Kati Roll – NYC

I never thought I'd have too much fine dining, but I had my fill. I wanted lunch, but I just couldn't bring myself to sit down at yet another high-cost counter. It didn’t help that I was broke and aching to find some five-dollar fare. Forget how much it costs, there is no fare finer than a roll of Kati. The Unda Aloo is my all-time favorite – the egg lightens the heavily well-seasoned potatoes for a balance of protein and starch. The Chicken Tikka Roll is too dense and a bit dry, and the Shami Kabob Roll is loaded with lamb that drips way too much grease to be healthy or appetizing. But the Achari Paneer hits the spot if you’re craving protein or just not potato.

Even if you’re not hungry, you should never walk by Kati Roll. Just stick to simple the Unda Roll, a no-frills roll-up lined with egg, if you must. It’s also ideal if you’re craving something light or just can’t eat another bite, but believe me, you always want a Kati Roll. 

Dallying at Da Ciro – NYC

I just did 20 interviews for residency, and “Tell me about your interest in food” seemed to be every interviewer’s favorite question. And every interview’s favorite backhanded compliment seemed to be “But you’re so much…thinner than I expected for a foodie!” Thank you. I am honored to be less fat than you expected.

Along those complimentary lines, the food at Da Ciro tasted much more homemade than I expected. Sorry Da Ciro, but most of it tasted like stuff I could make at home.

To be fair, home cooking is one of my favorite foods. But that’s because everyone is a better cook than me. And to be fair, the Fried Calamari was probably a little better than something I could make, even with a deep fryer, but nothing to write home about, especially if home is Italy or any place that serves decent seafood.

There’s a reason Manicotti starts with man. These huge rolls of pasta stuffed to the brim with rich ricotta and basil makes it a high-end Hungry-Man dinner, especially with the less-than-desirable amorphous-pile-of-red-sauce presentation. The basil definitely tastes better than microwave cardboard with gravy, but I’ve made similar stuffed shells with cheese and a can of tomato sauce.

The Veal Meatballs are the only thing I really can’t make myself. Dense, tender and perfectly seasoned, the savor comes as much from the chef as the veal. The only way I’d make something this good is by chance.

Sorry Da Ciro, but like my time with you, this review will be short and sweet. Unlike Artisanal, I’ve only met you once and I won’t be meeting you again so there will be no Dear John letter for you. Some restaurants come and go while some leave footprints on our palates and we are never the same. You were the former type so I barely need to bid you goodbye. Your veal meatballs deserves better than my flippancy, but after 3 weeks in NYC, I’m just not that into you.

Acclaimed Artisanal – NYC

Dear Artisanal,

I’ve admired you from the moment I met you. You have found yourself in a city where everyone is lost.  And sometimes, in the vast expanse of a simultaneous social hub and social wasteland, two New Yorkers like us, who have found themselves, also find each other.

I found you by accident five years ago, though now I know there are no accidents. A clueless Carolina girl (the state, Go to Hell Tarheels!) looking for a brunch I could boast about, I stumbled upon you at the advice of a friend. It’s ok to let friends set you up sometimes. You became my brunch buddy after a mere meeting. And why not? Why deny myself a spacious dining room that never runs out of seats with classic, quiet décor that shelters me from the city’s constant storm?

I left for a long time, but then I came back. And I never thought that after five years you could still surprise me, but you still know how to keep it fresh. In a city where everything has been done, your Yogurt Panna Cotta still shakes things up. The panna cotta part is creamy, the yogurt twist keeps it the right amount of sweet, and fruit and granola top a glass that redefines the French parfait.

Sure, you throw in a twist once in a while, but you won’t do trends just because everyone’s doing it. In a city where you try trends to survive, I admire you more when I can count on your classics.

A luxurious river of poached egg runs through a moist and juicy Pork Belly Hash. The tiniest hint of chipotle in the Hollandaise keeps this thick combination fresh, and there’s no better place in New York for this decadence than Park Avenue.

The Farm Egg Omelette squeaks when you bite into the wild mushrooms tempered by a mouthful of cheddar and parmesan. Sides are usually underrated, and this mound of home fries get my love.

I admire you, Artisanal because despite what you were up against, you lasted longer in New York than I did. The people who loved me never replaced me, but most who loved you moved up or moved on. Or like me, they simple moved. But you’ve endured in a city where pop-up restaurants barely raise an eyebrow, and establishments flicker like the fireflies. You stood staunchly as the banks fell, you didn’t even flinch at Lehman’s crumble. You bore silent witness to the dynamic changes of the years, just like you now bear witness to the newest crossroads of my life.

I’m sorry old friend, I don’t know when or if I’ll see you again. You watched me live, you watched me learn, and you watched me grow. But now I’m grown, and I see that my fate no longer lies with you. There will be a new brunch waiting for me in a new place. It may be a place I’ve been to and it may be a place I’ve gone back to, but this place won’t be with you. My time with you has been short, but my time with you has been sweet too. Like all things in a New York minute, my time with you is done. But I’ll be back to see you, because some things are just worth going back for.

Café China – NYC

If service were scored like golf, Café China would give Tiger Woods a run for his money. And I didn’t even sit down. I ordered the Mouth Watering Chicken for takeout and discovered the Husband and Wife Special in its place after I got home. And considering I’m crashing with various friends in New York who are playing a game I fondly named “pass the third wheel”, this mix-up actually seemed a bit cruel…The thing is, when I called and told them in Chinese, without looking at the menu, which dish they mistakenly gave me, the appropriate response was not “Have you ever had mouth watering chicken? Do you actually know what it looks like?” It’s a fair point – I’ve never had their mouth watering chicken. But I’m pretty sure I know what chicken doesn’t look like. For starters, it doesn’t look like beef. And it really doesn’t look like beef tripe. This would be a good time to go to India and try on a sorry.

The Mouth Watering Chicken had a surprisingly large amount of tender, juicy chunks floating in a sea of Szechuan chili. The red glow of agonizing spice makes your eyes water more than your mouth, but you won’t regret a bite of this. I’ve had better but this one’s pretty good, and the $9 I spent leaves little room for objection.

The Cold Noodles Szechuan Style are a safe option. A hint of spice and a dash of peanut-y sweetness is a two-snack-size steal at $6.

We don’t choose gas station bathrooms for their cleanliness and we don’t pick authentic Chinese restaurants for their stellar service. Chinese restaurants are better enjoyed when thought of as gas stations in every state except New Jersey: self-service. But if you’re like me and constantly craving Szechuan but never in the mood to sit down or wait, Café China just might become your go-to for takeout.

S'Mac - NYC

Watch out Murray Hill, there's a new player in this part of town and she's laying the S'Mac-down on your quaint little restaurants. More is more in these inexpensive, exotic-ingredient-loaded platters, turning comely comfort food into a high-end home for the hungry.

Get the nosh portion for a fairly fared $4.75-7.25 range - no need to go big or home. If you're so hungry the nosh just won't do, go for the major munch, but anything bigger than that will feed no less than a small family. Split a few different noshes with your friends if you can - all this heavy mac will S'Mac you in the gut like a ton of bricks if you nosh too much on just one flavor.

The Parisienne looks like a lip-S'Mac-ing snack on laminated paper, but the brie with an overload of shitake kept me from getting through more than half a nosh, and I wouldn't have minded more fig-ful bites. Real Parisians would scoff down their upturned noses at the excessive bunches of brie, but je suis Americaine so pile it on.

The Masala is a spice-loaded taste of India in Mac-hattan, a dire threat to the Kosher vegetarian Indian dining that dots the domain of modern-day Curry Hill.

Napoletana impersonates a Margherita pizza minus the saucy tang, plus some strands of fresh mozzarella elbowing through a bed of mac. And S'Mac-dab in the middle of all that mac, garlic, tomato, and basil intersperse a fresh, light quality that make it possible to manage a major munch.

I usually talk S'Mac about chains, but I actually have nothing negative to say. The over-the-top gooey gluttonies set up in a casual cafe curb a craving for comfort, and S'Mac can comfort my craving any day.

Spectacular Sushi Yasuda - NYC

Wow is one of my favorite words in the English language. It’s one of those words that clearly conveys what it means. There is the exclamatory “WOW”, where even the letters look excited and explosive, with the wide-eyed W’s and the O like an open mouth of shock. Then there is the sad “oh wow”, when something tragic or gruesome occurs, and the little o’s look sympathetic, and the w’s become furrowed brows, and the word is accompanied by a shake of the head. Then there is the ever-sarcastic “wowwww” when you hear or read one of my really badly nerdy jokes, where the o’s are rolled…and so are the eyes.

Sushi Yasuda was the first kind, the kind in all caps. The kind that widens your eyes and drops your jaw except you quickly close your mouth when you realize it’s agape to avoid spilling even a drop of that spectacular sushi . Just don’t open your mouth when you’re drinking their amazing Green Tea.

I used to see appetizers as a teaser to the meal, but I’ve been to entirely too many places where the appetizers have all the WOW, leaving none for the entrees. The Kane Miso really did have all the WOW. Crab roe mixed with a grainy touch of miso makes for a mouth-melting, eye-popping wow.

The Kane Miso was undoubtedly tops, but the lowercase wow provided by the Hone was a salty, welcome contrast. And by lowercase, I don’t mean sad, I mean quiet and subtle. The crunchy crisps of flash-fried eel have none of the in-your-face richness of crab butter, but the sea salt and soft savor of the eel emerges seconds after swallowing. And it holds all the addictiveness of Japanese Pringles – once you pop, you can’t stop.

From left to right, Toro, Shimaji (?), Red Snapper, Sockeye Salmon, New Zealand King Salmon, Sepia, Mirugai, and California Uni. It is impossible to describe each piece separately, and if I were to try, I can clearly picture the head-shaking wows from each reader as one by one, they stop reading. So notable highlights only. The toro is rich and savory, the sockeye salmon is unbelievably sweet and tasty, and the NZ king salmon melts on the tongue. The mirugai is one of my all-time faves, and it’s rare that I catch the chewy-brine of giant clam in season. The uni was brinier than what I had in China, but sea urchin roe is always amazing.

The next two courses are the heavier enders. The value of a fresh Ebi is always grossly underrated, but this one was nothing special. The Sawani Eel is out of this world, and it has rendered me incapable of enjoying eel ever since. Its sweet flesh required none of the corruption of eel sauce, and it was unthinkable that so much flavor came from something so pure and white.

Our omekase was over, but we still hungered for more. Let’s just say the Ocean Trout and another melt-in-your-mouth salmon were the smoothest finish to a perfect meal.

Our server was as sweet as the sushi. Soft-spoken but bubbly and ever-so-polite, she made sure the dirty dishes never dwelled. Just be prepared to abide by the rules in Yasuda-san’s house. Eat your nigiri with your fingertips and don’t add soy or wasabi - it's too perfect to drown in sinus-clearing green stuff or rivers of black. Especially when supping at the sushi bar, be prepared to shut up, snag your sushi with clean fingers, and shove the soy sauce aside. If you'd rather indulge with your own free will, you will find Sushisamba becomes a superior substitute.

At Sushi Yasuda, even the biggest WOW is unable to capture the explosion in your mouth when Yasuda's sweet sushi hits. Most people wouldn't describe sushi as sweet, but there is no better word to capture the umami uproar, and there is no better description for the feeling that comes after.