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.

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.

Feasting at Fireplace - Brookline

I never understood why my favorite cartoons of all time were called the Looney Tunes. Sure, they were looney, and they got even loonier when I figured out that they weren't really for kids. But tunes? What tunes? Fireplace is almost as incongruous a name for the place as a name like Looney Tunes. Looney Tunes has a single theme song that is forever seared into my brain like Fireplace’s duck (more on that later), but "toons" would have made a lot more sense. Fireplace has one generic-looking fireplace that comes with every standard suburban home, yet everything that touches your lips here is anything but standard.

Looney Tunes appeals to all ages and its humor is timeless. Fireplace offers drinks for all ages, cocktails for the carefree grown-ups and mocktails for those in the throes of cramming for yet another board exam. I don't remember what cocktail Jo ordered, but I remember it being gabaliciously girly but not too pink to have two. My Raspberry Lime Crush mocktail was perfect for keeping the company of a friend who didn't want to drink alone.

Sufferin' sucotash, it really was duck season for the Crispy Duck. Daffy has an amazing breast filet and his legs filled the “Johnnycake” which was really just a sweet crepe. I’ve had real Johnnycake, and the crepe is the more appropriate choice. Never mind the bewildering conclusion that Elmer Fudd actually shot something, he clearly shot him in the thick of winter because there was a layer of oh-so-savory fat. Those who favor fowl would lisp that I'm despicable, but how does anyone say no to skin as crisp as an unruffled chip over meat is just red enough to be juicy but not red enough to bleed. Even the side of sweet little carrots looked almost too pretty to be real, but they suited me perfectly. I've been hearing "Ehhh, what's up doc?" a lot in the past year, and my rotations would be a lot less boring if I gave my patients these carrots to crunch during rounds.

Daffy is a high-maintenance duck, requiring lots of embellishments on his plate. Sylvester is his foil here, a minimalist kitty, who would have loved Fireplace’s Ribeye. Sylvester salivated night and day over a few bites of no-frills Tweety, no bread, no sauce, just a few juicy bird-bites. The red medium-rare ribeye needed no embellishments, just a simple enhancement from the so-called fireplace sauce. The hash brown potatoes were a casserole cheesier than Pepe le Pew's pickup lines, and every bite from this plate tasted like my Tweety.

The dessert menu was Fireplace’s inanimate Pepe le Pew. No means yes, and though you don't want it, you get it anyway. The Strawberry Rhubarb Pie was the best kind of gooey hot mess with a happy ending of honey-thyme ice cream, which Pepe never seems to get. Unlike Penelope, I actually wanted it.

The Ricotta Pie had a crust like sweet playdoh and a lighter-than-air cream with juicy berries that blows your minimalist mind faster than Speedy Gonzales. The lemon zest was about as easy to taste as Speedy is to catch, but it was an amazing pie so no complaints whatsoever.

Don’t let the location deter you. Looney Tunes may be off prime time but you can still get to it through youtube. Fireplace may be way out in Brookline, but I'd tread through brimstone and fire to get there, and I’d walk on water if it rained (because rain puts out brimstone and fire, duh). Don’t let the incongruous name fool you either, if I were to name the place for what it really is, I would have named it Fabulous.

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…

Bites at Bottega Fiorentina – Brookline

Good things come in small packages, and for once I’m not saying this to comfort my vertically-challenged (but horizontally-gifted…at least that’s what I keep telling them…) male friends or to defend my inability to see during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Bottega Fiorentina may look like the Italian version of a bodega, the inside invokes a sweet simplicity that only Europe has truly mastered. Paris Creperie and Zaftigs are bound to catch your eye first, but if I’ve learned anything about this particular street in Brookline, it’s that the places that make you keep walking that turn out to the most remarkable.

Speaking of remarkable, I’ve had few sauces more remarkable than the fedora. This smattering of precious pink is as delicious as that jaunty accessory-that-matches-with-everything-hat is fashionable. The fedora adds a subtle hint of attitude to the crisp pinstriped vest and leaves a lasting impression. The cream in Penne Fedora adds a subtle richness to the crisp tomato and garlic and leaves a lingering impression on your tongue. Major points earned for that impossibly perfect mastery of cream – equally, if not more important than the mastery of the subtleties of menswear.

I’ve never had non-textured Manicotti before, but the al dente was irreproachable. The basil brought out the sweetness of the ricotta, but this dish unfortunately lost a star thanks to the nondescript meat sauce, which was obviously ladled over the manicotti as an afterthought, leaving the manicotti swimming in a plate of water than threatened to ruin any winter coat with a slight tilt of the plate. But the manicotti was soooo good…

I uncovered a sushi sanctuary one weekend and unearthed an Italian gem the next. And all on the same street. Between Mr. Sushi and Bottega Fiorentina, Harvard Street already boasts the close-enough-to-best of two distinct cuisines. So forget the mamma-mia! prices of North End and never mind the bad meat sauce at Bottega. I’ll be back here before you can say penne.