Assessing Audrey Claire - Philadelphia

I went to Philly to take a test of my clinical capability, and my patients were actors, paid to scrutinize my skill. I also went to Philly to test out a restaurant, and my patient was a BYOB establishment named Audrey Claire. When I started assessing restaurants, what I didn’t realize was that I ate while wearing my clinical cap. I had taken my white coat off, but I still assess restaurants much like I assess patients. When interviewing for an effective H&P (that’s history & physical, for those of you not in medicine but patient enough to read this far), I eat efficiently so I don’t prevent the restaurant from moving on to another customer, much like my need to transfer my attention to another patient in a timely manner. But a non-acute patient encounter should never feel rushed and neither should a dining experience. Like food, everyone has a different idea of exactly what comprises a good H&P. There’s no real right or wrong way if your information is, in fact, what the patient actually told you and your food is, in fact, what you actually ordered.

My chief complaint on my visit to Audrey Claire was my grief. My exam was a disaster, and the one palliating factor for my pain was the BYOB rule that allowed me a soothing glass of red wine minus the 300% markup, minus the exorbitant uncorking fee. Philly's slew of BYOB restaurants has me ready to relocate. The rest of my HPI (history of present illness) unraveled with the Mussels, an appetizer that cured my complaints. The mussels were absolutely perfect. Each and every morsel was juicy and all the shells were cooked wide open. The marinara sauce was a thin liquid with just the right amount of enhancing flavor. Its tantalizing tang clung to each mussel, a feat I had never seen any chef accomplish until that day. This prodigal platter drowned my grief even faster than the wine.

The Potato Crusted Ahi Tuna entrée was the more objective part of an H&P, a summary of relevant physical exam findings and labs. The tuna was observed to be a pretty pink crusted with the right number of breadcrumbs. The horseradish topper was tasty but somehow simultaneously unremarkable. The green beans were afebrile, which translates to steamed without being nuked, and the rice was too cheesy for me but overall the low end of normal.

Unfortunately, it was the Feta and Garlic Crusted Baby Rack of Lamb that abated my initially enthusiastic assessment of Audrey Claire. My lamb chops were undoubtedly baby lamb chops because they were tiny. There was no skimping on the portion so I was delighted by the delicate presentation. The problem is, anything with baby in front of it also has a more delicate flavor and cries easily. I cried when I realized that I couldn’t taste the baby-gamey flavor of the lamb under the heavy foot of what tasted like a giant box of Shake n’ Bake. But the asparagus and mashed potatoes were good and the mint labne was an amazing dipper – a dense, almost-sour cream that miraculously appeases those who hate sour cream. What Audrey Claire lacks in breading, they definitely make up for in sauces.

After every assessment, I make a plan to write. When writing, I try to capture the story of my meal, the tale my patient tells. I describe the courses, the complaints, the progression of how my night unfolds, the steps that brought my patient here. Like each patient, no two stories are alike. Some stories are abrupt and nonsensical and some stories just flow from my fingertips like a smooth ganache. But no matter what the story, I tell it like it is.

My final assessment of Audrey Claire is that she is a saucy, mature woman who lacks just a pinch of sophistication and innovation. The crust on the tuna tasted similar to the crust on the lamb and the sides were well-made though unimaginative. I still wonder if all that breading was an attempt to soak up the alcohol from the BYOB. I left confused and not just because of the wine, but one conclusion rings true. Despite the flaws, Audrey Claire’s mussels have won my allegiance all the way.

 

Taiwan Café - Boston

 Taiwan Café is one of maybe two places in the country that can make a pork chop I don’t choke on. They’re the only people in whose hands a tough side of pork doesn’t go soggy or dry. They’re the only people who can infuse flavor into a slab of concrete, and they’re the only people who can conjure a crunchy phoenix of breading from the damp ashes of an often-charred, overrated cut. So when I found that I could exchange a Mr. Lincoln plus 50 cents ($5.50 for those whose adding skills rival mine) for a heaping slab of house special Fried Pork Chop on Rice Platter with some limp stewed cabbage and a decently-flavored soy sauce egg, I thought I’d pulled a failed Bill Clinton and accidentally inhaled.

The Mini Steamed Buns with pork and crabmeat alone are enough of a dinner for one. At $6.95, Taiwan Cafe saves me a much-needed quarter towards my laundry compared to Gourmet Dumpling House down the street. And believe me, those quarters add up after week 4, when I’m weighing the pros and cons of going to work in jeans vs no pants. Their dumpling skin is also thicker, which makes them less likely to break open and make you cry over spilt soup, a crucial quality in dumpling skin…and pants.

If you’re with a friend or just craving something green, the Sauteed Watercress with fermented tofu sauce sounds simple, but the fermented tofu flavor really adds a nice something extra. Read: fermented tofu, NOT stinky tofu. Though you should try the stinky tofu too…at your own risk…

Magic at Miel – Boston

I look forward to restaurant week like an eager bride to her wedding day. I had the great pleasure of accompanying one such bride on her special day last weekend, an event that filled my starving student self with as much breathless anticipation as the opportunity for an affordable dinner at Miel.

The first polite, compulsory question asked by any civil wedding quest, who has immediately been upgraded from complete stranger to friendly acquaintance by mere virtue of attending the same wedding, is “Are you a friend of the bride or the groom?” Because as a rule, you are never a friend of both. When I’m asked about hotel restaurants, the first polite, compulsory question is, “Are you a fan of the food or the ambiance?” Because as a rule, a hotel restaurant never has both. Savor and elegance never share a room in such establishments, and in the unfortunate case of Artbar at the Royal Sonesta Hotel in Cambridge, neither ever checked in.

At Ben and Amy’s wedding, I could smile smugly and announce “Both. I’m the matchmaker”. Then I would smile as I watched respectful eyes widen at the accidental uncovering of such a rare anomaly. I felt the same way at Miel when I found it to be both elegant AND savory.

Ben and Amy’s wedding opened with beaming bridesmaids, and my dinner opened with the blushing Watermelon Gazpacho. As a rule, bridesmaids should never outshine the bride, a rule that brides take too seriously, attiring their closest friends, siblings, and in-laws in the most garish adornments David’s Bridal is all-too-happy to supply. But not Amy. Someone so beautiful inside and out has no need of any endeavor that doesn’t let her share the wealth. So when I expected a grainy, sopping mass of cold pureed watermelon (because pureeing watermelon is ALWAYS a bad idea), I was blown away by a thick, evenly-blended crock of cold tomato with just the right fragrance of watermelon and a dash of goat cheese mousse. I may actually buy one of those bridesmaids’ dresses. The dark purple adds a serene glow to a genuine smile, and the strapless, semi-sculpted bodice is slimming, even on the already-slim.

The Salade de Tomate was as refreshing as watching the beautifully-attired bridesmaids walk to the sound of a crisp guitar and the voice of an angel. The music at this wedding is a subtle and soothing stroll toward a lifetime of content, as soothing as a cool tomato “stew” with fresh mozzarella and basil on a sweltering summer’s eve with none of the ear-splitting brass of a pipe organ.

The entrees came in perfect time to the steps of a beautiful bride. Hair half up, minimalist make-up, and a dress that fits like a dream, Amy needs no adornments. She outshines any bling. The Wild Mushroom Ravioli captures that kind of rich simplicity, what you see is what you get. And you know you’re getting something good.

The Salmon Belle Meuniere is more like the glowing groom. Ben is a multi-dimensional character, a catch as rare as perfectly-cooked salmon, a personality as complex as a side of rock shrimp with a fleeting zest of lemon. One of the better salmons I’ve had, one of the best men I know,

Ben is as sweet as the rosemary Crème Brulee, a seemingly mundane-yet-meticulously-crafted dish with the something-special herb to make it extraordinary.

The Berry Financier is as carefully planned as every moment of this flawless wedding. The almond cake and berry mousse are a perfect pair, a perfect circle like the pair of wedding rings the best man had to dig through his pocket for…at the altar. Like the tang of berry compote, a well-placed comic relief at an otherwise sober occasion.

When I say sober, I mean the ceremony. The reception is another story. At the reception we were all drunk on our happiness for two people who were clearly destined to be together, so in love they’ll never see anyone else, lovers forever lost in each other’s eyes. My love for Miel was not nearly as deep as their kind of love, but it was enough to make me see stars.

Amy tells me that setting up 3 couples gets you a one-way ticket to Jewish heaven. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. If that’s the case, my review on Miel may not last long. Instead of readmytastebuds, stay tuned for a brand new site called KDate. 

No Kudos to Kitchen - Boston

I don’t know what it’s like to have siblings, but most people I know do know what it’s like. Some have siblings that are very much like them and together they shape each other into the different but equally amazing paragons that they grow up to be. In terms of restaurants, sisters like Gaslight and Aquitaine are as timeless as the Brontes. They seem to be raising their little Union Bar and Grill sister decently well so I guess Metropolis is the forgotten third Bronte…I think her name was Anna?

Compared to Kitchen, Union had a definite edge. With two prodigal sisters, it was hard to be anything less than good. But with unpolished sisters like Grotto and Marliave, I had my doubts about how Kitchen would fare.

The Salad Verte was surprisingly good. I expected a bowl of Iceberg, which is really just a fancy, over-priced word for water, but instead, the buttery bunches of Boston bibb were as shocking as the rare episodes of The Wonder Years when Wayne was actually nice to Kevin. Sadly, delicious dishes at restaurants like Grotto and Marliave and now Kitchen are always a few hairs from a full head.  The vinaigrette dressing would have been perfect as a dubious dusting, but sadly, the pools of acerbity nestled within the folds of lettuce were the undoing of half the salad.

The bacon-wrapped Scallops were so dense and rich they were enough to be an entrée. The scallops were well-seared, and I’m just not the kind of girl who complains about bacon. The pork belly, sadly was drown in a salty, stinging barbecue, as if the dish needed to be heavier, this one was about as appealing as Meg and Chris Griffin.

The Hamburg Steak wasn’t at all burnt, but it burns with all the fury of an emptied pepper shaker. The Roquefort butter was an awesome way to douse the flames, but the amount of pepper in this exquisitely-made steak was about as unfortunate as the downhill slide of the Olsen twins.

The Tournedos Rossini may use the same kind of meat, but it’s about as different form the hamburg steak as the Olsens are from each other. Where Mary-Kate is a hot mess of pepper, the beef tenderloin contains all of Ashley’s polish at a perfect medium-rare, topped with a seared-to-bone-dry nibble of foie gras. Despite their differences, an Olsen is always in good company, always rich in love though lacking in polish, complimenting each other like a good side of creamed spinach.

The Crème Brulee is a little too sweet and a little too watery-creamy, as wishy-washy and in-all-ways excessive as the Kardashians. And it doesn’t even have a famous daddy.

The Cheese Plate featured a triple cream, a gorgonzola (if I remember correctly), and a crowning Cabot Clothbound Cheddar. The cheddar was one of the better cheeses I’ve ever had, with the texture and dryness of a parmesean. It’s hard to believe that something so not-louder-and-slower is domestically made, and the fig jam is the hub of the wheel, the Wilma of the Flintstones.

As my meal progressed and culminated, it became abundantly clear that Kitchen is cut from the same imperfect cloth as her sisters. A baby with endless potential, it seems that Kitchen is going in the direction of being just another chip off the same old block. It’s nice to have some consistency within the family, and we all know that Sibling Rivalry (across the street) sucks, but for once, it might have been a welcome change to see just one rebel deviant in this mediocre family.

Unconditional Love for Uni - Boston

I've been thinking and writing about love lately (see my last oh-so-cynical-me review on Grotto), and I thought it would only be a natural progression to a love letter from here. I already wrote my own version of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's one-hit-wonder to Tom Colicchio. But that was when I thought love was an obvious thing. Gazing into Tom’s eyes and feeling the barbs of his harsh-but-fair tongue during a Top Chef marathon is a literal recipe for love, no substitutions allowed. But that was the old me. That was before I learned to appreciate that true love is more subtle, and that was before an extraordinary man named Ken Oringer sneaked up on me. Ken, you are the quiet cornerstone on which I built my love for writing restaurant reviews. Toro was my first true restaurant love, and you are my classic love story that never gets old. I'll be your Barbie, you be my Ken.

Your appetizers shine like your warm brown eyes, and that's where I lose myself. The sweet pineapple and sharp jalapeno go with the Sake Sashimi much like you go with me. We go together, and together we taste like we've always belonged this way.

The Poke had a nice savory sesame, but the marinade was on the heavy, overpowering side. My love for you may be overpowering, but may we never cancel each other out.

The Chirashi is as winning as your smile. Pickled mung bean adds a crunch and the not-so-gingerly (Am I witty enough for you?) trumps the run-of-the-mill pickled palate cleanser any day. The bed of wild rice is tougher on the teeth, but it leaves the teeth no less white and the resulting smile no less winning. The branzino is a white wonder with just a single drop of spicy topper. The branzino is white as my teeth, the tuna is as red as my lips, and the salmon is the glow that lights up my entire face when I think of you. The afterglow lingers long after the fish is gone.

The Pork Belly and Soft Shell Crab Buns are the splitting image of your adorably shaggy hair. Unfortunately, the look works far better for you than for the buns. Although the pork was perfectly braised and the soft shell crab a crispy dream, the sauces were as excessive as my current declaration of undying love, with heavy hoisin and cloyingly sour avocado mayo. An aside: Good news David Chang, I may be staring into Ken's eyes, but it's your buns I'll be thinking of.

Now, back to the Ken and I. The Green Cardamom Flan is as green as our new-found love, as tasty a dessert as I’m sure you’d make. Our love is a spark ignited by the sweet corn ice cream, a flame that burns strong through the night, a love that lasts, not a fiery blaze that extinguishes as rapidly as it starts.

The Black Cocoa Cremeux is as rich and deep as our love, the jasmine ice cream as pure as my affection, the sesame cake as unspoiled as my hope that we will beat the odds together.

Mr. Oringer, if I ever see you, I would probably avoid you. This review is cheesier than queso creama, icky-sticky-sweeter than fresh-off-the-honeycomb miel, and sappier than an untapped winter maple. You've brought out the starry-eyed giggly girl who dreams of drama and happily ever after in an age where Cinderella googles her Prince Charming before the match.com ball. You've not only convinced Rapunzel to let down her long hair but you've also convinced her that it wouldn't hurt a bit to have a full-grown 200-pound man swinging from her head. Your food is a masterpiece more chiseled that the statue of David, and all intricately carved details of your legendary plates coalesces into an unforgettable bliss. You've restored my belief that a chef can be flawless and you've turned my fairy-tale fantasy of an artisan chef incapable of creating a bad piece into a reality. All that really matters is that you've put the stars back in my eyes; four stars, to be exact. One for each eye and one for each lens of my rose-colored glasses.