Fancying Franklin Café – Boston

It seems like everything that bears the name Franklin is destined for greatness or at least memorable-ness, and Franklin Café is no exception. This obscure storefront with a cozy nondescript wood-paneled interior is a little South End hotspot of all-American comfort.

Few things provide more all-American comfort than heartwarming stories. And what story warms us more than that of former president FDR? The polio-to-crutches-man-who-led-this-country-out-of-a-depression-and-into-a-war inspires us in our darkest hour, and my Sweet Potato Soup must have been made with him in mind. This creamy sweet potato concoction creates a sense of security in the midst of my great depression - my New Deal of hope during this grueling season of residency interviews.

The Honey Crisp Apples was also like a president Franklin…Pierce. Remember him? He was the one who…ummm…does anyone remember what he did aside from not screwing up so badly we’d remember? The apple salad was festive and added a fruity fall feel, and its assembly was beyond reproach. But despite the best efforts of the pomegranate and almonds, this salad was forgettable at best.

Then came the carefully crafted Butternut Squash Agnolotti, which was clearly a culinarily-captured Rosalind Franklin. Ok, fine, so it’s not quite as impressive as discovering DNA but this agnolotti can get into my genes any day. If twist the ropes of agnolotti, they even resemble a double helix…if you really use your imagination. The chewy agnolotti had a creamy, sweet filling and cute little mushrooms for texture. The sage brown butter pulled it all together to make a perfect plate. Sadly, like Ms. Franklin, this dish was pure genius buried by the rubble of Watson and Crick’s Nobel-Prize-induced fame. My theory is that the dish itself was a bit pricey at $19 for 5 little logs of agnolotti, so they covered it with what suspiciously resembled remnants of the honey crisp apples to mask the puny portion. The pasta was perfect, but I would have liked if I didn’t feel like I was digging it out from the upended remains of someone’s half-eaten salad.

The agnolotti blew me away, but it’s the Butter Poached Cod that sings for itself. The tender, melt-in-your-mouth cod has a voice bigger than Aretha Franklin, and the fried Brussels sprouts croon with crunch. The eggplant and caramelized soy make me feel like a natural woman, and all together, this plate earned my R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

When the check came, I figured we’d need a lot of Franklins of the Benjamin variety, but the prices were reasonable with the exception of the agnolotti. The food was hardly as inventive as the famous Franklin, but the quality was as shocking as his discovery. Fortunately, eating at Franklin Café is a far less stupid decision than flying a kite with a key in a thunderstorm.

Colicchio’s Genius at Craftbar UPDATE - NYC

Some people are not meant to swim. Greetings from a human rock. No, smart ass, not pumice. Maybe a skipping stone on a good day. Let’s put it this way: my scuba instructor had to physically tow me to the descent rope because I couldn’t swim there. With a flotation vest. And flippers.

Some restaurants were not meant to serve brunch. Craftbar was meant to serve dinner. It’s been a year and I still can’t forget the sweetbreads, but brunch at Craftbar was like so many things in this city of trends and chance: not meant to be.

I knew I was taking a huge risk by trying the brunch, but the Pecorino Risotto Balls made me feel better about my decision. They weren’t brass ones, but the cheesy risotto with a kick of tomato made for big gooey bites of tasty-but-expected goodness. No surprises and no spontaneity, but definitely no complaints.

Finally, a real kale salad. After the hot mess spinach dip at Fada, I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into with the Winter Squash and Kale Salad, but the kale is crunchy and the squash is sweet. This one gets a hearty red heart, like an oversized t-shirt declaring your love for NYC.   

Some things just don’t belong at a New York brunch, and nothing makes that point clearer than the Potted Corned Beef Hash. The tender chunks of beef are overpowered by the underlying sour-kraut, and what was once a thick beef and potato hash gets diluted as the kraut-water seeps in. The mix of egg yolk and fermented cabbage is a disaster of epic proportions, a no-go that stops your tastebuds in their tracks like cars in the Lincoln Tunnel during rush hour.

The hash may be a little off, but if you need proof that these chefs can cook anything, look no farther than the Shrimp & Grits. The grits are buttery, the shrimp are perfect, and the chorizo adds a little extra. Would have liked spicier shishitos, but that’s not really something they can help.

Writing this review made me feel like the sitcom parent who spanks their child while says “This hurts me more than it hurts you.” I love Craftbar and it pains me to dock them in an update, but some places should stick to what they’re good at. Sadly, the same evolution that has us walking upright in heels has brought us into a society where Manhattannites will consume nothing but poached eggs before 4 PM on Saturday and Sunday, so I sympathize with Craftbar’s struggle for survival. The thing is, we’ve all tried to put things where they don’t belong, and at Craftbar, that would be brunch.

Les Francais at Fada French Bistro – Brooklyn

Fada, ma cherie, je parle what little francais I can actually remember because you are oh-so-undeniably French! I cannot help but insert my Francais because you are so francais so it will greatly helpez-vous if you read this revue like you are singing through your nose.

My friend and I started le dinner abruptly, with none of the oh-so-familiarly-francais onion soup or pate. Nowadays every restaurant wants to be just a little francais and even the non-non coffee shops will microwave a coupe of soupe. The French are always seeking le mot juste, or the right word at the right time, and in our case, le mot du jour was Steak Tartare. The French have mastered tartare as well as the baguette, and if I needed any more proof then the beautifully bilingual staff, this dish was it. The beef was flawlessly smooth with bursts of flavor topped with a delicate quail egg, and forget fruit and yogurt, THIS is what I call parfait.

The tartare needed to be offset by some crispy kale, so the Kale Salad was the logical next step. But ohlala, the exquisite disappointment! With obnoxious amounts of dressing and parmesan this salade was more closely related to le spinach dip and tasted as congested as a true Frenchman sounds.

The dense, steamy-hot, baked comfort-in-a-pan Lasagna was le dish juste after a raw tartare , and the veal added a surprising savor. The lasagna is probably the only non-French thing in this entire bistro, but that beef and veal ragu got plenty of amour from me.

There was an entire stick of le butter under the Skate, but somehow it never soaked into the breading, leaving it crunchy without even the slightest hint of sogginess. The skate itself was a fresh and tender center surrounded by perfect crispy-crunchy breading with an artery-clogging finish.

My feelings about Fada are conflicted at best. The food is fine with some real gems like the tartare, but I can’t even count on two hands the number of times I’ve had better. I think this review sounds more like Pepe le Pew than une foodie but it feels so much like Parisian bistros from my distant past that I can’t help myself (HonhHonhHonh). Along those lines, Fada is easily my foreign fling. On a student budget, I’m sure to save if I stay-cation at Fada instead of flying away to France, but I think I’d also rather fly away to another French bistro if I’m craving better food.

Falling for La Follia – NYC

Carrie Bradshaw once said, “Women come to New York for the two L’s: Labels and Love.” Unfortunately I think it’s easier to find love than it is to think of Carrie’s dating disasters without rolling your eyes. But all antics aside, Carrie was a woman with wisdom beyond her Yves (St. Laurent).

I came to New York for the L’s too, but it didn’t take me long to figure out I could only afford one. The one followed by an O, not a V. But unlike Carrie, I found something better than an inconsistent flake of a man who leaves me at an altar in front of thousands of people. (Yes, I get that he was sorry, but that man was a waste of a Vivienne Westwood).

The love I found in New York was for the food. Restaurants crowd every nook and cranny, and the city that never sleeps buzzes with food as much as it buzzes with life. Eating in New York is never a necessity, it’s a choice every time.

I’d be lying through my van Cleef if I denied falling in love with the labels first. Designers like Piccholine, Craftbar, and Café Boulud were the first to catch my famished eyes, but raiding thrift stores proved far more fun, and it was in searching for places like La Follia where I found my unexpected loves.

I found La Follia while wandering through Murray Hill. I had no idea where to have dinner so I figured I’d walk toward Momofuku and see what popped up along the way. This explanation has nothing to do with my review of the restaurant, but since no sane person actually wanders through Murray Hill, I felt compelled to explain lest you think I’ve lost my mind.

I’ll never really know why my friend perked up when we walked by La Follia, which is forgettable-appearing at best, but the menu had us at salty prosciutto tempered by fresh fig. After a few Proscuitto Wrapped Figs, we were hooked.

Despite the surplus of cute little nook-restaurants, when most people picture New York they see the shiny billboards of Times Square or the towering megaliths of Lincoln Center and MSG and head for the Bubba Gump. La Follia gets lost amidst the light, but after too many designer places, it becomes the go-to we seek for simplicities like the Arugula and Beet Salad.

La Follia embodies the sweet little things we forget after too many nights under the city lights. But even a New York sky has stars if you take the time to find them. They’re easy to miss, but sometimes they sneak up on you like hearty spirals of Cavatappi with cauliflower and parmesan…or a new exhibit at the Met.

When it comes to food, New York has it all. If it’s the restaurants with designer labels you seek, look no further than the cumulative 62 Michelin Stars, but if you’re mining for gems like La Follia, you may need to dig a little deeper. But whatever you’re looking for, you’ll be sure to find in New York. Just make sure you find what you love.

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. 

Faithful First Printer – Cambridge

I like First Printer, but I object to its name. The website marks it as the former site of the first printer in America, but thanks to the ambiguous name, I passed it by for months thinking it was a bookstore. Further research reveals that America’s first printer was a man by the name of Stephen Daye. Deskjet is a terrible name for a restaurant, so I’d call it Daye’s Inn…and pass it by for years thinking it’s a hotel.

We started our meal at this historically reliable establishment with a good ole order of Hush Puppies of the Day. I’m not sure how these relate to the printing industry, but each dense, fried, golden-brown mouthful of tender crab and flaky cod is an exact, awesome duplicate of the one before.

The best thing about a printer is the consistency. As long as you have ink, every printout is as consistently accurate as the original. The thing is, consistency is rarely noticed until it’s no longer there, and that’s how I noticed the Shrimp & Grits. The grits were pretty perfect, but merely topping grits with shrimp does NOT make shrimp & grits. Bring that dish down south, and you’ll be as popular as evolution.

I wasn’t impressed by the southern cuisine, but the French Onion Bison Burger was like upgrading from a basic printer to laser. Any printer can spit out the black-and-white copies of hush puppies and grits, but this meaty French onion soup is photo quality all the way. A thick, gamier version of the classic burger, the gravy and gruyere soak into the bun, which quickly becomes a toasted bread bowl. The French onion has all the sophistication of a lady, but the bison puts a little hair on your chest.

The bison burger was awesome, but every meal improves with a good drink to wash it down. The Godfather is an ideal mix of scotch and amaretto for a man with a burger (or a girl with a burger who drinks like a man…), and the hard cider is a sweet choice for festive fall.

When you go to Kinko’s, you pay a little more than you want to for a consistent print job that will faithfully produce those flyers for your bake sale. When you go to First Printer, you pay a little more than you want to for a solid high-end meal that will faithfully fill your belly by the end of the night. The thing is, no one is ever excited about a trip to Kinko’s, and First Printer was more like a culinary errand. The menu is as diverse as America itself; a little bit of this, and a little bit of that. Yet it dabbles but does not invest. There are southern dishes interspersed among the dishes that look like they were fished fresh from the harbor. But everything’s been done and I see no inspiration or thought. The menu looks like it’s trying to marry north and south, but even that’s been done. Go see Lincoln in theatres if you don’t know what I’m talking about.