Trusty Tresca – Boston

Tresca is one of North End’s pedigree puppies. There isn’t a person in the world who doesn’t love a perfect golden retriever, and there isn’t a person in the world who doesn’t love something on Tresca’s menu.

The golden retriever is the embodiment of the dog behind the white picket fence of the American dream. The Crespelle al Forno is the embodiment of the appetizer dream. Cleverly conceived concoction of eggrolled crepes covering a creamy ricotta and juicy mushrooms, the sautéed mushrooms on the side are just extra slices from the cake of happiness.

The salad (can’t remember the name but it had arugula, parmesean, pears, and pine nuts) is the perfect combination of tasty to make tastier…like giving a Beggin’ Strip-wrapped MilkBone to a puppy. The sweet pear with the light dressing are a tangy enhancement of the bitter green, and the pine nuts add an extra bit of savory. I rarely get salads, but I don’t need a comparison to recognize the quality of this one.

The Pappardelle with Mushroom Cream Sauce was their pasta special that day, replete with long ribbons of pappardelle, floppy like happy puppy ears, sliding down smoothly with the velvety texture of a creamy mushroom sauce. The side of Grilled Asparagus was perfect as well. Sadly for the pasta, spinach and mushroom, however fresh, with cream sauce, however silky smooth, and the portion size, however generous, didn’t really warrant the asking price. That’s why you get to negotiate with breeders.

We skipped dessert so I can’t really comment on that, but I don’t doubt that their desserts are as quality as the food. But why shell out for that when you can crunch on the crispy shell of a Mike’s cannoli across the street?

So Tresca really is Hanover’s pedigree puppy. Expensive but reliable, loyally committed to giving you its best. The Italian food with a pedigree from the licensed breeder Hanover Street comes with a pretty infallible guarantee that your puppy will be one of the best puppies to grace the streets of Boston. But you need to pay for it. And I’d be just as happy paying an adoption fee for the animal shelter’s smartest mutt. Same quality, fairer price. Just know that the standard pappardelle at Tresca doesn’t even come close to the less expensive but absolutely exceptional pappardelle at Via Matta, and when given the choice, I’d go to Via Matta every time.

Important last thought: Bear in mind that I’ve only had vegetarian dishes so I’m not sure I can accurately assess the rest of the menu, which is mostly meat. But if their vegetarian food in any way reflects their meat, I can promise you a palatable plate.

Important final disclaimer: despite the extended dog analogy, their food in no way resembles dog food and considering the outrage Jonathan Swift faced after “A Modest Proposal”, I should probably also include the disclaimer that I am by no means suggesting you should eat puppies. Though if you really needed that disclaimer, I have a rather strong opinion on exactly what you can eat…

Loathsome Legal Harborside - Boston

The 2^nd Floor of Legal Harborside is a stem cell…that died. With a breathtaking waterfront location, pristine dining room, tasty drinks, and a menu that screamed of quality seafood, this imposing structure stood full of promise. Tragically, this stem cell never differentiated, and instead of becoming the neuron that I so desperately wanted it to be, it just rolled over and died.

The promise was manifest in the saintly patience of the staff. Thanks to a couple of incompetent cabbies, our group ended up being 45 minutes late for our reservation, but the host and hostess showed no signs of irritation.

Unfortunately, when it was time to order, Legal Harborside redefined the phrase “to die for”. Apparently their tasting menu is so illustriously elusive that when the majority of a table of 8 wants to order it, and the remainder of the table is fatally allergic to half the things on it, it is not possible to accommodate that. The waiter found it appropriate to repeatedly inform us, that the tasting menu can only be served to the entire table. Translation: order from the regular menu or die. This is the comment that killed the stem cell, and believe me, all attempts to revive it failed miserably.

My Olive Oil Poached Tuna had beluga lentils that looked and tasted like the barnacles you’d scrape off the bottom of the whale. Dry, flat, hard, grainy little black disks of blandness, it’s like the items of this dish were assembled with whatever the kitchen had left over. The pork belly wasn’t actually pork belly. It was more likely just pork with a crispy skin. Or a pig with an eating disorder…The meat was tender and the skin was tasty, but it did nothing to help the bland, perfectly seared tuna.

On a slightly higher note, the Misty Knoll Farms Chicken was actually juicy. Not as well-made as it could have been, but not at all dry with some flavor going past skin-deep. The ravioli was pretty genius, enclosing a poached egg that poured radiant rays of yolky sunshine on the surrounding white canvas of mashed potatoes speckled with tasty wild mushrooms. This Russian-nesting-doll egg-ravioli saved the entire dish, turning it into a remote bright stop in my evening.

To give credit where it’s due, two of my tablemates insisted that the Alaskan king crab topping their Filet Mignon was incredible. They seemed to thoroughly enjoy it so if you’re lucky, the menu may have at least one good thing.

The dessert ended my night on a note as sour as the bottom of an old Petri dish. The chocolate mousse they advertised turned out to be more of a gooey indecision. Too moist to be a brownie, too dry to be a mousse. WTF Legal, WTF?

I feel some residual guilt writing a bad review since the hosts were so polite about our tardiness, but I imagine that even the most professional of scientists probably punch a pillow or something when their prized stem cell dies. I’m also betting it’s easier to be patient when only half the dining room is full at 7 PM on a Friday night.

As much as I liked the ritzy dining room, adored the drinks, and loved the company, it did precious little to convince me that Legal Harborside is anything more than Boston’s waterfront version of the Vegas strip - not much more than pretty lights trimming a hollow core. 

No Whining at Wine Cellar UPDATE - Boston

 

Thanks to a generous gift certificate, the roomie and I returned for a second and last taste of whine-free Wine Cellar to feast on French we didn’t need to cook ourselves. I missed out on the wine again thanks to my 4:30 AM wake-up schedule, but we didn’t skimp on the food. Just a tip, this review becomes far more amusing if you read some parts of it with a nasal French accent and laugh like Pepe le Pew…but less creepy…no means no dude…just sayin’…

The French Onion Soup was just le soup. Basic beef consommé base rife with onion, soppy bread, and a thick layer of gruyere made for a tasty, standard starter, a French warm-up for the plaisir of the palate.

My Rack of Lamb was double-thick and had more fat than a liposuction machine. But the French do know how to cook their meat. The pretty-en-rose medium rare didn’t pour blood but dripped just enough to fill an ABG vial. The subtle sophistication of the French was manifest in the mushroom rosemary reduction which added richness without being overpowering. The meat needed some serious liposuction and would have retained more of the gamey lamb flavor if it had been less fatty, but it wasn’t a bad dish…Which is more than I can say for the side of potatoes gratin. My French has gotten rusty over the years, but I’m pretty sure gratin doesn’t mean so-overbaked-they’re-grainy nastiness. I actually spat it out. It was le grossest.

The Steak Frites was far better than I expected. Great flavor in the beef, loved the creamy saveur added by the bernaise. Between the bernaise and the reduction on the lamb, I may propose marriage to the saucier at Wine Cellar shortly. (Like most French people), the side was thin-but-not-anorexic sticks of perfectly frite fries, crispy and golden brown but not at all greasy. To be fair, would you expect any less from the inventors of the pommes frites? A kiss on both cheeks for mastering this classique.

You can cook your own food well at Wine Cellar, but I don’t recommend letting them cook it for you. The food doesn’t stink like Pepe le Pew, but then again, most things are comparatively neutral. Order from the non-fondue menu and you’ll get typical French meat-and-potatoes dishes – some well-made highlights with none of the Oo-la-la factor of Aquitaine. I’d come back if the prices weren’t so en haut, but until I acquire another substantial gift certificate, I’ll save my money for a new endroit.

 

Boston Tea Party at Bond - Boston

When I brought that first cup of tea to my lips, I felt the way I often did during the beginning of my 3^rd year of med school. As a wide-eyed, brand new student on the wards, I had no idea what my role was at any given time. As a 3^rd year, am I supposed to take the bandage off and change it or do I wait for the attending or resident? As a transplant Bostonian, am I supposed to drink the tea or dump it in the harbor? I didn’t dump the tea at Bond. It was too cold to run all the way to the harbor, but I might have if it would have helped me protest Boston’s sales tax.

As for Bond, Bond is the place where modern girls nurse their hangovers and divulge the state of their affairs with curled pinkies under the splendor of three hanging chandeliers. This is the closest you get to a garden party in Boston winter.  The $30 (plus sales tax) is a bit pricey for a non-meal, but then again, what are you willing to pay for old-school glamour and a little bit of class? Just understand before venturing to Bond that afternoon tea is about the tea. It’s not meant to be a meal so walk to the nearby Chinatown if it’s large platters of food you seek.

The Egg “Mimosa” had unearthly smoked salmon with a deep smoky flavor, perfectly smooth texture, and just enough to make a hard-boiled egg slide down smoothly. The Mushroom Tart had the telltale taste of fresh mushrooms, and I could actually believe that they were the result of a recent foraging expedition. The Cucumber Sandwich is yet another light refreshment, but I didn’t care for the salty Ham Roulade. Overall the small plate of refreshing mains is a clever way to make you feel like you ate real food while leaving you not too full to savor the scones.

The Scones were the perfectly doughy and in the crumbly, classical style of the English. With Devonshire cream and the first truly luscious lemon curd I’ve had, these surprisingly-filling subtleties were the highlight of my afternoon. As a bonus, you get to feel elegant spreading with the new-moon blade of the curved knife.

The desserts were hardly memorable. The sugary Macaroon and the Chocolate-Covered Strawberry were tasty tidbits, but the dry, flavorless Madeleine seemed to have had all the sugar kicked out of it by the sickening Berry Trifle, a difficult finish to the scrumptious scones.

Now on to the tea. Afternoon tea is the age-old tradition of watching life go by and thinking about it as it goes. Tea is a reflection of who you are, who you think you are, and sometimes who you want to be. Josephine’s tea was the White Ginger Pear. Light, pretty, and sweet, the ginger goes with the pear, and the white brightens your afternoon.

I had the Orchid Vanilla. A dessert tea before dessert, unthinkable but so unthinkably good. Like every other bite of this meal.