Category: Reviews

I found Stockholm's best ice cream at Stockholms Glasshus. 

The end.

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So maybe you're thinking, wait, how can you have already found the best ice cream if you've only been to two places? Here's why:



On top is fläder, or elderflower, sorbet.  Not too sweet, fine fine ice crystals, a touch of perfume, a kiss of citrus.  I love all things fläder, and I love the word fläder.  Ask a Swedish person to say this to you and just TRY to not crush out on Swedish. 

Under Neat that is Teheran gelato.  That's right, it's called Teheran, as in Tehran, Iran. 



And it's made of vanilla, pistachio, squiggly threads of saffron and rosewater. I detected a hint of orange as well. It's eggy and smooth, like a shorn mink for your tongue. Surely this is what the most devout teetotaler Muslim virgins get served in heaven.

Jealous much?  Hate me now!  

In the interest of journalistic integrity, I may try more ice cream places.  But I will probably resent them for taking up space in my arteries that could otherwise be occupied by Stockholms Glasshus glass.  But the reportage will continue -- you know it's true, everything I do, I do it for you.    

I've decided to make it my mission to find Stockholm's best glass, aka ice cream.  Copenhagen's Paradis set the bar pretty high.  Oh, sure, there are articles I could put through Google translate, but I don't know which critics to trust.  Besides, it'll give me something to do with all my free time.

Anyway, we start today with Glass on Dalagatan near Kungstengatan in Vasastan.  There are about 25 flavors, advertised as "importerad från Venedig" (imported from Venice).  This boggles my mind.  I don't want to know that my ice cream sat on an airplane for several hours and had to pass customs before it got to Stockholm.*

I got two scoops on recommendation from the cashier -- croccantino and hazelnut. 

Croccantino was a kola (caramel) variant, and it was awful -- like a gritty cross between those penny candy butterscotch discs and hard water ring around the bathtub.  My burps taste of cheap vanilla Glade.  Hazelnut was alright, but I kind of hate hazelnut flavored things and I don't know why I agreed to get it. 

I like my ice cream either eggier or ice milkier, and this was in that boring in-between place, with a couple too many ice crystals for that classic velvet gelato mouthfeel. 

The verdict: Fine to scratch a glass itch, and there are probably better flavors, but I think I'll save my calories for somewhere else. 

*This baffles me almost as much as this sign advertising "Bagels direct from London" does.
 


The locavore movement has not hit Stockholm yet.  In fact, there are no farmer's markets.  No farmer's markets!  I don't know where to get real deal produce.  People keep telling me about the wonder of the new potatoes, and the local strawberries, but where are the farmers?  I can't very well trust Daglivs and ICA to provide access to the most loving farm fresh food.  Stockholm, have faith in your own abilities to grow and make food!  Go local!

UPDATE: Commenter Anne says there is a farmer's market!  If my translation is correct, it's only open 3 Saturdays in May and 2 Saturdays in June until August.  But I'll only be in town for two of those days.  And then my job here ends on August 14.  Blerg!

This is what I will dream of after I leave Stockholm, I'm sure of it.  Meet the enormous kardemummabulle (cardamom bun) from Cafe Saturnus, a swirl of spice and pillowy dough in the shape of a double-D knocker.  I'm not just being crass -- it is the most breast-like thing I've ever eaten.  Not like taut porno boobage, more like soft mamma bosom.  Once you get past the crisp, golden exterior, sprinkled liberally with white rock sugar, there's this downy yeast dough center. I want to bury my face in it. 



The cardamom is coarsely crushed, so when you crunch on a bit of the swirl, the spices release their mildly anesthetic oils on the tongue.  It is a thing of beauty.  I have to thank my Swedish friend Lina for introducing us.

Also, I personally LOVE all things cardamom, but if it's not your thing, their kanelbullar (cinnamon buns) are made of the same manna dough and seem to have won all kinds of local awards.   



I was sitting there admiring the pretty details -- bright mosaic-tiled floors, classic typeface, warm lighting, French signage with handwritten blackboards.  It was all Parisian-ish, but with a brighter, sunnier vibe.  Then I recognized some Balthazar paraphernalia on the shelves -- a box here, a postcard there.  I asked one of the adorable aproned men behind the counter if there was some relationship to Balthazar. 

He smiled and said, "Funny you should ask that.  The owner went there about ten years ago and was really inspired by Balthazar.  Then he opened this place."  (The napkins say "Depuis 1960", though, so perhaps he just renovated at that time?)

How meta -- a Stockholm boulangerie/patisserie inspired by a New York brasserie/boulangerie inspired by French boulangeries/brasseries.  Also, if that ain't a reciprocal wink from my valentine, I don't know what is.

Cafe Saturnus
Eriksbergsgatan 6
Stockholm

 

If you find yourself spending a Saturday checking out the Dia:Beacon and wondering what your life would be like if you became an ex-urbanite, you must head over to Homespun Foods on Beacon's brief Main Street.

Homespun's menu reminds me of Berkeley cafés, where butter, whole grains, vegans and charcuterie lovers can coexist harmoniously. The pastry case alone warrants a visit. City ex-pat Jessica Reisman and her crew craft the breads and delicate pastries for sale behind the counter, and everything I've had is amazing. The daily assortment is staggering, and can include mini apricot frangipane tarts, perfect blond chocolate chip cookies, spicy dark chocolate cookies sprinkled with crunchy sugar crystals, and a divine coffee cake that changes seasonally (the current incarnation is a cardamom pecan crumb-topped coffee cake that I will be dreaming of).

Don't miss the daily specials -- the ingenious vegetarian moussaka I tried yesterday is made of saucy, cinnamon-spiced wheatberries, layered with silky, thin slices of Asian eggplant, topped with a light layer of bechamel and served with an olive-topped Greek salad, all for $9.95. Protein-packed vegetarian meatloaf is made with nuts and cheeses and served with a creamy mushroom gravy -- my friend Julie's toddler loves it. The soups, salads and sandwiches on the regular menu, which leans heavily Mediterranean, are all whole and healthy with plenty of richness and flavor to keep the food from being boring. Colorful quiches and soups (I think there were four soups on the menu yesterday) rotate daily on the chalkboard menu. They cater to carnivores, too -- while we were there, we watched (and smelled) dinner's beef brisket being browned in its own fat behind the kitchen's open proscenium window.

Mismatched tables and chairs give the place a cheery nonchalance. Young local couples and their children (whom Jessica seems to know by name) wheel in and out of the place all day long, while arty types in stripes and Converse grab golden baguettes, olives and Coach Farm goat cheese logs from the small refrigerated case. In the summer, diners can even make an evening of dinner and a movie shown in Homespun's pretty garden patio. It's the kind of place I wish we had in Brooklyn. I'd happily eat there every day if I worked at the Dia.

Homespun Foods
232 Main St.
Beacon, NY 12508

Once the mercury dips below fifty, there's nothing better than huddling over a steaming, porky bowl of ramen. Friday night was just one of those nights, so my friend Julie and I decided to hit the East Village's Setagaya.

I think ramen fans fall into the noodle camp or the broth camp. Relative newcomer Setagaya is definitely a joint for noodle lovers -- firm and not too long, this ramen lacks the curls we're used to, making for good chew, fewer tangles and easier slurping. The marathoner's breakfast-sized dish of tsukemen noodles were like extra chewy linguine, served with a tepid dipping broth of extra salty shio broth full of fat-striped pork hunks. The noodles are ice-cold -- appealing in the summer months, I'm sure, but not when you're trying to warm up from inclement weather.

I happen to be on team broth, and Setagaya's broth just didn't sing for me. The shio (salt-based) broth is mostly clear, with a few oil vacuoles hovering by the curve of the bowl. For a broth made from pork bones, dried scallops, seaweed, dried anchovies and such, it lacked the funky complexity I'd hoped for. The salt was there -- what it lacked for me was a sweetness to round it out. The cha shu pork slices were a little dry for my taste, though I did love the addition of the medium-cooked egg half, its yolk golden and liquid.

Appetizers also lacked oomph. Deluxe menma salad was composed of limp strips of bamboo shoots, half a soft-boiled egg, and grill pan-marked squares of toughish pork with an odd orange juice sweetness that didn't really appeal to me. The vegetable gyoza were cabbagey and pale, with a dipping sauce that could have used more hot sesame oil kick.

But beyond the food, there's something oddly cold about the place. Fishbowl glass walls wrap around the 1st Ave. storefront and a dead foyer where listless patrons line up to get seated. Tall tables and stools provide plenty of space overhead and underfoot, with lighting so bright and cold, you feel like you're about to be interrogated. I just don't think the room's design really works for ramen soup. Cold weather should be about the cozy huddle, getting low to the ground. I found myself missing the atmosphere of Rai Rai Ken as much as the food -- ducking down under the noren curtain, hanging my coat on the wall hook, setting down to a low stool and tucking my feet under the long wooden bar to hunch over a steamy meal. I guess I know whose side I'm taking in the ramen wars.

Setagaya
141 First Ave. at 9th St.
212-529-2740
6 to Astor Pl.

The details at The Spotted Pig make the place -- grease markered menu on a giant mirror, brown butcher paper on the tables, jade brocade booths, potted flowers hedging weathered French doors, exhaust-free breeze from a lovely Greenwich St. corner. I don't know if it was the PG Tips or the barrel-shaped mug of warm Six Points Bengali, but to me, the place feels as endearingly British as a tea cozy.

I'm a sucker for chicken liver, and their bar toasts are ideal -- warm, chartreuse olive oil-doused croutons with a friendly roof of finely chopped, herb-speckled liver. I think I tasted pancetta in there. Creamy smoked haddock chowder, brightened with a touch of vinegar, came with the most gorgeous crunchy pillow crackers. But $15 for the radish salad with parm? With a smattering of wild arugula and radish sprouts? Don't get me wrong, it was good, but it's definitely in the DIY department. It's hard for me to stomach paying $15 for a whole wedge of parm, let alone a salad whose main component, French breakfast radishes, sell at the Greenmarket for $1.50 per bunch.

Looking forward to the next visit, but I'll probably stick to the heavy stuff next time.

The Spotted Pig
314 W. 11th St. at Greenwich St.
A, C, E to W. 14th St., L to 8th Ave.
212-620-0393

Sushi is the Marsha, Marsha, Marsha of Japanese cuisine -- the prettier, sexier, more popular star of the show -- so it's always a pleasure to be reminded of the subtle glories of Japan's other culinary arts. At midtown east's Aburiya Kinnosuke, you can indulge in the magic of izakaya, small plates nosh you can down with a few bottles of Sapporo or shochu, or robata, charcoal grilled bits and bobs. I went for the first time last week and I have to tell you, every dish transports.

First of all, the Japanese know from pork. I'd take a good Japanese pork dish over raw fish 70% of the time. I could happily curl up in the small earthenware dish of fatty brown sugar soju cooked berkshire pork, paddle around in the satiny but not greasy caramelized sauce and lay my head on the velvety daikon cylinder. Grilled loin of black pepper kurobuta (black pig, aka more berkshire pork) comes with the most delicious yuzu pepper paste. Just a dab makes every savory slice of swine surprisingly invigorating and refreshing -- not a feeling you often get from pork.

The menu's full of surprises. Anago tempura is nothing like those sugar syrup drenched eel sushi bites -- it's fresh and snowy white with the most delicate dusting of crisped flour. Ladylike fish cakes are silver dollar sized patties, gently sweet and perfumed with yuzu. I'd have resented having to share them if I didn't like my dinner companions so much. Grilled sticky yam wrapped in seaweed was a totally new texture to me -- the crispness of water chestnut or jerusalem artichoke combined with the slight tackiness of flash-fried okra. I loved the drama of the houba leaf presentation -- the waitress set a black cauldron filled with burning wood charcoal on the table. A wire rack lay across the top of the cauldron, and on top of the rack sat a papery, brown prehistoric-looking leaf. Nestled on the crackly leaf were slippery slices of Eryngi mushroom, a small mountain of julienned negi (giant scallion), and sweet miso. Tasted great, but the smell! -- caramelized miso and campfire embers wafting up to the heavens. I'd like to try the beef houba leaf next time.

Don't miss the not-too-sweet black sesame pudding -- it's a square-shaped slice, the chic speckled gray of nubbly chenille. It looks dense, but the texture is somewhere between a mousse and a light cheesecake -- the intensely nutty and creamy bite gives easily against the roof of your mouth. That dish could bring out the ugly in me -- thankfully, nobody put up a fight for the last bite.

It's not a date place, it's more of a meet your friend after work place. It's quite civilized to go with a group of five or six and shoehorn yourselves into one of the shoji screened private rooms. (I did worry about putting an elbow through the paper, though.) And though we're talking about casual bar food, it's not super cheap. Be prepared to drop about $50 if you want to have fun with the menu. (Maybe more if you really get into drinking the elegant, refreshing grapefruit sours -- shochu and fizz on ice, served with half a grapefruit which you juice on a reamer and pour into the glass.) I'm not sure there's better non-sushi Japanese food anywhere else in the city. And since I'm not sure, I look forward to going back there and continuing my research.

Aburiya Kinnosuke
213 E. 45th St.
near 3rd Ave.
4, 5, 6, 7, S to Grand Central
212-867-5454

Thanks to Cutlets for standing up for the broke ass food blogger. And Regina Schrambling, as usual, nails it. For the record, I have never asked for a free meal, and I've got the credit card debt to prove it. I'm too neurotic about owing people money or favors, and it mortifies me to ask for something for nothing. I also don't want to tell people I'm writing about them because I can't promise I'm going to be nice. And I'm not so egotistical that I think I need to worry about being recognized. Besides, the best maitre d' in the world couldn't possibly keep track of all of the small fry food bloggers in New York getting their yap on. We multiply exponentially every day.

For all of my reviews, I've paid for the meal (for NYMag.com, I paid and they reimbursed me) and I've been anonymous. I even have aliases for making rezzies, and I don't put my name on my outgoing message in case the reservationist calls to confirm with my alias. That's not to say I've never taken a few freebies. I do know a few chefs by now, and If I've reaped the benefits of being friends with a cook (extra dishes, special treatment from the waiters), I'll tell you.

You, my dear audience, are small in numbers but smart. I'm sure you'd have no problem calling me out on bullshit. I'm still low profile and I'm happy to keep it that way.

Remember how I was like, Pinkberry's great? After three visits to the Park Slope competitor, I am now an Oko convert. Their original "Greek-style yogurt" flavor is excellent with berries -- icier and more substantial than Pinkberry, without that powdered milk flavor that Pinkberry can have. No mochi, but it doesn't need it. Me likey. I know, I'm a total yogurt flooz.

On Tuesday night, I ran into a renowned chef who was enjoying a night off by dining at Franny's. He called Franny's the best restaurant in New York.

"Besides yours," I winked.

"No, this place is better," he replied.

Franny's specializes in what I would call "feel good" food. "Comfort food" is a moniker that has come to represent the kind of soporific white starch dishes that are as heavy as a wool blanket -- think macaroni and cheese, chicken pot pie, beef stew, mashed potatoes and gravy. Franny's sprightly pizzas, enzymatic charcuterie and bright sides provide all the familiarity of comfort foods, but they don't leave you feeling leaden. You can eat simply and heartily without having to feel bad about yourself afterwards.

I'm not going to tell you which of the city's pies I like best -- I think there's room for all kinds of pies, from the cold rectangles at Grandaisy to the late night quickie at Joe's. But Franny's makes a pie you ought to treat yourself to every now and then — thin, crisp-chewy and popping with black blisters. The clam pie is killer, dabbed with a mysterious savory sauce, showered with spicy chilies and the chlorophyll bite of roughly chopped parsley.

But it's the sides I could happily live off of -- mostly naked, jewel-toned vegetables, adorned judiciously but imaginatively. We loved the raw black Tuscan kale salad, with its pock-marked heft and iron-rich meatiness. It stood up well to tart lemon and bright grated pecorino, the leaves practically tumbling off the plate. We also loved the tiny kernels of white corn, relieved from the cob and sauteed gently with rich local butter, lime juice and chilies -- all the flavors of Mexican-style street corn, but unfettered by opaque mayo and cheese.

The garden out back is perfectly charming, just a backyard protected by a few stately trees, the nonchalant fences strung with white Christmas lights. On a lovely evening, after dusk's mosquitoes have finished feeding, it would be heaven to linger with a sweet glass of La Spinetta moscato d'Asti or the last few drops of a bottle of barbaresco, feeling wistful about Indian summer. I wouldn't mind one last clam pie before the cold creeps in.