Archives for category: Restaurants

Brunches

November 17, 2011 //

Bari is perhaps my only friend who is every bit as food-obsessed as I am. First thing both of us did when we decided to meet in Montreal was start prowling food blogs, reviews, Urban Spoon, Zagat– scoping out out best meals in the city. We started off with a brunch at Le Cartet, heralded as one of the best brunches in the city, a big open space, half restaurant, half shi-shi gourmet market, right in Old Montreal. After an short little wait in line, we sat down and started the excruciating process of ordering. Thankfully, Bari is a sharer, so we get to do the double meal thing. Except… we usually order three meals and somehow fit it all in to our greedy foodie tummies. So we got “Brunch Sante:” yogurt with house made granola and blueberries, fruit, cheese, and thick crusty toast with a little smear of goat cheese, topped with bitter greens and a poached egg. I have no idea how, but that toast-goat-greens-egg combination was totally spectacular. More-than-the-sum-of-its-parts kind of deal.

Then: scrambled eggs with asparagus and cheddar and a side of smoked salmon. Then: French toast made with heaven-on-earth hazelnut bread and topped with what we believe to be extra-tart apple sauce and a big handful of blueberries. Our waiter was trying not to look horrified/impressed with our order. And even more so when he came to clear our plates, and found them totally empty. Later that night we had a massive meal (more on that later) but woke up on Sunday and headed out for another brunch, stomachs growling.

This time at Lawrence, a place we had considered, but was confirmed as a top brunch pick by our Montreal foodie water at dinner. Arriving to a chock-a-block restaurant, we prowled hungrily down the street in search of coffee and a little smackerel to wait our turn, and found ourselves as a deliciously funky café, where we held ourselves over with americanos and lattes and a big peach muffin.

Finally we got the call and rushed back down the block to take our spot at the bar. Not quite hungry enough for three big brunch-sized breakfasts, we ordered just two this time. English breakfast: one perfect sunny-side-up egg, thick toast, a roasted tomato (an idea which I plan to steal and have in my life on a regular basis), house made bacon, sausage, and black pudding. All so good, the rich fattiness of it all crying out for tartness, answered by the tomato. The black pudding…we did our best. But no, not beloved. And our second dish, a sausage and egg roll. Milk bun with a house made (of course) sausage patty, a bit of beautiful cheese, another perfect egg, tomato, and arugula. The McMuffin’s mega posh, very very distant cousin. Also very good.

We contemplated the French toast (topped with pears and cranberries in the Lawrence version) but our extraordinarily full bellies cried out for us to please, for the love of all that is holy, stop. So instead we waddled out and wandered the Plateau for a bit, went for a lovely tour up onto Mount Royal with our excellent local tour guide friends, then… went to the Atwater market for maybe just a tiny little snack. (Here’s Bari, global foodie companion.)

Tags breakfast, brunch, lawrence, le cartet, montreal, quebec

Categories Restaurants, Travels

Montreal: Le Comptoir

November 14, 2011 //

Sometimes, eating alone is sad. Sometimes, it’s not. When you’ve got three chefs and house-made charcuterie for company, not so much. I wondered where to go for my solo dinner in Montreal, debated a classic French meal at a famous bistro, a light vegetarian meal after the days of amazing indulgence (more on that later), but settled on Le Comptoir, only a 20 minute walk away and oh, just voted into the top 10 restaurants in Canada.

Crossed my fingers and called for a spot at the bar, got a harried yesofcourse, and trotted on down to Rue Saint Laurent. Took my spot at the bar, a ringside seat for the kitchen drama unfolding right there in front of me. Three chefs, one dishwasher, and an array of extraordinarily hip waitstaff diving and ducking and twirling around each other, plating perfect dish after perfect dish, carefully measuring out slices of sopressata, stacking bright tomatoes atop one another, calling out for service, whisking the food off to the awed spectators. I started with a glass of organic Greek red wine (number one reason I like Canada), chosen by my waiter and guide through the all-French menu scrawled up on the wall. Then a plate of charcuterie—a must, seeing as they make the stuff right downstairs.

Soppresata, fennel sausage, chorizo, pig’s head (Yes. And explained by my Francophone waiter, “This is of the pig’s whole head, cooked and chopped.” And yes, shockingly good.), and a little rectangle of terrine. With a healthy dab of house-made mustard, a couple perfect little pickles, and a big hunk of pickled fennel. Took me a while to work my way through all the pork, but I made it to the other side for my next blissful course: poelee de chanterelles, langue de porc braisee, mini raviolis a la puree de racine de persil. I could pick out “chanterelles” and “pork” and “ravioli” on my own, and I was pretty much sold. Then once I got the full translation and realized pork tongue was up for grabs, I was super sold. I love weird animal bits. If anything was to convince me of divinity in this world, it’d be foie gras. Sweetbreads make me want to sing, bone marrow makes me want to dance. I always, always go for the lengua from the sketchy taco trucks. Pig tongue at the 8^th best restaurant in Canada? Yes please.

Another glass of wine, this one a French red, arrived along with my bowl of heaven, chosen and explained in great, kinda indecipherable detail by my very knowledgeable waiter. And then the braised tongue, incredibly tender and perfect alongside the earthy mushroom and rich sauce. (And I swear they were morels…or maybe it was all so good that I just went ahead an hallucinated an once more of goodness…) And perfect little raviolis, all in a sauce of the gods, topped with a very necessary cloud of greenery, just bitter enough to cut the richness of it all. I’m not a very slow eater, in fact, a little bit of a scarf-er, but I savored that dish for a very solid twenty minutes.

Added to the flavors of the plate and the perfectly-picked wine was the joy of watching the three cooks practice their craft; the pantry man careful and deliberate with his many many mixing bowls, the broiler-grill duo wielding hot pans, coloring plates with sauces, timing a million things in their minds. Such a delight to watch this goodness come into being, to watch people do something they’re really truly good at. And a tiny bit of melancholy envy, mostly of their focus and their clear satisfaction. I miss that little jolt of joy when you see a row of perfect dishes ready to enter into the world, made by your own hands. But I got over my little pang when I noticed that all the glorious chefs were sweating like mad, wiping their brows on dirty kitchen towels and sneaking sips of wine out of water glasses. Then I snapped back to reality and relished my position on the other side of the counter.

I hadn’t noticed the dessert menu drawn up on the wall behind me, and hadn’t planned on dessert, with my double pork, double wine meal. But they had panna cotta. Panna cotta, compote de pommes, a la feve tonka, puree de date, sable Breton aux pecans. Apples…dates…cookies…tonka? Not so sure. And it was explained to my little English-only brain, but it was loud and I was in a pre-panna cotta haze, so I just nodded. And maybe drooled. The panna cotta arrived in a little glass, just like Mom makes; just like how its supposed to be. Jelled cream topped with something fruity. Pure, bright bliss. I love panna cotta because it manages to be rich and refined. It’s straight cream, but it’s not overwhelming. It’s the girl you never knew was uber wealthy till you spied her beautiful shoes. It’s quietly decadent. It’s the best. “Was it what you were dreaming of?” my waiter asked. Yes, yes, yes. The pure creaminess cut with the warmth of the apple and date, the silkyness contrasted by the snappy sable. I lingered for a good while longer over my panna cotta and last little milliliters of wine, not wanting to leave the glow of the kitchen, of cooking, of good food, of people all delighting in creating and eating and drinking and savoring and sharing.

But here’s the walk home:

Tags canada, charcuterie, le comptoir, montreal, pork, quebec, restaurants

Categories Restaurants, Travels

Ottawa!

September 19, 2011 //

This past weekend I was lucky enough to get an all-expenses-paid (unless you are a foodie with awesome foodie friends) trip to Ottawa, Canadia’s lovely capitol, to hang out with a bunch of other college students who are odd enough to be doing a study abroad in our upstairs neighbor country. I somehow finagled myself a nice little fellowship from the Killam/Fulbright people to come hang out in Vancouver and “foster international understanding” along with a bunch of other students shuffling across the border to Montreal and Los Angeles and all over the place, and this was our orientation. Sadly, as it once and for all confirms my ultimate nerdiness, going to an academic conference was shockingly fun. It’s actually is pretty fascinating to compare the States to Canada, and living in a place that’s so similar to home while being so different at the same time (it’s a whole ‘nother country, as it turns out) makes you notice the differences all the more. Like… the Queen is still in charge of this place, technically. And… they call their money “Loonies” and “Toonies.” Anyways, so here I am in Ottawa. Long-time readers might remember Jackie-Bari-Chelsie, the Canadian trio I met in Bali, where we kinda built a house and ate some very good and some very bad food. We sadly sadly sadly parted ways in Bali, hoping to see each other again somewhere, sometime in the great big world. And somehow, we have! We’ve all ran into each other, in New York, in Miami, all over. And luckily enough, Jackie lives right there in Ottawa and Bari only a train ride away! And the best part of all: these two lovely, much-missed girls are huge foodies. Though they fed us at the conference (surprisingly good food too, thanks Fulbright folk) I held off at most of the dinners because I had a much better dinner coming my way each night. Friday night was Whalesbone Oyster Bar, the most popular little seafood restaurant in Ottawa right this second.

Tucked into a long long skinny little space, the restaurant was jam packed with Ottawa-ites, chowing down on oysters. Seated right next to the open kitchen, our mouths kind of might have started watering right away. Then they brought us the best bread ever with (get this) brown butter. A big ol’ serving of nutty, caramely, brown butter. This may have rivaled the Campagnolo bread experience last week. This butter…. this butter. I can’t say anything else. If there is heaven, it is made out of brown butter. We finally narrowed down our order and got: chefs choice of 4 oysters, octopus, calamari, and sea bass. First the oysters, two simply raw and simply perfect, two poached in butter, nestled in a big hot pan of corn and prosciutto and… butter. Goodness.

Then the octopus, grilled with big hunks of melon and prosciutto. I’m a sucker for octopus (get it? ha. ha.) so I loved it. Cause I love everything. But good, and especially good with the sweet-salty melon-ham classic alongside. Then the calamari, old-school crispy with tart marinated zucchini and a crazy-good curry sauce. Mmm. And lastly the bass, with a big ol’ buttery braised leek, a pile of sweet corn, and a handful of salty chantrelles. My god, I love Ottawa. Eating really good food rocks. Eating really good food and talking about really good food while you’re eating the really good food? Aw yeah. So full and happy, we all made our way home, Bari anxious to get online and scope us out another restaurant.

The next day: Play, a rad little small-plates spot right next to Jackie’s apartment. After a painful deliberation process, we finally settled on the arctic char gravalax, bean and potato salad, zucchini gratin, rainbow trout, and meatball sub. Gravalax goodness, especially with the kickin’ little apple-ginger slaw and wasabi dressing. Purple potatoes and snappy beans plus bacon equals warmth and delight and yum. The zucchini tomato gratin, as simple as it was, might have been my favorite. I’m a major zucchini fan, and it was pretty perfect. (And served in a tiny little American Girl doll-sized cast iron pan…!!) The rainbow trout… I have a weird relationship with trout, post-trout-murdering. It was good, for being trout, but the caramelized carrots along with it were the stars. Meatball sub, mmm. Bread, eggplant, meatballs, barbecue chip bits. Then to top it all off: gelato. Ginger, raspberry, and oreo gelato. Delicious, heavenly, creamy gelato.

The next day, if you can believe it, we managed to squeeze in one more: Benny’s Bistro, touted as Ottawa’s best brunch. You walk in through a beautiful, aromatic little French bakery and your stomach instantly starts growling. Another good thing about Jackie and Bari: they are share-ers. I hate eating just my own dish. I am plagued with the worst order envy on earth. Sharing means: not having to decide on one dish, not coveting thy neighbor, and being able to all gush about how good every single little thing is. And: it lets you get french toast annnnd salmon for breakfast. French bread, French restaurant, all signs pointed toward The Best French Toast Ever. True. Topped with a little cinnamony cream, peach compote, and tiny little blueberries. Alongside our other bfast: fingerling potato salad, arugula, salmon gravlax, sunnyside-up egg. Sweet joy, salty joy. Then we walked it off in the the Byway Market (Ottawa’s less nuthouse-y Pike Place) and kept right on talking about food.

There was one more food experience of note (yes, really.) Another perk of the smart-kids-go-to-Canada deal: cocktail party at the American ambassador’s (gigantic) house. We all dressed ourselves up and went out to the fancy diplomat ‘hood. Everyone filed in and shook Mr. Jacobson’s (that’s Mr. Ambassador to you) hand, and I think I might have gotten a tiny bit nervous and thus a tiny bit ultra perky and said something like “Potato state!”

(Of course I saved my invite, I’m treasuring it forever.) Aside from the interesting conversation and awesome house gawking, there were some stellar hors d’oeuveres. (I definitely just had to google that spelling….) A few other ultra-clever girls and I camped out all nonchalantly beside the kitchen doors, assuring our first pick of the snick snacks. One of the best: Jack Daniels shrimp. Sounds so weird, was so good. Spicy, sweet, roasty, creamy shrimp. Probably the Americans’ signature thang for all the cool Ambassador shin-digs I’m sure they have. “Invite the Americans, they always bring those awesome shrimp.” Also: salmon atop petite little purple potatoes, crab cakes perched on cucumber rounds with tiny basil leaf hats, surprising salt and pepper tofu, and perfect little steak cubes wedged between bright onion. The perks of nerdiness. Ottawa: A plus all-round.

Tags ambassador, canada, ottawa, oysters, seafood, whalesbone

Categories Restaurants, Travels

Campagnolo Roma

September 14, 2011 //

Things I like: really good Italian food, weekday visits, and the Canadian drinking age. Last night Stuart made the northward trek up to Vancouver and we decided to go wild, break a long standing tradition, and go out for something other than sushi. I’d read and read about Campagnolo Roma; the perfect pizza, the dreamy pasta; so we made the long and slightly sketchy journey over to East Van.

Where we were royally rewarded. Pretty empty on a Tuesday night, we sat right down and I started the long and painful process of deciding what to order. Settled on margherita pizza (classics, man) and tagliatelle with artichokes. And two glasses of Italian red wine, to celebrate this sensible ol’ country and their friendly policies. Entering the starvation zone, we requested a bit o’ bread– turned out to be the best request I’ve ever made. If I’m ever on death row, Campagnolo bread is my last meal. Marvelously charcoaly on the outside and unbelievably doughy and light and moist and a tiny bit sweet and a tiny bit salty on the inside; this bread shot up into Top Five Best Things Ever Eaten by a Human. Lordy. Almost canceled our order and just begged for a couple pounds of bread.

Thankfully, we stuck with Plan A, and soon a beautiful margerita came our way. That real-live thinner-than-thin crust, incredibly bright tomato sauce, milky mozzarella, little flashes of basil, and mounds of fresh spicy arugula. And the pasta, wide ribbons of fresh tagliatelle and soft salty artichoke hearts, layered with bright lemon and salty Parmesan. Lordy. Joy abounded. Too full for dessert, we (perhaps foolishly) refused dessert: affogatto… honey panna cotta… Next time.

Tags campagnolo roma, italian, pizza, vancouver

Categories Restaurants

Narrows, Revisited

August 10, 2011 //

At the beginning of last summer, I wanted to be a chef. At the end, I did not. I worked pantry at The Narrows, the higher-end restaurant at the Shore Lodge, and I kind of got my chef heart broken. It wasn’t as exciting as I imagined, it wasn’t as glorious as I imagined, it wasn’t as creative as I imagined. I’d just interned at Nectar, a deceptively wonderful introduction into the food world. I only went for a few hours, a few times a week, during dinner rush; during the most exciting and best time in a restaurant. I usually didn’t do much prep or much cleaning, which turned out to be ninety percent of restaurant cooking. I wasn’t around long enough to get completely totally bored with everything on the menu. And I was cooking, like, actually cooking with pans and fire, not arranging baby romaine and cheese plates. So The Narrows was a little bit of a reality check. A harsh one at the time, and a much appreciated one now. I belong in my own kitchen, burning rice and eating raw asparagus, not in a restaurant kitchen, yelling and sweating and staying inspired to make the same thing day after day after day. I want to taste beautiful food and write about it more than I want to slave over it. I wish I was a badass chick chef slinging hot pans around and smaking down perfect dishes, but I’m not. I’m a greedy little eater who wants to have foie gras made by the badass chef brought out to her. So not surprisingly, I loved the Narrows a lot more from the other side.

When we first sat down at our big round table looking out at the big glossy lake, and I felt a little out of place. I’ve only ever known the Shore Lodge from the back side: the secret employee doors, the secret employee hallways, the secret employee dining room perched on the roof. And only ever as an employee, running late for work, wearing rented whites, bouncing up and down the stairs from kitchen to kitchen with provisions. But then we started getting the Narrows service, constantly full glasses of water, well thought out silverware, friendly waitstaff. Greedy eater me was made very comfortable. After a mouthwatering menu read-over, we started the long process of ordering. First came a little ex-employee special; grilled apricots filled with goat cheese and drizzled with balsamic reduction (I remember making that. Aka I remember making that and forgetting about it and winding up with ultra-ultra-concentrated balsamic.) Really good.

Then… foie gras. Lordy. Could foie gras ever not be good? Sounds gross, tastes like heaven. With bacon and toast? Well, alright then. If you’re already being decadent, might as well be dec-a-dent. Then ahi poke, topped with candied macadamias and accompanied by a little bright green swirl of seaweed salad. Light and perfect. Another raw one, steak tartare, capery and bright and just right. Baked clams and mussels (which Uncle Ross and I may have hogged a tiny bit) laced with a delightfully generous amount of garlic and a big handful of bacon… chunks. (Technical epicurean term.)

Then lovelies, as if we hadn’t had enough; dinner. Ribeye with the best more-than-baked beans ever for Pa n’ Gma, vegetable napoleon with awesome romesco (I remembered this always selling out… I see why), Bouillabaisse for Ross (shellfish app drew him in), and quail for me because A. who can resist something like quail, and B. it came highly recommended. Two tiny little once-creatures, stuffed near popping with creamy goat cheese, rubbed with chile, roasted. On top of pan-fried parm gnocci and the best sauteed mushrooms I’ve ever tasted. (Until yesterday… when Mom made morels…)

We were all silent for a solid five minutes, obsessing over our food, indulging. Then (yes, then, another then) dessert. I like going to dinner with Uncle Ross, because Uncle Ross always, always gets dessert. And makes it sound so reasonable and rational to do the same–and so crazy to abstain–that you can’t help but order along with him and somehow try to muster up a little more hunger. Not such a difficult feat when faced with blueberry creme brulee and peach blackberry cobbler. And a little cup of French press. And a lot of foodie contentment, a pretty good portion of nostalgia, and a healthy serving of some kind of closure. I’m an eater, not a maker; a front of house girl not a kitchen dweller; a writer, not a cook. And that’s just right.

Tags shore lodge, narrows, cooking

Categories Restaurants

Taco Transcendence

April 16, 2011 //

I know I’ve said it time and time again, but seriously. The Mexicans have got it figured out. Another taco experience, another transcendental moment, another glimpse at bliss. Doña Betty’s taco truck, up 41 in Bradenton, in a little bit of a “What are you doing out here?” neighborhood. Wedged between the Joyland Dance Hall and a deserted BBQ buffet. Standard white truck enlivened with bright pink interior, three women rushing in the cramped space to feed the giant line forming outside. I don’t think I’ve ever stood in line for a taco before. I think a line is a real good sign.

High quality phone pics, enjoi! Too much taco-lust to go home and get my camera before devouring…

Families huddled over the hoods of their car, frenziedly eating tacos, trying to finish them before all the spicy goodness dripped out out the bottom. Dudes with impressive moustaches hanging around waiting for their six, eight, ten taco orders. Little Anne ordered one al pastor and one beef cheek before slouching around the parking lot with the rest of the hungry, anticipatory mob. (I should come clean and admit that I didn’t discover this gem on my own, via some telepathic taco-truck location system. No, I read about it in Edible Sarasota, like a real white girl. But that’s ok. I still felt cool kickin’ it in the taco line.) Finally the taco queen, presumably Doña B herself, hollered “Veinte y cuatro!” and I reached up to the glowing window for my manna from heaven. Two tacos annnd a sweet little gratis side affair: a generous heap of pickled carrots and fresh-from-the-can pineapple. Review: Al pastor: chunkier than usual, spicier than usual. Two good things. Unexpectedly topped with a little queso fresco. Good. Barbacoa: tender, salty, spicy, heavenly. Heaped with onion and cilantro and lime, of course. And lots of the gently cool but simultaneously zingy green avocado-ish sauce and a healthy, sinus-clearing dash of the ominously red-orange hot sauce. The heat cut by the sour carrots, coupled with the sweet pineapple. Boom. Bang. Ok then. Doña B, you have my heart. Slammed that whole plate down, to the soundtrack of the country twang buzzing out of the dance hall and the wailing sirens of the cop cars bolting down 41, the contented chatter of taco truck clients and the pleas from the kids for “Just one more taco, just one!”

Tags al pastor, barbacoa, florida, lime, mexican food, sarasota, taco, taco truck

Categories Restaurants

Casa Felix

March 27, 2011 //

Casa Felix is pretty aptly named… It’s Diego Felix’s house. Just about opposite of the mass of spilling-onto-the-sidewalk cafes and hamburger slinging food carts in Buenos Aires, Casa Felix is a closed-door pescatarian restaurant, serving one beautiful meal to twelve guests just three nights a week. Past busy Palermo, Casa Feliz is marked by a glowing door and the somewhat apprehensive diners gathering around it at 9:30, wondering if they’re at the right spot, only to be happily welcomed in by Diego himself, ushered through a lovely home decorated with bright flowers and soft light, through a working kitchen with a very full spice rack, back into a sweet garden patchworked with herbs and gravel.

Little glasses of caipirinha arrived, the mojito’s complex cousin made with herbs from the tree above us. The rest of the guests trickled in and we milled around the dark garden admiring the plants, the garden, the house, the concept, the whole city. A tray of northern Argentinian cheese wrapped in chayote leaves (…from said garden) drenched in dark chamar syrup presented itself and was quickly cleared, the soft salty cheese in love with the fibrous leaves and sweet palm-sugary syrup. A return diner said his previous Casa Felix meal was one of the best in his lifetime…a certain good looking movie star who may have played Che Guevara arrived… (!!!) excitement built.

We chatted with Diego about his restaurant, which is the principal bit of a bigger project. He and his wife and sous chef do cooking tours in the States, bringing the closed-door dining concept with them, taking over people’s kitchens and producing wonderful meals with local ingredients. The local/organic trend is pretty different in Argentina, Diego and a couple other locals explained. While lots of small farmers are probably growing close to organic produce, its difficult to get certified, so produce may or may not be organic, it’s hard to say. Plus, perhaps there just isn’t quite the same market for the Whole Foods mentality here in the nation of sausage-sandwich lovers. Argentina seems to be somewhat unique in the fact that it’s really self-sustained, all the produce eaten here is grown here. The meat is raised here, the chairs made here, the pencils made here- everythings stamped with “Industria Argentina.” So in that sense the local food/goods mentalty is already somewhat established. But Casa Felix takes it way more local, using fresh pungent herbs from the backyard, making oil from the flowers of the tree down the street. The four days of the week they aren’t hosting dinner, they’re gardening, out meeting producers, introducing them to new seeds. Soon we moved inside, the eight of us seated around one big table. Soft brown bread (so unlike the hard white rolls native to Argentina) and white bean pate was set in front of us, but veterans warned us to save room. After a bit more chatting (and champagne) our first course arrived: chipas over green beans and arugula with salsa criollo. Hot crusty cheesy breads stuffed with salty fontina over sauteed green beans and bright green herbs, with a lighter interpretation of a common steak topping here; salsa criollo, diced onions and tomatoes in oil. The next course another play on an Argentine classic; an oyster mushroom and almond empanada over the season’s last tomatoes, a couple beets, and some light pea sprouts.

A world apart from the street empanada wrapped in paper and stuffed with hot beef, yet still prepared with the same crimpy edges, the same soft dough. Oyster mushrooms are heaven on their own, but with the texture of the almonds and the tang of the tomatoes…oh my. To calm us down from this food bliss, a little intermezza, tiny glasses of cold melon granita, lightly sweet and a welcome break from the complex meal. Then on to the main course! Calamari shepherd’s pie over beans and red pepper sauce, with a few slices of grilled zucchinis. Diego explained the mixed Peruvian and Argentine roots of the dish, and we all got a little quieter as we awed at how something could taste this good. An inbetween polenta and potato pie, topped with a smack of brulee-d sugar, holding inside a handful of perfectly prepared tentacles, over soft beans and just spicy-enough red pepper sauce.

Unexpected, this pairing of earthy shephard’s pie with sea-faring squid, and further yet with smoky red pepper sauce and charcoaled zucchinis. But perfect! Later on dessert arrived, plum and peach galettes with an oatmeal crust, over a spoonfull of sticky black currant sauce, topped with chocolate ice cream. The ice cream melted into the galette, every bite holding the sugary sweetness of the chocolate, the brightness of the late-season fruit, and the crunch of the oatmeal pastry. And finally, little cups of mate cocido- the mate burnt with sugar, creating a dark, sweet, caramelly drink just tasting ever so slightly of mate. By this time it was midnight, but we lingered for at least an hour longer, chatting with our new food-friends, a little bond created over this shared meal. The closed-door restaurant is a special thing, bringing the loveliness of a meal at home even further into the restaurant world than family-style restaurants have done. We all have the same plates, the same tastes, but different reactions to the food, different backgrounds and commentary on the parade of gorgeous courses. And Casa Felix is an extra-special thing, with their bountiful garden, their world tours, their combination of Argentine tradition and modern flavors, their cozy dining room and open kitchen. A lovely meal in a new favorite city.

Tags argentina, argentine, buenos aires, casa felix, closed-door restaurant, empanada, local, south america, travel

Categories Restaurants, Travels

Miami = Michael’s Genuine

February 20, 2011 //

Miami again, Michael’s Genuine again. Had to. Boat Show = everything in Miami is booked, booked, booked. But apparently I’ve been living very righteously, and my “why not” last-minute call to Michael’s at 11:30 resulted in a 12 o’clock brunch rez for Bari (remember Bari, from Bali? we have a history of manual labor and fine dining together) and I. Feeling excited and hungry, we ordered: the famous homemade pop-tarts, lemon ricotta pancakes, reuben omelet, tortilla espanola, and chargrilled octopus (the classic brunch dish…)

The rundown: the pop-tarts, one strawberry and one guava n’ cheese (nod to Miami aka. Latin America) were good, if you were a sugar-hound six year-old. So sweet neither of us could finish ours. Not bad, just too sweet for the likes of us savory folk. Lemon ricotta pancakes, delightfully light (and not too sweet) topped with tarty blueberry sauce. Reuben omelet, so good. Egg wrapped around house-made pastrami and tangy thousand island sauce, a dark purple forest of sour cabbage on the side. Tortilla, my favorite. Contender for Mom’s tortilla, and that’s saying something.

Served room temp, as it should be, chock-a-block full of salty potatoes and not a whole lot else. Topped with tomato onion confit; killer. And the beloved octopus from dinner of course made a reappearance. Slightly different in brunch form, the chewy charcoaly octopus took its place amongst spicy stewed peppers, giant beans, and salty olives–finishing the meal on a perfect note. Anne hearts Michael’s Genuine.

Tags brunch, florida, miami, michael's, michael's genuine, octopus, pancakes, tortilla

Categories Restaurants, Travels

Pork and Pie

February 15, 2011 //

Dear friend Alexandria came for a weekend of sunshine and friendship (and to escape from the snows of Colorado) so of course to celebrate we had to eat horribly. Grilled PB & J’s, taco trips, drive throughs (MacD’s for Alex, Starbs for Anne), brownies and ice cream (the only good thing in our caf is Ben & Jerry’s, thus we’ve tried almost every flavor- Whirled Peace is the favorite), and as a last Sunday night hurrah, Sonny’s BBQ. Alex tried to get us to go to Sonny’s for an entire semester, without success. Finally, I’ve been to the temple of smoky pork and sweet cornbread she’s been raving about. Correctly fearing colossal portions, we split a meal (much to the disbelief of our waitress) which consisted of a mound of pulled pork, slices of brisket, a baseball sized dollop of Velveeta Mac (I did not partake. Sorry, cheese should require refrigeration), a bowl of pork-spotted mapley baked beans (this, on the other hand, I can love), and two little loaves of cakey cornbread. Alex was right. It was dang good. (Despite its not-so-photogenic-ness.)

So post-BBQ-tacos-ice cream, one must cleanse. Enter: brussel sprouts. “You’re the only person I know who likes those…” said roommate Destiny. What? Why is everyone a brussel-hater? Those things are good. Barbie-sized cabbage! Browned in your Christmas cast-iron skillet with a ton of red pepper? Yeah. Yes.

I just got a big box from Idaho full of un-packed presents that I got to joyfully re-open…thrilling. Trader Joe’s pasta and cookies, jars of spicy sauces from Morocco and Georgia, a bag bulging with Russian candies, the cast-iron skillet, Market Spice tea and paprikas, and my beloved egg poaching pan. (And Tibetan prayer flags so I can have a true college dorm.) And…the loveliest bit…a tiny Le Creuset pie pan. Can’t resist it, had to make a mini pie. Apple, strawberry, blueberry pie. With a lattice top because we all know procrastination breeds productivity and pie making > philosophy homework.

P.S. New photos of a protest for fair food!

Tags bbq, brussel sprouts, cornbread, pie, pulled pork

Categories Restaurants

Mas Tacos

February 14, 2011 //

Sometime I feel like I should just change the blog to “Anna Taco,” seeing as a solid half of my posts are about tacos. Can’t help it. Big taco love. They’re just different enough to keep you interested, every shady taco van taking a slightly different variation on the al pastor, some with two corn tortillas cuddling the meat, some with one. Some with mounds of cilantro, some with just a grassy little sprinkling. Some with fiery red sauce chunky with chilies, some with cool, smooth avocado made liquid.

(I love her pink shirt, visor, lips, nails. She had a pink rose painted on her arm too.)

I’m usually a taco purist, sticking to tortillas n’ meat, sticking to what I know, but yesterday I branched out at Maria’s, a non-van taco shop in the Red Barn flea market. 2 tacos (al pastor, barbacoa) …and one sope! Tacos really good, duh, and sope, pretty good! A little scary to vary from tradition, but a rewarding change. Fried little masa bowl filled with carnitas, lettuce, tomatoes, cream, queso. Topped with a messy amount of the avocado sauce, resulting in the use of thirty-five plus napkins, and at the very least that many sighs of delight.

Anne finds taco bliss, again.

Philly cheese steak (surprisingly delicious, coming from a taco spot and all, for Alexandria, sope y tacos for A)

Tags al pastor, florida, sopes, tacos

Categories Restaurants, Travels

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