I moved to New York with the foremost reason to attend the French Culinary Institute. With every intention of moving back to my home state of Texas, I quickly fell in love with the city and have been here ever since (seven years in July). Though I live in the, "Food Capital of the World," I have barbeque sauce running through my veins.
After marrying a man from France, I quickly had to get him and his two daughters accustomed to the flavors and textures of barbeque. Luckily in New York, we have found one spot on establishment that can do just that, Dinosaur BBQ. Please note--I am fully aware of the other barbeque spots offered within the city, but Dinosaur is the closest you can get to Texas barbeque without big city prices.
There has been on more than one occasion that my family was going to "eat out," and Dinosaur has been the first place to come to mind. Constantly making the mistake of failing to make a reservation, or waiting until the last minute to attempt, we keep our fingers crossed that the wait won't be long a one.
The scenario plays the same scene time and again. The four of us step out of the car with the smoky smells of slow cooked meat falling off of the bone, our eyes glazed over as we all walk to the front door. Simultaneously we walk across the rickety wooden floor to the podium listening to the hostess bawl into her microphone the next party that is ready to be seated. We all come out of our barbeque daze, when after we are told that the waiting time for a table is a mere two hours.
"Plan B," goes into effect soon there after--take-out. With only a twenty minute wait, why shouldn't we fulfill our barbeque yearnings in the comfort of our own home? The order is always the same, The Family Deluxe. Everyone needs to understand the empire of eaters within my family, especially when it comes to ribs and cornbread. With the choice of three meats, three sides, and all the cornbread to feed an army, our only dilemma is pulled pork or beef brisket, in which we alternate between the two with each visit.
At home, the four of us regain the barbeque shock of earlier, while we pull each of the to-go containers from the bag. We pile the entire stash of wet-ones in the middle of the table, foregoing any napkins as they will not be able to fulfill the job. The scent is as if the entire kitchen has traveled from Dinosaur BBQ to our quaint apartment. No one speaks as it is every man for them self. As we all being to eat and lick the barbeque sauce from our fingers, I give a silent nod to the cooks and smokers at Dinosaur BBQ for pulling my once in a while homesick heartstrings.
Dinosaur Barbeque
646 West 131st Street
New York, NY 10027
(212) 694-1777
Every Wednesday I take a trip to the local haunt in my hometown in Jersey to sample a few brews and have a good time with old high school buddies. I've been a margarita girl for as long as I can remember, but recently I started to enjoy the taste of a cold beer: a frothy wheat or a genuine pale ale can really restore balance to one's life. Since New York City is a smidge bit different from New Jersey, I went out to a nice bar with my boyfriend and a few chums to sample the variety that the big city has to offer.
There are six tips I've picked up to help you choose the right cold one:
1. Discern your taste
Each person has a different palate, as well as different preferences for taste. Do you prefer the scent of citrus or a hint of apples? Does the woodsy smell of a dark, bitter Guinness get your heart running? Choose the sort of flavor you want and work from there.
2. To hop or not to hop?
Hops are an important part of the beer choosing process. Beers with more hops in them tend to lie on the bitter end, while those with less hops are milder and can be a quick-to-sip selection. Even though "bitter" usually comes with bad connotations, do not take them to heart. Bitter ale can be just as enjoyable as a mild one.
3. Decide if you prefer domestic or import
A domestic beer is a beer brewed in the United States, while imports are ones from countries like Germany, Japan, Belgium or Ireland. Some German and Irish beers may be heavy, while Japanese or Belgian beers are typically light. The Belgians are known in the US for their pale ale Blue Moon with a light, citrusy taste. Quick tip: It's delicious with two slices of orange placed in the pint glass!
4. Ask the bartender
The barkeep is usually the most knowledgeable when it comes to the pints he pulls. If you're jonesing for a particular flavor, they can tell you what varieties will best soothe your craving. There may be instances, however, where the staff lacks the information you seek, and asking a close friend who's out with you is the second best step.
5. Do a little research
Hitting the Internet is a great way to find out anything and everything you can about ales, bitters and ciders. Wikipedia has a draft of information, with regular updates on the latest trends in beer. If you want to find just the right sip, or chug in some cases, a lot of beer lovers will be able to help you out. There are forums, chatrooms and various websites that will rate alcohol. One of my favorites is the Beer Advocate, which allows members to log in and post their review of each sampling they make. Be wary, as drinking a beer is a purely personal opinion. Some may praise Miller Lite while others will turn down a pint of Boddington's.
6. If all else fails, try a cider!
Ciders are a refreshing alternative to a yeasty pint. For those who do not enjoy the taste of beer but sometimes feel left out when heading to a pub with a few mates, try something with a crisp flavor and no bitter after-taste. A pint of cider is a clever way of convincing your peers that you're able to let go of your cocktailing ways without sacrificing your taste buds. Ciders usually run from Woodchuck (very sweet, but lots of variety) to Magner's (a subtle Irish cider that won't induce a sugar-rush headache). A very creative twist is the Snakebite, which mixes cider and ale, retaining the mild sweetness and a slightly bitter tang.
The best beer tip I can give anyone is to enjoy themselves! Having a few pints is a fun and relaxing experience, especially in a great atmosphere with great friends. Happy Swilling!
Anything fried in butter is my friend. However, in the interest of not weighing three hundred pounds, I try to limit my consumption of butter saturation to special occasions. So, when my formerly culinary challenged cousin said we were going to be making crêpes, instead of going out to eat, I realized this was a monumental occasion perfect for the indulgence of yummy buttery fatness.
In New York, a city with three restaurants on every block, dining out becomes a reflex, a perfect excuse to have a cocktail with a side of good conversation without having dirty dishes to clean up. While perusing a menu and trying new things are by far some of my favorite aspects about life, recent economic hardships have forced me, and most other New Yorkers, to cut back on the spending meaning that tipping is not in the budget right now.
I arrived at my cousin Michael's apartment on an empty stomach ready to begin the cooking process. I say "process," because never before have I seen Michael make anything except reservations, so I was unaware of exactly how the meal preparation would go. Snacking on dark chocolate covered edamame, while I waited for Mickey to collect himself after his jog, I checked out the fridge to get a better idea of what exactly we would be eating. Much to my surprise, Mickey's refrigerator was packed. Leeks, ricotta, cold cuts, Pellegrino, and far more condiments than can be found in my fridge all stunned me as I kind of expected that all I would find was left over Chinese and a half of bologna sandwich. Now I was both hungry and excited.
Mickey had just returned from a whirlwind trip through Europe, which has left him with a new lust for life and a sky-high love of food, as he is now cooking for himself for the first time. Having spent the majority of his vacation in France, crêpes seemed like the logical first meal for us to have together. He collected the crêpes, eggs, turkey breast, soy butter, Pecorino Romano, and leeks from his jam packed frige and lit up the burner. I washed and diced the leeks while he melted the butter and crisped the crêpes. In the blink of an eye, Mickey was tossing in the leeks, scrambling the eggs, and folding up the crêpe. I could not believe how quickly and seemingly effortlessly dinner was made.
The flakey, buttery crêpe is delicious enough all by itself, but once cheese is thrown into the mix, watch out! Since the crêpe is folded into itself, we tasted the salty turkey, earthy eggs, and delicate leeks in each bite, allowing all the flavors to meld together. The savory tastes were given a little pizzazz from the sour cream and mustard we were dipping our crêpes into. Mickey munched his crêpe down at lightning speed as I tried to relish in every forkful. By the time I was done with my dinner crêpe, Mickey was already at the stove melting the butter for dessert.
Crêpes are pretty simple in and of themselves, as you can either dress them up or down to fit your mood and level of hunger. Dessert crêpe, however, are super simple and super delicious. Mickey melted the butter, tossed in the crêpe, and dusted the top with brown sugar. Once the sugar caramelized, he carefully folded in the crêpe (unsuccessful as he burned his fingers in the process,) and topped it with fresh blackberries and a scope of vanilla ice cream. The blackberries brought flavorful juices into the mix, which were made creamy by the ice cream and sweetened by the sugar on the crêpe. It was a perfect balance of sweet and savory, as well as a pleasant indulgence but not to the point of regret. Just as before, Mickey was finished eating before me. He devoured his crêpe and the leftovers from mine, along with an extra scoop of ice cream.
Menu perusing may be one of the highlights of my life, but being able to eat dinner barefoot, sitting on a teal beanbag hassock at a coffee table with my darling Mickey is priceless.
A week after I finished reading Dean Fearing's moving chapter in Chef's Story, Behind the Burner was invited to Dallas by CBS News to participate in a featured segment. As fate would have it, we were able to book a meeting with the The Godfather of Southwestern cuisine himself.
Dean Fearing runs the #1 Hotel Restaurant in the country, located at the Ritz Carlton and appropriately named "Fearing's". The elegantly streamlined grand entrance was packed on a Tuesday for lunch.
Upon meeting Dean, I was thrilled to find that the chef stood taller than me--at 5'11, that doesn't happen every day. I guess everything really is bigger in Texas. And, emitting that unmistakable southern warmth in his trademark cowboy boots, Dean was a consummate Texan.
Beyond his unique ability to make everyone feel special, Dean is truly a culinary master. He showed Divya so many useful things during his segment. For example, always start with a hot pan and make sure your tortillas are warm so that they are more pliable during assembly. He is loved by his staff and definitely a go getter who makes an unbelievable shrimp taco complete with cilantro, mango and pickled red onions.
Dean brought new meaning to the term "Southern Hospitality" when he made his signature tacos for the entire crew so that we could all eat together at the table Esquire voted #1 table to dine at and he even gave us a copy of "Bliss and Blisters" by his band, The Barbwires. Dean is rocking in and out of the kitchen! It was the first time Divya and I had been to The Lone Star State and Dean said that he wished we could stay longer to dine at his beautiful wife's restaurant, Shin Sei, and then return to Fearing's for some dessert. We wished we could stay too, nobody goes hungry when you hang out with Dean Fearing.
I'm sure that the word "stressful" barely describes the New York restaurant industry right now. Even the giants of fine dining have noticed thinning crowds on Saturday night. All over the city, managers sit behind the closed doors of their offices, trying to devise schemes to keep patrons flowing. Complimentary foie gras amuse bouche with any lunch item purchased? Two for one bottles of wine on Tuesdays? A (gasp) $35 dinner prix fixe menu at Le Cirque? Just thinking about it gives me acid reflux.
Despite the anxiety, servers,bartenders and restauranteurs do not have the right to abuse their guests. I say this with my friends and family in mind, but also with the best interests of the restaurants at heart--being a jerk is really bad for business.
I first encountered terrible service a few weeks ago at an East Village tearoom (of all places). The offending locale is beloved by a sect of New York City diners who consider themselves insiders, people who read Time Out NYC to "discover" the most authentic Thai food in Queens.
Tucked into a tiny storefront down a random stretch of 6th street, it's the type of place that you have to seek out in order to find. But, once you're in, it's a Brigadoon of coziness on a street that has little to recommend it besides an understocked food co-op and an experimental theater. I went to Podunk on a gloomy Saturday afternoon with friends to sip tea and possibly eat a scone.
We squeezed into flea-market chic chairs and began to leaf through our menus. Each page listed three or four tea services--savory ones with crustless cucumber sandwiches and miniature cheese biscuits, ones with little cakes, clotted cream, baby-scones, others with Norwegian flatbreads, smoked fish and soft cheeses. There was just one problem--I only wanted a scone. I flipped to the back of the menu, assuming there would be a la carte items. Nothing.
So, my friends and I ventured to the back of the house to see if we could, in fact, order a la carte pastry. The woman at the counter wore little wire-rimmed glasses pushed all the way down to the tip of her nose, a vaguely Amish headdress, and a gingham pinafore. Judging by her costume, I felt like we were going to get along.
I smiled at her in the way you might smile at the old woman who lived in a shoe and began to explain that I wasn't hungry enough to order a whole tea service. At some point during my spiel, I noticed that she snatched the menu out of my hand. Yet, it was only after I had made my case for single cupcakes that I started to realize what was going on. One of my friend's jaw pulsed like she was resisting a violent urge. Another rolled her eyes.
"If you don't want a full tea", she huffed, "then maybe this isn't the right place for you." I was confused and agreed to decide on a tea service if she'd give me the menu back. She stood firm. The last time a restaurant kicked me out, I was sixteen and smoking a cigarette in a diner that was clearly non-smoking.
Again, I know the going's rough right now. I imagine that it's especially hard if you dress like a Mother Goose character and run an inexcusably expensive tearoom in a neighborhood that used to be famous for its flophouses. But, I can't stretch my sympathy far enough to understand that kind of rudeness. This next story is equally mind blowing.
Last weekend, my roommate and her boyfriend went to dinner at a Canaille, a Brooklyn bistro that came very highly recommended. Like so many other places in the neighborhood, the restaurant was the size of a broom closet. Luckily, both my roommate and her boyfriend are natives and weren't astounded by the lack of space.
They expected to cram into a table near the wall, order a bottle of wine and forget that their elbows were practically in the adjacent table's cassoulet. Instead, the owner seated them at a table directly in the only walkway from the kitchen to the dining room. They politely inquired about the other table by the wall, but the owner coldly informed them that it was unavailable.
After tripping the waitress and getting knocked in the head with trays, plates and bottles, they couldn't take it anymore. And, with the waitress' consent, they moved. At this point, the enraged owner began shouting expletives in their direction (um, naturally). He only stopped once his partner came over to calm him and apologize for his behavior. Later, they rightfully wrote a scathing review of the restaurant somewhere on the Internet.
Am I wrong to be shocked? Has anyone else noticed this shift towards rudeness bordering on mania? I want to finish this post with a word of caution to any restaurant that has a loose-cannon employee: there is nothing--not killer steak frites, moist scones, $35 dollar prix fixe menus or complimentary cocktails (well maybe complimentary cocktails)--that can rescue a restaurant from bad service.
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