Category: Reviews

When I look back on 2006, I will remember it as the year went crazy for opera.  Since January, I've seen six operas and I have tickets for 3 more before the Met's season closes in May.  It's renewed my matrimonial vows to New York and I encourage you all to go at least once or twice.

For the last two operas, I've hit Bouchon Bakery beforehand for coffee and intermission treats.  The seasonal apple tart is crazy-making -- a crisp pastry shell filled with golden apple compote and topped with a beret of browned sugar marshmallow fluff.  The bitty financier is two 75 cent bites of crisp-chewy refined carb bliss.  The cheapest treat available is the $1 plump madeleine, with pretty lemon essence and crisp edges.  Chocolate bouchons are little shot glass-shaped dark chocolate brownies with chocolate chips, maybe a bit sturdier and toothier than you expect them to be.  And the delicate, meringue-y macarons filled with flavored buttercream are guaranteed to make you bounce off the walls for a while.  Bouchon's coffee blend is excellent. 

The sit-down menu looks interesting, but I haven't had time to try it yet.  Here's the thing -- the bakery is so eerily perfect, with every cookie in symmetry and not a dot of powdered sugar out of place.  But once you turn around, you still have the gross mall-ness of Armani Exchange and Sephora to look at.  It's as though someone invited a Stepford wife to a strip club.  Don't you wonder if it makes Thomas Keller feel dirty?

Remember poor Yumcha, the Chinese dork Frank Bruni took to the prom?  I used to walk by that place every day on the way to and from work.  The decor really turned me off -- the red on black cliches, all the faux Chinese fonts, that gauche silver porthole door.  Fetishy pan-Asian/fusion places make my skin crawl.  I'm not anti-assimilation, but maybe I am a little anti-miscegenation when it comes to certain foods.  I'm not sure I will ever be able to accept kimchi-cheese frottage.

Then sometime towards the end of last year, they closed.  Apparently, its owner went on to open the new Noodle Bar around the corner on Carmine St.  It's quickly become my favorite secret lunch spot.  Where Yumcha seemed destined not to survive, Noodle Bar feels like a fixture.  There's some je ne sais quoi about the place, an alignment of stars, good feng shui, something that feels like it's hit just the right note at the right time.  Sure, noodle bars are trendy -- the long bar with the fourtop end in front of the open kitchen looks a lot like Momofuku or Taku, but hey, it really works.  The decor is much less fetish than its predecessor and much more casual cosmopolitan Asia.  The light streams in through the red painted French doors in a very cheery way.  It's kind of like being inside a long London telephone booth lined by Asian newspaper.

Sitting at the bar, you can watch the cooks pas de trois around the slim, clean kitchen, tossing noodles in the big wok gracefully over a roaring blue ring of fire, composing and tastefully garnishing bowls of noodle soup with a casual hand.

The noodle soups are fantastic.  They're probably all served with the same broth -- an elegant shoyu-based broth that manages to be rich and meaty, savory and sweet, clean, just garlicky enough, and without any greasy film.  Today, I actually slurped almost every drop of the broth from my bowl, which is something I never do.  The chicken noodle soup, which sounds boring, is surprisingly delicious -- plump shiitake head is covered by a fan of gorgeous, perfectly done chicken breast and wilted watercress over wide egg noodles, sprinkled with a tiny pinch of crushed red pepper.  Sweet roast pork, redolent of anise, floats in that magic broth over egg vermicelli; it's served with a chewy and unnecessary vegetable wonton.  And the roast duck noodle soup is gorgeous, the skin crisp and fatty.  I'd love to see them tackle Thai beef noodle soup, which I have yet to find a good example of in New York.  These perfectly portioned one dish meals are a bargain at around $10 a bowl.  I know you can get noodle soups for less money in Chinatown, but you also get a lot more MSG and a lot less ambience.

The only app I've tried so far were the thin skinned fried hemi-circle dumplings, akin to Japanese gyoza but served with a soy black vinegar dipping sauce; we loved them.  Though I've heard otherwise, I don't recall my few bites of the spicy noodles with coconut shrimp as masochistically spicy, or even spanky spicy, but I'll have to order it again to be sure. 

Their menu expands tomorrow to include more Southeast Asian dishes (perhaps we can thank Zak Pelaccio for being a culinary Marco Polo for Malaysian food).  One of the reasons I've been hesitant to put my love for Noodle Bar on blast is because it's been so pleasant to lunch there, lots of room, no wait time, and -- this is key -- very few co-workers.  But we know how that goes.  I'll do whatever I can to help Noodle Bar avoid its mongoloid sister's fate. 

Noodle Bar
26 Carmine St. at Bleecker
212-524-6800

A C E B D F V to West 4th St.

Da Andrea is still rockin', man.  Don't fill up on the generous focaccia basket with the dish of olive oil and pitted kalamatas.  Instead, get those tigelles that got written up in all the initial reviews.  They're still fab -- hot silver dollar flatbreads you split and fill with melty prosciutto and grated parm.  They're perfect mated with the salad special, a well-dressed tricolore pile of chopped radicchio, endive and frisee, capped with a fan of sliced avocado and two square leaves of parmigiano reggiano.

The pastas really hit the spot.  Though the dishes we ordered looked similarly sauced, the flavors couldn't be more different.  Spaghetti alla chitarra with bolognese sauce is straightforward and comforting, with toothy linguine width noodles.  My dining companion Jenny's papardelle was tossed in a sensuous, creamy red sauce with a heady truffle oil top note and the lingering complex flavor of sweet fennel sausage -- totally bewitching.

When was the last time you remember having a waiter who was both relaxed and efficient?  Ours was both, and charming.  The room stays quiet enough for civilized conversation, even when all the tables are filled.  Our roomy four top in the back was warm and comfortable.  The big, homey meal with two apps, two pastas and one dish of sorbetti set us back $27 each with a 20% tip.  "If this were in my neighborhood, I'd be here once a week, " Jenny said. 

Da Andrea
557 Hudson St.
212-367-1979

codicil: (I just wanted to use that word) Prior to dinner, Jenny and I went to Employees Only.  Doug happened to be meeting a friend there for dinner too, so we met up after work and got the evening started a little early.  The bartenders ALWAYS warmly greet Doug like the regular souse that he is, but me?  I might as well be some shmuck who walked in by accident off the street.  This, even though I've been there just as many times as Doug has (which is a lot, considering I've tried almost every cocktail on the menu and a couple not on the menu).  They're always very nice to me, but they seem to think I've never been there before, whereas Doug gets the "How've you been, you're looking dapper, let me polish your spot at the bar, can I make you something special today" treatment.  Do Ah oh-fend?  Maybe I have to work on my bartender outreach.

First printed in metro.pop magazine, I think in the March/April issue.

Considering the popularity it’s enjoyed from the day it opened its doors, Employees Only is far more welcoming than it has ever needed to be. On any given night, you can walk past the tarot card reader in the window, through the velvet curtains and find yourself in a thick and unusually tall crowd of thirty-something revelers, heavy with Carrie Bradshaw types. There’s always enough flaxen hair and lip gloss to make most of us normals feel short and matte.

But the restaurant/bar’s five co-owners have created a friendly, speakeasy atmosphere, from the Art Deco detailing to the spirit of Prohibition camaraderie. Even through the crowds, it’s easy to immediately see the glamour and appeal of the place – caramel lighting, mahogany wood, a curvy brass topped bar, handsome bartenders in chef whites, flames dancing in the fireplace, pretty waitresses in jaunty uniforms, and an astonishingly well stocked wall of liquor bottles.

A key to its success is its namesake – I’ve seen at least one, but usually two or three, of the five owners acting as employees every night I’ve been there, seating diners in the outdoor garden or tending the bar in the front of the house. And those gentlemen really know what they’re doing behind the bar. Their cocktails – and I’ve sampled more of them than I care to admit – are so delectable and potent, the menu should come with a warning.

The dangerous Mata Hari tastes as incredible as it looks – chai infused vermouth, Courvoisier VS and pomegranate juice are shaken up and poured into Employees Only’s signature old-school globular glasses, topped with three dried pink rosebuds.

For those who like their cocktails less sweet, there’s the refreshing Provencale – lavender infused gin stirred with herbs de provence vermouth, Cointreau, and an orange twist. It's a gin martini for an English rose. The expert bartenders can also turn out the classics with flair, like the well-balanced Manhattan, finished barside with a flame throwing burst from orange peel oil.

Once you’ve been properly prepped by the signature cocktails, you’ll want to stick around for dinner. Employees Only serves its seasonal trans-Atlantic fare til it closes nightly (or morning-ly) at 4 a.m. Before 11 p.m., the kitchen turns out robust plates of Italian-influenced dishes like caramelized, braised veal on a rich bed of polenta with spears of sweet roasted carrots and fennel. Moist roasted chicken comes with glazed whole baby carrots, crisp haricots verts, and rich mashed potatoes punctuated by silky bits of porcini mushroom. I rarely order pasta in a non-Italian restaurant, but their orecchiette is wonderful – thumbprint pasta “ears”generously topped with a meaty, ropy pork ragu.

The menu offers a wide variety of nibble plates if you’re just looking for a little nosh to keep you on your feet. The steak tartare is not for the squeamish, but it may be one of the finest examples of tartare in the city. It is definitely one of my favorite things to eat while imbibing -- hand-chopped filet mignon and roasted tomato,are mixed tableside with lemon, raw egg yolk, sea salt, chopped shallots, truffled capers, Dijon mustard, Worcestershire and a few (or more) dashes of house made hot sauce, served with a little pile of baguette chips.

Washington state oysters are also make for excellent slurping snacks,; they’re served with a subtle, tangy lime-chili granite. But the allure of the Serbian charcuterie platter escaped me – thick, tacky slices of pink pork pastrami, stiff lamb prosciutto and little cups of runny chicken liver pate and red pepper compote were unappealing, though the pillowy, sweet homemade flatbread accompaniment was lovely.

With consistently excellent eats and knockout cocktails, the only improvement I’d like to make at this classy joint is to add a few more bathrooms – the unisex single occupancy water closet will never be enough to accommodate the crowds of regulars. I’m sure that this is the kind of place that will defy trends and capricious buzz. Like Balthazar or Nobu, Employees Only is so New York that it feels like it was, is, and will always be part of the city landscape.

Employees Only
510 Hudson St.
212-242-3021

My turkey burger with avocado ($8) was pretty tasty, the fries were crisp and hot, my ginger cosmo (ginger vodka, grand marnier, lime, and white cranberry juice) nice and strong, and the singing proprietor Joe was amiable and adorable.  But what was up with icy Kay Sera, our cross-dressing karaoke mistress?  She put the drag in drag queen.  Blaise was singled out by Kay and asked to pipe down, though many other people in the room were being plenty rowdy.  If I wanted to radiate good vibes and politely clap at some self-indulgent adult recital, I'd go see cabaret at the Rainbow Room.  But it's KARAOKE.  With a DRAG QUEEN.  And STRONG LIQUOR.  That's some no sex in the champagne room bullshit.  We suspect Kay was envious of Blaise's fab Gwynnie style blond wig.  In this interview, Kay Sera/Richard Eagan says:

People often say it's like no other karaoke they've been to, its like going to somebody's home.

Yeah, maybe a home where your friend's mom freaks out if you don't double up coasters on the glass table and your friend's dad has to practice his jazz guitar by plugging headphones into his amp and FUN IS ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY NOT ALLOWED. 

The near-hostile staff obviously didn't want us to be there.  Guess what guys, I've got great news for you -- I'M NOT COMING BACK.  On top of all this, some completely fucked up driver full-on smashed into a parked car in front of the restaurant and drove off.

O is for OVERDRAMA.

Hope & Anchor
347 Van Brunt St. at Wolcott St.
718-237-0276
You wanna go, you get the directions yourself.

"You have to take exit 7A."

"Are we trying to get to the Taconic?  Because I used to take it to Vassar all the time."

"I think we missed the exit.  You should turn around."

"Do we get XM Radio in this thing?"

"It's something like Pocahontas Hills or something."

Five adults, one compact Mazda Zipcar, and some scribbled Mapquest directions and we were off to Blue Hill at Stone Barns, fifty minutes from Manhattan, just past Tarrytown.  At least, Mapquest said it was supposed to take fifty minutes.  Mapquest is, of course, not advanced enough to remind us public transportation whores that thousands of Manhattan workers are also trying to make it in time for dinner.  Which meant an extra...hour...stuck...in...traffic.  We also took a brief tour of the charming roads just outside Yonkers searching for a phantom exit during a navigation miscommunication which I, being a completely incompetent driver, could not participate in.

Our reason for leaving the confines of our fine city?  My friends Winnie and Chris are deep in the weeds of wedding planning and Blue Hill at Stone Barns was a contender.  I'd probably never get a ride (much less one with a designated driver -- Winnie is allergic to alcohol) to Pocantico otherwise, so Doug and I joined the lovebirds and Winnie's sister for a 7:30 p.m. reservation at the end of 2005.

We couldn't see much in the dark as we took the exit off the I 87.  The sparse lampposts reflected orange light off the little ear-shaped lake the car skirted on the way to the main road.   Finally, we mozied up the long driveway to the Stone Barns estate.  But we were half an hour late.  We figured it would be fine -- they must get tardy travelers all the time.  Besides, how many people could possibly want to drive all the way out to the boonies for dinner besides us nutters anyway?

As it turns out, plenty of people do.  A valet parked Beemers and Benzes up the hill; taxicabs made Uies after dropping off their sharp-dressed cargo.  We passed a conspicuous garden to the left of the paved walkway until the passage opened up onto an enormous, hushed square courtyard.  The stone barns loomed high on all four sides, and the cement underfoot was dark and shiny from the evening's showers.  We could see chefs in their whites milling around the enormous kitchen in the distance.  Trees wrapped in Christmas lights twinkled flirtatiously in the wet dark. 

We were awakened from our starry-eyed reverie by a hostess who beckoned us into the warm restaurant.  Fifteen people stood comfortably at the bar and in the waiting area, cozying up to the flickering fireplace and sipping cocktails on the shabby chic loveseats.  The lofty ceilings and walls of the converted barn were painted in J. Crew neutrals -- chino, ecru, and dove gray set off dark hardwood beams.  Every accent was picture postcard perfect, from the chest high Christmas tree made of pinecones to the pine garlands framing the windowpanes.  I was under the place's spell.  But would the food live up to the warmth and precision of its home?

Our waiter came over to explain the options: You can order two, three, or four courses, or the seven course farmer's feast.  The menu is fashionably divided not into courses but categories: the greenhouse, ocean, handmade pasta, and the pasture; you can choose your courses from any of the sections, and the kitchen sends the dishes out in the appropriate portion sizes and order.  In the interest of doing a broad survey of what the kitchen can do (and not just because I am a gluttonous whore), we decided on the farmer's feast. 

Blue Hill, both the one in Manhattan and the one at Stone Barns, puts the focus on fresh ingredients from small-scale local purveyors who support sustainable agriculture/livestock.  This, of course, poses a challenge for any cook in the dead of winter.  How much could those sunless greenhouses possibly churn out in the cold?

Brussels sprouts, for one.  Turnips.  Carrots.  Apples.  Fennel.  Winter squash.  Aromatic emerald flags of tarragon were suspended in chic parmesan cracker lollipops.  An earthy jewel red roasted beet mash simulated an iron-rich meat tartare between the tiniest sesame-crusted buns in the fanciful "beet burger" amuse bouche.  A focus on seasonal ingredients is great not only because the ingredients are the least fussed over, but also because the palate takes comfort in sweet roots and heartier fare when it hunkers down for the winter, just as it revels in the ephemera of young lettuces in the spring.  Eating seasonally feels and tastes right as rain.

Lightly curried cauliflower soup matched the warm creamy tones of the room.  It felt as velvety and fortifying going down as a good eggnog.  The ruby shrimp lolling in the center were cooked so gently that they seemed to retain a sweet ignorance of their imminent consumption.  This first course soup was much better executed than the first amuse bouche, a shot glass of warm chick pea soup which Doug said was like "liquid hummus."

The appetizer course was a knock out -- the gentlemen in our party received a flat cylindrical pile of Maine crab swimming in a vibrant green pool of edamame vinaigrette and topped with a beautiful quenelle of sweet-tart white yogurt sorbet, while the ladies received a crisp scallop on a bed of slivered fennel and apple, surrounded by pearls of saffron tapioca that mimicked the look of golden caviar.  The flavors were fresh and bright, but the element that elevated the dishes even further was the sensual play of textures -- creamy icy sorbet with the lump meat crab, the slippery tapioca beads against the crisp salad.

I am the kind of person that likes my raw fish raw and my cooked fish cooked; this business of seared, half-raw fish is not for me.  So I thought the fish courses were impeccable.  I loved the impossibly tender, arctic white poached cod luxuriating in a green lobster turnip sauce freckled with black herring roe.  The tropical-hued but delicately moist Atlantic char was also incredible, with crisp skin, crushed fingerling potatoes and an intriguingly fruity almond caper sauce.

For the pasta course, the chef sent us farro with pureed squash, turnips, and beets, topped with a 120-minute egg gathered in the morning.  Or maybe it was a 120 degree egg.  Whatever it was, it was barely cooked, so the albumen was translucent white and the yolk was golden and oozy.  This was probably my least favorite dish; I found the candy sweetness of the squash puree a bit overwhelming with the barely warmed runny egg.  It was almost like eating a bowl of sweet, earthy oatmeal.  But Doug pointed out that it was a nice respite before our imminent meat course.

By this time I'd had a nice tall flute of cava and a glass and a half of a deliciously smoky syrah, so when five runners descended upon our table at once from each person's right side with five radiating, heavy glass plates, I pretty much squealed at my plate of Berkshire pork.  There was a tender and mild sausage half moon, a judicious cube of pork belly, and several petal pink, melting medallions of pork loin, with shooter marble sized brussels sprouts and a creamy stripe of parsnip puree.  Even better was the silky, simple seared venison loin, as dark and red as sin, with a beautiful hunk of mahogany venison sausage and sugary batons of glazed carrots.  Chris just about put the walls up around his plate.

I could have stopped at the palate cleanser -- a glass of apple cider gelee, painted with a grainy white apple mousse and topped by a quenelle of green apple sorbet in a celebration of the local fruit.  It was a perfect encapsulation of late fall in the Hudson Valley, cool against cold, tart against sweet, ice against gel, green against white against tawny.  After something so crisp and awakening, it was a little harder to enjoy working through the dense, sleepy "tiramisu" -- coffee gelee layered with light ice milks, espresso chocolate biscotti crumble and praline hazelnuts.

Service was wonderful -- warm and easy without being presumptuously chummy.  And it's such a luxury to be in a place roomy enough so that you aren't eavesdropping by default on the conversation at the nearest table.  One note to the house: Dan Barber's cooking deserves better coffee.

The private dining room was cozy and classy, with plenty of sparkly crystal and a grassy perch any bride would be happy to swoon in.  Prices for private events are actually reasonable, though not quite as reasonable as we originally thought, so Winnie and Chris are still exploring other options.  I'm thinking it'd be a lovely place to have an "I'm not getting married so I might as well blow the money on a fancy dinner party" party.  You know, when I finally find that lottery I've been meaning to win.

In any case, we all agreed that it was one of the best meals we'd had in years, and we're not an easy crowd to please.  I, for one, was completely seduced.  Look, Blue Hill at Stone Barns is not the kind of place you'd go to for exotic preparations and obscure ingredients.  But it's important to be reminded of how good and whole an apple is, or how interesting a sparingly adorned piece of fish can be.  Blue Hill at Stone Barns celebrates what is near and dear, and its execution is as direct and effective as a simple declaration of love.

Blue Hill at Stone Barns
630 Bedford Rd.
Pocantico Hills
Just past Tarrytown
914-366-9600

A PSA for you because I love you -- Sripraphai is closed for vacation through January 15.  So don't invite seven of your buddies to take the train to Queens only to find the place all shuttered up like I did.  I arrived on Saturday night thinking I was so responsible for getting to the restaurant a half hour early to put our name down on the list only to discover that, once again, my Sripraphai plans had been foiled.  Actually, this is probably the third or fourth time I've gotten the shaft.  We always seem to go when the 7 train isn't running, or we forget that it's a Wednesday, or we get there at 9:30 and the kitchen has closed.

Anyway, with seven people en route, I had to call Doug and get his help dispatching the bad news to our dining companions, all of whom were Sripraphai virgins.   What were we going to do now?   

The house my Mae had built for my grandma in the tiny Isaan village where my Mae grew up.

Luckily, on our walk up Roosevelt Ave., we saw Zabb Queens, a place I've been dying to try since I heard about it.  Its specialty is the Isaan cuisine of the northeast, the region my Mae's family is from.  It's kind of like the "soul food" of Thailand.  Zabb is a colloquial Isaan word for delicious, but in my mixed dialect house, it usually referred specifically to the fever pitch of spice-tart-salt found in Isaan food that makes your mouth water; it's nothing like the treacly sweetness characteristic of most Manhattan Thai food.  Som tam can be zabb; nam prik can be zabb; ice cream was usually just aroy (the central Thai word for delicious).

The Isaan region is the poorest region of Thailand, near the border of Laos.  My uncle used to always say that our family was so poor, he had to lick the meat and eat the sticky rice.  Because it's inland, the cuisine is based on dishes with frugal amounts of pork and beef, river fish, and plenty of wild herbs and vegetables.  This poor people's cuisine is spicy and powerfully seasoned because the food is meant to be eaten in small quantities with large quantities of affordable rice.

Of course, we're not in such dire straits (even in Queens). Thankfully, the folks at Zabb don't neuter the flavor-extending punch of the dishes.  Mild-mannered fish was tarted up several ways.  The mucky brown catfish labb looked a bit like cat food, but it was even better than the white meat chicken labb -- meaty, earthy and smoky, it was laced with plenty of roasted rice and chili heat, set off by the sharp sugar of sliced red onion.  Crispy fish floated in a tom yam soup, its deceptive clarity only revealing the explosive lemongrass flavor on the tongue.  The star dish was the last one to come to the table -- whole steamed catfish came liberally topped with a halitosis-insuring salsa of lime juice, raw minced garlic and fiery sliced Thai chilies.  The white flesh was so tender that the skeleton released itself easily from the satiny white fillet.

Meats asserted themselves just as boldly.  Oblong discs of Isaan sausage dotted with sticky rice were dense and slightly tangy, contrasting nicely with palate cleansing bites of the accompanying raw ginger slices.  Beef nam tok was quite well done, but it was juicy and savory with a nice char and the warmth of black pepper.  Bill of Soundbites, who happened to have followed the same Sripraphai-Zabb trajectory that we had that night, suggested the spicy pork spareribs which were falling off the bone, a little sweet, and red hot.  Though nothing was obscenely spicy (we requested Thai medium for all dishes), the cumulative burn of the relentless dishes left my sweating companions pulling on their Beck's and going red in the face.

The one thing I ordered but didn't get a taste of was the papaya salad with pickled blue crab -- I forgot to order it Lao-style, so it came with those pesky peanuts.  Everyone else seemed to enjoy it, though.

Despite my protestations, half the table was curious about the durian ice cream.  Durian is the fruit that looks like a Viking mace head, and as far as I'm concerned, it smells and tastes like ass. According to my friend Jon, carnivorous tigers eat durian, mistaking the stanky fruit for rotting flesh.  Having tried the fairly mild ice cream version, I still recommend you avoid it -- half the people at the table found it offensive and half didn't.  Go figure.

So I have to say it, though it's still a little too early to tell -- Zabb easily gives Sripraphai a run for its money.  Wait, wait, hear me out.  For one, it's open seven days a week until 2 a.m., unlike Sripraphai, where they stop taking kitchen orders at 9:30 p.m. sharp and are closed on Wednesdays and for vacation (What kind of self-respecting Asian goes on vacation?  Everyone knows rest is for samsarin.)  (Oh my God, I just got myself thirty more squashed mosquito lives for saying that.  I hope you laughed so we can be stuck in the cycle of suffering together.)  Also, you don't have to wait very long for a table at Zabb, and there's nobody breathing down your neck for your table once you do sit down.  My cup runneth over with love for Sripraphai.  Unfortunately, the same can be said for a gazillion other people in this town, making it increasingly difficult to get a table when they are open.

And the food at Zabb was superb, funky and delicious.  The menu doesn't come close to the mind-boggling range that Sripraphai's has, and to be fair, I didn't try many of the non-Isaan dishes.  I wouldn't go there for, say, curries or noodle soups.  But for me, Isaan dishes are the best anyway (paging Dr. Freud).  Also, Zabb remains BYOB, which meant our bill with the tip came to a mere $20/person. 

I'm definitely going back to try some other dishes, including the Laos sukiyaki, which was reviewed by Andrew Hyatt a while back.  I'll keep you posted.  In any case, should you find yourself shuttered out of Sripraphai for whatever reason, there's no reason to go home hungry -- just walk a few blocks down Roosevelt Ave. to Zabb for an experience just as real and enjoyable.

Extra points for the sassy waitress who, in order to get two adjacent tables together for our 6-deep party, asked another group to get up mid-meal and scooch over.  So Thai, so hottt.

Zabb Queens
7218 Roosevelt Ave.
Jackson Heights, Queens
718-426-7992

7 to 61st St./Woodside or
many other trains to Roosevelt Ave.

P.S.  We tried to find a place to cool our heels while we waited for our table.  The establishment next door seemed to only be serving karaoke-squawking middle aged Korean men; and while the dark windows at the top of the stairs said "cafe" in English, the look on the face of the severely-coiffed lady who answered the doorbell said "brothel". Faced with these obstacles, we went instead down the block to a bar called Tentaciones for a quick beer.  Unfortunately, it may have been the scariest bar in NYC.  I tried not to focus too clearly on anything because I was afraid the black lights overhead were going to reveal spooge all over the skanky walls.  I went to use the bathroom and A.) there was a huge hole in the floor, with broken tile and mesh everywhere and B.) the toilet didn't flush and didn't seem like it had ever worked and C.) Doug said the men's smelled like it had been doused in a gallon of bad cologne in an effort to hide decades of smell and grime.  The moral of the story?  If you have to wait for a table at Zabb, just keep your panties on (literally) and wait in the restaurant.

Joe's Pizza is often lauded as the home of the best slice in NYC; the never-ending lines from noon to the alkie-soaking wee hours of the morning are a testament to just how popular this slice spot is.  If you're lucky enough to snag a perch on onoe of a handful of stools in there, you can read the many plaque mounted newspaper clippings about how celebs like Ben Affleck queue up to chow down at this famously relocated pie-churning factory.

However, my co-worker Jason has long protested that Bleecker Street Pizza, a much more quiet, unassuming storefront just a few short blocks away, offers a superior slice.  In a completely unscientific experiment with a grumbly stomach, I did a quick comparison of Bleecker Street's Nonna Maria slice and Joe's Pizza's margherita slice. 

Both got quick reheats in the oven, both went down with tap root beer (my preferred slice beverage partner).  My verdict?  I side with Jason.  My enthusiastic vote goes to Bleecker Street's Nonna Maria -- generous dabs of simple sauce, thin sheets of mozz, plenty of herb punctuation, and a crisp, whisper thin crust embellished with crunchy golden breadcrumbs (dare I say panko?) instead of the standard cornmeal.  Joe's slice was a little bland in comparison, with a simple crust that felt like toasted Wonder bread after the subtle complexity of the Nonna Maria crust. 

Which just goes to show that you can't trust a Red Sox fan to show you where the best slice in NYC is.  Not that you should trust some Thai-American chump from a state that regularly puts goat cheese and pineapple on pizza.  Don't take my word for it -- just go try the Nonna Maria yourself.

(To be fair, I didn't rate the plain plain slice; I prefer the margherita anyway.)

Another sign of Bleecker Street Pizza's superiority is the fact that they carry ices from the Lemon Ice King of Corona.  If you know from the old guy's lemon ice, pips and all, you know what a treat it is to be able to get his wares on this side of the river.

Bleecker Street Pizza
The corner of 7th Ave. and Bleecker St.
1 9 to Christopher St.
A C E B D F V to W. 4th St.

First printed in metro.pop magazine, I think the January/February 2006 issue.

Chef Zac Pelaccio has plenty of street cred. His restaurant 5 Ninth is a success, and people still talk about his dearly departed Chickenbone Café. He also once lived in Malaysia, picking up techniques and ingredients many other chefs are afraid to touch. Still, it was pretty ballsy of him to open up Fatty Crab, a casual establishment dedicated to the street stall foods of that country. Chinatown is full of Malaysian joints that serve up dishes just as sweat-inducing and funky. Why go to Fatty Crab instead, where the Meatpacking District portions and prices are smaller and higher, respectively?

For one, Fatty Crab uses higher quality ingredients and finer standards of preparation than your average street stall would. Take the crispy pork watermelon pickle salad – cool, tart diced watermelon gets tossed with hot, crisp-fried diced fatty pork and rolled onto an herbaceous bed of ripped holy basil and sliced scallions. It’s a perfectly chic marriage of the cold and the hot, the rich and the astringent, the smoky swine and the pink fruit.

Consider the Rendang beef short rib – no street stall would have the time to lavish this inexpensive cut with so much attention. The dark lacquered braised beef just melts off the bone, each bite so rich and redolent my dining companions considered getting a second plateful. But we were happy to save room for our favorite dish, the impossibly silky snapper in a tepid-temped, lemongrass-infused coconut cream bath dotted with tiny wheels of sliced bird chilies and sprigs of cilantro. The creamy fish is especially decadent draped over a spoonful of aromatic coconut rice.

But the star at almost every table is the signature chili crab – a deep bowl holds a halved Dungeness crab swimming in a sweet, vinegar-tinged red chili sauce that wouldn’t be out of place at a barbecue cook-off. In keeping with barbecue tradition, the gloriously gloppy dish is served with wooden picks for extracting the sweet claw meat, wet-naps, and thick white square toast for sopping the sauce up. It’s not the kind of dish you would want to order on a first date. The fresh crab meat is incredibly moist and sweet, though nobody at my table seemed particularly interested in slurping up the sticky, sweet sauce. And the crab does seem like a lot of work for very little yield, especially considering that, at $28, it is by far the most expensive item on the menu.

Sometimes the highbrow-meets-the-streets approach doesn’t work. Fairy cup quail egg shooters are like swallowing a teaspoon full of warm, spicy sambal-flavored spittle. And a few of the more traditional dishes fell flat. The well-trimmed, thinly sliced Chinese broccoli with salted fish, a dish I generally love, was so intensely salty that it made my temples throb. Lo si fun, a clay pot oozing with bouncy, short mouse-tail noodles and hunks of Chinese sausage in a sweet, dark soy sauce, seemed homely and uninspired.

Unfortunately, service isn’t much better than you’d expect at a night market. Our waiter didn’t bother to write down our order, despite the fact that we ordered ten things. We later had to remind him that we were missing a dish. When we asked what our quail eggs were topped with, he tried to fake an answer; when prodded, he went back to the chef and came back with an entirely different answer. Still, it’s far better than the brusque, zero eye-contact manners of Chinatown Malaysian joint servers.

Unlike many of the other sharing-plate eateries that have popped up all over New York in the last few years, Fatty Crab succeeds without pandering to diners with a something-for-everyone mentality. Its short, simple menu unapologetically embraces the funk and heat of the Malaysian street – and its enthusiasm is infectious. Fatty Crab’s interpretation is less like a lip-sync and more like an intelligent translation that captures the cadences and colloquialisms of the original tongue.

Fatty Crab
643 Hudson St. (at Horatio St.)
New York, NY 10014
212-352-3590

I can only afford to get one sheet to the wind at Pegu Club, but its as tasty a buzz as you'll get anywhere in town.  The signature Pegu Club cocktail ($12) is a tart, breezy gin and citrus concoction, blushing pink and nattily dressed with a zester cross-hatched lime wedge.  I loved the Jamaican Firefly ($12), a murky rum and ginger beer sipper finished with a sugary slice of candied ginger, but Doug thought it was too sweet.  And I wish your $7 got you more than four deviled egg halves, boosted by smoked trout, curry mayo and the sweet crunch of almond chutney.  Ward off your liquor-mixer hangover with the glasses of water that accompany every libation.  Reservations are not accepted, but if you arrive with a party of ten, you could snag one of their two sexy round booths, swathed in chocolate velvet.  The place is a tad too high-clarse for me to enjoy regularly, but I'm willing to pay premium once in a while for a bit of early evening Little Princess fantasy.

Pegu Club
77 W. Houston St. at W. Broadway
2nd floor
(212) 473-PEGU