Feasting at Fireplace UPDATE – Brookline

I’m still not over the fact that Fireplace is named for a miniscule fixture that is cute yet hardly a defining feature. But it’s not about the size of the fireplace; it’s about how hot the fire burns. Let’s let the flames tell the story because the food that this place fires up spins a juicy tale of its own.

Sorry to start on a sour note, but I don’t know what story the Grilled Artichoke Tart was trying to tell. I guess it was the story of the tartest tart I’ve ever had. The sheer volume of lemon drowned out the sharp cheese, which in turn drowned out the lighter artichoke. The crust was crisp, the texture was rich, and the ingredients were clearly top-notch. This was a story of potential unreached, the Little Engine that Could that needed a tow. Perhaps he was carrying too many lemons…

The Braised Beef Short Rib tells the story of a first. First times are just our rite of passage to get to have a second time though in cases like the appetizer, we may wish we didn’t have the first. The short rib was a better kind of first. The first dance at a wedding, the first time you put a carrot in a snowman’s nose, the first time you wake up on Christmas day to see the milk and cookies gone. This short rib was the first good short rib I’ve had, and it was phenomenal. The tender meat fell off the bone and shredded with the faintest flick of a fork. One slight sliver and a couple of chews got you a mouthful of juice despite there being only the tiniest detectable amount of fat. The cornmeal porridge may have been my first visit to heaven. This dish had to be a gift from a magical chef in a Santa hat. I didn’t even believe in non-dry, non-tough short rib before Fireplace and now I believe Jim Solomon is Santa.

If the short rib were a novel, the Fireplace Burger is an epic. Ulysses fought the Harpies and survived a Cyclops, Achilles slew Trojans like it was going out of style, and Beowulf left a monster unarmed (groan!). The Fireplace Burger fought its own epic battle, a poem unwritten in Boston Magazine’s Battle of the Burger. I’ll never forget my first epic bite, mostly because I had to dislocate my jaw to fight through all that smoky bacon. Like me, the Vermont cheddar only got better with age, and the English muffin added a touch of novelty. No one forgets the epic heroes, and it turns out no Bostonian forgets this grass-fed patty either. It won People’s Choice for Boston’s Best Burger.

Think about the most incredible story you’ve ever heard. Think of homeless to Harvard, the kindness of strangers, the dog who saves his owner’s life. Take a moment to appreciate them because after a bite of the Carrot and Feta Ravioli there is no story that will top the tale your tastebuds tell. The ravioli is perfect, the arugula pesto pure genius, and the dish is brought together with a polish that makes it entirely, miraculously too good to be true.

Dessert is always a tale of desire, the woes of the wants. We crave the indulgent sweetness and no matter how stuffed I was, I was desiring a skillet of the Strawberry and Rhubarb Pie. I still desire that pie because they stopped making it despite my pleas. (Come on Jim, I begged!) So I wanted the Maple Fudge on a cookie complete with vanilla ice cream and salted caramel sauce instead. They ran out of vanilla so I substituted espresso. I want them to run out of vanilla every night.

I want Fireplace every night too. With legendary tales of the epic, the unbelievable, and the downright incredible, it’s impossible not to get as hot and bothered as the fireplace at full blaze after a night of one fantastic story after another. So write your own story at Fireplace. Their menu deals no disappointment and lets you choose your own adventure with no way to really go wrong.

Momofuku MilkBar – NYC

I’m going to write about Milk Bar as if I’m a lawyer. That is, I’m going to stretch the truth. So that’s not technically a lie. The honest truth is, there isn’t anything cheap about Milk Bar. The prices are fair enough, especially in NYC, but it’s not quite a restaurant. So thanks to the somewhat-loophole in my cheap eats contract, pretty much everything at Milk Bar is under $10 and rich enough to be a meal so I’m gonna call it fair game.

A mere $5 buys you three cookies at Milk Bar and probably any other bakery, a deal I’ll take any day. The Blueberry and Cream has generous chunks of baby blues, the Cornflake Marshmallow is soft gooiness with a contrasting crunch, and the trademark Compost Cookie is a sweet-salty combination thrown together by a cookie-craving baker who ran out of chocolate chips.

The B’day Truffles were the one thing I reallyreallyreally wanted, but they were also the one thing that disappointed me. They were floury and dry, and though they tasted enough like cake batter, they really just missed the mark. There was no loophole big enough to let these through.

I didn’t know it was legal to actually lace food with crack. But the Crack Pie is clearly packing something powerful. The deceptively simple sweet, melt-in-your-mouth combination of butter and sugar makes it impossible to settle for one slice, and a craving as intense as this pie will hit you anytime, anywhere. Only a real lawyer could find a loophole for eating that much butter and refined sugar, and it would take one heck of an attorney to legally justify the crack, but believe me, that's a defense I'd gladly pay for.

Going to the Gallows UPDATE – Boston

I resolve to get back in shape. With Thanksgiving behind me and Christmas around the corner, I plan to make full, perhaps prophylactic use of my Radi-holiday to get my lazy butt in gear. Strictly speaking, I am in shape. Round is a shape. Many of the dishes at the Gallows feature things that are round in shape. Whatever their shape, their edgeless tastiness is doing nothing to help me attain any kind of shape…except maybe round.

One of the biggest problems with getting in shape is the complete loss of resolve when confronted with half-circles of lightly-breaded, deeply fried Crispy Lamb Belly. The lamb is a juicy, gamey-savory burst of a mouthful. But half circles are only half as bad as full circles, right? Plus the Mediterranean-esque bed of chickpeas adds a healthy spin. We just won’t discuss how much goat feta was mixed in…

Food doesn’t have calories if you share it. Nothing cuts fat like generosity. So sharing those gooey balls of cheesy Pumpkin Arancini with Shamini and Kendra means I can skip the extra hour of pilates, right?

If you’re in the mood for something light or just feeling guilty about heavy eating, the Wedge comes with tasty beets and the iceberg tastes far better than the usual glorified green water.

The Late Fall Greens are the bunny food that makes bunnies fat. The apple cider vinaigrette is incredible, and the apples and pumpkin seeds add a fall feel. The sharp greens are a breath of fresh air after gooey arancini, and they woke me up just enough for my postprandial workout. Thanks to these energizing greens, I walked all 3 brisk blocks back to my apartment which obviously burned all the calories I consumed.

After doing pilates (…which justifies eating out, right?), I now know the secret to weight loss. After just one grueling hour, your entire midsection burns with the searing wrath of a hot grill. So why not order a fresh-off-the-flames burger to celebrate your new washboard? Get the Carpetbagger/Kraken/whatever variation of the fried-oyster-topped odyssey they choose to serve this month. Oysters are high in iron and calcium. Scarfing this burger is an iron-consuming effort in the battle to reduce the incidence of anemia, and the calcium is a sure soldier in the fight against osteoporosis.

The problem with pilates is that the searing pain makes it impossible to swallow. Even as you choke down dinner, the pain keeps you from staying seated for too long, forcing you to leave the restaurant before you can overeat. So if your appetite is being attacked by your abs, get a few bar snacks to curb your cravings. Every southern girl dreams of the sweet cornmeal and barbecue of a Pulled Pork Corn Muffin. The Scotch Egg is a deviled egg on steroids, and the Smoked Bluefish Pate will float any fisherman’s fancy.

The thing is, I usually do ok with the apps, the entrees, the snacks. My problem is that no matter how many miles I run, I’ll always have a little fat on the side. But they’re called LOVE handles for a reason. So a couple sides of healthy veggies won’t hurt. The Brussels Sprouts pack a bitter crunch sweetened by pomegranate and bacon, and the Cauliflower is just another round of savory shrubbery.

The Berkshire Pork is the one entrée I can’t justify. The thick slices are impossibly tender and juicy, and the mashed sweet potatoes are lighter than air. Unfortunately, unlike those sweet potatoes, I never feel lighter than…well…anything after a meal at the Gallows. At the rate I’m going, I’ll need a man who likes round objects…anyone know any jugglers?

Rowmantic Rowes Wharf Sea Grill – Boston

The truth is, we all dream of romance. Even cynical, sarcastic me. We sit through movies that induce a gag reflex in any sensible person as we secretly desire the men in it. These unrealistic Romeos spontaneously write poems, scatter rose petals around a candlelit room, and break into love songs in the middle of a city street (cabs don’t stop for you in real life…). We dream and we scheme but we forget the most important relationship we have: our relationship with ourselves. So let’s quit waiting for someone else to complete us. Let’s write our own love story, one that starts with loving ourselves.

We toil at the gym, we sweat in the sauna, and we eat less than half the things we love for fear of becoming undesirable. But real beauty lies within, and at Rowe’s afternoon tea you are what you eat. So start your most important relationship right. Get yourself the Fall Harvest, a little feast for the cost of a dozen roses. Rowes even scatters the rose petals for you, which saves you the trouble of plucking them yourself and delivers you from the doldrums of a date. Tired of dining alone? Go on a girl-date, the best kind of date with more than one person. Write your own Boston spin-off of Sex and the City and catch up on each other’s lives with your pinkies curled. Sip your tea daintily and as you wash down ladylike bites of Scones.

The Coffeecake under the scones may look little but they’re about as dainty as a real girl’s appetite. Dense and filling, they’re a challenge after those scones, but when you’re in such excellent company, be it that of your friends or yourself, how can you give anything less than your best indulgent effort?

Let the self-love flow and let the girly gossip run like a river as you start on the bite-sized “Sandwiches”. The smoked salmon is fresh, the lobster salad is light, and don’t forget to think of just how much you deserve every last bite. Because the only person who doesn’t know you’re beautiful is you. (Tara, Shamini, I’m talking to you).

Take the time to tickle your fancy with your velvety rose petals. With the slow service at Rowe’s, make sure you bring girlfriends you like because the leisurely lull of a tea service, however appealing, is not one that allows you to make a quick getaway.

Feed yourself a festive bite of Cheesecake or start your fall off right with a spiced morsel of Pumpkin Pie. Feed a few bites to your friends too – they spun and downward-dogged by your side through spinning and yoga so they can have their cake and eat it with you. Save the Salted Caramel Profiterole for yourself – that gooey little 3-bite wonder is too good to give away. Besides, you deserve the best.

Speaking of things too good to give away, hang on to your heart a little longer. Save it for the suitor who makes the tea and scatters the rose petals himself. But be more giving to your girlfriends. They’ll stand by you long after they guys come and go. Pour you heart out to them as you share this table, but also go home and pluck your own rose petals and light some scented candles for yourself. You deserve it and don’t you ever let anyone make you believe otherwise.

Inedible Estragon UPDATE – Boston

My approach to Estragon’s food is uncannily similar to my approach to flying. With TSA’s rigid rules and ridiculous restrictions, chances to stay grounded have never seemed more appealing. And with multiple attempts to like the food at Estragon, chances to fast have never seemed more appealing. But alas, a flight is a necessary evil to take you from point A to point B, the same way Estragon’s food takes me from hungry to unfortunately full. I’m never comfortable in those little seats, and I never quite like what I’m eating, both in air and on Estragon’s toxic ground. But I suppose that’s a good thing too – Estragon motivates me to eat less, which keeps me more comfortable in my economy class seat.

No matter how you slice it, flying is never all that comfortable. The Surtidos de Quesos was well-sliced with an awesome assortment ranging from light and crumbly to almost putrid. (Putrid is a compliment for cheese, imho). But what makes any experience just a little more comfortable is a friendly steward. A description of what was on the plate would have complimented the cheese. Instead, the server jetted back down the runway as soon as the platter landed on the table.

In my opinion, one of the greatest mysteries of life is the question of just how airplane food manages to be so impressively terrible. How is it possible that powdered eggs and lettuce leaves can turn to rubber while everything else turns to mush? In my opinion, one of the greatest mysteries of life is just how the same kitchen that masterminds the brilliant tortilla Espanola sandwich at Las Ventas makes such an abysmal slice of mushy, fresh-out-of-the-fridge frigid, unsalted, fall-apart Tortilla Espanola.

The Pimientos Shishito curbed my almost constant craving for the sharp, spicy kick of shishito peppers, and the Garbanzos Fritos have a nice kick of paprika. The fried crunch is the quick-and-easy emulation of chickpea batter, but too many of these cryptic little greaseballs will turn your stomach even more than an airplane salad. The pimientos and the garbanzos are the only two dishes I can really say I liked, but the sheer volume of oil was as unnecessary as the extra charge to sit in the exit row.

Encouraged by the promising veggies, we moved on meatier fare. The Pringa looked like a hot mess of gluttony on paper, and what you see is what you get. There were so many different things loaded on, it was impossible to taste any of them.

The Falda de Buey con Cabrales was topped with a solid steak, a far cry from the mystery meat served in flight, but it was drowned in a gross cheese, Estragon’s version of airplane gravy.

Sadly, Joseph the brilliant bartender has become the only reason I ever return to Estragon. I even had my birthday there for the amazing drinks, but my blog centers around the food. I did try to give the food a second chance…and a third…and a tenth…and though it’s never again been as inedible as my initial experience, but that’s the equivalent of a United Airlines flight that is only an hour late because you waited three hours last time. And no one ever waits with pleasure. So I occasionally still sample the food at Estragon, but I only find myself wishing it possessed a mere ounce of the polish I’m sipping. If the food had half the class and polish of Joseph and his marvelous mixes, Estragon could quickly become a place to eat, drink, and be merry rather than a place to drink and be merry and eat and be miserable.