Ittyo – Cambridge

Sapporo had a line out the door…of the mall. Café Miami was bustling with business, and Tampopo is just soso. I’d normally wait for Sapporo, but my timing was pooro as I had less than an hour to eat before aerial silks practice. The food comes out fast, but I needed at least 15 minutes to digest.

People are all abuzz about Café Miami right now, and Ittyo just got tucked under their revamping wing. But judging by their grand total of one full table, I wasn’t the only skeptic in the house.

The Takoyaki fritters full of octopus shut my skeptical mouth pretty fast, and not just because it’s rude to chew with your mouth open. These great balls of fiery wasabi mayo were garnished with paper-thin flakes of something that wriggled like algae in an ocean, and they looked so unsettlingly alive that it took a while to get over and around them to the actual balls of octopus. But one little bite, and I was sold.

The takoyaki were a good size portion, and the size of the Shumai mattered as well. None of Tampopo’s itty-bitty-yo niblets but six sizable shumai stuffed with a bit of shrimp. The crab makes Tampopo’s taste marginally better but if you account for the size and barely-higher price, just say nono to Tampopo.

I’ve also tried the Noodle Soup with soba al dente and found no real difference to the wakame-flavored bowl of Tampopo. It’s a pretty basic seaweed broth so if that’s what you’re looking for, just pick one and gogo.

I had a crazy craving for a rice so I ordered the Teriyaki Chicken Donburi. I’d all but given up on this underrated classic that seems impossible to make well in an Asian kitchens. One common mistake is to douse a boiled, poorly-marinated chicken breast in sauce, but Ittyo definitely knew better. Here the teriyaki is a sweet glaze, which turned something ordinarily ordinary into something exceptional.  I licked my double-breasted bowl clean despite being optimistically half full from my appetizer.

I think I love Ittyo, but I don’t like long-distance relationships. Then again, the elusive, seductive Sapporo has proven its ability to make me go the distance, and Ittyo’s classic comforts have clearly caught a close second. And since it’s impossible to get a seat anywhere near Sapporo, I think I’ll spend more time saying “yo” to my new friend Ittyo.

A Homage to The Helmand – Cambridge

The Helmand makes amazing food, and there are few in the world who don’t know this considering the celebrity status of the owner. But that’s not all that brings me to the Helmand. The service is solid, the elegant décor is a delight, and the ambiance is to die for. The pervasive calm is undeniable, and a dinner at the Helmand affords ample time for a moment of solitude or an hour of quiet self-reflection, a haven for a peaceful group dinner or a sanctuary for solo diners soaking in the serenity.

Silence may be golden here, but few things are quite as golden as the Kaddo, a glowing orange ember of melt-in-your-mouth pumpkin abed in a sea of honey, blanketed by a smooth coverlet of garlic yogurt. The pumpkin and honey make for an explosive lap of luxury, and the yogurt makes it slide down like silk.

The Helmand is a reputed lamb-lover’s lane, and the Qabelee did nothing to refute that claim. Chunks of tenderloin fell apart with the flick of a fork under a plate of pallow rice, the flavor of gamey tender lamb permeating every little grain. The plump raisins taste nothing like those dried up little boxes of after school snacks, and julienne carrots add the only glaze sweeter than a well-made lamb.

After each individual chew of the Aushak, a new spice breaks through. It starts with a bouquet of scallion and leek, until you sink under the weight of the yogurt cream. The lightly spiced chickpeas hold firm under the soft ravioli as bitter-fresh mint molds itself into the all little crevices of your tongue while a carrot sauce sweeps sweetly in. This dish duels between heavy and light and light and dark. Each flavor holds its own, but the endless combinations play their own cadences on the tongue. I loved many a dish, but this one is a poet’s poem, a writer’s epic, and a food blogger’s muse.

I don’t remember the first time I tried Baklava, but I do remember the last. I snuck into the kitchen in the dead of night to pilfer a piece of heaven provided by my roommate’s Albanian mother. I never ate baklava again because I was convinced that anything this good couldn’t exist on earth. But Ilisia’s mother must work at the Helmand because my flawlessly layered square of lighter-then air pastry grounded by nuts was honeyed heaven at its best.

Several people have complained that the Helmand is identical to a nearby place called Ariana, a gripe I fail to grasp. You found two otherworldly Afghan restaurants in the same great city. Woe is you. If Ariana is truly as good as the Helmand, quit your whining and go to both. 

The Helmand is my morphine, and the food takes away my pain. Because isn't that why we eat? Some eat to 

remember, and some eat to forget. Some have more to forget than others and some just have very poor memory. I, for one, will never forget this flawless 5-star feast.

Tarrying at Tampopo – Cambridge

I don’t know what Tampopo means, but personal experience translates it to udon. And that’s all I need to know. So who cares what gets lost in translation when you sit at a random restaurant to order a random dish? I’ll have my udon slower with more intensity.

No objections to snacking on four little Crab Shumai to start, but these are pretty much the microwaveable delights of Chinese-market freezer aisles status post legitimate steamer. And at $3.25, just wait for your weekly shopping trip to pay $4 for at least eight of these little half-bites.

The Pork Katsu Curry is a staple for the pre-midterm student or anyone who hasn’t eaten in days. The crispily fried cutlet is impressively resistant to sogginess as it clings to the curry but doesn’t soak. It’s a perfect fry job, but the breading is bland at best. The curry itself is a murky starch-thickened concoction in a generous portion in a size I can only describe as “Asian mom”. Unfortunately, I think all the salt went into…well…anything that wasn’t this dish.

Vegetarians need not fear, and the too-health-conscious-to-eat-meat-on-days-that-end-with-y need not starve. A piping hot Udon Bowl with veggie broth will douse your hunger pangs with a slightly briny side of wakame. The udon is al dente and the seaweed flavors this salty-sea soup. The chunks of soft marinated bean curd will fill you up and add a firmer texture so you’re not eating a bowl of mush.

Tampopo isn’t ideal, but the service is friendly and the food makes for a good square meal. And almost all the little Shops of Porter Square are practically cheap eats, averaging a little over $10 for most things and less for others. So make like a Pokemon master and try to catch ‘em all!

Sipping Sapporo Ramen – Cambridge

Porter Square may be far the heck away in Cambridge but I pronounce it Can-bridge. That’s not because I’m Asian. It’s because there is a little food court of epic proportions tucked away in the depths of Porter Square. This little food court with its modest array of little almost-small-enough-to-be-food-stands is rivaled only Allston’s Super 88 and stands as one of few reasons I CAN cross that BRIDGE.

Momofuku and Baohaus have ruined Pork Buns for me, and I never thought I’d find something respectable in Boston. I’m not talking about the sweet-then-savory pork boa of my dim sum days but the sweet simplicity of pork belly and hoisin sauce between two flaps of little white bun. At $5.50 for two, Sapporo’s are a steal. With moist cuts of shreddy pork, the lingering fatty savor makes even the fullest belly rumble.

When I’m with my friends, I’m usually the pasty one. But Sapporo’s Spicy Miso Ramen gives me a run for my money. Soft, dense grains of the white stuff glide down your throat, and if you add a red-hot kick of chili, you really start to taste the spicy ground pork. I’m relieved to find something pastier than me, but unlike me, the ramen actually pulls it off.

I’ve had few broths more perfect than the Kimchee Ramen. This combination of chewy al dente noodles sipped from a spoon of soul-warming soup is made more potent with the addition of spicy ground pork. The kimchee packs some punch, and the slices of juicy pork and a couple kernel of corn flavor the broth with a tolerable richness that almost made me ask for a straw.

The Charles River is beautiful, and it forms the division between bustling Boston and the cozy academia of Cambridge. Unfortunately, it often deters me from bridging the culinary gap. The prospect of crossing a bridge over troubled waters makes me groan even more than this shamelessly cheesy song reference, but for the surprisingly powerful food hub at Porter Square, I’d even let Jesus take the wheel of the red line train.

Rooting for Russell House Tavern - Cambridge

Wikipedia tells me that the concept of a gastropub originated in Britain, a term coined to describe a bar and restaurant that serves high-end food and beer. And since Wikipedia also tells me how to practice medicine, clearly this definition is a fact.

Gershwin was American in Paris, and Russell House is British in Cambridge. And I guess the Hickory Smoked Pork Loin Sandwich is a Cuban...in a British gastropub…in Cambridge. The pork has a soft-spoken, mellifluous flow with a sweet accent of apple, but there’s no way this sandwich can stand in a city as deeply-rooted in American tradition without a bang of cheddar and aioli. Shoestring fried onions also break the formality of proper English and adds that loud crunch that can only be the refreshing taste of American.

When it comes to burgers, my biggest pet peeve is when the bun outgrows the burger. Burger patties inevitably slide forward as you keep taking bites, and by the time you get ready to savor that last bit of scrumptiousness, you find that the only remaining delight is a sliver of cheese in a face full of bun.

The Russell House Grass Fed Burger wins Boston Magazine’s Best Wrapping award, a prestigious commendation for the unsung English muffin, a bun that eliminates this problem. My favorite part about the English muffin is the size because bigger isn’t always better. Usually the burger fits snugly into a sesame bun, but here the thick, monstrous patty juts out from every side of the muffin, and yes, smart ass, I’m well aware that circles don’t have sides. Regardless of the container, it’s hard to argue with juice-dripping ground beef and thick slabs of bacon, topped with sweet caramelized onions.

Only one gastropub has managed to make its way into Michelin, because if that’s what Wikipedia says, then clearly that’s the truth. That gastropub is not Russell House, but it still puts 4 stars in my eyes. Besides, the British aren’t exactly known for their cooking so high-end bar food could really just mean it’s warm. But Russell House is an all-around win for lunch/brunch - their sandwiches are sublime. Now feed me a dinner entrée ducky, and we’ll see how it goes.

Glorious Garden at the Cellar - Cambridge

Now that we’ve embarked on a cross-country tour of indulgence, it’s time to come home so let’s bring it on back, all the way back to Beantown. And let’s get low, all the way below the floor, to Garden at the Cellar. After almost 4 years in Boston…ahem, excuse me, the “greater Boston area”, for all that city snobbery and all your peripheral pride, I really thought that I was over the food scene here. I’ve been there and done that. I’ve missed a few major spots, but once you’ve had ten, you’ve kinda had them all. So now I have my faves and I have my never-agains, but just when I thought I couldn’t possibly find anything new, I stumbled upon Garden at the Cellar.

Now that I’m back in Boston after long months of travel, I’m back to my life too. I’m back to my day-to-day as a med student, back to my food scene as a Bostonian, two things I stopped appreciating until I realized they could be missed. But then a place like Garden at the Cellar comes along, and suddenly all those things I took for granted are twirling round and round right before my eyes, like my classmates in their beautiful dresses dancing our last dance at our last med school dance. I don’t love all my classmates equally, but each of them witnessed my journey from clueless college grad to clueless doctor, just like I witnessed theirs. And I don’t love all Boston restaurants equally, but like my classmates, they followed me through my journey from opinionated eater to fastidious foodie.

When I first came to Boston, I didn’t even know Bacon-Wrapped Dates existed. I knew that dates sometimes came encircled by lard, but that’s another story for another time. I also learned that you don’t really know the definition of fine dining until you’re slammed with a gooey barrel of blue cheese bound by a salty-crisp strip. And it wasn’t until my friends helped me study physiology to pass that I realized just how exceptional they were.

There are some things a good med student never says no to. Every opportunity to throw a line of sutures should be grasped with the vise-grip of a locked Kelly clamp, and every chance to sink your teeth into Foie Gras and Cheddar Donuts should be jumped on like front-row tickets to the Celtics. Unfortunately, the Celtics went down to the Rockets in double-overtime at the one game I saw, a defeat as ignominious as my plate of overcooked foie gras. The donuts were as dense as the opposing team’s field goals, and the crabapple compote did nothing to sweeten the sour loss.

I wanted to try the smoked sturgeon, but when I heard the special was Bone Marrow, I was all in. Because bone marrow reminds me of my time in med school, something impossibly rich that I will always be able to savor, for all the years to come. I’ve never forgotten a single bite of bone marrow I’ve taken, and I don’t think I’ll ever remember my class any way but fondly. Even when things aren’t ideal, like the slightly stringy beef short-rib, a sprinkle of the bone marrow will still make it just a little bit better.

After two years of science and two years of clinic, there is nothing I love more than the satire of a serious subject. And Garden at the Cellar had me at the Animal Burger, a beef patty covered with California contraband, its namesake a staple of their precious In-N-Out.

My feelings about the Animal Burger alternated with each bite, much like each and every med school lecture. Med school tried to cram too many dense, rich, complex things from cover to cover, but somehow we digested it all. And between the pate, the crackling pork skin and the thick beef patty, I'm surprised I could even fit my mouth around it. Just make sure multiple people share this burger, which is hard when you're a med student, since most of us are too busy studying to actually have friends.

In med school, I had the best of times and I had the worst of times. Everything we did was the product of intense, over-achieving crammers determined to palm the world with our fingertips. And sometimes, I think we did, but part of the balancing act is to know when you’ve grabbed enough. A little restraint goes a long way the night before the boards, and no one ever failed from not doing the optional 5-hour surgery. And that's why I struggle with Garden at the Cellar. I love it, and like all the places I hit during indulgence week, this place has mastered the luxurious, the over-the-top, and the bit-too-much. But a med student has limited power for a reason, and a chef with free reign over the world's finest ingredients should see the great responsibility that lies with his power. But there's also a reason that Garden at the Cellar has become one of my greater-Boston favorites: Their chef has no restraint, and neither do I.