Scoops - New York City Entry #4

Central to my culinary consciousness are the lazy summer evenings that I spent in Somerville, Massachusetts, patiently waiting for my turn at the counter of Steve’s Ice Cream. This was the moment at which Alice Waters was refining fine dining in Berkeley, but considering the intense flavors, custom mix-ins, and the perfectly sinful, erotic richness, Cantabrigians had the better of it. Steve Herrell reconstructed frozen desserts, changing custard forever.

In 1977, Steve sold his name to others, and eventually opened a smaller, eponymous location - Herrell’s - right off Harvard Square, serving his ice cream in what seemed to many former fans as frighteningly akin to an assembly line. Steve’s decision produced a shock among his legions similar to learning that Chef Waters had sold Panisse to Pillsbury, only to open a bistro in the Bellagio.

But from the moment that the sacred Steve’s opened, ice cream was never the same: the platonic cone was simultaneously counter-cultural and indulgent, hippie and dippy. Frozen dessert belonged to Cultural Studies.

New York has never fully shared the dessert culture of Boston (pumpkin pie, Friendly’s cabinets, and, of course, Boston cream pie), and never took super-premium ice-cream to heart like its New England rivals. For the 20th Century the Yankees would wallop the Bosox, but after dinner Boston could not be licked. Proving that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Gotham now imports Emack & Bolio’s.

So, it was with some trepidation that I espied two of the high-end Village artisanal “gelato” emporiums: Otto and Cones. Let it be said that both are worthy ventures. If they don’t have the upright Jewish ambience of Schrafft’s or the outer borough’s let’s-feed-them-to-excess of Jahn’s, they have a scrubbed yuppie earnestness.

Each serves winners and failures. Neither recaptures the mix-in, have-it-your-way culture of the Boston home-made establishments (or their funereal imitators, Cold Stone and Marble Slab: Cold Slab, served “Six Feet Under”).

The treasure at Otto Enoteca Pizzeria (Gelato and Sorbetti), a pizzeria-cum-ice-cream-parlor, overseen by the Mario (Batali), is their superb Corn Gelato. This is as subtle a concoction as one might find in any high-end restaurant. In fact, if the silky corn amuse bouche at Blue Hill were properly whipped and frozen, it might taste like this. This is a subtle and haute version of the rough, but flavorful Maiz ice cream that one finds at neighborhood Filipino creameries in Chicago.

In contrast, Otto’s Black Raspberry was a huge disappointment. Aside from the annoying seeds, proving only that raspberry droppings were somewhere about, and a garish purple color, the ice cream had a heavy vanilla profile. Baskin-Robbins would have had more skill.

The third choice was a Cantaloupe Sorbetti that was powerfully rich with cantaloupe flavor, although somewhat more lumpy that one might have expected from a dessert with a Batali pedigree. By taste alone this was a treat, but perhaps the mixing had not gone quite right.

Cones had a somewhat different problem. It is designated as Argentinian, and in fact, in its heaviness (and occasional gloppiness), it is reminiscent of Penguin in Chicago. These icemen were not afraid to use flavors (although I don’t think of them as the traditionally lighter European gelato in their mouthfeel). The Dark Chocolate, Almond Cream, and Coffee Mocha Chocolate Chip were powerful, perhaps overpowering, in their flavor. All three, but particularly the Dark Chocolate, may have been too sweet, an occasional problem at Penguin.

The great disappointment here was the Cantaloupe Sorbet, which unlike Otto’s lacked a strong cantaloupe profile, and was disagreeably icy. I was given a taste of a refreshingly sour Grapefruit Sorbet, so pungent that I chose not to mix it with the other flavors. I will return for a full scoop of Grapefruit, but will stay away from the Cantaloupe, my standard for a proper sorbet.

Even at their worst, ice creams, gelatos, and sorbets are not lukewarm, but cool. Yet, as in all things, perfection is hard to reach. Of the eight flavors, Corn at Otto and my tease of Grapefruit at Cones bid to be memorable moments in late summer Manhattan.

Otto Enoteca Pizzeria
1 Fifth Avenue
Manhattan
212-995-9559

Cones
272 Bleecker Street
Manhattan
212-414-1795

Tomato Terroir - New York City entry #3

Ten years ago a dining companion and I shared a memorable evening at Simpson’s on the Strand, that quintessential British restaurant in the heart of London’s West End. I rank the evening:

1) Yorkshire Pudding (very delicious)
2) Dining Companion (very beautiful)
3) Service (very British)

Much of the charm of Simpson’s is its sense of place: to dine is to bathe with British aristocracy. The food was ideally paired with our cultural imagination.

Some restaurants attempt to capture an idea: a place, a time. Among current New York restaurants, Blue Hill is one that strives for the truth of terroir. And, so, after the span of a decade, D.C. and I selected Blue Hill for a post-S.o.t.S. meal.

I will gain few admirers by a modest proposal to ban anyone under thirty from public spaces, but Thomas Hobbes had a point when he critiqued social life as a “buzzing, booming confusion.” Blue Hill started life as a West Village speakeasy, and much of this busy bustle remains. As the evening progressed and the restaurant emptied, the space became increasingly soothing. We could finally appreciate the place. Blue Hill indicates that they have fifty-five seats, but sounds echoed.

Blue Hill’s claim to culinary fame is their stated commitment to local, seasonal food and to sustainable agriculture. Many of their vegetables are grown on Executive Chef Dan Barber’s farmstead in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, what they described as “nature at its best.” One admires the commitment to quality that results from raising one’s own produce, but I reject the ardent claim that a salad will be more conjugal if my mixed greens once shared the same bed.

I came to feel that Blue Hill wanted to proclaim their virtue by including too many herbs, greens, and vegetables in each dish as if to suggest: look at our cornucopia. What a plot of land! Still, aside from self-satisfaction, Blue Hill is a superior restaurant and a worthy addition to New York dining.

Our amuse bouche was a simple glass of cool pureed corn soup. It was silky smooth, showcasing the essence of corn. It was very pleasant, indeed, although perhaps not sufficiently savory as to be a perfect amuse. It lulled the senses, not awakened them. The dominant taste was the liquid purity of the corn itself. I am somewhat embarrassed to relate that in its one note, it reminded me of Moto’s infamous Doughnut Soup. The selection was also peculiar in that Blue Hill serves a more robust Chilled Corn Soup as an appetizer. Given that my D.C. ordered that Corn Soup, why serve a second corn soup as an amuse? All corn, all the time.

The appetizer soup (“Chilled Corn Soup, Preserved Tomatoes, Marinated and Pickled [Enoki?] Mushrooms) was exceptionally delicious, and the most memorable course of the evening. The soup was flecked with caviar and the pickled mushrooms provided an unexpected but welcome tang. The signature of Chef Cuevas’s cuisine [Juan Cuevas is chef at the Greenwich Village Blue Hill] is a willingness to experiment with unexpected tastes - herbal, pungent, and candied. These dishes are designed to surprise and inspire, while remaining within the canons of contemporary dining.

I selected “Maine Crabmeat Salad, Green Tomato Marmalade, Preserved Tomatoes, Basil, White Eggplant Confit, Chilled Tomato Consomme.” As the ingredient list suggests, this is a dish that creates honeyed memories. Each bite of tomato marmalade, each taste of summery basil transformed the sweet crabmeat into a confection. Less successful was the pool of consomme that surrounded the cylinder of crab salad. Consomme may now be the preferred term for “vegetable water.” The water had strong notes of cucumber and zucchini, and perhaps the diluted liquid was intended as a naturopath’s gazpacho. The effect was to create a culinary bog at the waterline. Crab surely has enough moisture without such misguided assistance.

“Poached Hudson Valley Duck, Stew of Organic Carrots Cooked in Their Own Juices with Toasted Spices and Portobello Mushrooms” was a signal success in its refusal to embrace the cliches of duck preparation. The sliced duck breast was robed by a rich carrot jus (perhaps Blue Hill has now perfected carrots with butter in their veins, but I suspect the carrots were goosed by the chef). The sauce was flavored with chives and fennel, which along with the mushrooms, gave the duck a welcome touch of bitterness, undercutting the common treatment of duck as dessert.

Our second entree was less successful (“Wild Striped Bass, Pistou of Summer Vegetables and Pureed Basil”). A pistou is a vegetable stew that demands the chef thoughtfully consider which produce belongs together. I felt that the choice of vegetables were selected to show off Blue Hill’s farm, rather than for aesthetic reasons. The problem was less the taste than the texture (the slab of bass was fresh and properly cooked). Any chef who combines lima beans, broccoli, yellow squash, and field peas plays a dangerous game. Well-cooked lima beans have a delightful snap, but they can’t avoid the slightly grainy texture that make children and gourmets intensely suspicious. With a soft vegetable like squash, the odd edges of broccoli, and firm peas, the stew might have been vegan leftovers.

Our shared dessert was also texturally challenged. I am always amused when a menu places quotation marks around a dish, preparing diners for a full serving of irony. Here was “‘Strawberries and Cream,’ Ice, Jam and Puree, Lemon Cake and Crunchy Almonds.” Ice? Jam? Crunchy Almonds? We ordered it, and so caveat emptor. The play of tastes was compelling, but next time 86 the ice.

No wine tonight, but a smooth, yet tangy, sake: “Yuki No Bosha Junmai Ginjo Sake, ‘Limited Release,’ Akita, Japan.” Sake is today’s Sauvignon Blanc. When not ordering a bottle of wine, I often select a fine sake, which I find, when well made, enhances most foods.

Blue Hill is a restaurant that demands to be taken seriously. As a mid-priced restaurant ($115/two), it delivers creativity that one might expect with a steeper tag. The chef may be too taken with the idea of displaying local produce for its own sake, but there are far more foolish claims that believing that the land speaks through the response of our senses.

Blue Hill Restaurant
75 Washington Place
New York, NY 10011
212-539-1776

Last Sunday I hosted my older son, a resident of Astoria for fifteen months. Todd’s most remarkable trait is his astounding linguistic expertise (Myself, I speak Latin, a talent that I keep polished for the day the Forum of the Twelve Caesars is reopened). Todd is fluent in German and Portuguese, near-fluent French, Spanish, Japanese, and oddly Rumanian. He has some abilities in Hungarian, Ukrainian, Greek and Arabic. This should make him a most useful dining companion. Alas, he refuses to use his skills in my presence. He insists on dining together where he cannot speak the language, preventing me from insisting that he query the chef for that perfect specialty that I know is waiting for me off the menu. I would think that bending to this ploy is a small enough return for an Ivy League education, but he is a serpent’s tooth.

Tonight we dined on restaurant row on 2nd Avenue in the 70s. I recall from my youth when in that stretch of Yorkville, the dining choices were German, Bohemian, Bavarian, Prussian, Czech, Austrian, and perhaps a bit of Hungarian and Slovak, too. Bookstores still sold Mein Kampf (under the counter, if you asked nicely). These good people pined for what might have been, in the meantime serving some pretty mean schnitzel. It seems only yesterday.

Our choice was Üsküdar. Turkish is a language with which Todd is still unfamiliar – although he threatens to learn Farsi, crossing yet another cuisine off my list of possibilities. Fortunately the servers spoke English, and I did not demand that he pretend to speak mock-Turkish.

Üsküdar is a small, pleasant restaurant (seating about 30), slightly upscale from storefront kitchen, but less decorated than many of the restaurants along that stretch. They were not aiming for the kind of faux authenticity of many more elaborate Turkish establishments, but merely presented quite good food.

I started with Cacik, a cold cucumber soup, blended with garlic, mint, dill, and yogurt. On a hot night, the soup was a cool relief. I felt that it was, perhaps, a bit thick for my taste in that it seemed more like a condiment for the loaf of bread we were served than a true soup.

My main course was Grilled Quail (three). This was a simple dish, but expertly prepared. It tasted just as promised and the rice and peppers made a suitable accompaniment. Perhaps the flavors did not hit another taste register, but not every quail needs to be draped with a burgundy-fig-thyme-demi-glace to be presentable.

My son’s Chef’s Mixed Grill - lamb, chicken, lamb patty, and lamb chop, and adana (chopped lamb with peppers and paprika) - reflected the range of Turkish cuisine as found in most “respectable” restaurants. If this is cuisine that can be announced on their menu – not hidden for questioning by the likes of me - it reveals that Üsküdar knows their customers.

Most ethnic restaurants lose me at dessert. I could manage if French chefs went on strike, but give the pastry chefs whatever they demand. Desserts are France’s gift to cardiology. For the life of me I can’t see how French women continue to look like French women: no one could give up gateau for Lent.

Üsküdar is an exception to my rule that ethnic desserts should be banked for the moment one passes a patisserie. My Kayisi (apricots stuffed with almond and “wheeped cream,”* and powerfully scented with coriander) was as good a Middle Eastern dessert as I have had. My son’s Keskül (coconut pudding) was the sweet soup that bookended my Cacik.

Üsküdar is one of those restaurants that will not reach my “best” list, but at $60 for two it is a restaurant that makes dining in New York not only possible, but charming.

Üsküdar
1405 2nd Avenue (between 73rd and 74th)
New York, NY 10021
212-988-2641
212-794-4872

*I find those who make fun of the misspellings of others beneath contempt, but I make an exception because I prefer this emotive spelling to our excessively sadistic alternative.

Be warned: Üsküdar only takes AMEX.

Johnny’s on the Spot – New York City entry #1

Choosing a first meal in a great culinary metropolis is no easy task. Of course, one might simply begin eating, and let things work themselves out. But if one wished to be more deliberative should one choose Per Se, Rao’s, Four Seasons, Second Avenue Deli, or JoJo (just down the block from my apartment, and, thus, my personal neighborhood bistro)? All would have been worthy choices. Yet, I selected another restaurant entirely, a restaurant that would demonstrate my commitment to “eating the boroughs.”

I selected Johnny’s Reef Restaurant at the tip of City Island – a little goiter sticking out into Long Island Sound from Pelham Park. City Island was originally New York’s shipbuilding center, but that industry, and the Scandinavians who worked in those boatyards have long departed, leaving a string of yacht clubs and seafood restaurants (many Italian). Admittedly my choice was encouraged by the absolutely splendid weather on Labor Day weekend – weather that I found calming, but a New York friend of mine explained made her anxious: 9/11 was such a day. Not only madeleines but climate can take us back.

Johnny’s is an unprepossessing restaurant that reminds New Yorkers of Nathans, with stations where one picks up and pays for different courses: a raw bar, fried fish, drinks, desserts, etc. I selected a half dozen Littleneck Clams, Shrimp Cocktail, Soft-Shell Crabs with Fries, and Johnny’s Sea Breeze, and took my tray out to one of the hundreds of metal tables set up on a concrete slab by the Sound.

I confess that the experience was superior to the food: not just nature’s handiwork, but the congregation of New Yorkers. Perhaps if New York becomes touched by hurricane winds, the cross-ethnic harmonies would not sound so sweet, but today the Gods were on our side.

As a culinary event, the crabs were the highpoint. Half-a-dozen soft-shells, properly cooked and battered for $11.00 with well-made fries. The clams ($5.00) were fresh, if not notably tender, but the juices were sea-salty. The shrimp ($8.00) were edging toward rubbery, but they could be smothered in Cocktail Sauce. Jimmy’s Sea Breeze ($4.00) was cold and otherwise what one might expect at that price.

Yet, one can be too critical of a restaurant that is designed to be a people-processor, and a happy one at that. My forty-five minutes by the Sound made the start of my New York year a moment that will only be rarely matched.

Johnny’s Reef Restaurant
2 City Island Avenue
City Island, Bronx, New York
718-885-2086
(open March through November, closed Friday – what kind of seafood restaurant would close on Friday?)

Moto 3.0

To visit a visionary restaurant three times in six months might seem like an instance of American excess, but in visiting Moto again I have watched Homero Cantu grow from a (remarkable) enfant terrible to a more confident and mature gustatory stylist. To what to attribute such a salutary change, I can not state with confidence, but perhaps one can only have so many food fights before tiring of the cleanup.

Our party selected Moto's ten course menu ($100 plus $60 for the wine progression). (We had fifteen dishes in slightly over four hours). The food was recognizably Homero's creations, but for most of the dishes the tricks and experiments were no longer the point - but contributed to the overall seductive delight of the dish. With but a single exception the versions of those dishes that I had eaten before were markedly improved. Moto now seems firmly about the food, and less about deconstruction theory. I hope that the chef will not take it ill that I was quite pleased not to be served any "dipping dots" - a few iced goes a long way. At times Moto August 2005 seems a more traditional restaurant than Alinea, as often as not to its credit. (Chef Cantu has not reached the same level of confidence in flavors and savors of Chef Achatz, but, as I wrote previously, Cantu is a work in progress).

Matthew McCammon is no longer Moto's general manager and wine director, and I miss his presence. He was uniquely able to select both appropriate and memorable wines for the chefs creations. He has been replaced by Matthew Gundlach, who does an admirable job. One of the nine wines (a luscious, off-sweet Vignalta "Alpianae" Coli Euganei Fior d'arancio, Veneto 2002) was superb. It was filled with lichi and honey notes without the sticky, too-honeyed tastes of lesser Sauternes. The Kesselstatt Mosel Riesling, an Australian Two Hands Shiraz, and a Domaine Schoffit Gewurtztraminer were also very pleasurable for a summer dinner. A Movia, Ribolla from Brda (Slovenia) was worth trying, assertive and full of spice. I missed the Warwick Pinotage (from Stellenbosch, South Africa), promised on the website and one of the very best of the post-Apartheid South African wines, which was replaced by a good, but not terribly special Paulliac, Chateau Behere (it is supposed to have an aroma of pencil lead, but I couldn't taste that as much as the berries that are also characteristic). The big bust of the evening was a harsh and flat Spanish Bodegas Pucho, Bierzo 2003, served with the bass course. The pairing was linked to the bacon in the sauce, but this was not a wine that attracts me (I am not enamored by Spanish reds, other than, sigh, Sangria).

We settled in to consume Chef Cantu's edible menu, swimming in a cream risotto of puffed rice. We can gave our chef little extravagance, an idea that overwhelmed its pleasant taste. No chef treats his Amuse Bouche more amusingly than Homero.

The dinner began with what may be the finest of the forty or so dishes that I have had at Moto: Champagne & King Crab. What made it definitive was that it was a riff on traditional haute cuisine. It was a dish that would only barely have been out of place at Everest or even Lutece. The chef presents small piles of perfectly sweet and delicate king crab in pools of sweet pea puree, precisely flavored with a touch of jalapeno. Nestled under our serving implements (a fork and a spoon, to be clear) was a dollop of exuberant citrus cream. Every bite was a delight. The delight was in part the glorious taste and in part that Chef Cantu didn't feel that he needed to strain to stick a finger in the eye of the culinary establishment. This was a transcendent dish. (Perhaps it is significant that my preferred dish from my five course April menu was also the first: white elf mushrooms with pearl onions).

The second course - a Lesson in Cuitlacoche (huitlacoche by another name) - may become a superb course. Now it suffers from a certain pretension, a work in progress. On the bowl's side is a cuitloche smear (an unappealing brown daub). In the center of the bowl servers pour a nitrogenated saffron foam over popcorn (?!). Perhaps I am not a honors student at Moto U. but I require remedial assistance. The dish seemed, like some earlier attempts, to be done for its own sake. Cuitlacoche has such a distinctive taste and texture that pureeing it was a shame, but perhaps we should be grateful that the chef didn't retreat to his inkjet and create an edible image inspired by a dish of "corn smut." Don't even think it.

One of the most striking dishes of the February LTH 21 course extravaganza (the "raccoon-athon," forever memoralized by Time) was Cantu's "Lobster with Freshly Squeezed Orange Soda." This latest version was far more satisfying and demonstrated that the rough edges of Moto are smoothed. As I recall the earlier version, the Lobster and the carbonated orange were given equal stature, but why? We hope for lobster dreams. This lobster was given top billing with the tingly orange comic relief. The poached lobster (again, precisely fresh) was enrobed in a velvety celery root (buerre blanc?) sauce, with a tight scoop of brown butter ice cream. Perhaps ice cream and lobster can't work, but it did this warm weekend. The orange was homage, not sabotage. As in the opening preparation, Cantu creatively rethought haute cuisine, rather than discovering victuals on some other planet. It is cheering to see that dishes are critically rethought.

Because of the passion of one of our party - "Sweetbreads & Cheese Grits", a dish on the grand menu - was added to our menu and it was a jewel. The sweetbreads were prepared in a tempura batter and nestled with cheese grits. Cheese grits and sweetbreads belong together, not at all offal (yes, I'm deeply ashamed ). With the presence of collards, sweet potato, and Krispy Kreme Soup on the menu one wonders whether Chef Cantu is pursing a southern strategy.

We turned to "Artichoke, Balsamic and Macadamia" - one bite wonder. Some at the table didn't find the artichoke flavor sufficiently intense, but with vinegar this good, who would notice. We did, but it didn't prevent a highly satisfying bite.

The next course, "French Fry (Sweet) Potato Chain Links, Sweet Potato Pie and Veal Breast," was another revision from the first menu, and, again, a far superior version. (I had found that earlier version, more curiosity than culinary). This was much better realized, and the chef is coming to reveal his attention to core ingredients, in this case veal breast. If the chain carving lacked the intricacy of winter, but the dining satisfaction was higher. Veal goes well with sweet potatoes in a pairing that might otherwise be startling.

At the moment that the artichoke bite was served, our servers revealed Cantu's Magic Boxes. Tonight he slow cooked sea bass: "Bass With a Grilled Tomatillo Broth." Again it was a remarkably improved version of "Bouillabaisse Deconstructed then Reconstructed Tableside." Even the titles reveals a shift from technology to cuisine. The bass was sited in a subtle broth with the happy addition of chantrelles, paprika, jalapeno, and bacon. It rivaled the king crab for its elegance, and it, too, was a dish of which any chef would be proud.

Following this highpoint came the meat dish - "Beef with collards." This was a new dish, and it rather modest. I wished for a more assertive hunk of flesh, but it was not to be. This was a good dish, but would have been better if it hadn't come after the masterful fish in a box. Admittedly in a ten course meal, this is the point that some diners are slowing down, but the presentation seemed designed to display the corkscrew silverware rather than the meat.

As we slide towards dessert, we were presented with "Spanish Strofoam, Manchego & Chorizo," one of the two least successful dishes of the evening. When visiting Moto in February, I was agape at the presentation of butter flavored packing peanuts. What seemed inspired in February seemed annoying in a larger dish that should be about taste. Diners might appreciate these startling snacks at the start or end, but let us be semi-serious. When mixed in a complex dish with cheese, sausage, bayleaf jelly, apple butter, the dish - despite astonishing visual appeal - didn't work in its own terms or as a means of presented Cantu's unique signature, which at the consumption had become somewhat soggy. If this is eye candy, I might diet.

Our palate cleanser was a surprising drink of watermelon and cilanto essences, as processed through a centrifuge to purify it. Some chefs might have been satisfied with a strainer, but perhaps Argonne National Laboratory was free. However achieved, the combination of strong fruit with herbal flavors was a stunning success. In its glass, one was recalled the shimmering light of absinthe, making this green fairy magical.

"Doughnut soup" is a Moto signature: essence of Krispy Kreme. If this won't gain Moto a James Beard award, it is a rich pleasures of dining at Moto.

The first dessert was my least favorite dish. Honesty demands that I confess that I find desserts at Moto generally less compelling than the main courses. And so it was with "Strawberry, Rice Pudding, Peanut & Soy Ice Cream." I might have dodged the bullet had I announced that I am not supposed to eat soy (Nobody should eat soy, but that is a rant for another day). The crisp topping was soggy and the flavors seemed neither bright or compelling.

We were blessed by a more compelling dessert - "Fettuccine Alla Dolce" - slightly sweetened pasta with a light basil thyme sauce, and milk chocolate ice cream. If it was not the most satisfying dessert, it was delightful, again with a proper herbal note to cut the sweetness.

The final touch was a lovely take on a white chocolate truffle, filled with a liquid mango-ginger center. Delicious. The ginger recast the otherwise mundane mango liqueur.

A recognition of the defensible boundaries of haute cuisine is transforming the Cantu style. This was the first moment that I felt ready recommend Moto to any friend who enjoys fine dining, even if they lack a background in Jacques Derrida's mischievous deconstruction. It is satisfying to see that Chef Cantu can paint within the lines, only straying when he must, and not when he wants. I edge Moto 3.0 to 3.5 stars; yet I suspect that I may never award four stars. If I do, I would enjoy the experience measurably less.

Moto
945 West Fulton Market
Chicago, IL 60607
312-491-0058