Opulent Oishii – Boston

Finally! Things I haven’t seen. Everything’s been done to death in the world of food, and I was getting tired of variations on the same old theme. And there are few cuisines more limiting than Japanese. You can only come up with so many combinations uncooked or minimally cooked fish before it becomes a gimmick, and high-end sushi devolves into a battle of quality. Noodle bowls are an endless arena, but how many more times can I complain about Boston’s dry run on ramen? I had gotten to the point where I just couldn’t take another bite of my beloved rainbow roll without feeling like I was stuck in a fishy rut. So I took a chance and a splurge and watched as Oishii prevailed against all odds. For the first time in Boston, I had stumbled upon a Japanese den of invention and innovation ruled by a chef with a vision.

An amuse bouche is traditionally just one bite, but believe me, you don’t want to throw back this shot of green silk. The Edamame Mousse makes for smooth little spoonfuls, airy and cool with the flavor of unbeatable freshness.

What sushi dinner is complete without a maki? I didn’t expect the maki to complete my life, but this Toro Truffle Maki does the job. Topped with seared toro, a cut of tuna slick from a fatty belly, balanced by cool cukes and a crunchy tempura shrimp. I never expected white truffle to jive with tuna, but these powerful little shavings build on the rich toro and pack some punch of their own.

It takes serious nerve to serve amebi – raw shrimp spoils with a rancid sting faster than you can say ebi. But when confronted with a basket of Chirashi this perfect, the amebi is as sweet as every other brilliant bite. The tuna is tasty, the salmon is solid, but the rice was disappointingly plain. Just don’t be too scared to take a few bites of the battered amebi head for an extra burst of bittersweet. And definitely give due diligence to that little dish of salmon roe.

A Japanese restaurant must have noodles. And the Noodles with Uni (or whatever it’s called) are thin and slightly chewy with just enough fluffy egg to make it filling but light. Break the egg and mix this lighter, classier, and a-lot-less-processed hybrid of bagged ramen and Maggi and chew slowly while the uni bursts with flavor. Take note Via Matta, THIS is how uni is done.

Judging by some the Yelp reviews about the dessert, I got the impression that the Green Tea Tiramisu put the O in Oishii. I usually agree with your average yelper, but I just wasn’t a huge fan. The rich, subtle sweetness of the mascarpone undoubtedly revved my engine, but the tall, narrow dish it was served in had the dimensions of a champagne flute so it was impossible to eat the mascarpone with the bittersweet ladyfinger layer at the bottom. A few bites and I was about a quarter mile short of joining that mile-high club. Mostly because I’m not a fan of digging for buried treasure…especially if it’s my dessert you buried.

Thanks Oishii, you justified my three years in South End. Over the years, I often wondered I should have slipped away in favor of affordable food meccas like Cambridge and Chinatown. But sometimes you really do get what you pay for, and once in a while it’s good to opt for a place like Oishii. Sure it’s pricey and sure it’ll set you back a couple meals out, but this kind of quality with this kind of ingenuity ends up in an experience that is priceless. (For everything else there’s Mastercard).

A Homage to The Helmand – Cambridge

The Helmand makes amazing food, and there are few in the world who don’t know this considering the celebrity status of the owner. But that’s not all that brings me to the Helmand. The service is solid, the elegant décor is a delight, and the ambiance is to die for. The pervasive calm is undeniable, and a dinner at the Helmand affords ample time for a moment of solitude or an hour of quiet self-reflection, a haven for a peaceful group dinner or a sanctuary for solo diners soaking in the serenity.

Silence may be golden here, but few things are quite as golden as the Kaddo, a glowing orange ember of melt-in-your-mouth pumpkin abed in a sea of honey, blanketed by a smooth coverlet of garlic yogurt. The pumpkin and honey make for an explosive lap of luxury, and the yogurt makes it slide down like silk.

The Helmand is a reputed lamb-lover’s lane, and the Qabelee did nothing to refute that claim. Chunks of tenderloin fell apart with the flick of a fork under a plate of pallow rice, the flavor of gamey tender lamb permeating every little grain. The plump raisins taste nothing like those dried up little boxes of after school snacks, and julienne carrots add the only glaze sweeter than a well-made lamb.

After each individual chew of the Aushak, a new spice breaks through. It starts with a bouquet of scallion and leek, until you sink under the weight of the yogurt cream. The lightly spiced chickpeas hold firm under the soft ravioli as bitter-fresh mint molds itself into the all little crevices of your tongue while a carrot sauce sweeps sweetly in. This dish duels between heavy and light and light and dark. Each flavor holds its own, but the endless combinations play their own cadences on the tongue. I loved many a dish, but this one is a poet’s poem, a writer’s epic, and a food blogger’s muse.

I don’t remember the first time I tried Baklava, but I do remember the last. I snuck into the kitchen in the dead of night to pilfer a piece of heaven provided by my roommate’s Albanian mother. I never ate baklava again because I was convinced that anything this good couldn’t exist on earth. But Ilisia’s mother must work at the Helmand because my flawlessly layered square of lighter-then air pastry grounded by nuts was honeyed heaven at its best.

Several people have complained that the Helmand is identical to a nearby place called Ariana, a gripe I fail to grasp. You found two otherworldly Afghan restaurants in the same great city. Woe is you. If Ariana is truly as good as the Helmand, quit your whining and go to both. 

The Helmand is my morphine, and the food takes away my pain. Because isn't that why we eat? Some eat to 

remember, and some eat to forget. Some have more to forget than others and some just have very poor memory. I, for one, will never forget this flawless 5-star feast.

Irritating Irregardless Café – Raleigh

Irregardless isn’t a real word, and that really irritates me. One of my biggest pet peeves is typos, and this one doesn’t even make sense. But it does depict the sweetly whimsical nature of this pretty little café, which I now find cutely irritating. Not that it matters. Both the restaurant and its all-over-the-place menu flaunt a certain whimsical aloofness, an adorable air that makes me think they will carry on uninhibited, irregardless of my or anyone else’s opinion.

When the name of your café isn’t a real word, I guess you get a lot more leeway with the menu. Since the name of this cafe isn’t a real word, it only makes sense that the words they use to name and describe their dishes were neither accurate nor realistic. I found that to be far more irritating.

When you serve something called the Cauliflower Trio, you’re supposed to serve three kinds of cauliflower. Sure there was some roasted cauliflower held together by a gray mash that acted and tasted like glue, but if there was any caramelized cauliflower it was indistinguishable from the roasted. And all of it was so bland that the glob of yellow mustard did little, if anything to fix the flavor…any flavor. The eggplant on top was a delicious afterthought but so random in both flavor and theme that I thought someone had accidentally dropped it on top.

I would love to know who coined the term Lamb Lollipops. They’re lamb chops. At a tasty medium rare coated with crushed walnuts and a couple drops of red pepper aioli, there’s nothing sweet about these things. The home fries were bland as can be with a forgettable sweet and sour cabbage. So how many licks does it take to get to the center of a lamb lollipop? The world may never know…Because you’re not supposed to lick them.

Open-Faced Duck Ravioli? Seriously? The whole point of ravioli is that it’s all eaten together. But how am I supposed to say no to duck? The seared duck breast was delectable with a cool red center, crispy skin on top, and duck leg confit on the bottom. The “ravioli pasta” turned out to be sheets of slightly overcooked pasta, the love child of wonton wrappers and lasagna. So me hooking up with an Italian guy. Oh come on, we were all thinking it.

Between the disjointed duck and a “deconstructed” curry special, I’m guessing their theme is taking things apart. But cooking is about putting things together. Chefs spend their lives seeking the just-right combination of powerful ingredients, the right amount of this with a just a pinch of that. And though deconstruction is a tempting theme, what they do here is actually destruction, which should only happen after you eat the food. And I can’t help but feel like they attempted to digest it for me.

Unfortunately, the best part of my experience at this café-whose-name-is-not-a-real-word was the company. And I can have Adam’s company at any restaurant in Raleigh so I certainly won’t be returning to this one. Interesting side note: even Adam isn’t really named Adam. Apparently it’s his middle name and he has at least four others. Maybe he picked this place because he identifies with it…so I hope he doesn’t mind that I just bashed it.

Bad Ideas at Barrio Cantina – Boston

Anne Hathaway’s Oscar dress was a bad idea. Chris Brown is a bad idea. And recently, all of Kristin Stewart’s ideas have been bad. So maybe it was one of them (my bets on the Twilight starlet), that inspired the revamped Happy’s, now Barrio Cantina.

The Street Tacos, filled with kicking shredded beef and red chiles was a promising start. Unfortunately, these street tacos were tacos you could get off any street. In fact, El Pelon, which is literally two streets down, makes them arguably better.

Since little shreds of beef wrapped in a small tortilla were pretty good, we moved on to the Skirt Steak Fajitas, bigger shreds of beef wrapped in the same tortilla. Unfortunately, this sequel quickly went the way of the Pirates of the Caribbean series; downhill. The tortillas were good the first time, but the sequel of skillet strips of medium rare steak were well-seared yet devoid of any flavor. Add the blandest sautéed veggies ever, and all you’re left with is, “why is the salt gone?”

The Barrio Burger was a juicy-looking patty topped with a thick spread of avocado, carrying a jalapeno kick. So what a pity that it flopped more than…well…every film M Night Shaymalan made after Signs. The burger was more along the lines of Lady in the Water - the burger was the lady and the non-stop liter of grease that dripped out of it was the swimming pool she lived in. The chipotle fries sounded so promising yet it turned out to be a bigger farce than The Village. Spoiler alert: they don’t exist. They’re just regular fries with a side of chipotle mayo.

I had just purchased a groupon to Happy’s when an Urbandaddy email announced its replacement mere months after the grand opening. Someone wasn’t very happy with Happy’s and after perusing a slew of lukewarm yelp reviews and suffering through a meal at Barrio Cantina, I wonder if Happy’s was just too close to an oxymoron for comfort.

When the same owners replace one restaurant with another, the replacement is supposed to be an improvement. I never went to Happy’s, but judging by the reviews, Barrio seems to be a new version of the same old mediocrity. They say don’t knock what you haven’t tried but I’m knocking Barrio Cantina big time so you won’t have to try it.

Buzzing at Beehive – Boston

I can’t say no to live jazz. And I can’t say no to kicking back with a beer at a downstairs bar with picnic tables that are too cool for school. The scene is always set at Beehive, and the place is always buzzing with the sound of a chiller life. You don’t dance so you talk. You shout a little over the jiving jazz, but not so much that you feel like an ignorant tourist speaking English to a foreigner. Because they’re still the foreigner…even if you’re in their country.

I digress, but the laid-back pace of brunch really gives you a little time to think. And I think the music isn’t the only thing that’s jazzy at the Beehive. The food is as classy and classic as this relatively new oldie genre that appeals to the young and old without ever getting old. Sure you can get drinks at any place on Tremont, but live music is a rarity if you’re unwilling to cram into Wally’s. Unfortunately, the brunch is best for solid staples – this menu lacks creativity, ironic for a house that hosts cohorts of artists.

The French Toast is an airy, thick-cut crust covered with Chantilly cream and berries, sweet as honey itself. A sweet mainstream staple of brunch, this one is for those who dine with a hive mentality and want to pollinate some fruit to start their day.

The Eggs Shakshuka is the self-acclaimed “true Bohemian brunch”. I don’t know much about Bohemians, but I never met a food culture I didn’t like.  Poached eggs run a river of gooey yolk over a base of buttery polenta, trapping little honeycombs of tangy tomato sauce in between. If this is the Bohemian version of my glorified southern eggs and grits, buy me a closet of hippie-chic and play me a rhapsody.

Boston values the individual, but still so many flock to the hive. Every culture needs a queen, and the Beehive dominates the South End social scene and houses a happy home of hippies, hipsters, and the just plain hip. Overall, brunch isn’t the best thing Beehive has to offer – only visit this South End if you're trying to jazz it up.