Spring Eats

Spring is finally in full force. The flowers are flowering, the grass is greening, and the songbirds are singing. Gotham Gastronomy's fascination with a special song bird called the Ortolan is well documented, (but not so well documented that any investigations should be opened, because we would never dream of consuming a protected species! Well, maybe, we would dream of it, but we would never do it, unless... dohhh!)
Regardless, an exploration of the palate pleasing potential of grass and flowers is in order.

Grass...
The most commonly consumed grass is Sour Grass. Sadly, said strain is simply sorrel. Sorrel is high in Oxalic Acid which endows the greens with an unbalanced acidity (think Sangiovese) and a tartness. Of course, the leaves make many a cameo in salads. Further, it can be cooked like spinach or chard and served in their stead or added to both in small doses for a bit of a tangy, lemony supplement.The second variety of edible grass is the Thai staple, Lemon Grass or Takrai. Lemon Grass can be purchased fresh or dried, but do not mistake it with the little pots of grass found in many Manhattan bodegas; the latter are simply normal grass marketed for cats. Lemon Grass is much thicker, and is based by a bulbous ball, resembling a green onion. It is often treated in a similar fashion, the stems chopped thin, and the bulb bruised then cooked. However, the stalks can be cleaned and trimmed, then cooked whole as well. Powdered incarnations make rare appearances as well.
The taste is as advertised: citrusy. The texture is less important as lemon grass is rarely consumed outright, but generally used to infuse flavor. Lemon grass pairs extremely well with chiles and garlic, not to mention curry powders and garam masala.Note: Blog-gar in Residence, Dr. W., is an ardent advocate of setting fire to another varietal of grass, and he is quick to emphasize that his favorite, a cross between, ah, Bluegrass, Kentucky Bluegrass, Featherbed Bent, and Northern California Sensemilia can be mixed with butter, fats, or oil for consumption, but that is not the business of our blog.

Flowers... The flowers are funny feature, but before beginning, keep two key concepts in mind!
(1) Most flowers are not edible; in fact they are toxic! (Beware of pesticides and downright deadly flowers!)
(2) Even edible flowers tend to look far, far better than they taste!
However, since the Romans, buds have bloomed in cuisine. Larousse Gastronomique accurately emphasizes the fact that flowers are most often found in eastern cooking, and western libations. The best of batch are hand down the blossom trio: zucchini, squash, and garlic blossoms are all quite tasty; try stuffing them and then quickly cooking. (Most often these are fried.)
Lavender and Rose are incredibly fragrant and make for excellent jellies, marmalades, and infusions. Further, when enjoying a cheap bubbly or prosecco, throw a few petals in for added aroma and a nice visual touch.
The standard use is in salads and garnishes. This involves "raw" flowers, albeit they should be stored with stems in cold water, until they are cleaned, destemmed, and plated.) A list of common salad flowers and basic descriptions of their taste follow.
Nasturtiums - pepper and watercress
Borage - cucumber, with hints of a weak oyster like a Kumamoto
Dandelion - honey taste when young, like humans, with maturity comes bitterness
Edible flowers can be found in farmer's markets or pre-packaged and selling for absurd prices in Dean & Deluca, as well as Whole Foods. For those coveting further 'fo on flowers, an excellent chart for reference can be found on this about.com spin-off. Go out, experiment, live a little!

What the Hell is a Kumquat?

Maturity has never been my strongpoint, and merely mouthing the word, kumquat (alternatively spelled, cumquat), still elicits a giggle from me; fortunately for my ego, I noticed that the term conjured the same crass reaction from a room filled with my fellow thirty somethings.
Recently, I have taken the contrarian route and begun referring to these fruits by their alternate appellation, kinkans. (Sadly, kinkan is not much better; in fact it sounds like foreplay before the kumquat.) If all this word-play excites you and creates a catalyst for etymological inquiries, I will briefly note the etymology which stems from the Cantonese phrase for golden orange, gam gwat.

Now that we were able to dismiss with the childish chicanery, on to the topic at hand. What is a kumquat? Well, thanks for asking!
The kumquat is often mistaken for a miniature orange, and when it was first introduced to the Occident in 1846 by noted Orientalist, rather Horticulturalist, Robert Fortune, it was placed in the Citrus genus, but time told a tangential tale, and ultimately, a correction was enacted, transferring the fruit to the, modestly monikered, genus Fortunella.
While we are cultivating kinkan, and playing games, I will submit the following dominant description. The fruit is occasionally elliptical, but more often than not, the kumquat resembles a ping pong ball in size and ranges from tennis ball yellow to basketball orange.
Simply speaking, the skin and flesh of the fruit are sweet, and the interior, nether regions are sour and extraordinarily tart, sometimes to the point of inedibility. The interior also yields a sticky juice. (It's funny because it's true!) Biting into one is a bit baffling to the body, the back of the brain is pondering pepper, and the front is screaming orange, but the palate is writing it's own dissenting opinion: neither. The sweet taste is not that of spring, but rather of fire in winter, a hidden nucleus of candy that must be freed of it's protective shell; teeth breaking through the neon skin is a jouissance of sorts. However, the liberation is short lived, as it is often followed by a caustic combination of acid, pepper, and lemon; even worse, this cutting cocktail is often served all over the place in as the liquid shrapnel flies about. One must eat the kumquat like the soup dumpling, with gentle nibbles.

What should I do with these things?
- One of the major uses of the kumquat is decoration. A bowl of our featured fruit resembles a Cezanne, if not a Picasso, and many golden oranges are cruelly left uneaten. Further, the evergreen tree yielding the kumquat is a traditional Christmas decoration in many parts of the world.
- Eat them as is! (But watch out for the center!)
- Some of establishments which shall remain nameless on account of my benevolence use them as martini garnishes. Okay, this is just dumb. The fruit are too large and unwieldy, and, oh yeah, the flavor is not complimentary to gin... at all.
- Jelly, Marmalade, etceteras.
- In Chinatown, candied kumquats abound, and I'll be damned if there not tasty!
- Of course, a great chef can use just about any ingredient in countless ways; so, be alert for purees, vinaigrettes, and cameos in salads.

Doctored, Strange Love: Or How I learned to Stop Swishing and Love the Krug

Over the past few days, we have also been fortunate enough to quaff, rather taste... taste very carefully and professionally, much champagne. Today, we focus on three Marquis players of the Grand Marques, offering up some thoughts on the houses and studies of their NV/MV staples.

Veuve Clicquot - This house is hawked wherever anorexia and cocaine can be found; it is virtually ubiquitous at trendy establishments worldwide. The house's popularity can be largely linked to mega-lux-corp LVMH's purchase of the brand in 1987 or more to the point, linked to their subsequent marketing blitz, as well as the consistency. Actually, Clicquot was not particularly consistent prior to Jacques Peters ascendancy to cellar master. In fact, few champagnes are; they vary year to year dependent on the harvest. However, under Peters' tutelage the Grande Dame has begun to behave a bit like Emma Goldman; radicality has risen. Peters broke with tradition, and in non-vintage years, he blends nearly three times as much reserve juice into the mix as any of his competitors. A further distinguishing decision implemented by Peters the move to eschew the standard Pinot Meunier and Chardonnay in favor of a blend comprised over 50% of Pinot Noir. The result is that Clicquot does not taste like Champagne; ordering a bottle off of a decent wine list is akin to ordering a salad at Peter Luger's.
Technically speaking, the wine is straw and pale, if not ill looking. The nose offers some citrus and a faint apple, but is most marked by a yeast aroma one step removed from stale beer in a college dorm room. On the taste, the balance is nice, but like the last Coldplay album, Clicquot is so utterly inoffensive that it begins to lack meaning, and offers us no reason to love it. (The Panglosses out there call this "clean"). The finish features a reprise of that unpleasant yeast, but thankfully it is mercifully short... so, it's got that going for it, which is nice.
Of course, no discussion of VC is complete without noting the story of the actual Widow Clicquot who built the label, and elevated the vineyard in an era of intolerance; a truly incredible tale.


Krug - Krug is the truly 800 pound gorilla of the champagne world, and what a gentle ape it is. Here is the loving creature cradling Fay Wray, not Moet's brut(e) swatting at biplanes. Krug is a young house (1843) and also fell victim to LVMH's juggernaut, but through six generations, the family maintained a steady presence in every aspect of the operation. Despite the corporate parent, the product retains that artisinal method and taste. Accordingly, their output is fairly minimal; Krug owns 19+ ha, and buys from an additional 56 ha.
The MV is a lighter, but still radiant gold, evocative of Louis XIV, himself. Apres cela, le deluge! The nose has touches of fresh florals, but is dominated by nut and oak. Krug's bubbles are larger than most, the Beluga to Clicquot's Sevruga, yet the stream is steady and possesses a tremendous longevity. The taste varies from vintage to vintage and amongst the various varieties, but the careful, unhurried time spent in barrels produces a consistent characteristic subtle oak and cream, that is more fraiche than heavy. Further, the appetizing taste of apple is prominent in their product, complimented by a slight citrus. The finish is long and beautiful.

Moet & Chandon - This house has about as many offshoots as Mick Jagger has children. (In other words, we're not certain exactly how many, but quite a few.) However, whether a cup of their bubbly is loving or just our imagination running away with the status conscious remains indeterminate. M&C is best known as the maker of Dom Perignon, the winner of GG's award for worst price/quality ratio. The only scenario that would warrant the purchase of this base brand is an attempt to impress a date., but then again is the type of person impressed by Dom really worth dating?
The basic non vintage dubbed Brut Imperial delivers an anemic hue of yellow resembling battered brass more than gold. I'm told by a sales rep that the bouquet has "lots of fruit", and I detected some grapefruit, but the nose was almost absent. The bubbles are small and steady. As for the taste, it is balanced with a bit of caramel apples, brioche, dry fruits, and toast. The finish is a bit tart, with some lemon lasting a bit longer than one would like.
There is little phenomenal about the Brut Imperial, but admittedly, it is a far more classical juice than VC, and a far better buy.
As a self respecting French Establishment, M&C also has a storied history; the house dates back to 1743 and has catered to kings, Napoleon, and Thomas Jefferson; it is also owned by LVMH.

Tastings, Part I

After, several days of Dionysian celebration*, Gotham Gastronomy is back! We have much to report, and we'll begin, well, at the beginning. On Friday, we took full advantage of the wine promotions offered by New York's steakhouses, (and not coincidentally overlapping with the industry's tasting.) A visit to Maloney & Porcelli yielded some mediocre service, great conversation, beef "meating" but not exceeding standards, and the opportunity to drink several different wines for ten dollars total. The bottles sampled were not spectacular, but several were quite tasty! (They all retail for between fifteen and thirty-five dollars.) Here's the report...

Piper Sonoma, Brut, Sonoma N.V. - Champagne does not simply clean the palate; Champagne actually freshens the palate. A flute of that chalky bubbly is the best way to begin a meal or tasting. Needless to say, we did not have said option, but the sparkling white wine presented to us sufficed. The methode champenoise offered by the Piper rep served its purpose. The wine was tart and tasted overwhelmingly of green apples, with many medium bubbles and acidity from swish to finish. Krug has nothing to fear, but Gruet does.

Chateau Greysac, Medoc, Bordeaux 2000 - Here is a product to make Poe proud;
the nose offered up must, evoking memories of dusty cellars peppered with cobwebs. However, this bottle was no cask of Amontillado despite the heavy concentration. The wine offered a wonderful menagerie of strawberries, cassis, and grape jelly making it the undisputed star of the afternoon.) The finish was long and tannic. For lovers of the New World, here is a French product well suited to the American palate, and for Francophiles, such as myself, the millennium was a historic year for Bordeaux; on can not complain about anything from 2000 (except the prices!)
Parker Station, Pinot Noir, Santa Barbara 2004 - These Pinot Noir indubitably hailed from the West Coast, not from Vosne Romanee. The color was intense, the concentration was amongst the highest that I have experienced in the varietal, and the nose had some cranberry , tangerine, and light citrus, but these aromas were all but eclipsed by enough heat to power a Fiat. The taste offered more citrus, a hint of acidity, and strong flavor that we identified as a chocolate or coco. The wine was actually well balanced and the medium finish appropriate. We described the wine as a "non-Pinot Pinot" and if one accepts this appellation as a destination, the ride is pretty enjoyable.


Stonestreet, Merlot, Napa 2001 - Toasty wood in Sonoma wine? Wait, it's not oak! My tongue and nose were traumatized top encounter cedar in the Stonestreet. Has someone robbed my humidor? Cherry and plum were abundant on the taste, and a bit of pepper lingered on the medium finish. (Nice mid level wine if you are into the Napa style.)
Carpineto, Chianti Classico, Tuscany 2003 - This Tuscan is a mix of Sangiovese and the standard 10% of Canaiola resulting in the typical intense ruby red, heavily concentrated juice. The bottle reminded us that all Chiantis do not come in straw surrounded bottles destined to serve as candle holders in low grade Italian restaurants and dorm rooms; however, the product still paled in comparison to the boot's elite. The taste was heavy in cherry and boisonberry, almost offering a continental version of a the Cali jam-bomb. The finish lingered slightly, but the final acid tang was an unwelcome guest in the Hotel Itallia. (they haven't had that spirit there since 1999.)

Villa Mt. Eden, "Grand Reserve" Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa 2002 - In the business, we have a technical term for this variety of vino: quaffing wine. The winemaker tried hard, and the balance is there (sort of,) but at the grapes simply are just not that into you. I detected lots of fruit and oak (surprise, surprise) as well as some plum and currant. The marketing rep told me that there was also mint and vanilla, but I think that he was lying. Drink only if you receive this bottle for free.
St. Francis, Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon, Sonoma 1998 - When we were served this wine, I expected the steward to bang on a pan and beginning singing some Led Zep; everything about this wine screamed Cali. It is big, alcoholic, opaque in color, and holds a concentration bordering on syrup. (Oh, did I mention that Coastal staple, oak?) Once again, chocolate was also present on the buds as was currant and boisonberry. The bottle age was not only nice, but necessary. The '98 is drinking now, but tannins persist; expect it to hold up to seven more years of cellaring.R.H. Phillips, Chardonnay, Dunnigan Hills, 2004 - I'm sorry; I just don't like New World Chards, particularly bad ones.

* Some might call cruelly label said endeavors a "bender".

Working Hard, Hardly Working

Gotham Gastronomy is spending the afternoon tasting wines; if we can still see by five, we'll post a full report today.
However, our relentless search for a great bakery in the city continues! Any suggestions, please email us! (If your nomination wins, spoils worthy of Caesar shall be yours. For example, you may receive a baguette or a Black & White cookie, if you're lucky, maybe both!)

Numbers Game

In homage to the Harper's Index, (alas, Lewis Lapham, we hardly knew ye) Gotham Gastronomy looks at some numbers in the world of food.

30 Degrees - The angle between a bar stool and the bar. Apparently, the seats are positioned in this fashion for the benefit of women who are more likely to wear skirts than men (excepting the occasional Scott donning his birthright) and are also far more prone to crossing their legs (the women that is, the Scots prefer to air it out). Keeping the chairs in said positions prepares these pedestals for easier ascension by female customers.

72 Degrees - The average setting on most restaurant thermostats. While this may sound a bit hot, particularly for a crowded room, the high ceillings of most restaurants coupled with the door traffic makes this mark ideal.

Six Degrees - Yea, the cliche reigns true in restaurant-world as well. (It's damn incestuous in that, there kitchen.) Chefs and staff tend to follow one another up through various restaurants and promotions leaving us with the ability to write a viurtual family tree beginning with the French Pavillion at the World's Fair throught the present. Moral: Don't piss off someone in the restaurant business unless you are prepared to restrict your dining options for years to come.

Table Numbers - In many establishments, my coat is taken and returned at the door, and no chit, no plastic card, no shameless Amex promotion is aver exchanged. How do they do check coats without those tickets? Well, the belongings are simply filed according to the table number.

Fifty Percent - The average retail mark up on one lobe of Grade A Foie-Gras. Res Ipso Loquitor!

Eight People - The maximum number most restaurants will allow at one table in the dining room. If exceeded, the service becomes unwieldy and the room must be roconfigured. Further, such large numbers at a table generally inspire the patrons to speak louder and louder until their not-as-impressive-as-they-think conversation about the time they were at Smith & Wollensky and bought a magnum of Opus One on expense account is broadcast to the remainder of the restaurant who really couldn't care less.

How do you tell if your Manhattan restaurant is racist? A manual.

Nota bene: Another installment in our visiting scholar/blogger series; Dr. Ortolan holds a doctorate from Harvard* and served as sous-chef at Hizzoner's in Chicago from January 1996 until March of that year. He is currently working on the definitive compendium of first-growth Temecula wines.

How do you know your restaurant is racist? (inspired by events).
by Finale Whortolan, JF

1. Food w/french or british roots is called "classic" on the menu; that of brown people: "world," "ethnic"...

2. The waiter asks you three times, "you're sure you don't need help with the wine," even when you've ordered a 90 Roumier P-M, while the white guy sitting next to you gets an "excellent choice," for an overbearing, fruit bomb napa excrescence from Smith-Madrone.

3. A two-star restaurant asks you for I.D. when you pay.

4. Woman asks you to describe your bag twice at coat-check.

5. Another couple gives you the ticket for coat check and no one comes to clear up the confusion--maybe they think you work there as well.

6. You explain that "mulligatawny" soup is tamil (south indian language) for "pepper water" and the waiter tells you that the indians stole the word from "british"-- which he believes is a language separate from english. You explain that the british colonized the subcontinent and he tells you it was a joint decision.

7. The waiter asks you "where are you from?" and you say california, and he doesn't believe you, proceeding to ask where you are "really from," and then, in frustration tells your alabaster-skin companion, that people are so "sensitive" these days.

8. You return to the restaurant and start checking in coats for others (aka colonialism).

9. You start to show I.D. with your credit card, just as a preventative measure.

10. You ask, and they say, "Yes, of course we are. We're French."

Next week: How to tell if your Manhattan restaurant is sexist.
Stay tuned

* The J.F. or "Junior Fellowship" was designated the equivalent of the Ph.D. by President Lowell and Harvard trustees in 1933. The directors of G.G. have not been able to obtain independent confirmation of the existence of Hizzoner's restaurant.

O Captain, My Captain

A year or so ago, Per Se received some press for their decision to hire a ballet master to train their staff; most restaurants do not take such steps (coughh, publicity stunt, cough, cough;) however, any top tier eatery offers a choreography that would make Balanchine proud. When it breaks down, the result is little more than maddening, as one is annoyed and the check seems to have disappeared to a cave on the border of Pakistan, but when the dance is performed properly, a masterpiece is manifest. The plethora of plies and pirouettes service witnessed at most fine dining establishments are a product of the "captain system," a service standard generally acknowledged to be popularized statistics by New York's late, legend, Lutece.

How It Works...
What a layman would title as a "waiter" is in fact the captain. This individual holds an extensive knowledge of the restaurant's menu and most culinary concepts; they are responsible for taking the customer's orders, answering questions, generating a warm atmosphere, and explaining the food when it is presented. However, a captain rarely carries the actual food to the table.

Said task is the domain of the waiter. Well, actually, the "second waiter," but we'll hold off on him for a moment until we discuss the "first waiter." The first waiter reviews his copy of the table's order and is tasked with outfitting the table with the proper stemware, silverware, dishware, and underwear. (Semper ubi sub ubi!) His job is not to interact with the table, but simply to watch them voyeuristically, but inconspicuously and alert the captain should he note a need.
(When the captain does rise up and hear those bells, his job requires a mastery of minutiae to explain such details as the oceanic origins of the fish or the method of cooking to sate the likes of me.)

Now, we return to the second waiter, the salty little brother of the peppery captain. Thanklessly, this character serves as the bridge between the philosophically feuding front and back of the house. He takes orders to the kitchen, and delivers their wares to the table, but never interacts with the customer.

At the bottom of the food chain (double entendre intended) is the busboy. Alas, this thankless position is tasked with the dirty work of clearing the tables, filling the water, and folding the napkins during any sojourns from the table.

Also in the mix is the head waiter or maitre d'hotel who oversees the entire affair, and the sommelier who acts as a specialist dealing only with wine. In addition to pouring for patrons, a good sommelier will be also spend hours a day stocking the cellar, editing the list, and viewing for new vino. (Of course, the latter is often called upon to assist with other tasks which generally results in much tension after closing.)

Of Note:
- Amongst the first waiter's jobs are watching patrons eat, and telling the kitchen to fire the next course when they are near done. So, if you plan to make that phone call, smoke a cig, or have sex in the bathroom in between courses, let them know or you're food will be cold!
- All varieties of servers will tell you that the kitchen hates when plates come back unfinished; it may affect your next course!
- And, yes, the tips are split proportionately between the staff.

Seasonal Affective Disorder

Today, marks the Vernal Equinox which means that school children across this once proud land will senselessly squander thousands of eggs in attempt to balance them on end. The date also means that restaurants, not to mention Manhattan's newfound Duane-Readean glut of high end markets will begin to shake up their offerings. Soon, we will be forced to don ash and sackcloth, and sit with heads lowered in mourning as we lament the loss of those terrific truffle tasting menus. However, do not grind those teeth and dab those brackish tears too long, as an entire new crop (literally) of treats will soon descend upon us. Gotham Gastronomy offers a quick refresher course on some of our favorite standards of spring.

Loquat - These "Japanese plums" become available at the end of April or the start of May. Different varieties span the spectrum of color from caution yellow to safety vest orange, and resemble pears, apples, or apricots in size and shape. They all posses a delicate dialectic of sweet and tart, yielding a transecendental synthesis of "more, please." A good Loquat will taste of the same perfectly balanced acidity found in a bottle of Roullot.

Rocket - Okay, okay, I know we call this bitter green "Arugula" over here, but Rocket simply sounds cooler. (Still sematically superior sounding is the French word, "Roquette.") Sort of like RFK Jr., the leafs' taste many never equal it's name, but the green remains ubiquitous for good reason. Arugula can, of course, be found wherever a salad needs a salad needs a spark.

Ramp - This tasty tube should appear in the Union Square Green Market and entrees across town within the next few weeks and disappear with equal speed. Although they are as natural as one can find, Ramps taste like an unholy (but, oh, so good) union of the onion and garlic clove, and they can be used in the stead of or in addition to either item. Ramps are relatively cheap (a dollar or two for a bundle) and they should be scooped up by the uninitiated and experienced alike.

Fiddleheads - These infant ferns are another harbinger of the spring. They appear for only a few months and taste of the uniquely American terroir of the eastern woodland, with a hint of green-ish asparagus. Specifically speaking, the fiddlehead is the unfurled head of the unbloomed fern which resembles a violin's top. The unique shape is in fact the leaves of the plant tightly wound which makes for a chewy texture unique to this delicacy.

Rhubarb(!) - Rhubarb season begins in April and runs until June (available through September, but the summer's yield are inferior,) and it is still not nearly long enough! At GG, we can not get enough of this stuff! It's intensely tart, but with sufficient sugar, delicious! Aside from the typical jams and compotes, be on the look out for savory sauces, and unusual pairings in the vein of last year's olive oil craze.

Button Mushrooms - These simple staples of suburban stir fry are actually tastier during this time of year. Paraphrasing a Burguindian maxim, it's not the great chef who creates a masterpiece with the morels, it's the great chef who creates a masterpiece with button mushrooms.
Wild Salmon - The season actually does not begin until May, but we're excited, very excited! Hopefully this year will not follow recent trends of low yields and high prices; we'll be eagerly waiting.

Deep Rote

Readers, three weeks into this blogging experiment, I have . Perhaps the greatest contribution to my well being offered by Frank Bruni was the launch of his own food blog which seems to have legitimized the medium to the masses. (Thanks, Frankie!) All the same, I am still loath to publicly describe myself as a blogger. (Insecurity's a bitch, ain't it!)
Regardless, my writing and immersion in the world has been pedagogical, if not downright enlightening; yet questions linger, namely, "What the hell is food porn?"
The obvious answer seems well, obvious, and can be found in the likes of Tampopo and on a lesser scale 9 1/2 Weeks. However, this seemed highly unlikely; in fact, a visit (all in the line of work kids) to Gotham's smut staple, Toys in Babeland revealed that they had only two food themed films, The Dominaitrix Waitress, and The Dinner Party. (The latter really had little to do with dining... or, that's what I hear, anyway!)
After aborting my mind's spotaneous sojourn to the recesses revealed by boutiques of the Babes varietal, I began scouring the web for further foundations of the phrase, beginning with simple sources. There is an excellent website, Food Porn Watch, which catalogues superlative samples of the genre, i.e. this very site. I contacted it's proprietor, (nom de plume) Redbeard; he quickly replied that he, too, was uncertain, but hazarded a guess that the roots could be tied to the rise of food photography during the 1980's.
I proceeded to comb the web in search of this gourmet gold with the passion of Cortes in the new world. This hapless pilgrim became acutely aware that the obtuse concept was somewhat centered on utopian culinary concept. Food Porn, apparently, involves portraying perfectly plated, absurdly appetizing dishes for those without the benefit of consuming them.
Still, some vaguity remained, and the search turned towards more established sources and databases.
One of the earlier usages that I encountered is a 2003 piece from the Columbia Journalism Review by former New York Times writer (and brother of vaunted Yankees right fielder, Paul O'Neill,) Molly O'Neill who devotes the 6000 word piece to discussing the evolution of gastronomical writing. Molly O describes food porn as the post modern zenith of an evolution, describing it as "prose and recipes so removed from real life that they cannot be used except as vicarious experience."
Invigorated, I turned next to that digital Diderot, the Wikipedia. Their primary offering mirrored Molly, depicting extraordinary food and plating a la Iron Chef, tantalizingly unattainable to the common man. The online oracle followed up with a duo of minor meanings. They contend that the phrase is additionally applicable to unhealthy, high calorie items. Personally, I am quick to decidedly dismiss this definition if for no other reason than the fact my diet is comprised entirely of these butter based beauties. (I guess that according to the Wikipedia, that would make me a Porn Star, sweet!) Finally, the good folks at Wiki make note of my initial assumption, " a (mostly short-lived) fad of incorporating food into erotic play"; the last definition is followed by a link to "wet and messy fetishism."
Hmmm... maybe Top Chef is Top Gun.
The frame was filled, but the photo was still out of focus. Last night, I ran into Augie, and made the same inquiry; his response was a bit more existential in nature! He simply said something to the effect of, "There's the food, and then there's the porn!" At first, I was baffled, but I caught a glimpse of an incredible plate of crudo behind him, I thought, "People have got to see that!" and it clicked! (I then began pondering his advice to upgrade from a camera phone to an actual camera.)
Next week, we return to you with a slew of restaurant reviews and an update in our Bakery Quest... the new writing will be accompanied by photos (or porn.)

Spring Training & Teaser

Baseball Preview...
Baseball season quickly approaches, and GG is dusting off our big foam fingers, our ice cream Sunday hardhats, and of course our (now contraband) "Boston Sucks" tee-shirt. Spring cleaning seemed like a suitable springboard to commence discussion concerning concessions at the pride of the New York Parks Department, (and Shea also.)
Well kids, it ain't any cheaper this year.
However, such is the nature of a monopoly, and one can always invoke the rationalization that paying such usurious prices instills the customer with a proprietary stake allowing them to complain as much as they want about Jaret Wright. Or, one can take solace in the knowledge that after the third beer, these prices seem exponetially less offensive.
The concessions at Yankee Stadium are run by Centerplate and those at Shea are managed by Aramark. Centerplate focuses on sporting venues, convention centers, and parks, but you may recall the latter organization from the Lansing Correctional facility or one of the other 500 prisons worldwide serviced by Aramark. Regardless, neither organization seems to hold the blog in high regard as they both refused to return my phone calls concerning menus and pricing; so, the official report will have to wait until opening day.
Unofficially, we can reasonably place the price of the average (dependent on size and the 1980's nomenclature of "domestic" versus "imported") beer in both parks at Seven Dollars! There is no sticker shock as one expects no less, yet problems persist. Specifically, the beers that are peddled to sitting patrons are served in the trendy, hooligan proof plastic bottle! Unfortunately, said container does little to keep the already lukewarm beer cool. The discerning customer is left with two options. The first of which is simply to drink quickly; the second option is to purchase one's frosties at the concession stands ringing the concourse. Alas, if you choose the second option, be prepared to miss at least half of an inning, and to encounter a large, semi illiterate mulleted man, who will bump into you, and relocate that Bud onto your shirt. Personally, the last time I chose the choice, I missed two innings of a pinstripe rally against the dreaded Sux.
Likewise, be prepared to miss at least half of the game if you desire chicken fingers... I know, I know, what happened to my loving discourses on Foie-Gras?
Regardless, any visitor to any ballpark should avoid all food save Pretzels, Peanuts, Hot Dogs, and Cracker Jacks.)
(And yes, after the much bally-hooed hiatus, the Cracker Jack will continue to be a staple in both Gotham Parks!)
Yet, the chicken finger is a tasty, less processed caveat, and appealing in it's rarity! In Yankee Stadium, one must purchase these deceptively described digits from the Field Level Food Court, the outdoor Sidewalk Cafe, or one of the private clubs. Expect frequent backorders and the longest lines in the facility. Also, expect your date to be very happy when you bring them back, and finally, expect her to be completely clueless as to why you are unhappy about missing that Grand Slam!
Baseball Food will be analyzed in depth on April 1!

Rumor has it...
Cru's Shea Gallante is rapidly approaching "galley stage" (pun not intended) on a forthcoming cookbook. GG will pay full retail for the secret of those braised lamb cheek ravioli alone!

On Top Chef

Last night, I was (un?)fortunate enough to catch Bravo's BBC transplant, Top Chef. The show aired in my favorite food time slot, from 2:30 to three in the morning. I like to think that the networks cleverly rerun the episodes at this hour for the benefit of those who work in restaurants. In reality, there are only so many times one can replay Emeril or Celebrity Poker. (Plus, people returning from bars alone will watch just about anything with the exception of Roseanne reruns.)
Before, I move on top the premise, I can not resist skipping to some details.
- The show is hosted by Katie Lee Joel, wife of Billie "Martin"Joel; apparently said spouse is her primary qualification as it is the lede in her official bio. Within the parameters of the program, she does not seem to have much of raison d'etre either.
- New York foodie favorite and all-around-good-guy, Tom Colicchio serves as the resident authority, but for some reason, the series is set in San Francisco.
Okay, now, that I've gotten that out of the way... The series pretty much fits into the favorite formula of the reality rage, eliminating contestants weekly via challenges, including of immunity, etceteras. The contestants are the usual assortment of idiots, but admirably, the producers have chosen to stick to the cooking over contrived character conflict to date; however, I have nothing but low expectations for this week's episode which apparently features a "sex shop" (wow, a sex shop! Leather! They're so crrazy out there in SanFran!) (Please!)
That said, I must applaud the educated selection of contestants which clearly manifests a knowledge of fine dining. These characters do not only differ in the defacto experience, race, and gender, but also in the kinds of cuisine and cooking represented. For example, the show features a stereotypical, neo Alice Waters Organic Vegetable delegate, a chef that use bold Mexican flavors, the daring deconstructionist, and of course the classic French fundamentalist.
The panelists are knowledeable enough to fathom the foundations and provide intelligent, if not interesting commentary based on these understandings.
Overall, Top Chef was a worthy watch... for 2:30 AM.

Also of Note...
Eric Asimov jumps on the blog wagon this week, and thus far there is insufficent evidence for a decision, but did anyone else notice this reference, "the Grand Crew, my martial arts food and wine group?"
The Pour

Online Apertif

Technical difficulties still persist here at GG; one can not help but note the ironic nature of organic acts such as writing and eating being hobbled by mechanical elements.
Until we are fully functional once again, y'all can entertain yourself with the following link to the Burger Boards. No, I am not attempting a bad Bruni impersonation. (Although, has anyone else noticed that his blog is improving? Perhaps, Mr. B's true calling is not print, but posting?)
Regardless, I'll leave the burgers to the pros, which is more than I can say for my efforts at tech support.
Burger Club

Some Spring Wines

When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest.
- Ernest Hemingway

Here at GG, Papa is more pariah than pop star, and contrary to Hemy's hopes, the spring has bought some housekeeping issues; so, today's entry will be short and sweet, but certainly sweet. Yes, temperatures topping 60, it is once again time for that staple of the movable feast, the picnic wine! The picnic wine does not require Riedel stems, sometimes, a simple Solo shot is sufficient, and in dire cases, it can be quaffed directly from the bottle. Further, these vintological varieties are paired not with the food, but with the weather. The picnic wine must be lighter, cheery, and display a bit more grass than earth. Dear reader, do not mistake my intent, for the picnic wine is not Franzia, or even Daniel J.'s entree into the boxed wine world, but it is meant to be enjoyed with some friends, fun, and warm weather, not over analyzed.
GG has never been afraid to sacrifice ourselves for the greater good of humanity; this weekend, it was our livers that we laid on the line for y'all. (Ohhh, when shall it end? The cross we bear grows heavier as Easter approaches!) Burdens aside, some spring suggestions...

Pigato ‘le rus se ghine’ 2004 Bruna - We found this one on the list at Cru about two months ago, and immediately bought ourselves a case in anticipation of spring; in fact, Italians refer to to Pigatos as "wine made of sunshine"! The vintage that we sampled harbored the hue of the early morning sun breaking through fog, and tasted of grass, wildflowers, flowery herbs, and a dash of honey. It seemed perfect at cellar temperature and required no additional chilling or time to warm. Best of all, the bottles retailed for aboput ten dollars apiece!

Tijou et fils, Clos des Perrieres, 2002 - The bottle is a Savennieres which is to say that it is a Chenin Blanc from the Loire Valley; the Loire Valley itself may be the primary producer of all picnic wine in the world, but for today, we'll focus on the vino in hand, not in the bush, err, vines. Averaging about $35 a bottle, this a fine specimen of the region and the season. There is a nicely balanced acidity and along with said aromas of herbals and grass. The finish is relatively quick, but offers up a tantalizing taste of caramel and lavender as a parting gift. Tijou is best drank chilled, but be weary of the Budweiser-Can-Tastebud-Numbing effects of over-chilling!

Juve y Camps Cava, 2001 - Cava is the ultimate wine for this season, dubbed poor man's champagne, the Spanish twist on the methode champenoisse is a decidedly different delight than their southern counterparts in France. The terroir of Penedes is not the chalk of Champagne and the primary grapes are Spanish varietals such as Macabeo, Parellada, and Xarel-lo. Cava will never hold the complexity, history, or romance of Champagne, but it does offer a "greener" alternative perfect for drinking without thinking, not to mention a lower price point! The Juve y Camps sample possessed a steady stream of small bubbles set against a golden backdrop, almost coordinated to match the afternoon sun. The juice was medium bodied with a toasty taste, and of course, the repetitivrequisitete of grass and herbs. (Most Cavas sell for between ten and twenty dollars.)

Flights of Fancy: A New Low for Zagat

Sometimes, we are thrown a slow lob over the ol' Lalique plate and the pitch is so simple that we don't know how to hit it; taking the swing is like using your seven iron to hit a volleyball off a tee.
This is the case today.
Insert your own jokes after reading the following.
So, USA Today, expanding beyond their default position as Cliff Notes for the Times, commissioned Tim and Nina to conduct a little survey of best airport dining in the states. (Yo, Zagats, y'all need to chilll! First the stickers in Starbucks, then the Time Warner Center Guide, now this... When will it end? I regret the rambling, but restraint is not a strong point. Do you guys really need the paycheck that badly? Are you going to invoke the Barry Bonds 1st and 15th defense? I've seen your house on Iron Chef and it looked like you were doing just fine!)
Regardless, the exact parameters require the restaurant be situated within a twelve minute drive of an airport. (Very practical, as I generally rent a cars during layovers; no, wait, I'm from Manhattan and I don't drive!) New York is represented by Queens staples, Don Peppe, La Via Pizzeria, Trattoria, and Agnotti. Newark also makes the list, but it's really best if you took a gander yourself.
The List
The Article

Sous Vide Sous l'Attention

Prep Work...
By now we have all had a day to ponder the prophecies parsed in the NYT's bombshell on the methode sous vide, and many of us have even begun to wonder whether the work was a bombshell at all! For those of you who have better means of spending your time than fetishizing food in the city, an explanation is in order. In short, after the famed foam phenomena sparked Ferra, Sous Vide became the new black; ushered east by Thomas Keller, the process has appeared at virtually every fine dining menu East of the Hudson since. The actual mechanics involve placing meat, fish, chicken, hell, even fruit in a cryovacced bag along with seasonings, and then placing the pampered pouch in a water bath held exactly at the contents desired temperature. From fundamental physics stand, the lack of oxygen creates a unique reaction that enhances the taste and tenderness. Further, when properly executed, the food is always perfectly cooked and overcooking is in impossible as the water never rises above the desired temperature.
Undercooking is an entirely different story!
(In fact, when relaying my own experiments and experiences to the adventurous, I am certain to stress that Chicken is not a good starting point!)
However, pros have different tools at their disposal than home chefs in Manhattan, i.e. they actually have temperature control on their ranges. Even more importantly, they use vacuum sealers replete with four digit price tags, as well as commercial grade water circulators designed for laboratory use.
Still the process is not without its dangers and the NYC Health Department seems eager to quash it until the procedures are properly codified.

The Meat...
The initial reaction to the article amongst foodies was something to the effect of, "Quelle damage! No more sous vide! Zut Allors! Merde!"
However, a Barthesian close read is required to understand what has slipped beneath the radar. The stealth secret here is the fact that Ms. Bowen does not masquerade as a Delphic deity, rather she reports on an ongoing crackdown... Yet, I still see sous vide on menus across town. Restaurants were aware of the change in rules long before the Times ran the piece, and it seems evident that most have opted to continue using the technique either playing a numbers game with the inspectors or swallowing the fines. (Damn the Tournedos!)

Plating...
Keeping deductions in mind, I spoke to some restauranteurs, chefs, and eaters last night. The following themes emerged.
- By the time that we are inspected, the regulations will be in place and the issue moot.
- What is Per Se going to do?
- By the time the codification occurs, the trend will be over.
- What is Per Se going to do?
- I've moved on to the Nitrogen fad.
- Sous Vide is safer.
- Finally, we hear, that the fining is not really a rampage; kitchens with better records, both historically and in regards to sous vide, tend to receive some leeway.

In Country, Part I

Geoffrey Zakarian's Town was such a success that he opted to follow up with a sister restaurant dubbed Country.
I guess that passes for humor within a certain stratified set.
(The same set that regularly rides the bar car to Greenwich and prays for the day that the NASA scientists who bought us Tang are able to fuse Mayo, Dewar's, and Wonderbread into a single medium. Then... ascendancy... the second coming!)
Regardless, slouching towards Madison Square, Country is snugly situated the Carlton hotel on the Northwest corner 29th and Mad. (Surely, the neighboring Roger Wiliams is not too happy about the newer, trendier competitor!) The opening, actually the construction, of Country has been in the works for quite a while with a gut renovation that ran long past schedule. The result is a wacky warren of tables, sidetables, and bars beginning in the lobby and continuing up, down, and sideways through a tremendous space walled with francophillic molding, pickled wood, glass balcony guards that scream shopping mall (protecting a restaurant that screams food court), and generically hip, but uncomfortable furniture delivered in shades of chocolate ranging from 50 to 85% Cacao. I experienced some difficulty decoding the designated purpose for each area, not to mention finding the restrooms which are practically in the hotel's business center... however, the ability to fax in the facilities gives new meaning to "bathroom reading!" My odious odyssey reached a zenith when I entered the elevator to discover that nearing one half dozen, the floors give the list a run for its money. Each level is denoted by a series of letters that must have been spit out by a vintage Enigma machine.
The NSA cast-offs who serve as maitre-d'hotels (yes, plural,) decoded the layout for me explaining that there is a restaurant, a cafe, a bar, and a champagne bar contained within the complex.
I opted to stick with a visit to the Champagne Bar for the evening.
The Champagne Bar was one of at least three actual "bars" in the venue, but it is really more of a seating are with room for about 16 people. While waiting for the menus, we debated whether the cracks in the Starck-ish furniture were a design feature or not. (They were.)
When the menus manifested themselves melting from the hands of an equally generic upscale, black clad waitress, the furniture began to look better. Country is far more upscale, than, say, a Bubble Room, but the latter establishment actually delivers on the promised Bubbly. The former offered about ten, Fourteen Dollar Champagne (or sparkling wine) based cocktails made with fresh ingredients such as three types of mint puree or the bitters that seemed to be prominently displayed at each of the many turns. However, I can find cocktails at plenty of places and my interest was in the namesake, Champagne, and the list assembled by Sommelier David Sturno "in collaboration with Nick Mautone and Chef Zakarian."
Well, to quote some PE, "Don't believe the hype!"
The standard suspects such as Moet and Krug dutifully stood in the lineup, along with Bollinger, a personal favorite; yet, auspiciously absent was anything unusual. For example, where was my true love, Billecart-Salmon? Or even a Duval-Leroy?
The list was short and simple: disappointing for a self declared champagne bar.
The rest of the leather covered binder was devoted to other standards of the genre, the cognacs, and a civil selection Calvados. In short, I found myself in the type of establishment that one frequents to impress those who are impressed by cost and theory, not taste!
The service was satisfactory, and about midway through our "meal" we were presented with a cast iron pan about six inches in diameter, offering some hot pastry stuffed with spinach and Gruyere. The first of these canapes that I sampled was a kitchen error; the stuffing had been forgotten, and it was siply hollow: a perfect metaphor for Country's Champagne Bar.

In our next installment, we will address the question, "Does Doug Psaltis have a career left after the foodie fatwa issued following his Frey-esque memoir, The Seasoning of a Chef?"
Hint: Well, he's now the executive chef at Country.

Of Shrimps and Prawns

David: "Look whether or not Anton is indeed a midget, or a dwarf..."
Alex: "No he's a midget"
David: "What's the difference?"
Alex: "A dwarf is someone who has disproportionately short arms and legs"
David: "Oh I know the ones"
Alex: "It's caused by a hormone deficiency"
David: "Yeah... bloody hormones"
Alex: "A midget is still a dwarf but their arms and legs are in proportion"
Gareth: "So... what's an elf?"
- The Office, Ricky Gervais and Steven Merchant

Any opportunity to quote comedic genius, Ricky Gervais, must be seized immediately; today, we address the analogous and equally puzzling, brackish, blue line separating prawns from shrimps. Admittedly, I spent many childhood visits to Chinese restaurants pondering said point. Sadly, despite a penchant for cookbook collecting, my mother's concept of cuisine involved adding water to powders, and adding pastas to water. My father did not eat shellfish, and the waiter defied theories of relative linguistics, never really finding the necessary lexicon to offer an English explanation.
As an adult, I have not found the answer much more accessible. The most common response in restaurants was, "Prawns are bigger."
Okay?
A visit to the old Fulton Fish Market (RIP,) was not more helpful as the responses ranged from, "You know that this market is for commercial buyers" to "I don't know, but I got some great Razor Clams."
Being a slow learner, I next turned to the government in search of an answer. Apparently, the FDA has opted not to regulate what is defined as a shrimp or a prawn! (Of course, the largest shrimp consuming city in America is, you guessed it, New Orleans... neglect of the Big Easy? Coincidence or Psychic Phenomena?)
As I am a persistent, yet lazy bastard, I opted to seek an answer on Al Gore's Internet.
Bad Idea! I found some, uh, enlightening, photos of sexual acts with midgets, but as far as actual information is concerned, the confusion only deepened. To paraphrase Groucho Marx, any medium on which I am published is probably suspect. The only solid fact I garnered is that the aussies call shrimps "prawns," and prawns are called "shrimps." However, as I have been unable to differentiate the two, this morsel served only to culminate my confusion.
Likewise, the previously infallible Larousse Gastronomique, shoved shrimps and prawns together in one listing, and did not deliver a distinction.
However, I can phillosophise the following from my fieldwork. Amongst the individual varieties of the creatures, some are classified as shrimp or prawn. For example, Rock Shrimp are always Rock Shrimp, never Rock Prawns; the converse applies to King Prawns.
A bit anti-climactic? My thoughts exactly! Well, kids, you can't win them all!

What of the Times?
To be frank, I actually have little negativity about today's Dining section. True, the work still lacks the "oomph" one would expect from the nation's premier paper, but then again, that can be said of the Old Grey Lady as a whole. Simply put, reading the NYT evokes the banality if not ennui, of a middle aged marriage grown boring with the occasional excitemnet of sex or an arguement, but primarilly an exercise in routine.

Wine Week

If you're looking for straight-up fun, as opposed to a sampling of the rare be sure to check out Wine Week. The general idea is that the Smith & Wollensky, Cite, etceteras chain will serve 10 wines for ten dollars at lunch (creating the caveat that participation is contingent on the abillity to take off half a day of work.)
The bottles served are not Mouton Rothschild, but they are not Mouton Cadet either. Likewise, the steak is not Peter Luger's, but it sure ain't Tad's. The concept of steak versus haute cuisine is a perfect metaphor; how apropos! I am not the biggest fan of New World wines which are prevalent on their lists, but there is a time to put snobbery aside, and simply enjoy. The promotion is perfect for a large group to enjoy a good ol' fashioned night of eating red meat and gettin' sloshed... Think of it as Sizzler gone, very, very upscale!

A Long, Hard Screw

I have just received a catalogue extolling the virtues of corkscrew technology in the twenty-first century, and the reaction in my gut is akin to the sensations sparked by my last visit to the 96th Street taco truck. Today, I will bypass pondering the perils and pleasures of Mexican street food and instead spend some time discussing the topic of corkscrews.
The most common corkscrew on the market is officially known as Double Lever; I prefer the moniker, "The Jumping Jack" on account of the flapping "arms." And, indeed, Jagger would be proud; the design is so sexual in nature that it would have made Leslie Fiedler blush! However, this train of thought is totally tangential as any semblance of personal puritanism mysteriously sojourns on sabbatical once I catch a glimpse of a nice bottle; the primary problem with these devices is far greater than mere morals. For starters, the manufacturers have a habit of adding large flanges to the threads of the worm, a technique that would be commendable if the goal were to power a submarine or biplane, but in the case of wine results in the sudden shredding of the coveted cork. Further, in the intersect of cost-cutting, this variety frequently feature solid core screws which are far better suited to a paper shredder than a Roumier. (The preferred alternative is hollow-core.)
Yet, the fundamental flaw of the product is its very nature; the mechanism is large and unnecessary. Wine is simple; it comes from the earth and it is a reflection of the earth. Simple. There is no need to erase this essence by harnessing the bottle to some contrived contraption out of Justine.
Likewise, I am not an advocate of any of the Bondian products on the market for the same reason. It may be true that inserting a six inch hypodermic needle into a cork may be a scientifically superior method of removing a cork(as well as detecting any prenatal warning signs.) Yet, in the words of Balki Bartokomous, "Don't be ridiculous!" I have never seen any depiction of Bachus wielding such an implement! And, when Noah was, uh, "gettin' his drink on" in the vineyard, I doubt that he asked Ham to fetch his Rabbit Five Piece Wine Opening Set.
My desired device is the wine key or "waiters' corkscrew."These simple, waddish workhorses are a cousin of the Swiss Army knife. In their most simple form, a three inch-ish oval body houses a worm which swings out to a perpendicular position and locks in place. Better models include a blade for cutting the foil, and a metal flap that can be used to build leverage. (You know what these look like! Every waiter in the city uses one; hence the appellation!)
The premier maker of this variety is French staple, Laguiole, (I believe pronounced la-yoll) applauded worldwide for their cutlery (not to mention the famed champagne saber!) Laguiole's logo is the regal Bee of the Napoleonic days and their products still maintain a level of excellence fit for an emperor, featuring superlative components and sturdy assembly. In addition to excellent engineering, these products are aesthetically stunning. They are handmade and unique; the handles are crafted from a wide range of materials ranging from Black Bull Horn to the exotic Yew Tree. The downside is that they are not cheap ranging from roughly one to three hundred dollars. If you have the liquidity, it is worth it, if not consider the following factors when shopping for a screw.

Some Quick Tips...
- The worm portion should have five, full revolutions.
- Hollow Core!
- Avoid plastic. (Sorry, Mr. McGuire, Benjamin.)
- Make sure that the worm locks.
- The less hinges, the less likely that they snap.
- You can use a knife... really... don't fall for the foil cutter, integrated.

Good Idea/Bad Idea

Today, we debut a new segment here at GG! The title would work better with the proper prosody and jingles allowed by audio, but since we work with the written word, you'll have to use your imagination!

Good Idea...
Real estate agents operating on the Upper West Side allow us an amuse bouche or two, playing Pavlov and sending Upper-Westies into a frenzy of salivation. Two "big name restauranteurs" are both (independently) (and quietly) searching Upper Broadway for ventilation equipped space sized at roughly 8000 square feet. Several martinis coupled with shameless groveling failed to harvest any further details, but the prospect of any opening in the area is exciting. Case in point, consider the inexplicable elevation of Tom Valentini's Ouest to super star status; likewise, look at the success enjoyed by the late Arthur Cutler's junta in the area. A little goes a long way up there, and here, at GG, we think that even a cookie-cutter-cafe will be a welcome addition... Good Idea!

Bad Idea...
Multiple sources tell us that Colors is looking to expand. The worldly, worker owned and run restaurant is staffed by former employees of Windows on the World and features a menu comprised of dishes from their home-countries. Despite a myriad of mediocre reviews, the establishment is always packed; so, an expansion sounds simply superb! However, it's not! The problem lies in the fact that Colors is all heart; I respect their cause and concept, but at the end of the day, the food is everywhere and subsequently nowhere, not to mention the tables are too close and the service while happy and extremely amiable, well, leaves something to be desired on the fine dining level. Now, we are told the aim is to open a downscale version where the employees can "afford to take their own families." Once again, nice concept, but fine tune the existing aspects before pushing your luck guys... this city can eat you (alive)... Bad Idea!

Better Idea...
Colors should open a series of smaller vending establishments a la Danny Meyer where customers can sample savory bits of the ethnic cuisine, in effect advertising the mothership. With some work, Colors can be a presence in this town, but don't rush it!

Good Idea...
Kudos to Glenn on his return to Wd-50 as GM!

NOTE
After publication, I received an email from COLORS' publicist contradicting this report. He writes, "While it is true and has been reported in the past that ROC's goal is to open more restaurants based on the COLORS model in the future, there are no plans to do so at this time or in the near future."
Ethics dictate that I include this information, but I will respond that the information was readily volunteered to me by employees over the course of my two (and a half) visits... as I understand it, the restaurant is worker owned which would make my sources the owners.?! Perhaps, this confusion is an argument for a traditional ownership model? I hope not; preferrably COLORS can sort out all of their confusion and continue displaying their hues for years to come.

Volunteers Needed: Got taste, Bud?

The Good News...
Here at GG, we need some help with a forthcoming blind tasting!

The Bad News...
We're tasting water.

Yea... hummm... still interested?
If so, please email us.

Stepping Gin-gerly

Cru has one of the finest wine lists in America, if not the world; the wine program, led by the Honorable Robert Bohr, the Pontiff of Pairing, is unparalleled; only a fool would bypass such access to knowledge in favor of a cocktail.
And, indeed, I am that fool.
Sometimes, one is simply in the mood for a drink in an atmosphere that does not involve Philippe Starck or expats from Williamsburg. Cru offers a happy medium featuring a warm, welcoming front room, a superb staff, and, of course, a mastery of mixology. Their libations are made with a care and finesse hearkening back to a romanticized early era that probably never was. When one orders a Brandy Alexander, the Nutmeg is carefully ground over a microplane, and before bartending baron, Patrick C., completes the assembly of a Sidecar, he hand squeezes the citrus insuring that the sugar rimming the glass serves as a compliment, not a mask.
The establishment makes no pretenses about being a "drink" bar as it is not one. Further, they offer no qua-pseu-faux intellectual philosophy purporting to elevate the cocktail to a transcendental level. No, this is not a theme libation lounge a la Pegu Club, simply a fine dining restaurant that delivers the service one expects from an upper tier establishment.
Last night, I popped in to enjoy the King of Cocktails, the Martini. I prefer this beverage served up & dry, with a twist, unless I am in a venue stocking my gin of choice, Hendricks, in which case I take the Scotch Courage sans vermouth and accompanied by the de rigeur slice of cucumber.
However, in the evening in question, I was presented with a new option on the Gin front, and I served as a guinea pig sampling GBT Summer Gin. Yes, the micro-monster was not full after devouring a tasting menu of beers, bourbons, and vodkas; the beast is now snacking on some petit-fours of gin.
GBT is an American product, named after Portland, Oregon's cult restaurant, Gotham Bldg Tavern. Their kitchen is manned by Batali protege, Tommy Habetz, and owned by Michael and Naomi Hebberoy who are also the minds behind the gin. The liquor itself is only available in limited release; as opposed to retail sales, they have opted to distribute through 100 "top restaurants" in the United States. The gin will also be offered in a winter varietal come autumn.
In an interview with Food & Wine, Hebberoy explains his epistemology as that of an artist, citing influences such as the Clash and Keith Haring. (Oookay... Crack may be wack, but booze is beautiful.?!) The restauranteur proceeds to liken his forthcoming book, Kill the Restaurant to Rilke's writings.
In many ways, his product does taste like a Bowl of Roses, and the translation of his ontology from solid to liquid works a bit better than converting Rainer Maria's German to English. However, the philosophy may be flawed. Like a California wine, the gin strikes me as uber manufactured! Why must we over-engineer what works naturally? (Or in the case of gin, somewhat naturally...) Regardless, the drink was herbal, very herbal with an earthy finish featuring the sort of minerality that I covet in a Chambertin, but I find a bit awkward in a liquor. Further, there seems to be some floral elements thrown in, but that's the problem: they seem to be thrown in! This is not to say that GBT is an overstated drink, (it's not a Gin Zin,) but the are apparent after some sniffing and swishing. They are neither distinct nor purposeful, and I wonder whether the inspiration comes from a conscious, contrarian case to include ingredients that are not etched into the side of a bottle of Bombay S.
As for GBT's own bottle, it is exactly what one would expect, unlabelled, clear glass, with a wax sealed cork top. All very "indie," I'm certain that Mick Jones must be proud!
It's not that GBT is bad; in fact, it's certainly superior to plenty of products, but for now I'll stay square & east coast, sipping my consumerist Hendricks.

Bruni Redux

That's word because you know
You can't touch this (oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
You can't touch this (oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
Break it down!
(Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
(Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
Stop! Bruni Time!

Look! I was going to enjoy my Wednesday like any other good New Yorker and simply read the Dining Out section without falling into a self-righteous rage; I figured that Augie's affronts actually draw responses from The Man, and the brain behind the Bruni Digest is far wittier than I. So, I was resigned to simply eat on, discussing the pleasures and pitfalls of the Marsanne and Rousanne varietals this morning.

And then...
A little after midnight, The Paper of Record's website updated, and I found myself staring down the meta-mine's cyber shaft at gastronomical gold, their most anticipated article since the Jayson Blair retractions: The Del Posto Review. Since Fox prudently pulled the ill fated dramedy "Kitchen Confidential," the Batali-Bruni feud is the biggest soap opera in the City's citadels of savory. Appearing in time for the Spring season, the opener did not disappoint!
The first oddity was not the stars or the writing (but, ohhh that shakepearean rag/so intelligent/so elegant... we shall get there soon enough.) No, dear readers, I was struck by the fact that for several hours, the online department opted to omit Bruni's name from the review, leaving it sans byline. I am sure that the absence was accidental, but in the business, that variety of slip is dubbed "Freudian."
As for the punchline... Nope! No fourth star today! (Maybe Hesser should have written the review; she doled out the stars with the reckless abandon of an elementary school teacher grading spelling homework.) I must put aside my love of Schadenfraude and give The Man credit; the piece was actually very well written, and the marks were well justified in reality as well as print. The author invokes metaphors in a timely and natural fashion, using semiotic oppositions such as "regal" and "populist" alongside a few attempts at the conceit (as opposed the all too familiar "conceited.") FB invokes the concept of "editing" several times which is probably more applicable to his writing than the restaurant; it is evident that he is not unaware that his famed "Black Crowes" review is responsible for Del Posto in the first place, and dedicated far more effort to wordsmithing than in previous weeks. Further, I found the actual meat (pun intended) of the work to be accurate and in agreement with my own experience as well as those of my friends.
Of course, the previously publicized criticisms of the critic are still valid. At upper echelon restaurants like Per Se any employee worth their salt (service) recognizes Frank on sight, and adjusts their service accordingly.
(Note to Frank: Didn't you find it odd that you were served by the same captain three times at said establishment?)
(Note to All: How does a critic masquerading as Every-Eater get so many resies at said eatery?)
Regardless, even at lesser caliber institutions, yearbook photos from the suburban NJ Prep School attended by Bruni's scout circulate in hopes of a heads-up.
Frankly, (sorry, I couldn't resist) there is still much work to be done, but for today, one gold star is awarded to FB.