That's N'Awlins, Y'all

We spent four days in New Orleans over Labor Day weekend and are contemplating heading to the Dress Barn for a new wardrobe.  Do they carry men's clothes in plus sizes?  I think New Orleans is a lot like Paris--it is virtually impossible to have a bad meal there, unless you make really poor choices, like dining anywhere on Bourbon Street near Larry Flint's Barely Legal Club.

BP Oysters on the Half Shell

We love Desire Oyster Bar, which does a fine job of pretending not to be a restaurant at the Royal Sonesta Hotel.  I have to admit I've become quite the oyster snob in the past few years, and really prefer the briny bivalves from the cold ocean waters of New England, but I still enjoy Gulf oysters in New Orleans, though I sniff them like a picky Jack Russell Terrier for any lingering scent of the British Petroleum oil spill a few years back.  Happily, our oysters at Desire were gasoline-free, and we washed our lunch down with spicy bloody marys despite the fact that I am not a good day drinker unless a nap is forthcoming, which on this day it was.

Just Horsing Around the Clover Grill

I am a little embarrassed to report we ate at the infamous Clover Grill twice.  In a city teeming with excellent restaurants, why this 24 hour hole in the wall's siren call is irresistible to me is beyond consideration.  After indulging in some spirited high jinks for several hours, however, we found ourselves chowing down on a breakfasty chicken fried steak and eggs, hold the coffee. People watching in this place is one of the best shows in town, especially at 1 or 2 am.  Modesty prevents me from going into detail.

We ate another place at Dumaine and Dauphine, an intersection I've walked through at least 1,000 times.  I noticed a restaurant on the corner with a big lighted sign called EAT and said oh that must be new, let's try that!  The friendly host ushered us in and we got a choice window table.  I asked our lumber-sexual server when the place had opened and he said nine years ago. My observational skills are prodigious.

Order Up

We had breakfast in a popular diner one morning.  Camellia Grill is unique in that there are two wraparound counters and the servers stand in the middle of them, calling out orders to the short order cooks.  We had awesome line karma that day--usually you have to wait along the wall inside until the owner, busy working the room, motions you over to an available table when it's your turn.  This time, we walked in and were seated immediately and we were like wow!  No kidding, one minute later about thirty people came in and lined up.

We Ate It All

Our last night we returned to one of my favorite places in New Orleans, Domenica.  The chef there one the James Beard award last year and he so deserved it.  The pastas are fantastic, and the salads are great, but the showstopper is their charcuterie platter.  Generous portions of cured meats, artisinal cheeses, and eight different condiments like pickled watermelon rind and candied pecans.  What sets it truly apart is the accompanying basket of savory, warm beignets. I cased the joint to  make sure no one was looking, then quickly made a little soppressata and cheese sandwich out of one. Pure D Southern Decadence.

I'm Done with Dining on McKinney

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.  I must be slightly mad then, because I keep falling for hipster dbag hotspots on McKinney Avenue promoting themselves on Open Table as gastropubs and making reservation there, only to discover we are twice as old as anyone else in the restaurant, there are disco balls everywhere and loud electronica background music, and the place smells like somebody had one too many Fireballs the night before and the restrooms haven't been swabbed out yet.

A year or so ago I had the misfortune of trying to digest an unrecognizable piece of fatty meat at Delfrisco's Grill on McKinney.  Even looking at the picture now makes my innards churn.  Yet all the pretty young things and handsome dogs of Dallas were clamoring for a table, while those from less fortunate zip codes or gene pools were milling around outside, their faces pitifully scrunched up against the glass in an effort to see what all the cool kids were up to.  As a Good Samaritan, I hurled my mystery meat at them merely as a warning sign, and was really surprised when I was unceremoniously asked to leave the premises pronto.  See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.

A couple of months ago, I fell for the ruse again, and made a reservation for Clutch on McKinney, even though I was trepidatious about dining in a place named after a purse.  It was dinner time and there were about 12 people in the vast room, about 1/4 the number of the giant tv monitors showing all manner of sporting events except figure skating and rhythmic gymnastics. I asked our waitron unit where everyone was and she sort of rolled her eyes and said nobody showed up until 11:00 PM. at the earliest.  Where were we, Barcelona?  Mediocre is the kindest word I can think of to describe the food and the bartender heard "olive" when I said "lemon twist."  Twice.  Bye, Felicia.

So last Friday was a Whoops! I Did It Again, (That, my friends, is my first and hopefully last time to quote Britney Spears.)  I saw a newish entry on Open Table called Next Door and it was described as food-centric and made from scratch.  I should have looked at the website which has a completely different message "A Bar that Likes to Party."  We walked into the once again empty dining room and were seated at a corner table facing two young women sucking down wine and both talking at once in loud Valley Girl-ese.  The only other table was a group of about 15 or 20 people who were celebrating someone's birthday with copious cocktails and several rounds of shots.  Did I mention they were even louder than the magpies nearby?

I did like the huge wall of knockers that adorned the wall by the stairwell that presumably partiers ascend to sway against each other in time with whatever is blaring from their vintage speaker wall.  But the most eye-popping part of the place was the uniforms of the skanktresses female servers that almost covered their backsides, with black suspenders, and skin tight white knit shirts revealing they had all apparently had gone to the same balloon-smuggling plastic surgeon.

We had Cobb Salad Bites (fell apart when cut for sharing) and Pecan Crusted Chicken Tenders (fell apart when cut for sharing) and Steak Sliders (so tough they were hard to cut apart for sharing.)

And it was like deja vu all over again when I got an olive instead of a twist.

Meatapalooza at Texas de Brazil

This past weekend, four of us went to Texas de Brazil because we had a coupon.  It may have been the first coupon I've used since I turned in my seven-hole-punched frequency card at Midtown Carwash for a free fluff and fold.  I feel weird using coupons because I imagine inward eye rolls plaguing the server, who also entertains dark thoughts about less than generous tips and tightwads who take up space in a busy restaurant on a Saturday night at discounted prices, for crying out loud. Sometimes I have a coupon in my wallet but I end up not using it because apparently, I have some very specific self-esteem issues involving not wanting to be judged by people who just fed and beveraged me.

Our server, who we think might possibly have been an actual Brazilian because of her exotic looks and heavy accent, and who coincidentally also said she was from Rio, sold us Caipirinhas all around, explaining they were like Brazilian mojitos made with sugar cane alcohol and limes.  They arrived, sans umbrellas, and tasted like limeade with a shot of lighter fluid.

Just a Little to Start

We made our way to the extravagant salad bar, and I cautioned everyone from filling up on starters and not leaving room for meat as I loaded my plate with smoked salmon, sushi, asparagus, egg salad, prosciutto, couscous, cheeses and a giant bowl of lobster bisque. We had just reseated ourselves when young men in gaucho pants and knee high boots started running toward us with spears.  Initially frightened, I quickly realized the sabers had meat skewered on the ends of them so there was no immediate cause for alarm.

They seemed desperate to carve off some meat right then and there but our plates were so full we gestured helplessly, wondering how to say "no room on the plate" in Portuguese. Evidently, my finely honed pantomime skills were spot on because at once they understood, reached down, and flipped a little round card on the table from its green side to its red side. The aggressive meat purveyors screeched to a stop.

Once the salad course was done and clean plates arrived, the gauchos reappeared with dizzying speed and offered a relentless array of grilled meats.  We had filet, shank steak, pork shoulder, lamb, filet wrapped in bacon, pork wrapped in bacon, bacon wrapped in bacon and emu.  Then we had parmesan crusted pork chops, parmesan crusted filets, sausages, and a cut of meat called a picanha, which was described as a special Brazilian cut we might call a Top Sirloin Cap in the USA. It was fun using the tiny tongs they provided to nip off pieces of freshly sliced meat.  Both temperatures of the meat were great (hot) as well as (medium rare.)  Our only suggestion to the kitchen would be to cut way back on the salt. (My doctor made me write that.)

Meatapalooza

Finally, I flipped my card from green to red, indicating that I had eaten my bodyweight in protein and I was dangerously close to putting someone's eye out with a projectile formerly known as the top button of my jeans.  Succumbing to a food coma, I laid myself down under the table, thankful for floor length tablecloths, but only for ten minutes or so.

The bill came and seemed a little staggering.  The salad bar and meat parade was one set price but everything else was extra. Caipirinhas, the national drink of Brazil?  $14 each. Sparkling water? $5.75. After dinner mints? $20 each. Air Conditioning?  $12 per person per hour.

I whipped that coupon out so fast it would have made your head spin.

I like the name Rapscallion for a restaurant.  I had a vague awareness of the term, something a rad pirate might say, perhaps, with overtones of fondness for an unrepentant, attractively dashing rogue.  It has been open for awhile but we hadn't made it yet--newish trending bistros are hard to snag in Dallas on a Saturday night at 8 or 9, but since we had theater tickets I booked a late lunch for 6:00.

I thought about donning a blouse-y Seinfeld shirt, a peg leg, and an eye patch, but sanity prevailed and instead threw on some shorts, flip flops, and a white short sleeved shirt that seemed like something a handsome sailor might wear if you squinted your eyes.

Even though the host was charming and full of smiles I felt the need to explain to him why we were having dinner so early so he wouldn't privately think of us as arthritic seniors.  I said we were going to a play, and he asked which one and I said "It's Only a Play" and he looked confused and said yes, but what is it called, and I said it was called "It's Only a Play" and we both guffawed along with the canned sitcom laugh track.  He showed us to our tiny table since the gorgeous hostess was busy flirting with every adoring set of eyes in the room.  To our surprise, despite the early hour, the restaurant was pretty full and by 6:30 totally jammed with SMU students, neighborhood hipsters, and a straight foursome who threw off a vibe that there might be some Brokeback Mountain action going on between the husbands.

At first glance the menu was slightly bewildering.  Every last ingredient was listed for each item, which made them sound like each plate was painstakingly arranged with tweezers.  I hate that. But the plates going by us looked casually if artfully composed so we asked our very competent server (whose name was something like Manny or Manfred or even possibly Pete) a bunch of questions and he confidently explained the dishes and they sounded less fussy so we cast aside our fears and ordered away.

Plate Licking Good

Bacon & Oysters was a standout.  A crispy fried oyster topped a small rectangle of house-braised bacon, with a few strands of pickled fennel on top and alongside, a schmear of cauliflower chowder puree.  It was original, inventive, and plate-licking worthy.  We also had a half dozen East Coast raw oysters, which were sufficiently briny and produced a most satisfying slurp.

We shared the next course too, which was an Heirloom Tomato and Grilled Texas Peach Salad with lemon yogurt dressing and a sprinkling of pistachios.  Yowza, that tasted like Summer on so many steroids it will no doubt be banned from the Summer Olympics in Rio for doping.

Now That's  Burger

For my entree I ordered the BBQ GlazedTri-Tip Steak with Marble Potato Salad, Crispy Pickled Okra and Horseradish Chimichurri.  Tri-Tip isn't that popular outside of California, but it is my favorite cut from a cow carcass. Terrific!  D had the Grass Fed Burger with Three Cheese Pimento and House Pepper Bacon, which was bigger than his head, and it came with sweet potato chips.

Despite the absence of pirates we weren't disappointed, and left feeling like two very full and impish rapscallions.  Definitely will be back.

**Update on Street's Fine Chicken.  Second time back and all the wasp wasted 28 year old guys had been replaced by people in stretch pants and oversized shirts.  The guy next to me had Brie Macaroni and Cheese, Mashed Potatoes and Gravy, and a Biscuit, which he kept "buttering" with his macaroni and cheese. No meat, no protein.  I bet he really likes his shirts starched, too.

So, it has finally been settled, once and for all.  Why, you ask, did that chicken cross the road?  Because he'd always yearned to be on the delicious side of the Street.  (Sorry.)

About 50 years or so ago, Gene Street opened the first Black Eyed Pea restaurant on Cedar Springs Road in Dallas.  It was a smaller chain, primarily in the south, and one that I studiously avoided.  Everything was fried and the vegetables were flaccid and all the tables seemed kind of sticky. They were known for Chicken Fried Steaks that were larger than the plates they were served on, and drowned in cream gravy. (I think this is also known as a Heart Attack with Sauce.) Apparently, Mr. Street sold the chain many years ago and made a deep-fried fortune on it, but remained the owner of the real estate and collected rent from the new proprietors. A couple of generations passed by, and folks were now obsessed with kale and quinoa and those awful Kardashians, and the chain went kerplooey and no one cared.

Then, like the proverbial phoenix rising from its ashes, a new Street concept sprang up in the former B.E.P. location on Cedar Springs Road, which in five decades has evolved into the epicenter of Dallas' gayborhood.  Street's Fine Chicken is another entry into the current mania for fried chicken in the USA, and please indulge me when I say it might just be the Cock of the Block.

Great Balls of Fire

We started with Pimento Cheese Fritters, which were crispy hot on the outside and melty spicy hot on the inside.  They reposed on top of Tabasco Agave Jam, which I would have thought was just plain Chili Oil if I hadn't read the menu carefully.  They were pretty good but I doubt if I'll ever order them again, as they were sort of a transient thrill with no long-lasting craveability, like the song Call Me Maybe.

Love Me Tenders

The Fried Chicken, on the other hand, was indeed fine. The batter was seasoned with herbes de provence, and the chicken had been nicely brined. Crispy hot on the outside, moist and delicious within. I had the 2 piece breast and leg, which was plenty, along with some airy whipped potatoes and a little dab of peppery cream sauce.  I finished both pieces in about fifteen seconds and finally had a chance to look around.

The restaurant was packed with 28 year old guys in tank tops, board shorts, flip flops and five-days-a-week-at-the-gym bodies. They were all named Evan.  I was astonished that all these apparent health nuts whose bodies were temples of worship were chowing down on fried food (but using knives and forks.)  Then I remembered being 28 and immortal and absent-mindedly crammed a huge spoonful of Brie and Smoked Gouda Macaroni and Cheese in my mouth, silently lamenting my long gone 28" waistline Levi's.

Don't Try This At Home

Ugly Is As Ugly Does

I like to cook.  I like trying new recipes and changing up old ones.  Using my imagination, I experiment and let my sense of smell and taste and touch go a little crazy. Usually, my stuff comes out pretty good to even really great (although woefully lacking any exuberant praise or feedback save
plates so clean we just stick 'em back in the cabinet unwashed.) Woefully, a few of my experiments are total failures, and are shamefully swept into the Closet of Feeble Attempts and politely never mentioned again.

Case Study:  Herb Crusted, Roasted Filet Mignon with Israeli Cous Cous and Balsamic Glaze.
Sounds like it came right off a modern restaurant menu, right?  I'd probably order it, but I'd certainly never make it again.  I must have been distracted by the voices bickering in my head while I was preparing it because it was the definition of awful. The meat tasted a little off, like I'd seasoned it with old foot powder instead of a light sprinkle of Herbes de Provence.  The Cous Cous was sticky and chewy and the Balsamic Glaze tasted like artificially sweetened, coffee-flavored cough syrup. I tried foisting it off on the dogs, but after sniffing at it suspiciously, they both backed away from their bowls, muttering canine curse words and giving me the stink eye.

Cottage Cheese slathered on rye bread, dipped in egg, and griddled is not a good idea, trust me on this.  Don't try to make homemade tamales if your ethnicity is solidly German and English. They will taste like pot roast wrapped in raw tortillas.  If you didn't learn to make corned beef and cabbage at your mother's knee when you were just a wee little tyke, don't create it for the first time in your life for an impromptu St. Patrick's Day party. It will stink up the house and your guests will find reasons to leave immediately. And honestly, there is nothing I can say to excuse the mess I called Tater Tot Nachos.  They were kind of like those awful Canadian poutines but worse and they haunt me to this day.

But fear not, I always shake it off and try try again.  Tonight we are having Grilled Pork Chops with Nectarine Salsa.  I put the salsa together last night so it could gentrify in the refrigerator all day and the combo of the diced fruit with onions, tomatoes, kosher salt, cumin and fresh squeezed lime juice tasted fantastic.  And I am positive it will be better than what I was considering:

Meatloaf Baby in Bacon Diaper

RIP 27

So we had the most surreal dining experience Friday night.  I'd heard about a small, chef driven place in Deep Ellum called Twenty Seven (I think as an homage to all the musicians who died at the age of 27 like Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Curt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse, among others) but we'd never been there.  We pulled into the full parking lot next door and shouted "Eureka!" in manly, lumberjack voices because we saw a car whose back up lights had just come on.  Maneuvering courteously to allow the driver plenty of space to get out, we chest bumped each other (hard to do in a seatbelt-strapped front seat of a BMW sedan) in congratulation for our cosmic parking karma while we waited.  And waited. And waited. What in tarnation was taking so long?  Just as I was about to get out of the car to unleash a civilized diatribe at the inconsiderate fool behind the wheel, they suddenly backed out, pulled forward, and waited.   Huh? Had they sensed my scorn through the rear tinted window and decided I needed a knuckle sandwich?  Were they going to taser us, truss us up and steal our kidneys?  As we skittishly walked by, the window rolled down and a smiling woman held out her parking receipt (expiring 6 AM Saturday) and said "put it on your dashboard--they'll never know" and then winked at us conspiratorially.  Our hostility evaporated in this random act of theft and kindness and we both bowed to her like Sumo wrestlers before a match, mumbling phrases of gratitude.

Chef David Anthony Temple (aka Chef DAT) was the friendly, fedora-sporting chap at the host stand and welcomed us warmly into the smallish restaurant, which was filling up pretty fast.  Chef DAT brought us some menus and tap water and said someone would be with us soon.  Twenty minutes later our server (who immediately made me think of Harriet Tubman, minus the turban) breezed by and said she'd be right with us.  She had a little spiral pad in her hands and a tiny stub of a pencil, like the kind that comes with a Yahtzee game.  She spun around a few times eyeing the now jam-packed dining room, and then came back and said she was ready now, but it was going to be a little rough because she was the only server on the floor.  I asked why just one server when they were so busy and she said because it was their last weekend and they were closing for good on Monday.

Uh-oh.  I know about restaurants that are about to close.  All the rats servers desert the ship for new jobs, the kitchen burns off as much inventory as possible, and there is a certain,  I don't know, sinking of the Titanic desperation in the air.  Only Server took drink orders from everyone in the restaurant and Chef DAT and the cooks delivered them and for quite some time everyone there was drinking and laughing and not noticing there was not one single plate of food on any table in the room.

We'd been there about 1/2 an hour when our Poblano Lobster Soup arrived.  Except it was Poblano Corn Chowder.  Starving, we ate it anyway, and I did finally discover a tiny morsel of lobster at the bottom (but it might have been a little piece of chicken, or perhaps a half kernel of white hominy.) Fried Green Tomatoes came out eventually, and a few other small plates for sharing but I can't remember them since we inhaled them so fast.  Only Server rushed by and said our Gnocchi would be out soon, so I jumped up and went to the men's room, except there wasn't one.  There were two unisex bathrooms and one was called Telephone Booth and the other was named Rabbit Hole.  (Since nature was calling I went with the telephone booth.)

I returned to the table and discovered what might have once been Gnocchi, but looked more like parmesan crusted entrails.  I poked at them with my fork and I am pretty sure I heard something hiss. Yikes!  By this time Chef DAT was openly and copiously drinking wine at one of the tables, and the raucous laughter from a party of seven in the middle of the room was slightly eclipsed by Only Server singing "Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child" at the top of her lungs as she threw plates of food at people.

Chef DAT seemed like truly nice guy and from the reviews I'd read I am sure it had at one time been a great place to dine.  But it seems not so ironic that Twenty Seven met an early demise since it was inspired by people who died way before their time.