Pica at Picco UPDATE – Boston

There are only two places in Boston where I’ll go just for the pie. Because I’ve never been a huge fan of pie. There’s something about gooey fruit that proves too stingingly sweet-n-sour, and my threshold caps at apple. But Fireplace has a strawberry-rhubarb that’s to die for, and then there’s the pie at Picco. Not a drop of gooey fruit here, just the ever-changing, always-evolving pizza special, and there’s no saying how far I’d go for a piece of that pie.

Picco changes with the seasons, and you’ll always find something you want in any weather. The fall-themed Brussels Sprouts, Butternut Squash & Fontina had greens as bitter as the cold of a New England fall. And look no further for the leaves to change as you gape at the greens, tomato reds, and orange squash that adorn this amazing piece.

In the dead of a February winter, what better way to break the ice than with steaming slabs of Pork Belly & Spiced Alioli? Pork belly tastes good on everything, and this pie was no exception. Alioli makes the world taste better, and it can only improve on the dreaded pasty marinaras carried by all the chains. Sorry Domino’s, there’s no place for you here.

For dessert, you get a massive free scoop of ice cream if you check in on Yelp. The caramel swirl is pure spun strands of sugar in a scoop of milk and more sugar. The ice cream is too sweet for my liking, but nothing is sweeter than ice cream for free.

At $14 for a small pizza plus a free scoop of ice cream, Picco easily feeds two for $10 each, including tax and tip. And the service was impeccable. I originally gave Picco 4 stars, and to this day, I can’t say why. At the end of the day, I’d pay any amount for a pizza this good, but these perfect, practically cheap-eat pizzas get five stars all the way.

Mouthwatering Mamacita – San Francisco

A perfect taco is impossible. You throw a bunch of things into a tiny shell and hope you can squeeze everything in without busting the taco. Some ingredients layer with all the precision of a French croissant, while others pile and accumulate wherever they choose. How much of each ingredient goes on the taco? Some people sprinkle and others palm a fist-full. And somehow Mamacita’s tacos work.  The ingredients aren’t exact, but each one compensates for the others, filling in wherever one is lacking. And together they roll flawlessly across your tongue, smooth as a well-oiled machine.

The only thing I can compare to a machine so well-oiled is a strong internal medicine team. I want to say that’s because internal medicine is all about the team work, but I think it’s really because internal medicine is taking over my life. And I’m a huge nerd. The thing is, my well-oiled machine theory varies for every team. In a good team, everyone brings their own special something to the table, but in the best team, those special somethings mesh and somehow they bring out the best in everyone.

The perfectly seasoned cubes of steak of the Carne Asada Tacos were strong enough to stand alone. But no team of strong interns is complete without a resident’s lead. With a strong steak as a base, the right amount of guidance from the toppings just builds upon and carries the meaty momentum. Just a few chunks of beefy, juice-dripping steak would get old pretty fast without a queso to soften the stress and a chill chimichurri to lighten the mood.

It’s hard to say which is better, the Carne Asada or the Carnitas Tacos. Where the pork is heavy, the salsa is light. The pico picks up the slack, and the arugula steps in when the pico falls short. The chicharron adds a crunch to keep the pork from going soft, and the soft shell wraps up the rounds and protects the team with all the accommodation of an autonomy-driven attending.

The tacos worked in harmony, but the Enchiladas Rojas Sencillas are what happens when a team just doesn’t gel. Even when the team looks good from the outside, the bursting bunches of dry, flavorless chicken hide within if you dig just a little bit deeper. The chicken hides behind the pretty mole amarillo, which isn’t quite talented enough to carry the chicken through. But far be it from me to let one mediocrity mar my marvelous night. I won’t order the enchiladas again, but I will wash my taco down with a chip full of Guacamole al Don any day. 

Pour House – Boston

I could be a snob. I could turn my nose up and my thumb down at this puny patty that tops this poor excuse for a burger. I could sneer at the copious crumbles of bleu cheese that outnumber the crumbles of beef in the patty of this sad Wisconsin Burger. I could gag on the wilted slice of lettuce, but I picked it off instead. Just for tonight, I’m holding my side of snob. Because this boring burger isn’t just any burger, it’s a half off burger. And there is nothing thumbs down about paying $3 for a burger AND a side of the best straight-up French fries I’ve had in months. I got more than my money’s worth on these fries alone, especially with my special blend of ketchup and Sriracha.

If the half-price burger isn’t convincing enough, drown your doubts in a 22 oz. beer for just $6. Sam Adams brews a mean lager, and UFO white is all of a lady’s lightness, though no one feels light after one of these foaming monster-glasses.

Disclaimer: I do love deals, but there’s a reason the food here is cheap. Pour House is a bar so dive that pour is a pithy play on words rather than a description of the drinks they serve. So snub it as you see fit, but do remember that a decent meal at Pour House won’t land you in the poorhouse.

Kati Roll – NYC

I never thought I'd have too much fine dining, but I had my fill. I wanted lunch, but I just couldn't bring myself to sit down at yet another high-cost counter. It didn’t help that I was broke and aching to find some five-dollar fare. Forget how much it costs, there is no fare finer than a roll of Kati. The Unda Aloo is my all-time favorite – the egg lightens the heavily well-seasoned potatoes for a balance of protein and starch. The Chicken Tikka Roll is too dense and a bit dry, and the Shami Kabob Roll is loaded with lamb that drips way too much grease to be healthy or appetizing. But the Achari Paneer hits the spot if you’re craving protein or just not potato.

Even if you’re not hungry, you should never walk by Kati Roll. Just stick to simple the Unda Roll, a no-frills roll-up lined with egg, if you must. It’s also ideal if you’re craving something light or just can’t eat another bite, but believe me, you always want a Kati Roll. 

Epic Eats at Via Matta UPDATE – Boston

The unthinkable happened at Via Matta. I added salt to my food. Not a pinch, not a sprinkle but a full heaping teaspoon over a modest half-portion of the Cavatelli, a dish almost too small to hold a standard crème brulee. But a pinch of salt can go a long way, and a teaspoon uncovered the once-bland bouquet of crab and seafood after a strong stir. The milled tomatoes became fresh instead of mealy, and the salt seemed to breathe new life into the once lifeless pasta. And although no amount of salt could locate the elusive sea urchin the menu claimed it contained, I did curb my craving for crab…kind of.

The ribbons of Papardelle were unthinkably al dente, so perfectly chewy and flexible I could have used them to tie a bow around the tender braised lamb. The sausage added a subtle spice, and the pecorino was just a dusting of glitter on a perfect package.

I used to think that anise tasted like a much ruder, somewhat similar-sounding word with a different vowel, but Estragon served up some anise-based drinks for my birthday, and I had to reassess my aversion. Besides, I also had to reconcile my love for pho. Then the vanilla-anise French toast at City Girl Café really made me reevaluate, and if all that wasn’t enough to prove that anise doesn’t taste nearly as bad as it sounds, I officially, unthinkably, stand corrected after a taste of Via Matta’s Anise Gnocchi. The anise is a hint as strong as a pick-up line, only not quite so desperate or overpowering. Its Tuscan kale accompaniment is equally bold and bitter in the creamy-ish sauce, but when you put it together, the smoothness is unbelievable.

The last mushroom walks into the Mushroom Mezzalune and says, “There’s always mush-room for more mushroom!” And this entire plate groans not only at my terrible attempt at humor but also under the sheer mass of these juicy, chewy little caps. I groaned too but it was more like a moan when the tincture of truffle sunk in and lingered. It’s impossible to think that something so simple could be so good. Even if you don’t like mushrooms, this is still the dish for you.

When the dessert menu came I did the unthinkable yet again. I have a congenital condition that makes it impossible to say no to panna cotta…until I saw Mascaporeos. Unlike anise, these are as they sound, crumbly chocolaty cookies waiting to be submerged in a pot of mascarpone. The cookies are a heavy chocolate, but the mascarpone is the feather-light, carefully concocted cookie-topper of my adult Dunkaroo dreams.

Clearly this was the night of things I don’t usually do. It’s a good thing it ended with this dessert… Gnocchi, cookies n’ cream, mushroom ravioli. At first glance, Via Matta’s menu looks so tried and true. , but take it from me, these dishes are anything but cookie cutter.

Glorious Garden at the Cellar - Cambridge

Now that we’ve embarked on a cross-country tour of indulgence, it’s time to come home so let’s bring it on back, all the way back to Beantown. And let’s get low, all the way below the floor, to Garden at the Cellar. After almost 4 years in Boston…ahem, excuse me, the “greater Boston area”, for all that city snobbery and all your peripheral pride, I really thought that I was over the food scene here. I’ve been there and done that. I’ve missed a few major spots, but once you’ve had ten, you’ve kinda had them all. So now I have my faves and I have my never-agains, but just when I thought I couldn’t possibly find anything new, I stumbled upon Garden at the Cellar.

Now that I’m back in Boston after long months of travel, I’m back to my life too. I’m back to my day-to-day as a med student, back to my food scene as a Bostonian, two things I stopped appreciating until I realized they could be missed. But then a place like Garden at the Cellar comes along, and suddenly all those things I took for granted are twirling round and round right before my eyes, like my classmates in their beautiful dresses dancing our last dance at our last med school dance. I don’t love all my classmates equally, but each of them witnessed my journey from clueless college grad to clueless doctor, just like I witnessed theirs. And I don’t love all Boston restaurants equally, but like my classmates, they followed me through my journey from opinionated eater to fastidious foodie.

When I first came to Boston, I didn’t even know Bacon-Wrapped Dates existed. I knew that dates sometimes came encircled by lard, but that’s another story for another time. I also learned that you don’t really know the definition of fine dining until you’re slammed with a gooey barrel of blue cheese bound by a salty-crisp strip. And it wasn’t until my friends helped me study physiology to pass that I realized just how exceptional they were.

There are some things a good med student never says no to. Every opportunity to throw a line of sutures should be grasped with the vise-grip of a locked Kelly clamp, and every chance to sink your teeth into Foie Gras and Cheddar Donuts should be jumped on like front-row tickets to the Celtics. Unfortunately, the Celtics went down to the Rockets in double-overtime at the one game I saw, a defeat as ignominious as my plate of overcooked foie gras. The donuts were as dense as the opposing team’s field goals, and the crabapple compote did nothing to sweeten the sour loss.

I wanted to try the smoked sturgeon, but when I heard the special was Bone Marrow, I was all in. Because bone marrow reminds me of my time in med school, something impossibly rich that I will always be able to savor, for all the years to come. I’ve never forgotten a single bite of bone marrow I’ve taken, and I don’t think I’ll ever remember my class any way but fondly. Even when things aren’t ideal, like the slightly stringy beef short-rib, a sprinkle of the bone marrow will still make it just a little bit better.

After two years of science and two years of clinic, there is nothing I love more than the satire of a serious subject. And Garden at the Cellar had me at the Animal Burger, a beef patty covered with California contraband, its namesake a staple of their precious In-N-Out.

My feelings about the Animal Burger alternated with each bite, much like each and every med school lecture. Med school tried to cram too many dense, rich, complex things from cover to cover, but somehow we digested it all. And between the pate, the crackling pork skin and the thick beef patty, I'm surprised I could even fit my mouth around it. Just make sure multiple people share this burger, which is hard when you're a med student, since most of us are too busy studying to actually have friends.

In med school, I had the best of times and I had the worst of times. Everything we did was the product of intense, over-achieving crammers determined to palm the world with our fingertips. And sometimes, I think we did, but part of the balancing act is to know when you’ve grabbed enough. A little restraint goes a long way the night before the boards, and no one ever failed from not doing the optional 5-hour surgery. And that's why I struggle with Garden at the Cellar. I love it, and like all the places I hit during indulgence week, this place has mastered the luxurious, the over-the-top, and the bit-too-much. But a med student has limited power for a reason, and a chef with free reign over the world's finest ingredients should see the great responsibility that lies with his power. But there's also a reason that Garden at the Cellar has become one of my greater-Boston favorites: Their chef has no restraint, and neither do I.