San Tung

My first meal back in San Francisco. A quick bite with my dad, who had picked me up from the airport.

My father loves Chinese dumplings, and San Tung does them pretty well.


You can really tell that they made their own dough, rolled it out by hand before stuffing the wrappers with filling. I would stick to the boiled dumplings and eschew the pan-fried ones, which are usually my favorite. The dough for the pan-fried ones is too thick and dense and sort of gobs up in your mouth.

It's been nice spending more one-on-one time with my dad in the last six months. I got to learn how my parents met, and it's funny to think that they were young and brash once. More than that, for once, I won't say!

San Tung, 1031 Irving (b/n 11th and 12th Ave.), San Francisco, CA

Wrap Up

The ten days in New York involved many other small, but memorable eating moments.

A lunch at Ippudo. Two steaming bowls of Akamaru Ramen with dollops of spicy sauce. With my friend. You know her. She was my companion when we ID-ed the only openly-gay Olympiad at the Beijing Olympics as the most likely straight diver. Nonstop chatter about shared trails and travails, aspirations, general gossip.

A last-minute called-in, midday snack at Mad for Chicken. A plate of spicy chicken wings with the Bastard Consultant. Just catching up. And hearing a bit about his career musings. Could it be possible? That one day the Bastard Consultant will just be the Bastard? You know that would crack me up.

A long-anticipated reunion at DBGB. The reunion being me and DBGB. I don't know if DBGB knew that it was a reunion, but I got a Christmas card from them a few days earlier, and I was feeling especially affectionate towards my old neighborhood crush. With my dining companions from both Ippudo and Mad for Chicken, plus a new friend from school who was also in town that day. The blood sausage was as good as ever. And we talked of home. And family. Friendly banter with the waiter. And I remember leaving the restaurant, the snow hugging the edges of the sidewalk. Feeling warm and content. Sated on the luxury of days with old friends and delicious meals. Hugging friends before we each sleepily teetered towards our separate cabs and subway cars.

Del Posto Lunch Prix Fixe

I would like to tell you about the hands-down, best meal I had during my December visit to New York.

The $29 lunch prix fixe at Del Posto had me so happy that I started bouncing in my seat and clapping my hands.

I could not. Can not. Understand how people act civilized in this restaurant.

The food is too good.

And at $29.

It's bust out of your skin happiness good.

Let's just first start with the bread. It's good. But it gets better.


It comes with this. Butter.

Always good.

And also.

WHIPPED LARDO.

I mean sweet lord talk about melt in your mouth, luciously salty and fatty, roll your eyes in the back of your head with pleasure.

Whipped Lardo is a gift.

A gift to humanity.


Okay, I'm going to calm down for a second here and refer you to Ed Levine's review, which sent us to the restaurant, and which manages to stay relatively calm, so you can actually get a sense of the food. We used it as a guide in ordering.

I'll just let you peruse the pictures.

And think.

About how good your life would be right now if you were eating a bite of steak tartare with truffled salsa and thinly shaved fresh porcini.

And let me assure you.

Your life would be very good indeed.

It would easily qualify for one of the blessed ones on this dear planet we call home.

It boggles my mind sometimes that there are people who don't love food as much as my friend and I do.

Here is something that lets you just luxuriate in the simple fact that we are physical creatures with five senses that allow us to smell the wafting aroma of freshly baked bread, hear the crust crackle, feel the loaf break and yield as we tear off a piece, let our eyes feast upon the different visual textures, and finally, finally, taste the warm, yeasty wonderfulness.

And you get to do it every single day of your life! Several times a day!

People, people, if you have not yet made a New Year's Resolution. I strongly urge you to consider striving for this aspiration: "Please, let me aim to only let goodness touch my lips."

hahaha.

I'm getting a little out of hand here, aren't I?

What can I say? Lunch was fun.

I was with two beloved girlfriends. Talking and eating and laughing.

This pork chop was juicy and bursting with flavor. And if I was the mom on a surburban street block serving this.

All the other moms would hate me. Because it would be better than any pork chop they could even imagine. Better than your dream pork chop.

Oh, and those little white balls with the weird tiny little brown squares: goat cheese balls rolled in tiny salted olive oil bread crumbs!

And look, this dark chocolate coffee tartufo, looks just like a truffle nestled atop the forest floor.

Or at least, how I imagine a truffle would look nestled atop the forest floor, waiting for the sniffing snout of a pig truffle-seeker, waiting to be found, to be auctioned at astronomical prices, to fly across the Atlantic, and finally, to land on the plate of an appreciative food-obsessed diner.

I was a little emotionally exhausted after this lunch.

I whipped myself in a bit of a foodie-frenzy.

To sit on the edge of one's seat in eager anticipation, and to have those expectations exceeded.

Is a rare thing.

A rare wonderful thing.

Thank you Del Posto.

For a wonderful meal.

Which we both know

Is one of the best things in life.

Del Posto, 85 Tenth Avenue, New York, NY

The Breslin

At The Breslin, a relatively new restaurant in the Ace Hotel, headed up by April Bloomfield of Spotted Pig, I discovered that it is possible to have too much of a good thing. Here, the good thing being pork.

Item 1. Pork Scratchings. AKA fried pork rinds. At first bite, I was dismissive, deeming them just a perfectly salted, lighter version of the typical corner store variety. But then I found my greedy paws involuntarily reaching back towards the crinkling plastic bag again, and again.

Item 2. Not pork related. This I am not sure I could get enough of in life. Onion and bone marrow soup with parmesan toast. Admittedly, we ordered this for the bone marrow. I didn't really notice the bone marrow. Turned out it's really just a fantastically delicious french onion soup. The veal stock and the carmelized onions are out of this world. Imagine tons of roasted bones simmering in a stock for hours, and then slowly caramelizing thinly slivered sweet onions. This is what french onion soup aspires to be when it grows up.

Item 3. Back to the pork. At least partially. A terrine board of four different types of potted meat: guinea hen with morels, rustic pork, rabbit & prune, and head cheese. Head cheese was my favorite, though the prune really added a nice touch to the rabbit. I still prefer Bar Boulud, but The Breslin will do in a pinch.

Item 4. Skate and Potato Terrine with Aioli. Perhaps I should pause here and clarify that I did not eat all of these items by myself. I did bring along three friends. Or rather, three friends deigned to let me join them.

This got rave reviews from the Pescaterian (I like the way that looks, b/c at first glance, one thinks "pesky," though in actuality she's more stubborn than anything else.). I can't say much about it because at this stage I did not realize that I was about to seriously O.D. on the Pig and was too busy trying to decide between the soup and terrines and the chicharrones.

Item 5. Mixed Salad with pumpkin and mint. Our concession to the feat upon which we were about to embark. Wait. You will see.

Item 6. Chargrilled lamb burger with cumin mayo and thrice-cooked chips. For the fellow in our group who didn't have balls.

Balls for this, Item 7. Stuffed pig's foot for two. The reason why we came. We saw Ms. Bloomfield herself lovingly prepare her dish. Actually, the expression on her face was more akin to a combination between determination, silent pride in her work, and a hint of world weariness that seemed to hint at years, and months, and weeks, and days, and hours at the kitchen.

Do you even need to guess who was my dining companion, the plus one to this plate for two? The Bastard Consultant of course.

With a big heave and a quick check to make sure that the waist-band of my pants was going to have enough give for this stage of the dinner, we plowed in.

Into a pig's foot that had been de-boned, stuffed with homemade made sausage, breaded, and deep fried. It was intense. A lot to take in. Nothing like what now seemed like the dainty little trotter of DBGB.

Stuffed, breaded, deep-fried pig's foot under a rain of creamy, bitter brussel sprouts.

We had to dig deep into our reserves to leave a plate looking like this. And I am proud. Very proud of ourselves. Never mind that it was really the Bastard Consultant who salvaged our reputation.

Never mind it's a reputation that nobody knows about.

Finally, Item 8. Sticky Toffee Pudding with Turkish Coffee Ice Cream and sliced poached pear.

What a dinner. Eating at The Breslin was an absurd experience. The stuffed pig's foot was so over the top that I would certainly not recommend it for the weak of heart: be it of the artery or of gastronomic constitution. But for the brave, it is our own mini mountain, something to scale and crow about for years afterwards.

The Breslin, 16 West 29th Street, New York, NY

Bobo

The items on Bobo's menu look utterly enticing.

And when the food comes out, it looks even better.

And the technical execution was adequate, pretty good actually.

But the seasoning on our Crispy Gnocchi, Toad in the Hole, and "Green Eggs & Ham," were all a bit bland, creating a rather underwhelming experience.

Brunch itself was fantastic, if not for the food. Three snarky disenchanted adults who still wanted to act like youngsters, and who have had too many things in life handed to them, know it on some sort of level, but were still happy to revel communally about all the things that still dissatisfied our greedy selves. We are members of our generation: always wanting more. And as it reads, this all looks terrible, but there is a joy that comes in commiserating with those who see the world as you do. Diversity is all well and fine, but sometimes one just wants to luxuriate in selfish similarities.

Bobo, 181 W. 10th Street, New York, NY

Cafe d'Alsace

If I lived in Yorkville, I would make Cafe d'Alsace my go to Alsatian restaurant. Now, there aren't that many Alsatian specialty restaurants anywhere in the country, and I didn't previously know that I needed to have a go-to-Alsatian restaurant, but though the food at Cafe d'Alsace isn't mind-blowing, now that I've gone, it's become clear that my life would be better if I could just pop into the restaurant after a long day. The number of things on the menu that I'd love to eat is absurd: french onion soup, weiner schnitzel, roasted bone marrow, moules frites, pretty much everything. EVERYTHING.

Just thinking about all the things on that menu almost makes me want to stomp my feet in frustration over the fact that it is either a very very long drive or annoying plane ride away in order to get my rear end in a seat at that restaurant.

Now I mentioned that the food is not blow-your-mind. This steak tartare for example is a bit too sweet.

These french fries a tad too thick.

And some of the sausage a bit more bland than I would prefer. But I will make concessions for all of these things in exchange for such an enticing menu. There are so many food cravings that I am typically afflicted with. So many cravings that could be cured.

Cafe d'Alsace, 1695 2nd Avenue, New York, NY

Beyoglu

My expectations were too high for Beyoglu. Two friends who know how to chow down recommended it, but one of them at least loves dipping and snacking far more than I do. Beyoglu is a Turkish restaurant that has managed to become a New York Magazine Critics' Pick, but I didn't have anything that made my eyes widen with surprise.

Everything is well cooked, including this grilled octopus that was both tender and tasted meaty.

But I was a little bit underwhelmed by the food.

Beyoglu, 1431 Third Ave., New York, NY

Locanda Verde

My friend has been talking about Locanda Verde for ages, and now that I've finally gone with her, I'm appalled that I let so much of my life go by without visiting this restaurant.

My friend insisted on ordering their Sheep's Milk Ricotta. It comes with a hearty drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and a generous sprinkling of sea salt and fresh herbs. Homemade ricotta is so good. It's smooth and rich and go this sinful mouthfeel.

Remember how I was on a raw meat kick? This steak tartare with walnuts, truffle, and poached quail egg was probably the best of the trip. This ranks up there with the veal steak tartare at Insieme. [Haha, I just involuntarily heaved a huge sigh thinking about how delicious this tartare was.]

The fonduta ravioli: essence of wild mushrooms, salty parmigiano reggiano. Delicate, al dente pasta. I don't know that I could bear to order something else if I went back. I'd almost have to get this dish again.

The Stracci with lamb bolognese with ricotta and mint was less successful than the the ravioli.

One of my goals is to learn how to make homemade pasta this year. How's that for aspirations in life? If I could approach the quality of Locanda Verde, I will have known that in some small, but not insignificant way, I will have done something useful with these days on earth that we have.

Locanda Verde, 377 Greenwich St., New York, NY

A Proper Bagel

Being away from New York had had me craving for a multitude of foods that I never ate on a normal basis while living in the Big Apple, including a proper bagel.

So one morning I eschewed a fancy Sex in the City-style NYC brunch and instead opted for a short walk to a corner bagel spot and split two bagels with my friend: nova with cream cheese on a toasted poppy and a scallion schmear on a toasted everything. Add two giant deli pickles, and we didn't even need the pickled herring in cream that I couldn't help ordering too.

Properly dense and chewy on the inside, slick and shiny on the outside, I never fully appreciated the allure of a good ole' bagel until I no longer had easy access.

Somewhere in Yorkville, but available anywhere in the streets of New York

Caffe Buon Gusto

Feeling both lazy and hungry, my friend and I headed out to a local Italian spot called Caffe Buon Gusto, which turned out to be a small, darling spot. We started with a spinach salad topped with apples, goat cheese and walnuts and drizzled with an orange dressing.

I craved raw beef like nobody's business during this winter trip. I had steak tartare at least twice, and at Caffe Buon Gusto I went with a beef carpaccio. I actually didn't like this that much because of the weird decision to add mixed greens. I see now upon re-perusing the menu that the presence of mixed greens had been clearly indicated. Nevertheless, in my world, small, tender, bitter arugula leaves are the only greens that belong on a proper beef carpaccio.

The white wine & garlic broth in the restaurant's mussels just begs for some bread-sauce sopping.

Homemade pasta with shrimp in a tomato sauce and a flurry of cheese. Comfort. On a cold slushy day.

The restaurant is small. It's the sort of place locals attend when they want a reliable, tasty meal. It'd be a good place to take your sweetheart when you've reached that point in the relationship where she's permitted you to see what her face looks like in daylight without makeup on. (As a side note, that's sort of a big deal for those of us who believe in the power of makeup.)

Caffe Buon Gusto, 236 E. 77th St., New York, NY

Bar Artisanal

Winter Break for school rolled around, and I spent ten days in New York City. For my first official meal back I wanted something that would be low-key and encourage conversation, so I ended up going to Bar Artisanal with two girlfriends.

Seeing old friends for the first time in months brought such a deep sense of comfort. I've enjoyed meeting people in a new city and a new school, but being able to speak around people who have known me for years and understand the history and personality behind all of my snarky comments felt like wrapping myself up in a soft, fluffy, warm, down blanket.

Ordering the Artisanal Blend of fondue also helped raise the happiness levels, certaintly.

We wanted some greens to lighten things up, so we went with the Beet Salad with Mache. Beets are lovely in salads, and I'd like to experiment more with them in the next few months. I like the color and gentle sweetness.

The cheese flights are the primary reason why I enjoy going to Artisanal, or in this case an Artisanal family restaurant. There is a wonderful array of pungent, spicy, mild, unctuous, firm, cheeses: something for every cheese mood. I love the oozy, pungent nature of a ripe Epoisse, so we originally gravitated towards the Sinful Experience, which had Epoisse, a Camembert, and Chaource. We eventually decided upon the Fromager's Selection in order to swap out the familiar Camembert for the Ibores, which is a Spanish goat cheese and would provide a more varied flavor profile in our tasting. [How do I get this stupid thing to align left? (stupid thing stuck on center)][Oh, that's how.][I feel like a genius.][It doesn't take much.]

All in all it was a lovely dinner. I was a bloody hour late, and my poor friends didn't even snipe at me, which is what I very well may have done.

My favorite moment of the night came when a gentleman at a neighboring, and very loud, table suddenly wiped out on the floor as he somehow managed to lose rear-end contact with his chair. The hum in the restaurant momentarily paused as fellow dining patrons turned to see what caused the ruckus, and then the restaurant chatter quickly picked back up as people went back to their own affairs. Gotta love New York sensibilities.

Bar Artisanal, 268 West Broadway, New York, NY