Pig Out at Pigalle – Boston

I can’t afford Pigalle. I’m well aware that I can’t afford Pigalle. And I would never have gone to Pigalle if not for a sweet Bloomspot deal of dinner for two at a price I could afford. And when I finally arrived for this night of stolen indulgence, the quiet ambiance of maturity set in elegant simplicity was a manifest sign that this sleek sophistication was far out of my league. The thing is, I really didn’t need a separate menu to remind me.

My idealistic mind insisted that a place this good wouldn’t skimp so I went into the appetizers with hope only to find that the Duck Liver Terrine was a silkier version of the mousse/pate I get at Trader Joe’s. My slice was so generous that I had to take more than half of it home, but the same amount costs $5 at TJ’s.

I always say call a rose a rose, and I’ve never been a fan of sugar-coating the truth. So I guess the Simple Arugula Salad (translation: pile of leaves drenched in vinegar) is my kind of salad.

My reaction to the salad is clearly a hate, but my reaction to Pigalle’s Cassoulet is almost as ambiguous as Kristin Stewart’s feeling for Robert Pattinson. So does she actually like him? Served in a cast-iron skillet, this cassoulet was every bit as hearty as you’d expect, but all the meat and the stew itself were pretty bland. And while the seemingly random assortment of meats made me feel like I was eating a huntsman’s catch in a log cabin in the woods, I can’t help but feel in the back of my mind that Pigalle just served me every piece of meat the kitchen had left over.

The Wild Mushroom Risotto was just plain delicious. No need to sugarcoat anything here. I dare say Pigalle’s true potential lies buried beneath these plump, buttery grains of savory rice tempered by chewy root veggies and an essence of mushrooms that made me wild. If everything else on the menu is like this, I’d come back for just one more bite.

The risotto renewed my faith in the Bloomspot menu…and kinda in all cooking, but the “Mini” Crème Brulee turned out to be the icing on the condescension cake. It looked like a very reasonable portion to me, and I couldn’t imagine wanting more, so I’m not sure why the name was there to remind me that my status didn’t warrant a full dessert. The crème brulee itself was as good as any other I’ve had so no need to describe. If you don’t know what crème brulee tastes like yet, look it up.

I thought the crème brulee was insulting, but the Caramelized Pineapple was a joke. I never complain about portion size, and I definitely never complain about fresh fruit, but come on, two slices of pineapple with burnt sugar on top is a pretty poor excuse for a course. The teaspoon of Greek yogurt sorbet was amazing, but there wasn’t enough of it to appreciate.

So thanks Pigalle, for letting plebeians like myself have a taste of fine dining we can’t otherwise afford. But thanks to this special menu, which looks the culinary equivalent of the short bus, I can barely rate you considering only two of the items I tried were from your menu. You see, Pigalle, you haven’t quite mastered the definition of a deal. When you offer a deal, the purchaser should benefit. Even Shakespearean groundlings at least got the front row. And after a whole two slices of pineapple, merci, but non.

The Halal Guys – NYC

After two years of living in NYC, I never got around to the Halal Guys. For reasons unknown, I deprived myself of one of New York’s greatest culinary treasures, a prize of such international fame and universal acclaim it’s even earned its way to the ear of the common street vendor…in Israel.

Being a New Yorker and never having Halal is wrong, and part of growing up is righting your wrongs. So I grew up in line one sunny day and grabbed a white sauce-doused platter of Lamb over Rice from the yellow-shirt clad vendors of New York’s Best. I usually hate things drowned in sauce, but that white sauce was clearly a flood from heaven. A single drop of that fiery hot sauce was enough to jumpstart my waterworks, but anything that made me eat more white sauce was fine by me.

The lamb over rice was awesome and the Falafel was phenomenal…Until I realized that I’d been duped. New York’s Best isn’t the Halal Guys, it’s the imposter. Same shirts, same corner but about as authentic as a Coach clutch from Chinatown.

Shamed by my newly discovered deception, I went back for the Halal Guys. The white sauce was awesome, the hot sauce hot as ever, but I couldn’t detect a difference in the lamb. The rice was harder and drier compared to the plump orange grains of the imposter, and somehow that whole plate of bootleg had tasted that much better. Maybe it was the sunlit day, maybe it was the radioactive rice, maybe it really is about the size lamb loaf.

I'd be happy with either or both in my stocking this year, but I hope Santa is forgiving otherwise I’m getting coal. I’ve been naughty, and chef Santa may disown me when I divulge my dastardly deed: I tried the Halal imposter and I liked it...better.