Destination Dining: abc kitchen, manhattan

My job takes me to Newark, NJ with some regularity to work with our team at NJPAC.  I always enjoy my trips there -- this one offered a chance encounter with Mayor Cory Booker and author Philip Roth, who was being given the keys to the city at a reception prior to a screening of a documentary about the celebrated writer's life.  I know you are thinking "Who the heck'd want the keys to Newark, NJ, anyway?" but there are some beautiful parts of the city that are completely overshadowed by its "Armpit of the Eastern Seaboard" soubriquet.  I also like going there because I usually make time for a trip beneath the Hudson to the "City That Never Sips Big Gulps" per Mayor Bloomberg.

This trip, my boss and I made it to lunch at abc kitchen in Manhattan before a business meeting in the city later that afternoon.  abc kitchen, Chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten's legendary hyper-local, seasonal and all-organic ingredients restaurant is on the ground floor of abc carpets, a New York retail institution comprised of wondrous, one-of-a-kind furniture and startling appointments that cost more than the entire economy of Korea.  It's impossible to get a reservation there; when you try on Open Table your mobile device laughs out loud (that snotty Suri is one mean wench) and if you call them directly they offer unconfirmed seats sometime in the next two years, but only if you're on a list they neglect to put you on.

Tenement Chic

We decided to just show up a few minutes before they opened at noon to snag a couple of the seats at the bar, which are unreserved.  We had to traverse the block twice in order to find it because of the modest, unassuming, ramshackle appearance of the exterior and nearly invisible signage.  The coolest of the cool places in Manhattan eschew the vulgar trappings conventional wisdom in restaurant marketing dictates, such as large, lighted signs and upscale exteriors boasting a welcoming sense of arrival.  (The absolute elite places actually nail their front doors shut, turn off all the lights, and lower their louvered blinds. They're still packed.)  There were several well-dressed, sophisticated Manhattanites idly strolling 18th Street between Park Avenue South and Broadway, casually discussing the Hamptons and Shakespeare in Central Park and Donald Trump's appalling lack of dignity.  Then at five minutes until twelve, they bared their fangs and transformed into savage beasts with one shared goal: to elbow and shove their way to be first through the just-unlocked door, trampling the slower-witted beneath their feet while snarling chilling cries of victory.  We managed to land the last two seats at the bar, clothes mostly intact except for a broken shoe and a torn lapel.  (But you shoulda seen the other guy.)

Our server bartender, who was at least 85 pounds and named either Geoffrey or Chaucer, can't remember which, pointed us to some cold press, non-alcoholic super food aperitifs concocted from spinach and jalapeños and kale, plus several other things you wouldn't have eaten as a child in a million years. It was pretty good but I was glad when I finished it as I feared I was sporting bright green vegetable stains on my front teeth.

We ordered some tuna sashimi, some roasted beets in house-made yogurt, a chicken paillard with arugula, and a veggie burger.  While we were waiting, I looked around the insanely packed dining room filled mostly by 21st Century Ladies Who Lunch, aka Yoga Moms.  They were all skinny, in their thirties and forties and wore draped, neutral shawls and sweaters over white stretchy pants and springy wedge sandals.  They owned important jewelry.  You could count the vertebrae on most of them right through two layers of clothes and they all sported the same colors of three-toned hair.  20 percent of them were accompanied by metrosexual husbands of the first degree and there was a handful of  smartly-dressed, eyebrow-sculpted gays to round out the scene. (Some of the husbands and gays were communicating in code comprised purely of small gestures and fleeting facial expressions, but that's another kettle of fish altogether.)

Then the food came and OMGoodness what a revelation of palate-pleasing perfection.  I've always

Beet Me Up, Scottie

liked beets, but these had been plucked in their first moment of prime-hood and roasted with all the loving care a doting, first-time mother in Muncie, Indiana is capable of. They were coddled by an unbelievably refined, silky yogurt spritzed with Extra Virgin Mary Balsamic, and wore a smart coiffure of chervil sprigs. It was like eating a farm minus the dirt.

The tuna sashimi was cut unusually, not in the symmetrical, Asian style, but more straightforward and countrified in a little white dish with some heavenly miso and soy broth. The texture of the tuna was almost like undercooked Jell-o and I hogged more than my fair share, a fact that did not go unnoticed by my boss, which I am hoping he will have forgotten about when my annual review time comes around.

I Spy a Pita Pie

I left him to his chicken paillard and dove into my veggie burger with all the gusto an acned teen-age boy displays when presented with a large pepperoni pizza of his very own. The grilled patty was comprised of more kale, turnips, black beans, oatmeal, carrots, chick peas, and a bunch of other happily blended produce which had been slathered with a generous dollop of that luscious house-made yogurt, and swaddled in a fresh, house-baked pita pocket alongside some julienned raw carrots.  It killed me. I could have kept eating it until I exploded into a wholesome pile of vitamins and nutrients (not to mention roughage).

I totally get that restaurant and understand why it is so wildly, ridiculously popular.  I also know it would be a miserable failure in Dallas because for the most part we prefer strip steaks and bacon and fajitas and Frito pie to organic vegetables served on mismatched china.  If they are abc then we are xyz.

I am keenly interested in and shall continue exploring and savoring the many more letters in the alphabet that lie between.  See you in a spell.

Destination Dining: Lark on the Park

So, when somebody names a restaurant Lark on the Park you can't help but think to yourself, "Gee, this is going to be fun and innovative and even a bit cheeky, mate" unless you're not from Australia, like me, so it was more "let's see what's up with this quirky new place by the deck park named after some rich kid named Klyde Warren." Therefore, imagine my disappointment when it turned out to be a by-the-book, paint-by-numbers dining spot in muted colors with zero personality.  "Lark" congers images of frolicsome madness tinged with unfounded joy, like rolling down a big hill in a tractor tire or spinning cartwheels on a beach at sunset.  With that in mind, I would have called this place something a lot more boring like "Beige" or "Neutral" or maybe "Kim Kardashian."

Logo Sans Serif

There's nothing really wrong with Lark.  There's just not anything particularly right with it either.  It's the bottom floor of an office building or a condo building perched beside the feeder road of a highway and it feels just like that.  On a Saturday night at 8:30 the mostly empty bar had the forlorn, antiseptic atmosphere of an orthodontist's waiting room minus the Highlights magazines.  The three interchangeably blonde hostesses were bored and the pleasant bartender polished glasses that were already sparkling since they'd rarely been used.

As we were being seated I noted that most of the tables were occupied by well-dressed, mature individuals deep in conversations about city council candidates and the unpredictable weather.  We were watered but not breaded and our generic waiter handed us plain menus with all the usual suspects typed in an unchallenging font. We could share Cheese, Charcuterie, Antipasto, Carpaccio or Curry Pillows (the only original item in the line up but the accompanying English Peas and Ginger Chutney made the whole dish sound confusing.)  So we skipped the apps.  Next.

Ho Hum

Four Salads and a Cauliflower Soup.  I ordered Grilled Leeks with Mustard Vinaigrette, Vital Farms Poached Egg and Frisee because it sounded tangy but they had "just run out."  So I had an unremarkable Escarole and Radicchio salad with under ripe slices of Apple and Pear plus some Toasted Walnuts and a whisper of the blandest blue cheese I've ever tasted drizzled with an unremarkable vinaigrette dressing.  D had the soup.  He said it was good.

Oh, Rob

Entree choices included straightforward renditions of Scallops, Haddock, Mushroom Pappardelle, Duck Breast, Lamb Shank, Hangar Steak and weirdly, Coq au Vin.  I say weirdly not only because it seemed kind of Julia Child in Pleasantville, but also because it had an incongruous notation below it that said "When Laura Petrie cooked this for her husband Rob it was "code" for what was to happen later." This was the only item on the menu tagged with the slightest bit of irony or humor, making it feel rather lonely and forced.  It was as unexpected as Texas Junior Senator Ted Cruz saying something without sounding smug and superior.  I had it and it was fine but nothing I'd order again and certainly never suggest as code for some between-the-sheets revelry. Also, smack in the middle of this made-in-America tribute to the Eighties was Moo Krob, a smoky Thai Pork dish with Sticky Rice and Chili Garlic Sauce.  It was like some rogue ninja chef had snuck in to inject a southeastern Asia-influenced menu item and then departed quietly on little cat feet without anyone noticing.  D had it and enjoyed it--repeatedly throughout the rest of the night and the next morning.  And now a moment of silence to honor the soothing pinkness of Pepto Bismol.

I know the comfy chairs were chartreuse and there was a bunch of stainless steel but I can't remember many other details of the restaurant because of the astonishing lack of creativity therein.  The plates were round and white.  The glassware was clear.  The salt and pepper shakers were non-threatening.  The background music had been borrowed from an elevator in a now closed Dillard's department store in Wichita Falls.  But rising above all the monotony were hand-drawn, white chalk murals by local artists depicting snakes and bears and cityscapes.

And those were pretty cool, for a few minutes anyway.

Savor, Dallas

Copper Topper

We attended the annual food orgy of gastronomical proportions called Savor Dallas this past Saturday.  The "International Grand Tasting" was held in the Irving Convention Center, aka the Big Copper Trapezoidal Structure You See On Your Way To DFW Airport.  To me, it looks less like a convention center than a Mayan Pyramid designed in the Bronze Age by Pablo Picasso during his Cubism phase.  And I don't say that like I think it's a bad thing.

A good friend of mine works part time on Savor Dallas and has talked about it for years so this time, which I think was the ninth annual, we decided to go. I wasn't sure what to wear but briefly considered maternity pants in the off-chance I would savor dishes from every one of the approximately 50 food purveyors.  At $110 plus tax per ticket, I planned on getting my money's worth.


Thumbthing Very Useful

We entered the center at ground level, and were directed to the registration area, where we picked up our Savor Palettes, a plastic painter's palette contraption with a small hole in one end for your thumb and a larger whole in the other end for your crystal souvenir wine glass.  (Not sure I would actually call the souvenir a keeper since it had a giant Kroger logo etched on the front of it.)
Though somewhat awkward at first, I soon got the "hang" of it as it allowed me to carry both food and wine and still have a free hand with which to gesticulate animatedly, which is my wont.

A beautiful spring night found us on one of the center's many terraces overlooking the flat, treeless expanse of Irving, Texas.  We approached the first food stall, Urban Crust out of Plano, and thoroughly enjoyed their artisanal pizzas and cheerful good humor.  We also had a chicken taco from Blue Mesa Grill and a tiny, one-ounce sip of wine before heading into the main ballroom, which was named Bedlam.

There were like 1,000 wineries, beer crafters and distillers of fine spirits crammed into the ballroom space along with about 50 more food booths, a silent auction, live cooking demonstrations, folk dancing and a petting zoo.  Okay I made that last part up, but it was definitely 500 pounds of cashews in a 100 pound bag.  We started approaching restaurateurs randomly and at first it seemed like everyone was serving some sort of a taco or some kind of pork belly or just pork belly tacos.  Then we became more strategic and looked for the longest lines and jumped in those (cutting whenever possible due to the inebriated state of the savory revelers.)  We had Paula Lambert's Mozzarella & Co.'s terrific house-made goat cheese on Empire Bread's succulent olive loaf.  We had an out-of-sequence but truly tasty Toffee Torte with Bookers Bourbon Anglaise, Spiced Pecans and Whipped Cream from Whisky Cake, also out of Plano. We had an umami-bursting medium rare slice of steak from Dakota's Steakhouse and something totally delicious from Parigi that was my favorite dish of the night although I can't remember what it was, perhaps from the frequent two-ounce pours of wine we had between each course, if course is what you call a miniature tasting of edible goodness served on a black plastic disposable saucer with a spork.

Then disaster struck.  All those dieting tips about eating small bites very slowly proved absolutely, heart-wrenchingly true when we realized between the tasting portions and the long lines, we had become Thanksgiving-Day-Full-As-Ticks.  I tried to sort of move the food around in my stomach, pressing down on my abdomen so I could free up some room at the top, but it was a non-starter.  I'd tried 6 restaurants and 4 wineries, which totalled $11 per tiny tastebud tingle, not counting the $8 for parking.

Although we left somewhat despondently, feeling like we'd gotten the short end of the skewer, everyone else seemed to be having a grand tasting time.  Maybe with more practice you get better at it.  I do have one suggestion for the organizers, though: punctuate.  Since the event is in Irving and the vendors are from all over the metroplex, Savor Dallas seems like a misnomer.  Adding a comma would then be a more commanding Savor, Dallas (with a sinisterly implied "or else!") 

I am not sure we will return but I bear no ill will despite the sponsor-embossed stemware and the plastic palate palettes.  Call me old-fashioned, but when I drop close to $250 for an evening out I want a brigade of servers bringing me full-sized portions of awe-inspiring dishes emanating from a chef-driven kitchen.  I want a whole glass of wine.  And I don't want to eat with a spork.

Destination Dining: Private Social

Top Chef Tiffany Derry has left the building, and although the signage still says Private Social, the new restaurant that has emerged in the same space on McKinney Avenue in Dallas is now called P/S, which is weird since P/S connotes an afterthought, and this place is anything but.  Morocco-born, Spain-bred Chef Najat Kaanache has actually over thought this wonderful mess of a dining spot.  My mother's voice admonishing me to stop playing with my food echoed in my head the entire time we were there Saturday night.

Eye of Newt

Things started off swell enough, I suppose.  We were seated in the main dining room at a nice two-top beside a dizzying, double-stranded beaded curtain that would certainly be the pride and joy of any drag queen's bedazzled boudoir.  The earnest, oddly sinister busboy vamped for our apparently errant server, efficiently filling water glasses and fetching cocktails while he waxed rhapsodic about stimulated senses and heightened food realities.  This 30-second elevator speech was punctuated with the arrival of a "magic cauldron"--a Pier 1 copper vessel smoking with aromatic dry ice that was supposed to envelope us in the chef's approach to sustenance.  Say what?

Time to Make the Doughnuts

Every item on the somewhat limited menu has its own schtick, kind of like a vaudeville line up minus the pretty girl in a tutu changing title posters.  We started with three Savory Doughnuts suspended on copper wire attached to a pendulous iron arc.  (FYI You can't eat the doughnuts unless you dismantle the whole thing--there were strands of copper wire strewn throughout the dining room floor like the remnants a bomb-making cabal would leave behind if suddenly raided by the Gestapo.)  They were served with a truffled curry dip and some other word I can't spell or pronounce and were pretty tasty.  We also had some Candied Fried BBQ Chicken Lollipops, which is a deliberately confusing description for decent Chicken McNuggets smeared with some white garlicky foam and impaled on a stick.

Hello, Dali

Then we shared the Edible Dali, Truffled Phyllo Canvas.  We were amused when they brought tiny easels, paintbrushes, and a china palette dotted with sweet and savory globs of foodstuffs which we were to paint onto tiny canvasses of puff pastry.  It was so contrived it would have been goofy fun if the canvas hadn't broken in two when I dabbed it with something that looked like thermonuclear waste.  At this point a threesome who had been seated to our right just moments before abruptly departed and somebody in the display kitchen dropped something heavy, cursing loudly.

Then an entire hour and a half passed by.  We'd finished our cocktails and had a glass of wine.  We drank some water.  We nibbled at some eerie bread that had been dyed a mysterious shade of red with beet juice.  We played a hand of gin rummy.  D went out for a long walk and I went to the men's room even though I didn't really need to so I made grotesque faces in the mirror while I trimmed my moustache with manicure scissors.  We took naps.  I composed a song in my head, sadly realizing later it was simply a forgotten chorus from Handel's Messiah.  Another diner offered to teach us how to tango but we politely declined.  Our server apologized 113 times and the Maitre D' reported for duty and waved his hands over our table.  Then he declared that the wine was free and bowed stiffly before departing.  Ceremoniously.

Artsy Ketchup

At long last our entrees finally arrived.  D's Dallas Star Burger, Fringe Fries, Rustic Roots was an over-the-top hot mess of medium rare, Moroccan-spiced meat.  My Scallop Stew, Precious Veggies was delightfully delicious.  I am not sure why it came with a vial of hot, rosemary-infused Limoncello.  Are sea scallops traditionally paired with warm, lemon-flavored vodka liqueur?

The website for P/S natters on about Chef Najat's global accomplishments and kitchen genius certificates.   To quote:  "Her food art is like beauty, it simply feeds the soul."  And it just very well might.  But only if that soul is lost in Purgatory and has nothing but time on its vaporous hands.

To sum up:  The food is really good here but all the molecular gastronomy hocus pocus is unnecessary and distracting. It's like watching way too many episodes of Wiccans Gone Wild on an empty stomach.

Unreal Reality

To Quote George Takei: "Oh My"

I'm not much of a reality TV fan.  Aside from watching our gal Bronwen Weber from Frosted Art slay any cake maker who gets in her way on the Food Network, I pretty much avoid the highly edited, non-scripted mutterings of people who need to actually get a life as opposed to being filmed in a pretend one.  Forgive me, Honey Boo Boo, but I am not at all interested in the goings on inside your trailer park.  Sorry, so-asinine-you-are-repulsively-laughable Donald Trump, you're fired.

That being said, I must confess to a weakness for the weekly kitchen drama of the hopelessly addictive Top Chef.  I'm surprised to say I find Padma incongruously sexy and I'd sort of like to water ski or go Christmas shopping with Tom Colicchio.  (Emeril, not so much, I worry his head is way too big for his neck to support it and one day it's just going to snap off.)  Season 10's installment, Top Chef Seattle, came to an end last week and I feel like I'm missing a limb.



Shoulda Been a Contenda

I know it's contrived.  That was made abundantly clear when Dallas chef John Tesar of Spoon Bar & Kitchen was told to pack his knives mid-season when he was obviously the most talented toque in the tea kettle. After they bumped off that Asian lady who couldn't bake potatoes and the smarmy tall guy for redefining the word irritating, they had to axe John in order to level the playing field, thus leaving a few distinctive characters in play to create feigned drama.  Braying Josie.  Snarky Josh. Satanic Stefan. Likable Sheldon, who naively didn't know the only prize a televised contestant from Hawaii can possibly win is second runner up in the Miss America Pageant, and only then  if she twirls the baton whilst performing as a ventriloquist.

Brains, Beauty & Talent

I don't believe there was a single fan of the show who didn't know pretty early on that it was going to boil down to a cook-off between Brooke and Kristen, two chefs in possession of mad culinary skills and obligatory forearm tattoos.  Even when The Unthinkable happened--Kristen getting booted for not tattling on the abrasive, gap-toothed Josie and instead, accepting responsibility for the failure of Atelier Kwan in Restaurant Wars--we all knew there'd be some kind of soap operatic return from the dead for her and she'd be in the finale even if she were portrayed as her own evil twin sister suffering from amnesia.  And sure enough, she emerged from Last Chance Kitchen in the penultimate episode, followed by handily beating Brooke in the finale title bout with just an immersion blender and a set of nested measuring spoons.

As Princess Padma intoned at the start of every show, Cheftestant Kristen Kish will now enjoy $125,000 cash (sponsored by Healthy Choice, grand prize winner in the product placement category), a feature in Food & Wine magazine and a showcase at the Food & Wine Classic in Aspen, Colorado.  If history predicts the future, somebody will then come along and put up financing for a restaurant of her own, hopefully not called Kish and Tell. (She is currently chef de cuisine at Stir, Barbara Lynch's restaurant in Boston.  I mention this because No. 9 Park in Beacon Hill was Barbara Lynch's first restaurant and that is where D and I had dinner the night we got married and remains as one of my top five meals ever.)

With her dramatic back story of Korean orphanhood, crazy kitchen wizardry, and fashion model beauty, Kristen might just one day land herself a television show of her very own. 

Now that would be unreal.