Little Bites from the Big Apple

Note Stunning Sterling Bracelet On Right Wrist

We just got back from a long weekend in New York City celebrating a milestone birthday for one of our dearest friends.   It was a weekend of sights and sounds and smells and food and high energy fun that is hard to duplicate in any other city in the country, or at least in the cities I've been to.  You never know, a weekend jaunt in Cleveland might just be an undiscovered romp, but my money is on the Big Apple as the premier destination for hedonistic pleasures.

We stayed in the trendy Hell's Kitchen neighborhood, which still astonishes me since when I first started traveling to New York it was smelly urban blight at its worst.  Boarded up tenements, syringe littered streets, discount hookers and countless possibilities of finding yourself on the business end of a Saturday night special were about all that could be discovered there.  Over time, the area gentrified as bulldozers scraped the ground, developers built posh apartments and hotels, and gays made everything look pretty.  Nowadays it is probably the hippest and liveliest slice of the Apple for shops and bars and restaurants and sidewalk cafes.  And the hookers now charge a premium.

A cute little Italian place on 9th Avenue at 44th Street has somehow survived since 1971.  Guido and his wife opened her eponymous Mamma Mia's there a year or so after immigrating to America from Naples, Italy.  I am sure it was a pretty scary location for the first 25 years or so, but they prevailed over the escalating drug traffic and street toughs with dirty fingernails, and once the area started migrating upscale, changed the name of the restaurant to 44SW in 1993.  (Not really sure this was an improvement.)  We had a couple of drinks, a salad, some spaghetti and meatballs, and a few other chianti-bottle-candle classics for something south of $65. Score! (We followed that up with a neighborhood bar that featured highballs for $2 until 10 PM and I was like "am I dreaming this?")

W HD DNNR HR

Another heavenly find in the hood was KTCHN on 42nd Street between 10th and 11th Avenues.  It had a really cool vibe and the food was simply prepared and quite tasty.  In particular, my tagliatelle pasta with fresh tomatoes, white wine, basil, pine seeds and grilled chicken seemed like something you could easily throw together at home but just don't seem to get around to it.  They also serve delicious "sexy fries" although I for one couldn't find anything particularly come hither about them.



The standout of the trip was Sunday brunch at the recently reopened Tavern on the Green. Thankfully, the new operators removed all the grandma's attic floral everything (it used to look like what I imagine to be from whence  Laura Ashley's nightmares originate) and pared the decor back to evoke a well-appointed gentleman's country estate.  (You'd never guess it was originally designed and built in 1870 to house the 200 sheep that grazed in Central Park's Sheep Meadow.) We had fabulous breakfast pastries from the world famous Balthazar, and I ordered the Lobster Chowder with Lobster Roe Butter but wished I'd chosen something else when it came.  The little tiny piece of lobster swimming in the salty broth sort of hurt my feelings, especially since it cost $24.  (That's about $12 per forkful, and that's only if  you take tiny, civilized bites.)  It was still a great experience and I would definitely return because it feels so celebratory and timeless in there.

The one disappointing meal the entire weekend was one I should have known to avoid in the first place.  It is said you really can't get a decent Mexican meal in any restaurant north of the Mason Dixon line, an adage even truer in New York City.  I mean for Pete's sake they think salsa is Heinz Ketchup with dehydrated minced onions stirred into it.  We went to a place called Anejo after a three-hour tour orbiting Manhattan on the famous Circle Line ship drinking Irish Coffees so perhaps our judgment was a wee bit impaired.  We had chicken nachos (pretty sure it was pigeon meat) slopped with some kind of drab gravy and draped with a slice of American Cheese (still inside its single portion plastic wrapping.) For once the four Texans amongst our group got to to feel all superior to the dazzling NYC cognoscenti but then we went outside and saw the Chrysler Building and Times Square and a couple of Rockettes and we were rubes again.

Friendsgiving/The Day I Ate My Weight in Carbs

This Bird Was Made For Stuffin'

I read an article recently that talked about a new phenomenon called "Friendsgiving" wherein groups of friends eschew the madding crowds of holiday travelers rushing to their home towns to watch hours of football and bicker over turkey and ridged, cylindrical cranberry sauce. Instead, they spend Thanksgiving with a few chosen ones and drink good wine as they prepare timeless, cherished recipes out of Bon Appetit or from the backside of the Butterball label.  Heck, this is not a new thing at all as we've been doing this for years since my entire family remains in the Great Frozen North and the closest thing I have to a knitted cap and fuzzy mittens are days I don't comb my hair and snap on latex surgical gloves before blowing them up into turkey balloons. I love my family to death but I express it better when my teeth aren't chattering.

Our dearest friend P usually hosts Thanksgiving dinner, and we return the favor on Christmas Day. This year she had a rather unfortunate confrontation with her garage floor (the floor won round one) and although perfectly mended after several months of rehab and hard work, still remained a little too delicate to have people over.  So we hosted it at our house, enlisting the help of J, who is our good friend as well as an astonishingly good cook.  This is a man who leaves no detail to chance when it comes to ingredients and preparation.  (When he makes gumbo he calls a cajun named Jimbeaux in Bossier City and has him overnight fresh gulf shrimp so he can boil them and use their shells to start his fish stock.  He mills his own flour for pie crust and milks the baby black and white goats he keeps in his condo's spare bedroom for feta cheese.  Don't even show him a packet of  Betty Crocker Instant Idaho Reds or he'll twist your arm behind your back until you finish choking the whole thing down dry.)

Use Your Noodles

I got up early on Thanksgiving to start the lengthy process of making home-made noodles, which are a holiday tradition in the mid west like tamales in Mexico without the meat filling, banana leaves and serapes. They are basically eggs and white flour stirred until you develop a severe case of carpal tunnel syndrome and rolled out and cut into OCD narrow strips with a long sharp knife.  Then they are left on newspapers all day to dry, before boiling them in sort of a turkey soup until they are tender and savory. (Never put them on colorful want ads or you risk dying your noodles red, which after stewing them in turkey stock with giblets for a few hours looks like someone has recently been disemboweled.)  A lot of people have never heard of noodles for Thanksgiving but once they try them fall deeply in love with their pure, turkey-flavored carbyness.  One guest long ago had never had them before and then ate nothing but noodles for dinner.  She asked for leftovers and I found out later she had them for both breakfast and lunch the next day.  I am quite certain this is a sure-fire recipe for strangers approaching you on the street and inquiring when the baby is due.

Brie Your Mind and the Rest Will Follow

For an appetizer, I made a fun and cholesterol killing baked brie in puffed pastry with tart raspberry jam and toasted pecans that everyone enjoyed immensely.  It's sort of my go to edible party trick.  There's a food snob in Milwaukee whom I used to like who sneers at this concoction as pedestrian and ridden with cheese cruelty but it was the only dish that had no leftovers.  So there, TW.

Meanwhile, our all-star chef was busy at the stove with all four gas burners going full blast.  He was making consomme with hand-made tortellini, a cauliflower and broccoli concoction that was molded into the shape of an inverted hub cap and presented on freshly baked bread crumbs which had been pulsed into submission by my trusty Kitchen-Aid blender.  (He still hasn't spoken to me in a civil tone since he discovered, to his abject horror, that I don't own a food processor.) He also had gravy going and three different kinds of stock plus the noodles and the turkey in the oven along with dinner rolls, potatoes dauphinoise and my green bean casserole (I had buried the empty tin cans out back by the workshop earlier in the day so he wouldn't know I hadn't grown the legumes in my own organic vegetable garden) so he was understandably in turbo chef mode and started barking out requests for arcane kitchen implements which he had to have in 4 seconds or less or else the entire meal would be totally ruined.

At first, it was kind of fun to be washing up dishes for the 43rd time that day and suddenly hear "David, I need a 4-inch strainer with an ivory, rune-inscribed handle" and I'd rush to my odd utensils drawer and toss it across the room to him, feeling triumphant and smug.  As he caught it he yelled "Parchment Paper!" which I giddily supplied. "Micro Planer!" Check. "Garlic Press!" Um, got it. "Virgin Twine!"  Okay, already.  By the time he screamed "Surgical Steel Pincers" I almost stabbed him with them.  I wondered if he was actually just punishing me since I'd so miserably failed the Cuisinart test, but quickly wiped it from my mind as an uncharitable thought unworthy of my loyalty and true friendship.  Sort of.

Finally, everything was done at the same time and extraordinarily delicious.  Of course the kitchen was a wreck and I was exhausted from the everlasting, supersonic scavenger hunt, but I suddenly knew the perfect thing to make for next Friendsgiving:

Reservations.

Even Cold Hostess Can't Defrost My Love For Pappas Bros. Steakhouse

We celebrated a birthday last weekend, and since we were already way outside the bubble of our urban comfort zone at a previous engagement, decided to venture to another, even more foreign section of the Dallas hinterlands for dinner in the highly praised Pappas Bros. Steakhouse.  There didn't seem to be much risk involved despite the distance from our regular haunts:  I've always thoroughly enjoyed the Pappas family's various incarnations of ethnic cuisine, from sublime Tex-Mex at Pappasito's to Cajun Seafood at Pappadeaux.  (I always thought they should have an Italian concept called Pappapasta and a Chinese place called Pappa-san, but they have ignored my suggestions for years despite their insane brilliance.  Ah well, their loss.)

Pappas Steakhouse is certainly impressive enough on arrival, with swarms of valet parkers maneuvering comers and goers with speed and efficient friendliness.  The building looks like a swanky men's club in Vegas where the dancers climb shiny poles in search of elusive twenty dollar bills.

I approached the reception desk which was being womanned by at least 4 people (this place is big and crazy busy!) and a ten foot tall, strikingly thin woman with platinum blonde hair dressed head to toe in black eyed me rather frostily.  It was 8:29.  I said my name and that we had a reservation at 8:30.  She checked the command center and without looking up suggested we go into the lounge until our table was ready.  This sort of impersonal brush off in a place where I am about to drop a boatload of simoleons does not sit well with me and I tend to correct misbehavior by those in the service industry by kindly pointing out the error of their ways so I said "I have partial hearing loss from going to too many rock concerts as a teenager so I am sure I misunderstood you...did you say 'I am so very sorry but we don't have your table ready yet even though you are incredibly punctual and impeccably dressed.  Please, allow me to rectify our failure to accommodate by comping you a glass of champagne in the lounge while you wait approximately 20 minutes?' "  She looked up in a steely fashion and said something like "shut up and go sit in the bar" but I am sure she used different words that were a tad less harsh.  So much for my prodigious skills for customer service and rudeness intervention training.

That incident, by the way, was the last and only hiccup in an otherwise perfect dining experience.

Our waitron unit, whose name was Erica, was all you ever wanted in a server.  Informative, efficient, unobtrusive, comical and pretty.  She noted that we already had cocktails from our earlier banishment to the lounge and said cheerfully "okay, we are off to a good start!  Are we celebrating anything special tonight other than it's Saturday?"  I told her it was D's birthday.  She went through the off-menu specials which included a clam chowder and a macaroni and cheese dish with blue point crab mixed in.  D said he was allergic to crab and she said they mixed it in last so she could separate it out and just put crab in mine.  We ordered the rest of our meal and (beneath our napkins) unbuttoned the top buttons of our jeans in preparation for the coming attractions.

Tomato Tomahto

Suddenly, an attractive woman holding a clipboard or something appeared at our table and introduced herself as the manager and stated "we take food allergies very seriously here."  She then looked at D and asked if he was allergic to just crab or any other shellfish.  He said just crab.  She told us the clam chowder was made with a fish stock that had crab in it, so he switched his appetizer to the tomato onion salad.  She said the onion rings were fried in the same oil as crab but he said he thought that would be fine.  She then asked me if I had a tree allergy because I looked like a nut. (Not really, I just put that in there to see if you were paying attention.)

Good call on that Tomato Onion Salad. Probably the reddest, plumpest, juiciest, most perfect beefsteak tomato I've ever had and it was crisscrossed with sliced raw onion and a generous dab of roquefort cheese on top.  It was like a wedge salad minus the iceberg.  If salads were in a beauty pageant that baby would have won swimsuit and congeniality.

Entrees came out soon after and D was mighty pleased with his steak and lobster special.  It took just one slice of my rather expensive bone-in, dry-aged, USDA Prime New York Strip to understand why this place is so darned packed.  That steak was umami on steroids.  My tongue kind of quivered under the first succulent sliver of exquisitely marbled, dark pink beef.  I literally salivated as I chewed it slowly, savoring the richness, texture, and aroma of the best steak money can buy, Reluctantly I swallowed it, only to be happily excited again as I sliced off another morsel.  I fell in love with that piece of meat instantly and so deeply that I started crooning John Legend songs to it until the people at the table next to us asked me to stop.  I wrote USDA Prime New York Strip in cursive with a Sharpie on the tablecloth  and dotted the i with a festive heart. When I had swallowed the final forkful o'goodness, I took off my wedding ring and placed it alongside the bone and took a picture of it, which I then uploaded to my Facebook page and made it my cover photo.

On a side note, the macaroni and cheese with blue point crab was rich and decadent.  I couldn't finish it all so I asked them to doggy bag it.  Erica-the-best-server-ever noted that and brought the dessert menu over our way but before we could protest that we were too full she said "I want you to pick out a dessert for me to box up for your birthday--you can have it tomorrow for breakfast!"

I wanted to drag her up to the hostess stand and tell the blonde wench behind it "this is why you make $10 an hour and she's walking out with several hundred bucks" but I didn't because I'm too kind hearted.

Surf and Turf

Pappas Bros. Steakhouse

Domenica

We traveled to New Orleans, one of our favorite cities in the world, for a Labor Day weekend full of Southern decadence.  I am not talking about sloshing down beer-puddled Bourbon Street to catch a scintillating spectacle of bored, over-the-hill strippers bump and grind their way through Hey Big Spender, or even standing beneath balconies imploring shy, retiring lasses to bare large parts of their anatomy for strands of cheap, colorful beads imported directly from China. What I am talking about is a four day food orgy which required iron resolve, a soupcon of gluttony, and several pairs of maternity pants I had prudently bought beforehand at Good Will.

Just Like I Remember It But Cleaner

Desire Oyster Bar, Clover Grill, Somethin' Else Cafe, Lucky Dog, and of course Emeril's fantastic NOLA were all hits but the Best In Show was John Besh's Domenica at the Roosevelt, a Waldorf Astoria Hotel formerly known as the Fairmont New Orleans.  Oddly, my first trip to New Orleans was when I was in college when my French class professor sponsored a busload of sophomores to go to Mardi Gras.  Although cloaked in a transparent charade of Francophilia, I believe his motives for transporting nineteen year olds who could legally drink non-stop for 24 hours in the French Quarter were dubious at best.  The Fairmont at that time was a total dump and with four to a room the trip was relatively inexpensive for me--a young guy who rolled dough and topped it with sauce and cheese in a franchised Pizza Inn 30 hours a week.  The lobby was impressive (it still is, and now that the cobwebs have been removed from the chandeliers they are almost blinding) but the room smelled so several parties ago we were forced to drink beer in the morning to overcome it and soldier on.

Mmmmmm, Beignets

Fast forward thirty years a few years and I am back at the Fairmont Roosevelt's Domenica, sitting at a wonderful table in the window overlooking Baronne Street.  There were four of us and we decided to start with the Affettati Misti, "a salumi and imported cheese platter with sweet and savory treats."  Moments later our waitron unit brought out this veritable plank that actually groaned under the weight of all the house cured meats, wedges of smelly cheese, a jar of duck liver pate, interesting condiments like pickled watermelon rind and raisins, and a huge basket of steaming, savory beignets that had just been snatched from the fryer.  The four of us dove into the platter like Tom Daley on steroids and didn't stop grabbing and moaning until the platter was clean.

When The Moon In The Sky...

Our efficient server whose name was either Melissa or Jane forced us into another round of drinks as we composed ourselves from the meat and cheese fest, quickly reconsidering the rest of our ordering options since the appetizer course had been so deliciously daunting. We decided to split a couple of pizzas and they were both perfect.  The Wild Mushroom pie featured tomatoes, fontina cheese, caramelized onions, bacon, and a fried egg while the Calabrese was riddled with spicy salumi, mozzarella, capers and olives.  That one was a repeater for the rest of the night for my three amigos.  I, of course, never burp.

We finished off sharing a panzanella salad and also a dish called Squid Ink Tagliolini which was black pasta with a generous smattering of blue crab, herbs and olive oil.  Eschewing dessert, we staggered across Canal Street, reeling under an enormous caloric intake and discussing where we would be meeting for breakfast the next morning.

Juicy Jucy Lucy

Silly Wabbit

In honor of my dog Lucy's birthday yesterday I thought I would riff on the Minneapolis/St. Paul phenomenon called the Juicy Lucy or (Jucy Lucy).  Several cities have a particular dish that is craved and cherished by local denizens (and occasionally despised by outsiders, such as Cincinnati's Skyline Chili, bleah) because they grew up on it and it tastes like home.  LA boasts about Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles, Memphis adores its Rendezvous BBQ, Kansas City hearts Winstead's burgers and Dallas likes shiny new things.  But the good people of the Twin Cities' love affair with the Juicy Lucy is one boiled rabbit shy of a Fatal Attraction.

Per Wikipedia A Jucy Lucy or Juicy Lucy is a cheeseburger that has the cheese inside the meat patty in addition to on top. A piece of cheese is surrounded by raw meat and cooked until it melts, resulting in a molten core of cheese within the patty. This scalding hot cheese tends to gush out at the first bite, so servers frequently warn patrons to let the burger cool for a few minutes before consumption to avoid injury.

Molten Cheese Food

Since I rarely pay attention to anything else when food is put in front of me my first encounter with a Juicy Lucy resulted in a blackened, blistered tongue and processed cheese lava flowing down my dress shirt and all over my necktie.  This was not a particularly good look for me.  Nonetheless, I understood and shared in the mania almost immediately.

Two bars on the same street in South Minneapolis both claim to have invented the sandwich: Matt's Bar and the 5-8 Club. They differ in how they spell it; Matt's spells it Jucy, while the 5-8 Club uses the standard spelling. Shirts worn by staff at the 5-8 Club have the motto "if it's spelled right, it's done right" while advertising for Matt's Bar says "Remember, if it is spelled correctly, you are eating a shameless rip-off!"

Mmmm, Cheese Curds

A lot of restaurants in Minneapolis have their own versions of the Juicy Lucy.  The 2014 "Best Of MN" feature in the Minneapolis Star Tribune awarded top honors to Fika inside the American Swedish Institute.  I had the pleasure of eating that one too, and appreciated that it was served open-face on a thick slab of rye/caraway bread.  Not surprisingly, I am much more presentable after lunching with a knife and fork.  Fika's JL had a wonderfully nutty Swiss cheese melted inside and it was topped with red arugula, grain mustard, and served with fried cheese curds and lingonberry ketchup.

Food Porn

I brought the idea back with me to Dallas and shared it with talented chef Ryan Nagby at Nicola's Ristorante Italiano. He created an Italian version of the Juicy Lucy, even going to the trouble of hand making processed mozzarella cheese out of real mozzarella cheese for its favorable melting point and because of his fanatic obsession with authenticity. It is only available at lunch or in the bar and it is not on the menu, so you have to say "Juicy Lucia" three times real fast and cross your fingers that Betelgeuse doesn't appear. I think I liked this version best of all but I wouldn't say that to any Minnesotans because I live prudently and try to avoid injuries.

I am surprised that the Juicy Lucy craze hasn't become more widespread, like how the disgusting dish called Poutines has ruined Canada, or the (thankfully departing) nationwide mania over bacon and pork belly. (I'm kinda over kale and quinoa, too.)  There are a few places here in Dallas where you can get one but it hasn't really trended yet.  It's a puzzlement.

PS Happy Birthday Lucy! (And to your twin brother, Buddy, too!)

Say What?

 

Destination Dining: Knife Modern Steak

Cutting Edge

You've got to hand it to Chef John Tesar.  He is always tinkering and improving and reconceptualizing food in creative, unexpected ways.  After regaining the fifth star for the dining room at the Mansion on Turtle Creek, he started the craft burger concept in Dallas, opened Spoon Bar and Kitchen to national acclaim, and now has opened Knife Modern Steak at the Hotel Palomar, thankfully ending Central 214's hotel-restaurant-trying-to-be-a-contender's mundane approach to unfocused dining.  It never worked and I am glad it's gone, especially since Knife is so sharp on so many levels.  One note:  this is not just another steak house. Nope, Chef Tesar has invented something more akin to a Palace O'Meat.

We paid our first visit to Knife last night, and instantly noticed the modern touches to the restaurant design that made it relevant and exciting, not the least of which was a huge display of dry-aging steaks in a cabinet near the perky hostess.  It was sort of like those call girls in Amsterdam who pose in windows casting come-hither looks at lustful passersby.  As I walked by the case I swear one of the steaks whispered something naughty to me.

Front Row Center

We were seated at the Chef's Counter, an area reserved I guess maybe for two tops, and lucky for us it was like sitting in the front row of a Broadway Play, because we were practically in the kitchen we were so close to the action.  Dining As Theater!  It was fun watching the chefs man and woman their different stations.  One blonde in particular was fascinating to watch because she moved with such precision and self-assuredness.  All the chefs had little earphones and the expediter was whispering commands from the end of the line like a CIA operative.  (Hmmm...Culinary Institute of America is referred to as CIA too. I wonder if alongside knife skills and molecular gastronomy they practice at the shooting range and engage in Spy vs Spy games.)  It's a high wire act to allow guests this close to the kitchen since you can't always anticipate absent-minded nose-picking and the five second rule allowing food dropped on the floor to be wiped off and served is strictly verboten.  But the chefs were all scrupulous and disciplined and absolutely wordless as they went about their work producing food for this hustling, energetic restaurant.

Garden of Eatin'

I know Chef John from previous business shenanigans, and he thoughtfully sent out a platter of crudites artfully strewn over ice.  Tiny radishes, endive, baby carrots, and lithe stalks of celery were presented with some house-made Green Goddess dressing. (I've always thought of crudites as something a suburban housewife would offer guests in her split level home along with a glass of chilled chablis in the 70's, but this was an elegant, sophisticated and delicious update that proved once again that I don't know everything.)

I ordered a watermelon and heirloom tomato salad (refreshing and cold, with a lagniappe of house-made beef jerky) and Don had the French Onion Soup with about 17 pounds of melty, gooey cheese burnished on top. Yum!  Our waiter brought over a towering stack of possibly the best onion rings I've ever had, and John sent over some cream of spinach that was delightfully light and not overly loaded with garlic and cholesterol.

Tower of Power

The menu is divided into unusual sections:  Raw, Soups and Salads, New School (a selection of less expensive, less familiar beef cuts such as Culotte, Chuck Flap, and Tri Tip), Slabs, Slices (including a five piece bacon flight--quite original!) Old School (Rib Eyes, Lamb Chops, Roast Chicken, Pork Chop) Sides, Pasta, and John's famous Burgers, including the Magic, which is brilliantly served on an English Muffin so the juices can race to and cuddle up in all the little nooks and crannies.  I had one of his Magic Burgers at Cedars Social as well as his late, lamented Commissary, and I still have the napkins I used to wipe my face and hands under the seat of my car as a sort of masculine, meaty sachet.)

We both had the Tri Tip--my favorite cut of beef because although it is lean it is so very flavorful, and when it is cooked right, as it was perfectly done at Knife, it is tender as well.  (In the hands of a lesser chef it can be chewy and stringy but still delicious.)  We were so stuffed we couldn't finish the steaks, which were modestly priced at $25, and the waiter put the remaining hunks of meat in a little brown box inside a giant white, logoed take home bag.  He also brought us a gift wrapped Madeleine since we hadn't had the stomach or inclination for dessert.

Even with a couple of drinks the damage was south of $100, an astonishing deal for food this good. Knife is cutting edge cuisine no matter how you slice it.  Do yourself a favor and get there--you'll get the point.

Fourth of July Brisket Bash

Why I thought it was a great idea to invite several friends over for brisket on the Fourth of July I'll never know.  I guess I was envisioning a carefree afternoon of idle chit chat, lolling in the sun-dappled pool, perhaps a rousing round of Cards Against Humanity, and then leisurely nibbling on perfectly smoked morsels of the Official State Meat of Texas with a cold brewski or two.  A fun day of friendship, breaking bread, and patriotism on a spectacularly pleasant day.

This is a perfect example of what the word "delusional" means.

I set the radio alarm for 6 o'clock am Thursday night, determining that I'd need to get the 11 pound slab on the pre-heated grill by 7 in order to cook it low and slow for 11 hours.  When I jumped out of bed Friday to the raucous thumpa-thumpa of some alien electronica, my first thought was "self, why did you plan an event requiring rising before dark on day one of a three-day weekend?"  My second thought was "well, because you're an idiot."  I looked in the mirror as I brushed my teeth and an ancient troll with red-rimmed eyes glared back at me.

I had stored the meat out in the garage refrigerator where we keep extra ice, drink mixers, and an unopened 1.75 liter bottle of bourbon-laced eggnog purchased in 2004.  (It is not really an adult beverage anymore; it's more of a science experiment.) Either the dang thing was really heavy or I was physically sapped by utter lack of sleep because I had to use a wheelbarrow to haul the beast up to the patio.  It took me thirty minutes to get it properly rubbed with herbs and spices because I had to hold it in both arms like a squirmy baby while I patted its bum with brown sugar and garlic.  It fell down in the yard a couple of times but I just brushed off the dirt and figured the grass blades would look like parsley.  I finally dumped it on the grill and mopped it with marinade--a task I would do every half hour for my foreseeable future--and slammed the lid shut.

Warning:  May Cause Death

In between meat mopping sessions and fine-tuning the temperature in the grill, I flew around the kitchen prepping all kinds of dishes that had looked easy on paper but seemed complicated and exhausting on what should have been a danged vacation day.  (FYI Paula Deen's recipe for Mini Macaroni and Cheese Pies calls for 14 sticks of butter per serving.  I might be exaggerating a tad, but before tasting it I sort of poked it with a stick to make sure it didn't just rear up and kill me.)  I arranged crackers, cheeses and cured meats in exact parallel lines on a square white platter for reasons known only to those who share my tiny smidgen of OCDness.  I baked a Duncan Hines yellow cake from scratch and spread thawed Cool Whip white frosting on it, then used blueberries and raspberries to create a festive American flag.  (Not really sure you are supposed to eat the most hallowed symbol of our nation's freedom from British tyranny--they didn't really cover that subject in Boy Scouts.)  I dumped a package of Wholly Guacamole some guacamole I had made myself in a matching white bowl and festooned a party tray with tortilla chips and Newman's Own home-made Black Bean and Roasted Corn Salsa.  My world-famous baked beans topped with sliced onions were tossed in a casserole dish.  I covered everything with 25 yards of the most unsportsmanlike Saran Wrap I had ever encountered.

It's A Grand Ole' Flag

Guests started arriving about the time I was cranky for a nap.  I sort of snarled them inside, gesturing vaguely towards the red Solo cups I use on formal occasions alongside mismatched paper cocktail napkins and a tub full of iced-down beer.  After devouring the OCD tray, chips, and salsa, they scampered outside and immediately jumped in the pool because it was 114 degrees and extremely humid.  I continued to baste and prep, arrange dishware and forks, do up some dishes and otherwise act like a surly, unpaid manservant for these so-called friends who had the nerve to show up to our party on time.

Thankfully around 5 o'clock I had a minute or two to spare and joined our guests outside. Just then the sky turned black and a crack of lightning split it in two, accompanied by a thunderous roar of thunder so loud it made both my dogs poop.  Sheets of rain descended in torrents, plunging the temperature down 25 degrees. Everyone checked their iPhones and showed me a tiny blip on the radar indicating it was storming only at our house.

An hour passed whilst we huddled beneath the gazebo watching the streaks of light rip across the almost night black sky and marveling that the loud thunder hadn't broken anyone's eardrums yet.  Finally, the storm subsided and I scurried over to the stone-cold grill to find the internal temperature of the brisket had returned to an almost raw zone.  Several hours later I had to backhand a few people who were whining about when dinner would be ready, reminding them non-verbally that Mother Nature can alter the plans of even the most accomplished cook.  As the stars came out we finally sat down to enjoy the perfectly cooked brisket slathered in KC Masterpiece Barbeque Sauce, polished off the macaroni pies (no one died) dove into the baked beans and a thoughtful friend's delicious pasta salad.  In a very considerate way I thrust pieces of flag cake on paper plates at them as I shooed them out the door.

It was time for a little Independence Day of my own.

Our Friends  Know I'm Kidding--Twas A Great Day

Destination Dining: Michael's Genuine Food & Drink, Miami

The Yolk's On You

One of the perks of my job is that I get to travel all over the country dining and drinking in great restaurants--all in the name of research.  We are always looking for new concepts, potential chef partners, menu items we can steal that inspire us, etc.  I know I am lucky I get paid to indulge in my passion for food, but it does present a challenge maintaining this chiseled, slim physique. My secrets are small portions, no dessert, lots of exercise, and on occasion, a wee bit of purging. Easy Peasy!  I have a wonderful comrade named Joe who sometimes says "it does not suck being David Wood."  In all matters culinary, love, friendship and the two best dogs in the universe, I am in total and grateful agreement.

Suction Cups

This week was a long one away from home, with three days in Orlando and two in Miami.  Worse, I woke up with a rotten cold on Thursday, the day we traveled to Miami, and had to walk around with toilet paper purloined from public toilets in my pockets all day to staunch the tide.  So it is a testament to how truly fine Michael's Genuine Food & Drink is since it was one of the most memorable and enjoyable meals I can remember even though I was very sick and really tired.

We drank a couple of doses of medicine at the bar before dinner and I felt almost human.  We were seated at a small two top next to an equally small two top.  Approximately one inch of space separated the tables, but as in NYC, that inch apart creates a Berlin wall of isolation for each dining couple (as long as voices are kept in moderate, dulcet tones and you never, ever make eye contact.)  Our cheerful waiter welcomed us with a wide smile and asked if we knew what we wanted as he tap watered us.

Peaches On Pizza--
Who'da Thunk?

We had been studying the menu at the bar so we knew we were going to try a bunch of items.  The menu is divided into sections called Small, Medium, Large, and Extra Large, and we had figured out that meant the plates, not the body size of the intended recipient.  (That medicine in the bar had obviously made us absolutely brilliant.)

We started off with a couple of Puffer's Wellfleet Oysters with classic mignonette, plump and briny, and a terrific item called Wood Roasted Double Yolk Farm Egg with cave aged gruyere, roasted tomatoes, chives and a sourdough crostini.  It came in a ramekin, and it was sort of like a cheesy omelet spread.  The gruyere had melted over the top of the vessel in the oven like you sometimes get with the best French onion soup.  We spread it on the crostini and sank our teeth into its gooey goodness.  I felt like taking two Crestor tablets and just eating the rest with a spoon.

Beet Me Up, Scottie

Loved the Beet and Quinoa Salad with grapefruit, mint, pistachio, heart of palm and zesty orange dressing.  (Quinoa is top trending at the moment, surmounted only by kale. Thankfully, the everything bacon and pork belly fad is quickly fading.)

Then a perfectly Chargrilled Octopus atop a salad of gigande beans, roasted peppers, tomato harissa, green olives, and torn herbs slithered out of the kitchen and suctioned onto our faces, like that scene in Alien. Yum.

Steamed Mussels were also perfect, if perhaps the least imaginative item we ordered. We finished up with a Salumi Pizza--what a great idea!  House-cured meats on Fontina with roasted peaches, red onions and arugula on a wood-fired blackened and blistered cracker thin pizza crust.  O sole mio!  I was too full to eat more than two wedges so I scraped the toppings off the crust and crammed them into my mouth with my fingers.  (Not really, but I wanted to.)

My grammarly sister saw my check-in on Facebook and scoffed that I was eating "real" food.  In this case "Genuine" food means authentic, free from pretense, affectation, or hypocrisy; sincere.  Those awful Kardashians are real but certainly not genuine.  If you find yourself in Miami, hie thee to Michael's, it's the real deal.

Destination Dining: Villa-O

I don't usually write about restaurants we operate since I don't want to compromise my enviable status as an amateur, unpaid, wannabe food blogger by expressing opinions that could be viewed as slightly less than impartial.  Although I pride myself on integrity and truthfulness, I also need to get paid at my real job so reviewing our own concepts could find me tiptoeing up a slippery slope of stifled snark--or worse, scribing an overly enthusiastic paean to the glorious creations whipped up by the dazzlingly talented Bronwen Weber at Frosted Art Bakery & Studio. (See?  I just Freudian slipped that one in out of sheer force of habit.  I love Bronwen, and if you haven't seen her work go to Facebook right now and like her page, then prepare yourself for amazing displays of pure-D genius.)

This week we had a group of managers travel to Dallas for a training class, and on Tuesday night we made a caravan down crowded McKinney Avenue, with its hip boutiques and millennial bars to the slightly more laid back Knox Henderson area of town and arrived at our newest acquisition in the Dallas dining scene, Villa-O.

I was not a fan of Villa-O when it opened several years ago.  We tried it a couple of times, and while it wasn't bad, it was just meh and we let it wander off our radar like a an old high school acquaintance we never had much in common with (and with whom I am still not confirming as a Facebook friend all these years later.)  But the company I work for bought the place late last year and we've tinkered with recipes and presentations and now there's only one word to describe the food there:  wowza.



You Can Tune A Piano But You Can't Tuna Fish

Able-bodied assistant manager Mark and his trusty sidekick Heather took great care of us.  They brought out several Fred Flintstone-sized heaping platters of appetizers for us all to share which included crispy portobello mushroom fries, spicy calamari, some aromatic wood-oven baked focaccia and ice cold tuna crudo with avocado that was as good as any I've ever had.  (I snuck a hunk off the platter and stuck it in my pocket for later.  That's probably a better ploy for tater tots than sushi-grade raw tuna.)

After we ordered entrees, I looked around the handsome

Mmmm, Chicken Lasagnette

room and noticed a plethora of UDYPs (Uptown Dallas Young Professionals.)  They all have the same overall appearance regardless of gender: blemish-free, sun-burnished skin, tousled hair, 6-days-a-week-at-the-gym bodies, designer labels, and really, really  smart phones.  Phones so smart they were texting each other without instructions from their owners, who were too busy gesturing "hashtag" before saying something to notice.

My entree was so good it made me want to develop an eating disorder.  It was Fennel Crusted Sea Scallops with Wild Arugula and Sweet Basil Vinaigrette, and I wanted to binge on it and then purge forever in an endless cycle of fulfillment and regret.  Another standout was the Chicken and Artichoke Lasagnette with Italian Cheeses, Pesto and Bechamel Tomato Sauce.  Decadently rich but you could sort of pretend you were eating healthily since there was chicken and vegetables in it (admittedly smothered in high fat dairy products.)  The only other dish I sampled was Beef Short Rib braised in Red Wine & Vegetables with White Polenta, Portobello and Porcini Mushrooms.  Mamma Mia!  Somebody kiss the chef for me pronto!

I skipped dessert but my tablemates shared a ridonculous platter that included a layered chocolate cake (so tall it had earned an honorary membership in the mile high club), an almond cheesecake and a tiramisu.  From the decibels of the audible moans around me, I finally understood why the restaurant was named Villa Big-O.

Destination Dining: Casa Rubia

Casa Rubia

There are so many great restaurants in Dallas nowadays that it is hard to keep track of them all.  We so often are out for trying a new place that we rarely revisit one even if we really liked it.  Last night was an exception as we headed back for the third time in as many months to Casa Rubia in Trinity Groves. O Temple of Spanish Tapas, thou hast ensnared me with your exotic charms.  I think you just knocked out FT33 as my favorite eatery in Big D.  At least for now.  My middle name is Fickle.

St. Jonn The Bearded

Speaking of charms, the gent who runs and owns the joint (along with the chef) is soft-spoken Jonn Baudoin who is the consummate host.  His manner is all welcoming and sincerity served with a side of devilish grin. He always makes us feel important (I think he does that to everyone) but nevertheless I sucked up the attention and literally model-walked to our special corner table which affords those lucky enough to snag it a commanding view of the beautifully appointed room with its kaleidoscopic Sagrada Familia Cathedral imagery as well as all the ballon-smuggling gals with their spiky haired, shirt-guy dates dining and drinking within.

Now That's A Lot Of Meat

Our server was once again Sean (I think Jonn assigns him to us) who reminds me of Jason Stackhouse from True Blood (but not as dumb.)  He knows the menu up, down and sideways and nimbly dances you through it--which is mucho appreciated since half of it is in Spanish and most of the ingredients are foreign sounding, like Mojama and Fideo, which sounds like a duo of steel drum musicians.  He is always somehow around when you need him without seeming to hover, an unusual talent I remember Mr. French also had on the 1960's sitcom Family Affair.

Go big or go home seemed to be our rallying cry this night, as we ordered this thing called "Tasting Embutido Plate", a true misnomer since it came out on a hunk of sawed off tree trunk. It had Jambon Iberico (hammish) and Jambon Serrano (sort of like prosciutto) and spicy sausage discs called Chorizo Picante and Mousse de Higado con Macetilla Vinaigre (tasted like chicken liver mousse to me) as well as about another three pounds of all kinds of cured meats, some great bread, and a jar of pickles.  We ate everything but the Lardo, which reminds me of uncooked bacon white meat, which I believe it is first cousins with.

Veggies and Fishberry Jam

Next came the rest of our dishes in rapid order.  I hogged all the special white asparagus which was swimming in an aromatic broth, but I was more generous in sharing the rest.  A big stand out was Almejas con Cava, which Jason, I mean Sean, heartily recommended.  It was Littleneck Clams with Pickled Fresno Chile, Mint, Rapini and Mortilla Blanca Albondigas.  Yep, clams and meatballs together in one bowl, a modern take on surf and turf with a Spanish accent.  Also the Mejillones en Escabeche, which were Cape Cod Mussels, Sour Orange, Sherry, and Smoked Trout Roe. The plate was so pretty I apologized to no one before dismantling it in three gulps. We finished up with a dish we've come to love like a brother:  Alcachofas.  This is Crispy Artichokes with Meyer Lemon, Fresno Chile, Mojama (whatever that is) and Saffron Aioli.


D had some sort of dessert which was like a rich chocolate cake puddling in some sweet cream with berries.  I just had, ahem, another glass of water.  (Yeah, right.)  I woke up with a full belly and a head full of pleasant memories of a great evening spent in beautiful surroundings with wonderfully balanced dishes, excellent service and exquisite company.  It's a good thing to be me.

Destination Dining: Bayona

We got back from Mardi Gras last Wednesday and suffered from food hangovers for several days after.  Many people travel to New Orleans for Carnival  to get drunk on hurricanes and wade through knee-high trash on Bourbon Street. Others display creative ways to collect beads, which are quite enthusiastically thrown if one keeps abreast of the parade schedule. We go to some of America's best restaurants and stuff ourselves until it hurts to breathe.

ACME Oysters, NOLA, Sbisa, Root, Napoleon House, Clover Grill and Channing Tatum's Saints and Sinners were some of the excellent stops we made (well, not so much Saints and Sinners, that was an okay burger in a restaurant that turns into a strip club at 10 PM.  There's a pole right in the middle of the room which features red leather wallpaper, very bordello-esque.) But the true standout was Bayona, the French Quarter resto made famous by Chef Susan Spicer that has been fighting off crowds for 24 years. Chef Spicer won the James Beard, as well as just about every other award for her flawless cooking in a 200-year-old cottage on a quieter street in the quarter. (Yes, there really is one quiet street in New Orleans.)


A delightful hostess showed us to our table in the cozy cottage, and the handwritten note of welcome on the place mat was Southern gentility at its fahn-est. It was Lundi Gras (Fat Monday) and the place was totally jammed at 8:30.  We were watered, brioched and buttered efficiently while our server fetched cocktails. We shared a starter--A Goat Cheese Crouton with Mushrooms in Madeira Cream. "It wasn't even slightly rich," he said with heavy irony.  I looked around beneath lowered, sneaky eyebrows and licked the plate clean while no one was watching.

Next up for me was the Bayona Salad with Balsamic Vinaigrette and Parmigiano-Reggiano Cheese with Great Hill Blue.  It was stunning in its simplicity and tasted clean and back yard gardenish. D had the Cream of Garlic Soup, which was decadent and delicious, but one taste made me totally unkissable for at least three days.  It was still worth it.

My entree of Peppered Lamb Loin with Goat Cheese and Zinfandel Sauce made me wish I had a compartmentalized stomach like a cow so I could have shoved some food around inside my abdomen and then eaten another helping.  As it was, the top button on my jeans was very much a loaded projectile just looking for a target to put somebody's eye out.

We had intended to stagger stroll about the quarter after dinner to imbibe in some additional Mardi Gras merriment but we ended up zombie walking to our hotel and passing out on the bed in a delirious, calorie induced stupor.







  

Destination Dining: Salum

Chef Abraham Salum is one of my favorite chefs in the city of Dallas.  After gaining quite a bit of attention while cooking at the long-time Oak Lawn standby Parigi (which, btw, is how they pronounce Paris in Italian) he opened his namesake restaurant Salum eight or so years ago in a nondescript strip mall near a couple of strip clubs.(My favorite newspaper headline of all time is "Headless Body Found In Topless Bar".)  It seemed like an odd, sort of risky place to operate an upscale dining experience intended for mature audiences but it does very well. A couple of years back Chef Abraham opened Komali, his take on modern Mexican cuisine, right next door so the neighborhood must not be that sketchy.  Or maybe all that stripping makes a body hungry.  And they'd always have tip money for the valet.  Hmmm, an unusually thoughtful business plan...

It's Not Really This Dark 

We recently revisited Salum and I must say it was even better than I had remembered.  Super busy but not frantic on a Saturday night, we willingly agreed to sit at the bar until our table was ready.  This doesn't bother me when you have a reservation and you don't have to wait longer than ten minutes. When it edges past fifteen I get all tense and tight-lipped and if it's approaching thirty I'm approaching the manager.  Happily, our wait was no longer than say half a martini until we were shown through the minimalist, soothing room to a great table right in front of the display kitchen.  It was fun watching the cooks in their perfectly synchronized swimming routine minus the water and nose plugs. They leaped and bent and twirled and swirled, keeping the kitchen cleaner than mine will ever be as they worked as a team to get the food out.

Even Garlic Is Bigger In Texas

We were watered and breaded and buttered by an attentive, quiet-as-a-mouse bus person and greeted by our cheerful waitron unit who possessed that "I know your kind" style of mockery that makes you feel special and like an insider.  She steered us to the Texas Goat Cheese and Roasted Elephant Garlic appetizer which came with toasted slices of French bread and tasted like seven seconds in heaven. D had the soup of the day -- I can't remember what it was but the bowl it came in was licked clean.

So far, so good.  Great ambiance, fun server, a packed house full of well-groomed people enjoying their food, not a single blasted TV.  It was just like being in a room full of grown ups and I didn't have to stab anyone for being obnoxious.  But then it happened.  Our entrees came out and the most salacious example of food porn I'd ever laid eyes on was seductively slid onto the table in front of me. In shock I loudly gasped, and my heart started to race as I drank in its luscious, wanton aroma.  This Dijon and truffle-dusted rack of lamb cuddling with mushroom bread pudding while being lovingly kissed by lamb demi-glace was nothing short of sex on a plate.

Mary Had A Little Lamb.  I Ate It.

I admit it, I fell instantly in love. Without thinking, I slowly got on one knee and asked the lamb chops to marry me.  Since I hadn't known to bring a ring I wrapped the circular piece of paper that had been surrounding my rolled napkin and slid it onto the long, thin, expertly Frenched bone of the daintiest chop.  No response.  In a voice husky with desire I proposed again.  Nada.  Zip. Bupkiss. Crestfallen, there was nothing I could do but grab that chop and cram the entire thing into my mouth.  It was medium rare with a rosiness akin to the cheeks of a two year old frolicking outside on a crisp November afternoon. Succulent, tender, juicy and flavorful, the meat was perfectly complemented by the moist, savory bread pudding which I used as a bullet train conduit for the powerfully rich demi.  I tried to slow down and enjoy the experience but I finished the entire plate faster than an overwrought teenager on prom night.

Our server happened by and seemed a little astonished that my plate was entirely empty while D was just starting on an artichoke and ricotta ravioli with grilled shrimp. She didn't buy my story that the back waiter had just put an empty plate down in front of me, no doubt in part because I had sticky streaks of deep red demi sauce smeared around my mouth and down the front of my shirt. Sheesh, some people can be so skeptical.

Despite the unrequited love, that plate's going down as one my of my top five ever.

RGB = Resto Gastro Bistro

Shared Patios at Trinity Groves Overlooking Big D

The Trinity Groves development across the new Calatrava bridge in the former slum off Singleton Boulevard in Dallas is urban redevelopment with the noblest of intentions. Although at heart I am a preservationist, scraping off the detritus of a century of blighted landscape and replacing it with a warehouse enclave re-purposed as a restaurant incubator district is a pretty cool idea.  Phil Romano, the restaurant concept genius behind Macaroni Grill, Fuddruckers, Eatzi's and  numerous other brands where you've spent money for most of your life, is the brains behind this unique endeavor--give up-and-coming restaurateurs a location and seed money to develop their concepts, and then share in their success if they are a hit. Their are nine and counting new restaurants in this newly created dining destination, with another ten or so in the works. It's fun and funky and creative and progressive.  I love it.

Last Saturday we ventured across the bridge and stopped in to say hi to Jonn Baudoin, owner of Driftwood in Bishop Arts, and now Casa Rubia In Trinity Groves.  He's a former colleague who has done well for himself by opening two four-star restaurants in as many years.  I couldn't get reservations at his Spanish tapas temple before 10:00, so we went for a preprandial drink.  The place was swarming with happy hipsters, loving couples and large gatherings of friends and families.  I mentioned to him that we would have eaten there if I could have made an earlier reservation and he gave me his business card and said he'd get me in next time.  I felt like I had just scored a Willy Wonka golden ticket and I have every intention of taking him up on his kind offer.

Yay Organ Meat

Next we ambled down to Resto Gastro Bistro, which, although awkward sounding, turned out to be really delicious.  It was a little less boisterous than Casa Rubia, discounting the two shrilly chattering magpies seated next to us who received a fair amount of stink-eye from us which they either ignored or were oblivious to.  I finally asked them, very politely, to kindly shut up and they shrieked "no" and continued blathering about Kim Kardashian and their best friends' bad habits and how they were both like totally stuffed after sharing one tiny appetizer, which was a lettuce wrap. It was such endless drivel at an astonishing speed and high volume that I eventually had to stab them.  The world is now a much quieter place.  The restaurant manager thanked me and several customers high-fived me and offered me money, which I humbly refused as doing my civic duty is a responsibility I embrace with gusto.

Pretty Bar Balls

We started with an ambitious charcuterie platter that boasted assorted cured meats, cheeses and fruit on a big Steak and Ale type cutting board. (Remember that?)  It looked somewhat daunting at first but we managed to polish it all off except for a tiny dollop of whole grain mustard.  Next came the entrees:  mine was a spectacular stack of seared Ahi Tuna and red and yellow tomatoes with a pineapple hoisin sauce. Yum.  The sushi grade ahi was blood red in the middle and charred black on the outside, precisely how I like it. D's plate was called Twisted Chicken Piccata, which I guess was because they had wrapped it around a skewer to make a poultry curlicue, and it came with grilled corn, bacon, fava beans Clarice, tomato confit scallions and some foreign looking mushrooms. His plate was so clean at the end they didn't even have to wash it before plating it up for the next guest.  But I'm sure they did.

There are so many dining options in Trinity Groves and I can't wait to go back to try the new permanent pop up restaurant Kitchen LTO (Limited Time Offer) which changes chefs, menu, concept and decor every four months. Sort of seems like a high wire act since most restaurants start really finding their groove about three or four months in.  There's is also a fish place called Amberjacks, a Moroccan bistro named SOUK, a modern Chinese cafe, a barbecue joint and a hot dog emporium.  Plus a craft beer place called LUCK and some other places I forgot, and many more to come.  Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Trinity Groves has ascended from a pile of rubbish and syringes and become the newest shiny strand of pearls in the Dallas dining scene's bold new firmament.

Destination Dining: Nora

Afghanistan Is The Plan

Last night we treaded into uncharted waters and decided to try Nora on Lower Greenville in Dallas.  We'd noticed this sexy, pretty place when it opened a few months ago nestled amongst the everchanging watering holes frequented by SMU students, mustachioed hipsters, and tattooed street kids expressing their individuality by sporting identical arcane Chinese symbols and inspirational phrases written in Latin. It has a sleekness and regal curb appeal more in keeping with shinier parts of Dallas than a raggedy strand of bars and clubs.  It also stands out by serving authentic Afghan fare, which is as rare as seeing someone driving without a cell phone stuck to their head in this vast western landscape of upscale steak houses and taco chains.

I guess it's authentic Afghan cuisine, anyway.  I know my way around Tex Mex, Thai, Greek, Japanese, and even Canadian (ugh, poutines), but the menu put in front of me by the welcoming hostess could have been written in ancient runes for as well as I could read or understand it.  We were seated in the back half of the busy bar, as the restaurant side had a private party that sounded fun, if a bit shrill, and rewarded with crafted cocktails.  Mine was a Cardamom Spice Martini, which was created from cardamom infused vodka shaken with a touch of rosewater.  It tasted like unsweetened liquid cinnamon, weirdly delightful.

Sampler For Two

Our server, who was named either Jim or Theodore, happily navigated us through the menu, thoughtfully guiding us through the offerings which at first glance seemed to contain nothing but random vowels and consonants. At his suggestion we ended up with a sampler of appetizers:  Bulanee, which was a potato filled fried pastry sprinkled with cilantro and served with mint sauce; Kadu, while sounding terrible ended up being my favorite, was cooked pumpkin with garlic yogurt and meat sauce.  I know, right?  Also Sambosa Goshti, lightly fried pastry with ground beef and chick peas, and Aushak, steamed leek dumplings with minted yogurt.  The platter came very quickly after we ordered it, making me think it had been sitting under a heat lamp awaiting the private party, and indeed, all the food was a little bit cold but still incredibly tasty. I'd definitely order it again.

Mmmmmeatballs

D had the Kofta Chalao as an entree:  Lamb meatballs simmered in fresh spices, garlic, onion and dried plum served alongside some steamed rice.  Audible moaning was evident throughout mastication. Less adventurously, I had the grilled Ribeye Kabob, perfectly cooked medium rare and served with grilled vegetables and saffron rice.  I really wanted to order the Bastani for dessert:  Cardamom and rosewater ice cream topped with crushed pistachios, but I talked myself out of it since it sounded a lot like my martini plus milk and minus the vodka.

Total Afghanistan adventure was just under an hour and well under a hundred bucks, my kind of trip.  I forgot to say the chef/owner delivered our entrees and apologized for them coming out so late even though we hadn't really noticed a long lag time due to the pleasant ambiance and delicious appetizers.  It was a fun, unexpected outing and we will definitely return.  Or as they say in Punjabi, ਸਾਨੂੰ ਵਾਪਸ ਹੋ ਜਾਵੇਗਾ, which might be really wrong since I couldn't find Afghanistan's language of Pashto on Google Translate.