Magnificent Casa Mono – NYC

This week’s theme is cross-country indulgence, and not the kind of indulgence you can buy from the pope. This week is about the over-the-top, the excessive, and the way too much. This is the week we gorge, and it all starts in NYC because no one can put it down like New York City and no one can serve it up like Casa Mono.

No one would consider the chewy, often-rubbery Pulpo an indulgence, but I guess anything becomes rich when it’s lightly fried. No one makes pulpo like the Spanish, even if its pronounciation sounds like it got smashed in a juicer. The pulpo is improved by the bitter bits of grapefruit pulpo, and shiny white slices of crunch give you a fabulous fixin’ of fennel.

I expected the Mussels to be the lighter app, but not when they’re doused in Spain’s equivalent of bacon. These mussels are ensconced by red droplets of oil emanating from the grainy pork. I prefer my mussels sweeter, but the cava adds a bitter edge so I can’t say I cared for the combination. My tastes aside, Casa Mono gets an A for this indulgent effort.

I generally order artichoke everywhere I go, but I’m in awe of the Artichoke at Casa Mono. Fresh mint and oil give the light-and-sour a deep mmm that digs deep down to the base of your tastebuds.

I heart pate, and I really heart the Duck Heart Pate that accompanies the blood-red-pinks of seared Duck Breast. The breast is juicy, and the pate is a smooth-melting grain.  Sorry skeptics, offal is just not as awful as it sounds.

I used to think that the farther you got from Union Square’s tricked out touristic taints, the better the food would get. On the continuum of Baohaus, to the iconic Momofuku, all the way down to the legendary Spotted Pig, this theory works, but Casa Mono holds firm on 18^th and Irving, turning my theory to dust. 

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.

Colicchio’s Genius at Craftbar UPDATE - NYC

Some people are not meant to swim. Greetings from a human rock. No, smart ass, not pumice. Maybe a skipping stone on a good day. Let’s put it this way: my scuba instructor had to physically tow me to the descent rope because I couldn’t swim there. With a flotation vest. And flippers.

Some restaurants were not meant to serve brunch. Craftbar was meant to serve dinner. It’s been a year and I still can’t forget the sweetbreads, but brunch at Craftbar was like so many things in this city of trends and chance: not meant to be.

I knew I was taking a huge risk by trying the brunch, but the Pecorino Risotto Balls made me feel better about my decision. They weren’t brass ones, but the cheesy risotto with a kick of tomato made for big gooey bites of tasty-but-expected goodness. No surprises and no spontaneity, but definitely no complaints.

Finally, a real kale salad. After the hot mess spinach dip at Fada, I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into with the Winter Squash and Kale Salad, but the kale is crunchy and the squash is sweet. This one gets a hearty red heart, like an oversized t-shirt declaring your love for NYC.   

Some things just don’t belong at a New York brunch, and nothing makes that point clearer than the Potted Corned Beef Hash. The tender chunks of beef are overpowered by the underlying sour-kraut, and what was once a thick beef and potato hash gets diluted as the kraut-water seeps in. The mix of egg yolk and fermented cabbage is a disaster of epic proportions, a no-go that stops your tastebuds in their tracks like cars in the Lincoln Tunnel during rush hour.

The hash may be a little off, but if you need proof that these chefs can cook anything, look no farther than the Shrimp & Grits. The grits are buttery, the shrimp are perfect, and the chorizo adds a little extra. Would have liked spicier shishitos, but that’s not really something they can help.

Writing this review made me feel like the sitcom parent who spanks their child while says “This hurts me more than it hurts you.” I love Craftbar and it pains me to dock them in an update, but some places should stick to what they’re good at. Sadly, the same evolution that has us walking upright in heels has brought us into a society where Manhattannites will consume nothing but poached eggs before 4 PM on Saturday and Sunday, so I sympathize with Craftbar’s struggle for survival. The thing is, we’ve all tried to put things where they don’t belong, and at Craftbar, that would be brunch.

Shakin’ it at Shake Shack UPDATE - NYC

Sometimes I'm not sure what kind of girl I am, and I’m often not sure what kind of girl I want to be. But if you asked me what kind of girl I’m most proud to be, I'd tell you I’m proudest to be the kind of girl who eats her burgers. The little roll that obscures my potential six-pack is my testament to the fact that I butter my bread, and the grab-able handles on my back are where my burgers go. I don’t just eat my burgers, I finish them. Because the only thing worse than a girl who doesn't eat burgers is a girl who doesn't finish her burgers. If you have reasons for skipping the beef, more power to you, but if you spring for the soft pink-blooded juice of a Shake Shack patty, you better eat every bite. Real girls eat their burgers.

The only real Shake Shack burger Ben and I will get is from Madison Square Park. A place called Shake Shack should be a shack in a park, not a modernized midtown burger joint with granite countertops. And what could be better a better accompaniment to a burger from a shack than soaking up the sun between the towering buildings of fancy Flatiron?

My shack Fair Shake bring all the yuppie-liberal boys to the yard (or park?), and they're like, it's better than yours. Though if yours is Vanilla or Oreo, it's probably pretty close to equal. Just less fair. But give it a shake – it’s the Beastie Boys’ embodiment of "I like my sugar with coffee and cream".

The double Shackburger is as American as grease, a no-frills grilled, BLT, which stands for burger, lettuce, tomato.  The shack sauce completes it even more than Jerry Maguire, but I’d eat the burger over the man any day. Maybe my shack shake will bring that man to the yard and I’ll eat a burger with him. Hey, I can dream…

My Burger of the Day should be a burger every day. I don't usually like bacon, but I happily oinked to the cheddar cheese covering this one. I don't know what's in that lip-smacking shack sauce, but I do want some to take back to my Boston shack.

Dollops of ketchup make the French Fries as American as the burger, but my cheese fries will always be better than yours. And they'll always be better with cheese.

It's been a whole year since I've commented on the prowess of Shake Shack, but now that I’ve finally tried the burgers, I’m hooked. So head to Shake Shack with your boys next time you crave a burger and a shake. If your shake doesn’t bring your boys to the yard, mine will.

Pip at Pipa - NYC

The décor here is creepy, just pure, cringingly creepy. Those who actually read the assigned reading in high school English will feel like they just stepped into Miss Havisham’s house, a la Great Expectations, Charles Dickins style. The myriad chandeliers are seriously eerie and the pricetags hanging from them do nothing to assuage my creepedoutness…

The good news is that the beautiful Estella’s Spiked Orange-Nutella Stuffed French Toast kiss seductively awaits you behind a small fountain of banana-maple syrup. And like Estella’s kiss, the hint of orange gets your pulse racing, and the sweetness of the nutella stuffing lingers. Sadly, the nutella, like Estella’s affection, doesn’t extend to the edges of the toast and leaves you hanging just enough to want to try again.

The rich, gooey gruyere decorates the Baked Eggs like Miss Havisham’s jewels decorated Estella; only on the surface. Estella is stunning in her jewels, and though they temporarily deflect the empty soul that wears them, a few more bites and you soon realize that you can’t really taste the prosciutto, and the gruyere is the only flavor of this dish. Then again, you appreciate the gruyere the same way you appreciate her beauty – enjoy it this time, but keep a safe distance away the next.

The Gambas al Ajillo were as dried up as Estella’s heart, but like poor Pip, I loved how the chiles burned. I had great expectations for this and the baked eggs, but imagine my disappointment when I found Estella falling short in true inner beauty.

At the end of the day, I probably wouldn’t go back to Pipa thanks to the haunting chandeliers and the good but I-can-do-better-in-NYC food, but Pip didn’t totally regret loving Estella, I didn’t really regret trying Pipa...and neither should you.