DIVERSION PDX: Taste of Sichuan

I'd say the best Chinese restaurants probably look the most suspect, and Taste of Sichuan is no different.  Sure, there are some really high end ones that play grown-up and glamorous, but usually their food is worse than the divey little Cantonese down the block.  This little gem in Beaverton is housed in a defunct Marie Callender's, but despite the new signage, looks pretty much the same as its predecessor.   Except that everyone dining inside is Chinese.

Well, at least 90%.  Which is a good... no, a GREAT sign.  The natives know what they are talking about, and Taste of Sichuan serves up some of the best Chinese food I've ever had.  Better than Joe's Shanghai here in New York, better than our Grand Sichuan on 9th Ave.   Convincing Dad to get take-out from somewhere other than the abominable nearer-by China Rim was a labor, though.  But as it turns out, a labor of love (and gluttony).

They were busy, this New Year's eve night.  The phone rang and rang with only a busy signal in response, until finally a chipper voice interceded to tell us that orders would take up to 45 minutes (as opposed to what usually takes 15-20 in these parts).  That was okay (Sorry, Dad): I would've waited two hours not to have to eat from China Rim or Chiam again.

We drove the short stint to fetch our vittles, which disappointingly came in black plastic take-out containers, and not those quaint little white boxes.  The aromas that hurtled through the doors opened into the cold air more than mollified that upset, though.  And our order was ready as they said it would be, neatly stacked box upon box and tightly secured in a plastic bag, just like a good batch of finished laundry.

That bag didn't contain extra soy (you won't need it), no cloying duck sauce (which you always threw out, anyways), but it also was bereft of fortune cookies.  This, however, must have been an oversight, because I saw the cartons of cookies being loaded behind the counter, so they must have just been in the middle of restocking.  (I know fortune cookies aren't authentic Chinese, but they're SO good...)  Anyways, our order was abundant without them.  Taste of Sichuan offers a Wild Side menu which we didn't explore (I was dining with less ambitious companions), but a return visit might include live ("until you order") stir-fried crab with green onion and garlic, dry cooked frog or Chong Qing hot chicken... for certain the signature Swimming Fire Fish.  It probably will NOT, however, include The Other Parts of the Pig, or Fish Morsels and Intestines Fire Pot (http://tasteofsichuan.com/pdf/Wildside-Menu-4-2012.pdf)   Although if its offered here, I bet it's as good as can be.

We tried four dishes, as well as a side of perfectly sticky, fragrant steamed rice for just a buck.  The least wonderful was chopped pepper chicken, but it certainly was what it said it was, that little spice-indicating chile pepper next to it as well.  The chicken was almost a large grind, making a loose hash of spicy poultry, fiery dried red chiles, some celery and onion, and chopped green beans.  It would've worked well to lump with wads of sticky rice rolled up in iceberg lettuce, but we made do with rice alone to tamp its fiery heat.
Three Flavor of Chow Mein is apparently my dad's go-to dish, but I subersively selected the hand shaven noodles over the more pedestrian egg noodles, and there was a palpable tension when he
looked at the dish, poking a chopstick through to find noodles, which masqueraded among the chicken, shrimp and beef, making the mung bean sprouts looking like the only noodly thing.   I only scarcely avoided a panic attack when he took at bite... because this rendition of his favorite dish was so supremely superior that the shape and size of the noodles be damned.  They were, however, works of art: traditionally carved dan-dan noodles, thick and chewy and coated in a saline, umami-rich glaze with  spikes of spring onion.   If this was my introduction to Three Flavor Chow Mein, I'd order it every time, too.



The best dish that night, however, was Three Kinds of Mushroom w/ Chinese Broccoli.  The broccoli was fresh, crisp and verdant, smothered in a rich, dark gravy with shiitakes, button and oyster mushrooms, sliced into half-moons.  I hoarded this dish, unabashedly.  I mean, think of all the times I suffered through China Rim.  Hunan Prawns in a Black Bean Sauce didn't sport a red chile indicator, but they had a bit of kick.  The big prawns were cooked just right, and tasted extremely fresh, jumbled with chunks of red and

 green pepper and wedges of onion in a peppery black bean sauce.   And while we didn't need an extra vegetable, Mom's favorite dish is Dry Cooked String Beans ( it had a thumbs-up "most popular" indicator, AND it was New Year's eve, so splurging was almost in order).  Unfortunately, they weren't quite spectacular, although the beans were fresh and cooked to tender toothsomeness  , with a tinge of char and a salty slick of soy... something just didn't amalgamate entirely.  That is, not until the next day, when a few plucked cold from the leftovers completely overturned that assessment.  Maybe they just needed a little time to.... acclimate.  Dry Cooked String Beans Next Day-Style were outstanding.  And that's half of take-out Chinese food, anyways, right?

Taste Of Sichuan
16261 NW Cornell Rd
Beaverton, OR 97006
Phone: (503)-629-7001
Fax: (503)-629-7033

KEN & COOK

I didn't have grand expectations coming to Ken & Cook, a yearling contemporary American in Nolita.  I just wanted something fun, yummy and energetic, and given the nabe and recent press, Ken & Cook seemed to fit the bill.  So I was pretty surprised to show up to a virtually vacant space at 8pm on a Friday night, despite the chill that was blustering about outside (practically balmy compared to New York winters of yore) and post-holidays lull.  But there we were, welcomed by a charmingly French hostess and flickery candles warming the whitewashed exposed brick and simple decor.

Ken & Cook is a hospitable little enclave on an otherwise gritty stretch of Kenmare which has recently been shirking off its notorious history and now houses a handful of boutiques and galleries and, with fits and starts, restaurants.   None seem to thrive so much as this neighborhood gets its footing, but Ken & Cook, from what I've seen, is a strong a contender as any for longevity.  Chefs Artan Gonje and Richard Diamante (Jean Georges alumni) collaborate on spiffed up American classics, and mostly to good end.    But though we were practically alone in the restaurant when seated, service was notably lackadaisical, which only worsened as the tables filled.

The cocktail menu seemed important- the bar stash is impressively illuminated and forms the entire north wall of the dining room- so we ordered one.  Our choice from a long list of snarkily named tipples took longer than it should have, and then I kind of wish it would have never come.  My fault for not heeding the warnings from our server... the sambuca-spiked gin drink was harsh and unbalanced, hinting of a thin Robitussin at best.  But we got the worst out of the way in the beginning, because from then on, things brightened substantially.  The wine list is a bit on the pricey side, but there are reasonable by-the-glass options, and ours were generously filled.

To start, a platter of flavorful ruby and golden beets huddled amongst sastrugi of unctuous whipped ricotta flecked with tiny leaves of thyme and nubby pistachios.  The cheese may have been slathered on with a heavy hand, but it was thick
and smooth and hard to resist.  The ubiquitous kale salad was a nice rendition, roughly torn leaves fraternizing with shaved parmesan, a fruity edge offered by shiny, plump pomegranate seeds and juicy blood orange.  Toasted pinenuts added crunch.

After a more extended lag (a table adjacent who had been seated much after us received their entrees before our appetizers had even been cleared) we received our second course.  Of mains, there were four pastas spanning the twenty dollar range: fois and porcini pappardelle topping out at $29 and a simple clam linguine at $22.  But speaking of prices, an $11 difference between the black bass and the monkfish seemed unjustified (luckily I wanted the monkfish, anyways).  It arrived as moist a piece as ever, languishing in a bell pepper-heavy romesco, and stacked atop fragrant fennel, thickly sliced and grilled tender.  The ample romesco served double-duty as a laudable dipping sauce for the fried chicken, too.
 Served up with an admirable drop biscuit topped with sweet butter, these hulking cuts of juicy poultry tasted gently lemony underneath a salty, crusty coat.  The biscuit was crisp of edge and tender of crumb- a thing of greatness.  It was just soft enough to absorb the honey-drizzled pat of butter and firm enough not to crumble from your fingers.  Avoid polluting it or the chicken with the cloying honey-mustard sauce accompanying in a little silver tub; you're better off meting bits of the tangy-crisp rounds of deep-fried lemon that crowned the pile of legs, thighs and breast... or a swath of that romesco swiped from the monkfish.



A side of toasty Brussels sprouts bridged the vegetable chasm, and were roasted to a distinct nuttiness with a flutter of shredded Parmesan atop.  This is the kind of place not too fancy to offer you mac & cheese (sic), but maybe it should be: Ken & Cook's

was comprised of a woefully overcooked orecchiette ( not macaroni) so much that the little ears collapsed in on themselves in their wan, oily sauce... so unnaturally slick it conjured up images of Velveeta, if it had a "white cheddar" version .

By the time our plates were cleared we really hadn't time for dessert- one of our party had a more pressing engagement following dinner- but we ordered it before realizing the inordinate amount of time that had elapsed for a fairly simple meal.  Service here is uncomfortably sluggish.  But eating it, even at a harried rate, minimized the fret.  We decided on a pear/oat/crumbly deal over a more predictable sounding apple pie, something chocolate, and a cinnamon bread pudding (relying on memory, here, 'cause their dessert menu isn't listed online).  The warm fruit was cut into thin, slippery slices, gently cooked to retain its texture and a smidgen of tartness as it wallowed in syrupy juices amongst crags of oaten granola, enriched with a scoop of vanilla that quickly melted into the composite.

Having entered with only moderate expectations, I emerged pretty pleased with Ken & Cook.  I couldn't help noticing quite a bit of online-bellyaching regarding brunch, so I'd recommend relegating your visit to the evening hours.  Plus, it's in an area of town on the edge of the nightlife scene of the boisterous East Village- much more so than a convenient roll-out-of-bed brunch staple.  But Ken & Cook shows they cook, and that they just might be the restaurant that will ground stone an otherwise under-capitalized block.

19 KENMARE ST. DOWNTOWN, NY 10012
212.966.3058

DIVERSION PDX: The Woodsman Tavern

To me, The Woodsman Tavern IS Portland.  The city's alternate moniker (Stumptown) perpetuates the sylvan theme that inspires the restaurant.  The Woodsman's founder is Duane Sorenson, the admirable kingpin of Stumptown Coffee, so we know it's coming from respectable roots.  The chef Jason Barwikowski, on the other hand, has perhaps a slightly more controversial reputation, but I'll leave that for bickering amongst his peers.

The entrance abuts the end of a formidable bar, displaying an array of oysters and lemons wedged into a sparkly bed of ice, and a huge bouquet of sprawling branches cast spindly shadows from their perch.  One of the lovely hostesses welcomes potential diners, either arriving with much sought-after reservations or else in hopes of procuring one of the remaining tables, half of which are reserved for just those individuals.  The flanneled, tatooed and mustachioed (gender-specific) staff is smiling as they bustle about the u-shaped space- they move briskly to keep up with the boisterous pace of the busy restaurant- but they look happy to be there... much as if they were welcoming you into their own homes.  If lumberjacks host fancy dinner parties, that is.


 And I did feel right at home here.  Except for the rickety, wobbly spinning chairs that rival a Coney Island roller-coaster in terms of stability.  Mine refused to stay centered toward the table and kept rotating my legs away from my plate, clunking awkwardly every time I shifted my weight.  The waitress said this was to keep patrons from getting too drunk and falling out of their seats, but I felt like it might be a ruse to get me to fall out of mine stone-cold sober.  At any rate, it was a mild distraction from the excellence which was beginning to arrive on our plates, and for food this good, I'll tolerate an unwieldy chaise.

I began with a Brussels sprout salad (of course I did) leafed-out, raw and roasted, and shuffled with big green Castelvetrano olives and bracing morsels of white anchovy.  Not an olive lover myself, these were mild and forgiving, while the pungent anchovies might have been a tad overpopulated, especially since they were only recognized as part of the vinaigrette on the menu, which also touted the presence of sunchokes I never detected.  But it's easy to enjoy the melange as a lump sum, even if a few tidbits of one element or

another get left behind.  Another salad was a unique conglomeration of raw cauliflorets and husky smoked barley, roasted walnuts and ruby gems of pomegranate, and lots and lots of parsley.  Parsley is not relegated to garnish here, instead shining as a worthy green in and of itself.  I predict the elevation of parsley (and perhaps other herbs?) beyond a meager sprig will be a trend in the coming year.

The Woodsman's signature dish- a trout in crazy water- seemed to grace every table at least once, and thus ours, as well.  An untraditional acqua pazza sang boldly of tarragon, anointing the moist flakes of fish with its herbal flavor, joined with robust halves of sundried tomato and more flounces of parsley.  The sizable catch with its crispy, tasty edges might be almost big enough for two, but similarly hard to share.  Be sure to request bread to put to use on the extra juices: a precious hunk of Little T's baguette makes for a fine sponge.   Another fish entree was a seared hunk of ling cod, meaty but tender, crisped to a crust of bronze and

 studded with caperberries.  To live up the rusticity of a tavern, the cod sits atop hefty planks of grilled king oyster mushroom nestled in a bed of smoky lentils in a rich yellow curry.   Made me ponder the unfortunate conflict of pairing bacon with traditional curries and why "nouvelle" Indian hasn't yet embraced smoking their dal (Floyd Cardoz, are you listening?)  Anyways, it was magnificent: a pescatarian option to satisfy a carnivore.  Not that carnivorous options are lacking: a mixed grill of lamb, a stewy beef brisket with squash and grits in gravy, and a notable chicken cassoulet round out the meatier
 options.  In fact, the only scarcity here here might be vegetables (we ordered everything they had on offer), but then again, a December's visit finds the farmer market in shorter supply... and this place is boldly local and seasonal.   We went for their sole green side plate besides salad greens: a roast of mapley glazed carrots and Brussels sprouts that might've waxed a tad too sweet paired with our entrees, but were nonetheless delicious for it themselves.

Not to miss out on the wonders of dessert, we had a tough time choosing between a spiced pumpkin bread pudding, the waitress's recommendation of the ginger cake, and our final selection, a homey, butter-crusted pear pie-lette topped with a creamy white chocolate gelato that was a decadent step up from traditional vanilla.  Plus, we needed a sweet to accompany our Chemex-brewed Stumptown, artistically prepared tableside in its wooden corsetted carafe.

In the end, I never did fall off my stool, despite its constant attempts to throw me.  But The Woodsman Tavern exudes a festive warmth that more than atones for its precarious seating.

 You can find us at 4537 Southeast Division Street, Portland Ore. We are open from 5 to 10 PM every night for dinner and Saturdays and Sundays from 9 to 2 for brunch. Call us at 971-373-8264.

ZERO OTTO NOVE

We were duped.  We were influenced by a Zagat 24 hanging in the window.  Yelpers waxed poetic, stars were abundantly awarded with wild abandon via a perfunctory smartphone Google search in the blustery cold of a late hungry evening.  The place was sparsely attended, but it was... well, there we were.  So we ventured inside.

It is an ugly, ugly room that looks like they ran out of money halfway through the buildout.  Poorly applied Venetian plaster and Ikea-esque lamps adorn the spottily lit room, spacious as it is.  Roberto Paciullo is the chef in this second location of his, the first being the acclaimed Roberto's in the Bronx.  Unfortunately, if the original Roberto's is as good as "they" say it is, all he's brought with him from the Bronx is the area code, because Zero Otto Nove is pretty dismal on all fronts.




Except if you're just getting pizza, which seemed to be what pretty much everyone else was doing.  There were couples whisking in and out with their square cardboard boxes, and tables of families enjoying multiple pies.  We ordered a simple margarita, wads of fresh mozzarella melted into bubbly white islands in a robust, tangy sauce garnished with whole basil leaves.  Its crust was a thing of beauty, dotted with smokey blisters of char and a pleasant, pliant chew.  Boasting its own yeasty flavor, it carried beautifully its simple toppings.  A restaurant so sprawling as is Zero Otto Nove would be real estate wasted acting simply as a pizza place, but that's the only dish we tried that really justified its existence.

The leather bound menu reads like any typical Amer-Italian place- insalate, zuppe  and salumi.  We skipped those in favor of an artichoke antipasto, the vegetable quartered and braised and served atop extremely salty, oily hunks of toasted bread and scattered with flavorless, rubbery shreds of a cheese claiming to be taleggio.  But the 'chokes themselves were a little bland without that gluttonous partner.




We  also tried out a seasonal pasta: a rigatoni with butternut squash, peas and porcini.  The pasta tubes were well cooked, but the squash wasn't present in chunks, only cooked down and incorporated into a gummy sauce, sticky with a scant number of steamed (read: not that flavorful) porcinis and peas.  The "maybe we should've ordered"s were bursting forth as vehemently as the flavors were not.  

Forging ahead, an entree of baccala al forno came with a forewarning of saltiness... which retrospectively was hardly the problem.  The fish, in certain bites, was tough and fishy, the sauce a generic tomatoey sludge studded with capers.  Big wedges of potato elbowed their way in here, a bit floury and not really helping out the situation much. The humongous casserole could have easily served three people, though.  Speaking of capers, a side dish described
 as escarole saltato with capers was more like capers saltato with escarole, the vegetable and the briny little orbs almost in equal proportion, and making for strange mouthfuls.  As well, the leaves were not quite cooked down enough to tenderize them, so they fought the assertive seasoning with an awkward freshness, crying for a more delicate treatment.

We were happy enough with dessert, however, although I wouldn't make it a destination for sweets.  The list featured pretty typical Italian-ite dolci: tiramisu, gelati  and sorbetti, biscotti and the like.  We tried the most inventive sounding one: a (totally unseasonal- but then, none of the menu is) strawberry and hazelnut bombe, dusted generously with powdered sugar.  A tasty little finale to an otherwise desultory meal.  Which is why, my friends, you take your advice from trusted sources.... chefs, journalists... ME.  Not Yelp.

15 West 21st Street

p. 212-242-0899

Da MARCELLA

This is the most unassuming, welcoming little Italian in a burgeoning stretch of west Houston street.  Quite a few reputable little establishments have popped up in this neighborhood of late, and Da Marcella might just be that strap that strengthens the camel's saddle .  Named after two signore named Marcella, native Italian donne born in the 1920's, our chef here is not actually Italian.  But I suppose somewhat like renowned Wisconsonite Michael White, he cooks better than a lot of the true Italians who stir pots around town.  Not that Francesco Mueses' cuisine is similar to White's, who is more well know for his fancified upscale spots Marea and Ai Fiori.  But in terms of flavor and soul, Mueses has embraced the cuisine of the boot just as passionately.

Open since June, it has already fostered a loyalty amongst locals.  Many customers arrive recognized by staff, ushered to tables with a convivial chat.  The room itself isn't particularly attractive, but warm hues and low ceilings contribute a cozy feel, and a flat screen suspended behind the bar spools classic Italian films.  The menu might at first appear off-putting: a calligraphied script of predictable-sounding red-sauce joint offerings, but any single plate on offer will swiftly put that misconception down.  In fact, just reading the philosophy of the restaurant on its website might inspire a wholly different conceptualization.  Lucky for us, it is that sentiment that is manifest in the cooking from Da Marcella.

Taverna Cucina Buona is how Da Marcella describes itself, and it is wonderfully accurate.  The food here has soul.  It is simple, rustic and elemental; it pleases like a warm embrace from a good friend.  Even a simple carpaccio of roasted beets with arugula and feta tasted thoughtfully prepared.  Crumbly, briny feta contrasted with the oven-roasted sweetness of the Thinly sliced golden and ruby discs are roasted to give the periphery a bit of chew, the middles sweetly tender.  They are fanned out and scattered with a salty crumble of cheese, plated amongst a scattering of fresh arugula.  We're not

 reinventing the wheel, here, but it turns smoothly, deftly. My favorite dish might have been the grilled squid (a special that night-I hope it is there when you go).  Sturdy tentacles of seppia are assertively grilled, such that the tapering tendrils achieve delightfully crispy tips, the meaty arms tender and succulent.  A dice of tomato mingles with chewy black olives and bitter greens, a warm,  garlicky oil anointing the squid, which may very well be the best execution of this dish I have been lucky enough to try.  I honestly want it again just one day later.

We tried two classic appetizers: funghi ripieni and vongole oreganata.  Bread crumb stuffings aren't normally my thing, and in both cases could've gone a little lighter in proportion to their main components.  The mushrooms were plump and earthy under a crust
 of buttery crumbs, although a bit too oily and the doughy breading somewhat masked the three cheeses and prosciutto that should have stood out more pronouncedly in flavor.  The clams were better- wonderful, in fact: hot little pearls of shellfish the shot forth a warm and saline juice when you bit through their crumby crusts.

Primi are unimaginably well priced, with most only $9 (I'm not kidding.  NINE.)  for a bountiful, robust plate of exquisite housemade pasta, hand-cut or on artisanal bronze dies.  Da Marcella's cuisine is focused in central Italy, which displays a harmonious balance between Emiglia-Romagnan richness and Tuscan simplicity.  We tried an hearty pappardelle al cinghiale that slipped the big flat pepper-flecked ribbons with a steamy ragu of minced wild boar in a rustic, meaty, tomatoey braise.  From this day on, as the temperatures wane, this might have been the most perfect,
 hearty and nourishing winter dish... were it not for the Costa di Manzo Brasato al Barolo.  A Flintstonian hunk of fall-apart short ribs was sidled up by a creamy lashing of mild yellow polenta, wallowing in a rich pool of savory, wine-enriched pan gravy.  No knife required: it actually fell off the bone from its own heft with the gentle nudge of a fork.   The steam arising from it alone is enough to make your knees weak.  Fortunately, it will reanimate you immediately after a few forkfuls.... this is why restaurants are called restaurants:  like the menu says, it is food to restore you.

To finish, the menu of dolci is classic array:  panna cotta, gelati e sorbetti, affogato, and our choice, a quintessential tiramisu.  Light as marshmallows, dusted with cocoa and luxuriously creamy rather than boozy, it is a superlative rendition.  It is hard to fathom that all these merivigli come from a chef who is not even Italian, although  the team boasts pedigreed backgrounds from Felidia and Bar Pitti.   And at such 20th centure prices: they could be charging two, three times as much as they do for this quality, were the service and decor spiffed up to formal dining.  But Da Marcella does not want to be a jacketed affair; there are no tablecloths or seafood forks.  Their homepage intimates a desire to feed their neighbors, wholesomely and familialy.  "Are we dreamers?" they ask.  Perhaps they are.... but I, for one, will dream of them.

142 West Houston Street  NYC, NY  10012

646.559.9192

EMPELLON COCINA

It'd been awhile since I visited a restaurant for the first time and designated it one I'd unequivocably go back to.   Empellon Cocina is TOTALLY go-backable.

  Alex Stupak opened Cocina not long after his success with Tacqueria, but Cocina is a little more stylish... more entree-driven and perhaps slightly more whimsical, although I love Tacqueria too.  Stupak has a grand and unique style, exhibited in his food and the restaurant itself.  The room, sparsely lit with flickery candles and illuminated painting of a beautifully painted Dia de los Muertos-painted woman, exudes an electric, haunting energy, like there is surprise lurking around the candlelit corners.  And, as luck has it, there is.

There are many dishes I would come back for that I didn't sample this first time around:  I so intended to order the squid with black mole and sour orange mayonnaise that by the time it came to order,  I too familiarly overlooked it, like a misplaced object you look at so many times that when you actually need it, you forget that it's there.   I regret forgetting to get it.  I wasn't left with too much wanting after tasting the roasted carrots we got instead, though.   A smokey mole poblano countered their sweetness acquired by a long repose in a hot oven; yogurt and watercress jumped in with a bright tang.  They were pretty, too, studded with a seedy coat and nestling low in a
deep white bowl smeared eerily with a ruddy smudge.  So presentation plays a huge part here, like the big flat banana leaf splayed beneath gently steamed chanterelles dispersed atop a rectangular pabulum of mild, smooth masa polenta, then enlivened with a chipotle-Surryano ham salsa to bring things back up to speed.  Do not bypass the guacamole as your standard appetite-busting chip condiment.  Stupak's guacamole (we tried the pistachio version with masa crisps) is bright and unctuous, flecked with jalapenos and nuts, it almost seems whipped rather than mashed, its texture so silky and fluffy.   And the masa crisps themselves, nutty and hearty, but light, are tremendous on their own.   The salsas (all made in-house) are a rainbow of hues and run the gamut of Scovilles: they range from fruity-juicy to incendiary.  In fact, the hottest one (the Habanera) hits the
 palate with citrus and herbs... and it is only in its after-burn that your taste buds will begin to spasm in protest.  The salsa verde might have been my favorite, though, and also leaves your palate capable of sensing the rest of your meal.  The Tomatillo-Chipotle is a winner, too, smoky and robust, and the smoked cashew has a rich, creamy intrigue.  Order all seven of the jewel-toned lovelies and they might start the party themselves, especially if you're in a decent sized group.  Otherwise, they're fun to play with adding dollops to different dishes, although the well-seasoned concoctions hardly need your amateur adultery.  Go with the
melted Tetilla with shrimp and tomate frito and you might appreciate a couple spoonfuls of salsa the cut the gluttonously rich, stringy cheese.  Served in a searing hot cast iron pan with stacked tortillas, this appetizer is so hearty that unless your either don't plan on finishing it, or are sharing it amongst four or more, it will seriously cut into your main course appetite.  It's like a chewy, scoopable Mexican fondue.  It's delicious.  It is not on Jenny Craig.

Luckily, we showed some restraint leaving a generous amount of the tetilla unconsumed, because entrees demand your full attention (and un-full stomachs).  A thick Wagyu flat iron wallowed in its juices next to a pile of sunny yellow corn, more chewy than creamed, under a flurry of crumbly Mexican cheese.  Crisp, tender tamal fries  are another good receptacle for the salsas, and to soak up more of the
meaty drippings.  A slim filet of black bass lay moist and succulent under its crisped skin, augmented by tiny, crunchy chilaquiles mingled with black beans (which were slightly underdone- kind of
an undesirable kind of crunchy) and richly roasted crowns of
 romanesco.  Leaves of cilantro and rings of chiles compound the Latin flavors, and are probably the verdes component, which are traditionally part of the salsa of the chilaquiles.  But there was no loss in the minor separation.

Stupak's wife, Lauren Resler, stuck with her pastry background (Alex began with pastry at such esteemed kitchen as Alinea and WD-50 ) is in charge of sweets at Empellon.  Trying to decide between the myriad appealing options, we took both our waiter's and chef Stupak's recommendations for the
 pumpkin seed cake.    I suppose I was expecting a more pumpkiny, cakey treat, rather that the layers of pastry and a pumpkin seed-type of marzipan that arrived.  A brown butter sauce glazed the plate along with a drove of juicy triangles of pineapple and lilliputian dollops of whipped cream.   Resler's desserts have a haphazard excess to them, the plates frenetic with drops and drizzles, small mountains of cream and pools of sauce, but it doesn't diminish their tastiness.   I couldn't quite make sense of all of the elements put together, but there were delicious components.  And the desserts definitely perpetuate the creative whimsy that Alex executes on the savory side.

I don't know of another Mexican in the city that channels the authenticity of the original cuisine with such fireworks as there are at Empellon Cocina.  It's not surprising that the tables are full at prime time,  prior and aft, and that the chefs come here after-hours and bee-line there from out of town.  Empellon seeks to discover, interpret and share a love for Mexican cuisine.   Having discovered Cocina, I've interpreted Stupak's cuisine... and I share the love.

105 1ST AVENUE, NEW YORK NY 10003

212.780.0999