Don't Try This At Home

Ugly Is As Ugly Does

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

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

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

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

Meatloaf Baby in Bacon Diaper

RIP 27

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Little Something Extra

Ay yi yi yi

This past weekend we went with some friends to Fair Park to attend something called "Flea Style"--part flea market, part art fair, part individual designers of jewelry and tie-dyed infinity scarves. It was kind of ragtag and funky, with lots of people expressing their individuality through intricate skin art and tousled man buns.

One older guy in a curly ponytail dabbled in interesting Steam Punk sculptures--assemblies of coils and hardware and typewriter keys that had old fashioned light bulbs that were electrified and on dimmers.  My favorite piece was an antique meat grinder with a rubber baby doll's hand sticking out of it.  There was a handwritten sign on it that said "120  0 days since last workplace accident."

There was an odd collection of food trucks outside.  I am not sure I have seen Sliders, Belgian Waffles and Sushi being sold alongside Popcorn and Dippin' Dots before.  The lines were long and we were feeling peckish after buying a little palm tree and some hand-made soap, so we headed out to the car and drove a short hop to Deep Ellum for authentic Mexican food at Pepe's and Mito's.

It was crowded for a late Saturday afternoon, but we snagged a choice table on the patio to enjoy the freshening breeze and acrid smell of hot grease.  We ordered some adult beverages (after the first salty sip my margarita tasted like another) and scanned the menu. (I've always contended that Mexican cuisine consists of just 9 ingredients: chicken, beef, pork, cheese, salsa, pico, guacamole, rice and beans.  If they are flat they are tostadas, quesadillas or chalupas, if they are folded they are tacos, if they are baked and sauced they are enchiladas, and if served on a sizzling skillet they are fajitas.)  A couple of us opted for fajitas, one for a quesadilla, one for tacos.  Same food, different shapes.

Sooooo, a few bites in and my very good friend Matt plucks what seems to be a chest hair from a British chap in his early sixties from his little bowl of salsa. We weren't totally repulsed as it was rather small and gray and straight and had a charming accent, but still.  We motioned over our server who was about 25% fluent in English, which was no problemo because another good friend Joe is 100% bilingual.  They had one of those rapid fire conversations in Spanish, during which el server smiled broadly and shook his head good naturedly, the universal sign for "no, that is not a hair from a British man's chest, that is a tiny little piece of dried cilantro, or possibly a fiber off the end of a hastily peeled onion."

We asked Joe to translate his response which was just about word for word what I wrote above.  So I smiled at the man, and said "so you are sure that is not a hair?" and he confidently smiled and replied "oh no, Senor".  So I pointed to it and said "then you eat it" to which he smilingly replied "oh no, Senor" and departed rather quickly.  We left the hair/cilantro/onion detritus in situ on the table and ate the rest of our lunch, avoiding the one salsa bowl that had possibly been follically contaminated.

And it was delicious, if just a hair too spicy.

Not Really Such A Bright Idea

I think Matt McAllister just might be the most talented and inventive chef in Dallas.  Dinners at his signature FT33 have perpetually been among my most memorable and delicious dining adventures.  So I was psyched when I heard he was opening a second restaurant in Big D with lower price points and less fussy use of tweezers to make his plates so fetchingly beautiful.  I am a planner, so I booked his newest hotspot, Filament in Deep Ellum, on Valentine's weekend, 8:30 Saturday night weeks in advance. Coincidentally, the Friday edition of the Guide in the Dallas Morning News contained a 4 star review of Filament  by the always controversial dining critic Leslie Brenner. "Yes!" I exclaimed to myself, as if I had just scored the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl.  (Of course I hadn't--that would have been Tony Romo.  Not.)  So I was giddy with anticipation as we navigated the complex pay-in-advance self-parking ritual at the surface lot beside the restaurant--thank you, Homeless Man, for your expert guidance on which buttons to punch and your cheerful reminder to display our receipt on the dashboard.  (I hope that money I gave you went towards groceries.)

We rounded the corner and saw that a renaissance of Deep Ellum is indeed underway.  Groups of club kids were emerging from the shadows with lots of make-up and spiky hair and heading into a place across the street called Brain Dead, while couples on dates strolled arm in arm, window shopping rotary dial phones, tattoo designs, and ornate samurai swords. We entered the restaurant and noticed how REALLY LOUD the music was, as well as the buzzy and exciting industrial chic ambience.  In a word, the place was rocking. A squadron of hostesses looked up warily as we came in but seemed to relax when we said we had a reservation--lots of walk-ins were waiting for tables-- and assured us our table would be ready in just a moment.  "Just a moment" was more like 20 minutes, but it passed quickly due to the excellent people watching.  (Have you noticed what passes for fashionable footwear on women these days looks like some sort of cruel and unusual toe torture?  I blame Lady Gaga.)

Good Vibrations

The decor is really cool--there was some sort of old machinery like a corn husker or a grist mill in a focal point of the waiting area that had flowers drooping out of it, and the bar had a righteous metal ladder that slid back and forth so folks could snag the literally top shelf liquors.  We were seated in a good spot and were immediately watered without having to answer any annoying questions about sparkling, still, imported or tap, thank you very much. Our very busy waiter managed to take our dinner orders promptly and we anticipated pure-D deliciousness to come sailing out of the kitchen forthwith.

No Comprende

The Johnny Cake Okonomiyaki was not very attractive to look at and tasted weird.  Not sure what the inspiration was behind a semi-sweet pancake with smoked ham, red cabbage, dried fish flakes and mayo. Do those ingredients sound rather random to you or am I just clueless? We shared about two thirds of it, and honestly, just didn't get it or like it very much.  Our other app came out--Ember Roasted Onion Dip with crispy onions and sea salt potato chips, which sounded good but was sort of stringy and tasteless. I yearned for a packet of Lipton onion soup mix and a half pint of sour cream.  The next thing out was Appalachian Fried Chicken Thigh with a Cheddar Chive Biscuit, Pepper Jelly and B&B Pickles.  Ding ding ding we had a winner!  Thankfully, it was generously portioned and enough for the both of us to enjoy.

Sadly, the last dish to come out was nothing short of vile.  Smelly, overcooked pork stuffed inside a sticky, white wrapping made the MS Delta Tamale one of the worst things I've ever stuck in my mouth.  It was supposed to be served with ham hock pinto beans, but I think they hocked the ham and the beans were bone dry since there was no broth.  Our server noticed that we had shoved it as far from us as the table would allow and inquired if everything was all right.  I know I sounded like that orange presidential candidate with problematic hair when I pronounced it "terrible" but I couldn't help it.  He actually didn't seem very surprised and whisked it away quickly (it also was not on our final bill.)

Maybe my admiration for Chef McAllister's talent in the kitchen made my expectations too high. Maybe the four star review from a real restaurant critic made me think it would be so much more. Maybe the cool decor, fun ambience, and hip crowd overshadowed the food itself.  I don't know--but the filament is the part of a light bulb that makes it work, and to me this concept was not a very bright idea.

Maternity Pants for the Holidays

First World Problems

I love the holidays, even though I spend too much money and I outgrow all my clothes in less than two weeks.  It's not a big problem, because when we fetch the Christmas decorations from storage I have one plastic tote full of pants with elastic, stretchy waistbands, and oversized shirts that cleverly hide my uncanny resemblance to the Abdominal Snowman.

Taking off the week of Christmas afforded us the opportunity to dine in a couple of new restaurants, spend quality time with friends, family and loved ones, and eat ourselves into a food-induced fugue state on more than one merry occasion.

It all started when I snagged a coveted 8 PM table on Tuesday at what might be Dallas's hardest restaurant to crack unless you want a late lunch at 5 of are still hungry for dinner at 10:30, neither of which fit into my particular circadian rhythms. Gemma is a bright star in the culinary firmament around these parts, gathering all kinds of slavish praise from food critics and topping every Best Of list in magazines and blogger polls.  It's an unassuming little place at the end of a strip center, which is not normally where the fashionistas of Dallas are prone to congregate, so I figured the food had to be outstanding. We were greeted warmly, seated promptly, and watered and cocktailed in under ten minutes. Our server was knowledgeable and efficient, and recommended the charcuterie with cheeses (yes) and several other "off-menu" items (no). After polishing off the house-cured meats and imported dairy, we enjoyed some terrific Mussels in Coconut Lemongrass Broth, Thai Basil, Cilantro and Chile, followed by Braised Rabbit Pappardelle, which proved anything but hare-raising. (Sorry.)  Yes, despite the hype, Gemma is a jewel.

Speaking of jewels, Christmas Eve found us at the Joule, one of the fanciest hotels in Dallas, at their new Modern Italian destination called Americano for dinner.  Perversely, we went retro instead of forward-looking and had charcuterie (again), some Jewish Style Artichokes (I was disappointed they weren't sporting tiny yarmulkes) and Spaghetti and Meatballs. Our server was nice if a little bit dizzy and her weave was crooked which was slightly distracting.

Earlier in the day, we had met some out-of-town chosen family, A & E, along with our bestie J, at Dish Preston Hollow for lunch.  It doesn't have the sexy vibe of Dish Cedar Springs, but does exude a manly, professorial attractiveness like a smart cardigan sweater with leather patches on the elbows. We had so much fun yukking it up with our table mates that the food was somewhat of an afterthought.  I dimly recall two Bloody Marys (day drinking is not my strong suit unless I am modeling a sleek swim suit, peering through cheap sunglasses, and have my toes in the sand in Puerto Vallarta) plus a serviceable version of Day Boat Caught Fish and Chips.

Christmas Day found us at bestie J's house, where a small army had gathered to chow down on Roast Turkey, Beef Wellington, Mashed Potatoes and a super healthy vegetable app I had brought:  Spinach Artichoke Dip surrounded by a ring of Parker House Rolls.  (The artichokes and spinach no doubt canceled out the fat-inducing ingredients including four kinds of cheese, sour cream, cream cheese, and white bread.)

By this time I was struggling to zip even my fat pants, which was unfortunate since I had a last minute business trip pop up unexpectedly the week before New Year's, and I don't own any items from the Suit Barn.  I wrangled myself into some clothes, used safety pins to bridge the gaps, and just decided to wear my overcoat indoors and out, claiming a "thin southern blood" condition that folks living north of the Mason-Dixon line are inclined to believe and pity us for. Nothing spectacular in Minneapolis, a good if not great Pork Chop at Firelake in the Radisson Blu, and Spare Ribs and Sushi at Seven.  I did have a terrific lunch at FIKA at the American Swedish Institute,  where I indulged in Split Pea Soup with Ham Hocks and House-Cured Gravlax on a thick slab of Caraway-Rye bread (perfect for a day that never saw the north side of 10 degrees, brrr.)

Hurrying home from Minneapolis in time for New Year's Eve, our pals R and J prepared a feast worthy of that extra dose of Crestor.  The world's best Crab Cakes with Smoked Paprika Aioli and a cute little Bistro Salad, a slow-roasted Herbed Pork Butt  (the seven year old boys inside us sniggered every time we said it), Macaroni and Cheese with Gruyere, Parmesan and Cheddar (no truffle oil, thank you very much) and Tiramisu in a festive trifle dish.

I spent New Year's Day lying on the couch in a track suit I borrowed from my most obese neighbor, eating leftovers and candy.

Today is the 2nd of January, and tonight we are going to a new restaurant called Bite,  I am thrilled to report I'll be wearing a new fur-lined muu-muu, courtesy of my beloved D.

Ruths's Chris's Rants's

How Many Esses Can You Find?

So we went to the new, two-week old Ruth's Chris Steak House last week for Happy Hour in Uptown Dallas.  I have never really been a huge fan of the Ruth's Chris concept.  They do something weird to their steaks after they grill them, like soak them in melted butter and then toss 'em into some kind of molten inferno that heats up to 1600 degrees.  The servers come out wearing oven mitts and haz-mat suits and when they set your plate down, hot, sizzling butter spurts onto the front of the new shirt you just bought last weekend at Nordstrom Rack. Apparently, I am the only person in the world who finds collateral clothes-ruining unpleasant, because there is at least one Ruth's Chris for every four Starbucks in America.  I like Starbucks better though: they don't butter my coffee or stain my clothes unless I spill it on myself, (which has happened more than once) and I would be remiss in my responsibilities as a non-accredited journalist to blame Starbucks for my chronic clumsiness.

And here's another thing that bugs me. Why is it called Ruth's Chris Steak House?  I've never heard of a steak called Chris, though I once knew of a cow named Bernice. There is some kind of urban legend about a woman named Ruth who spent all her money buying a place called Chris Steak House and she couldn't afford to change the sign so she just slapped a "Ruth's" on top.  But I am not buying that because most steak houses are named after family last names like Smith & Wollensky's or Gallagher's or Morton's.  And those all have apostrophes to indicate they belong to said family.  So if the story were true it would have been Ruth's Chris's Steak House, which, besides being unattractive is really hard to say (especially if one lisps).

And while we are on the subject, most people call it Ruth Chris anyway, leaving out all ownership and possessive indicators entirely.  What is it with people and their consarned insistence to omit or insert random esses in place names?  If  a certain martini bar in Puerto Vallarta is called Garbo, for instance, why do people refer to it as Garbo's?  A guy named German owns it (which is funny since he's Mexican, although come to think of it I know a Mexican named Erica, which sounds kind of German or Norwegian or something.)  It's not like Greta Garbo opened the place and then sold it to German before she died.  If that were the case it would be perfectly acceptable to call it Garbo's, but probably more accurate to call it German's Garbo, which brings us back to the same random silliness as Ruth's Chris. (Yet I am much more likely to believe there was a martini called Greta than a steak called Chris.)

Oh yeah, happy hour was fun--everything on the "Ruth's at the Bar TM" is $8 including pomegranate martinis and a half-pound prime hamburger. I badly chose the steak sandwich, which was kind of tough and dry and consisted mostly of gristly butchered end pieces. Perhaps it needed butter.

Asian Con-Fusion

Work took me to Miami this week.  (Started off kind of rough:  I had to wake to a 3:30 AM alarm to catch a buttcrack of dawn flight, and our power went out inexplicably at 3:45.  It came back on about 5 but by then I had already showered and dressed by flashlight.  On my drive to the airport I prayed to the grooming gods that my socks matched.)

After working a full day I finally knocked it off about 7.  I changed into a tee shirt and shorts (it was about 90 degrees in South Florida and so humid it seemed like it was raining sweat.)  I wondered around the neighborhood looking to scare up some dinner (relatively safe--I was in Miami Lakes, a sort of stopped-in-time version of Pleasantville, with much less glamor and far fewer crazed drug lords than the real city of Miami 14 miles and 100's of murders south.)

First I ambled over to the Ale House but the $13.99 prime rib special made me suspicious of its provenance and the odor of rabid sports fans wearing the uniforms of their favorite player (I always wonder if they are "going steady") amped up on cheap beer and Thursday Night Football made me opt out.

A Purrfect Sense of Arrival

I walked by a place that didn't seem to have a name.  Instead, there were just giant signs on the exterior windows that screamed out all the delights one could find inside.

 HIBACHI!  SUSHI! SEAFOOD! TEMPURA!

I figured I could find something in there I would like and opened the door to be greeted by a humongous Hello Kitty. The hostess put down her cell phone (with just a soupçon of attitude, IMHO) and said something so heavily accented I just guessed she said "table for one?" and nodded my head vigorously, hoping she hadn't really asked me something embarrassing, like "alone and pitiful?"  She was wearing black tights and a short pleated skirt and a denim jacket and I noticed how shiny her hair was as it swung it back and forth in rhythm with her sashaying hips.  I was so mesmerized I almost didn't notice we were traversing a huge dining room that probably seated 300 people.  Sadly, I was one of maybe ten paying souls in the entire place.  The staff outnumbered us 5 to 1.

Another pretty Japanese girl smiled at me as she plunked down a large plastic tumbler of water with a white paper napkin wrapped around the base and handed me a white paper napkin and some chopsticks in a white paper sleeve.  She said something like "drink?" and I inquired "martini?" and she might have said "okay?" A couple of minutes elapsed and then she brought me hot sake in a white jug wrapped in a white paper napkin.  Apparently, white paper napkins are considered essential to the success of Hibachisushiseafoodtempura Restaurant.

I sat there, drinking sake and waiting for a menu.  With all the staff hanging around I thought it strange that no one was trying to get me to order something.  I flagged down my server and asked for a menu.  She was mute with incomprehension.  I mimed opening a menu and reading a list of entree selections, summoning the Stanislavsky method to appear as if I were  trying to decide between fish or pork, or possibly a stir fry with tofu.  Clearly my acting chops were spot on, as she suddenly brightened and waved her arm expansively towards the other side of the dining room, where I could see about a million food items on display. She nearly screamed some unfathomable word with such joy that I just gave "buffet" to her for enthusiasm. (I do want to point out here that my Japanese is far worse than their English, so it is with self-awareness of my own lingual shortcomings that I describe these conversations.)

Sushi-a-gogo

I don't like buffets.  There's no nuance, no crispness, no intangible balance or contrast of flavor and texture. Everything tastes the same, and it's all mushy.  But I was already there and slightly sakeed so I ventured forth and found 17,000 different species of sushi glistening in a ton of crushed ice spread on a table the size of a basketball court.  It occurred to me this could be my last meal ever, since it was possible the raw fish had been sitting there for days.  It passed the sniff test, however, so I loaded up my plate with a daunting number of selections and returned to my seat, hoping no one would notice what a pig I had made of myself.

It was delicious.  I had eel, and crab and salmon.  I devoured sea urchin, and tuna and shrimp.  I ate every fish that swam in the sea, and then I ate them all again. I had sashimi and dragon rolls and rainbow rolls and a bunch of stuff I didn't even recognize.  I was shameless.  It was ugly.

Same Taste, Different Shapes

At the time I should have been rolling out the door, I decided to go back and see what else was available.  There was a mile long display of desserts, which tempted me not, but I couldn't pass up the massive Chinese feast featuring spare ribs, spring rolls, fried rice, sesame chicken, spinach pie (huh?), noodles, lobster chowder, hot and sour soup, and crab rangoon, along with hundreds of other selections so vast and varied it made me dizzy.  I piled up another plate, went back to my party of one, and dug in. Yecch.  Buffet food.  Everything tasted the same and it was all mushy.  Having given up on language as a viable means of communicating, I just pantomimed signing my check, which she brought forthwith, and I signed out and we smiled at each other. (I was so shocked I had eaten my body weight in sushi for $17.99 that I tipped her $10.)

I hadn't planned on returning to Miami until much later this year but I think the raw bar at Hibachisushiseafoodtempura Restaurant will make me rethink those plans.  And possibly bring an interpreter.