of it. They may not be predictable, but let them do their thing. They'll blow your socks off.



222 W 79th St, New York 10024
(Btwn Amsterdam Ave & Broadway)

Phone: (212) 362-7470

EATALY: Mangia!

I visited EATALY for the first time on opening day: the day when the line spilled out onto 23d street and wrapped around the corner up 5th Avenue. I happened upon Cesare Casella (one of the collaborators), who gave me a nice little guided tour as to how the different sections worked, from the very preciously priced groceries to the in-house vegetable butcher to the individual ingredient-centric restaurant "stations" and the full-service one, Manzo. Only Manzo accepts reservations, and since we were simply dropping by after a lovely round of cocktails at the newly opened John Dory around the corner, we opted for a stint at Le Verdure (the vegetable spot) followed by entrees at Il Pesce (for fish). And despite the somewhat contrived name (although it is accurate to the phonetic pronunciation of the country by its natives), nothing at Eataly feels forced or gimmicky at all.

The hour was later than their typical busy rush, somewhere after eight o'clock. We were swiftly seated at Verdure and put our names in at Pesce to be transferred after the first course. While this worked out swimmingly for us, a prime-time attempt of the same could allow for some unappealing waits and an undesirable lapse in between plates. But if you're quite aware of how the seating functions and you're cool with that, it shouldn't be too much of a problem. As it were, a few lingering shoppers browsed the aisles for tiny bottles of ten dollar pistachio cream or imported hand-made fettuccine asciutta, but weren't at all distracting or irritating as might be the case earlier in the day when the joint is as packed as their imported sardines. They actually contribute a sort of vibrant energy to the hall, making everything feel a bit festive. Our waiter perpetuated that feeling, welcoming us with a sincere smile, a sort of dashing charm and an effortless knowledge of the menu and specials. He wasn't Italian, but obviously the Italians in charge schooled everyone rigorously so that when it got to this point, the bella figurawas as natural as spaghetti and marinara.


Onto our food, which was unerringly much better than I was expecting. The Verdure menu is extensive, especially considering that most of the options are not only vegetable-based, but vegan, thus containing no dairy, egg or even honey (the latter is something I will never understand completely, but that's somebody else's blog). There are salads and soups and roasts and grills, so in order to experience a bit of the variety, we went with the Piatto Misto, which boasted a trio of salads and a small cup of the soup of the day (ours happened to be a hearty minestrone heavy on flavor and chickpeas). Raw Brussels sprouts, one of those things one might make a joke about eating, worked here, leafed out and paired with crunchy sweet strips of red pepper and ribbons of carrots so thin that the bright store lighting shone right through. Next to that was a fine farro salad of cold grains, lightened with leaves of radicchio and frisee, and dressed in an invisible but robust vinegary dressing. Third was a melange of root vegetables roasted to a meaty chew atop a bed of baby lettuces that could've used a little more punch in the vinaigrette themselves, but the tubers picked up much of the slack. A stuffed squash with lentils and a cauliflower and cardoon gratin looked worth returning for. (There is the option of pairing the latter with shavings of white truffles for a mere $67. That would make an $80 side dish... a little out of my budget, but 'tis the season, to be fair.)


We held off on beverages to enjoy a glass of wine with our entrees at Il Pesce. The wine and beer lists are extensive and unique to each "department", thoughtfully matched to complement the foods and flavors on their menus. We opted for a Langhe Arneis, a very uniquely flavored wine with a huge nose, honeyed but crisp and perfect with fish. Memorably good. I don't think it was just luck for us that it went so well with our entrees. A grilled striper, simply adorned with capers and lemon, nothin' fancy, was crisp-skinned and pure-fleshed. Since the secondi are served true to Italian style, they are alone on the plate. There are daily contorni to fill out your mains. We chose a lovely roast of cauliflowers, which came an eclectic farrago of purple, white, green and golden types, roasted deeply to char the nutty florets and tenderize the stalks. Veggies get assertive here, which is how I like them. They're not shy with the e.v.o.o., especially not when they're blessed with the imported abundance at hand from the grocery.
A spiedino, also varies daily, continued my string of good luck with squid. The tenderest of tender tentacles and a few meaty shrimp comprised that day's skewer, served on a bed of nice, bitey arugula. We could've done dessert (and well you can, with an ample selection of pastry and dolci to be had at La Pasticceria, or one of the unctuous gelati from La Gelateria (interestingly, made from a local dairy's milk, which seems prudent). But it was getting late... too late for gelato, in fact, which closes at 10pm. And despite being tempted by the display and the rich Lavazza which can be had to accompany, dessert got skipped, mostly due the late hour. But also, for reasons yet not determined, because our waiter came back with the bottle as we were midway through our mains, after our glasses were nearly empty and refilled them both. I tried to intercept his pour by saying we hadn't ordered the bottle, but he winked and smiled and said that this one was on the house. Charming, in true Italian style.




200 Fifth Avenue (at 23rd Street)
Phone Number: 212-229-2560

Northern Spy Food Co. Could Try a Little Harder

I keep straying from my modus operandi here. I get swayed by places that are doing what I like them to do- the prettiness of the book cover, and forget that I'm to focus on the author (so to speak). And sometimes they live up (in those cases, bless them.) But I ended up at Northern Spy Food Co., a restaurant I've actually been wanting to get to for months (Alphabet City! So far!!) and it unfortunately reminded me of why I did name my blog as such; there's a reason to put your faith in a trustworthy cook.

Not that Northern Spy is all bad. Or bad at all, really. In fact, there is some very tasty fare to be had amidst the rustically designed dining room. Outdoor park-style benches and folding chairs sidle up to small wooden tables with paper napkins and unremarkable utensils. Our waitress had the lovely glow and smooth skin of a country maid, but was about as nice as the gristly barn-hand. My companion noted that she greeted us with a phatic inquiry of how we were doing, but failed to even give us time to proffer a response. I kept waiting for her to soften up and be as nice as the space demanded, but either she was having a bad day or it just wasn't in her. Either way, it didn't help the overall experience.

The menu boasts the locals and the sustainables (the website has a list of their purveyors), and many of the dishes share a lot of the same ingredients, so you'll want to plan a bit what you order so as not to get too much of the same stuff over and over again. We started with a freekeh "risotto", a young wheatberry not dissimilar to barley, perfectly cooked to retain its nuttiness and toothsome chew, and bound in a cheesy cream sauce rife with chunks of zucchini and kabocha. The earthiness of the grain and the heft of the veggies balanced the undeniable richness of the mascarpone; this was one of the better dishes. A chiffonade of kale with crunchy roasted almonds, pecorino and clothbound cheddar (they are big on their clothbound cheddar), is nothing more than a sum of it's parts, and maybe even less so. A hefty pour of oil and abundant shaved pecorino dressed a rather enormous pile of raw kale, which hid some roasted almonds, curds of cheddar and a couple of cubes of delicata squash, but a lack of salt or acid rendered it simply ho-hum. Plus it was very difficult to fork up as the kale wouldn't quite succumb to the tine of the fork, but slipped off if you attempted a scooping method. City Bakery does a similar version of this salad, using all of the above ingredients minus the cheddar and some of the oil, and plus slivers of red onion and a sprinkle of salt... and it is exceptional. It can be done, it's just not up to snuff here. You might be better off with the kabocha squash soup which smelled heavenly bypassing our table for the next in the hands of our surly-ish waitress.

Mains tend even more rustic: good sturdy autumnal fare with two pork dishes, a chicken, a fish, and a vegetarian dish. The latter, polenta with wild mushrooms and two sunny-side up eggs sounded (and looked) simple but delicious, but wasn't one of our waitress's top recommendations, so we opted instead for the daily catch (striped bass) and a special of olive oil-poached

squid and mussels with beans and carrots. The bass (skin-on) was pan-seared, nice and flakey with a perfectly crisped skin. Yummy melted cipolline onions, puree of celeriac and some chunks of that root roasted. There was supposed to be some fennel in there somewhere (the bulb? the seed?) but I failed to detect it anywhere. But, it was a nice dish. I've just been having such good luck with squid lately that I was excited for this dish, but it didn't live up to my expectations. The squid was a little fishy, the beans slightly undercooked and overwhelmingly salty to boot. The mussels were the only exception... plump and meaty little specimens much fresher than their tentacled brethren, which were initially almost a deterrent to ordering it (mussels aren't my absolute faves), but saved what there was of saving in an otherwise disappointing dish. A side of green beans (these were the only real vegetable side. A request for a portion of brussels sprouts that were on the menu accompanying the Hudson Valley pork was denied, stating that it wasn't even worth asking the chef... he would not do it. This is not Le Bernardin, my friends, and I was not asking for truffles. They are little cabbages. This did not seem to be an extraordinary demand. But apparently, it was.) were tasty, though, if a bit too oily, but bright green and kicked up with some sauteed onion and pungent anchovy. Nice beans, but they'll never make up for the loss of the sprouts.

Desserts are stronger. There was a lovely little coupe of pumpkin mousse capped with a caramelized tuile of pecan, a cheesecake, cookies, tarts and pies. We opted for the latter, a lattice-topped apple with vanilla ice cream and some

superfluous oat crumby-dusty stuff atop. A solid pie (an good crust, thick, but flaky and buttery and crunched with big crystals of sparkly coarse sugar) fulfills all pie expectations, proportionately more crust than filling, if you like it that way. It could have been warmed, howver, and in retrospect the mousse was probably more interesting. Rich, intense coffee arrives in heavy white porcelain mugs from Strongtree, Hudson Valley's small-batch roaster of organic, heirloom beans.

We snagged the last two top upon arrival; the restaurant was full and stayed so throughout the course of the evening. Full enough that when one of the other waiters tried to navigate an armful of coats to check in back that she gently brushed our waitress's head with the errant sleeve of a parka, drawing visible ire and a vigorous roll of the eyes from her. She was such a pretty thing; such a disposition did not become her. But that's kind of how I felt about the restaurant itself. Despite the 23 in Zagat and a nod in the back listings of Edible, I can't give the accolades I had hoped. I so much wanted to love it! But no matter my admiration of their aesthetic and responsible sourcing, if the foods not up to snuff I can't become a follower. Some of the energies of doing the right thing need to be diverted into the preparation. That's not to say that if I ever found myself in the far reaches of Alphabet City needing sustenance that I wouldn't give it another try (perhaps stick the the meatier options? Or balk our server's suggestion and go veggie?), but from that visit I couldn't justify the voyage.

Oh yeah. The chef is Nathan Foot. Next time I will be aware of THAT first, and the rest should follow.

Northern Spy Food Co.
511 East 12th Street (between Ave. A and Ave B)
tel. 212-228-5100

Kin Shop: Harold's 2.0

It seemed a fitting destination spot since our post-prandial plan was to go see The Social Network, and Chef Harold Dieterle is not my real life friend- but he is my Facebook friend. Kin Shop, his new Asian-hawker food style restaurant, is also conveniently located near enough the theatre we were attending, so we went for an early meal before the show (an easy enough walk-in at that early hour). The popularity of food celebrities right now made it that such an attempt a later hour might've been impossible, as the dining room filled up briskly after the approximate seven p.m. chime. I wish I could say that it was because of the food, but despite some stellar dishes, I experienced more kinks with the menu than hits. That said, I think this is a perfect example of why experienced, published (read: paid) food critics wouldn't proffer a review without at least two revisits, because it very well may have just been a circumstance of poor ordering that left me with my lackluster appraisal. But since I am not one of those, my appraisal is as follows. It's more difficult to critique a place when you are in fond admiration of its creator (see earlier review of Perilla), but also helps no one to gloss over the faults as I found them. Anyways, I think the hallmark of a good chef is to take the criticism as it is doled and at least consider it, even if it's not coming from a Bruni or Sietsema. Like I said, I can only judge with the tongue that came along with the head I was born with.

Kin Shop has only been open a month or so at best, so perhaps its still working out some of its kinks. The name means both "to eat" in Thai as well as a nod to it's kinship and proximity to Dieterle's first restaurant, Perilla. The room is a painted a watery cool, lovely, with paisley-esque murals in muted shades of teal and seafoam, heavy grey marble counters and white-washed exposed brick framing a brightly lit, steely open kitchen. The staff is gracious and welcoming, friendly if not overly helpful on some of the more technical issues. It was nice to see the chef himself attending to some of the diners (probably friends), and inspecting many of the dishes as they made their way out of the kitchen. However, it might have behooved him to have actually dirtied that stark white apron with a bit of hands-on, because despite the notable prettiness of presentation, much of what we tried had glaring flavor flaws that could've been easily amended had he been taking a greater part in their production rather than noticeably attentive to his Blackberry.
But let's not get off on the wrong foot, because some of what we had was remarkably good. The eponymous Kin & Tonic cocktail was a perfect riff on the classic, novel with the addition of cucumber, cilantro, and splash of St. Germaine, but not sweet as to render itself a combative pairing with food. Our first dish was by far the best, an order enthusiastically encouraged by the very personable bartender. Squid Ink and Hot Oil soup arrived fragrant and steaming with a glistening inkiness that would rival the first few weeks of the BP Oil spill. And its effects on your lips and tongue (while transient) are no less impressive. This might not be the best dish to order on a first date if your are a little self-conscious about your appearance, but as long as that's not an issue, but taste is exponentially more subtle than the appearance. The ocean-salty black-as-sin broth punched with garlic buoys generous rounds of tender squid stuffed with a brisket forcemeat. A fine mince of water chestnut sinks to the bottom but spoons up to catch crisp julienned green beans that both give a little crunch to the silky broth and morsels of seafood. The menu denotes spiciness with an asterisk for an offending dishes, but this one just kisses the brink of heat making you take enough time with each spoonful to appreciate the sexy farrago of
flavors. It also served as the saviour to a flop of an eggplant dish, which found tough chunks of mostly undercooked, totally underseasoned vegetable coated with tiny "rice pearls" which looked and tasted a lot like toasted millet, but unfortunately less nuttiness. A very nice looking dish (it reminded me of how tiny nonpareils give a shimmery delicateness to confections), but if you've ever tried raw eggplant out of curiosity, it's not something you'd look forward to repeating. That said, if you threw the whole lot into the squid soup… well, suffice it to say I kind of wish I'd've just done that.

The menu boasts quite a few curries and noodle dishes, but there was a seabass braise with matsutake mushrooms that sort of hollered out at me, so we opted for that as a main, as well as the Phuket grilled shrimp (priced per piece). There was no way of knowing that "wet curry" meant soup-style, and after the squid ink soup… well, that's a lot of liquid. The broth also robbed the fungi of all their personality, making them spongey little floaters swimming in a bland stock bobbled with some out-of-place chunks of juicy rambutan and a characterless hunk of fish that had a fairly nice flake going for it, but little else. Plus, I don't want to pay $26 for that much water. Perhaps all the salt, umami and funk got used up in the side dish of Asian greens, which were tasty enough as long as each bite included a hefty hunk of waterchestnut, but much too salty without. To me, though, saltiness is forgivable; I prefer the slight err to the saline side than pasty insipidness. Again, dump those greens in with the fish and the balance is achieved. This much reformatting, however, cannot be expected of the diner, nor such serendipitous order-pairing. Each dish passed underneath Dieterle's watchful eye, but you can't taste the flavors with your cornea. It's too early for him to get sloppy and expect to glide along on the wings of his notoriety. The prawn was a big meaty sucker, but somewhat overcooked to toughness, and again a little salty. The nutty sauce served in its own little white porcelain pitcher aside, redolent with floral peppercorns and a hint of fishy funk, with a nice squeeze of lime countered a little of that, but shouldn't have had to. Dessert list is a pretty minimal proposal, with only one real constructed dessert (a passion fruit steamed pudding) and a smattering of sorbets and ice creams with appropriate Asian flavor profiles (galangal, kaffir lime, Thai iced tea, etc.).

The possibility does remain, however, that we just ordered poorly. Some of the restaurant's flaws reminded me much of the old John Dory, soon (as early as tonight?) to reopen in its new location near its kin, The Breslin at The Ace Hotel. The former Dory suffered from an excess of flavor, saltiness and heft in too many of the dishes, making individual meals difficult to navigate. While certain plates provide a sort of gluttonous delight, their powerful flavors often fight with one another. It suffered its fateful demise, in my opinion, because of those faults, but as I hope its reincarnation proves, is not an unsalvageable concept- just one in need of some revamping to figure itself out. So it is with Kin Shop, which I hope will remedy its current missteps and emerge the stronger sibling as a result (and avoid painful relocation such like the Dory). Dietere's got it in him, he just has to make sure he's guiding the ship and not just going along for the ride.

kin shop
469 6th avenue
between 11th st & 12th st
1 212 675 4295

PEELS: It is Very Appealing

And then there are the times that you don't follow the chef, but things still turn out swimmingly. That's not to say that I ended up at Peels entirely by happenstance: the team is from Freemans,of which I am extremely fond, and the location is much more conveniently situated than it's brethren. In fact, the impossible-to-miss marquis lighting cries out in a a flashy, carnival-bright kind of way- you can almost imagine it starting to blink like a pinball machine on tilt- while the restaurant itself is rustic and understated. Welcomely, though, the signage is a beacon to the delights within.
We arrived early under hurricane-threatening skies, uncertain whether Peels followed Freemans discouragement of reservations. But the place was relatively empty (unsurprisingly for the hour and clime) so we were seated immediately upon slightly too high bar stools at a long wooden communal table, with convenient purse hooks on the opposing wall (love those hooks, even more so when they are underneath the table). The floors are dark, the woodwork white-washed, a long bar spanning the length of the room, and for the first time in ages, the rare, concealed kitchen. The magic was happening, this time, behind a pair of jaunty swinging doors.
And speaking of jaunty, the waiters sport an eclectic mix of stripey shirts and flower-print vests... and apparently pretty much whatever else they want. The bartender had her hair in a funny droopy loop on one side, and it's this kind of whimsical nonchalance that kind of sets the stage for the menu. At a glance, nothing particularly earthshaking. The descriptions are, in fact, fairly minimal. Had the food arrived with such a lack of pomp, we were in for some severe disappointment. In fact, I was here with my sister from San Fransisco, and I intentionally chose somewhere I thought would be nice and buzzy. Since the crowd was thinner than Donald Trump's combover, I was a little tense. But as soon as the poblano corn soup showed up in its cute little squat tureen, the perfume alone alleviated all my concerns. The broth was thinner than I'd expected, but the flavor so rife with corn and riddled with little pungent, pickley things that it more than compensated. And that was even before the powerful kick of the poblano made its delayed introduction... a glorious, smoky afterburn with some serious turbocharge.

Making our way through the menu was a little sticky, though. Peels has only been open for a month and a half, and our waiter pronounced himself a newcomer on the already new scene, although was oddly training another waiter who followed him adhesively throughout the entire evening. To his credit, he never answered a question he didn't know. To his fault, he didn't know a lot. This resulted in myriad trips back to the kitchen to ask what the chef's name was (Preston Madson)/what his market vegetables were/what the fruit was in the crisp/etc. But he was genuine, and helpful, and just-the-right-friendly so as to make up for the lack of polish (hopefully his trainee won't think that's standard run-of-show). Plus, he looked cute in his funny yellow rose vest.

The standout dish of the evening (of the year?? I'm
NOT kidding!) was another app.: Montauk squid a la plancha with padron peppers, lime and cilantro. Again, not so much to go on, and I guess I was expecting a simple grilled squid with a bit of peppery salad. But this squid, this squid was so expertly grilled and then formed into a sculpture so beautiful you might wonder if Madson apprenticed under Chilhuly. The tentacles were perfectly tender and meaty on a bed of gently peppery roasted padrons, who's sumptuous juice pooled below into a zesty, umami-rich sauce, sparked with lime and cilantro. With this, Peels established itself as not only cool-because-it's-Freemans' cousin-cool, but just downright awesome.

Prices are mid-range, but portions aren't skimpy, and the flavors robust. The fresh fried chicken is a rather enormous portion of poultry (the menu states "birds", but I'm pretty sure that there is only a substantial piece of one on a single plate at any given time), with a full ear of roasted corn and chunks of juicy watermelon. This is one of those last-hurrahs of summer kind of dishes, and on a stormy night of a calendar tumbling into fall, it probably won't be around much longer. Maine Diver scallops, however, given their flexible
garniture of market vegetables (which after consulting the chef, turned out to be a warmed melange of barely cooked fennel, carrots and radishes) should stick around, and the highlight is definitely in the seafood here as opposed to the salad beneath. A nice, bright little farrago of fresh veggies, but nothing to write home about. The scallops, though, were seared golden, napped with a tangy-rich confit of yellow tomato jam, and six big ones in number, which could be worth a note to Mom. Or at least enough to share one whole one with your sister across the table.

I like how this place seems to celebrate Americana without kitsch or gimmicks. America's kind of struggling right now, right? So it's a good reminder that there's still a lot to be proud of here, be it patchwork quilted cotton vests or the abundance of sweet corn, okra, local seafood and charcuterie, grassfed-beef and cave-aged cheddar. But the Eton fool was enough to pull
me out a Norman Rockwell calendar, a marvelous rendition of the English pudding of scrumptious summer berries (black and blue- too bad it wasn't called a Bruised Fool), crushed meringues, plush yogurt mousse and lemon verbena ice cream. After all, if we were going to channel in the British for the final note, we might as well grasp at the last vestige of the summer's harvest as well. This was a fantastic decision (although the warm fruit crisp sounded tempting as well).

The name of the restaurant provides the only remaining uncertainty. Even the waiter (add this to the list) didn't know, but on this one he couldn't find out, either. I like to think it's like the "nose to tail" of market produce, like "core to peel". Or peeled down to the essence, all riff-raff filtered out and only the good stuff left. The other option might be that is like a peeled off cohort of Freemans. At any rate, I'm not much for repeat performances in regards to restaurant visitation, but I can definitely see myself back here, all things considered.

So I guess I am following the chef here too, after all.

325 Bowery (Corner of 2nd St.)
New York City, NY 10003
646-602-7015