Dallying at Da Ciro – NYC

I just did 20 interviews for residency, and “Tell me about your interest in food” seemed to be every interviewer’s favorite question. And every interview’s favorite backhanded compliment seemed to be “But you’re so much…thinner than I expected for a foodie!” Thank you. I am honored to be less fat than you expected.

Along those complimentary lines, the food at Da Ciro tasted much more homemade than I expected. Sorry Da Ciro, but most of it tasted like stuff I could make at home.

To be fair, home cooking is one of my favorite foods. But that’s because everyone is a better cook than me. And to be fair, the Fried Calamari was probably a little better than something I could make, even with a deep fryer, but nothing to write home about, especially if home is Italy or any place that serves decent seafood.

There’s a reason Manicotti starts with man. These huge rolls of pasta stuffed to the brim with rich ricotta and basil makes it a high-end Hungry-Man dinner, especially with the less-than-desirable amorphous-pile-of-red-sauce presentation. The basil definitely tastes better than microwave cardboard with gravy, but I’ve made similar stuffed shells with cheese and a can of tomato sauce.

The Veal Meatballs are the only thing I really can’t make myself. Dense, tender and perfectly seasoned, the savor comes as much from the chef as the veal. The only way I’d make something this good is by chance.

Sorry Da Ciro, but like my time with you, this review will be short and sweet. Unlike Artisanal, I’ve only met you once and I won’t be meeting you again so there will be no Dear John letter for you. Some restaurants come and go while some leave footprints on our palates and we are never the same. You were the former type so I barely need to bid you goodbye. Your veal meatballs deserves better than my flippancy, but after 3 weeks in NYC, I’m just not that into you.

Acclaimed Artisanal – NYC

Dear Artisanal,

I’ve admired you from the moment I met you. You have found yourself in a city where everyone is lost.  And sometimes, in the vast expanse of a simultaneous social hub and social wasteland, two New Yorkers like us, who have found themselves, also find each other.

I found you by accident five years ago, though now I know there are no accidents. A clueless Carolina girl (the state, Go to Hell Tarheels!) looking for a brunch I could boast about, I stumbled upon you at the advice of a friend. It’s ok to let friends set you up sometimes. You became my brunch buddy after a mere meeting. And why not? Why deny myself a spacious dining room that never runs out of seats with classic, quiet décor that shelters me from the city’s constant storm?

I left for a long time, but then I came back. And I never thought that after five years you could still surprise me, but you still know how to keep it fresh. In a city where everything has been done, your Yogurt Panna Cotta still shakes things up. The panna cotta part is creamy, the yogurt twist keeps it the right amount of sweet, and fruit and granola top a glass that redefines the French parfait.

Sure, you throw in a twist once in a while, but you won’t do trends just because everyone’s doing it. In a city where you try trends to survive, I admire you more when I can count on your classics.

A luxurious river of poached egg runs through a moist and juicy Pork Belly Hash. The tiniest hint of chipotle in the Hollandaise keeps this thick combination fresh, and there’s no better place in New York for this decadence than Park Avenue.

The Farm Egg Omelette squeaks when you bite into the wild mushrooms tempered by a mouthful of cheddar and parmesan. Sides are usually underrated, and this mound of home fries get my love.

I admire you, Artisanal because despite what you were up against, you lasted longer in New York than I did. The people who loved me never replaced me, but most who loved you moved up or moved on. Or like me, they simple moved. But you’ve endured in a city where pop-up restaurants barely raise an eyebrow, and establishments flicker like the fireflies. You stood staunchly as the banks fell, you didn’t even flinch at Lehman’s crumble. You bore silent witness to the dynamic changes of the years, just like you now bear witness to the newest crossroads of my life.

I’m sorry old friend, I don’t know when or if I’ll see you again. You watched me live, you watched me learn, and you watched me grow. But now I’m grown, and I see that my fate no longer lies with you. There will be a new brunch waiting for me in a new place. It may be a place I’ve been to and it may be a place I’ve gone back to, but this place won’t be with you. My time with you has been short, but my time with you has been sweet too. Like all things in a New York minute, my time with you is done. But I’ll be back to see you, because some things are just worth going back for.

Kin at Kefi – NYC

According to Gus, the proud, lovable patriarch of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, “There are two kinds of people. Those who are Greek and those who wish they were Greek.” And thanks to this movie’s portrayal, it’s hard not to wish you were Greek, if only just to be a part of this boisterous but generous, meddling but embracing, scolding but accepting, nagging but loving family unit.

Kefi very much embodies the setting of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. The two full floors of buzzing tables replicates the feel of a full family but is quiet enough to not make you feel like it’s assaulting your ears.

My dinner started like every meal with a Greek family:

 “Are you hungry?”

“Oh no, I just ate.”

“Ok, I make you something…Eat! Eat!”

So Eat! the Selection of Spreads, a vegetarian nirvana good enough to make me forget meat. The Tzatziki was cool as a cucumber, the Taramosalata was grainy with spice, the Melintzanosalata says “screw you” to Babaganoush, and the Revithia puts hummus to shame.

Vegetarian apps are awesome, but when it comes to the entrée, there’s bound to be a little friction. “He don’t eat no meat?! Is ok, is ok, I make LAMB.” Thanks for the Sheep’s Milk Dumplings with rich lamb sausage, Aunt Voula. You really are the best cook in the family.

The Tubular Pasta with savory Greek sausage, light veggies, and fresh feta was the flavor of the Mediterranean. “Give me any word in English and I’ll tell you the root of that word in Greek.” Give me any delicious food in the world and I’ll tell you its origin in the Mediterranean.

I was getting a little overloaded with all the movie references conjured by this meal so I started looking for a main dish that captured an important aspect of myself instead. The Flat Pasta did just that. The pulled braised rabbit in this dish must have multiplied like bunnies because I think there was more rabbit than pasta. I just considered it a gift and ate it. They say to beware of Greeks bearing gifts, but I’d never look a gift horse in the mouth.

When people ask us where we come from, well, we come from our families. My family is Chinese. I am Chinese by birth and American by culture. A no-longer-rare combination of eastern tradition and western innovation, I’d like to think I at least turned out marginally better than Americanized Chinese food. Few people are prouder of my heritage than me, but Kefi made me want to ditch it all to be Greek. 

Asahi Ramen – Los Angeles

Thumbs up for ramen. Thumbs down for going to Asahi, where you get a dime-a-dozen, no-frills, cash only, steaming bowl of the good stuff. I hoovered my Chashu Ramen with a soy sauce broth just salty enough to sip but not salty enough to exacerbate CHF. The noodles were the perfect texture of chewy, and alternating bites of a Kimchee on the side provide a crunchy break from the broth.

Boston is a ramen wasteland as far as I can see. There’s little good to be had and even less to be found. But if you lined up every ramen noodle in LA from end to end, you can probably circle the earth 50 times or build a great wall of ramen. That’s why there’s another ramen place two doors down from Asahi and another one across the street and at least 4 more within a 2-block radius. That being said, Asahi really hits the spot if you’re craving ramen but I really can’t think of any reason to come to Asahi twice...or even once for that matter. 

Somewhat Satisfactory Seafood Unlimited – Philadelphia

When I was ten years old, my summer camp arranged for us to take a boat ride aboard the Liberty Belle. Sweet name. Worst name EVER for a boat. What idiot found it fitting to name a floating vessel after a historical treasure made famous by a gigantic crack? He might as well have named it Titanic.

The good news: Liberty Belle was a misnomer. There were no cracks in the boat. The bad news: Seafood Unlimited, which is about a mile from the Liberty Bell was also a misnomer. There is nothing unlimited about edible seafood and very well there shouldn’t be. Still I tried it for the promise of a happy hour menu (which turned out to be identical to their regular menu), and despite the 5-dollar margaritas, this place didn’t exactly float my boat.

The only unlimited thing at Seafood Unlimited was the shellfish.At $1 each, I could have eaten any amount of Oysters…without knowing what I was eating. Oysters are characterized by a briny, salt-water flavor, but these were totally tasteless. A friend in the restaurant business tells me that this happens when oysters are placed in ice but the ice melts and rinses out all the flavor. Translation: this seafood restaurant that doesn’t know how to store oysters. On the plus side, the flavorful Clams were also $1 and I could have easily enjoyed any number of those.

We moved on to the Crab Stuffed Calamari, for which I have only unlimited praise. The calamari was tender but chewy, they didn’t skimp on the succulent crab, and the basil oil added a silky luxury.

We moved on to Crab Spring Rolls, which were crammed with moist crab, but sadly the deep frying sucked out all the flavor. The oil worked for the calamari, but the spring rolls could have done without.

A seafood dinner may not be unlimited, but a seafood dinner feels utterly incomplete without a steaming bowl of Mussels. We picked the Thai green curry because it just sounded so awesome, but that combination turned out a little more like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes: sometimes putting two good things together doesn’t necessarily make either one better. In this case, neither did putting two mediocre things together.

I know I deserve a scolding for expecting decent seafood in a city known for the lack thereof. There are definite limits to the quality of seafood in Philly in general so I guess any reproach is warranted. But from every less-than-stellar experience comes an important life lesson, and if Seafood Unlimited has taught me anything it’s that the seafood diet is a bad idea. Looks like I’ll have to a new motto next time I go to Philly because “see food and eat it” sure as heck didn’t work this time.

Barbie at Blue Smoke - NYC

Everyone knows the story of the southern girl who goes to the city to make it big. She’s young, she’s bright-eyed, and her mama tells her she sings like an angel. Her sweet country world has never let her down, but the city teaches her a different kind of lesson. Her dreams might come true there, but they might also go up in smoke.

Six years ago, I was that southern girl. Like Miley Cyrus wants us to believe she did, I hopped off the plane at JFK with a dream and my cardigan. Jumped in a cab and there I was for the first time, looked to my right and saw the Empire State sign. The thing is, I didn’t have the voice of angel (and obviously, neither does Miley Cyrus…). If you’ve ever heard me sing you know my voice probably comes from a hotter place much farther down. But I didn’t want a record deal, I wanted an MD so I ended up in the South Bronx. I loved the Caribbean food there, but the latitude was too far down to remind me of home. Only the good ole south would do and Blue Smoke would do just that.

The drinks we started with were clearly meant to be consumed on a back porch with a rocking chair and a fan. One was even called the Porch Swing, and wouldn’t you believe it came cool as a cucumber in a glass of lemonade. The bourbon in the Hayride warmed up you up like a good shot of SoCo, and the cider and pear lightened it up some.

My tummy was turning and I was feeling kinda homesick before I took a bite of the Brisket Sandwich, stuffed full of tender, smoky beef. Those moist, meaty slices slip right out while you tried to fit your mouth around a sandwich as wide as southern moms are generous. Even the slaw had the spice of the south, and this is coming from a southern girl who hates slaw.

No huge plate of southern is complete without a little plate of vegetable, and the Roasted Brussels Sprouts were a bitter break from all that meat.

New York was definitely not a Raleigh party, ‘cause all I saw were LBDs and stilettos, I guess I never got the memo. That’s when the waitress dropped my favorite plate…and the Chicken and Waffles were on the table. So I put my fork up and the homesickness flies away. Crispy fried chicken, hell yeah, buttery maple syrup, hell yeah. Y’all can’t argue with the sweet-and-salty.

For most bright-eyed southern girls, there’s nothing more foreign than a city that never sleeps, but there’s also nothing that makes you feel at home than a restaurant that never sleeps. No matter where you’re from or where you’re going, there’s always a place on some little NYC corner, tucked into some little hole in the wall that takes you back. Thomas Wolfe said you can’t go home again, but I'm guessing Thomas Wolfe didn’t eat much.