The Big Oleana – Cambridge

Oleana sounds like something you’d say to a talented lover named Leana. Except your lover is a plate of Mediterranean mecca, and your love is as short-lived as your last bite of potato pie. But make no mistake, every petite plate you try at Oleana and every steamy bite that grazes your lips leaves a lasting imprint as poignant as your first love.

The vegetarians at the table raved about the Spinach Falafel, and I confirmed that it was indeed to die for. It was a tough job but somebody had to do it… The Asparagus special had a mysterious dark flavor to balance out the light, loved the savory spin. The hummus was also quite tasty – O Leana, how I love taking bites of your vegetables.

I initially feared that my appetizer, the Potato Pie with Bacon (special) would be as somnolence-inducing as anesthesiology. The unblemished white purity of the potato cake even resembled propofol. One bite and the bacon awakened my tastebuds, and this rich and heavy dish was as refreshing as Sleeping Beauty after 100 years asleep. Maybe the Brothers Grimm misheard, and her name was Leana instead of Aurora because this dish just made me understand why Americans wake up to bacon.

I have yet to say O to anyone named Leana, but I couldn’t contain a resounding O at the Soft-Shelled Crab. A massive golden crab, beautifully battered with a smattering of subtle sauce, as crisp as the edges of a new crescent moon, yet smooth as silk when you swallow, offset by the gritty grains of quinoa. Serious O.

When it comes to food, the more unsure I am of how it’s pronounced, the more I like it. And the Tamarack Tunis Lamb was no exception. The sausage was absolutely perfect; gamey, spicy legs logs of earthy comfort. I’m a firm, blasphemic believe that not all good things need to be heavenly, and at Oleana, the earthy lamb is the way to go. I’m sure I have no idea how to pronounce the deep, dark, delectable Turkish spices either, but though my lips cannot speak its name, its flavor will forever linger on my tongue.

I’m starting to think I deserve a slap on the wrist (though I’m willing to consider kinkier alternatives) for constantly overlooking Inman Square. It’s clearly a no man’s land and a transportation nightmare for bikeless, carless city dwellers, but so far, both onerous journeys have yielded gold mines housing a culinary mecca, well worth the hajj. So load up your camel with something to read while waiting for the bus through the Cambridge desert. Believe me, neither you nor your camel will be disappointed…just feed him some falafel. 

I Melt for Tupelo - Cambridge

For those who are not diehard fans of my fave country boy-band Rascal Flatts (before they sold out with their whiny crossover hit “What Hurts the Most”), this review is written as a giant reference to the lyrics of their many hit songs. The links are to the songs in case you want to know just what the heck I’m actually alluding to. And if you think I’ve gone off the deep end with this review, fear not, I’ll be back to my snarky self in the next one.

I set out on a narrow way, many years ago. Hoping I would find true southern cooking along the broken road through Cambridge. I got lost a time or two, wiped my brow, kept pushing through. I couldn’t see how every sign pointed straight to Tupelo.

                                                              

Every long lost dream lead me to the Fried Grits. Others who broke my heart, they were like Northern stars pointing me on my way into the loving creamy buttery filling under a lightly fried shell. This much I know is true: that god blessed the broken road that led me straight to Tupelo.

Southern Fried Chicken is hard to make well, and I’m guessing all that pressure often makes chefs feel like a candle in a hurricane when they’re trying to get it right. The chefs at Tupelo were neither alone nor helpless, never lost their fight, and the fried chicken turned out way better than alright. Cuz when push comes to shove, the chicken was made of crispy brown batter, with not a single soggy spot, and a nice kick of spice. The side of collared greens had enough vinegar to make me bend and break cuz it’s all I can take and with my tastebuds on their knees, vinegar made me a bit mad by getting so overpoweringly strong, but I wiped my mouth and shook it off, and that’s how I stand. But when it comes to the chicken, well…I could definitely stand for a lot more of that.

The side of Jalapeno Mac & Cheese didn’t taste a day over fast cars and freedom. A childlike classic with a kick creates a first time feelin’. That jalapeno was hot, but we gave it a chance. And if anyone deserves a chance, it’s the mac & cheese. And don’t forget to just sit there and let a side of spicy-sweet pickles take you back.

I melt every time I look at the Beer Battered Crepes that way.  This savory classic never fails, anytime, any place. The hot melted gruyere with a steamy assortment of impossibly flavorful wild mushrooms was burning me but it one of the coolest things I’ve ever tasted. I melt…

The Mud Pie with 3 Musketeers ice cream and the Pecan Pie with Tupelo honey ice cream are the best desserts I’ve had all year, maybe EVER. Though these desserts are borrowed from Petsie Pies and Toscanini’s, it’s never a bad idea to borrow what someone else does better – just look at the Hippocratic Oath! Besides, the chef of Petsie Pies is also a chef at Tupelo so it’s not really even borrowing when it comes to the pies. These pies were pieces of perfection – no twists or surprises but the best mud pie and pecan pie I’ve ever had. They were ordinary, plain and simple, typical and deserving of my everyday love. Same ol’ but keeping it new. Amazingly delicious explosion of sweetness, so familiar, nothing about it too peculiar. But I can’t get enough of my everyday love for pie.

I’m gonna stand on a rooftop, climb up a mountaintop, scream and shout. I wanna sing it on the radio, show it on my food blog, leave no doubt. I want the foodie world to know just what southern cooking is all about. I just wanna love Tupelo out loud.

A City Girl in City Girl Café – Cambridge

Inman Square, which I nicknamed No-man Square due to my aversion for venturing past the borders of my beloved Boston, has forever altered my view of brunch. I think they were thinking of City Girl when they were wrote this quote: Some restaurants come into our lives and quickly go. Others stay a while and leave foodprints in our palates and we are never the same. Before I met City Girl, brunch was a glorified breakfast for lunch, consumed because you’re too hung over to eat before that and often doubles as your excuse to have an eye-opener before it’s socially acceptable to do so.

When I first entered I had no idea what I was getting into. I gingerly squeezed into the doorway sideways to avoid crushing the couple waiting behind it and found myself face-to-face with a dining room the size of my bedroom with seating for 20 people max. And every table was full. My first question was, is City Girl full because it’s good or because not that many people actually fit inside?  We were seated after a suspenseful 15-minute wait, after which I received my first preview of what was to come. The Rosemary Lemonade was amazing. With just enough sugar to take away the eyebrow-wrinkling sting and a lingering taste of rosemary, this concoction is probably the best legal herbal remedy to stimulate your appetite and prevent the common cold.

Like many excellent restaurants, City Girl has a theme. Masa’s theme is good food at a great price, Las Ventas covers everything in aioli, and I soon found that City Girl’s theme is the clever legal use of herbs and spices.

The French Toast soaked all the flavor of the vanilla custard and anise without becoming soggy, and the bread was, for once, not obscured by a shaggy layer of egg. I hate black licorice, the scent of Sambuca makes me ill, and anise is something I will only tolerate in pho. But pho sure, this hint of anise gave the toast a refreshing hint of sharpness, yet another legal herbal appetite stimulator. The red bliss potatoes were as blissful as their name, so heavily herbed that ketchup was a sin, and I insisted on eating every last one long after I got full. A little rosemary goes a long way…

Green means go and the Verde was no exception to that rule. Those scrumptious scrambled eggs laced with pesto shine like a green left-turn signal at the world’s longest intersection...I don’t know where that is, but I’m guessing it’s somewhere on Mass Ave.  Clever use of basil (yes, it’s an herb) to remind you of the Italian theme, and the two slices of Italian bread are where all carbs go to heaven.

The food is impossibly well-priced, and I’ve paid double for food half this good! There’s a lot of good cafes in this city, but there should be more city girls in this café. The food was so good I forgot to take pics before devouring it. Guess I’ll HAVE TO go back for pics…