Katz's Deli - New York, NY

Man, I miss those Jewish delis. I was a stickler for Second Avenue, and I never did make it down for Katz. 

I sure did miss out, but thanks to mail-order, I regret no more. I got my hands on some Corned Beef and pounds of Pastrami. 

All that smoky, melt-in-your-mouth fat, gristle-galore glows pink. Pretty sandwiches on their fluffy rye bread (not pictured here), incomplete without puckering pickles and sauerkraut. Spread on some mustard and spring for the Russian dressing as well. 

Now THIS is a Hot Dog. Their kit includes those fluffy buns and an all-beef frank that extends past the bread so you get some with every bite.

Hot and almost fresh, here's hubby's first Knish. The square ones have a crispy coating, a layer of frying with mashed potato underlying. Dip in yellow mustard, pair with pickles. 

Salami both hard and soft, both made with beef with a big flavor, much more gamey and robust than those delicate deli slices. I prefer the soft for its smoothness as I'm put off by the strangely rubbery texture of the hard. 

Less-known is the Knoblewurst, a big-beef sausage, seasoned much like a kielbasa with a little less salt and big bite of garlic. You can taste the quality of the meat, and it's best when cut in half and seared. Throw it into a bun or build it on a bagel for breakfast. 

Kugel makes a fantastic side, and you can just pop the whole tray into the oven like that. Theirs is more sweet with sugar and cinnamon, and it finishes fruity with visible vittles of orange. 

I've always loved Jewish delis, and Katz is the ultimate OG. I've had some pretty close contenders, but it's hard to compete with the original. 

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. 

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. 

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.

Kin at Kefi – NYC

According to Gus, the proud, lovable patriarch of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, “There are two kinds of people. Those who are Greek and those who wish they were Greek.” And thanks to this movie’s portrayal, it’s hard not to wish you were Greek, if only just to be a part of this boisterous but generous, meddling but embracing, scolding but accepting, nagging but loving family unit.

Kefi very much embodies the setting of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. The two full floors of buzzing tables replicates the feel of a full family but is quiet enough to not make you feel like it’s assaulting your ears.

My dinner started like every meal with a Greek family:

 “Are you hungry?”

“Oh no, I just ate.”

“Ok, I make you something…Eat! Eat!”

So Eat! the Selection of Spreads, a vegetarian nirvana good enough to make me forget meat. The Tzatziki was cool as a cucumber, the Taramosalata was grainy with spice, the Melintzanosalata says “screw you” to Babaganoush, and the Revithia puts hummus to shame.

Vegetarian apps are awesome, but when it comes to the entrée, there’s bound to be a little friction. “He don’t eat no meat?! Is ok, is ok, I make LAMB.” Thanks for the Sheep’s Milk Dumplings with rich lamb sausage, Aunt Voula. You really are the best cook in the family.

The Tubular Pasta with savory Greek sausage, light veggies, and fresh feta was the flavor of the Mediterranean. “Give me any word in English and I’ll tell you the root of that word in Greek.” Give me any delicious food in the world and I’ll tell you its origin in the Mediterranean.

I was getting a little overloaded with all the movie references conjured by this meal so I started looking for a main dish that captured an important aspect of myself instead. The Flat Pasta did just that. The pulled braised rabbit in this dish must have multiplied like bunnies because I think there was more rabbit than pasta. I just considered it a gift and ate it. They say to beware of Greeks bearing gifts, but I’d never look a gift horse in the mouth.

When people ask us where we come from, well, we come from our families. My family is Chinese. I am Chinese by birth and American by culture. A no-longer-rare combination of eastern tradition and western innovation, I’d like to think I at least turned out marginally better than Americanized Chinese food. Few people are prouder of my heritage than me, but Kefi made me want to ditch it all to be Greek.