Comida Francaise at Chez Henri – Cambridge

I came to Chez Henri with no expectations, curious about just how a Cuban-infused Frenchman conducts himself. Does he smell of fresh baguette while he dances salsa? Does he add wine to his Cuba Libre (rum and coke)? Will the steak frites have habanero? Or will it be a menu of dueling cultures, a less bad version of Sibling Rivalry? Turns out, a miniscule bit of both.

The Ceviche Mixta was a fine fare, brought forth in martini glass within a vase. Yes, you heard me, martini glass within a vase. The ceviche itself was fresh and cold with a nice touch of mango and a tasty accompaniment of plantain chips. It was standard ceviche by all standards, but it served a higher purpose for me. Thanks to its bizarre presentation, I now know exactly what to do when I accidentally break the stem off one of my martini glasses after my b/f gets me flowers.

I usually steer clear of items like Chicken-Fried Quail, but I swear this was the sexiest quail I’ve ever had. Yes, quail can be sexy. I wouldn’t believe me either, but I tasted it. And it tasted sexy. I feared that the frying would mask the flavor of this seductive little gamebird, but it actually enhanced it. Like a well-tailored corset, the breading was a second skin (since the first was stripped off) and magnified the gamey-ness, giving the quail a dark, smoldering taste that conjures a dark-haired temptress from the Moulin Rouge.

The Steak Frites were the formal French fare you’d expect. Juicy steak, seared to the ne plus ultra of medium rare with crispy fries, frites by those who invented them. I’ve had far better, less mealy cuts of steak, but the bordelaise sauce was praise-worthy, and it hits the bullseye of cravings for French fare.

I tried the Criollo Bouillabaisse with great trepidation – any soupy seafood concoction will inevitably turn out to be either a fantastic feast or an utter disaster comparable only to the heinous proportions of fashion attained by the indescribably hideous Crocs. Fortunately, this was far better than Crocs. Not as thick as I’d like a stew to be, but full of fresh clams and mussels with a heaping helping of salmon and a white fish I can only guess was cod. A nicely fused dish, enhanced by a sprinkle of saffron and a kick of chipotle-garlic rouille.

The Chocolate Gateau dessert was Chez Henri’s number one endearing quality. As seductive as the quail, the long, dark, moist legs of chocolate cake interlaced with the best thick, buttery vanilla cream I’ve ever had in my life. It is rare for me to be seduced by a dessert, but for that one moment in time, it was enough to make me believe I no longer needed men.

So in the end, the “fusion” aspect of Chez Henri is, like the French, rather subtle. More understated that overstated, the bouillabaisse was probably the only item of true fusion. Aside from a sprinkle of saffron in a couple of entrees and the appearance of the classically Spanish ceviche, there is no real fusion in the food. Though the dishes were close enough to 4-star good, my disappointment in this establishment is slicing half a star off the top. Cuban cuisine opens myriad plumes of potential yet Chez Henri has not yet proven to be a capable multi-tasker. It seems that the food is mostly French and can only really be French or Cuban, not both. Though there is nothing truly reproachable about Chez Henri, and I could even see myself growing fond of it, I probably wouldn’t make the trek to Porter Square again. It’s far too far for far too few fusions.

Seriously Satisfying Sons of Essex – NYC

I may be goofy-happy whenever I’m in NYC, but I’m anything but goofy when it comes to food. And Sons of Essex. I’m dead serious about Sons of Essex. Sons of Essex has an almost cliché storefront for an NYC establishment. Miniscule, easily passable, made to look like yet another hole in the wall, yet another deli.  And the ingredients they use are mundane deli fare, but there’s nothing mundane about the combinations they come up with.

If Sloppy Judah had betrayed Sloppy Joe for a few pieces of silver when I was in grade school, I may have started liking his namesake sandwich sooner (too soon?).The fried egg under the crispy-soft bun runs over the short rib, adding to the gooey guarantee of a heart attack. I’ve been told that Manischewitz is a gross refreshment, but it sure tastes good when short rib is braised in it…Maybe if they started dipping short rib into Manischewitz regularly I would attend more Seders…

Once I was done chuckling about the name, I found that there was nothing laughable about the Eggs Benedictowitz. Black discs of burnt latkes that looked like they were doused by giant fleeing squid…did someone tell the squid he wasn’t kosher? These were serious latkes…seriously burnt! I know some people like them burnt to a crisp, but I for one didn’t enjoy being assaulted by the taste of char, oy vey! To be fair, they were burnt impressively evenly – uniformly black without a single spot of crumbling soot…I always thought that burnt food reflected a lack of skill, but clearly not in this case. The smoked salmon was quite serious as well. I’ve had plenty of lox, but this stuff was almost creamy/buttery, supporting salmon’s reputation as a fatty fish. Word from the wise: eat this dish first. It’s hard to stomach after half the sloppy Judah – it’s just too rich to follow anything, and it’s literally a good death by salmon.

And what brunch is complete without a side of Truffle Tater Tots? Perfect crispy golden-brown cylinders of baller truffle goodness…I could eat the entire basket myself!

It’s hard to clear your plate at Sons of Essex because everything is just so over-the-top rich and heavy. Then again, why complain about having those leftovers of lunch the next day? But if you’re aching for gluttony and deep down want to spring for the extra everything, Sons of Essex promises to take care of that. The menu doesn’t give you a choice – every dish is just too much, and if will scratch that itch no matter how deep it goes (that's what she said). Light brunches are for sissies, and Sons of Essex is where real men (and women!) gorge themselves, and believe me, there is no way to leave unsatisfied.

Son of a…is rarely a compliment, but I’d be proud to be son of an Essex. Though I don’t know Essex, and I don’t know his sons, they must have been morbidly obese. And I plan to grow fat with them over brunch in NYC.

I Melt for Tupelo - Cambridge

For those who are not diehard fans of my fave country boy-band Rascal Flatts (before they sold out with their whiny crossover hit “What Hurts the Most”), this review is written as a giant reference to the lyrics of their many hit songs. The links are to the songs in case you want to know just what the heck I’m actually alluding to. And if you think I’ve gone off the deep end with this review, fear not, I’ll be back to my snarky self in the next one.

I set out on a narrow way, many years ago. Hoping I would find true southern cooking along the broken road through Cambridge. I got lost a time or two, wiped my brow, kept pushing through. I couldn’t see how every sign pointed straight to Tupelo.

                                                              

Every long lost dream lead me to the Fried Grits. Others who broke my heart, they were like Northern stars pointing me on my way into the loving creamy buttery filling under a lightly fried shell. This much I know is true: that god blessed the broken road that led me straight to Tupelo.

Southern Fried Chicken is hard to make well, and I’m guessing all that pressure often makes chefs feel like a candle in a hurricane when they’re trying to get it right. The chefs at Tupelo were neither alone nor helpless, never lost their fight, and the fried chicken turned out way better than alright. Cuz when push comes to shove, the chicken was made of crispy brown batter, with not a single soggy spot, and a nice kick of spice. The side of collared greens had enough vinegar to make me bend and break cuz it’s all I can take and with my tastebuds on their knees, vinegar made me a bit mad by getting so overpoweringly strong, but I wiped my mouth and shook it off, and that’s how I stand. But when it comes to the chicken, well…I could definitely stand for a lot more of that.

The side of Jalapeno Mac & Cheese didn’t taste a day over fast cars and freedom. A childlike classic with a kick creates a first time feelin’. That jalapeno was hot, but we gave it a chance. And if anyone deserves a chance, it’s the mac & cheese. And don’t forget to just sit there and let a side of spicy-sweet pickles take you back.

I melt every time I look at the Beer Battered Crepes that way.  This savory classic never fails, anytime, any place. The hot melted gruyere with a steamy assortment of impossibly flavorful wild mushrooms was burning me but it one of the coolest things I’ve ever tasted. I melt…

The Mud Pie with 3 Musketeers ice cream and the Pecan Pie with Tupelo honey ice cream are the best desserts I’ve had all year, maybe EVER. Though these desserts are borrowed from Petsie Pies and Toscanini’s, it’s never a bad idea to borrow what someone else does better – just look at the Hippocratic Oath! Besides, the chef of Petsie Pies is also a chef at Tupelo so it’s not really even borrowing when it comes to the pies. These pies were pieces of perfection – no twists or surprises but the best mud pie and pecan pie I’ve ever had. They were ordinary, plain and simple, typical and deserving of my everyday love. Same ol’ but keeping it new. Amazingly delicious explosion of sweetness, so familiar, nothing about it too peculiar. But I can’t get enough of my everyday love for pie.

I’m gonna stand on a rooftop, climb up a mountaintop, scream and shout. I wanna sing it on the radio, show it on my food blog, leave no doubt. I want the foodie world to know just what southern cooking is all about. I just wanna love Tupelo out loud.

Awe-Inspiring Aragosta - Boston

Finally, a waterfront restaurant that isn’t a tourist trap! I’m usually wary of hotel restaurants too as they traditionally cater to the overly pampered vacationers and are often served with a side of sell-out. But not Aragosta! At Aragosta, the food is the very articulation of the high standards set by the authentic city-slickers.

And what city experience is complete without a more numerous and more attractive version of the Sex and the City cast at the next table? They weren’t particularly loud, but sitting in the middle of Aragosta’s dining room is an acoustic nightmare. Then again, the situation was no one’s fault, and people always tell me I need to speak up anyway so no stars lost.

A detail I did love about the dining room was the clever use of curtains on all 4 sides at the center of the restaurant. It made my table feel less exposed, less awkwardly public, but even a concrete wall couldn’t drown out the adjacent SATC girls. The good news is, they inspired me to write this post. Sorry guys, roll your eyes freely but let me have my rare girly moment…

For starters, loved the Calamari Salad. Loved that they served the calamari rings cold and as is, without covering them in greasy breading. The chilled chewy rings were the best rings a girl could wish for, and calamari is a girl’s best friend at Aragosta, with the refreshing combined effort of sharp bitter greens and salty tapenade. This dish culminated in a crisp, carefree concoction, much like SATC’s fabulously raw, raunchy Samantha Jones. Like Samantha’s lack of subtlety, all the elements of the calamari salad are out in the open, exposed for all to feast upon.

My entrée was the Fluke, an accurate description of at least half of Carrie Bradshaw’s fashion choices, IMHO – I’m just not into most of her garish vintage vices. This dish, however, is as complex as Carrie’s shoe collection. She’s indubitably high maintenance yet I still occasionally find an angle that surprises me. The fish was flaky-fresh, not too heavily seasoned to just appreciate the pure flavor. The bed of bead-like pieces of pasta with the occasional buried clam made for an authentic experience – every time I searched for a clam, I felt like I was digging in big balls of chewy, tasty sand. Except the clams weren’t sandy at all. Like Carrie, this dish is a conglomeration of distinct pieces, and I for one thoroughly enjoyed the realistic simulation of digging for clams and the thrill of the chase, and I’m guessing Big and Aidan did too…

My dining companion had the Herb Roasted Organic Chicken, a classy, no frills dish, the embodiment of the no-fuss-no-muss keep-it-simple elegance of Miranda Hobbs. The chicken was juicy with a nice roasted flavor, and I was told that the mushroom polenta was also quite good.

The refreshing Olive Oil Cake is the well-polished Park-Avenue Charlotte York/Goldblatt with the exquisite attention to detail and refreshingly shocking hint of freshness. The olive oil cake is a non-prude classic, and the lemon citrus flavor and cold creamy strawberry ice cream are far from boring. A composed combination, Charlotte is a class act, but who can forget when she flashed the naval captain during Fleet Week?...Remember when she jumped the bald guy who would later become her husband?

I often fear going to restaurants during restaurant week, and I often go with the expectation that the quality of the food will be lower than usual to account for mass production. Not at Aragosta! The food is as unique as each SATC girl, each dish with its own flavors and character, rounding out a classic pack of lifelong brunch buddies.

A Brief Defense of the Service (optional further reading):

The service was at worst on the good side of standard. No one rolled out a red carpet, and no one wiped my mouth for me, but I hardly felt neglected. The food came promptly but at a reasonable pace, no empty plates outstayed their welcome, and the server checked on us a few times so that we felt wanted but not too interrupted to converse freely.

To the Yelpers who wrote bad reviews based solely on service, I’m not writing this on Yelp to avoid being accused of personal attacks: IMHO, rating a restaurant based solely on service is about as cool as sporting a neon fanny pack in NYC. I understand that service matters, but it shouldn’t be everything - Isn’t a restaurant’s primary role to make food? One delightfully spoiled idiot rated them one star after she pitched a hissy fit because Aragosta couldn’t accommodate her party of 10 on the terrace immediately. I get that it sucks to not be able to sit on the terrace, and it’s not cool that you weren’t told that in advance, but is it really appropriate to rate a place one star because you pitched a fit, cancelled your reservation, and didn’t even try the food? That’s about as cool as adults who sing along, off key, during Broadway musicals. Loudly.