Pomme Frites – NYC

If your restaurant only serves one thing, it better be good. Props to Pomme Frites for sticking to what they do best. And nothing else. Major props for not bending to the continuous pressure to supplement their servings. With no caving to customer cravings and no willing the whims for wilder ingredients, Pomme Frites is a restaurant for those with a one-track mind.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, they serve French fries. In French. And nothing else. Sounds boring at first glance, but their massive sauce menu ranges from mundane barbecue to every flavor of mayo including organic black truffle and smoked eggplant and covers more continents than the wine list at Ayza.

We split the large, dunked in Curry Ketchup and Blue Cheese. The fries are a perfect golden brown, crisp on the outside, soft within. The perfect snack during an East Village stroll, the perfect cure during an East Village stumble. 

Love Letters for Zocalo UPDATE - Boston

To gain someone's love is easy compared to the task of keeping it. To gain someone’s love, you may only need one good night. My first night with Zocalo was love at first sight. To keep my love is something else altogether. To keep my love means to utter the right words at the right time, the right words at the endearingly wrong time. To keep my love means to let me see your giggling blunders, the quirks you didn’t know you had, the quirks you knew had and tried so adorably hard to hide. Anyone can be loved for a night, but after this visit, Zocalo just might be a keeper.

My second date with Zocalo didn’t start on a high note. The Crispy Avocado Sticks were a bigger blunder than taking a blind date to a work function...and finding out that your date tends to snort…after every word. Like that blind date, the avocado was ripe enough and alioli makes the world a tastier place, but the problem lay in the delivery. Or the lack thereof. This particular appetizer was by no means awful, it was just absent. When we pointed out its absence, it came as a free dessert with a heaping side of apology. No stars points lost because nothing remedies the absence of an appetizer like the comped arrival of said appetizer…and nothing remedies dating someone who snorts like…moving out of state and growing a mustache.

The Carnitas were juicy chunks of pork hand-in-hand with pineapple-cucumber guacamole. And the whole world just disappears when I’m staring into the eyes of guacamole. But when it comes to holding hands, interlaced fingers are often theorized to be more intimate than palm-to-palm. The flavor of the carnitas would have sunk in more intimately if the chunks had been the size of interlaced fingers instead of the palms. Then again, I loved the mingling of the pork and guac almost as much as I love the mingling of fingers.

The Chilaquiles Vegetarianos put the Italians and their culinary romance language to shame. It's the whole package, Casanova, Don Juan, and Henry VIII minus the side of man-whore, a trifecta of tortilla, tasty veggies, and tender black beans. The texture is uniform, the flavors blend cohesively, and the lasagna-esque spin with black beans keeps you satisfied and fulfilled. This isn’t the lasagna you dally with. This is the lasagna you marry.

Like many second visits, my visit to Zocalo wasn’t just a notch on the belt. It turned out to be 4 notches on the belt. 4 star-shaped notches, to be exact. Through an encore performance as strong as the Sangria, Zocalo has proven itself to be a long-term restaurant I can settle down with when I'm done conquering the world, one restaurant at a time. Unfortunately for Zocalo (or fortunately…I’m told I’m an acquired taste…), I doubt I'll ever settle down. Fortunately for Zocalo, it's now earned my rare respect for a place than can be counted upon to deliver. Zocalo is memorable, recommendable, and reliable. Now that's what I call a triple threat.

S'Mac - NYC

Watch out Murray Hill, there's a new player in this part of town and she's laying the S'Mac-down on your quaint little restaurants. More is more in these inexpensive, exotic-ingredient-loaded platters, turning comely comfort food into a high-end home for the hungry.

Get the nosh portion for a fairly fared $4.75-7.25 range - no need to go big or home. If you're so hungry the nosh just won't do, go for the major munch, but anything bigger than that will feed no less than a small family. Split a few different noshes with your friends if you can - all this heavy mac will S'Mac you in the gut like a ton of bricks if you nosh too much on just one flavor.

The Parisienne looks like a lip-S'Mac-ing snack on laminated paper, but the brie with an overload of shitake kept me from getting through more than half a nosh, and I wouldn't have minded more fig-ful bites. Real Parisians would scoff down their upturned noses at the excessive bunches of brie, but je suis Americaine so pile it on.

The Masala is a spice-loaded taste of India in Mac-hattan, a dire threat to the Kosher vegetarian Indian dining that dots the domain of modern-day Curry Hill.

Napoletana impersonates a Margherita pizza minus the saucy tang, plus some strands of fresh mozzarella elbowing through a bed of mac. And S'Mac-dab in the middle of all that mac, garlic, tomato, and basil intersperse a fresh, light quality that make it possible to manage a major munch.

I usually talk S'Mac about chains, but I actually have nothing negative to say. The over-the-top gooey gluttonies set up in a casual cafe curb a craving for comfort, and S'Mac can comfort my craving any day.

Dok Bua Thai Kitchen - Brookline

Dok Bua is not worth the hike to Brookline. It’s barely worth a one-block stroll. Go to Nud Pub near Allston if you’re dying to journey to a far-off place. Nud Pub would be worth the trip.

The Som-Tom Salad actually tastes like the papaya was somewhat mortar-and-pestled, but it was a tad bit watery and not quite as crisp as I’d expect from green papaya. The green beans were a bit too tough, and it seems like you get what you pay for here.

The Red Curry with tofu was just that - red curry with tofu. The tofu was tasty and the red curry was thick, but it serves to wet your rice better than it serves to whet your appetite.

When compared to Equator, which is conveniently located one block from my apartment, the Drunken Noodle doesn't equate. The noodle:tofu ratio of this unfortunate dish was less than one, which is just not right when you order a dish called drunken NOODLE. The overcooked, slightly-mushy, stuck-together noodles were also covered in mealy chili paste, which made it stick going down, as if mushy noodles aren't hard enough to swallow. Perhaps it should have been called Drunken Chef.

If I were playing duck, duck, goose with Dok Bua, I'd be the duck. I certainly wouldn't be pursuing the Dok, and like most people I generally try to avoid getting goosed. So if you ever see me at Dok Bua, it's probably because I'm trying to duck out.

Commendable Café Orlin - NYC

Nestled among the gaudy Asian restaurants and storefronts of St. Mark’s Place, Café Orlin’s unadorned exterior screams city-sleek and café-chic in a wasteland of neon lights, bubble letters, and the more garish garb of the far east. In this case, Café Orlin’s middle east tragically trumps the far east in all matters of taste. I think its namesake is a mountain range near Bosnia, a sensible inspiration for the minimalist wooden-table, bare-floor décor. I, for one, truly appreciated Café Orlin’s lack of bright lights. It’s always too sunny the day after your friend’s bachelorette party, and the dimmer lighting inside was a relished retreat from the stifling sun.

My Poached Eggs over Potato Cake was perfect for the post-bachelorette, crispy-without-being-crunchy and fried in just the right amount of grease to help it down. The poached eggs provide protein, with runny yolk (the way poached egg yolks should be!) pouring between the cracks of stacked potato. I didn’t think I’d find smoked salmon appealing as the first meal of the day, but it turned out to be surprisingly refreshing, a break from the compact carbs.

With the Goat Cheese Tomato and Spinach Omelet, Café Orlin achieved the impossible. They made the perfect omelet. Each bite packed a harmonious combination of ingredients that meld into one explosive mouthful, with a distribution of filling that seems quite impossible, even for the most skillful of chefs.

The Labna cheese zaatar from the Middle Eastern Breakfast is a tasty pita topper and doubles as a way for the middle east to screw over the far east. That rich cheese concoction is a lactose-intolerant Asian’s nightmare - forgive me for using lactose-intolerant and Asian together as the terms are rather redundant.

I’ve never really bought brunch with dessert, considering the pancakes and French toast offerings will give diabetes to even the most insulin-independent, but for the birthday boy there was Banana Bread with an amazing gelato. The banana bread actually tasted homemade with real banana and chunky chocolate chips. You want to have your cake and eat it? I had someone else’s cake and ate it.

Café Orlin embodies the so-awesome-I-don’t-take-reservations swagger of the cool brunch offerings of NYC. Outdoor seating lets you soak up the sun while sitting in the shade, and the garden-level indoor dining is smoothly sheltered from the smells and snippets of pedestrian noise. Even after the sweaty seventy-minute wait, these little midday-meal Meccas will secure your love. 

Lousy London Café – Boston

Do you live for those little moments in life where an awkward turtle swallows your silence? Do you enjoy feeling like you’re meeting your in-laws? (The kind you’d rather hide in a gas station bathroom than face?) If it’s the bad, the awkward, and the ugly that get your blood pumping and makes you feel alive, London Café is place for you.

Simply waltz into the foyer and stand in front of the 3 concierges. They can see you but they remain bent over their books until you clear your throat loudly…and then softly say “excuse me?”…and then shout. Don’t let them fool you, they’re neither deaf nor hard of hearing.

At this point, your patience is probably as expired as your Groupon, and the staff are happy help with that…like your in-laws. They love to remind you of your past infractions. I was informed that it was only today that they would honor my Groupon. That’s like your mother-in-law saying that she doesn’t like brunch while she’s paying for your mimosa. For the record, I made the reservation before the Groupon expired, which means they’re required to honor it under Groupon law, i.e. no need to reiterate the condescending martyrdom three times.

We sat down in the “dining room”, which was so weirdly like someone’s house that I felt like I was actually intruding in a mother-in-law’s home. The icy stares didn’t help. We started with the Victorian Rose Tea, which was more accurately Victorian colored hot water. The bottom of the tea cups are stained that color, and the tea is served in a teapot so heavy there is no way to pour without spilling. That’s passive-aggressive in-law sabotage all the way. Then they announced that they had run out of milk and lemon for the tea. They had the nerve to ask “Is that okay?” Do I have a choice? I let it go because colored hot water isn’t really tea anyway.

Even when dining with the in-laws, the atmospheric tension releases once both parties eat. Blood sugar rises, and so do the pleasantries. Just pray that your mother-in-law didn’t choose that day to serve the cream-cheese-smothered Cucumber Sandwich or the bland, dry Chicken Salad Sandwich.

Wash those sucky sandwiches down with a few sips of tasteless tea and transition to the Raisin Scones. The scones are dry but not terrible, the less desirable characteristics of your in-laws. The staff then announced that they were out of clotted cream. This is where I ran out of sympathy.

If the scones without cream made you feel deprived of a proper tea service, the pastries attempt to make up for it. A couple soggy Cannolis covered in a suspicious green substance and a mediocre cream-filled puff Pastry will satiate your craving for cream for months. Swallow it like your mother-in-laws’ cooking (which is just not as good as your mother’s). Fake a smile and choke it down because you can’t let on that the cooking your partner has declared to be the ambrosia and nectar of the gods is actually just awful.

If nothing else, please note that London Café or Café Royale, or whatever they choose to call themselves is downright dishonest. The Groupon for this deal cost $35 and they claimed that it’s for a deal valued at $70. This deal is costs $25. Check out Café Royale’s menu for the Queen Victoria package if you don’t believe me. I paid $35 for a something that costs $25. I don’t blame Groupon, but I do wonder why they would stoop so low as to do business with such a dishonest establishment.  $35 isn’t so exorbitant a price to pay for tea on Newbury Street, but it probably also buys a bus/train ticket to see the in-laws. I recommend you pay to see your in-laws – at least their bad food is free.

Clink with Class – Boston

The word Clink conjures an amazing image. It’s the pure ring of happiness born from the clashing of flutes, the celebration of a victory on the Formula One racecourse or the race of life, a lifetime union with a ball and chain, all in the setting of a former jail. With its many uses, champagne is a tradition as antiquated as the monks who prematurely bottled their first incompletely fermented wine. The French will probably swear up and down that it was intentional, but Clink will probably swear that about their salsa verde too...(more on that later).

The very first step of making champagne is picking the grapes. That would be the hardest step for me. Anyone who expects me to pick bunches of glistening vine-ripened grapes without eating them is seriously delusional. I thought the people at Clink were equally delusional if they didn’t think I’d see through the transparent cheapness of the all-salad restaurant week menu. Turns out, I didn’t see what I saw because their salads were actually the best thing they made. The Summer Salad of Pease, Heart of Palm, and Shiso Vinaigrette was full of crunchy vine-ripened snap peas with crisp palm hearts, probably the best salad I’ve had to date.

I got as excited about the Pearl Tomatoes with Aged Balsamic Mozzarella Pearls and Basil as the guys from Moet & Chandon get about sparkling wine from Long Island. But like LI’s Sparkling Pointe, this one was a pretty, pleasant piece. Not quite as exceptional as Sparkling Pointe’s products (their vintner trained in Reims, after all), but the pearl tomatoes actually resembled ripe little grapes interspersed with white pearls of mozzarella. Another nice summer salad but not quite as memorable as the previously mentioned masterpease.

The next step to a crystal-clear champagne is the crushing of the grapes. If only the salsa verde on the Bavette Steak were prepared with such care. It was a hot green mess that tasted sour enough to be fermented with a hint of cilantro and very little else. It conjures the image of a disaster whose only equal is that infamous grape-stomping video. It didn’t actually go with anything, including the steak, which was a nice medium rare with a toughness that decorates the nightmares of dedicated dentists. At least the yucca puree was good, but one good side doesn’t make up for a plate of atrocity.

I generally avoid swordfish. I find it bland and hard with none of the flakiness I desire from a good cod and none of the juice of a properly-cooked salmon. The Swordfish with Succotash was a hue of white-beige that resembled the pale neutral of yeast, the key catalyst to the fermentation process. The fish wasn’t bubbly, but it was juicy like a fruity champagne. With just the right sprinkling of salt, blunt and bland turned tempting and tasty.

The most fun part of making champagne is blowing the yeast out of the bottle, and the most fun part of this meal was the dessert. The chunks of chilled chocolate in the Mocha Granita will curb any chocolate craving…and they taste much better than yeast.

After the neck of the bottle is frozen, the bubbles in the bottle force the ice out, like the overflowing froth of the Taza Chocolate Ice Cream Float. It bears mentioning that both desserts were served in Clink-able glasses.

Unfortunately, Clink simply wasn’t bottled in Champagne, a fact that the steak and mediocrity made impossible to ignore. Clink may occasionally hint at the splendor of something real, but in the end it’s an imitation sparkling wine bottled in a touristy hotel. Though especially good in some aspects, Clink is just not worthy of the appellation of champagne.