Notable Noche - Boston

When I first approached the unassuming entrance to Noche, I half expected Riff Raff to open the tall, wooden, black door that led to the basement. The dim descent gave me a taste of how Brad and Janet must have felt in their pursuit of a phone. I already had a phone so I was reluctant to enter this underground Transylvanian mansion, but maybe they had an iPhone 5 I could exchange my dinner voucher for…

Once inside, the sleek modern décor features black walls studded with progressively circular white dots, reminiscent of the red lips that sing your impending double feature at the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Where ever those lips got their lipstick, the nearby table of loud people shops too. That table was so deafening that we must have looked in visible pain since the staff graciously offered to reseat us without us having to ask. +1 star for sensitivity, +3 muzzles for the human megaphones. After a smooth transition to quieter seating at a lower level, we did the Time Warp of food.

Like Riff Raff’s solo, the Fried Paella was astounding – the idea was fleeting. Battering and frying a ball of paella seems like madness, but the seafood delight takes its toll.

The Tuna Crudo was so dreamy, oh fantasy free me, I didn’t forsee it, not at all. The succulent tuna was in another dimension. It was an amazing sensation, not at all sedation, and as out of this world as Magenta’s hair.

After such mind-blowing appetizers, I was all ready to do the Time Warp again with the entrees!

Unfortunately the entrees were about as original as Columbia the groupie. The Filet Mignon was a great medium rare, and the dark, flame-kissed dome of steak with a deep red pool encircling an orange island looked almost like the mansion of the Sweet Transvestite from Transexual (Transylvaniaaaaaa). The mashed sweet potatoes were lighter than air, and I devoured the dish. All that meat gave me an evil wink, and the sweet potato took me by surprise, but overall this dish didn’t get me all shook up – no pick-up truck and a devil’s eye.

The Scallops were well-seared but too salty with a fantastic carrot puree. Noche may not know how to Time Warp but Noche knows how to puree! That amount of salt was as annoying as Columbia’s voice, but no worries, it’s just a jump to the left and a step to the right, away from the salt and toward the carrots. Then put your hands on your hips and bend your knees in tight in anticipation of the dessert.

After the entrée Time Warp, the real fun begins. The Chocolate Chipotle Crème Brulee was tasty with a kick, much like what became of Janet after a brief stint with Frank. Biting into the dirty-brown chocolate, I tasted blood and I wanted more. The crème was creamy, and the after-burn of chipotle lingered.

Sorry Janet, but there’s nothing dirty about the pure white Goat Cheese Cheesecake, and I liked it so much more than the crème brulee. Nothing but clear, creamy flavor and unblemished smooth texture, white as the slip that Janet wore before Frank got to her.
I am a creature of the night, and I may be a creature of Noche as well. The food is undeniably solid, though the appetizers and desserts were by far the more interesting parts of the meal. Then again, Frank was far more interesting than Rocky but that didn’t stop Janet from having Rocky for an entrée, did it?

Toddler-ish at Tremont 647 – Boston

Dining at Tremont 647 took me back to the innocent days of my childhood. Back to those happy-go-lucky days when Looney Tunes entertained a mature audience and Sesame Street wasn’t so freaking politically correct (screw you Veggie Monster! Cookies are NOT just a sometimes food!). Unfortunately, it was only during my early childhood that I could have actually liked the food at Tremont 647…back before I knew better.

Biting into the Crab and Scallion Pancake took me back to the day I tried to jump off a moving swing. I flew face-first into the forgiving sandbox that broke my fall…but not without a mouthful of skull-saving sand. While there was nothing wrong with the crab, the curry sauce had the texture of paste, (which I was so fond of eating), and I had to scrape the sandy, gross pancake off my tongue after each bite.

The Asparagus with fried egg was about as scrawny as I was, and the fake-tasting smokiness made it the nauseating reason I hated all green food. The fried egg just didn’t go with asparagus, and choking that mess down was worse than picking all the chicken and mashed potatoes off my plate and then having my mommy tell me I can’t leave the table until I finish my vegetables.

The Mushroom and Ricotta Tart had a delicious filling with a tasty mix of mushroom and flavorful cheese. The underlying cauliflower puree was amazing, and it would have tricked any kid into enjoying a vegetable…just tell them it’s cake. Unfortunately, the tart was made with a childish mathematical error of fractions. 1/3 tart + 2/3 crust does NOT equal 1 good tart. Despite that, this was the only good part of my meal.

My Hanger Steak came with a well-grilled underrated cut of beef. The tater tots were whatever and the asparagus was even more anorexic than the appetizer, but it was the chimichurri I took issue with. Chimichurri is a marinade/sauce, not a side dish. There shouldn’t be more chimichurri than steak, and it shouldn’t douse the entire plate with vinegar. Never mind the acerbic taste, this plate of chopped bell pepper looked like my best finger-painting depicting the 4^th Christmas of my life.

Dessert is the sole reason kids eat their vegetables, and the Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp was close enough. I’m not sure it was worth choking down the chimichurri, but it’s really just fine. I haven’t had much rhubarb ever, mostly due to its physical resemblance to celery, which I loathe when cooked, but I’m glad I tried the rhubarb here.

I like to learn from every restaurant I go to, and I enjoy experiences that restore my youth. I got younger at Tremont 647, but I’m not sure I enjoyed anything about the experience. Nothing I ate that night helped me grow any way but bitter, but judging by my placating tone regarding a decent dessert, maybe I’ve grown in diplomacy? As for learning, the only thing I learned was to never eat there again.

Unaesthetic ArtBar – Cambridge

When I first heard of a place called ArtBar, I pictured tasteful décor, artisan alcohol, and a positively picturesque palette of veritable culinary wonder. Unfortunately, if Van Gogh were a chef and cut off both hands instead of an ear before painting A Starry Night, the painting would look something like the food at ArtBar and be painted at a speed faster than the service. 2.5 stars in my sky for the food, zero for the service.

Elusively placed down the hallway of a beautiful Cambridge hotel, ArtBar is a restaurant after my own heart. I always harbor a true appreciation for places that clearly work hard for my food, and considering the time they took to get the Pork Cheek Tacos to my table, I can only logically conclude that they journeyed to the nearest forest, shot and killed a wild pig, marinated the pork, and then cooked it. Clearly they cooked it in the forest which is why it was frigid by the time it reached my table. Yet, their efforts are clear. They tried so hard to get it to my table quickly that they didn’t even have time to assemble it themselves, which, I suppose, is a reasonable explanation of why we were given a pile of pork, two tortillas, and a dish of pico.

The next day, we got our entrees. The Lobster Roll was tasty, and I obviously appreciated them taking even more time to trap it to order as well as make it to order. But the sweet potato tots were by far the best part of my meal.

The Game Hen was as inflated as the prices. Bulging with beastly spring veggies, Chicken Little never stood a chance. Not much flavor in the chicken, nothing but salt in the veggies. If this had been my meal, I would have wished for the sky to fall down.

The Almond Streusel Cake with carmel poached peaches was standard. A sweet and just sweet enough dessert with tasty cream and decent peaches, it satisfied my insatiable salivation for something sweet. I didn’t dislike it, but it’s the masterpiece of a mediocre master.

So if you’re not getting any younger (unlike Benjamin Button), or time is money (sorry, surgeons), or if you just want your food the same day you ordered it, ArtBar should be artfully avoided.

Anonymity at Alia Ristorante – Winthrop

Dimly lit, and privy only to locals and gutsy Bostonians, Alia is the ideal place to bring your sordid lover, coworker you secretly dally with behind the water cooler, a picky eater, or maybe just anyone you don’t want to be seen in public with. Few Bostonians know about Alia, and the regulars in the town of Winthrop usually lack the visual acuity to actually see your face. And if you happen to like good food…Two birds. One stone.

And what better way to jump-kick an affair than a fresh plate of Caprese? I’ve feasted on the freshest buffalo mozzarella while plodding through the Tuscan vineyards, and this is easily as good as Siena’s finest. Stringy as a grape vine, moist as a vine-ripened grape.

Never tried a Moroccan olive? They’re darker than the darkest eye, more bittersweet than a star-crossed lover, and more velvety-rich than the thrill of a first kiss. So consider yourself deprived.

IMHO, one of Alia’s more endearing qualities is that it is as accommodating as whomever you brought. The one who occupies your passenger seat knows the fastest way to your heart and can always put whatever your heart desires into your stomach. Alia is equally eager to please, and they make custom pastas using whatever your heart desires that their stock can meet. Are there any words in the English language sweeter than “as you wish”?

I wished for Orecchiette with a spicy vodka sauce. Little al dente ears with prosciutto and veggies, no peas. What I got was a slightly sweaty sauce with various veggies and pleasing pieces of prosciutto, exactly what the doctor ordered. Props to a chef who isn’t afraid to turn on the heat! My only regret is that I didn’t ask for sausage, which would have completed my pasta…and my life…but that’s clearly what I’ll remember for next time. Like all faithful lovers, I’m willing to try until I get it right.

My mysterious man (who whisked me away to Alia for my birthday dinner…hopefully not because I resemble a sordid affair/someone he didn’t want to be seen in public with…) wanted gnocchi. Gnocchi with creamy pesto and lots of veggies. I swear if United Colors of Benetton suddenly became an advocate for diversity of vegetables, our pastas would be their logo. The pesto is, like me, quite a prize, but I limited my indulgence to a mere taste. I imagine many affairs end with lactose intolerance, and I’d rather hang onto mine…the affair, not the lactose intolerance…

I’m not saying the Tiramisu was the best I’ve ever had, I’m saying it’s the best EVER. The mascarpone is thick, the ladyfingers are moist, and this classic house-made Italian tradition is as sweet as a soul-mate yet not sweet enough to make you gag. I’d probably eat that mascarpone on anything, but don’t you get any ideas…

The only thing obscure about Alia is the location. The sweet simplicity of the food and the mom-and-pop operation is lost to today’s dime-a-dozen chains. So when you use Alia to accommodate your anonymous needs, be careful. A restaurant this good with food this fun won’t be a secret for long…Did I mention the BYOB policy? So for good food with a side of anonymity, make the drive to Alia. The lighting is as dark as the Moroccan olives, and the olives as dark and mysterious as your identity. 

Greatness at Genki-Ya – Brookline

Genki-Ya is the well-rounded guy you love to hate. His sushi rolls are huge, but they’re pure compact muscle with no fillers to speak of, and he makes sure you get your money’s worth. But he’s also a saint…just ask him. He offers a menu of diverse talents and is always up for a random romp. He works out to impress himself, not others, and he’s organic all the way. Fugakyu was my fort for fabulous sushi before I discovered Genki-Ya, and I fear that Fugakyu may now be forsaken.

The Rich Salmon Roll is a bulging pec: a thick, well-oxygenated pink fast-twitch fiber with a few stripes of envy-provoking green. The skillfully-shaved salmon hugs the top of the roll and pleases the eyes with aesthetic quality, not just brute bulk.

He is classically handsome, much like the Spider Roll. A tried-and-true reliable option, guaranteed to please the palate with its top-notch soft-shelled crab. He is a favorite that never gets old. He even adds intrigue with a side of creep-crab legs protruding from each end, and he is always a mouthful and sometimes hard to stomach.

The one issue with my forget-Fugakyu guy is in his friend Volcano Roll. Behind every prized man, there is that BFF you tolerate, part of a package deal. With several Freudian complexes, this roll tries to live up to the high bar his friend sets but ultimately falls short. The light crunchies with a tincture of mayo instead of the usually gooey cheese, shitake with some seared scallops supplanting the usual tons of fake crab just didn’t do it for me. It tried too hard fit the organic theme instead of letting its true colors shine through. Sushi so sloppy it requires a spoon? No thanks. Honestly, this roll was tasty, but he could work on attaining his friend’s effortless polish.

My continued nostalgia regarding the past year has caused me to start basing reviews on my close friends. In case you haven’t guessed, this one could only be Vish. Hey Vish, this review is, (like all things, always) about you.

Witty barbs aside, Genki-Ya really does resemble Vish. Genki-Ya sometimes takes itself too seriously, but is always down to try new things (even “fashionable” earmuffs), as evidenced by the extensive menu selections. Creative yet always down to goof off, his love-hate qualities are obvious, and the price for his friendship is beyond fair. He doesn’t ask for much, and when you crave his company, he’ll deliver when you call. So move over Fugakyu, there’s a new guy in my town…