El Pelon Taqueria - Boston

Dear El Pelon,

It’s finally hit me that I’ll be leaving Boston in just one short month, and LA isn’t close. I’m excited about a fresh start, but I’m sad about the things I’ll be leaving behind. I think one of my biggest regrets will be you. I noticed you for your food first because let’s face it, your food is just plain awesome.

I’ve tasted at least 60% of your menu, and I swear it never gets old. I could eat anything over and over and never get bored. Remember that girl who always stands at the register and takes forever to decide? Yes, I am THAT girl. Sorry, people behind me…

The first thing I ever tried was your Torta with carnitas. The carnitas will cater to any carnivore, the onions keep it crisp, and spicy mayo and guacamole make the world a tastier place.

The tortas are tempting, but I’m one for variety so your Tacos have become my go-to. The Pescado Tacos are full of fresh squares of cornmeal-encrusted cod, the carnitas are as juicy as can be, and the carne asada tastes marinated and freshly charred over flying flames. Topped with limed onions, lightened by pickled cabbage, and salsa, there is no bad time to indulge in one of these. The tortillas are perfect, and the cool cukes make you think for just a fleeting moment that hot sauce isn’t scorching your tongue…and your mouth…and your fingers...and the table. My biggest issue with the tacos is that the carnitas are so juicy that the juice pools at the bottom and soaks the tacos so they split down the middle faster than you can pick them up. Then again, there’s nothing more boring than a neat taco.

The Burritos are solid, but all those rice and beans can get pretty dry so I end up adding a lot of hot sauce…and eating more to stave off the burn…then adding more hot sauce…El Pelon, you’re making me fat. And I LOVE it.

I thought the burritos were filling, but they’re nothing compared to the Quesadillas. You stuff that tortilla for a middle so thick I can barely fit my mouth around it. Despite being a little hard to eat, these are pretty perfect on those days when I feel like a bottomless pit.

I don’t know what you put in your hot sauce, but I’m addicted to the burn. No meal is complete without it, and I add it to everything. And this is coming from a girl who despises large amounts of sauce.

El Pelon, I noticed you for the food first, but then I started to notice more. I’ve come to respect and admire you over the years because of who you are and what you mean to the city of Boston. Your food captures this city’s youthful spirit, a city teeming with colleges in double digits, three major med schools, and countless other institutions of higher learning. Students live simple lives, limited by our debt, and I can’t think of any affordable food that captures our sweet simplicity so well.

Boston is a young city, and you are a classic that stays forever young. There is nothing more comforting than a hot meal from you the night before an exam, there’s nothing more celebratory than a mouthful of Mexican munchies, and there’s no better end to a long day or night. And on a snowy winter day, nothing warms me from the inside out like your hot sauce.

I noticed your food first, but your character will make me remember you. Literally a phoenix from the ashes, you rose and rebuilt after a leveling fire. You came back stronger than ever, and you came back better than ever if UrbanDaddy and every friend and yelper I’ve ever consulted are to be believed. Not only did you come back strong, you had strength to give. The strength and generosity you showed after this year’s tragic marathon, working tirelessly to provide food, drinks, and resources to anyone in need will never be forgotten, though at these affordable prices, your food is practically a giveaway as it is. I’ve eaten your food countless times, and as far as I’m concerned, so little has never bought me so much.

When times are tough, I will remember your strength. When I am selfish, I will remember your generosity. And when I am hungry, I will remember your carnitas. Thank you, El Pelon. You remind me all that there is still good in this world.

XOXO,

Foodie Houser, MD

Bad Ideas at Barrio Cantina – Boston

Anne Hathaway’s Oscar dress was a bad idea. Chris Brown is a bad idea. And recently, all of Kristin Stewart’s ideas have been bad. So maybe it was one of them (my bets on the Twilight starlet), that inspired the revamped Happy’s, now Barrio Cantina.

The Street Tacos, filled with kicking shredded beef and red chiles was a promising start. Unfortunately, these street tacos were tacos you could get off any street. In fact, El Pelon, which is literally two streets down, makes them arguably better.

Since little shreds of beef wrapped in a small tortilla were pretty good, we moved on to the Skirt Steak Fajitas, bigger shreds of beef wrapped in the same tortilla. Unfortunately, this sequel quickly went the way of the Pirates of the Caribbean series; downhill. The tortillas were good the first time, but the sequel of skillet strips of medium rare steak were well-seared yet devoid of any flavor. Add the blandest sautéed veggies ever, and all you’re left with is, “why is the salt gone?”

The Barrio Burger was a juicy-looking patty topped with a thick spread of avocado, carrying a jalapeno kick. So what a pity that it flopped more than…well…every film M Night Shaymalan made after Signs. The burger was more along the lines of Lady in the Water - the burger was the lady and the non-stop liter of grease that dripped out of it was the swimming pool she lived in. The chipotle fries sounded so promising yet it turned out to be a bigger farce than The Village. Spoiler alert: they don’t exist. They’re just regular fries with a side of chipotle mayo.

I had just purchased a groupon to Happy’s when an Urbandaddy email announced its replacement mere months after the grand opening. Someone wasn’t very happy with Happy’s and after perusing a slew of lukewarm yelp reviews and suffering through a meal at Barrio Cantina, I wonder if Happy’s was just too close to an oxymoron for comfort.

When the same owners replace one restaurant with another, the replacement is supposed to be an improvement. I never went to Happy’s, but judging by the reviews, Barrio seems to be a new version of the same old mediocrity. They say don’t knock what you haven’t tried but I’m knocking Barrio Cantina big time so you won’t have to try it.

Bashing Basho Japanese Brasserie – Boston

You’ve seen this girl, you know her well. She struts with all her swagger and she always struts her stuff. And boy does she have a lot of stuff. For the subtle swipe of a small square of plastic, she flounders the fortune she didn’t earn and accrues at least one asset from every designer with a fortune that’s hers to burn.  We covet her closet, we aspire to the array of Armani, gaze at the gaggle of Gucci, and venerate the vestibule of Vuitton.

We love her and we hate her as she flaunts her fabulous fashions. But leer all you want at the labels, you’ll soon see that nothing breathes beneath. Purchased for the pricetag, casually cast aside for the newer line, her closet accrues and accumulates and dazzles, devoid of any meaning. She has no LBD (little black dress, guys…and girls not from NYC), she lacks a pair of go-to jeans, and she craves the comfort of cozy crops.  

You’ve seen this girl, you know her well. She rocks reality TV and she sees through the mascara-laden eyes of every single character on Gossip Girl…especially now that Blair Waldorf’s iconic wardrobe is being ravaged by a stylist who is either a distant cousin of Ronald McDonald...or blind.

If you’re looking for this girl in Boston, I just found her in Basho. An imposingly large space in fun Fenway, Basho is beautiful at first glance. The paneling is modern, the floor shines, and you wonder how the food couldn’t do the same. But take a bite of the Lobster Tempura Roll and you’ll see why Basho is the first stop for sushi disaster tourism. The roll tasted more like shake n’ bake chicken than lobster thanks to the almost-burnt breading…wasn’t worth the chipped teeth. The Snow Mountain Roll was better but not by much. Snow crab makes a tasty topper, but the filling of shrimp tempura drowned out the sweet crab, making this one blander than Sperry’s boat shoes. The Amaebi Mango Roll was even more bland and a disaster comparable to the faulty fashion we call the clog.

The Soft Shell Crab Tempura was about as fresh as Ugg boots in southern California. Not terrible, but about as impractical as it is idiotic.

We could barely tell the Water Eel Tempura from regular fish, but the eel was tender and made for a tasty tidbit. About as memorable as last season’s Tori Burch…come on girls, how different can flats really be year after year?

When you get to Basho, it won’t take many bites to understand what garnishes our girl. Her glitz and glamour are grounded in a pile of expensive possessions, most of which are utterly unremarkable or utterly ugly…or both. I’m not that girl. I’m far from a fashionista, and I’m far from a master foodista. But I am a foodie, and though I may not bash you for having believed in Basho, I will berate you belligerently if you ever go back.

Southern Sweetness at Sweet Cheeks – Boston

Dear Fellow Foodie-Southern-Girl-By-Origin-Gone-to-Boston Transplant,

I don’t know who you are, but I know you’re out there. And I know you’re just like me. You went to college and figured out that there was nothing left for you in your small hometown that they claimed was a city, and you fearlessly took your diploma and the first flight north. You struggled through the city but found your way, but you tried to shed your southern roots on that long road to becoming a true-blue city girl. You artfully avoided the “Where are you from?” questions by answering “Fenway” or “South End” or “BU”, and you followed that with a snarky comment about your neighborhood or job or life so that people were too distracted to ask again. But once in a while when you’re drinking iced tea or that sugar-added afterthought they dare to call sweet, you start to crave the smoky fall-off-the-bones barbecue you spilled on your favorite faded denim miniskirt with your legs dangling off the back of your boyfriend’s truck.  

My southern girl, I know you get as homesick as I do sometimes, and I know that every time you go home you take daily trips to Bojangles and start to bleed their sweet tea after a few short days. I’m sure you may have despaired of finding a taste of home, but there is hope for you yet. Sweet Cheeks in Fenway is a high-end version of the real thing, but it’ll be just enough to curb your craving.

I know there’s no buzz like you get from the moonshine in Uncle Jethro’s bathtub, but the apple cider moonshine from the Rocky Top will make you just talkative enough to be charming...at least that’s what I kept telling myself…And if it’s the back-porch lemonade you’re craving, the Dollywood will make you as friendly as a southerner while quenching your thirst.

If you told me the food was made in a bathtub like real moonshine, I wouldn’t believe it. The food is clearly higher-end than your down-home southern, as exemplified by the Hush Puppies. These well-fried balls of cornmeal are irreproachable, and the honey butter was pretty…baller (groan!), but the finely ground cornmeal somehow detracts from the backyard connotation of coarse grains of ground corn.

The Fried Okra was clearly and easily my fave part of the entire night, brilliant use of half-slices of okra to prevent battered okra syndrome. This puts the chef’s brilliance on par with Eli Whitney, and we both know just how much we worship the god of the cotton gin.

The meat is clearly higher grade than what grandpa’s shotgun brought down, but the smoky essence of Texas-style barbecue unmistakably permeates the fatty Pork Belly, and I strongly suggest dipping everything in the hot bbq sauce – the regular isn’t nearly as good. The Brisket is a little dry on the outside but the flavor went all the way through – just tell grandma to take it off the grill sooner at the next pig pickin’. The Pork Ribs were fall-off-bone-pink, and your grandma needs to write Soulfire that this is how it should be.

Sides are often a lost art, but the ones at Sweet Cheeks haven’t suffered any neglect. The broccoli and cheese casserole tastes like a creamier, mashed-up version of quiche. I wouldn’t call it a southern girl must-have, but no one in their right mind would object. The collard greens can’t compare to Soulfire, but the mac and cheese is good stuff.

My pet peeve is that you can’t substitute a biscuit for the white bread on the trays, and I’m mad enough to shoot a gator over not getting to try the biscuits that night. A southern dinner without biscuits is like fried chicken without the breading, but we just didn’t want to order yet another side. Our loss.

My sweet southern girl, if you need to wait 40 minutes for a table at 7 on a Wednesday night, either the place is good or it’s new. Sweet Cheeks is both. And probably as pinchable as yours according to your grandma.

From one secret southern girl to another, own your southern roots sparingly, but let them show at Sweet Cheeks. Sweet Cheeks will make you momentarily unashamed to admit that your middle name is Mae or Sue, that you really do know the proper way to say y’all, and that your favorite pastime was daddy’s tractor-driving lessons. Meet me there so we can dip the fried okra in some moonshine and gear up for a long night of stargazing…and cow tipping.

xoxo,

Foodie Houser, MD

Sol Azteca, a Haiku in 13 Verses – Boston

  

Sol the rising sun

Reminds me of Japan

My haiku tribute:

Bright colors welcome

Typical Mexican warmth

Love the table tiles.

Sangria:

Red like scarlet grape

Inebriating rivers

Of low-end red wine.

Nopalitos in Salsa Verde:

Token veggie dish

Like a dip with no spinach

Like pickled okra

Hot and fresh with chips

I enjoy the novelty

But sour gets old fast.

Enchiladas Vegetarianas:

Well-cooked vegetables

Green sauce was mediocre

Could have used more spice.

Pickled red cabbage

Spectacularly tasty

Accompanies well.

Carne Asada:

Skip the chorizo

Enchilada passable

Loved the rice and beans.

Juicy cut of steak

Good flavor, medium rare

Should have tried the pork.

Fried Ice Cream:

Perfect battering

Best fried shell I ever had

Best thing I ate here

Overall:

The food is just fine,

I wish I ate less cactus

I’m sick of it now.

Neither bad nor great

Overall, no real complaints

I might come again.

Our server was sweet

Helpful with his suggestions

I’d come back for him.

  

Walk the Walk at Elephant Walk – Boston

es, I am starting this review with a photo of my chest. Don’t worry, there’s not much to see. Now, if you’ll just get over the initial shock, you’ll see that the pendant around my neck is an elephant and serves as a literal commemoration of my visit to Elephant Walk. Elephant Walk, a nondescript brick building housing a nondescript ambiance of dimmed lights and two-tops is located in Boston’s gray area of St. Mary’s Street and Beacon that is neither Brookline nor Allston nor Kenmore. Sadly, the only non-literal things about this restaurant are its location and its name. Then again, all elephants are gray so maybe just one non-literal thing…

I pause my literal tirade to compliment the bread, which was the only thing remotely close to fusion – sad because it’s the fusing of cultures, not the fusing of food. It seems that when you combine two cultures that are conquers of carbs, the end result is a powerfully good loaf of bread. Aside from the bread, the menu at Elephant Walk is as literal as my necklace. There is Cambodian and there is French. You may choose the Cambodian or you may choose the French. That is all.

Our meal started with the vegetarian Rouleaux – traditional Cambodian spring rolls with a French name. I named them magnifique and that’s all that matters. The spring rolls were a little greasier than I would have liked, but the tasty veggie filling wrapped in a fresh basil leaf with a sweet dipping sauce “fused” into what was probably the best spring roll I’ve ever had. Literally.

The veggie entrée was so unremarkable I literally don’t remember what it was. And allow me to remind you that I forget men’s names faster than I forget food names…(Think back to med school orientation: “ANSHUL! For the third time, my name is ANSHUL!!!”) I think it was the Tofu Citronnelle but don’t quote me on that…It certainly wasn’t Anshul… Another French name for French-fried tofu with a slightly spicy, glorified sweet & sour sauce, a stirfry I literally could have made at home for far less than the outrageous $17 they had the nerve to charge.

I rarely comment on the price of things, but my Khar Saiko Kroeung was equally overpriced. And equally literal. The menu described a braised boneless shortrib, jasmine rice, and a cucumber garnish. And there it was. As you see by the photo, it is literally slabs of shortrib with a pretty mold of rice. The scallion oil was a nice touch, but it was really just rice and meat with a few slices of cool cukes. To be fair, the meat was flavorful and perfectly braised, but $18.95 should at least buy me cooked cukes...

Overall, Elephant Walk is a place of literally good food, a testament to their ability to survive in a neighborhood replete with students whose loans make upscale dining and exorbitant pricing a rarity. The food is indeed well-made, and the amazing flavor and tenderness of my shortrib is undeniable, but what you see is what you get. On the upside, the menu will talk the talk and the chef will walk the walk, but I will have to have exhausted all my options before I walk back into Elephant Walk.