Un Deux Trois

It's As Easy As 123

Spending the weekend before Christmas in New York City has become a fun tradition with us.  The pretty lights and decorations, the green and red illuminated Empire State Building, the smell of chestnuts roasting on a greasy grill, hookers in Santa outfits with fishnet stockings...these are all sensory images that make holiday magic for me.

We usually see a Broadway show, usually a Saturday matinee, and we like to brunch beforehand.  (Gosh I sound so urbane and sophisticated when I use "brunch" as a verb like that. Watch out, next I'll be "summering" in the Hamptons.) Last year we stood in line at the Shake Shack Times Square for an hour and a half for an over-priced hamburger with really fresh lettuce before laughing our heads off at the Book of Mormon.

This year's outing was Kinky Boots, Tony award winner of 2013 for best musical and lucky for us, still with the original cast intact.  In case you don't know, it's about a gentleman who saves his failing shoe factory by partnering up with a drag queen named Lola to market flashy footwear for men who are in touch with their inner RuPaul. It's all about a steel reinforced heel that won't break under the weight of a fully grown man in a great big wig and tons of facial spackle.

We'll Always Have Paris

Our friend K, the famous food snatcher and native New Yorker, suggested we meet at Un Deux Trois at 44th and 7th. While walking there I checked Google Maps to see the street number and felt rather foolish when I saw that it was 123 West 44th. The place feels very Parisian with cozy butterscotch walls, high ceilings, big windows and fancy chandeliers but you know you're not in France because the servers there are actually nice.

New York is even more crowded than usual at Christmas time, and we watched hordes of tourists scurrying past our beautiful table in the window, glancing up into the lush interior and thinking to themselves it was too expensive as they shoved their way into Ruby Tuesday across the street. (Okay, I know that sounded a little uppity, get over it.)  But it is not really expensive at all: The $22 prix fixe  gets you brunch plus a mimosa, bloody mary, or screwdriver.

I had the smoked salmon eggs benedict, which was delicious if a little heavy on the Hollandaise.  Other selections included a generous burger and a passel of pommes frites, and a delicious quiche (a long time ago when I was a restaurant server in Kansas City I had a customer order one but she pronounced it "quick-ee").  Un Deux Trois has been there a long time and it deserves to be.  It looked like a lot of local families who were honoring their own holiday or pre-theater traditions, and there was tinkling background music, great aromas, and not a single person twerked or made a selfie. Sometimes I like being a grown up.

Happy Hollandaise To You

Arm and arm, the five of us wound our way to the Al Hirschfeld theater (coincidentally walking past Sardi's on the way, where his notable caricatures of faded Broadway stars nobly hang) and soon discovered why Billy Porter won his Tony for Best Performance by an Actor in a Leading Role (although to be truthful it probably should have been in the actress category--that guy can rock some stilettos!)  It was Broadway at its best and Cyndi Lauper's score was hilarious, moving, and awesome.  (I'm buying the cd because I like singing along to show tunes at the gym, and people usually leave a wide berth around me for some weird reason.)

We ended our traditional Saturday at the usual place, the Fairy Tale lounge with its armless centaurs and purple unicorns.  We got a New York pizza pie from Sal's down the street.  The bar is in Hell's Kitchen, which used to be the scariest place in the city to go to besides Bergdorf Goodman's, but is so gentrified now the panhandlers wear ascots.

Ah New York...just like I pictured it.  Skyscrapers, and everything.

Destination Dining: Stampede 66

Like most people who live and dine out often in Dallas, I'm a pretty big Stephan Pyles fan.  When I first moved here in 1997 I think it was the last year of his mega-successful Star Canyon run and regrettably, I ate there only once but I remember that experience quite fondly even though my waistline has never recovered.  He opened another couple of restaurants afterwards (AquaKnox was way ahead of its time, when Texans had yet to discover that fish didn't necessarily have to be battered and fried to be edible.) Then he blasted into the big time again with the eponymous Stephan Pyles restaurant which has resolutely stood the test of time and taste buds.  It's darned expensive, however, so it's kind of a once-a-year place for us. He opened Samar on the ground floor of the building I work in a few years ago and it is a fun place to share Indian, Spanish and Mediterranean dishes with odd sounding names and unfamiliar spices.  I usually have minor gastric distress afterwards but it's worth it, kind of like soreness after a strenuous workout.  He used to have hookahs outside on the patio under little cabanas but they kept blowing over in the windy canyons of downtown Dallas so he gave them to some hookers.  J/K.

This Little Piggy Stayed Home

About a year ago the unstoppable Chef Pyles opened Stampede 66 as what I can only think of as his unapologetic bromance with Texas.  I mean you walk into the place and it is so western and snazzy and cocky it takes every bit of your will power to not start dancing the Cotton Eyed Joe. The decor is Pure-D awesome with metal horse heads, a big old lit up snake, mounted longhorns and a gigantic hog sculpture made out of pork rinds, which is kind of Silence of the Lambs-esque, like creating an outfit for someone using human skin.

Lunch is a blast.  Last time I went there I met a female friend who happens to be one of the brightest stars in the firmament of Dallas society (she is one of the nicest people you will ever meet plus she laughs at my feeble attempts at humor so don't judge) and we both seriously discussed healthy options like the Gazpacho and the Venison Taco Salad and then promptly ordered the BBQ Brisket Reuben with French Fries and Potato Salad.  It was $12 which is pretty much like free in a Stephan Pyles restaurant.  My friend and I always like to case the bathrooms in restaurants and Stampede 66 does not disappoint.  Instead of Dudes and Dudettes or Guys and Gals, they have name plates of famous Texans nailed to the front to indicate where to go. If you are a male and you option for door number two with Janis Joplin, Ebby Halliday and Farrah Fawcett among others you really need to start paying more attention to something other than your smart phone.

Dinner is a little less casual but not very much and the prices are again, insanely cheap for S/P food.  This man is a world famous chef and one of the founding fathers of Southwestern Cuisine and you can sink your teeth into his Chicken Fried Buffalo Steak and Mashed Potatoes with Potlicker Greens for 21 bucks, or fork over 16 smackers for Shrimp and Grits. My most devoted readers (I think I am up to almost ten now) know that I always usually skip dessert but I cannot resist his mason jar of Butterscotch Pudding with Salted Caramel and I have heard from trusted sources that his Chocolate Custard, Snickers, Dr. Pepper Float is every bit as ridiculously delicious as it sounds.  I know my fingers just plumped up a little while I was typing that so it must also be incredibly fattening.

The place is crazy busy and deserves to be.  The service is all Southern grace, the food is outstanding, the decor is at once deluxe and amusing, and it is not much more expensive than a Saturday Date Night at Denny's.  I really wanted to use the expressions "All Hat No Cattle" and "That Dog Don't Hunt" in this post because they are so truly Texan but they just don't apply here at all.  Nope, when I am at Stampede 66 I am Happier than a Big Tick on a Fat Dog.

Now do yerself a favor and git on over yonder pronto.

*****

Destination Dining: Savor at Klyde Warren Park

We celebrated a birthday last night with dinner at the snazzy new restaurant Savor in Klyde Warren Park--you know, the reclaimed air space perched on a slab over the sunken Woodall Rogers Freeway that's been planted with grass and flowers and food trucks and bocce balls.  I think it was brilliant to connect uptown and downtown by bridging the carbon monoxide canyon below and creating an inviting play space for downtown denizens forty feet in the air.  During the sweltering, super hot months in North Texas (basically February through November) kids splash and laugh in the sprayground and sweaty attorneys from Jones Day munch on Easy Sliders in suits and ties while wild-eyed, craft-crazed women from Lakewood adorn all the trees with yarn bombs. KWP is a place for all people and attracts a wide variety of visitors, from misty morning tai chi classmates to retired policemen looking for an afternoon pickup game of checkers.  The park's programming is designed to appeal to a little something in everyone, resulting in a monster mash-up of activities and a crazy kaleidoscope of non-related special events. (BTW the outdoor park is also non-smoking and offers valet parking for $15.  Now that's Dallas in a nutshell.)

Waiting for Mr. Big

The restaurant is following the park's lead, resulting in a pleasant destination for dinner despite the fact that it has a multiple personality disorder so severe they should have named it Sybil instead of Savor. First of all, it calls itself a Gastropub, which makes one imagine a rustic tavern or a hipster dive with hand-crafted, high quality food.  Folks, this place is all Dallas dazzle and flattering lighting and sumptuous furnishings.  It is so freaking gorgeous it burns your retinas, like Sofia Vergara in a smoking hot red dress. A more appropriate handle might be Gastropalace but I don't think that's in the foodie lexicon.  All the exterior walls are glass so when seated in the dining room surrounded by the lighted trees in the park you feel like you're on location for the next Sex and the City movie shoot. There is a very sophisticated, Manhattan vibe to the place that makes you want to wear a Tom Ford tuxedo and swizzle champagne until the wee hours of the morning, trading bon mots with your friends while impressing diners at nearby tables with your unstoppable, chic urbanity.

The chef is reportedly a veteran of Ritz Carlton Hotels, and the food really is quite tasty.  But here's the heart of the personality disorder I mentioned before:  A city park with a glamorous restaurant and a talented chef who serves delicious food that is as homely as the loneliest wallflower at a singles dance.  The ingredients are just sort of thrown on the plate and shoved around with no regard to color or contrast. In a city as preoccupied with appearances as Dallas, this is unexpected, to say the least.

This is a flatiron steak with creamed spinach fritters, wild mushrooms and pearl onion.  That's exactly how it came out of the kitchen. Four shades of brown off center on an oblique, white plate.  The fritters were hot and messy, the steak very flavorful if a little chewy, which is to be expected with a flatiron, not my favorite cut of meat.  But oh, it looked so sad and self-conscious in that beautiful room filled with beautiful people, as if it were wearing a home-made sackcloth dress on prom night.

The Wedge Salad sounded unusual because it came with bacon and fried pickled onions instead of the expected diced tomato.  As you can see, this did not produce an inspired presentation either.  A baby iceberg lettuce head was chopped in half, thrown on a plate and then doused with pickled onions and blue cheese.  It would have looked fine in a roadside diner but in this sparkling space it was as drab as Miss Jane Hathaway at a funeral.

The four of us really enjoyed our meal. I had a short rib that was so tender it fell off the bone when I merely glanced at it.  Another plate was barbecued shrimp and grits, and the orderer of that dish is now a certified member of the clean plate club. We all shared some shrimp and calamari that were crispy with a slightly sweet chili glaze as well as some luscious lobster puffs with remoulade. I had a mild amount of sticker shock when the bill came because the menu is artfully constructed to appear moderately priced but it really is not.  I think people who can design that good of a pricing fake-out are geniuses.

Maybe the chef should ask whoever did that to help with the design of the plates...

The #1 Restaurant in Dallas?

A week or so ago, our dear friend J's brother B was in town.  We'd heard about each other for years but never met due to time and travel constraints.  On a recent cross country road trip he stayed with his elder sister in her exquisitely appointed, suburban manse and requested a night out with us. Not sure why, perhaps he'd heard we were charming and witty or possessed  unusual lingual skills like ventriloquism or the ability to talk like a pirate in fluent French. I don't really know but when we are summoned to dinner by Lady J, we do as we are told.

It was a Monday night, so our Go To option for out-of-towner, first time dinner meet-ups, DISH, was a non-starter since they are closed on Mondays. I'd remembered reading, somewhat surprised, that D Magazine had rated NHS Bar & Grill (aka Neighborhood Services) #1 out 100 restaurants in Dallas. Really?  Better than FT-33?  Better than Lucia?  Or even though it's not my personal favorite, the ultra-glam Fearing's?

We'd been to its short-lived sibling, Neighborhood Services Tavern on Henderson during the few months it was open and thought it was okay but we never went back so I guess we kind of voted with our feet. We'd not been to NHS and guessed it must be 1000% better to have ranked so highly in our city's most successful lifestyle magazine, if success is measured by the volume of ads for plastic surgeons, designer footwear and suited-up realtors standing in front of tract mansions.  I congratulated myself on thinking this the perfect opportunity to show brother B a good time at the best place in town.

Most of the food critics in town have this thing for the owner and chef of NHS, Nick Badovinus.  No clue why except that he looks like a blond rock star, has a funny sense of humor, opens wildly successful restaurants and his teeth sparkle like he's starring in a Dentyne commercial. I've never met Chef Nick but I'd like to because I think I'd like him based on articles and interviews I've read. Therefore, I hope he doesn't read this because I am about to go all Emperor's New Clothes on him. NHS is certainly not the #1 restaurant in Dallas.  It's not even #10.  If I had to hazard a guess I'd put it somewhere in the mid-30's with a slightly receding hairline and the beginnings of a paunch.

Don't get me wrong, it is not bad.  Service is brisk and efficient, not overly warm, but pleasant enough. The interior is small and cozy. The menu is written in a humorous, self-mocking way that I really liked. The food was good, although I had to go to the website and pull up the menu to try to remember what we ate and I still can't.  Sorry, Charlie, but I can still remember every layered flavor of the garlicky hummus and house-made ricotta at Cafe 43 several months ago, and the exquisite juniper roasted lamb loin I had at the French Room in 2006 but I can't even  recall what I ordered at NHS one week later.

Every critic, reviewer, blogger and self-described foodie is entitled to their opinion, and on a rainy Monday night, NHS was jam-packed.  It looked like a super busy Saturday night in most Dallas restaurants. So maybe the four of us were entirely clued-out, but we just didn't get how this little workaday, neighborhood friendly, pretty good restaurant could outrank all the other hot spots in town.  It doesn't push the culinary envelope like the food forward revolution going down in the Design District nor is it all dolled up in marble and crystal and other shiny objects we attractive urban swells of Dallas appreciate so much.  It's in a strip mall in an upscale neighborhood.  It's not super expensive.  And it's owned by a charismatic chef who apparently knows how to shop for new clothes befitting an emperor.

Clogged Arteries

Howdy Folks.  Er, Good-bye Folks.

Everyone knows that Texans brag a lot.  Those who don't live in Texas find it truly annoying. Those who live here understand why we do so, and quite smugly, I might add. Everything really is bigger and better here, except for a certain junior senator who shall remain nameless because he is the worst kind of self-promoting, ridiculously conservative tea party marionette unworthy of being identified in this blog, or any other respectable media outlet for that matter.

Our State Fair is a Great State Fair--naturally the biggest and grandest in the land.  Our fair lasts for nearly a month, and is celebrated in the largest collection of vintage Art Deco buildings in America.  They were built for the 1936 Texas Centennial and boast stylish murals and sumptuous sculptures ensconced in a pretty, beautifully landscaped parkland with fountains and flowers and flourishes unseen anywhere else in the world.

Happy Happy Corny Dog

In the last decade or so, the State Fair of Texas has evolved into the world's largest venue for impossibly crazy fried food inventions. Always known for Fletcher's Corny Dogs and Tornado Taters, the Fair has amped up its publicity for all new deep fried food alternatives.  Past winners include Deep Fried Grilled Cheese Sandwiches (served with a little ramekin of Tomato Soup for dipping) and a Battered and Deep Fried Snickers Bar, and they have stood the test of time and are now staples of provisions one can look forward to consuming each year.  Previous headliners that never returned due to unpopular demand include Deep Fried Butter and Deep Fried Beer.  (Were they even trying or was it all about a gimmick for shameless media ink?)  I kinda thought the trend might have run its course when the emblematic Big Tex was himself deep fried and self-immolated. But the new and improved Big Tex returned this year along with several new deep fried innovations. We tried them all last Sunday and ever since I've been hooked up to an IV in the emergency room with a 10% chance of survival.

Deep (Fried) in the Heart of Texas

Best of the bunch was the Deep Fried King Ranch Casserole, sort of a Tex-Mex lasagna with chicken and tortillas instead of ground beef and pasta.  It came with tortilla chips, salsified sour cream and a tiny Texas flag on a toothpick.  Totally Texas Tasty!

Thankfully, I Did Not Finish It

Fried Thanksgiving Dinner was not a favorite.  I tend to eat one food at a time during our national feasting day, so having turkey, stuffing, and creamed corn rolled up in a ball of seasoned corn meal, then deep fried and served with brown gravy and cranberry sauce was rather daunting.  I know the pigeons really enjoyed the chunks I accidentally threw on the ground.

The Deep Fried Cuban Roll had me doing spot-on Ricky Ricardo impressions until several unnecessarily PC passersby asked me to stop.  Maybe they would have been more impressed if I had some of those poofy sleeves and a set of imported bongos.  Slow-cooked pork shoulder, chopped ham, Swiss cheese, pickles and some kind of spicy spread was rolled into pastry dough and deep fried, then doused with mojo sauce. Ay-yi-yi-yi!

I think what finally did me in was the Texas Fried Fireball. Pimento cheese, pickles, cayenne pepper and bacon dipped in buttermilk and rolled in jalapeno batter, then deep fried and served with chipotle ranch dressing is not a recipe for gastric wellness. It wasn't long after that little experiment that I was seen trotting out to my car, Emergency Room bound, where I lay to this day. I am hoping they get my cholesterol down under 1,000 before the fair is over. I'm fixated on trying the Southern Style Chicken Fried Meatloaf. I mean how bad for you could that really be?

Destination Dining: Farm Stand

I was in Los Angeles this week on business and had the happy chance to reunite with some former colleagues from a couple of lifetimes ago.  You know those kinds of friendships, where even though you haven't seen or talked to each other in 14 years, you pick up in the middle of the sentence you last left off with like there was no time lapse in between.  We caught up, we reminisced, we laughed until tears came to our eyes, and we marveled at the passage of time and how little it had affected our outward appearances.  (You can probably guess that last part was after we had donned some wine goggles.)

After first gathering at my hotel we ventured over to a restaurant in El Segundo. El Segundo is a little

It Doesn't Smell That Bad

prosaic community just south of LAX which, though right on the water, is still affordable due to its airport sound pollution and ever present aromas from the water treatment plant and factories that the city's founding fathers had brilliantly built smack dab in the middle of the beach.  It is fondly referred to as Smell Segundo, and if you do venture to the beach it is advisable to wear close-toed shoes and a hazmat suit. But other than that it is lovely. There is a Back to the Future 1950's Main Street complete with barber poles, a Fix It Plus and a Repair Square strip mall, and several yarn shops.  It also has a few quaint little eateries, diners, and donut palaces along with a handful of really great restaurants.  One of these is the Farm Stand and that is where we went.

Farm Stand is like so totally LA.  Start with your basic Farm to Table concept, add vegan, organic, local, seasonal, non GMO ingredients, toss in a reduced carbon footprint, then stir.  Sprinkle with salty ocean air, spritz with a little smog and serve.  Our server looked just like American Idol runner up David Archuleta wearing white disc earrings the size of Kennedy half dollars.  His name was Edgar and he was good at pretending not to be annoyed every time he approached our table to take our order and we had still not looked at the menu due to everyone talking all at once punctuated with shrill laughter.  Several hours elapsed until we finally ordered a bunch of plates to share, and I must say his enthusiasm to be still serving us seemed genuine.  No doubt he is actually an actor. All waiters in LA are, you know.  Big secret revealed!

Farm Stand's menu is dotted with handy symbols so you can tell at a glance if the dish is consistent with your Southern California sophisticated palate and dietary needs.  A green V means it is vegetarian, while NO means non-dairy.  A black squiggle denotes vegan optional and a wheat stalk crossed out diagonally in red means gluten free.  A star indicates that Sandra Bullock ate it one time and ##@$! means a drunken Mel Gibson went into an anti-Semitic rage and yelled obscenities at passersby while eating it. So handy!  The restaurant is very committed to reducing its carbon footprint so its bussers and dishwashers double down as migrant workers. You can see them through the windows to the outside, their backs laden down under heaps of fresh produce harvested from nearby gardens in California's virtually endless summer sunshine.  Awesomeness.

Being the urban sophisticates we are, we ordered seven or eights plates to share and I grandly instructed Edgar to just sequence them as he saw fit.  He interpreted this to mean that he would wait until everything was ready, and brought every dish to the table all at once.  What with water and wine and plates and cutlery already in place, he had to use the adjacent table to put some of the food on.  The two diners seated there seemed a bit startled but not the least bit disturbed by it. SoCals are so chill.

The coarse hummus with pita was garlicky and delicious, as was the diced cucumber, minted yogurt dip topped with walnuts.  Pumpkin ravioli with basil cream was a standout, as were the all natural meatballs in ancho chili cream sauce.  (I wondered what an unnatural meatball would taste like but my inner moderator thankfully squashed it before it spilled out of my mouth, which anyway was full of Superfood Soup--a healthy yet slightly underwhelming concoction of herbs, barley, organic chick peas, organic lentils, organic pintos, caramelized onions, garlic, turmeric, yogurt, and sauteed mint.) After a couple of spoonfuls I was so jacked up on vitamins and greenery I did a little Muscle Beach flexing, showing off my taut, well defined and undefiled body until Edgar's boss came over and kindly asked me to stop it.  I meekly obliged, but not before twerking just a little bit because I am such a fan of Miley.  (He lies!)  At least I didn't set myself on fire, Jimmy Kimmel prank video style.

The meal was really delicious, but not so more than the company.  My old friends are definitely non GMO, totally organic, and their carbon footprints smell like chocolate.  Smiles!

O Canada

We just got back from a week in Montreal, a city unlike any other in North America in that everyone speaks French and a lot of men wear mismatched plaid shirts and shorts, usually with socks and sandals. The women are beautiful and chic but smoke several packs of cigarettes a day, resulting in throaty, really sexy speaking voices.  Of course you could say "I am looking for a houseplant" in French and it would sound lustily seductive.  I was hopeful that the haut cuisine of La Belle France would translate across the Atlantic, but sadly, it does not, except for a preponderance of baguettes and orange marmalade.

To be fair, we didn't take any fancy clothes so our options were limited to sidewalk bistros and casual pubs.  It doesn't matter whether the food is Canadian or Afghan or Japanese, the menus all share one food item peculiar to Quebec (but quickly snaking its way west through the other provinces.) This item is called Poutines, and where it is listed prominently on virtually every menu in town, it is usually followed by two or three exclamation points, as if to say "you've been searching the world over for something fresh and exciting and now you have found the most incredible delicacy, enjoy"!!!

Mmmmm, Cheese Curds

Poutines are disgusting.  They are overdone French Fries topped with oozing cheese curds and slopped with thick brown gravy. Denizens of Montreal are inexplicably mad for them; they are sort of the Sprinkles Cupcakes of Canada. They eat them all day long.  They eat them at breakfast with cafe au lait, at lunch with a spork and a beer, and at dinner with exquisite sterling silver cutlery.  When I ordered my first (and only) poutines and the waiter set the plate in front of me, I trotted out my best high school French and said Excusez-moi, serveur, mais vous avez placé juste à tort le petit-déjeuner du chien en face de moi.  He was astonished that I had compared this mess to the dog's breakfast and insisted that I try it.  I made a big show a taking a huge bite, which seemed to satisfy him, so as he turned his back I delicately removed it from my mouth by hacking it onto the sidewalk.  I poured the rest of it in in a potted fern next to me, which promptly died.

In Old Town Montreal, with its ancient buildings, sorbet shoppes and a Cirque du Soleil tent, we had a wonderful Croques Monsieur (ham and cheese sandwich) with about twenty-five pounds of French Fries.  I made hexing signs at our waiter when he approached me with a bowl of glistening curds and a ceramic boatful of gravy, and he skittered away nervously.  The India Pale Ale I drank with it was delicious and cold.

We went to a place called Dunn's Famous (I was like famous what since it seemed like a dangling

Dunn's Famous....what?

modifier but I was shushed.)  It turns out they are famous for their smoked meat sandwiches.  I asked if smoked meat was like pastrami or brisket or corn beef or something and the waitress just tossed her curls at me and said I'd have to see for myself.  (She said it in French, so she might have actually said something entirely different regarding my diminished mental abilities, not sure.) I ordered the Smoked Meat Reuben and it was exactly like pastrami/brisket/corned beef.  I think Dunn's is famous just for being famous like that dreadful reality show family where everyone's name begins with a K.  You know who I mean.  Don't make me say it.

Piazzetta on Rue Ste Catherine

Piazzetta looked interesting, with its bright red sidewalk cafe and attractive servers.  They had some weird toppings on the menu I'd never seen in a pizza place before, like beef tongue and chicken feet and of course freaking cheese curds, but I went sort of All Italian American and ordered the single serving pepperoni, "fully dressed." (I guess modesty prevails in Montreal to some degree since naked pizza is frowned upon.)  It was a rectangle of crispy flatbread with a modicum of mozzarella, some tasty sliced tomatoes and 12 discs of bland, slightly pink meat that reminded me of Canadian bacon but with less spicy heat.

Honestly, the best meals were the daily breakfast at our guesthouse, called La Conciergerie.  Every morning we welcomed a generous repast of yogurts, fresh fruit, cereal, juices, and muffins, all ratcheted

Ooh la la, Le Petit Dejeuner Etait Magnifique

up by accompanying rarities never found in your more mundane "breakfast included" places. Two days we had boiled, spotted quail eggs, and another time yellow plums from Southern Ontario.  The owner dispatched a lackey every morning to the local patisserie, so we could also indulge in fresh, aromatic croissants, little breakfast tarts and brioche with butter and homemade jam.  I sort of never wanted to leave but I feared another pants fastener debacle and the owner was too nice a guy to be blinded by brass projectile jeans buttons.

All in all, it was a great trip if not exactly a gastronomically adventurous one.  I am glad to be back in Dallas and just starting to think about which inventive, chef-driven kitchen we might be gracing with our presence tonight.  I heard there's a new French place in the Park Cities that we might try.  If they feature poutines on the menu I'll probably make a scene.

Shrill, Party of 12

So, we thought we were going to stay in last night because this is Restaurant Week in Dallas.  You know, sort of the New Year's Eve Amateur Night of Dining that lasts forever in the doldrums of Summer when Olive Garden aficionados decide to trade up for 35 bucks and bring their bratty children to upscale restaurants so they can run wild while they nurse fruity sweet vodka cocktails.  Wow that sounded kinda haughty. Okay I own it, I'm that guy.

More out of habit than interest, I nevertheless speedfinger walked through Open Table and realized RW doesn't start until Monday night so I snagged an 8:15 reservation for two at Sissy's Southern Kitchen.  (I really hate that name.  Saying "meet me at Sissy's at 8:15" is a sure fire way to lose all street cred in the world in which I dwell.  Even thinking it to yourself is somehow diminishing.  I tried referring to it as SSK but D was like "huh?" so I had to say it out loud and I could see all respect for me beginning to dim in his eyes so I started acting all macho and karate chopped a phone book in half and we were good again.)

We arrived at the spectacularly busy front door (neighboring Hibiscus was Deadsville, btw) and told one of the three perky door women that we had a reservation.  She dimpled and asked us to "walk this way."  (I muttered "if I could walk that way I wouldn't need the talcum powder" under my breath but this elicited no laughs as I have used that line approximately 4,013 times.)  She then proceeded to seat us at a lovely table for two in the secondary dining room beside a party of 24.  Seriously?  They were on their third or twelfth round of drinks and the cacophony of great friends celebrating something really important was beyond deafening.  We lasted about 16 seconds and I went back to the hostess stand and asked why we were being punished.  She looked at me quizzically and I patiently explained that being seated adjacent to a private party wasn't very fun for those not invited to it.  She was nice about it and apologized and then led us to a secluded table between the back door and the bathroom.  Thank you.

Our server was sort of checked out, like she was thinking about a term paper that was due on Monday except this is Summer and she was older than most college students so I'm not sure.  Don't get me wrong, she was okay, just absolutely disinterested in the moment, or us, or both.  We ordered beverages because it seemed appropriate and we didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings.  I had a beet salad with pecans and goat cheese, which was good, and D dawdled with the Sloppy Slaw, which was a ramekin of blue cheese dressing with three leaves of torn cabbage swimming inside it.  Odd. Maybe it's a Southern thing.  Or a Sissy thing.  Snort.

Then an entire hour elapsed.  It wasn't unpleasant, given the choice view of pairs of girls repairing to the ladies room to plump up their hair and pull down their tight miniskirts and jocular shirt guys high fiving their way into the one-seater with frilly doilies and cans of air freshener festooning it.  I wanted to snatch a fried green tomato from the table next to me but the woman seated there had ESP or something and kept guarding it with her jungle red manicured talons and glaring at me beneath her finely arched brows.  Her date was kind of menacing and I came THIS CLOSE to explaining to him that I just wanted to taste a little of her tomato until I realized that might result in my being on the business end of his meaty, violence-prone fist.  The entire restaurant was full of large boisterous parties, all intent on breaking the sound barrier with shrill laughter and booming, hearty guffaws.  I longed for comparatively quieter atmosphere of the American Airlines Center when the Dallas Mavericks annihilated the Miami Heat in the 2011 NBA Finals, Game 6.

At last our food arrived.  I had their famous fried chicken, which was garbed in a thick brown burqa of unseasoned coating and pressure-cooked to within an inch of its life. I peeled off the crunchy, greasy outer layers and managed to eke out a few forkfuls of nicely seasoned poultry. The chicken came with 2 gallons of mashed potatoes and one of those stainless steel gravy boats like you see at Denny's.  I had a little and asked for the rest to be Fedexed to the starving children in Africa.  Our server noted the request with no outward sign or acknowledgement of my flat out hilarious repartee.  D had the chicken-fried flat iron steak, which for some reason he thought was chicken but I corrected him twice and he was annoyed but I ended up being right, as usual.  He ate half of it and had the rest wrapped up for our pups' lunch.  Too bad it is still in his trunk and it is 11:45 the next day and 114 degrees in the shade.

The place was absolutely jammed and got even more so as I payed our just north of $60 tab, which is very low on the Dallas continuum of restaurant going.  Perhaps there is a correlation between cheap prices and bustling crowds, I don't know.  But as I left the restaurant and awaited the valet parker, I wondered to myself in a wry, Carrie Bradshaw voice, if Sissy's Southern Kitchen wouldn't be more appropriately named Jim Bob's Grub.

No LA in NOLA

One Can Never Be Too Loose on Bourbon Street

I just returned to Dallas from a four day conference in New Orleans.  I personally love The Crescent City, the City That Care Forgot, for its Spanish/French/Whatev architecture,  upside down cemeteries, the Mighty Mississippi and its churning Delta Queens, the charming people with "dese and dose" accents and megawatt smiles, the smell of Bourbon Street on a hot July night, redolent of high-spirited frat boys who've knocked back a few two many hurricanes at Pat O'Brien's...well maybe that last one, not so much.  Ahh, but the world class Creole cuisine really makes my bons temps roulez.

The conference was for an association of venue managers and was positively jam-packed with intense educational classes, helpful workshops, inspiring keynote speeches, crazy trade show antics and extravagant theme parties (use your wry, ironic inside voice when reading that sentence.) Sadly, there was not a lot of free time in the agenda to explore all the new little chef-driven kitchens and hole-in-the-wall dives that make New Orleans so romantically gut-busting. Finally, on Sunday night, I discovered an evening free and quickly
speedfingerwalked through Open Table, only to find to my immense dismay that none of the places I was anxious to try--Root, August, or Maurepas Food, were available.  Heck, I couldn't even get into Stella, which I'd been to before.  My feet were killing me from walking about 400 miles that day so I lazily just went next door to where I was staying at the Hilton Riverside to a convenient little sanitized enclave of bistros and cafes and ended up dining at Ruth's Chris Steak House.

Red-faced, I feel shame for exposing myself like that in a food blog, and fear I might be shunned by the foodie universe in coming weeks.  (Of course there is nothing wrong with Ruth's Chris except the odd possessive in its name.  Many people mispronounce it and call it Ruth Chris's, but it's actually, puzzlingly Ruth's Chris.  I mean, what the heck is a Chris steak? Is there a breed of cattle called Chris?  Did perhaps a woman named Ruth buy a Steak House named Chris and didn't have the money to change the sign out front so just spray painted "Ruth's" across the top? These questions blur my mind but thankfully don't blunt my appetite. But I digress.) 

Perhaps He Fears Toe-Main Poisoning

The restaurant was jammed with fat white people who had apparently traveled to the Big Easy in July for the sheer pleasure of wearing high-waisted shorts and socks with sandals in the hot stickiness of high Summer. There was also a preponderance of canes; canes are not an unusual sight in the French Quarter, although they are usually sported jauntily by fancy dressed men in pimp hats and spats. These canes looked more like supplemental weight supports, like a third leg but denuded of socks and sandals. Even some of the children had them.

My server was precious. Actually, her name was Precious, or at least that's what her name tag said, and it was entirely appropriate. She talked me into a drink against my will, forcing me to add "easily influenced" to my resume just below "chain restaurant-goer." She told me she had just put a "loaf" in the oven for me and was going to fetch some whipped butter. I looked the other way as I spread it on a slice of crusty, fragrant bread not once, but twice. (I would have felt worse about it if the couple at the table next to me hadn't eaten two entire loaves each. The woman finished up the last one by dunking the end of it in her butter dish like a cop with a donut in a coffee shop.)

The fresh tomato and red onion salad with balsamic vinaigrette was quite the perfect excuse for eating my weight in blue cheese crumbles.  It was followed by a huge slab of prime New York Strip cooked perfectly medium.  It was on a sizzling hot plate spewing off sparks of smoking butter that made an artistic stain on my white shirt reminiscent of Van Gogh's work during his 1888 sojourn to Arles.  I had eaten about half of it when the snap at the waistband of my pants went berserk and flew right into Precious's eye, blinding her for life. She cursed loudly in some swampland patois and I was afraid she was going to summon a spell from Marie Leveaux or else open up a can of Cajun whupass on me.

It was definitely time to go.  I gathered my sagging pants in my left hand and tried to hide the impressionistic butter painting on my shirt with my right as I hastily scrawled my signature on the credit card slip.  I lost my balance on the way out and struck my head on a lamp post.  As I staggered away I could feel disapproving, squinty eyes on the back of my head from all the tourists still inside.

"Some people just don't know any better," they were thinking as they finished up their chocolate bread pudding with bourbon pecan sauce topped with non-dairy whipped cream.

Start Spreading the News

For a foodie there has never been a more exciting time to live and eat in Dallas.  In the last few years, chef-driven, innovative, provocative and adventurous restaurants have sprung up all over like goosebumps on the back of my neck when I hear someone mention Twerking or Groupon or Honey Boo Boo. Well, not really like that's because that's more of an eerie, sickening feeling like the world has just violently veered off its roller coaster tracks.  Maybe I should just say it seems like there are really a lot of terrific places to dine in Dallas and all the new ones mostly work and the good ones keep getting better.

Some married friends we knew a decade ago when they lived in Dallas have returned here to live. When P and P's kids were little they lived in the far north suburbs and there weren't that many remarkable restaurants to lure them downtown/uptown.  Oh we had Kent Rathbun's Abacus, which is still around, although it doesn't seem as aspirational as it used to.  We had The French Room at the Hotel Adolphus which is where you need to go just once in your life so you can experience what it must have been like to formally share a fine repast with Marie Antoinette while the peasants were eating cake and thinking about how to get a head in life. (Sorry).  I think Avner Samuel must have had a decent place at that time since he opened and closed about 6,000 restaurants before hitting the jackpot with his awesome NOSH on Oak Lawn a couple of years ago.

P an P relocated due to brilliant career moves to the Northeast, first in New Jersey and later, sublimely ensconced in a palatial apartment atop the Omni Berkshire Place Hotel.  With 24-hour room service in The City That Never Sleeps I think in the same situation I might have ended up weighing as much as Paula Deen's facial spackle. Careers brought them back to Dallas, and with kids all grown, they bought a futuristic, steel-framed house in a remote part of Kessler Park, which ten years ago was a carjacking just waiting to happen but is now teeming with nearby bistros and charming cafes in the Bishop Arts District.  Think about the trendiest, friendliest, least pretentious, pedestrian-friendly place you know and that is absolutely nowhere near Dallas.  Kidding aside, that description actually defines Bishop Arts, with standout restaurants like Driftwood, Hattie's, Bolsa, Boulevardier, Lucia, Eno's...the list goes on and on.  And the crazy thing is, when the P's lived here ten years ago every one of those joints was called Wigs by Consuela or Pepe's Body Shop or This Site for Lease.

Pretty Sure No One Ordered the Breast of Chicken

And another hotbed of deliciousness has popped up out of seemingly nowhere--the Dallas Design District, which used to be an evening and weekend ghost town of high-end household wares with European names and triple digit price tags, is now hopping with some of the brightest and best new places in the culinary universe.  We met our friends at the Meddlesome Moth  (its website address makes me laugh out loud, www.mothinthe.net) and it was so dang busy they had people stacked vertically as they waited for their tables. We got a round of drinks and kind of moshed sideways until we ended up crowding into a corner of a semi-private dining area with a table full of snockered bridesmaids and an embarrassed MRS degree candidate wearing a veil over her Trojan Magnum earrings. Looming over the table was a gigantic, vintage photo of a twenty-something Sophia Loren seated in a swanky nightclub looking askance at table mate Jayne Mansfield's upper body wardrobe malfunction. Apparently, it was very chilly in that club.

Being a balmy, 115 degree evening, we decided to stroll across the street to FT33, my favorite restaurant in the world for at least the next fifteen minutes.  I've raved and blogged about it before and as always, it did not disappoint.  Chef Matt McCallister was behind the line looking all tatted and focused but I didn't see his ravishing wife Iris, who I was hoping to run into so my street cred could be personally validated.  It wasn't necessary though; the food forward, seasonally-inspired modern cuisine spoke for itself and the P's were dutifully impressed by FT33's industrial chic ambience, fun, professional service and ridiculously savory cuisine.  We shared the generous charcuterie platter but all selfishly hunched over our entrees like convicts in the state pen.  I had the duck breast and never once thought of Jayne Mansfield.  Until now, that is.

I still haven't mentioned DISH, which is sophisticated, sublime and sexy, or Victor Tango's, a silly name for a seriously good place, or Sissy's Southern Kitchen, which makes me squirm to say out loud but always delivers swoon-inducing Southern-fried comfort on a plate.

Coming back to Dallas from New York, our friends the P's are astonished to find the restaurant scene so vibrant and eclectic and I feel proud to say I play a small part in that, even if it is only in cyberspace. So consider this:  Maybe instead of Big D we should start referring to our town as the Little Apple.

Sometimes Once Is Enough

So...a few weeks back I rhapsodized about the meaty wonders of Del Frisco's Grille.  I had a steak that night that to my admittedly somewhat impaired memory was equal to or better than the best I'd ever tasted. Perfectly cooked medium with a hot red center, that slab of cow was nicely seasoned and as melt-in-your-mouth delicious as a Kobe beef-scented snowflake.  We went back last night because I couldn't stop fantasizing about their New York Strip.  It was like I was Charlie Brown and that dish was my little red-headed, bovine dream girl for whom I wanted to buy fur-lined gloves at Christmas time.

We pulled up to the crowded valet stand and debarked amid the myriad Clairol's Dallas Blonde #11 girls who are now all sporting straggly sausage curls and several shirt guys who'd clearly spent the day surfing at Lake Grapevine judging from the sun-kissed streaks in their longish hair and bronzed biceps flexing 'neath their rakish untucked polos.  There were at least six 18-year-old hostesses (it's another month before they'll head off to UT for fiendishly delightful freshman sorority girl high jinx) and all of them seemed slightly confused about exactly how the computer monitor thingy in front of them worked as evidenced by their precocious little frowns and distracted hair tossings.  One of them did finally connect the dots and discovered with admirably controlled glee that indeed I did have a reservation. Then an exquisite line of actress-worthy empathy formed between her expensively maintained brows while she informed us that our table was being cleaned and we would need to stand awkwardly in the doorway for a few minutes while someone less fortunate than she did some sort of manual labor she'd witnessed but not actually ever experienced firsthand.  We dutifully obeyed.

I went to the men's room and got in line behind four guys in appallingly expensive jeans, heads glued to their smart phones with studied intensity as if they were international hedge fund traders or suffered from serious Words With Friends addictions. It seemed like it took each one of them longer than customary to do their business and I concluded they were either artfully arranging their tousled locks or doing lines off the granite countertop.  I finally wound my way back to the front and Hostess #5 showed us to our two-top, which was front and center by the plate glass exterior window overlooking a crowded patio scene of attractive twenty-somethings who managed to look freshly showered and impeccably groomed despite the fact that it was 98 degrees at 9 o'clock in the evening. Or in Dallas terms, winter.

Our waitron unit was a cute young thing (again with the straggly sausage curls) in seven shades of black.  We were watered but not breaded.  Deciding to skip an appetizer we both ordered the wedge salad and the New York strip.  D doesn't usually order steak in a restaurant due to an unfortunate, recurring tango with acid reflux syndrome, but I convinced him the plate was well worth a little post-prandial regurgitation.  The wedges came and went with much enthusiasm and happy grunts of "best ever" and our server was genuinely delighted that our plates were so clean she could take them back to the kitchen with no need for wasteful ware-washing.

The moment I'd dreamed about finally arrived.  Our steaks were deposited in front of us with great ceremony and they were Playboy centerfold beautiful minus the staple in the midsection.  Mine enjoyed yoga, cooking and long, romantic walks on the beach while D's was more of a party girl who liked kicking it up at western saloons but was seriously considering a career in nuclear physics. Happily grasping my fork and knife, I plunged into the center of the steak and swallowed a mouthful of perfectly seasoned fat with a companionable sliver of gristle. What the what? Surreptitiously I stuck my fork in my mouth and charmingly withdrew the offending offal and put it back on the edge of my plate. Sadly, the next bite was worse.  I carved that quivering mound of artery-clogging grease into a pile of blood-soaked scraps that would have given even serial killer Dexter pause but never found a forkful to swallow that didn't threaten to  re-emerge as some nightmarish incarnation of the Blob.  Somehow the pile of scraps on my plate had grown to something well over twice as large as the original 12-ounce steak, dwarfing the tiny, oven-scorched mound of twice baked potato chunks.  Server Girl happened by, and with eyes as large as Cracker Barrel saucers asked if everything was all right.  I gently asked her to find a manager, whom she summoned quickly, if a little fearfully.

I explained to Manager Bruno that I was really not a chronic complainer but the piece of steak I had been presented was far from worthy of the Del Frisco Prime reputation.  He took one look at the greasy, fat streaked gristle bomb in front of me and mercifully, removed it from my sight immediately. He did everything right, asking first if they could bring me another one (I shuddered "no" with my napkin clasped against my spasming oral orifice) and then Server Girl brought us this enormous Coconut Cream Pie, which, dear readers, you know is not in my culinary wheelhouse.  D asked to have it boxed up and I choked out a request for the check, which was brought promptly and with genuine apology for the misfortunate experience and a heartfelt entreaty to give them another chance to show that the beef purchaser and broiler man had not actually been inflicted with temporary blindness or homicidal tendencies.  I noticed they had not charged me the $38 for the steak but questioned whether the unordered $10 Coconut Cream Pie was really supposed to be on my tab.  Again, very graciously, they corrected my bill, which was still nearing the century mark due to the salads, D's steak, a couple of cocktails and a glass of perfectly adequate red zinfandel.  Although the steak was repulsive their service recovery was first rate.  Being in the restaurant business, I know mistakes sometimes happen and I bear no ill-will to Del Frisco's Grille.

Two Ends of an Indie Spectrum

I haven't posted in a while because I've been revisiting places this month that I've already blogged about, I have been on the road a lot, and I've just felt lazy.  But rejoice, devoted readers, for I have an update for you today.

Most of the time I blog about restaurants that I've booked on Open Table because of 1) the lazy factor cited above and 2) for the most part, restaurants that go to the expense of being part of the Open Table network are going to rank somewhat higher on the food chain than your neighborhood greasy spoon.  Occasionally I do find myself in smaller, indie concerns, and I've just been to two in a row that live at opposite ends of that spectrum.

Hola Jose

Curb Appeal

Last night, before viewing the scintillating, jiggly watersports of  the Broadway musical Flashdance at the Dallas Music Hall, we joined our friends at the pizzaLOUNGE across the street from Fair Park.  (nORMALLY i would make FUN OF weird and random CAPITALization SHENANIGANS but I am feeling CHARitablE.  Sort OF.) This dive offbeat dining den was decorated by a couple of friends who had apparently downed a six pack one morning and then went to a few garage sales on a sunny Saturday afternoon with about $65 in their pockets.  It so worked.  Walking into the place gives you both instant street cred and a holla big dose of chill, and made me think of hookahs and hookers even though there were neither anywhere in sight -- or at least not at 6:30.  The DNA of pizzaLOUNGE is hipster-beatnik and it never wavers from that pose.


Sofa King Slices

The bartendress/server was not our usual gal but a tatted up and pierced little thing sporting a sideways baseball cap and clothing that looked like she'd swiped it from the costume shop for Rent when it was in town.  I ordered a Ketel 1 martini up with a twist and she asked me what "up" meant.  I told her shaken over ice and strained into a glass and she narrowed her eyes at me as if I had insulted her people.  I offered to make it myself to show her how (wouldn't be the first time for Dining Dave to do some quick OTJ training) but she kindly told me to shut up and sit down.  Drinks came quickly and we ordered our usual, one large Sofa King pizza.  There is an inherent joke about that name because of how great it is and that's all I am going to write about that. They have awesome, secret-sauced pies with very high quality ingredients like imported sausage from Jimmy's and their hand-crafted crust is delicious and baked with puppy love devotion.  It's a super cheap date and fun and the polar opposite of pretentious.


Up, Up, and Away

This Was More Than $65

Then today I met an impossibly smart and sassy business contact (Hi Iris!) for lunch at a place she suggested called Ascension Coffee House. If pizzaLOUNGE is hipster-beatnik then Ascension is hipster-coolest-kid-in-the-cafeteria.  Its interior is light and airy and decorated by a professional armed with a lot more cash and a fine eye for detail.  The inside smells of freshly roasted coffee beans harvested from crazy tall plants by rare, albino chimpanzees raised in the farthest reaches of Middle Earth.  Their passions and obsessions focus on nuanced coffee-procuring and local produce-sourcing and artisinal cheese-mongering and saving the Sudan, mostly in that order.

I had an iced coffee and was asked if I wanted whole, 2%, non-fat or soy milk in it.  I said all four and our server feigned wry amusement, which was very polite of him.  They've got free WiFi but you aren't allowed to use it after 6 PM because WORK STOPS AT SIX.  (Word is this is a rule they really do enforce and not some outrageous lie I just made up to make you laugh.)  Lunch is either panini or salads but everything sounds quite good.  I ordered the Spanish Albacore Salad which promised Spanish tuna, arugula, egg and cornichons with olive caper relish and sherry vinaigrette. 

Where's the Tuna?

It was really very tasty but I had to resort to my bionic zoom lens to find the teeny little flecks of tuna that were parsimoniously assigned to my plate by a garde-manger who is probably borderline sadistic.  We are talking way less than one ounce of protein.  It reminded me of my impoverished childhood when at the end of a week, our large family might be out of groceries so my mom would take the One Remaining Navy Bean we had in the larder and tie a string around it.  Then all of us kids would line up in chronological order and the eldest would get to swallow the bean.  Then my mom would yank it back out and feed it to the next kid, and then the next.  Being youngest, sometimes all I got was Essence of the ORNB.

So tuna essence or not, the salad was super tasty because all of the other ingredients were so fresh and of such high quality.  The ambience of Ascension is welcoming and comfortable.  The dinner menu looks interesting and I definitely plan to return.  I might bring along some tater tots in my pocket for later, just in case.

Destination Dining: Hibiscus

Last night we snagged one of those rare prizes not often seen in the restaurant world--a reservation on a Friday night at Hibiscus earlier than 10:00 pm.  I saw that they had an 8:30 on Open Table so I pounced on it before someone else much brighter in the Dallas firmament of shiny happy people claimed it for their very own.  Hibiscus is an old stand by--most of the time when we want to dine there we just show up and push through the crowd to the service bar in back where they have 4 barstools and a lonely bartender anxious to make cocktails and conversation.  I guess Fridays have slowed down there a little because the restaurant was only about three fourths full but the big egos in the room made it seem like it was more at capacity.

A mature woman with wrinkly hands and a dress two generations too young for her smoothly showed us to our table and entreated us to "enjoy." (I thought that cliche was reserved for when a server placed your entree, but apparently its use is becoming more widespread and therefore, even more meaningless.)  We were watered but not breaded and our grandmotherly server came over and suggested a drink.  We don't normally partake of distilled spirits but she seemed genuinely concerned about our hydration so we indulged her.  (If you believe that last sentence you have evidently just started following this blog.)  I say grandmotherly because she wore her uniform modestly, wasted no words except to call us dears, and held her hands clasped together in front of her when she walked (exactly like the Mother Superior in Change of Habit, my favorite movie about nuns starring Mary Tyler Moore and Elvis. ) That being said, I bet I have 20 years on her.

Chewsy Mothers Choose Jif

And Then There Were None

Off da Bone

After our drinks were presented we ordered and the food started coming right out of the kitchen.  I started with the charred octopus, which was tasty if rather reminiscent of a high end Goodyear tire in its mouth feel.  D had the wedge, which looked more like a boatload of onion rings strewn upon iceberg lettuce and doused in blue cheese.  He ate all of it. Plates cleared efficiently, cutlery redistributed and table crumbed, plop went the entrees and a side.  D had the short rib chop (I think it was sous-vided for like 25 years because the meat didn't just fall off the bone, it jumped off, lemming-style.   I had 5 perfectly pan-seared East Coast day boat scallops and we shared the truffliest,

Wedgie

cheesiest mac and cheese concoction in Christendom.
We could only down less than half of it, so we boxed it up to take home.  (It is still in the car fifteen hours later, which is what usually happens if we even manage to remember to take the box with us when we leave.)

Entrees dispatched, we declined dessert and opted for cappuccinos and
lattes, which were perfect.  G'ma brung 'round the tab, which we paid promptly.  The entire dinner was very, very good but the overall experience seemed like it might have been two spark plugs short of robotic.  Quick, efficient. anticipatory, out of there.  I think they are so used to turning the tables for maximum return that they forgot that sometimes a little lingering is a good thing, especially if there are 30 times as many would be diners elbowing their way into Sissy's Southern Kitchen next door.

The tab with tax, title and license was about $135 and we were in and out the door in 45, which comes to roughly $3 a minute.  Although it was good I think I would have been happier in the $1.17 to $1.42 per minute range.  I like you, Hibiscus, but next time I come I am going to speak in a slow, steady, Southern drawl, and chew every bite 100 times.  Grandma will be proud.

Meat Market in a Steak House

Last Saturday we ended up in a place that was definitely on my radar--not from a foodie standpoint but because driving by it most nights you can see its tremendous popularity with the Professional Urban McKinney Avenue Sophisticates (PUMAS.)  I tend to avoid these places since the mission is to mask one's surgically enhanced innate, smoldering hotness with an icy cool 'tude and to meet new people and potential one night stands spouses by studiously ignoring them.  I well remember the game--I am, after all, a high school graduate--but I wasn't good at it then and find it tedious now.

Surprisingly, we ended up at Del Frisco's Grille on McKinney in Dallas by a weird, Tourette's Syndrome induced random stroke of Open Table finger shopping and debarked at the valet stand aswarm with PUMAS in full Saturday night  regalia:  flirty, slinky tops on the girls over skin tight, cropped pants, jeweled high-heeled sandals and diamond earrings swaying under Dallas Blonde #11 hair color, and tight polos stretched by "arms day" at the gym tucked out of ripped $250 jeans and neon sneakers on the spiky, gel-haired gents.  They were all named Cameron or Travis regardless of gender.


I Think This Would Be a Cool Tattoo in Celtic Runes

The three bright-eyed hostesses immediately noted we were way too old for the bustling patio scene or four-deep bar, and banished assigned us to a table facing away from the restaurant looking into the kitchen.  (Actually we  were looking at the posterier of the chef who was expo-ing so we sort of scooted around and focused in a more diagonal direction.)  Above the cook line was a huge sign which I guess is DFG's motto:  DO RIGHT AND FEED EVERYMAN.  At first I thought it was retro and cool and then it seemed sort of Les Miserables and finally I dismissed it as just kind of silly since we weren't in Colonial America and the food wasn't free and 50% of the patrons were female.  Our server's name was Carl (I remember because he told us with his big, open, toothy smile three different times) and even though he said he'd be "taking care of us" (restaurant cliche #3) we ended up liking him because he really did manage our table with exactly my preferred combination of attention, professionalism, and self-deprecating good humor in precisely the right amounts.
It was hard to decide what to eat because every thing on the menu sounded really good. We ended up sharing Cheesesteak Eggrolls, which were like
Philly Cheesesteaks baked inside crusty rolls and then cut on the bias (moan inducing) and Steamed Edamame with Korean BBQ Spice and
Lime (scrumptious food you get to play with.) We had a couple of crafted cocktails (de rigueur in this hipster den) and eventually ordered dinner.  Since DFG is the spawn of legendary Del Frisco's Double Eagle Steak House, I ordered my absolute favorite slice of bovinity, the New York Strip.  Strangely, D ordered Orecchiette Pasta with Lemon Thyme Chicken & Fresh Parmesan.  To me, this seemed sort of like ordering Chinese food at a taco stand but evidently he was unaware of the Del Frisco brand and their prodigious reputation for unparalleled meat.

When my steak arrived the aroma was so intoxicating I wanted to just pick it up and cram it into my gaping maw.  Instead, using a tremendous amount of self control and a handy pair of wrist restraints, I picked up my knife and fork and carved off a slice.  That steak was so tender and juicy I could have cut it with Governor Chris Christie's big fat hand, not that I ever would have for fear he'd swipe it like my other New Jersey friend Kathleen, who is known internationally via the Interpol database as a top flight food and wine thief (see Entree Envy, December 14, 2012.)  It didn't really look like much, just sort of an herb-crusted, brownish slab of meat on a white plate next to a little thimble-sized twice baked potato, but OMGosh I believe that was the best durned cow part I've ever had the pleasure of masticating.

Who'd a thunk you could get such extraordinary, prime meat in one of Dallas's prime meat markets?