Joe's House
Address Withheld
Phone Number Withheld

At an undisclosed location deep in the wilderness of Suburban Denver, a feast was to be had. But first, a baby had to be put to sleep.

The Fearless Fray Four decided to have a post-Christmas Christmas party recently, and held the extravaganza at Joe's house. A good friend of ours, Biju, who also happens to be a wonderful cook, lent his talents and his olive oil for the bash. Ultimately, there would be just too many good things to eat to eat it all...

It began like a painting, with just a few brushstrokes--a vague outline. Biju gave us dishes as they became ready, rather than a barrage of appetizers at once. I suppose in retrospect this was the only downfall, as we filled ourselves on the flatbreads and pirogies (filled dumplings of Polish origins) and scallops. The pirogies were at one point pumpkin filled and wonderfully salty-sweet. The scallops came with a spicy Portuguese (if I remember right) sausage, herbs, and an orange-white wine sauce so good the bread disappeared to sop it up. Oh yeah, and loads of warm bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar to fill in the gaps. Needless to say, the meal could have been complete here.

But it wasn't. And it was to be grand, too: grilled rack of lamb with roasted fingerling potatoes, spinach, and a duo of sauces--a creole mustard creme and a black cherry vinaigrette. With every charred, smoky, sweet and savory bite I cursed myself for the full stomach I had already achieved. This I wanted more of. This was the crowning moment of the meal. I could have eaten that poor lamb myself.

And yes, there was more to come. A Spanish orange cake acquired from somewhere local (alas, Biju didn't bake the cake, because if I knew he was comin', I'd a baked...) with a simple vanilla anglaise and fresh fruits. A perfectly light ending to a rather heavy excursion through Biju's flavors.

It's like this guy should have a restaurant or something. I suppose that's why Biju is trying, and we all hope he gets one soon. And then we he does I expect to the get the royal critic treatment and a couple free courses. But, beggars can't be choosers...

Beano's Cabin
Uh...half-way up the mountain?
Beaver Creek, CO
970.949.9090

Lemme tell you something: if you don't know what you're getting into, you won't be warm. But fortunately, if you're not warm, complimentary wool slippers are waiting for your toes in the coat room. But I'll back up.

Beaver Creek is a nice area. In fact, a sublime area, the kind of place you could arrive at and never leave. More so like this is the Ritz-Carlton. Especially when VH1 is treating you like Prince(s). So I come to find out one evening that the crew and their clients and a few tagalong musicians are going to dinner, I am subtly excited. Come to find out it's Beano's Cabin, a crazy 5-star dining experience you're likely not to find anywhere else, and I lose my cool. I throw my arms up in the arm amidst eating a buffalo burger. The Ritz people shoot scornful stares at me. I put them down and finish eating, politely.

I had heard about this place, a long time ago. And although my dining experience was slightly tainted, given that it was a private party, with a set menu, and a couple hundred drunk music television folks, I'd still like to tell you about it.

And it begins with the cold, cold Snow Cat ride up the mountain. It's an open air, modern sled that's still cold despite the blankets on every bench. It's a slow 15 minute commute up the face of one of Beaver Creek's ski slopes, until you're halfway up the mountain, at a DiRONA-winning restaurant in the middle of ass-nowhere. But then come the slippers.

Inside we were immediately greeted by a handful of servers, prepared with glasses of wine and hours d'ouvres. Plus a open, stocked bar. Plus a fireplace. This business has its perks, occasionally. Fortunately for them, I had no say in the wine...

Dinner service came and we were invited to take our seats. The first two courses were set, and the choice was ours for main plates and desserts. Soon came our first course, a cherry and blue cheese salad tossed in a light (I'll say Champagne?) vinaigrette. The flavors were simple and light, the sweet (almost tart) and tangy, salty pairing of cherries and blue cheese working well. The second course, unfortunately, suffered. From something, I don't know: having to prepare 250 identical dishes? No: I talked to a cook and he said this party was nothing. They're used to doing 300 a la carte dishes on any given evening. Regardless, when the goat cheese fondue came out, it only took a few bites to lose interest in the overly rich, overly mild dish. It came served with raw vegetables, which I appreciated; but, alas, I couldn't finish, and neither could the majority of our table.

But. All problems were forgotten when my Colorado Beef Tenderloin arrived, a beautifully tender cut of meat with horseradish mashed potatoes, cippollini onions, and an intensely flavorful jus arrived. I cursed myself for filling my stomach with appetizers and wine. It was wonderfully earthy and potent; I could have eaten a pound of those potatoes. And next to me the vegetarian option, a Napolean layered with eggplant, roasted peppers, polenta and a pesto in there somewhere. It was equally as stunning, the rich earth flavors of the vegetables cut by the salty pesto and buttery polenta.

Dessert came and nearly everyone around me winced at the sight. The food had been so good, and so plentiful, that dessert seemed merely a sign of affection, like flowers, to be left on the table untouched. I attempted my trio of mousse, which on any other occasion would have been spectacular. Then, it just felt gluttonous. Cognac was served to those who wanted it, and after a performance by some "Artist on the Rise".

Off with the slippers; my boots tied, we boarded our chariot again and tumbled down the hill. Fat and happy with food and wine in our bellies, the ride was merely fifteen minutes to slump in your seat and doze off. I could have fallen asleep on that sled, thinking of tenderloin with James Blunt stuck in my head.

Janko's Little Zagreb
223 West 6th Street
Bloomington, IN 47404
(812) 332-0694

Generally, I'm not a steak person. I don't crave it, don't wake up each morning with that meat-coated mouth feeling, and don't eat steak and eggs for breakfast. That said, the fact that I ran from the van to the doorway of Janko's and bore my head through the door, breathing in a carnivorous amount of bloody air and practically drooling might say something about Bloomington's greatest steakhouse.
The core of a man's being, I believe he's a carnivore. From then, each man can choose to indulge or ignore, and neither is necessarily right. But to miss a moment like sirloin at Janko's is to live unfulfilled, to live incomplete. And it all starts with the rolls. They come to the table charred from a few grill rods, the dinner rolls warmed to the core. Put a heaping amount of butter inside and it's bliss. Order some wine: Janko's has a decent, red-heavy list with a handful of notable bottles. Then order the meatballs.
The small platter of meatballs comes steaming in a fiery, peppery bath of hot marinara. I'd give it twenty-five to thirty small meatballs per order, and at its price, it may seem like a hefty chunk of change. Don't be fooled. I've never tasted a more flavorfully spiced, well-balanced mix of heat and substance in meatball form. They are incredible, and hot. Quite a few tables I noticed were cleared with more than half the meatballs on the table. I winced at the sight, and nearly stole them from the busier each time.
Do the seven-dollar surcharge and add a baked potato and side salad. Neither of them is extraordinary, just completely necessary. You need your palate cleansed between meat and more meat. It's nothing exciting. Iceberg lettuce with a few cut vegetables and a slathering of dressing. And you need a potato to go with round two meat. Meat and potatoes. Peas and carrots. NASCAR and Bud Light.
I'll be honest. Once, at another visit to Janko's, I tasted the Polish sausage. It was great, another smartly spicy dish. However, I would be hard pressed ever to order something different beside a steak. For those few times that people like me crave it, it might be worth a plane ticket. Might. Please don't buy one if you're uneasy. They have a handful of options. A New York, a Rib eye, a porterhouse, sirloins, and a few others. The best value, perhaps, is the "sirloin for two" or the "sirloin for three." I don't know what three "people" would eat this amount of meat. Three full pounds, boneless and center cut. Regardless, the grill that they sear this meat on is 100% original, the source of the meat's perfection, probably never having been cleaned since the restaurant's inception, fully seasoned and flavorful. And thus is born the best steak I've ever tasted. Throw in some of Janko's sautéed mushrooms, too, for an earthy, salty accent to each forkful. But the more I think about it, maybe it isn't the grill. Maybe is the total lack of décor, an unwillingness to approach anything "cool," the fact that it's the same owner (still), the fact that the chairs are the uncomfortable relatives of mid-80s conference room chairs. Somehow, all of this makes the best steak. Maybe it's the fact that the "sirloin for three" is the perfect family style cut, allowing everyone to cut more than they think and eat until they're bellies are bursting.
It's almost that I don't care to know. Janko's is one of those magical places that you may never grow tired of despite the repeated visits. The place that never fades in your memory, not tarnished by reminiscence. I'll go there again, at some point. I certainly made it back sooner than I thought. Hopefully I'll have that good fortune again.

The Foundation Room / House of Blues Cleveland
308 Euclid Avenue
Cleveland, OH
216.523.BLUE

I've had the good fortune to visit, I believe, four Foundation Rooms recently, and I'll rarely turn one down in the future. Again come the perks: the Foundation Rooms, also, are significantly more enjoyable when one himself does not have to pay for it. And when the owner of the House of Blues delivers a '97 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild to the table, "on him."

But first, the pictures on the website don't do the rooms justice. They are completely covered in Persian tapesties, rugs, anything that has tons of color and sparkling things. Also Buddhas are nice, the more the better. And dark, Pagan things are a must. The Foundation Rooms consist of a lounge and a restaurant; enter the lounge and you've entered the seventh circle of hell (or so you'll think). But the staff is always friendly, and you can't get to the restaurant fast enough.

On the menu you'll find a global, nouveau cuisine, leaning towards anything highlighting fresh ingredients. I've had some fantastic dishes at each Foundation Room, and the most recent in Cleveland, stayed true to form.

I was coaxed into four courses. I had my mind set on three; I had to play a show, after all. I couldn't be rolling onto stage, still tasting tartare and chocolate mousse. But like I said, coaxed into a first course of seared tuna (just barely) with cucumber foam and an Asian-inflected salad. There was some ginger, some soy; perfect flavors to complement the Chalk Hill Sauvingon Blanc. Summer on a plate and in a glass. The next course, an arugula and fresh mozzarella salad, accented by pine nuts and roasted red peppers, laced with balsamic, highlighted each ingredient, never stepping on toes; simple flavors demand simple preparation. Another intriguing preparation, slanting further toward haute, was the grilled caesar salad. It came with onion rings, pumperknickel croutons, and stilton folded into the greens. Mighty tasty, though purists would scoff at the name "caesar."

However, I might stop myself mid-thought: whoever baked the evening's "pretzel bread" should be given a medal. It was the best thing I've tasted in a long time...

Where were we: the main course, and I decided on a pan-roasted veal filet "carbonara," a fun play on words, as it came with delicate tube pasta, pancetta, peas and spicy microgreens, the veal smeared with a rich veal demi. It was wonderful, showing finesse with a touch of playfulness from the kitchen; a gloriously rich and hearty dish.

But of course, the meal's memorable peak came earlier in the evening, and needed decanting, teasing us as it soaked up the atmosphere and transformed. Truth be told, and for valid, financial reasons, I'd never had a Rothschild. And granted that this was not a hallmark year--recently, a 1982, a 1990, or even a 2000--it was still a bottle of f---ing Mouton-Rothschild, given as a gift, and it was glorious. If anyone wants a way to my heart, take notes.

Dessert also came complimentary, a generous cap to our meal. We were all full but had trouble putting our forks down over the playful "banana split," gateaux basque, and panna cotta. We left with smiles and bellies filled.

The House of Blues has a lot to be proud of. It is, at once, an extremely successful promoter, a unique, world-class stage, and a great restaurant. The way I see it, we've got more HOB dates in the future, and I've got more courses to eat...

Mizuna
225 East 7th Avenue
Denver, CO
303.832.4778

The occasion for visiting such a fine place perhaps cannot be disclosed; it was a momentous reason, to say the least, and it warranted visiting the restaurant I hadn't yet justified the expense of. Because it is expensive.

But it is wonderful.

First off, it was unbelievably cold the night we went. Fortunately, there was complimentary valet, because the twenty seconds I was outside handing the keys to the valet guy my snot froze and I could see my breath and then some. So I couldn't have imagined walking from a neighborhood a block away.

Mizuna has a tasting menu, and already resigned to dropping a bunch of cash, it would have nearly killed me not to go for the tasting menu. What better a way to experience the skill of the chef---which has already been experienced (and reviewed highly) by many; best reviewed restaurant in Denver, last time I checked. And of course then came the wine pairing as well.

It started with bubbles and an amuse of four little tastes assembled on soup spoons. A beef tartare on toasted brioche; roasted lamb with white beans and olives; a mild sheep's milk cheese en croute; and a quince sorbet. It was a miniaturized four course meal, a perfect foreshadowing of the glory that is great food to come.

Next came a smaller taste, a proscuitto-wrapped scallop with squash puree. The scallop was beyond perfectly cooked, just warmed through and melting on the tongue. The sweetness of the squash countered the salty proscuitto and the rich scallop. I told my date that I could have eaten an entire plate of this concoction, but knowing that there would be five more courses on the whim of Frank Bonano made me giddy.

Then, a dish came catering to nearly all my addictions: wild mushroom ravioli with roasted mushrooms, grated black truffle, shaved grana padana cheese, and a mushroom consomme. It was so rich, so earthly, so pungently good; I used a whole piece of bread to sop up the remaining consomme and leftover mushroom filling. And there would be more truffle to come.

The waiter said, "You came on a good night. I've never seen a whole half lobster." And thus the next course arrived: a classic lobster thermador with frisee, pearl onions and tiny boiled potatoes. The lobster was wonderfully rich, thick with béchamel and bread crumbs for texture. I was feeling full already. But fortunately the wine was kicking in, and thus my tolerance for more food raised.

A gelee intermezzo followed, and I honestly can't remember what it was (stop snickering). But it cleared the palate, prepared it exactly how it should for the next course. A pairing of braised veal shank and beef tenderloin, served with truffled mashed (hardly: they were silky smooth and fine) potatoes, white asparagus, truffled mushrooms. The braised veal was almost potently strong and flavorful, pungent with the accents of truffle and the earth of the mushroom. The beef was a beautiful medium rare (nearly rare), salty and rich and smooth.

We were nearly content. Dessert could have been an Oreo, and we wouldn't have complained. We had devoured six beautiful courses, strongly French in inspiration, a crescendo from the kitchen. And then the Meyer lemon cheesecake with fresh cherries came out, and it killed me. It put me over the edge. I couldn't finish (partially because my date had slipped me half of each of her wine tastes, retorting that she "wouldn't be able to stand up if she finished"--bah!), but I felt sublimely defeated.

The meal lasted nearly three hours, at perfect pace. The staff was unnoticeably friendly and knowledgeable, appearing and disappearing precisely at the right moments. I became so intoxicated with food (and wine, mind you) that I nearly forgot the horrid temperatures outside and the five minutes it took my sorry excuse for a car to warm up. I wanted to go back inside and do it all over again. It was therapeutic.

Leo's
60 Ottawa NW
Grand Rapids, MI
616.454.6700

Unfortunately, Grand Rapids isn't the most cosmopolitan of cities. Maybe it's not an unfortunate thing, more an acquired taste. But as a person always in search of a good place to eat, the city seemed less than award-winning. But then again I'm not a native, and someone was looking out for us.

We ended up at Leo's for yet another "business" dinner, which I have developed a strong affinity for. They have become my bread and butter, the bright spot in a horizon of monotony, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to save money. If I have never said to the powers that be that I am truly thankful for these dinners: Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

So Leo's looked promising; a grand dining room with dark woods and white tablecloths, the decor for a seafood house--which is exactly where we were. We sat down and I snagged the wine list, an evolving determination of restaurant for me. The list was good, if not ordinary. A number of big house bottles, but nonetheless solid choices. Sometimes it's fun to work for a good pick, but I'll never turn down a Quintessa (if ever given to me--wouldn't that be the day). Appetizers were ordered: a tuna sashimi, the house calamari, and a wild mushroom escargot. The tuna sashimi was bright and salty, with a sweet soy sauce and a crisp salad. The calamari, upon recommendation from our server, was light but a little uninteresting. The "escargot", avoided by some at the table, was the most interesting of the three, the goat cheese and sundried tomatoes creating a think concoction accompanying the earthy mushrooms and asparagus.

Soups and salads came. A solid Caesar salad with whole anchovies--accepted by some, rejected by others. An onion soup with a rich, powerful stock and plenty of Gruyere was satisfying and hearty. A spinach salad with toasted pecans, mandarin oranges, and a tart vinaigrette was cleared from the plate quickly--although I never had a taste. Greedy kids.

Main courses came, nearly everyone at the table opting for the "fresh catches" of the restaurant rather than specialties or land-dwelling options. The halibut, just back in season merely a week ago (said our server), was grilled and served with a sauce of pancetta, tomatoes, and herbs, over potatoes. The salty sweet sauce held up against the meaty halibut, but didn't overpower it, demonstrating knowledge of the fish. The walleye, a freshwater native of Michigan, also scored high marks with Ben--although he's Polish.

We couldn't stay for dessert. We had to go play "music", the whole reason I suppose that we were in Grand Rapids. But you forget about those things when you're in good company, eating great food, drinking wonderful wine. I'd take a dinner at Leo's again. And that I never saw the bill; for that, I am eternally, truly thankful.

Willi's Seafood and Raw Bar
403 Healdsburg Avenue
Healdsberg, CA 95448
707.433.9191

This was a crucial decision. Our next night was the altar of American dining. There had to be a balance between class and comfort, with enough life to remember it Saturday morning.
As it turns out, Healdsberg shuts down just after the wineries close to the public, the last of the stores closing at six. Of course we didn't realize that so I made the reservation at 7:30: you know, "dining with the swells" like my dad always says. Needless to say, my friend and I had nothing to do but walk the main square for over an hour, window-shopping at other restaurants and a single bookstore that happened to be open until nine. We thank him.
Anyway, Willi's hit the spot, both in our stomach's and in the weekend's lineup. And frankly, it could stand on its own (without being in the shadow of "that" restaurant) just fine. The hip little place is a small plates/tapas restaurant with eclectic wine country touches, like offbeat local wine lists and artesian foods (Laura Chennel's goat cheese is among my favorites). We started with a good chardonnay from the Russian River Valley and finished with a powerful zinfandel from Sonoma.
But onto the food. We started with five small plates, on the recommendation of our server. The first to come out were the French fries with Laura Chennel ranch. Smooth, rich, salty, perfect. A couple salads and a hamachi ceviche followed to space the richness of our other tapas. The two salads were excellent: a watermelon, cucumber, tomato and basil with a pomegranate vinaigrette and a frisee, spinach, rock shrimp and Pt. Reyes blue was a wonderful harmony of sweet and savory. Then followed our minted lamb skewers with sweet soy and a light cucumber/squash salad, the lamb tender and flavorfully grilled.
About now in the meal we couldn't exactly tell if we were still hungry. The "small" plates had actually been bigger than expected, and had filled our stomachs fast. But the beauty of tapas is that one can justify getting a few more just for the novelty. After all, it's just a few bites and the flavors had been so tantalizing. So next came bacon-wrapped seared scallops with an interesting cilantro-pumpkin seed pesto and baked goat cheese with sun-dried tomatoes and roasted garlic, plus a boule of sourdough bread with garlic-parsley butter. We didn't finish any of the plates but we didn't care. We had gotten those few final morsels that filled our bellies and drew smiles on our faces. The desserts were now out of the question. But we didn't mind. Had we had another inch of space left we have easily sprung for it (how could you not with a great experience thus far), but alas it would have been in vain. I suppose that's a testament to the tapas menu at Willi's. And the best part was, we remembered it all on Saturday morning.

The Sea Biscuit
21 J C Long Blvd.
Isle of Palms, SC
843.886.4079

Sit in at a table for two, a table for one with a newspaper and wait for the fog from the island to lift. The windows, clouded with dew and moisture, faces and words penned into the film of moisture. It begins to clear and the dirt roads, lined with naturally white sands, can been seen from inside, barefoot residents beginning to appear on the boulevard. The hot coffee and the hot sun. Syrup and sea breezes. Eggs, over easy, easy does it.

This is the Sea Biscuit, to me. Everything is traditional, essentially. French toast with a few daily variations. Omelets with your choice of fillings, but all solid, choice ingredients. Pancakes, simple eggs. I've had the raisin bread french toast, and if available--if you ever decide to go--don't hesitate to order it. Light but sweet with the subtly of cinnamon and raisins; pour on a liberal amount of syrup and enjoy. The homefries, stock with most egg dishes, are salty and oily and nearly perfect. An omelet stuffed with peppers and a spicy Italian sausage was exactly how you'd want it to be, cooked light and yellow like the sun. And a side of spicy hot links were warming and meaty, a Southern-inflected andouille.

But this isn't the whole story. The rest is filled in by long waits and patrons sitting patiently outside on the small deck; the utterly "native" feeling, as if the community was built with the Sea Biscuit in mind; the fact that if I lived here, I would go the Sea Biscuit every morning if given the chance, order everything from the menu and then start over. The restaurant isn't glamorous; it certainly isn't haute. But on a warm morning with the humidity beginning to penetrate cotton and brick, there isn't a place more fitting for a flapjack than the Sea Biscuit. I just might go there for breakfast tomorrow.

FW Post 3137
Semi-Annual Pig Roast
1004 Ocean Boulevard
Isle Of Palms, SC 29451
843.886.6840

So this place is next door to a venue we've played twice now; it's actually sandwiched by the hotel we stay at and the venue. Isle of Palms feels a little inbred, come to think of it. It's very small. Everything is a few sidewalk slabs away (and everyone walks those sidewalks in bare feet, with no shirt on, straight from the beach volleyball game, but anyway). Regardless, we arrived at the venue 45 minutes before the semi-annual luau ended (although by the looks of the people downstairs, they would have been there for a lot longer) and we still had to load in, set up, sound check, and take a swim.
In between setting up and checking our instruments, a few of us trickled over to the VFW and piled our plates high for a measly eight dollars full of southern home-cookin'. Wait, I'll back up: Isaac actually went over first and, unbeknownst to us, brought back a full plate of food and started eating it. I came upstairs and there it was: where'd you get that, I said in my stare.
"The VFW."
I tasted the pork then ran down the stairs and next door to the basement. I came back and this is what was on my plate: pulled roast pork (the guys at the roaster still cleaning up out back), coleslaw, potato salad, a pineapple gratin, baked beans, a square of cornbread and a few sauces for the pork. Now, let me tell about these wonderful foods. First, the pork: sweet and savory, succulent and juicy with a subtle smoked flavor. Presented in Styrofoam bowls for serving, it came with a barbecue sauce and sweeter, smoked sauce similar in flavor to the baked beans. It paired great with the sweetness of the pork. Then the coleslaw. I like a good coleslaw now and again, but generally aren't wild about it. I finished this coleslaw before three bites were taken from the pork. Something about it: a perfect balance between rich, creamy dressing and savory spices, the tart cabbage and sweet carrots; unlike most other coleslaws I've had. I'll take more, if only I could break my way into the VFW's refrigerator. The potato salad was fine, perhaps the weak link: it was all you'd expect from any day's potato salad. But the pineapple gratin, that was something to dream about. A weird hybrid, using very rich elements like a gratin but also breadcrumbs like some mama's casserole, paired with the sweetness of pineapple chunks was divine. Whoever made that can be my aunt anytime. I'll come over, pretend like I like my cousins, and devour her pineapple gratin. We, of course, won't forget the baked beans, with chopped sausage and ham mixed in the smoky-sweet sauce. Nearly perfect, textbook baked beans. It's what I think of when I think of baked beans (which is surprisingly more than you'd think).
There were some desserts, a few standouts among supermarket cakes and tarts. A caramel pie (the only thing I can think to describe it) was great, a think layer of supersweet caramel and a thicker layer of smooth whipped cream atop a graham cracker crust. The key lime pie would have been perfect had I gotten there a hour earlier: alas, the humidity and heat of this place got to it and it had lost form, the taste still there-sweet and tart lime cream with the substance of a graham crust. However, those were it.
If I could arrange vacations around the schedule of the Isle of Palms VFW, I would. Alas, the world doesn't work that way. It's cruel, we all know. We can barely put up with it. I'm just thankful that I could experience it this time, and hope it can happen again.

The Oakroom
500 Fourth Avenue
Louisville, KY
502.807.3463

There's always a story with a meal. It could be simple: nostalgia over coffee and chocolates, or an anniversary...with too much wine. This time around, we have a good story about the Oakroom.

To understand this story, you must first recall that the restaurant is in Kentucky. Kentucky is old with old ways and old bourbon. If something's been done a certain way for a while, it certainly won't change anytime soon. Therefore, if--hypothetically--the Oakroom has a strict "no jeans" policy, the staff certainly won't change it now. Especially for a bunch of grungy musicians.

However, they will certainly oblige the patron and not lose business. (It should be noted that the amount of people inside the restaurant was less than our party itself, just saying.) So, with grace and minimal talking the staff set up a table for seven in the the mezzanine of the restaurant--NO, not in the dining room, outside, a few steps from the restrooms. We were still waited on by an attentive and knowledgeable staff, a handful of servers, but yes, still in the mezzanine. What makes the story better: another party tried to be seated--but alas, were in jeans--and were also seated outside in the mezzanine. As dinner wore on, it turned out that no one was in the dining room and approximately twelve people or so were in the mezzanine. Ah, tradition!

Regardless, we choked the inconvenience because the meal was utterly worth it. The menu is a contemporary American tour with definite Southern notes. A tasting menu is only offered, but you can decide the breadth of it. We opted for the "middle of the road" five-course. "Middle of the road:" the Oakroom, by the way, is a DiRONA winner, if that says much.

But the menu was brilliant: I toured through seared scallops, the restaurant's rendition of a Caesar salad, duck, and lamb. Others opted for the foie gras, a trademark barley soup with "Cherokee" routes, the lobster and a fun, whimsical option titled: "Basics of Cooking, Vol. 1-3," where the executive chef Todd Richards paired a meat of his choice with a side and "loaded potato" of his choice. A play on words mostly, it worked and worked well: contemporary, lighter Southern fare. And we could see the plaques in the entrance, the multiple Wine Spectator and AAA 5-Diamond awards (the only restaurant in Kentucky, apparently, to win all 5 diamonds); we could see this awards on the plates, in the presentation and in the style, in the flavor and composure. And the wine list: it was a tome, a rag to lust over.

Dessert, of course, did not disappoint, as it was perhaps the most artfully presented, sparse geometric shapes and trails of sweet reductions; and an homage to the "Art of the Souffle" with five variations. A nearly perfect meal, enough said.

And of course, as the meal winded down and we realized the restroom called our names, it was a much closer walk than, say, it would have been had we sat in the dining room. Coincidentally, that was a good thing, because a Wine Spectator "Best Of" rating is a dangerous, dangerous thing.

Au Bistro Gourmet 2
4007 rue Saint-Denis
Montreal, Quebec
(514) 844-0555

This was a close call. We very nearly ended up at a Middle Eastern restaurant, and while I love Middle Eastern cuisine as much as the next person, that's no place to have a Sunday brunch. Sunday brunches are for strong coffee, buttery pastries, eggs and cheeses, and mostly lounging like you have nothing better to do-because everything else can wait. That's exactly what happened at Bistro Gourmet.
Located on a quaint street in downtown Montreal, Bistro Gourmet is one of many French-inspired bistros and brasseries throughout the city. Quebec is entirely French and therefore borrows many of the culture's culinary influence. I had wanted to hit up a bistro since the moment we entered Canada, knowing that of anywhere we could get a good, reasonably French meal, Montreal would be the place.
The meal started off on a slow note, the waiter patiently helping the linguistically challenged of the group through the entirely French menu. Only later did we find out that one of us at the table, in a botched attempt to speak French, ordered the cheese plate without cheese. Of course the wait staff surely has dozens of ignorant Americans stumble through their doors in search of French fries daily and handled the situation, delivering a cheese plate with...cheese.
For a reasonable $13.99 (Canadian, no less) one can get a brunch "feast" with as much deep, rich espresso as needed, glass of juice; a few fresh croissants and rolls, a main plate from a selection of three, and a chocolate croissant finale. Don't skip the croissants. As if they were straight from the oven, the rolls arrived warm and crisp, the paper-thin layers of pastry dough disappearing in your mouth. Over-indulgence is the key here: slather a layer of butter on the butter croissant. Sunday brunch, right?
The majority of us at the table opted for an omelet as the main, save the "cheese plate guy." The omelets came stuff with a choice of cheese, mushroom, ham, shrimp, or any combination. A choice of green salad or frites, but again, this is Sunday brunch. Ordering a green salad would be entirely too Monday. Time to let loose and loosen the belt, order the frites and a side of mayonnaise for the true bistro experience. The omelets came both light and creamy, a deceptively rich assembly that left you with leftovers on the plate. We all felt slightly defeated by the omelet, but it very well could have been the frites: those went quick. Most were perfectly golden and crisp on the outside, delicate and airy on the inside. An order had likely not been blanched in oil a second time and had been delivered disappointingly limp. And from what he said, the cheese plate was a success as well.
It seems that, especially at brunch time, a dessert is always craved but rarely ordered. You have likely fattened yourself on gloriously rich foods already, eating with abandon, and can't fathom dessert. Fortunately for us, we couldn't even think about it. It was included: what would you do, refuse it? But the chocolate croissant was light and sweet, filling that void that inevitably comes after brunch.
Perhaps someday we'll be adventurous enough to try Middle Eastern cuisine on a Sunday morning, when the thought of rotisserie meats and chickpeas seems the perfect fit. However, knowing that that day won't come into the apocalypse, or surely close to it, a lazy French Sunday is always in order. And when in Montreal, don't forget Bistro Gourmet. And don't forget to order the cheese with the cheese plate.

The Trace
2000 Belcourt Avenue
Nashville, TN
615.385.2200

It was Mother's Day, and alas all of us orphan kids had no mothers to speak of. We stepped off our tour bus with no mother to hug, no home-cooked meals. So we had to find one, and we were all tired of eight dollar meals that taste, look, and feel like eight dollars (or less). Enter a nice night on the town.

The Trace would be our spot. A hip, old converted garage with plenty of glass and old brick ambiance, it's a healthy-sized dining room that I suppose would normally be packed to the gills. But it was Mother's Day, and by the time we arrived at 7:30-ish, the crowds had either come and gone or never come at all. But we started off right with a Wine Spectator-award winning list and ordered up some Oregon pinot gris.

We waited for the rest of our party (promptness is not their forte) and let the ordering begin. The menu was textbook New American, reaching across the Atlantic and also south across the border. I started with a Trace Salad, composed of mesclun, honey marinated oranges, kassari cheese, walnuts and a balsamic vinaigrette; it was dressed almost perfectly, enough to let the sweet and tart balsamic vinegar highlight the lettuces. Someone next to me ordered the mussles, with a coconut curry broth accented with cilantro. I wanted more bread to sop up the remainder of his leftovers. And someone else ordered the lobster and scallop tartare, consumed without time for me to snatch a forkful.

Impressed so far, I ordered some pinot noir to match with our lighter main plates. The first bottle, however, arrived corked and threw me for a loop. Perhaps it was a sign, as my favor for the Trace dwindled as the meal progressed. My chicken, pan-roasted with baby carrots, herb and parmesan risotto, and a chardonnay sauce was lifeless and almost dry, the sauce virtually non-existent--or perhaps already absorbed by the porous risotto. The chicken had little crust which sacrificed flavor. I did, however, catch a bite of the duck breast. The sauce, a sweet and sour, fruit-forward sauce helped (as sweetness almost always does with duck) cover the blandness of the wild rice. It could just be my bias: I hate rice, almost all things rice--except Asian foods, and even then I'll take noodles over rice. I think it hurts more dishes than it helps. However, a standout was, surprisingly, the vegetarian pasta, full of artichoke hearts, cherry tomatoes, olives, spinach, with a garlic oil and shaved asiago cheese. Perhaps a mundane pairing of flavors, it nonetheless worked in a salty, subtly sweet harmony.

The majority of our table opted out of dessert; could I pass up banana bread pudding? Of course not, and it was exactly what I hoped. The saturated, mildy sweet slices with a dollop of whipped cream was a perfect ending to the meal, light with undertones of richness to make up for the richness the meal lacked at times.

So, the Trace? I would go back, and likely on a more crowded night. While I wasn't entirely won over, surely in the rush of a Friday night, this place would impress even the hardest critic.

Amerigo
1920 West End Avenue
Nashville, TN
615.320.1740

It's hard to love and Italian restaurant. The cuisine has been bastardized to a pulp in the past, the food becoming the equivalent of cheap take-out Lo Mein noodles with sesame chicken. So when I stepped into Amerigo and saw more modern, American lines of chic decoration, I had mixed emotions. Could this be another Italian joint glossing over its sub-par food with sleek appointments, or could this be a representation of the great food to come? It's still hard to love an Italian restaurant (that love, alas, is reserved for the French), but this came pretty damn close.
Our meal started out with service. I say this because it was so impossible not to acknowledge our server, which could be good or bad. He was loud and commanding, leading us through some specials and aiding us in our orders. Good, right? Yeah, but perhaps he could turn down the decibel level a few notches. But that's trivial. A few of us at the table began with an arugula salad, composed of walnuts, gorgonzola, grilled apple and a gorgonzola vinaigrette. A smooth and tangy combination, even if the vinaigrette was slightly too acidic for my taste. Nonetheless, a blue cheese and a sweet, crisp fruit (apples or pears, perhaps) are always welcomed. Also ordered at the table was the soup of the day, a black bean soup with cilantro and crisp tortilla strips. A somewhat confusing departure from theme, it was nonetheless exciting and not your "average black bean soup."
A lunch entrÈe special, as I was informed loudly, was your choice of a salmon or Chilean sea bass filet roasted on a cedar plank. Immediately I thought of my uncle in his suburban San Francisco home, cooking a beautifully pink filet of a salmon on a cedar plank on his grill outside. The fish was so smooth then, so silky, that I had to try it here. I wasn't quite sure if the decision would be detrimental: what if it failed expectations? I would have my fond memories dashed by some jerk in a kitchen in Nashville. The nerve. Oh well, I ordered it.
And I was glad I did. The salmon was great, with a salty crust on top and the cedar flavor infused on the underside. That's one thing I love about Italian method: they don't shy away from salt. It came accompanied by wonderfully salty and rich asiago-leek-mashed potatoes and a medley of squashes and peppers. Perhaps the best part was the presentation. Two thin slivers of cedar, placed on top of each other-one had cooked my fish, the other held the heat. And that was it. It looked rustic and elegant at once, with taste to match. A friend ordered the sea bass. Just as wonderful, the salt crust playing nearly better with the comparatively mild flavor of the bass. Around the table, a turkey panini was delivered and received as "the best panini I've ever had." An Italian sausage pizza was also ordered with a thin, crisp crust accented with a sharp cheese (asiago, again?). Another winner. And one from the table even shied away from her "usual" and in glorious success found another worthy dish.
Call it personal preference, like finding the "one" girl or guy that you'll love forever, saving a piece of yourself for them always. That's my love for French food. But believe you me, there's plenty left to go around, and Amerigo just stole a big kiss.

Hearth
403 East 12th Street
New York, NY 10009
646.602.1300


Two things can invariably happen in New York when you "vacation" there: 1) you get very little sleep, falsely believing you're rested, because you 2) walk everywhere trying to do everything, seeing everybody and paying every amount. Fortunately, for some strange reason or another, both of those (particularly the latter) get my hunger going, and the last night I was there the other week I decided to take my partner in crime and I out for a big, last meal. The kind that almost hurt when you pay for it and certainly pinch your waistline: I don't remember my belt being that tight. But you reason it all, saying you have an early flight and it will tide you over when you stumble through security.
Hearth was such the experience. It came on a recommendation from a food-minded friend, the same friend that led us (blessedly) to Craft in NY. It was a rainy night, which led to a romantic feeling, scurrying from awning to awning under a helpless umbrella. Inside, the restaurant has an understated elegance, one wall the original exposed brick, the tables placed cleanly in the rectangular space. The food's intent, it seems, is a contemporary American palette with Italian influences, to provide technique and foundation. I was already excited about this place after looking it over online, one of the many reasons being the thoughtful and focused wine list. Although the selection of half bottles was limited, we found a few fine suitors for our courses.
Now to the courses: we splurged and did the five-course tasting, because like I said, who wants to eat a packaged muffin at 5:30 while you're shoeless and being wanded over by the TSA? It all started right too, with an amuse bouche served from the kitchen while we poured over the menu. After deciding the menu and the wine, our first course came soon (although not soon enough, my only complaint of Hearth: the stretched spacing between courses, just enough time to wonder if the next would reach our table). A diver scallop carpaccio with pickled chanterelles, beets, black truffle and herbs: it was a beautiful presentation of restraint, flavors that stand alone just enough to create a harmony, yet all with subtlety. But it was the next course that surprised me: red wine-braised octopus with celery root puree and a vegetable "salad." The octopus was so substantial, the red wine cutting the inevitable "fishiness" that can come with octopus, the puree furthering the richness, and the vegetables providing a mildly tart acidity as a distraction. When we put in our order, we added a side of gnocchi to split between our second and third course, thinking we'd need the "substance." A grave underestimation, but we didn't mind.
Next came Kobe skirt steak with cipollini onions, rapini, and a red wine reduction. To be truthful, had it been on the menu, and priced accordingly, I'm not sure I would have gotten it. Truffles I'll pay for. Mushrooms I'll pay for. Heirloom vegetables, even. But Kobe beef has always seemed "glitzy" for me, especially when it's pulverized into a burger or meatloaf or some other haute food rape. That said it was the best tasting skirt steak I've had, succulently tender and seasoned perfectly. Everything on the plate was a standout, down to the humble onion. The unnamed woman across the table from me couldn't finish hers (she triumphantly soldiered through the meal, though) and I gladly took them.
Next, a dessert amuse: an orange panna cotta with candied pistachios. Honestly, this might have taken the cake (horrible, horrible, horrible) between the two desserts in my opinion, although the pumpkin tarte tatin with vanilla ice cream and pumpkin seed nougatine was probably my partner-in-crime's vote. Neither were obtrusively rich or overwhelming, just a balance of sweet and substance, with smart contrasts in textures.
All this, combined with a few half bottles of wine and a few glasses of a great late-harvest chardonnay for the sweets, helped us roll out of the restaurant. We rolled into a taxi, rolled in the apartment where we were shacking up (thanks Doug), and rolled into bed. Just the way the last evening in New York should be.

John's Pizzeria (of Bleecker Street)
278 Bleecker Street
New York, NY 10014
212.243.1680

"Pizza?"
"Yeah, it's the best pizza in the city."
I had been whining. My first night in New York City: I wanted haute, I wanted emulsions and seared food. Pizza? Don't get me wrong, I love New York pizza. It doesn't exist where we're from, really. I suppose it kind of does, but even that's a stretch. But, truth be told, I wasn't in the mood.
I was dragged there, in a flurry of other activity, my stomach already rumbling and begging for a fill-up. The pizza was already on the table, along with sides of meatballs, sausages, and salad. At least I don't have to wait, I thought. I ordered a glass of Chianti as one should in any Italian setting, at least to start things off, and dove in.
Now, until this point I've geared my reviews so that the length of the article loosely reflects the length of the meal, as though the reader can build the appropriate experience in his or her mind. So, as dictated by my own rules, the review must be short. Time from first bite to last was significantly shorter than others. We were in a rush. We're always in some sort of rush.
Be that as it may, my first bite slowed everything down. It was a white pizza that did it to me. Generously heaped with mozzarella and ricotta cheese, savory without spice, the slice was pizza bliss. My friend tells me it's the water in New York that makes the dough so good. I don't honestly care. Everything tastes better here, and this pizza was one of the purest, simplest flavors I've tasted. The few others on the table were great, too: a meatball pizza with homemade and flavorfully spicy meatball, and a simple cheese pizza. I asked for more white pizza, though. I ate a lot of white pizza. The ricotta was smooth as silk, creamy and warm.
And then we left. We had something to do, I don't remember what. But I do remember John's Pizzeria. "No Slices" it says on the banner, and you wouldn't want one, because you'd just ask for another. And another.

Ideya
349 West Broadway
New York, NY 10013
212.625.1441

Well on my way to bloated bliss in the Big Apple, still trying to eat as much as I could, we found ourselves at late dinner at the small Soho Latin bistro Ideya one night. Perhaps we wouldn't have found this place had it not been for the fact that one of the guy's wife who works with us (I just can't say his name) own it, and has for seven or so years. So we had the hookups. Do people still say that?
Anyway: I've noticed that while New York City can offer any and every cuisine our heart's palate can handle, the fine dining biggies are overwhelmingly French. And while this might appropriately so, since that of course is the greatest food nation on the planet (I love making enemies, especially with my Italian manager), it can become off-balance and leave you craving something spicy and exotic, or at least a good mojito. Enter Ideya, and it's cozy Latin bistro vibe. And yes, we did start with a few mojitos. I'm not even a fan of the mojito, for one reason or another, but these were good, heavy on the mint with smooth rum underneath. My mojito-minded friends enjoyed them. I stuck with the house sangria, which was equally as good, a nice balance between sweet and tart acidity.
So then we got some starters, on recommendation from our friend (husband of the owner, if you missed that). Out came chicken and goat cheese croquetas, taquitos, a ceviche of the day, and crab cakes. Assured by our server, the ceviche was excellent, the radish and onion relish giving the already acidic scallops a boost of sharpness. The seafood-stuffed taquitos were equally nice, with a chile de arbol sauce that I wanted to steal for everything else and slather with abandon. The other two seemed not to receive equal love from the kitchen, the croquetas appearing (and tasting) as if they were warmed for the occasion from conception hours before. And as much as I wanted to like them, the plantain chips served in place of bread at the meal's launch came sans salt, which ultimately made what could have been great, lackluster. The saving grace arrived in the accompanying salsa: ultimately fresh and flavorful, we could have used two bowls.
The entrees came, well presented and generously sized by Nuevo NYC food standards. And all were satisfying, if not some more than others. The Bistec de Argentina (skirt steak) came with a fine chimichurri and a good papaya barbecue puree/sauce of sorts, the fries good and crisp-some just a little too crisp… The seared Ginger Tuna had higher marks, the boniato cake adding smooth substance and the citrus ginger sauce a juxtaposing bitter sweetness. And two people ordered the short ribs (Costillas de Res), billed by our friend as a signature of Ideya. We agreed: perhaps the greatest dish on the table, each element playing off textures and flavors. The rich and subtly spicy short ribs contrasted with the mildly sweet and crisp jicama-cabbage slaw, and both then played against the plump and smoky grilled corn on the cob. A good dish that made me wished I had ordered it… in the best way possible.
Desserts were tricky that night: even our friend said they were lackluster by Ideya standards, for whatever reason. Agreement came on the Ideya flan, too firm and mild. The tres leches cake, however, was exactly what you'd want it to be: rich and saturated in the understated sweetness of the milks, with a banana cream on top. Muy bueno! Good marks also for the guava cheesecake, the surprise hit of the course. The guava had a subtle caramel flavor which played sweet vs. sour with the ginger crust. And finally the mango sorbet: what to do with the mango sorbet? I liked it, but it's definitely only for fans of tart flavors. I later asked Isaac what we had for dessert: "Bitter-as-hell mango." There you go. I still liked it.
Regardless, the meal was good and atmosphere just as good. Perhaps not just for the restaurant itself, which does hold an understated, authentic charm, but even the area. New York is romantic-as-hell, and eating Latin food through opened front windows, street-side, at 10:30 in the evening makes any night worthwhile.

Craft
43 East 19th Street
New York, New York
212.780.0880

The great part about New York, if you allow yourself the indulgence, is gaining weight. I've gone through many stages of life, some more "self-conscious" than others, and have finally settled on one with a healthy balance of both, I believe. And that's important, especially when you go to New York. Because three things will happen: you're self-esteem will be challenged, you're wallet will be emptied, and you're waistline will grow. And the last is far and away the most rewarding, because it's restaurants like Craft that making eating the most satisfying pleasure in life.
We had a late start to the meal: a reservation at 9:15, which is a blessing and a curse. Either way you see, you have to eat something between lunch and dinner or your stomach will explode, which just leads to more New York food of any kind. Needless to say, when we got to the restaurant, we were all ready to eat. And it's a beautiful space, clean and geometric with tall, modern ceilings and a beautiful wine room in the center of the restaurant. Everything's done right: the silver, the china, the stemware. The service is superb, thoughtful and helpful with a touch of sophistication, yet entirely not stuffy.
But I haven't even gotten to the food yet. It's a completely a la carte menu, with each preparation showing off the qualities of the food itself, without terribly complicated or involved preparations or pairings. So each person orders a starter, an entrée, and a side (about) and you'll be pleasantly filled. Of course desert comes and you have mysteriously saved room for it, a tiny space in your stomach reserved for blissful over-indulgence. I won't get ahead of myself: we'll begin with our appetizers, out of which no one shared really, because once you get a starter at Craft, you don't want to share. To the table came two preparations of foie gras, a terrine and pan-roasted, sweetbreads, guinea hen, and a spinach salad, the weakest link was the spinach salad. At that the salad was still "good," just not "knock-your-socks-off" like every other preparation. Both foie gras preparations were outstanding, a sweet and savory element for each, yet distinctly different: and the roasted foie gras was smoother than butter. It disappeared on your tongue.
We were all feeling mighty fine after the appetizer. Not that we were full (somehow, it's hard to be full in New York), but we knew that we were in for a treat. We shared four entrees and four sides between the five us. There were, as follows: roasted John Dory and roasted turbot; braised short ribs; roasted guinea hen. The only complaint of the course was that one piece of turbot had a distinctly more developed crust on the presentation side than the other, and thus tasted far better. However, everything came prepared and simply and preserved as possible. The guinea hen was served two ways, a summer truffle-stuffed breast and leg meat braised in port. The braised short rib was classic, but oh-so-good; the John Dory came with sautéed mushrooms (of some sort I don't remember). Our sides carried their weight, and came honestly close to outshining the main plates. Everything from the sinfully rich potato gratin to nearly naked greenmarket cranberry beans had a specific purpose and quality that shined. The brussel sprouts (and I swore I didn't like them, honest) were perhaps that standout: roasted, they had an almost charred exterior and a buttery soft interior with a surprisingly smoky, salty robust flavor. I can still taste them.
Like I said: dessert, there's always room for it. A few of the party opted out. But you know me: I didn't share my Legos as a kid and I don't share my desserts now. And chocolate soufflé should not be shared. It was as close to perfect as a soufflé should be, sweet with a hint of bitterness from darker chocolate, flaky on the top and a hot silky smooth on the inside. I would have licked the cup but I would have burned my tongue, and therefore not been able to eat any more New York food. And that would have been pure foolishness on my part.
Dinner at Craft, complete with two excellent bottles of wine and a round of "sticky" dessert wine is not cheap. Nothing is cheap here. A Diet Coke (in a can, mind you) on the street cost two bucks, yet for some reason it tastes better. Is it the smell of the hotdog water and smoky giros? That, of course, might be a mental hoax, but Craft is not: it is purely excellent New York cuisine, that to rival any city's best.

balthazar
80 Spring Street
New York, New York 10012
212.965.1414
website

This had been on the to-do list for quite some time. I have the cookbook at home. I've read the reviews. Needless to say, there was some "hype" inside my mind that it had to live up to. but I was cautious: hype can kill a great thing.
That said this place lived up to the hype. Dare I say surpass it? With flying colors.
Again, it was only breakfast this time. When you're on the road like we happen to be, it's hard to eat dinner at places-after all, you've got catering to tide you over and lunches at Arby's and what-have-you. but I was excited for breakfast. I had a romanticized vision of a brasserie breakfast in NYC that I had yet to fulfill. I imagined a newspaper and a cup of coffee, an omelet perhaps (or granola, if you're feeling light), all seated on a bench backed up to a large window facing the street. The shadows of the restaurant's window lettering might hit the page every once in a while, broken by food trucks delivering produce and a city bus rumbling across Spring St.
And guess what? There was some of that there. Not us, though. We had a party of three and had a fine time talking to each other and sharing great food. And great food it was. The wonderful thing about a good brasserie is that it takes familiar and sometimes simple flavors and makes every piece excellent. An omelet tastes better than any other omelet, even though it's still an omelet. Eggs benedict is decidedly richer and creamier, yet it's still eggs benedict.
On our table to start were a chocolate croissant (eaten before two out of the three arrived, a satisfying morsel to tide a stomach over), a few cups of coffee and a "bowl" of cafÈ au lait. The "bowl" is not an exaggeration. It is literally a large soup bowl filled to the brim with your beverage of choice. No waiting for refills, which at 9:30 a.m. was a smart move. To fill the stomachs we chose the Eggs benedict (upon recommendation), Two Eggs en croute, and the Full English breakfast, a platter of sausages, eggs, beans, toast, roasted tomatoes, and bacon. And of course, none of these flavors were out of the ordinary: reminiscent of flavors you've had before, but oh, so much better. The beans on the English breakfast tasted vaguely similar to Heinz beans, yet an elevated, white tablecloth version with depth and spice. All eggs were cooked perfectly; the poached eggs for the benedict cooked until firm whites held smooth, liquid centers.
Perhaps the best quality of the restaurant, the character (besides the food, of course) in this play that will keep me coming back is the atmosphere and maniacal attention to accurate detail. Everything is antiqued, enough so to make us ask our waitress how long exactly this restaurant had been around. Her answer, "8 years," could have easily been "108." Edges on the classic brasserie mirrors were scared and worn; the stairs to the washroom were warped and the stain rubbed off. Cigarettes sold by the bar (for a robbing NYC price, too). Croissants and morning pastries displayed proudly near the entrance on a grand steel shelf.
The great part was that my vision of a brasserie breakfast in NYC morphed to a new vision of a breakfast in Paris. I waited for people around to speak French. I waited for a French-only menu. I waited for the bill to be in francs. balthazar is amazing space; a trip to Paris means a walk to Spring Street, and a walk I wish to make again and again.


balthazar

I must make an amendment. You see, before now I had only been to balthazar for breakfast, and what a great breakfast it was. but I'll admit, I own the cookbook. I've poured over the pages, rereading recipes not for an occasion, but for the knowledge, the experience, to get inside the heads behind this restaurant. And I had only been to breakfast. Nothing's wrong with that, but I'm sure that Keith McNally had the evening in mind when he envisioned his marriage of New York and Paris. So, I had to do it. Plain and simple. The place is even louder in the evening. That's one wonderful quality about balthazar: the sheer noise of it all. Everyone's talking. Everyone's eating. Everyone's clanking glass and silverware, scuffing shoes and "ordering another." So when we walked in on a Monday night and there was a good sized wait line outside the restaurant, down the Spring Street block, I was already smiling.
Of course the food made me smile more. I might have said this before (I honestly don't remember; you know how time flies and all), but balthazar is the kind of place that could very easily be fit into a daily routine. breakfast in the morning. A quick lunch, or perhaps just an after-work drink. Then dinner. Perhaps you could trim that down a little, but a trip a day is absolutely possible. The food reflects this: it's superb in its simplicity; in it's bourgeoisie appeal. Much of the menu is classic French fare, perhaps with a modern twist from the kitchen. Expect to get steak and potatoes, fish with mushrooms, mousses and terrines, some short ribs and maybe a shepherd's pie. Just don't expect it taste like most "steak and potatoes."
So, we began with a few choices for the table to share: lobster risotto with scallions, shrimp cocktail, and escargot. I don't see the big deal in shrimp cocktail, but this was a fine example. The risotto and escargot, however, were outstanding in their own rites: logical, simple flavors elevated to the peak of their potential. Escargot served in their shells, the balance of garlic, butter, and parsley creating a perfectly salty, herby bath for the snails. The risotto was rich and hearty, combining the strong elements of risotto and lobster meat for a heavy, deeply satisfying flavor. Of course, following that I had to have the onion soup. Had to have it. I have the cookbook: page 36.
Following that same logic, the cookbook touts the steak frites. A favorite of patrons from day one, it says. Part of me wanted to try something else, to branch out, explore the flavors of balthazar. The other part of me wanted meat, damn it. And good meat too. Meat with a lot of salty fries and butter. So I caved and order the steak frites. It came a nearly perfect "medium-rare" by my standards, a generous pat of maitre'd hotel butter atop the filet. A heaping of fries beside it: perfect. The plate was perfect. Rich meat, salty potatoes, creamy and earthy enriching butter. Haven't had better steak frites. A steak au poivre also made its way to our table, served along with a mound of sautéed spinach, the dish equally impressive in the sauce's balance of savory and peppery. The "chicken Dijon" was also served, with glazed carrots, eaten so quickly that I didn't have time to steal a forkful. Says something I suppose.
Given that the food was French and the wine was flowing, our stomachs were satisfied. Or were they? Mine, alas, was not. Need…dessert. A carmelized banana ricotta tart will do, and oh, did it! A burnished, sugary glaze of the bananas and smooth interior, the salty shortbread crust, and a pat of ice cream below: beautiful. A friend ordered the warm chocolate cake, served simply with chocolate sauce and vanilla ice cream. It was unbelievably moist with a bittersweet finish, the ice cream completing-not competing-with a shot of sweet vanilla.
I love balthazar. I went back home the morning after, still full and smiling. I don't know when I'll be back again, but it won't be soon enough. Wake me up when we're going.

The black Cow Tap and Grill
54R Merrimack Stree
Newburyport, MA 01590
978.498.8811

The drive tested our resolve. I'll admit, I got a little weary as we drove further and further away from the red brick metropolis of boston. Why drive this far? There must be hundreds of restaurants in the area worthy of a trip. but alas, it was for a friend. Could that be enough, though?
And then God himself parted the Massachusetts trees and gave us a sleepy, nostalgic town called Newburyport, right on the coast. The "downtown" was an historic picture book block, with cobblestone streets and low, weathered buildings. The town, we discovered slowly, was at least three centuries old, if not older. Suddenly the trip became worth it. Now we had to find this restaurant.
Man, perhaps, is inventing too rapidly for his own good; however, the GPS is divinely inspired. Rather than dumbly prod for clues from locals, you just search, click, look, drive, park, eat. As we approached the black Cow, we noticed that the restaurant was directly on the water. Points already. And the sky had begun its slow, rich sunset. More points. When we found our friend and our table, we realized that we were sitting in the corner of the outside balcony, actually over the water. I began to understand that only short of serving me a cooking human head (or finger...) could this restaurant severely jeopardize this evening.
The fare was coastal, with a few Mediterranean influences here and there. Not quite as much seafood as I expected, but nonetheless, the menu appeared well balanced. We started with a few appetizers, a tuna sashimi (which, in truth, was seared rare) and escargot. The escargot was the standout, salty, garlicky, buttery and rich with melted cheese above each snail. We ordered either salads or chowder around the table, the clam chowder being excellently rich and briny. One of the better chowders I've had in a while. The salad, too, that the friend next to me ordered was nice, with a light vinaigrette allowing the other elements to come forward-candied walnuts, blue cheese. Surprisingly, by this point, everyone at the table was starting to feel contently full, not the position you want to be in before the entrees.
but they came and we dove in. Admittedly, the entrees were the weak link in the meal. My halibut with roasted potatoes, tomatoes, fennel, and aioli seemed uninspired and somewhat lackluster, everything under-seasoned a little. The response around the table for the other entrees was neither exuberance nor disgust. It was like we ate because we ordered, although we all knew that the appetizers and soups/salads had stood above this. Plus, I think in our corner they had not had the foresight to plan an outdoor light near our table (or the tables around us), so I think I ate halibut. I couldn't exactly see what my fork took.
by this point, we were full. We had been already, and now assuredly so. No dessert, right? Of course. What else do I do but eat, right? I moved and shifted and found a few places in my belly for some dessert. I ordered a flourless chocolate cake with a raspberry coulis, relatively standard fare. However, when it came and I dove my spoon into it, I knew before I tasted it that it would be great. The torte had nearly the consistency of ganache, so velvety and smooth. And it was great. Of course, no one else was "hungry" for dessert, but managed to steal a few bites of mine as I passed it around unwillingly. I'd hurt for this dessert. Gimme back my chocolate.
The night finished well as the sun disappeared and the moon raised itself over the water, its reflection eerily similar to the Karate Kid. I was convinced by the end of the evening that I was created to live on the ocean, at whatever point that could be. The meal turned out a success, and I wasn't served a human head. Which I appreciated.

Pat's Steaks
1237 E Passyunk Ave
Philadelphia, PA
215.468.1546

Not to be rude or anything, but one of the crowning reasons to come to Philly are the cheesesteaks. That and Le bec Fin, but I didn't have $300 to drop the other night, so I put that on hold. However, the steaks could not wait. I'd had Jim's once before--there's a trio of joints around town, all surely hating each other--but needed a second taste.

Pat's isn't in the greatest neighborhood, but a strangely beautiful one at that, straight from the frames of an inner city film. A perfectly run-down baseball diamond with tattered houses surrounding it. You have to sit outside at Pat's, because there isn't seating inside. Strange, but again perfect.

And wait until you order: you better know your steak, because the guy making 'em is gonna yell at you if you don't. Order them "wit" or "wit-out" onions, with your choice of toppings and cheese. Get Cheese Whiz. Only way to go. Then, step to the next door and order fries and a birch beer. Go to the table. Sit down and take a bite, the soft chewy roll, greasy good beef and perfectly-artificial tasting Whiz working in a great harmony that only the Creator himself could orchestrate. Listen to the kids playing ball and the two guys talking loudly over a smoke. Watch the amber and orange sunset above the low roof peaks. Sit and be happy, because life rarely gets better than this.

DiMillo's
25 Long Wharf
Portland, Maine
207.772.2216

Here's the deal: the restaurant is floating (hence the subtitle on the business card, "Float Restaurant and Marina." Unfortunately, it's not a small sailboat or the like, so you don't actually feel the floating. Unfortunate, I say, because you just might like the food a little better if you didn't have to concentrate solely on it.
I have a problem with 90% of all "seafood" restaurants out there, be it in Maine where the lobster's so fresh it's breeding, or in say, Denver, CO, where you're lucky if the lobster was shipped overnight. Seems to me that there is-and this may receive some immediate criticism-too much emphasis on the seafood. Now, let me explain. It's all well and good to pay a good chunk of change for just over a pound of lobster, especially if the lobster's damn fresh. but it's hard to justify when the other included "courses," "sides," or whatever misnomer the restaurant decides to label them as, are just sub-par. DiMillo's, sadly, falls into this classic seafood restaurant paradigm.
It was hit or miss the entire meal; meals like those are probably the most frustrating. Just at the restaurant scores points with one dish, it invariable falls flat on the next. Thus was the beginning at DiMillo's, the clam and haddock chowder. While the clam chowder was good but not great (it takes a true Massachusetts clam chowder to be great), the haddock chowder, a thinner, milder soup, scored big points. The soup had just enough oil spots on the surface to ensure richness, and a helping of cream enriched the broth, but it's lightness and pleasant "fishy" flavor pushed it above the clam chowder. A good introduction to a tour de seafood. However...
A friend ordered the escargot as an appetizer, baked en croute in a small oval gratin dish. The thing about escargot is, complements. They take on the flavor you give them, and that flavor generally should be a strong flavor to overcome any odd, earthy flavors. but this dish was entirely too weak, both in the butter broth and the pastry itself. I believe it was served in garlic butter, although it was a stretch to find "garlic" in there. And pastry was so bland it tasted like eating napkins (I would imagine).
The "salad" course, as to be expected, was nothing more than stock romaine and iceberg lettuces slathered with dressing and a few slices of cucumber. I don't know whether to complain about this or simply admit defeat. Salad, alas, seems to be a very difficult piece to master, while it shouldn't be. I'm sure others have said the same words over and over.
On to the mains, which can range from a lobster club sandwich, crab cakes, a steak, or nearly any size of lobster you can handle. Around the table there were a few sandwiches and a handful of lobsters. Admittedly I am not a lobster fanatic. I opted for the lobster club and perhaps was disappointed a little, although I wasn't expecting magnificence. For the price, you might have your hopes dashed a little more opting for the lobster. It came simply paired with choice of cole slaw, potato salad or fries, a bucket of steamer clams (of which three were eating, total-complete overkill) and either stuffed or simply steamed. While good-it "got the job done"-still, now, it seems strange to me to pay nearly $50 per person (including tip) for a shellfish dinner and some melted butter. There is so much exciting new cuisine happening for that or less (in some cases, a lot less) that it appears somewhat absurd. but lobster people are a different breed, I think, and will forever pay whatever it takes to get the biggest, freshest lobster. And those people are good for business, because without them, DiMillo's wouldn't exist, and likewise neither might Maine's coast.

La Victoria Taquiera
140 E. San Carlos St.
San Jose, CA
408.298.5335

"Where can I get something cheap, and in fifteen minutes?" I asked someone.

"La Victoria," the person said.

"Where that is?"

"What?"

"Huh?"

"Nothing," the person said.

Regardless, I found the place, with a friend who also happens to be on tour with us. Inside the restaurant were plaques of awards and random ribbons and medals. but the menu looked authentic. You could get menudo or beef tongue. If you don't know, don't ask.

A fairly limited menu, heavy on burritos, quesadillas, anything fast and Oaxacan. I opted for the Super (which just means added cheese, sour cream, guacamole) burrito with carnitas. What happened next was sheer bliss for twenty minutes.

The restaurant serves the burritos (and I imagine other items) with an "orange sauce," a mystery cream with balanced heat and flavor. It's like Tabasco for people who are sick of Tabasco. So I got a couple extra. The restaurant sells the elixir in bottles for $6 or so, so I figured I better try this stuff.

The carnitas was perfect, charred and spicy and wet. And the sauce to cut the sour cream and guacamole's richness was gold. I didn't want the burrito to end, and sadly it did, because they are not terribly oversized. They are big, mind you, but not by any means unconquerable.

The line was out the door, nearly. The tables were full. A bunch of locals were hanging on the restaurant's outside steps. It felt local and cramped and almost perfect. What we needed was a couple degrees more of heat, a hot midday sun, and a siesta afterward. Wait, I'm in a bus right now. I can siesta if I want.

by The Sea
23-7 Maruyama-cho, Shibuya-ku, Tokyo, Japan
03.3770.0878
www.kaikaya.com

It all happened in a blur. The restaurant was a suggestion by an American visiting Tokyo. How good could that be? The walls were full of polaroid pictures, the tables filled with Japanese people celebrating birthdays and raising glasses. The word "local" didn't do the atmosphere justice. This restaurant, so it seemed, would be a paradox? Hardly.

Mind you, I'm an American in Tokyo, a more foreign place that one can imagine. A land where, sadly, Starbucks is your only ally; and even there you must order with picture cards. but with a few local "translators," everything started to play out. The meal began slowly, a round of local beer poured in everyone's glass and no food on the table. Then came a bowl of mildly spicy sprimp with fried rice paper and, on the menu, "Prawns with prawn sauce." As a precaution to this review: the descriptions of dishes are vague, unfortunately so, as even our translator had a rough go at penning the food. Regardless, the meal was off to a good start. I immediately wanted another shrimp, as everyone at the table was instructed to have one shrimp, and one shrimp only. To our good fortune, the next course arrived shortly: a yellowtail carpaccio with greens and pesto. A mildly shocking dish to try, at first: pesto? Where were we? but we never asked these questions, as the fatty pesto and smooth tuna combined for a cool, rich second course. However, if numbered in courses, this meal would exceed a dozen. So let's not.

Next to arrive at the table were a few fish courses, nearly side-by-side. First, whole snapper, a few red snapper included, arrived roasted with oil, rosemary, and lemon. My elementary Japanese food education was mystified: rosemary, lemon? This seemed closer to a country French bresse than Japanese snapper. but the fish was wonderful, herbal and rich in fatty oils. I stopped questioning, especially as the tuna "spare ribs" arrived, on the bone. I don't know what herbs/seasonings were used, nor do I care. The tuna meat, as it was, was one of the best, most richly satisfying fish flavors I've ever had. by now the chef had my attention. I did nothing else but lick my lips and wait.

The following platters, as there were a few for the table, contained the best raw fish I've ever tasted. As described, it was "toro and whitefish." Of course, that would have accounted for two of the seven or eight fishes on the plate. I gathered that "whitefish" was a loose translation of everything but the toro. All this was accompanied by fresh wasabi root in a special basin to grind it into a fresh paste; you haven't had wasabi until you have fresh wasabi. The toro was unbelievable. The "whitefish" was equally stunning. You just don't get fish like this in the states.

Another whole roasted fish arrived, this resembling monkfish--although I learned it wasn't--having a name that translated into nothing. A native fish, I guessed, cooked with a heaping of herbs and lemon, in a presentation reminiscent of the other whole fish. It, too, was good, albeit simple; perhaps the weakest link, although that says nothing. After that came a table preparation of beef with a ponzu, radish, butter, and wasabi. The beef arrived in a sizzling skillet; the sauce poured on, covered, and allowed to cook for a moment or two. The radish and wasabi were added afterward, the beef remaining a succulent rare. It just worked: sweet and sour, rich with the grated radish cutting the fat.

I left the table for a moment--the pitchers of beer had caught up with me--and when I arrived, steaming bowls of real miso soup had arrived. Made from the leftover bones of our earlier sashimi fish, the soups laden with chives and sesame seed, had a subtly salty, round flavor, the broth enriched by the meaty fish bones. Perhaps the best miso I've ever had; I sensed a trend in this meal. Accompanying the soup were a few bowls of rice and tuna, supplemented with nori: a deconstructed handroll, and we were to make our own. beside the clean, fresh taste, how much more fun could you have then making your own sushi?

To conclude our meal were individual helpings of cherry blossom ice cream, a nearly sorbet-like dessert with a milk "broth"--as the two mixed, it created a sublime, herbal dessert with a subtle, floral sweetness. It all just worked...

I didn't include the address, because on the business card it's in Japanese. but trust me, and the woman who recommended this whole thing in the first place: if you're in Tokyo, and more specifically Shibuya, do not leave without a trip to by The Sea. Ask for the "course." Undo your belt.

Ago
8478 Melrose Avenue
West Hollywood, CA
323.655.6333

Okay. Sometimes, unfortunately, an experience at a restaurant isn't entirely a product of its own services. Sometimes you just have a bum day, and your favorite dish of mussels or that In-and-Out burger just doesn't taste like it always does. You'll come back to it another day, when the sun's shining a little brighter and the birds are singing a little louder.
I'll be honest with you folks-I'm all about that, honesty. Los Angeles gets to me. Nothing seems real to me. The people aren't real. The buildings aren't real. The trees aren't real. Hell, they have clean gas stations. Most people look like those paper dolls little girls play with, barely a figure dancing around displaying the newest clothes and the hottest…whatever. And it doesn't take long for me to get ticked, either. So after having been there only a few hours, and already feeling that "LA" vibe, I know dinner was coming and that it could take me away from this and give me the kinds of experiences I live for, if only for a few hours.
Ago is a big, old school Italian place. They pride themselves ("they" possibly meaning Robert DeNiro, et al, and his other cohorts who started it) in traditional Italian cooking, with bold, familiar flavors and a big, Italian-heavy wine list. For whatever reason, I wasn't terribly excited when I heard we were going here, only so much as "I had heard about this place" and "it's Italian." However, when the party all finally settles into our big round table and the Italian red starting to pour, things looked up.
Our anti-pasti came first, plates of buffalo mozzarella and fresh tomatoes and basil, lightly fried "fritto misto," "burrata" (a creamy, house made mozzarella cheese) and roasted peppers, and proscuitto. Every flavor was familiar but fresh, very fresh, the burrata melting in your mouth and the proscuitto subtly salty. I began to think that this could be a place of escape. That was between the roar of valet-ed Porsches and CLK Mercedes'.
When our waiter told us of the specials, I jumped at two of them. A main plate featuring skirt steak and arugula, and a pasta dish that I coaxed him into halving for me with shaved summer truffles. The pasta came and I became the envy of the table. "What's that?" "How is it?" It was divine. The creamy, ribbon-like pasta was showered in fine slivers of truffle. That earthy, musky flavor was everywhere. LA had disappeared through pasta.
However, our mains arrived to the dissatisfaction of a few at the table. One ordered his steak the wrong way and a few expectations seemed to be left unattained. The special was all right. One of the hardest things, I believe, about traditional Italian cooking, is that a good handful of dishes come sans sauce, relying on the food's natural flavors to carry them through. The works sometimes (the rib-eye dish that a few got around me was a great example, the meat exceptional tender and marbled, the skillet's crust giving a smoky, charred flavor, with seared spinach to give moisture) but other times it doesn't. My entrée: skirt steak is a tough cut. It lends itself wonderfully to a variety of sauces, from simple to complex, but alone it doesn't quite make the grade. The arugula and parmesan accompanying didn't give the steak the backbone it needed.
I went away from my entrée feeling unsatisfied, as if someone had led me on a great journey than dropped me off a train station and said, "Go home." Deserts were the ticket on the train: uninspired and generally plain, run-of-the-mill variety Italian classics. I boarded the train and went back to LA.
It's a tough call. I can't tell, even now, if being in LA had anything to do with the distaste I left with. Would have I felt differently if this were, say, Chicago? I don't know. I'd be willing to try it again. Despite the final movement, Ago's symphony was mostly masterful. It just happens to be in West Hollywood.

The French Laundry
6640 Washington Street
Yountville, CA
707.944.2380

Nearly every review says the same thing (except for those, I imagine, who just had crappy days--lawnmower broke, spilled coffee on the shirt at work, the kids wouldn't shut up). I don't need to say it all over again. It was the best meal I have ever had, the best service I have ever received, and the most my heart has ever jumped entering a restaurant. Call me if you want more details.