Doing the Charleston

The Ordinary in Charleston, SC

We needed a break. The baby was old enough to spend a weekend with Lindsay's parents and we were itching to get out of town. A trip out of the country wouldn't work, as we only had three days tops. The usual suspects: New York, San Francisco, and Chicago were discussed, but ultimately we decided against each for various reasons. 

"What about Charleston," said Lindsay.

A simple flight with a layover in Atlanta, home of the 1-3 Atlanta Falcons, later we arrived in Charleston. Tip: either on the way there or the way back, make it a point to head to Terminal E and visit One Flew South for excellent drinks and fantastic food. Now listen, a word of caution. If you are from New Orleans and heading to Charleston, be prepared to hear some variant of the phrase: "Charleston is a clean New Orleans." While that isn't necessarily untrue, it falls short of the mark. 

All port cities have similarities, but I find Charleston to be more colonial than European, more Southern than Caribbean. We checked into Charleston Place and were talked into an upgrade to a suite with access to a hospitality lounge. Skip this offer. The rooms are in drastic need of an overhaul and the price doesn't justify a cocktail or two or handful of benne wafers a day. For a high end hotel, they sure did say no a lot. 

Shrimp and Grits at Husk

Charleston Place is the place to stay as it is smack dab in the middle of everything. We stashed the bags and headed to Husk, where we swooned over shrimp and grits, pimento cheese and pickles, a bacon studded cheeseburger, fried pigtails, warm peas tossed with cherry tomatoes, a few cocktails and some local beers. We then strolled up King Street and picked up cookware we technically didn't need, home furnishings we had no intention of buying, and way too many gifts for the baby. 

A shower later, we headed out to the Gin Joint for a quick round of cocktails. Here came, a pitch perfect daiquiri and a Build-A-Bear cocktail. The premise is simple, you pick three adjectives (bitter, fizzy, and strong, sweet, tart, and herbal, etc...) and they build you a drink around that description. A neat parlor trick but I didn't remember ordering a Relaxed, Content, and Happy.

Pork with butterbean chow chow at McCrady's Restaurant

Onto McCrady's for one of the South's most talked about restaurants. The ingredients are impeccable, the cooking on point, and the service tipped us off on an excellent rose and a few other places in town. We especially enjoyed a plate of beef tartare served with crispy beef tendon and a tender hunk of pork encircled by a ring of field peas, chanterelles, and red onion. 

The Buddha Bowl at The Green Door

The next day we put ourselves in a horse and buggy, toured a massive home filled with way too many antiques, and walked around  the Battery peeking through fences. Then it was off to The Green Door, a food truck-cum-restaurant, serving the kind of fauxthentic street food populating the country. The pork belly falafel were a soggy mess, but the spiced chickpeas, fiery noodle bowl with bone marrow broth, braised beef, and poached egg, and kimchi fried rice were excellent bites no matter which cuisine you call them. 

We ambled back towards King Street and headed up to Mike Lata's The Ordinary, which is simply one of the most beautiful restaurants you'll see. Inside a former bank, the kitchen serves seafood in all of its myriad glories. We started with a few cocktails: an Aperol Spritz and a gin and tonic turned pink with the inclusion of a dash of Peychaud's bitters. Then a bottle of Ameztoi txakolina rose and a platter of clams, raw oysters, and lobster. A more decadent afternoon snack does not exist. We finished off the afternoon with some cocktails at the charming Proof and a massage back at the hotel. 

Later we headed to FIG, where we feasted on more beef tartare, a nine vegetable salad, a plate of gnocchi enrobbed in a rich bolognese, and a seafood chowder. The best bite though was a tomato tarte tatin with a quenelle of whipped goat cheese that made. The finale was a rich and gooey sorghum cake topped with a scoop of cinnamon ice cream. Imagine a diner plopped down someplace in the south of France or the hills of Italy or the coast of Spain, or all three. That is Fig and you should go. 

The next day, we headed up to Two Boroughs Larder for a traditional southern breakfast of spaghetti carbonara and octopus. We poked around the farmer's market, where the bartender from The Ordinary had donned a paper hat to serve homemade sodas. Then off to the airport and home to recover. 

Blackened Out's Christmas Vacation: Lost in New York

Rockefeller Center.

What The Folk Singer wants, The Folk Singer gets (within reason). As such, with a simple request to visit New York to see all of the Christmas lights, we were off to the Big Apple on the weekend after Thanksgiving, smack dab in the middle of perhaps the busiest time of the year. What follows is a brief synopsis of our 56 hour trip.

We touched down at Laguardia just before noon on Friday afternoon, dropped our bags off in the East Village, and walked over to Ippudo for lunch. Ramen is the name of the game at this sleek "Japanese brasserie," a dish which has not yet gained traction in our fare city. The standard lunch set starts with a simple salad of field greens tossed in soy dressing and a mini bowl of rice topped with morsels of fried chicken. I had the weekly special ramen of Szechuan style spicy pork in an intense broth spiced up with black sesame sauce, ground pork, and shrimp paste. I think that TFS found the winner though with the classic ramen, a less adulterated version with broth that was a drinkable elixir.

Fortified against the cold, we made our way to Rockefeller Center to witness a marriage proposal on the skating rink (complete with Bon Jovi anthem) and snapped the above picture of the iconic Christmas tree, a replica of which TFS felt compelled to recreate in our living room. Yada yada yada, The New York Public Library, something about Carrie Bradshaw, and then it was time for happy hour.

We navigated the subway system toward the Ace Hotel, where we ducked into the John Dory Oyster Bar. The hostess sat us at two stools along the window looking out onto Broadway and West 29th. At 4:45 only a handful of other tables were occupied, By 5:15 there was not an open seat in the dining room and people were lined up three deep at the bar. The happy hour special is a half dozen oysters and a glass of cava or pint of stout for $15. I ordered a full dozen of the salty, plump downright beautiful bivalves from Mermaid Cove, and TFS downed the cava. It's why our marriage works. We made a pass through the hotel lobby and The Breslin (April Bloomfield's other restaurant in the Ace) and marveled at the number of hipsters playing on their Macs and investment bankers debating the size of their Christmas bonuses while imbibing $30 glasses of scotch. It was a great scene that's definitely worth experiencing.

Later that night on our stroll back to home base, we passed a crowd of at least 30 people gathered on the sidewalk outside Caracas Arepa Bar. We decided that it must be worth waiting for, so we put our name on the list and walked around the corner for a few beers and glasses of wine to help pass the 45 minute wait. We returned just in time to hear our name called and were shoehorned into the table immediately next to the front window in the dining room, which is more tightly quartered than a submarine. We each ordered an arepa - mine stuffed with thick disks of spicy chorizo and her's filled with roasted pork shoulder. What stood out the most was the sublime texture of the Venezuelan corn cakes - somewhere between a pupusa and a corn muffin. Excellent.

Following dinner we stumbled in to the Big Gay Ice Cream Shop for the most decadent ice cream cone I have ever tasted. Behold the Salty Pimp: vanilla soft serve stuffed and streaked on the sides with dulce de leche, dipped in chocolate, and sprinkled with sea salt. Unreal.

Shrimp and pork buns from Momofuku Noodle Bar.

We slept in on Saturday morning and felt even more guilty for squandering our time after the Parisian Princess sent a text message saying that she had just finished her 8 mile run through Central Park and would be available to meet us for lunch after a quick shower. We headed out on foot through the Village toward Washington Square to see if we could score a walk-in table at Babbo. Dining at Mario Batali and Joe Bastianich's flagship restaurant had become a mission for us ever since our attempts at a reservation were thwarted by Hurricane Sandy beating down on Manhattan exactly one month before our trip, which happened to be the precise time when Babbo opens its reservation book. By the time that they started answering the phones again after the storm, our only option was an 11:15 p.m. reservation. We decided to gamble on a lunch walk-in instead.

As we strolled down 5th Avenue, TFS reminisced about the Carnival du Vin Patron Party a few years back when she and Rene's better half caught Mario's eye and then spent a significant portion of the evening trying to force feed him red wine (which he defended against by proclaiming that that he only drinks white wine). As we chuckled at the stroll down memory lane, all of a sudden a familiar looking rotund gentlemen with a red pony tail exited an apartment building and crossed our path. Given the 38° temperature, it seemed odd that he chose shorts and crocs as the proper wardrobe for riding his vespa, which he promptly cranked up and then drove off on with his son clinging to his waist. Very strange.

A few minutes later we arrived at Babbo and were told that it would be no problem to seat our party of 3 for lunch. We waited for the Parisian Princess over pre-lunch cocktails and admired the handsome first floor dining room while a Coltrane track played in the background. Armed with the knowledge that neither TFS nor PP would be interested in a tasting menu, my order had already been pre-determined. To start a towering pile of arugula dressed with shaved parm and balsamic and served with a half dozen sweet morsels of roasted butternut squash. I ask myself, "How can something so simple be so good?" TFS had the same questions after she polished off her plate of thinly sliced prosciutto and fresh figs.

She followed with gnocchi al telefono, which I have to say was the best combination of pasta, tomato, and cheese that I had ever tasted. PP's grilled octopus transported me back to a tiny tapas bar in San Sebastian where I first learned to appreciate how tender this sea creature could be if cooked properly. As appealing as those few bites were, my attention remained tightly focused on the beef cheek ravioli, a dish which defies science when you consider how its possible to pack such a rich flavor inside a tiny pasta pouch.

Over the olive oil cake for dessert, we discussed the best plan of attack to score a dinner reservation for our return trip in the spring.

After lunch we decided that the best way to revive our hunger was a long walk to the Meatpacking District. We checked out the High Line, but Terroir was closed and no one could be seen having sex in front of the windows at the Standard, so it was kind of a bust. Then we headed over to Eataly to make sure that we maximized our quota of Mario for the trip. The scene can only be described as pandemonium. Picture the concourses at the Superdome during halftime, except that everyone is gorging themselves on pizza, pasta and wine instead of nachos, hot dogs, and beer. Things were a little more relaxed at Corkbuzz, where we met a few friends for a drink. Then pre-theatre fondue and half-priced bottles of Burgundy at the Bourgeois Pig.

According to TFS, an evening at the theatre is an absolute requirement for any visit to NYC. For this trip, she convinced me that spending 5x more on tickets to The Book of Mormon would be worth it. She was right. The show was hilarious. Unless, of course, any of you readers is a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, in which case the show is extremely offensive and irreverent. Actually, those adjectives apply no matter what your religion or lack thereof.

I had pizza on the brain after the show, so we hailed a cab and headed to Motorino for an excellent Neopolitan pie topped with spicy soppresatta, chili flakes, and slivers of garlic. PP met up with us for the walk home, which happened to take us right in front of Momofuku Noodle Bar. This was obviously a sign sent down from above by Joseph Smith and/or Brigham Young, so how could we resist?

I'll be honest, both the ramen and the nugget potatoes were underwhelming, which was a surprise. But the steamed flour buns were out of this world good, and that goes for both the pork belly and the fried shrimp cake. It took every ounce of will power in my body to stop myself from attempting to pilfer a thigh from the fried chicken dinner delivered to the table next to us. Unfortunately, that dish must be ordered in advance. I may or may not have told TFS that I would pay for that table's entire meal if they gave me a southern style leg and a Korean style thigh, which prompted her to immediately ask for the check. Next time.

Sunday was a blur. A satisfactory brunch at Burger & Barrel. A trip to Bloomingdale's a/k/a the ninth circle of hell. More walking. Dinner at Hasaki because TFS wanted sushi and it was one of the few places that was open. A cab ride to the airport and a flight home.

I am tired just writing about it. But I am also now very hungry....

Photo Travel Log 2012: Arzak

Editor's Note - This is our best attempt at helping Saints fans cope with an 0-2 start to the season. Instead of dwelling on our receivers' dropped balls and the defense's ineptitude, let's sit down for lunch at one of the most renowned restaurants in the world.

After three nights in Madrid, we picked up a rental car from the Atocha train station and headed north to San Sebastian. The drive through northern Spain was a mix of industrial centers, farmland, and snow-capped mountains. We made two stops along the way for wine tasting purposes, and I will write more about those at a later date.

If you ever watched more than an hour of the Travel Channel or the Food Network, then you know that San Sebastian is considered one of the best eating cities in the world, with more Michelin stars per square mile than anywhere else. There are three three-star Michelin restaurants in the area: Akelare, Arzak, and Mugaritz. Deciding which one to visit involved many hours of research (the fun kind). We were honestly leaning toward Akelare before we realized that they are closed for the entire month of February. Then we considered not even going to a three star because there were so many tapas bars to visit in only 2 days. In the end, my ego would not be denied.

Lunch at Arzak was like no other meal that I had ever experienced. Juan Mari Arzak and his daughter Elena  are serving food which transcends any concept that you have of eating. Each dish has been so meticulously crafted not only for precise texture and flavor, but also in terms of visual effect. The result is a multi-sensory experience which forces a diner to reconcile what your tongue tastes, what your eyes see, and what your brain knows (or thinks it knows). The kitchen is as innovative as the NFL replacement referees are incompetent.

I wish that I could recall more details from our meal, but the menu descriptions were minimal, and I had decided that this once in a lifetime experience warranted a hiatus from note taking. Thankfully, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Oysters with citrus.

"Cromlech" with onion, coffee, and tea.

These prehistoric standing stones were balloons of egg anchored with seared foie gras and dusted with onion, coffee, and tea. We were instructed to invert the balloons with our hands and then eat it "like an ice cream cone."

"Fufu" balls and fish of the day.

Hemp's mustard and lobster. Best savory dish of the meal.

Slow poached "dusted" egg with mussel.

TFS was not a fan of this dish at all, and it just so happened that right when our plates were being cleared, Juan Mari Arzak came over and noticed that her plate was basically untouched. He asked our serving captain to serve as translator to inquire why she did not like the dish. TFS apologetically stated that it was simply asked a texture thing. Both Juan Marie and the captain asked if she wanted them to serve something instead - foie gras, vegetables, anything. She said, "No, it's fine. Please tell him it's not a you thing; it's a me thing."

"Most embarrassing moment of my life," she whispered to me after they left the table. I remember thinking that our wedding caterer better watch out. If she can tell Juan Mari Arzak that she don't like his food, then she will have no problem telling anyone else.

Sole curd with wine bread.

Beef with vegetable screens.

Soup and chocolate "between vineyards."

Basil sorbet in strawberry sauce with  warm chocolate spheres whose thin skin exploded in luscious liquid cocoa. Best dessert dish of the meal (and there were five of them).

Mignardises.

No, the white powdery substance on the mirrored serving stray was not Colombia's finest. But I am sure that if TFS had asked Juan Marie Arzak to swap a few lines of llello for that mussel and egg dish, he probably would have.

Perhaps the most cherished memory from our meal at Arzak is one that we brought home with us. Near the end of the meal and long after we had ordered a bottle of 1998 Imperial Rioja Gran Reserva to drink with our lunch, we noticed that a handful of other tables were all drinking the same bottle of wine with an Arzak label. I asked our serving captain what was the back story on the wine, and he explained that a while back the restaurant commissioned La Rioja Alta to produce a special crianza under the Arzak label.

"Well, I wish we would have known that sooner," we both said. Since we were already in the midst of enjoying our digestifs and were completely satiated from the 10 course meal, we decided against ordering a bottle of the house (literally) wine. Instead, we decided to bring one bottle home with us, and that lone bottle of 2004 Arzak Crianza sits in our wine chiller as a memento of an incredible meal.

Photo Travel Log 2012: Fútbol at Bernabeu

Angel di Maria finds the back of the net.

Yesterday was a huge day for U.S. soccer. For the first time ever, the U.S. Men's National Team won a match on Mexican soil, in Azteca Stadium no less. Tim Howard's remarkable play in the final 10 minutes of play was truly astounding. And while the roar of victory was barely audible above the pre-season football chatter, this milestone will hopefully be the impetus for a new wave of U.S. soccer fever that has not been seen since the red, white, and blue hosted the World Cup in 1994.

Although I played soccer in my youth and have remained a fan of the game long thereafter, my experience with the professional game had always been limited to the English Premier League wrap up shows played on ESPN at 5:30am on Saturday mornings. Or at least that was the case until our recent Mardi Gras vacation when luck would have it that Real Madrid hosted Racing Santander during our stay in the Spanish capitol. Almost immediately after we booked our flights last summer, I checked the Real Madrid schedule and penciled it in on our itinerary. But a combination of procrastination and website confusion prevented us from securing tickets until our arrival in Spain, when we soon found out that two side-by-side tickets were impossible to be bought via the web. And instead of taking a chance on scalping tickets shortly before kickoff, after lunch we hopped the metro heading north to Estadio Santiago Bernabéu, where we were able to secure two side-by-side mid-level tickets behind one of the goals for face value.

With approximately 4 hours till kickoff and no desire to make the trek back into the city, we decided to kill time around the stadium. After a search for a recommended restaurant lead us to a shuttered store front, we made a quick pass through the logo shop for a team scarf and a onesie for the nephew (unfortunately there was no onesie available in my size). The next 3 hours were spent at a tavern just across the street from the stadium where we consumed an unhealthy number of bottles of Estrella and rubbed elbows with locals drinking rum and coke and gin and tonic from tall slender plastic glasses filled with exactly 3 ice cubes, no more and no less. Imagine Allegro's before a Saints game, except with far less hair gel, no Ying Yang twins blasting from the speakers, and no pre-formed frozen burgers on the grill.

Instead, there is jamón. The omnipresent cured leg of pig hangs in almost every bar and restaurant in Spain. I had witnessed first hand the undying devotion to jamón on previous visits, and the fanatical devotion to fútbol is evident to anyone who saw video footage of the nationwide celebrations which took place after Spain won the World Cup in 2010. I could never say which laid claim to the title of Spain's true love, until that game at  Bernabéu when I discovered that the only thing that the Spanish love more than fútbol or jamón is eating jamón while at a fútbol game.

We should have gotten the hint from hundreds (literally) of cellophane wrapped bocadillos which were stacked behind the counter of that no name bar across the street from Bernabéu. An hour before game time, the jamón bocadillos were all sold out, even though no one in the bar seemed to be eating. The tardy purchasers to either tortilla or queso bocadillos. Luckily for us, The Folks Singer snagged one of the last jamón bocadillos before the sell out and stuffed it inside her purse.

Once we finally made it inside the stadium, we were faced with two serious disappointments. First, the only beer available was Mahou Sin, as in "sin alcohol" or "no alcohol." That was a shocker. Next, the concession stands were all sold out of jamón. The ref had not blown the first whistle more than 10 minutes earlier, and they were already out of jamón. How could this be?

Fast forward to halftime. The Whites have a comfortable 2-0 lead and seem to be toying with the overmatched Racing Santander squad, when suddenly the world's largest outdoor picnic party breaks out. You see, Real Madrid fans focus squarely on the game between the first and final whistles, but when halftime rolls around it's all about the jamón. Everywhere we turned, someone was tearing open foil or plastic wrap and munching down on a ham sandwich. It was like one giant jamórgasm. Now we knew where all those bocadillos disappeared to earlier.

When the halftime whistle blew at Azteca Stadium last night, I smiled to myself in memory of that night at Bernabéu, wondering if the Mexican fans were all chowing down on tacos al pastor or tortas filled with barbacoa. Perhaps one day, fans in New Orleans will hold the world's largest muffuletta halftime picnic. I hope that I am there to join in, and I really hope that they are serving something other than non-alcoholic beer.

Photo Travel Log 2012: Madrid

Foreword

Summer time in New Orleans is tough. Temperatures in the upper 90s. Humidity. Heat index in the 100s. Afternoon showers which evolve into afternoon flooding. Keeping track of the daily hurricane advisory reports. Pre-season football. Pimm's Cups. Sno-balls. Well, maybe it's not all doom and gloom.

But when August rolls around most of us are near the tipping point and could use a few days of escape. Many head to the beaches of the Gulf Coast, while some opt for cooler temperatures up north (my preference). Unfortunately, your faithful bloggers can't afford to foot the bill for you to spend a long weekend at Grayton Beach or a week in the Blue Ridge Mountains. But we can take you on a virtual vacation to a cooler time and place.

During the week of Mardi Gras, The Folk Singer and I hopped a plane to Spain and spent a week eating, drinking, and sight seeing our way through Madrid and San Sebastian (with a few more stops along the way). This was an officially sanctioned Blackened Out research and development excursion, but it's taken this long for me jog my memory from my notes to be able to author a worthwhile blog entry. Luckily, TFS took plenty of pictures.

Over the next couple of weeks, we will take you on a pictorial journey through northern Spain in February. Imagine yourself wrapped up in your warmest winter clothes, overdosing on jamon and tempranillo, and trying to use your 6th grade Spanish to navigate signs on the Spanish interstate system because you forgot to request a GPS unit from the rental car company. It was glorious.

The view from the veranda of our apartment, which was a stone's throw away from Plaza Mayor and directly across the street from a Museo de Jamon. What else could one want?

The first order of business on Day 1 was a walk to the Mercado de San Miguel for breakfast. There is nothing like oysters on the half shell and a glass of cava to start your trip.

Most of our eating in Madrid took place in La Latina, a neighborhood loaded with tapas bars, especially on the main thoroughfare of Cava Baja. Just one street over on Calle Almendro is the aptly named Taberna Almendro. From my research on the interweb, this looked like a worthy spot to check out. Taberna Almendro only serves clear beverages - beer, white wine, sherries, and the house specialty, barbadillo, a dry, slightly effervescent white wine which I fell in love with. With only a Spanish menu (always a good sign), I placed my order at the kitchen window not knowing exactly what I was getting myself into. Suddenly there appeared in the window a ginormous oversized bagel and a massive plate of freshly fried potato chips topped with chunks of crispy ham and two fried eggs. Upon witnessing this spectacle, TFS wondered aloud (knowing good and well the answer already), "I wonder if that's our order?"

Huevos rotos con jamon (above) is Taberna Almendro's answer to F&M's cheese fries. Rosca is the retort to lox and bagels, only this version is super-sized and filled with the world's best ham before baking in the oven.

At one point we met up with a friend of a friend of TFS who has been living in Madrid for the past year and teaching English in public schools through a program sponsored by the Spanish Ministry of Education. (NOTE - We met quite a few young Americans who were participating in this program, known as the Cultural Ambassadors: North American Language and Culture Assistants in Spain. It is a highly recommended alternative to law school.) Our friend of a friend was gracious enough to serve as our tour guide one afternoon, and one of our stops was the Parque de Retiro, where TFS was introduced to her new favorite Spanish beverage, tinto verano (translation "red wine of summer"), made of equal parts red wine and sparkling lemonade or sprite. I stuck with Estrella Damm.

Dinner at Taberna Matritum. We went for the patatas a las cinco quesos gratinadas (potato gratinee with five cheeses), but we stayed for the pasta artesana spaetzle con ragut de rabo de toro (spaetzle with oxtail ragu - pictured above).

The long walk up Pasadizo de San Ginés to Chocolateria San Ginés, the Cafe du Monde of Madrid. Much like beignets and cafe au lait, many Madrileños begin their morning or end their night with freshly fried churros dipped in bowls of melting bittersweet chocolate.

As luck would have it, we were in Madrid on Sunday February 20th, the same day that the entire country seemingly went on protest against recently passed labor reforms. The sight of hundreds of policemen in full riot gear gave us some pause for concern, and the hundreds of thousands of protestors flooding the streets made for an interesting walk to the Prado. As always, ACN's Will McAvoy was reporting on the protests and offering thoughtful, educated, and unbiased commentary while remaining firmly in support of the Democrats under the guise of being a registered Republican.

Back to La Latina and Cava Baja for dinner. We stopped at La Chata, which has a very inviting bar scene where each drink is served with a complimentary tapa.  The longer that we stayed in Spain, the more we grew accustom to this convivial style of dining. Little did we know that the bars of San Sebastian take tapas to a whole new level. More on that in the weeks to come.

Delta Dining

Meet someone interesting or unique or just flat out weird with a Southern drawl and chances are that they are from Mississippi. Mississippi is the great cultivator of personalities and characters. A place with a wide range of history, people, and land which form something greater than the sum of its parts. To truly appreciate the place from which these characters are grown one needs to take a trip through the Mississippi Delta environs. We hightailed it out of town on  a Friday intent on making it to Yazoo City, and Ubon's, in time for lunch.

The Beeve, late as always, arrived just as a bowl of blackberry cobbler hit the table. But prior to that we polished off a plate of juicy pulled pork, pork sausages whose casings were as crispy as cracklings, brisket, and a mahogany colored quarter of chicken. There were also well spiced beans and a potato salad which was closer to mashed potatoes, but no less delicious. But allow me a moment of silence for that cobbler, which was the color of spilled black ink, tart and buttery sweet.

A few more hours up the road and we were checking into the Alluvian Hotel in charming downtown Greenwood. There is a fantastic bookstore just up the street called TurnRow Books. A drink in the bar, shower, and we were ready to go worship at the church of Lusco's. How best to explain Lusco's. The tendency is to compare places elsewhere to a place in New Orleans and add a qualifier. "It's like R&O's add the vibe of Tipitina's" or "Take Galatoires and remove the stuffiness".  Both descriptions fail because Lusco's is a restaurant that belongs solely to Mississippi.

You are greeted in the restaurant by a storefront and a stuffed squirrel smoking a cigarette. Yes, you read that correctly. You will hear voices and laughter peering but see no faces. This is because most of the tables at Lusco's are set in private rooms with curtains and buzzers which allow you to hide and summon respectively. It creates the feeling of being a blind person at a rocking party. They only sell beer, but you are welcome to bring in wine and alcohol and they will sell you mixers or open the wine for you. Corkage is a paltry $3, a plate of limes or lemons runs about $1, and a bottle of tonic is $2. You do the math, you come out on top.

A big plate of blond colored, battered onion rings led the way. They wouldn't sell me a vat of their blue cheese dressing or divulge the recipe, but I was willing to pay. Then fried chicken and pompano, the latter a whole fish scored and charred doused with a lemon butter sauce. I do not say this idly: this is the best fried chicken in Americana. The crust is flecked with black pepper, a squeeze of lemon on top transforms the chicken into a lemon pepper salty bite of bliss. This fried chicken should be in the Louvre.

Saturday morning, we set out for the Downtown Greenwood Farmer's Market to score a cheddar and chive sausage biscuit which outshone the hype. But in the corner of the lot an old beat up rig, manned by Spooney, puffed away delivering tender ribs wiped down with a well-balanced sauce. "I can't believe I am eating ribs for breakfast," said Lindsay. I couldn't tell whether she said this with enthusiasm or disdain, but this was the best breakfast I'd ever had.

Then a drive up to Clarksdale where we visited the Blues Museum, ate fried hot tamales (ehh), and fried pickles (fantastic) and sipped cold beer at Ground Zero Blues Club. Then a swing into Hick's Quality Foods for tamales overstuffed with beef chili and swimming in a fiery sauce. They serve tamales from a drive-thru at Hicks and before we even hit the highway, Lindsay was saying, "Don't even think about it."

Then on down to Cleveland and its quaint and well-preserved downtown. We looked in vain for a Fighting Okra t-shirt, settling instead for a half dozen tamales from Delta Fast Food. Half grocery store, half pool hall, half lunch spot, Delta Fast Food's tamales were thicker and creamier with a higher ratio of masa to chili. They were also spicier and our favorite of the trip.

There was another meal at Crystal Grille in Greenwood which was mostly forgettable save for the lemon ice box pie. But the next morning we headed northeast to the town of Grenada to seek out a biscuit from the Biscuit Pit. As we stood around deciding on what to get, they made us as aliens. "You aint from around here, are you?" asked the lady rolling out dough.

We ended up with a few sausage biscuits with cheese, one with country ham, one with fried pork tenderloin, and one with fried chicken. The sausage and cheese was perfect, and was just the snack we needed to send us back home. There are many more places in the Delta to explore, and we will on our next trip. Turns out, the people up here aren't that strange after all.

New York City: The Welterweights

A lifetime could be spent exploring the holes in the wall of New York. Whether it is a bakery, beer garden, or a modern Italian-American barroom, the city reveals more hidden gems than the safe at DeBeers. Granted, most of these places have basement prep kitchens, but still the quality of food coming out of these tiny spots is impressive.

A Sunday morning jaunt to the Natural History Museum turned up to of the best snacks we had on our trip. Levain Bakery has been heralded from sea to shining sea, and for good reason. This closet sized basement bakery doles out chunky, gooey cookies in a variety of flavors. The chocolate chocolate chip had the heft of good book but once the crusty exterior of the cookie was breached it transformed into a soft explosion of chocolate finesse. And finally, here is a chocolate peanut butter sweet that actually beats into submission the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup in its proportion of the two main ingredients.

The Natural History museum was filled with screaming children and stairs. Both of which eventually wore on our patience, so we hailed a cab and headed to Earl's Beer and Cheese. This locker room of lagers and ales has but a few beers, a few snacks, and a wall decorated in a faux forest scene. It felt like college again, homely, warm, and welcoming.

The menu sticks to food you want to eat while drinking a beer. But each item has a certain twist to it, to make it stand out. For instance, the taco comes not on a tortilla but on a scallion pancake. The result is a crispy wrapped, meat filled odyssey. Topped with radishes and a squirt of lemon, this is fusion done right. Or the tomato soup, which comes spiked with just enough ginger and spice to make you crave Indian food.

We also made time one day to stop in at Parm. Parm is the second offering from a group that has reinvented Italian-American food at the next door, Torrisi Italian Specialties. It was in between lunch and dinner service when we went to Parm and only the bar was open. The staff seemed out of sorts, but that is what happens when a restaurant is open when a shift change is underfoot. Service woes notwithstanding, the plate of pickled vegetables, jalapeno poppers, and a beet infused Negroni more than helped ease us into the evening.

Finally, what trip to New York City would be complete without grabbing one of its most iconic foods: the bagel. For that, we headed to Ess-a-Bagel. Inside the brick building, a counterman yells out, "No toasting." Then slides gobs of cream cheese on a sliced round of bagel, crusty on the outside, chewy on the inside. If this isn't bagel perfection, what is?

New York City: The Middleweights

The silvered pig at Batali & Bastianich's Eataly. About the only thing you can't buy there. 

The flight into New York's LaGuardia airport on a clear night is one of the prettiest airborne sights imaginable, After the initial approach, the plane banks northwest and scurries past the East side of Manhattan Island. Immediately a diorama of buildings comes into focus, all aglow with shimmering lights. This view of Manhattan is an intoxicating aperitif.

After tossing our bags into the hotel room, we hailed a cab to make the trip from Midtown to what has become an institution: David Chang's Momofuku Ssam Bar. At about 10:30 at night, Ssam was just hitting its second gear with a growing ambiance fueled by loud music, pork, and beer. The dark paneled room and low lights create the sensation of eating in a humidor. Two seats at the bar opened quickly and the feast commenced.

The famed steamed buns of course - pillow soft and filled with succulent slabs of pork belly. A quick glaze with a fiery red sauce helped finish the last of the first round of beers. While those steamed were delicious, they paled in comparison to the kimchi rubbed apples with face bacon. Let's break this dish down John Madden style shall we? First you have the apple, which has just a touch of sweetness and a heavy dose of tart while adding a base layer of crunchy to the dish. Then this guy takes those apple slices and smears kimchi all over them to give it something spicy. Then over here, you got the face bacon lead blocking and bringing that salty, crispiness that makes bacon America's favorite food group.

Perhaps even more impressive was the way Chang and Co. turned chewy tripe into a sublime Asian noodle dish. Tender, shreds of tripe were tossed into a ginger scallion sauce and served at room temperature. Out chop sticks engaged as sword play as we fought for the last morsels. Finally, a clunky dish of rice cakes and Chinese pork sausage. While advertised as spicy, the dish needed acid to round everything out, and on the whole the dish was dry. But then again anything would have paled in comparison to the tripe and apples.

Dessert at the Momofuku Milk Bar. A Crack Pie, peanut butter cookie, and soft serve ceral milk ice cream rounded out the meal. That soft serve ice cream quickly became Lindsay's white whale. Wherever we were in New York for the next few days, she would say, "Look on your Twitter thing and find out if there is a Milk Bar nearby."

Meatballs with potato puree, Fontina cheese, and red wine demi glace at Gramercy Tavern

If there is a Mohammad of Dining in the 21st Century, his name would have to be Danny Meyer. The list of dining "things" he helped pioneer are too long to list, but include such things as quality hamburgers and unpretentious, intelligent service. The room at Gramercy Tavern is warm decorated with arrangements to evoke the season. In late winter, think large birch branches and  jars of preserves. Everyone has a friend whose home they love to visit - it is comfortable but not stuffy, there are fantastic things to drink but nothing fussy, and the food is delicious without being obsessive. That is eating at Gramercy Tavern in a nutshell.

Meatballs, more like meatpucks, have a crisp crust gilded in melted Fontina cheese. Both the cheese and crust struggle to contain the soft textured interior of the meatball. Red wine demi glace and potatoes as smooth as glass round out a well-composed plate. But then you look across at the chicken soup, which is loaded with juicy chicken, vibrant kale, and tender dumplings and wish just for once you had not been such a fat kid when ordering.

Dessert was a symphony of composure. Chocolate pudding, salted caramel, and brioche croutons worked harmoniously to produce the greatest pudding possible. The rhythmic clacking of spoons looking for pudding but finding only ceramic became the crescendo of this movement.

There was of course a stop at Eataly with its miles of Italian food products. It is overwhelming and enrapturing. Aisles of pasta, counters full of meats and seafood, barrels of olive oils and vinegars, jugs of wines and beers,  a vegetable butcher, marble carving classes,prosciutto carved fresh, mozzarella pulled while you wait, and Vespa rentals (only made up two of those). We sat in the pizza and pasta kitchen and devoured a plate of pork and chicken liver agnolotti and a Neapolitan pizza laced with anchovies.

We got out of there in a hurry before the bank called and closed our account.

New York City: The Welterweights

One of the most striking dichotomies about New York is that for being such a big city, most of the space is tiny in comparison. Tucked into basements or squeezed into a building's alleyway, restaurants operate on a highly limited spatial budget. Inside these shoebox saloons we found some of the best places to snack. Because there are so many of these spots, this will be a two part sub-series. 

The single best cup of coffee in the world may be served by Stumptown Coffee Roasters. This outpost of a Portland institution serves rich and creamy lattes and forceful cappuccinos in an anteroom off the lobby of the Ace Hotel. The service staff is friendly and cheerful, despite being staffed mainly with hipsters. Just look at all those hats! And suspenders! But these hipsters are the cherubs of the caffeine heaven.

The most impressive aspect of the coffee at Stumptown was its temperature. The coffee is served hotter than warm but not scalding. Boiling hot coffee is a mistake too often made. When that mistake is made you end up spending ten minutes waiting for coffee to come to an acceptable temperature. There would place to do so as at Stumptown there are no tables, just a rail-cum-table on which to lean. If you look up through the large plate glass window, there is a  peek at the top of the Empire State Building. A fantastic cup of coffee with a wonderful view is not a bad way to start the day. 

Cafe 'ino came highly recommended from Bloggle and PNC Peter. It was the beginnings of a bustling brunch when we climbed into a two top right inside the door. Out from the kitchen came two bruschettas which delivered salty and bitter via its green and ricotta salata topped right hook and a knockout blow via Malliard sweetened onions and pungent cacio. With a fontina encrusted carriage of bread filled with a runny egg yolk, a few glasses of Aglianico, and a calm thumb through the paper, Cafe 'ino is the kind of place one could get used to.

A wandering tour of New York has to include a stop or three at dens of sin. Places where one can shed their inhibitions and do something really decadent and pleasureful. For us that was a stop at Dominique Ansel's narrow den of pastry in Soho. Marble and glass contain pastel colored jewels of delight. His macaroons were outstanding, the best being the pink raspberry filled with balsamic vinegar jelly. Or maybe we liked the miniature meringues which came in a plastic tube for both security and eye catching allure. In the back of the shop is a window onto the magic of this bakery. We sat enraptured as a cook formed macaroons, whipped egg whites, and prepared desserts. Free entertainment is always a plus. 

New York City: The Heavyweights

Over Mardi Gras weekend, Lindsay and I boarded a jet plane to New York City to spend four days eating, drinking, and eating and drinking. We hit up 15 establishments in an 86 hour marathon, all of which were examined with a pigeon's eye. Over the next few weeks, the restaurant and bar visits will be reviewed in the following boxing related groupings: Heavyweights, Welterweights, and Lightweights. We start this series with the Heavyweights and a look at two of the big boys of the New York dining scene, Marea and Daniel. 

 

Marea

Marea is Michael White's Italian answer to Eric Ripert and Maguy Le Coze's Le Bernardin. Marea focuses on the seafood culinary traditions of the Italian peninsula. The restaurant's walls are wrapped in woods and the thin veneer of yellowed shell covered stone giving off the ambiance of dining in a sunken chest. A quick wait in the bar produced a classic martini, which was delivered to our waiting table.

An amuse of cured sea trout with fried trout skin and caviar was only marred by the streak of reduced beet juice streaked across the plate which resembled the bloodied skid marks of a fish dragged across the white deck of a fishing skiff. But it jumped in the mouth with the clean taste of the cold ocean and the pop of salty caviar. Exquisitely rustic bread followed, along with a spicy olive oil.

Next up, a delicious blend of marine and land in the pig trotters with sardines. The two elements united by a bright and fresh salsa verde, proving yet again the pig is a uniter, not a divider. Then a rambling, but delicious plate of calamari, sea beans, white beans and fatty pancetta. The wine, a citrusy mineral driven Sicilian white began to open up and complement food and conversation.

Now onto the pasta courses, where this meal begins to hit some rough seas. The fusili with octopus and bone marrow was drowned in a wine heavy tomato sauce obscuring both the octopus and the bone marrow. In fact, I could find scant evidence of the latter, and no evidence of the former in the dish. Corkscrew pasta and red sauce is great, but it wasn't a Tuesday night home cooked meal. The gnochetti however was simply outstanding. The shellfish stock fortified sauce draped over the pasta like a bespoke suit with the chilis and rock shrimp serving as well-chosen accessories.

Inconsistencies showed up again in the main courses. Red snapper with brussel sprouts, hazelnuts, pomegranate and sunchokes would have been great had the fish not been horribly overcooked. Overcooked fish is one thing, this fish was dryer than Britain's attempt at humor. However, cuttlefish with capers, tomatoes, escarole, and olives all enveloped in a livornese sauce was delicious and hearty enough to make me want to order a lusty Italian red. Unfortunately, the waiters, captain, and sommelier were nowhere to be found.

Desserts were a shipwreck. The bombolini, little puffy doughnuts, were poorly executed, their interiors dry and tough. The sauces which accompanied them were too sweet by half. Rounding out this failure was a coffee crumble that seemingly was on the plate solely to show off the pastry chef's technique. I get what they were trying to do, coffee and doughnuts re-imagined, but it missed by a nautical mile. At least that dessert had some flavor, the other one on the table, a hazelnut praline with ice cream managed to be a dessert which inspired a round of twenty questions. Is that chocolate? Maybe the hazelnut is over there, nope. What is that lemon? Maybe? Could it be mint? Do I taste freezer burn? Subtlety is one thing, mystery another. Both are a woefully inadequate way to end a meal.

But really the most shocking thing about Marea was the state of the restroom. The bathroom at Marea would have been a sign of a great party in college. Paper towels tumbled out of the trash bin and the floor was dotted with other trash. Maybe it was an off night, but for the hottest new high end restaurant in New York, more than a little was left desired.

"I remember as a kid watching the fireworks on Fourth of July. There was always one firework that made a loud noise as it took off, traveled high, and then failed to explode," Lindsay said as we left. There was no need to finish the second part of her statement.

Daniel

There is a theory of celebrity that you should never meet celebrities in real life. In real life, celebrities stop being celebrities and nearly always let you down. They are shorter, less interesting, and more human - the faults hidden by their celebrity in full display. Case in point: our meal at Daniel. By all accounts Daniel Boulud is a chef's chef. Although he has multiple restaurants, he spends a good amount of this time at his flagship Daniel, which has three Michelin stars and four from the New York Times. As a mentor, he has helped hundreds of chefs reach their potential. He is an effusive and hospitable French chef who has made food better in America. I have wanted to eat at Daniel for years, and we finally got our shot with a 9:15 pm reservation.

Sure enough, Boulud was in the restaurant on the evening we dined, shuttling between the kitchen and the dining room. We could monitor his movements mainly because we were seated in probably the worst table in the restaurant. Next to the kitchen doors and isolated from the activity of the room by acoustic paneling on three sides, we could have been in a dining room in Hoboken. My view of the dining room was blocked by a column. (This would come into play in a bit.) Now, listen every restaurant has a worst table, but it just sucks when you draw the short straw.

Canapes were a bit boring with two featuring salsify. Once in a remoulade and as a puree. Next to them was a smoked salmon with a pickled jalapeno. A nice round of cocktails and then the real eating began. A brilliantly smooth and rich terrine of foie gras crusted in marcona almonds with glazed dates and apples came with buttery, crisp triangles of toasted brioche was the highlight of the first course. It has been said, that Boulud's greatest strength is as a master of the charcuterie arts. While I doubt Boulud made this specific terrine, his garde manger has been well-trained. This terrine was beyond delicious. By now a bottle of champagne had arrived. The Indian spiced lobster tail with yogurt was under seasoned and the crispy wonton which accompanied it soggy.

A suckling pig dish featuring the belly, a tender chop, and crispy, airy cracklings was tied together with purple potatoes and pork jus. The saddle of rabbit with rabbit sausage was forgettable. The desserts became the highlight, especially a grapefruit one that highlighted acidity rather than sweetness. Touched off with a scoop of mascarpone ice cream and an almond biscuit, it had us fighting over the last bite.

At the midway point in the meal, Lindsay turns to me and says, "Is that Thomas Keller sitting over there? It looks like him and he is wearing that scarf thing he always has on."

I tried peering around the column to no avail. But sure enough a later trip to the men's room revealed, that yes Thomas Keller was in attendance. Being in the same room as two of the nation's greatest chefs should have been enough to make this one of the most memorable meals of our lives. And maybe it could have been but while the food was all good to excellent, service was atrocious.

When you dine with the big boys, the starred spots with reservation wait lists and secret numbers, you are paying for service, setting, and ambiance as much as food. We have already been placed in the worst seat in the house with a wonderful view of a column, so two of the four criteria are already negative. Service commensurate with the pricing could have evened things out. Or even service commensurate with a dinner half this price. As it was the service we experienced at Daniel had more in common with the dismissive, aloof service style of a simple French bistro (where it is appropriate) than a focused high end restaurant. The errors, while minor in comparison to life's major problems, were glaring.

After our appetizers were finished the plates sat empty on our tables for what seemed like hours. When it happened again after the entrees, I looked at my watch. Thirteen minutes later our empty entree plates were cleared. While we waited for a dessert menu, paint dried. The captain checked in once, but before I had a chance to respond to his query he had moved on to another table. Water and wine glasses sat empty, tempting me to get up and walk across the room to grab the Champagne. I regret not doing so. One would imagine that being so close to the flight path of every front of the house employee would insure efficient service, but you would be wrong. At best the service was off, at worst it was purposefully disdainful and insulting.

Here is the thing, Daniel is not a restaurant which has to care about my experience. They are the Liuzza's for Upper East Side regulars. Men and women with bank accounts larger than their apartments dine here nightly for no other reason then they don't feel like cooking. The prime reservation times are reserved for them, the best tables and waiters as well. There are restaurants like that in every city of note, including New Orleans. I don't fault them for being what they are. And perhaps they are too insulated, too surrounded by immense wealth to realize that not everyone who drops $200 a head on a meal is a hedge fund manager or an heiress to a timber fortune.

But Daniel is also a destination restaurant, owing to the celebrity of its chef. One that should be cognizant that people may travel to Daniel to eat from far away. Daniel should set a shining example of just how enjoyable a night of eating should be. You should leave Daniel wishing to go again the next night. You should wake up the next morning and pillow talk with your spouse about the meal, the dishes that you will remember for a lifetime. Forget the sting of the check, the whole experience from service to food to setting was totally worth it.

The number one sign of a great meal at any price is how long you talk about the meal after it has ended. It has been a week and we have almost forgotten all about it. The check, however, still stings with the force of a thousand bees.

Daniel, I wish we had never met.

Dueling Bloggers: How Much Is it Worth It To You? (Part II)

You are a very effective counselor, counselor. Your arguments are persuasive and succinct, your logic airtight. The problem is your argument fails to pass the common sense approach favored by the esteemed jurists of this internet site. If you had one night in San Sebastian, your argument would be good enough for summary judgment. (Sorry folks, trying to justify going to law school.)

But you do not have just one night. Assuming you will catch a morning train to San Sebastian and spend two nights there, that gives you conservatively eight separate feedings (figuring lunch, tapas, late night dinner, breakfast, lunch, tapas, dinner, breakfast next morning). Ok, take breakfast out of the equation, that is a sucker's meal. So six meals in one of the world's greatest food cities, and you are going to spend all of them eating sardines on toast?

I'll counter your argument with a rhetorical question. If someone came to New Orleans for six meals would you tell them to eat only po boys? A two day gumbo only odyssey? Two days of just Mandina's,  Liuzzas's and Frankie and Johnny's?

Look, I know it seems that while Lindsay and I were in Spain we Michelined our way around Catalonia barely stopping for anything not served on bone china. In fact, there were numerous meals in small tapas spots that we enjoyed thoroughly. One of our favorite spots, Mosquito (above), which we went to two or three times, was a beer bar the size of your office with an extensive menu of Chinese snack food. Plump dumplings, tender noodles, and spicy shredded beef anchored a menu built for drinking beer. There was nothing fancy about it. Just honest cooking and community, two hallmarks of any great meal. Plus there were peeps wearing skinny jeans - you and The Pope would have fit right in. We loved the flavors and vibe at Origens and the energy of the meals in the snack bars of the Boqueria. There is so much good food out there at every price point.

All that said, the two meals we remember the most were lunch at Sant Pau and dinner at Commerc 24. There was just something equal parts excitement, execution, and pampering about both. Now, people will say, "You are just paying for the art on the walls, the expensive china, the 20,000 bottle wine list." Yes, that is true. My counter to that is at more casual spots, you are not paying for highly tuned service, impeccably sourced ingredients, or a 1 : 1 staff to guest ratio. It is a trade off on both accounts.

Plus, there is an even better reason to set aside one meal and do it big. You are a busy man, the Folk Singer is probably busier. You aren't getting any younger or less busy, unless you win the Powerball. It will do your body good to set aside two to three hours and be pampered at the table. Consider it a couple's massage without the tantric spa music and a stranger's hands all over you. Traveling is all about experiencing different and new things to learn what you like sort of like college. How will you know if you prefer traditional tapas to upscale modernist cuisine if you don't try both?

I recommend you go to Arzak or wherever you choose for lunch. Most Big Boys in the dining world are open for lunch and dinner in order to make their numbers work. Lunch is usually less expensive, but no less good, and you get the benefit of being blissful in the afternoon. Take a long, luxurious lunch at one of the world's best restaurants. Drink plenty of wine. Be spoiled by a staff whose only concern is your happiness. Go home and nap. When you wake up, the tapas spots will be waiting for you.