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.

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.