I called Gaslight to make a reservation for tomorrow night (Bastille Day!), hoping to be seated in the section of my favorite waitress there.
They informed me that she has left the country.
God and I are now in a huge fight. I will throw down my enemy and smite his ruin upon the mountainside.
Showing posts with label dining. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dining. Show all posts
Monday, July 13, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Prodigal Fun Returns
It’s nearly impossible to catch up in chronicling the last month or two and do it all justice without producing a legitimate novel. The simple highlights are rather sensational, to be sure. The most deceptive statistic is, perhaps, the least impressive one. Dating back to the second week of March, I have yet to spend consecutive weekends in the same city.
I had spent Easter weekend in New Jersey, whereupon my mother announced to the full extent of my then-known family – my sister, myself, and my aunt (my father’s sister) and uncle (her husband) – that she had received word from her estranged family members, and would be reuniting with them in some capacity.
The following weekend, unable to spring another trip back down to New Jersey on such short notice, I remained in Boston while my mother and sister drove out to see one of my uncles, his wife and two of his kids, as well as my grandfather. My mother had not seen her brother or father in forty years. My sister had never met them before. As for me, I would not remain a mystery for long.
A week later I was on the train back to New Jersey, to get together with a different uncle and his wife and two kids. I suddenly have cousins; I am suddenly not the baby of my family. I am suddenly on the hook for a lot more trips to New Jersey.
Rather spent from the travel and rather hectic transitional periods at work in between, I took off for Miami as May began, to lie about, drink and dine, and slough off a layer of winter skin in the flattering angles of the nearly tropical MIA sun. I spent five days lounging around man-made Brickell Key at the Mandarin Oriental, rediscovering my Spanish tongue and lazily exchanging text messages with fresh kin.
The following weekend was Mother’s Day, which meant it would be spent in Boston with my mother. We took in a record-setting Red Sox victory, lunched on lobster rolls and pink champagne at the Top of the Hub – so that’s where the claws on their lobster entrees go! – and trifled with the caloric juggernauts that are the cookies offered by Paradise Bakery.
Having spent so much time downtown, I hardly saw my apartment – in which laundry has been accumulating at an alarming rate – and would see none of it this past weekend, on which my grandfather, uncles, aunts, and cousins insisted on a get-together to meet me. I know of no others who, at twenty-three years of age, meet their grandfather for the first time.
And so I’ve spent about thirty-five hours on trains, six hours on planes, and countless hours in cars over the last two months or so. My family has multiplied fourfold in size. I’ve dined on everything from foie gras to French fries, drunken vintage champagne and Bud Light.
My bank account is as sore is a prison bitch, my skin has just recently finished peeling, and if I don’t do laundry tonight, I will literally have nothing to wear for work tomorrow, much less the rest of the week.
Oh, and I’m considering a name change to adopt my mother’s maiden name – and the name of all my newfound relatives – as my last name. It’s better than carrying around my father’s, I think, and it gives me the opportunity to also switch my middle name to “Danger,” which I am one hundred percent serious about doing.
Danger.
I had spent Easter weekend in New Jersey, whereupon my mother announced to the full extent of my then-known family – my sister, myself, and my aunt (my father’s sister) and uncle (her husband) – that she had received word from her estranged family members, and would be reuniting with them in some capacity.
The following weekend, unable to spring another trip back down to New Jersey on such short notice, I remained in Boston while my mother and sister drove out to see one of my uncles, his wife and two of his kids, as well as my grandfather. My mother had not seen her brother or father in forty years. My sister had never met them before. As for me, I would not remain a mystery for long.
A week later I was on the train back to New Jersey, to get together with a different uncle and his wife and two kids. I suddenly have cousins; I am suddenly not the baby of my family. I am suddenly on the hook for a lot more trips to New Jersey.
Rather spent from the travel and rather hectic transitional periods at work in between, I took off for Miami as May began, to lie about, drink and dine, and slough off a layer of winter skin in the flattering angles of the nearly tropical MIA sun. I spent five days lounging around man-made Brickell Key at the Mandarin Oriental, rediscovering my Spanish tongue and lazily exchanging text messages with fresh kin.
The following weekend was Mother’s Day, which meant it would be spent in Boston with my mother. We took in a record-setting Red Sox victory, lunched on lobster rolls and pink champagne at the Top of the Hub – so that’s where the claws on their lobster entrees go! – and trifled with the caloric juggernauts that are the cookies offered by Paradise Bakery.
Having spent so much time downtown, I hardly saw my apartment – in which laundry has been accumulating at an alarming rate – and would see none of it this past weekend, on which my grandfather, uncles, aunts, and cousins insisted on a get-together to meet me. I know of no others who, at twenty-three years of age, meet their grandfather for the first time.
And so I’ve spent about thirty-five hours on trains, six hours on planes, and countless hours in cars over the last two months or so. My family has multiplied fourfold in size. I’ve dined on everything from foie gras to French fries, drunken vintage champagne and Bud Light.
My bank account is as sore is a prison bitch, my skin has just recently finished peeling, and if I don’t do laundry tonight, I will literally have nothing to wear for work tomorrow, much less the rest of the week.
Oh, and I’m considering a name change to adopt my mother’s maiden name – and the name of all my newfound relatives – as my last name. It’s better than carrying around my father’s, I think, and it gives me the opportunity to also switch my middle name to “Danger,” which I am one hundred percent serious about doing.
Danger.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
In The Kingdom Of Gourmanida: Epicurian Epilogue
After a week of repeated indulgence, I have been battling strep throat for the last couple of days. I'm starting to kick it, I think. I'm just glad it happened this week, and not last.
The search for Excelsior's replacement produced what I admit was the anticipated result: slight weight gain and no true substitute. The ultimate restaurant experience is as difficult to describe as I imagine it is to create. There are still a couple of contenders I've yet to sample here in Boston, but I'm rather content to resign that each establishment's offering is unique, gently but undeniably crafted by the infinite variables of server, wine selection, and ordering... things over which a restaurant, as an entity, has only so much control.
For the establishment's part, there is much to tend to. It is in the little things, such as the lovely arrangement of spare toilet paper in the bathroom at Oishii, and the big things, such as appropriately listing a side as arancini and not simply wild mushroom risotto. It's putting lobster in the lobster bisque, and maintaining a staff engaging enough and sincere enough that they can be trusted for recommendations geared towards a given customer's tastes, not the inflation of the tab or the dispense of a dish for which the kitchen is overstocked.
All of it can be built, though, around good food and good drinks. And though the experience specific to Excelsior may have ended with its closing, I may yet have found a new favorite, long may it reign.
Without further adieu, the dust has now settled, and it's time to dole out the gold stars and dunce caps.
The biggest disappointment was easily The Palm. As I said in the more at-length recap, I know there's a good meal to be had there. Or at least, there was once upon a time. Having been on their mailing list for quite some time, I can't ever recall receiving so many "special offers" in such a small span of time. If my recent experience there was in any way representative of the typical visit these days, it leaves little to the imagination with regards to what's motivating all these discounts cluttering up my e-mail.
Oishii is easily my new standard for sushi. Though a bit more a hike than incredibly convenient local favorite Privus Lounge, Oishii will likely see more of me with the warmer weather. Very good sushi, nice cocktails -- provided they survive the stairs -- and all at about the value one would deem relatively accurate for what's offered.
Tremont647 and Le Petit Robert will also see me returning. Both have menus I'm anxious to thoroughly explore, and whether it's the tangy French at the Bistro or the personable (here: gay) staff at 647, the atmospheres are comfortable and inviting for a three course meal or perhaps just a lazy Saturday's luncheon.
The Top of the Hub... I'm not sure why I didn't go often before. I must return with someone who hasn't got any food hangups, though; I want to do their tasting menu at some point. Considering their prices -- outside of the egregiously inflated costs to be found in their wine list -- are hardly anything beyond what you'd find for the same type of fare about fifty-two floors down, it really is worth the popping of the ears every now and then.
The big winner, though, and hereafter "favorite restaurant," is Gaslight. I've yet to do anything but enjoy myself there, and though I confess a slight bias in strong favor of traditional French cuisine done right, even the intangibles are in place here.
In order to keep myself from the unpleasant fate of Violet Beauregard, I shan't be eating out nearly as often for a good while -- perhaps until summer's installment of Restaurant Week in Boston -- especially as I'm planning to visit Miami in just under a month now.
The search for Excelsior's replacement produced what I admit was the anticipated result: slight weight gain and no true substitute. The ultimate restaurant experience is as difficult to describe as I imagine it is to create. There are still a couple of contenders I've yet to sample here in Boston, but I'm rather content to resign that each establishment's offering is unique, gently but undeniably crafted by the infinite variables of server, wine selection, and ordering... things over which a restaurant, as an entity, has only so much control.
For the establishment's part, there is much to tend to. It is in the little things, such as the lovely arrangement of spare toilet paper in the bathroom at Oishii, and the big things, such as appropriately listing a side as arancini and not simply wild mushroom risotto. It's putting lobster in the lobster bisque, and maintaining a staff engaging enough and sincere enough that they can be trusted for recommendations geared towards a given customer's tastes, not the inflation of the tab or the dispense of a dish for which the kitchen is overstocked.
All of it can be built, though, around good food and good drinks. And though the experience specific to Excelsior may have ended with its closing, I may yet have found a new favorite, long may it reign.
Without further adieu, the dust has now settled, and it's time to dole out the gold stars and dunce caps.
The biggest disappointment was easily The Palm. As I said in the more at-length recap, I know there's a good meal to be had there. Or at least, there was once upon a time. Having been on their mailing list for quite some time, I can't ever recall receiving so many "special offers" in such a small span of time. If my recent experience there was in any way representative of the typical visit these days, it leaves little to the imagination with regards to what's motivating all these discounts cluttering up my e-mail.
Oishii is easily my new standard for sushi. Though a bit more a hike than incredibly convenient local favorite Privus Lounge, Oishii will likely see more of me with the warmer weather. Very good sushi, nice cocktails -- provided they survive the stairs -- and all at about the value one would deem relatively accurate for what's offered.
Tremont647 and Le Petit Robert will also see me returning. Both have menus I'm anxious to thoroughly explore, and whether it's the tangy French at the Bistro or the personable (here: gay) staff at 647, the atmospheres are comfortable and inviting for a three course meal or perhaps just a lazy Saturday's luncheon.
The Top of the Hub... I'm not sure why I didn't go often before. I must return with someone who hasn't got any food hangups, though; I want to do their tasting menu at some point. Considering their prices -- outside of the egregiously inflated costs to be found in their wine list -- are hardly anything beyond what you'd find for the same type of fare about fifty-two floors down, it really is worth the popping of the ears every now and then.
The big winner, though, and hereafter "favorite restaurant," is Gaslight. I've yet to do anything but enjoy myself there, and though I confess a slight bias in strong favor of traditional French cuisine done right, even the intangibles are in place here.
In order to keep myself from the unpleasant fate of Violet Beauregard, I shan't be eating out nearly as often for a good while -- perhaps until summer's installment of Restaurant Week in Boston -- especially as I'm planning to visit Miami in just under a month now.
Monday, March 30, 2009
In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part VII
The final stop on my Restaurant Week adventure was quite the exclamation point. I had landed 8:30 dinner reservations on a Friday at Top of the Hub.
When I first came to Boston, I'd heard about this place. All mention of it was put forth either with great reverence -- it was occasionally posited as the best restaurant in Boston -- or that damning definitive descriptive, "overrated." It now occurs to me that none of those people knew anything about food, or even anything about anything at all. It took me three years to actually visit it for the first time, taken there by a friend for my twenty-first birthday for a pair of martinis and a split dessert.
I didn't really get that far with assessing the place at the time; the view was lovely, but how much of a read can you get on any place's cuisine when you're fighting for bites of a shared dessert with a girl who can't stop lamenting the psychiatric shortcomings of her corporate executive boyfriend no one's ever seen?
Needless to say, I needed another trip to make a formed opinion, and last Friday was the night to do it.
A caveat reared its ugly head on Friday morning, as my intended company for the evening scratched himself from the lineup, citing a head cold of the fast and furious variety. In a bizarre twist of fate, I had an incredibly difficult time filling the spot; everyone had plans, or was also sick, or could neither afford it nor bring themselves to let me treat them. It was just baffling; dinner with me is so nice!
Shortly before I had to leave work, my friend Chris agreed to go.
Had he not, I had pretty much resolved that I would put forth a solo effort, get drunk, eat for two, and make a scene.
But, alas, I had company, so it was business as usual. My ears must've popped at least three times during the elevator ride up to the fifty-second floor; I really must get more accustomed to changes in elevation. When we arrived, though fairly early, our table was almost ready.
Weeks ago, when I made the reservations in the first place, I'd actually filled out the "special requests" input box with a bid for window seating along the northeast-facing side of the building. I figure everyone asks for a window seat, and anyone smart enough to factor in the logistics of what faces what would request the northeast side, but I also figured that there is no harm in asking for what you want nonetheless; the worst anyone can say is a simple "no."
And so it was that our table for two was in the exact center of the northeast-facing side of the building, immediately pressed against the windows, and there was a view, and yay, for this was good:
Even if the food was terrible, the sights were enough to bring a tear to the eye of someone with even the slightest Yurtle the Turtle complex.
I ordered the tuna tartare to start, which came blended with avocado and paired with small portions of pickled ginger and seaweed, plus a sticky, sweet teriyaki-ish soy sauce and some spicy mayo for smothering. It was a good way to start things off, but there's little to be said for the preparation, because the only skill in preparing raw fish is in its portioning, pairing and arrangement. Ain't nobody cook nothin' yet.
The foie gras that followed -- I'm a sucker for ordering foie gras... it's like creme brulee in that it's a fantastic litmus test for a kitchen's skills -- came with warm pineapple and some sort of granola-like brick. I forget what the menu said, and don't much care. I nearly lost my fork prying into the damn thing and though it wins obligatory points for originality, there's something to be said for not fixing what isn't broken. I would've traded in my pineapple and grainy brittle for just one nicely toasted triangle of brioche, especially considering how runny the foie gras was. Kudos to Le Petit Robert; they do it better.
By the time the main course was set to arrive, I was done trifling with cocktails and had summoned a bottle of Veuve from what wasn't exactly a comprehensive champagne selection in comparison with my expectations. The server opened the bottle flawlessly, but upon tilting it to pour, let well more than a taste's worth out onto the table, and, after having presented to Chris for approval rather than me -- it is my understanding that traditional wine panache calls for presentation to the individual who'd ordered the wine -- he poured him the taste as well.
All I will say is that it is difficult to mistake one of us for the other.
For my entree I had decided to go for the jugular and order the "market price" two-pound lobster. And so continued my difficulty with lobster; I thought that by ordering the menu item entitled "Native 2 lb. Lobster," described as having a crabmeat stuffing, that I would finally get a solid dose of the elusive -- even when named -- crustacean. When they brought my lobster to me, however, I could not help but notice that he was missing his fucking claws. What do I have to do to get a decent portion of lobster in goddamn fucking Boston? Who do I have to blow? This is the motherfucking center of New England, and I can't get the claws on my lobster fifty-two stories up in the heart of town?
Even more annoying: the lobster that I did get was absolutely delicious, including the crabmeat stuffing which replaced the bluish-green visceral tissue of the lobster -- considered by some to be a delicacy -- which I was happy to go without. The meal was, admittedly, so good that it was difficult to be disappointed about a clawless lobster, even though, across the table, Chris was doing mighty justice to his lobster macaroni and cheese which contained, suspiciously, claw meat.
For dessert, the creme brulee. It was completely up to par with expectations; no complaints whatsoever there. Consistently flame-licked on top so nothing was too burned or left untouched, with the custard beneath remaining smooth and creamy without even a hint of graininess. Very good.
Overall, the Top of the Hub does things pretty well, though they miss the little touches here and there that would otherwise put them over the top in offering an experience of unquestionable class an opulence. The servers should probably double-check to make sure their guests are done with a dish before removing it from the table, especially with the appetizers in their limited portions, and not spilling any bit of a bottle of champagne for which the restaurant rate is more than 125% of the market price would probably be advisable. Nonetheless, with so much else going for it, the fact I could order lobster by itself, receive it without the claws and still come away feeling summarily satisfied speaks volumes of the complete experience.
Would do again, at some point.
When I first came to Boston, I'd heard about this place. All mention of it was put forth either with great reverence -- it was occasionally posited as the best restaurant in Boston -- or that damning definitive descriptive, "overrated." It now occurs to me that none of those people knew anything about food, or even anything about anything at all. It took me three years to actually visit it for the first time, taken there by a friend for my twenty-first birthday for a pair of martinis and a split dessert.
I didn't really get that far with assessing the place at the time; the view was lovely, but how much of a read can you get on any place's cuisine when you're fighting for bites of a shared dessert with a girl who can't stop lamenting the psychiatric shortcomings of her corporate executive boyfriend no one's ever seen?
Needless to say, I needed another trip to make a formed opinion, and last Friday was the night to do it.
A caveat reared its ugly head on Friday morning, as my intended company for the evening scratched himself from the lineup, citing a head cold of the fast and furious variety. In a bizarre twist of fate, I had an incredibly difficult time filling the spot; everyone had plans, or was also sick, or could neither afford it nor bring themselves to let me treat them. It was just baffling; dinner with me is so nice!
Shortly before I had to leave work, my friend Chris agreed to go.
Had he not, I had pretty much resolved that I would put forth a solo effort, get drunk, eat for two, and make a scene.
But, alas, I had company, so it was business as usual. My ears must've popped at least three times during the elevator ride up to the fifty-second floor; I really must get more accustomed to changes in elevation. When we arrived, though fairly early, our table was almost ready.
Weeks ago, when I made the reservations in the first place, I'd actually filled out the "special requests" input box with a bid for window seating along the northeast-facing side of the building. I figure everyone asks for a window seat, and anyone smart enough to factor in the logistics of what faces what would request the northeast side, but I also figured that there is no harm in asking for what you want nonetheless; the worst anyone can say is a simple "no."
And so it was that our table for two was in the exact center of the northeast-facing side of the building, immediately pressed against the windows, and there was a view, and yay, for this was good:
Even if the food was terrible, the sights were enough to bring a tear to the eye of someone with even the slightest Yurtle the Turtle complex.
I ordered the tuna tartare to start, which came blended with avocado and paired with small portions of pickled ginger and seaweed, plus a sticky, sweet teriyaki-ish soy sauce and some spicy mayo for smothering. It was a good way to start things off, but there's little to be said for the preparation, because the only skill in preparing raw fish is in its portioning, pairing and arrangement. Ain't nobody cook nothin' yet.
The foie gras that followed -- I'm a sucker for ordering foie gras... it's like creme brulee in that it's a fantastic litmus test for a kitchen's skills -- came with warm pineapple and some sort of granola-like brick. I forget what the menu said, and don't much care. I nearly lost my fork prying into the damn thing and though it wins obligatory points for originality, there's something to be said for not fixing what isn't broken. I would've traded in my pineapple and grainy brittle for just one nicely toasted triangle of brioche, especially considering how runny the foie gras was. Kudos to Le Petit Robert; they do it better.
By the time the main course was set to arrive, I was done trifling with cocktails and had summoned a bottle of Veuve from what wasn't exactly a comprehensive champagne selection in comparison with my expectations. The server opened the bottle flawlessly, but upon tilting it to pour, let well more than a taste's worth out onto the table, and, after having presented to Chris for approval rather than me -- it is my understanding that traditional wine panache calls for presentation to the individual who'd ordered the wine -- he poured him the taste as well.
All I will say is that it is difficult to mistake one of us for the other.
For my entree I had decided to go for the jugular and order the "market price" two-pound lobster. And so continued my difficulty with lobster; I thought that by ordering the menu item entitled "Native 2 lb. Lobster," described as having a crabmeat stuffing, that I would finally get a solid dose of the elusive -- even when named -- crustacean. When they brought my lobster to me, however, I could not help but notice that he was missing his fucking claws. What do I have to do to get a decent portion of lobster in goddamn fucking Boston? Who do I have to blow? This is the motherfucking center of New England, and I can't get the claws on my lobster fifty-two stories up in the heart of town?
Even more annoying: the lobster that I did get was absolutely delicious, including the crabmeat stuffing which replaced the bluish-green visceral tissue of the lobster -- considered by some to be a delicacy -- which I was happy to go without. The meal was, admittedly, so good that it was difficult to be disappointed about a clawless lobster, even though, across the table, Chris was doing mighty justice to his lobster macaroni and cheese which contained, suspiciously, claw meat.
For dessert, the creme brulee. It was completely up to par with expectations; no complaints whatsoever there. Consistently flame-licked on top so nothing was too burned or left untouched, with the custard beneath remaining smooth and creamy without even a hint of graininess. Very good.
Overall, the Top of the Hub does things pretty well, though they miss the little touches here and there that would otherwise put them over the top in offering an experience of unquestionable class an opulence. The servers should probably double-check to make sure their guests are done with a dish before removing it from the table, especially with the appetizers in their limited portions, and not spilling any bit of a bottle of champagne for which the restaurant rate is more than 125% of the market price would probably be advisable. Nonetheless, with so much else going for it, the fact I could order lobster by itself, receive it without the claws and still come away feeling summarily satisfied speaks volumes of the complete experience.
Would do again, at some point.
Friday, March 27, 2009
In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part VI
Last night, Hanah joined me for Le Petit Robert Bistro.
I'd been to the installment on Columbus Avenue in the South End twice before with Robert. We essentially took turns being completely incapacitated after attempting to down their very rich lobster bisque -- which contains lobster -- and I have since felt challenged to conquer its food-coma inducing powers. The most stand-out memory, however, is the back-handed compliment we received from the waitress on our first trip.
Once we had announced our orders, she said, and I do definitely quote:
The Kenmore location, which is where Hanah and I went last night, had pretty much the same atmosphere. A dimly-lit, tightly packed -- and thus, rather warm -- establishment.
When I saw the Restaurant Week pre-fixe, I immediately jumped ship and turned my attention to the regular menu. I was determined to take on a complete four-course gauntlet.
Things started off with their trio of pates, a delicious dish comprised of foie gras, pork, and country pates with cornichions and mustard, plus a relatively soft warm baguette on which to spread them. I've had this dish before and loved it; last night's offering was consistent with previous orders. I will say that toasted triangles of brioche would make this just a little better, but that's a statement that can apply to so very many things.
The lobster bisque that followed was satisfactory. There seemed to be a gentle spice in the nutmeg-cinnamon-clove family going on, giving the soup a softer tone than I'm used to, also somewhat masking how very rich their version of the dish is. I did not, however, fall immediately into a food-coma after finishing it this time. A tribute to my developing endurance!
For the entree -- the main reason I strayed from the pre-fixe -- I ordered the sweetbreads. Sweetbreads just don't show up on many menus, but they're apparently available year-round at Le Petit Robert. Ever-so-lightly breaded with a dash of sea salt, the mixed vegetable and mashed potato sides that accompany them are rendered irrelevant; the sweetbreads dominate the dish and are simply the only part worth paying any mind to.
For dessert, I had the creme caramel, which was basically flan doused in a thin caramel syrup, accompanied by a flaky cookie. It was good, though my sample of Hanah's citron tart brulee informed me that I should've ordered that.
Le Petit Robert Bistro is cozy if not a little stuffy, but thoroughly enjoyable. The menu options, extensive and inviting, are probably suited for no more than two courses on account of how rich most of them are. I look forward to returning in warmer weather for some patio dining; a little more champagne and a little less food.
My stomach may not forgive me anytime soon, but as soon as it does, would do again.
I'd been to the installment on Columbus Avenue in the South End twice before with Robert. We essentially took turns being completely incapacitated after attempting to down their very rich lobster bisque -- which contains lobster -- and I have since felt challenged to conquer its food-coma inducing powers. The most stand-out memory, however, is the back-handed compliment we received from the waitress on our first trip.
Once we had announced our orders, she said, and I do definitely quote:
"At first, when you came in, I thought you were cheap, but now we must get you to stay forever!"Now, picture this coming from someone who, in speech, sounds pretty much exactly like Celine Dion. Isn't that just fucking precious? What can't French people do...
The Kenmore location, which is where Hanah and I went last night, had pretty much the same atmosphere. A dimly-lit, tightly packed -- and thus, rather warm -- establishment.
When I saw the Restaurant Week pre-fixe, I immediately jumped ship and turned my attention to the regular menu. I was determined to take on a complete four-course gauntlet.
Things started off with their trio of pates, a delicious dish comprised of foie gras, pork, and country pates with cornichions and mustard, plus a relatively soft warm baguette on which to spread them. I've had this dish before and loved it; last night's offering was consistent with previous orders. I will say that toasted triangles of brioche would make this just a little better, but that's a statement that can apply to so very many things.
The lobster bisque that followed was satisfactory. There seemed to be a gentle spice in the nutmeg-cinnamon-clove family going on, giving the soup a softer tone than I'm used to, also somewhat masking how very rich their version of the dish is. I did not, however, fall immediately into a food-coma after finishing it this time. A tribute to my developing endurance!
For the entree -- the main reason I strayed from the pre-fixe -- I ordered the sweetbreads. Sweetbreads just don't show up on many menus, but they're apparently available year-round at Le Petit Robert. Ever-so-lightly breaded with a dash of sea salt, the mixed vegetable and mashed potato sides that accompany them are rendered irrelevant; the sweetbreads dominate the dish and are simply the only part worth paying any mind to.
For dessert, I had the creme caramel, which was basically flan doused in a thin caramel syrup, accompanied by a flaky cookie. It was good, though my sample of Hanah's citron tart brulee informed me that I should've ordered that.
Le Petit Robert Bistro is cozy if not a little stuffy, but thoroughly enjoyable. The menu options, extensive and inviting, are probably suited for no more than two courses on account of how rich most of them are. I look forward to returning in warmer weather for some patio dining; a little more champagne and a little less food.
My stomach may not forgive me anytime soon, but as soon as it does, would do again.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part V
Last night was the beginning of the home stretch, the final three days of Restaurant Week in which I had planned to visit three strong favorites in the scramble for my new culinary cocaine.
Wednesday found me at Gaslight, Brasserie du Coin with Sarah. Gaslight is not terribly expensive, nor terribly adventurous, but the former is never a problem and the latter is actually a positive in this case, as Gaslight strives to put forth a comprehensive menu of dishes traditional to and iconic of French cuisine. Escargot, crepes, the works.
Softly lit with globe lighting and muted table lamps, the restaurant walls are lined with clouded, speckled mirrors and two rows of sparkling water bottles up near the high ceiling. The booths and tables are all dark wood, done up with a deep burgundy leather and bronze studs, and the atmosphere is full but not crowded, with ambiance background noise of light dinner conversation and the less voluminous works of Edith Piaf (for whom one of their cocktails is named).
Gaslight, like most of the other places I've visited so far, was also offering its regular menu, and how fortunate, as I was so hoping to re-sample their onion soup gratinee, a gruyere-topped wonder with soaked baguette and truffled short rib.
But we started with drinks; I had to go with the Fleur De Lis. Normally I would be opposed to a gin-based drink, but this had violet liqueur and a champagne floater, so, what the Hell. And it really wasn't bad at all, in fact I liked it. It was light and refreshing, and completely lacking of the usual "pine tree splinters in the throat" flavor of gin to which I will never be quite accustomed.
My onion soup came along just as I remembered it, and was consistent with my assessment as the best of its kind in town. From the pre-fixe menu, I was tempted by the opportunity to order lobster bisque with the likelihood that Gaslight would show up The Palm, but how often does one get the opportunity to enjoy braised veal cheeks on duck fat toasted brioche? The word "tender" would not even begin to accurately describe the dish; I was infinitely grateful that the restaurant provides an abundance of bread in hot baguette form with which to soak up the juices of this delicately portioned, savorable dish.
Having polished off my Fleur De Lis, I moved on to the Can Can, which was ginger liqueur and champagne with candied ginger at the bottom. I would be finishing my third Can Can by the end of the night.
For the entree, though lured by the navarin of lamb with turnip puree and pearl onions, not to mention the scallops in tagliatelle with scallions and strips of ham, I rarely turn down cassoulet. And I was incredibly happy with my choice. The duck confit and garlic sausage were perfectly portioned over the white beans, all sprinkled with a bacon crumble. Heart disease, surely, was the secret ingredient, but after the cheesy onion soup and the braised veal cheeks, there was no stopping this bus.
Finally, for dessert, I ordered what was one of the most anticipated dishes of the many pre-fixed menus I perused when selecting my reservations. Champagne sorbet with black currant syrup and parisienne macarons. The portion was generous, perhaps exceedingly so, as I was quite full just midway through, but it was fantastic. The sorbet was airy and retained just a hint of fizz, while the syrup added a sweet tartness here and there. The cookie, meanwhile, was in a category of its own, easily the finest Parisian-style macaron I've been able to get my hands on here in the U. S., as of yet unable to sample the source.
Gaslight may not have been quite so posh as Clink or as diverse in menu as Tremont 647, but stands alone in overall satisfaction thus far. Would do again and again.
Wednesday found me at Gaslight, Brasserie du Coin with Sarah. Gaslight is not terribly expensive, nor terribly adventurous, but the former is never a problem and the latter is actually a positive in this case, as Gaslight strives to put forth a comprehensive menu of dishes traditional to and iconic of French cuisine. Escargot, crepes, the works.
Softly lit with globe lighting and muted table lamps, the restaurant walls are lined with clouded, speckled mirrors and two rows of sparkling water bottles up near the high ceiling. The booths and tables are all dark wood, done up with a deep burgundy leather and bronze studs, and the atmosphere is full but not crowded, with ambiance background noise of light dinner conversation and the less voluminous works of Edith Piaf (for whom one of their cocktails is named).
Gaslight, like most of the other places I've visited so far, was also offering its regular menu, and how fortunate, as I was so hoping to re-sample their onion soup gratinee, a gruyere-topped wonder with soaked baguette and truffled short rib.
But we started with drinks; I had to go with the Fleur De Lis. Normally I would be opposed to a gin-based drink, but this had violet liqueur and a champagne floater, so, what the Hell. And it really wasn't bad at all, in fact I liked it. It was light and refreshing, and completely lacking of the usual "pine tree splinters in the throat" flavor of gin to which I will never be quite accustomed.
My onion soup came along just as I remembered it, and was consistent with my assessment as the best of its kind in town. From the pre-fixe menu, I was tempted by the opportunity to order lobster bisque with the likelihood that Gaslight would show up The Palm, but how often does one get the opportunity to enjoy braised veal cheeks on duck fat toasted brioche? The word "tender" would not even begin to accurately describe the dish; I was infinitely grateful that the restaurant provides an abundance of bread in hot baguette form with which to soak up the juices of this delicately portioned, savorable dish.
Having polished off my Fleur De Lis, I moved on to the Can Can, which was ginger liqueur and champagne with candied ginger at the bottom. I would be finishing my third Can Can by the end of the night.
For the entree, though lured by the navarin of lamb with turnip puree and pearl onions, not to mention the scallops in tagliatelle with scallions and strips of ham, I rarely turn down cassoulet. And I was incredibly happy with my choice. The duck confit and garlic sausage were perfectly portioned over the white beans, all sprinkled with a bacon crumble. Heart disease, surely, was the secret ingredient, but after the cheesy onion soup and the braised veal cheeks, there was no stopping this bus.
Finally, for dessert, I ordered what was one of the most anticipated dishes of the many pre-fixed menus I perused when selecting my reservations. Champagne sorbet with black currant syrup and parisienne macarons. The portion was generous, perhaps exceedingly so, as I was quite full just midway through, but it was fantastic. The sorbet was airy and retained just a hint of fizz, while the syrup added a sweet tartness here and there. The cookie, meanwhile, was in a category of its own, easily the finest Parisian-style macaron I've been able to get my hands on here in the U. S., as of yet unable to sample the source.
Gaslight may not have been quite so posh as Clink or as diverse in menu as Tremont 647, but stands alone in overall satisfaction thus far. Would do again and again.
In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part IV
Tuesday heralded the "second half" of my Restaurant Week adventure. That is, the selection of restaurants to which I'd already been that seemed to require another -- cheaper -- visit.
The first of those was The Palm Boston, part of The Palm restaurant chain. I was first introduced to The Palm for my twentieth birthday by my aunt and uncle, and I was thoroughly impressed. I returned with "the boys" for New Year's Eve that year, where, again, my 16 oz. filet mignon was everything I hoped it would be.
I hadn't been since, enduring lengthy periods of time during which I could barely afford ramen noodles, let alone New York sirloin cuts. And The Palm hadn't previously opted to participate in Restaurant Week, positing itself with such previous untouchables as L'Espalier and Top of the Hub, immune to discounting their dinner services for new business and limiting the offer strictly to lunch. This year, however, as was the case with even the most uppity of establishments, they elected to participate fully. Having noted this development, and still holding very favorable memories of previous visits, I could not pass it up.
And so, on Tuesday, Erika and I made our way to The Palm Boston, situated in the Westin Hotel in the Back Bay area of town. Rather lost on what to drink -- torn between cocktails or wine -- we went with what seemed like a compromise. The girly-sounding "strawberry sparkling mojitos" we ordered were, it turned out, a compromise of unexpected context. I found the drink absurdly strong, even unnecessarily so. Mind you, this is coming from someone who will view the "rocks" portions of "vodka rocks" as a mixer if the vodka is smooth enough. The drink was just awful, a steely sort of rum with strawberry seeds and some very ill-looking mint sludged at the bottom. Unpleasant.
The appetizer choices were thin; lobster bisque, salad, or a different salad. Since I don't believe in eating salad when the salad in question is not a sexual euphemism, I went with the bisque. There was a distinct flavor of lobster in what I was served. This is more than I could say for the lobster bisque I was once served at the Daily Grill where, upon inquiring why my lobster bisque had been made without any hint of lobster, the server raised his hands in surrender and asserted his vegetarian status as though he was some how thereby Switzerland in the war on what amounts to false advertising, not my yet-to-be-commissioned liaison to the kitchen. But the actual flavor of lobster is the only thing The Palm's bisque had over the Daily Grill's; though I am certain any representative of The Palm would purport their food to be of higher quality than the products of the Campbell's Soup Company, I am here to report that on practically infinite occasions I have cracked open a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup to encounter visible amounts -- if modest -- of chicken, and noodles, no less, but in a thorough search through The Palm's lobster bisque, I was completely unable to locate a even a suggestive shred of langoustine or prawn masquerading as their more prestigious cousin throughout the bowl.
Restrauant Week or not, Old Bay and sea salt do not a lobster bisque make, and to preface the dish on the menu with the words "our famous" seems almost humorous if one simply measures it by the relatively easy standard of containing some fucking lobster.
For the entree, I was torn. There was something called a "veal martini," with sun-dried tomatoes and such. And a salmon dish with lobster mashed potatoes, which I did not order. The meaning of "lobster mashed potatoes" is called into question, post-bisque-debacle. Perhaps the potatoes are mashed in the kitchen by the lamenting claws of a doomed lobster in his final moments of anguish. But the steak dish seemed too perfect. New York sirloin, butter-poached lump lobster meat, and wild mushroom risotto.
At the server's recommendation, I ordered the steak.
Having defeated my mojito, I wanted something different, specifically something unlike the cocktail I'd just had. When I asked for their cocktail menu, I was provided with a small list, along with the assertion that "the bar is very extensive." So I said "All right, let's put the bar to the test," and before I could begin to make my request, the server cut me off with a scoff, as though it was pathetic to suggest I would request anything they didn't have in stock. His confidence was encouraging, but upon listing my first ingredient of choice, he cringed. "I'd like pear vodka shaken with..."
"Oooh, um, pear vodka? Yeah, um, sometimes we have it. Let me check with the bar really quickly..."
Alas, no pear vodka. How now, brown cow. So I went with a listed cocktail entitled "Tease Like A Tart." It tasted of key lime pie soaked in rubbing alcohol, and was a substantial improvement over its predecessor in the beverage department. Perhaps I should've gone with wine?
The entree was not quite what I expected. The steak was rare, as ordered, and visible lobster meat made its first formal appearance of the night, but the wild mushroom risotto was served as an arancini, which was unheralded in its description on the menu and unwelcome. I was hoping for a slow-cooked, creamy risotto and instead was greeted with a fried arancini ball which I sampled but rejected.
For dessert, I went with the trio of sorbets, and this turned out to be the only meal with which I was fully pleased or even pleasantly surprised. Three generous scoops, one each of passion fruit, raspberry, and mango sorbet, presented by themselves. The sorbets needed nothing else; they were very good.
But, all in all, had this been my only experience with The Palm, I'd have wondered how they established themselves as a name at the steak and lobster table. However, knowing what they are capable of from prior visits, I maintain that there is potential for a very good meal there, but whether my Restaurant Week visit was universal half-assing on account of the discounted event -- unadvisable, considering the other recent mailing list promotions I've received from the chain imply that the recession is hitting them solidly in the books -- or if this was simply an isolated blip on their track record, I can say that, given much more positive experiences at every other restaurant I've visited thus far for Restaurant Week, my enthusiasm for a return visit is considerably diminished.
Would not do again anytime soon.
The first of those was The Palm Boston, part of The Palm restaurant chain. I was first introduced to The Palm for my twentieth birthday by my aunt and uncle, and I was thoroughly impressed. I returned with "the boys" for New Year's Eve that year, where, again, my 16 oz. filet mignon was everything I hoped it would be.
I hadn't been since, enduring lengthy periods of time during which I could barely afford ramen noodles, let alone New York sirloin cuts. And The Palm hadn't previously opted to participate in Restaurant Week, positing itself with such previous untouchables as L'Espalier and Top of the Hub, immune to discounting their dinner services for new business and limiting the offer strictly to lunch. This year, however, as was the case with even the most uppity of establishments, they elected to participate fully. Having noted this development, and still holding very favorable memories of previous visits, I could not pass it up.
And so, on Tuesday, Erika and I made our way to The Palm Boston, situated in the Westin Hotel in the Back Bay area of town. Rather lost on what to drink -- torn between cocktails or wine -- we went with what seemed like a compromise. The girly-sounding "strawberry sparkling mojitos" we ordered were, it turned out, a compromise of unexpected context. I found the drink absurdly strong, even unnecessarily so. Mind you, this is coming from someone who will view the "rocks" portions of "vodka rocks" as a mixer if the vodka is smooth enough. The drink was just awful, a steely sort of rum with strawberry seeds and some very ill-looking mint sludged at the bottom. Unpleasant.
The appetizer choices were thin; lobster bisque, salad, or a different salad. Since I don't believe in eating salad when the salad in question is not a sexual euphemism, I went with the bisque. There was a distinct flavor of lobster in what I was served. This is more than I could say for the lobster bisque I was once served at the Daily Grill where, upon inquiring why my lobster bisque had been made without any hint of lobster, the server raised his hands in surrender and asserted his vegetarian status as though he was some how thereby Switzerland in the war on what amounts to false advertising, not my yet-to-be-commissioned liaison to the kitchen. But the actual flavor of lobster is the only thing The Palm's bisque had over the Daily Grill's; though I am certain any representative of The Palm would purport their food to be of higher quality than the products of the Campbell's Soup Company, I am here to report that on practically infinite occasions I have cracked open a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup to encounter visible amounts -- if modest -- of chicken, and noodles, no less, but in a thorough search through The Palm's lobster bisque, I was completely unable to locate a even a suggestive shred of langoustine or prawn masquerading as their more prestigious cousin throughout the bowl.
Restrauant Week or not, Old Bay and sea salt do not a lobster bisque make, and to preface the dish on the menu with the words "our famous" seems almost humorous if one simply measures it by the relatively easy standard of containing some fucking lobster.
For the entree, I was torn. There was something called a "veal martini," with sun-dried tomatoes and such. And a salmon dish with lobster mashed potatoes, which I did not order. The meaning of "lobster mashed potatoes" is called into question, post-bisque-debacle. Perhaps the potatoes are mashed in the kitchen by the lamenting claws of a doomed lobster in his final moments of anguish. But the steak dish seemed too perfect. New York sirloin, butter-poached lump lobster meat, and wild mushroom risotto.
At the server's recommendation, I ordered the steak.
Having defeated my mojito, I wanted something different, specifically something unlike the cocktail I'd just had. When I asked for their cocktail menu, I was provided with a small list, along with the assertion that "the bar is very extensive." So I said "All right, let's put the bar to the test," and before I could begin to make my request, the server cut me off with a scoff, as though it was pathetic to suggest I would request anything they didn't have in stock. His confidence was encouraging, but upon listing my first ingredient of choice, he cringed. "I'd like pear vodka shaken with..."
"Oooh, um, pear vodka? Yeah, um, sometimes we have it. Let me check with the bar really quickly..."
Alas, no pear vodka. How now, brown cow. So I went with a listed cocktail entitled "Tease Like A Tart." It tasted of key lime pie soaked in rubbing alcohol, and was a substantial improvement over its predecessor in the beverage department. Perhaps I should've gone with wine?
The entree was not quite what I expected. The steak was rare, as ordered, and visible lobster meat made its first formal appearance of the night, but the wild mushroom risotto was served as an arancini, which was unheralded in its description on the menu and unwelcome. I was hoping for a slow-cooked, creamy risotto and instead was greeted with a fried arancini ball which I sampled but rejected.
For dessert, I went with the trio of sorbets, and this turned out to be the only meal with which I was fully pleased or even pleasantly surprised. Three generous scoops, one each of passion fruit, raspberry, and mango sorbet, presented by themselves. The sorbets needed nothing else; they were very good.
But, all in all, had this been my only experience with The Palm, I'd have wondered how they established themselves as a name at the steak and lobster table. However, knowing what they are capable of from prior visits, I maintain that there is potential for a very good meal there, but whether my Restaurant Week visit was universal half-assing on account of the discounted event -- unadvisable, considering the other recent mailing list promotions I've received from the chain imply that the recession is hitting them solidly in the books -- or if this was simply an isolated blip on their track record, I can say that, given much more positive experiences at every other restaurant I've visited thus far for Restaurant Week, my enthusiasm for a return visit is considerably diminished.
Would not do again anytime soon.
In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part III
No restaurants participate in Restaurant Week on Sundays, forcing me to attend Privus with Erika for their snow maki, Pink Floyd maki, and spicy Walu white tuna roll in the brief intermission.
But on Monday, the game was afoot once again. The destination was Tremont647 with Bobby, who declared the evening a celebration on account of his recent full-time hiring at the architecture firm where he'd been on contract for months. Indeed, in the current economic climate -- which, at this point, needs little explanation -- this is worthy of substantial toasting.
So the first order of business was to conjure a bottle of Nicolas Feuillatte rose (NV), which, to my delight, even our waiter couldn't pronounce. Feuillatte isn't typically my first choice, but there was no Moet, Vueve, or Jouet in sight, so "Nick," as Bobby and I have now decided to refer to him, did just fine.
Chosing an appetizer was easy; lobster mac'n'cheese. It was everything one could hope it would be; a hardy cheese blend -- including grueyer -- baked just enough so that the edges were turning golden but the core of the dish remained moist and saucy. The lobster was well-represented. I didn't expect a "lobster in every bite" type of ratio -- almost no pasta dish will ever contain such a ratio... I've learned that one must order lobster by itself in order for such a condition to exist, and otherwise expect lobster to be, at best, visible -- but in this case, there was plenty.
The entree was a bit more of a challenge. Fish? Duck? Or the lobster, shrimp, and diver scallops over pasta with "oven-dried tomatoes." Oddly enough, I think it was the oven-dried tomatoes that made me chose the dish. At first, I thought, "Why would they dry them in an oven?" But then it occurred to me that this sounds significantly more sanitary than "sun-dried tomatoes." I had to know.
Once again, lobster was actually prominent within the dish, though I think there was a total of one diver's scallop, the overall portioning of seafood was considerable. The cream sauce was rich without being excessively heavy, and I'm fairly sure the pasta was made in-house from scratch. As for the oven-dried tomatoes, they contain more moisture than their poverty-stricken, street-dwelling sun-dried cousins, and are -- at least in my opinion -- actually more appetizing.
By the time dessert arrived, Bobby and I had killed Nick, and though I was very disappointed to find that my "chocolate almond financier" was quite literally just a glorified and rather dry brownie, it was better than having ordered a more enticing dessert, as I found myself completely full and satisfied from the two previous courses and the champagne.
Tremont647 is no replacement for Excelsior, this is for sure. Though dessert was an utter disappointment, I'm fairly confident that a more in-depth tour of their menu would turn results of end-to-end satisfaction, and so a return is definitely in order. Would do again.
But on Monday, the game was afoot once again. The destination was Tremont647 with Bobby, who declared the evening a celebration on account of his recent full-time hiring at the architecture firm where he'd been on contract for months. Indeed, in the current economic climate -- which, at this point, needs little explanation -- this is worthy of substantial toasting.
So the first order of business was to conjure a bottle of Nicolas Feuillatte rose (NV), which, to my delight, even our waiter couldn't pronounce. Feuillatte isn't typically my first choice, but there was no Moet, Vueve, or Jouet in sight, so "Nick," as Bobby and I have now decided to refer to him, did just fine.
Chosing an appetizer was easy; lobster mac'n'cheese. It was everything one could hope it would be; a hardy cheese blend -- including grueyer -- baked just enough so that the edges were turning golden but the core of the dish remained moist and saucy. The lobster was well-represented. I didn't expect a "lobster in every bite" type of ratio -- almost no pasta dish will ever contain such a ratio... I've learned that one must order lobster by itself in order for such a condition to exist, and otherwise expect lobster to be, at best, visible -- but in this case, there was plenty.
The entree was a bit more of a challenge. Fish? Duck? Or the lobster, shrimp, and diver scallops over pasta with "oven-dried tomatoes." Oddly enough, I think it was the oven-dried tomatoes that made me chose the dish. At first, I thought, "Why would they dry them in an oven?" But then it occurred to me that this sounds significantly more sanitary than "sun-dried tomatoes." I had to know.
Once again, lobster was actually prominent within the dish, though I think there was a total of one diver's scallop, the overall portioning of seafood was considerable. The cream sauce was rich without being excessively heavy, and I'm fairly sure the pasta was made in-house from scratch. As for the oven-dried tomatoes, they contain more moisture than their poverty-stricken, street-dwelling sun-dried cousins, and are -- at least in my opinion -- actually more appetizing.
By the time dessert arrived, Bobby and I had killed Nick, and though I was very disappointed to find that my "chocolate almond financier" was quite literally just a glorified and rather dry brownie, it was better than having ordered a more enticing dessert, as I found myself completely full and satisfied from the two previous courses and the champagne.
Tremont647 is no replacement for Excelsior, this is for sure. Though dessert was an utter disappointment, I'm fairly confident that a more in-depth tour of their menu would turn results of end-to-end satisfaction, and so a return is definitely in order. Would do again.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part II
Saturday's Restaurant Week stop was the sole lunch date of the seven adventures, a belated celebration of Brent's return to Boston at Oishii in the South End.
Oishii must've anticipated a fiend such as myself might attend during Restaurant Week and require a bit more sushi than the three-course pre-fixe menu had allotted, and also offered their a la carte sushi and regular lunch menus as backup.
The atmosphere was dark and calm; the wall adjacent to the stairs leading to the downstairs dining area is a grey water fountain which ends up in a shallow pool surrounding the area below the stairs. Neat.
The pre-fixe appetizer choice was relatively uninspiring, a choice between sweet potato tempura -- a terrifying notion -- and miso soup -- a bore. I went with the soup, because fried foods leave me urpy, and watching Brent struggle to consume what looked, visually, like a fried rack of orange ribs on a skewer... well, I figured I'd gone with the less cumbersome appetizer, in the very least.
But it didn't matter, because next to the soup, and only slightly less cloudy, stood my pear cocktail. What on Earth is it about pear vodka with sparkling wine? Every establishment should offer such a cocktail. Nothing else is quite so tolerable in a martini glass. As a side note, I am rather opposed to the martini glass. For all its alleged elegance, it, above all other stemware, reduces the odds of the alcohol actually making it to my mouth, increasingly so with each installment.
If little children behave like drunks, and vice versa, shouldn't our grown-up beverages be served with crazy straws, or in sippy-cups? I'm just striving for efficiency, here.
The drinks were all made upstairs from where we were seated, by the way. This meant our server -- pleasant if a bit unpolished -- had to carry them down on a tray. When you're getting drunk on a Saturday afternoon, the only thing scarier than having to watch your waitress creep down the stairs with your drinks as she teeters left and right is... well, there's nothing more frightening, now, is there.
She actually managed to reach the bottom of the stairs without spilling each time, but then, presumably having relaxed her focus a bit, allowed a bit of each to escape when transfering them to our table.
And it was too of a place nice of a place for me to lap up the casualty.
The entree portion of the pre-fixe had three types of sushi. Chief amont them, a large roll, called the "Route 66," which contained -- if I recall correctly -- spicy tuna, cream cheese, shrimp tempura and lettuce with eel sauce. There was also a smaller roll of tuna, and some salmon nigiri. All very, very high quality. The sushi we ordered from the regular menu, however, was even better. Salt water eel topped with a slice of what appeared to be a pygmy lime and some lavender, a whole lobster claw balanced with a dash of old bay, Walu white tuna... all splendid.
I managed to stray from my pear concoction after managing to persuade Brent to let me try his ginger Manhattan. Neither of us are Manhattan guys, but he was raving to point where he didn't want to share in the first place. Thus, I had to try it, and, upon tasting it, was forced to subsequently order one for myself.
Dessert was green tea ice cream -- and a second ginger martini. Brent, who is picky about just everything, declared Oishii to have provided the best sushi he's ever had. So fond of my local -- less classy -- joint, Privus, I'm not sure I would echo that particular declaration, but Oishii is worthy of a repeat, if even only for drinks. Would do again.
Oishii must've anticipated a fiend such as myself might attend during Restaurant Week and require a bit more sushi than the three-course pre-fixe menu had allotted, and also offered their a la carte sushi and regular lunch menus as backup.
The atmosphere was dark and calm; the wall adjacent to the stairs leading to the downstairs dining area is a grey water fountain which ends up in a shallow pool surrounding the area below the stairs. Neat.
The pre-fixe appetizer choice was relatively uninspiring, a choice between sweet potato tempura -- a terrifying notion -- and miso soup -- a bore. I went with the soup, because fried foods leave me urpy, and watching Brent struggle to consume what looked, visually, like a fried rack of orange ribs on a skewer... well, I figured I'd gone with the less cumbersome appetizer, in the very least.
But it didn't matter, because next to the soup, and only slightly less cloudy, stood my pear cocktail. What on Earth is it about pear vodka with sparkling wine? Every establishment should offer such a cocktail. Nothing else is quite so tolerable in a martini glass. As a side note, I am rather opposed to the martini glass. For all its alleged elegance, it, above all other stemware, reduces the odds of the alcohol actually making it to my mouth, increasingly so with each installment.
If little children behave like drunks, and vice versa, shouldn't our grown-up beverages be served with crazy straws, or in sippy-cups? I'm just striving for efficiency, here.
The drinks were all made upstairs from where we were seated, by the way. This meant our server -- pleasant if a bit unpolished -- had to carry them down on a tray. When you're getting drunk on a Saturday afternoon, the only thing scarier than having to watch your waitress creep down the stairs with your drinks as she teeters left and right is... well, there's nothing more frightening, now, is there.
She actually managed to reach the bottom of the stairs without spilling each time, but then, presumably having relaxed her focus a bit, allowed a bit of each to escape when transfering them to our table.
And it was too of a place nice of a place for me to lap up the casualty.
The entree portion of the pre-fixe had three types of sushi. Chief amont them, a large roll, called the "Route 66," which contained -- if I recall correctly -- spicy tuna, cream cheese, shrimp tempura and lettuce with eel sauce. There was also a smaller roll of tuna, and some salmon nigiri. All very, very high quality. The sushi we ordered from the regular menu, however, was even better. Salt water eel topped with a slice of what appeared to be a pygmy lime and some lavender, a whole lobster claw balanced with a dash of old bay, Walu white tuna... all splendid.
I managed to stray from my pear concoction after managing to persuade Brent to let me try his ginger Manhattan. Neither of us are Manhattan guys, but he was raving to point where he didn't want to share in the first place. Thus, I had to try it, and, upon tasting it, was forced to subsequently order one for myself.
Dessert was green tea ice cream -- and a second ginger martini. Brent, who is picky about just everything, declared Oishii to have provided the best sushi he's ever had. So fond of my local -- less classy -- joint, Privus, I'm not sure I would echo that particular declaration, but Oishii is worthy of a repeat, if even only for drinks. Would do again.
In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part I
Restaurant Week is upon me, or, rather, I am upon it.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am tearing it up.
Things kicked off last Friday with Robert at a place called Clink. Located inside of the ironically named Liberty Hotel -- renovated from a gorgeous building that was once what I imagine to be a rather endearing prison -- Clink is just as posh as the hotel in which it is nested. I must confess, any establishment which features champagne cocktails made strictly with Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin champagne can put its hand down my pants. I'm not sure exactly what I mean by that, but I'm happy with how it came out and I think I've communicated my point well.
They even have a separate champagne bar with all Veuve Clicquot. I'm like, yeah, put your mouth on it.
Moving right along.
The appetizer was slowly-poached hen egg and laughing bird shrimp with toasted brioche. The egg portion was a bit awkward, given that the tiny Yankee Candle-ish vessel in which it came made it slightly difficult to access the slop once the egg's, uh, hull had been breached. But the shrimp were as delightfully unique as their name would imply (though, fortunately, unaccompanied by laughing birds), and the brioche was perfection.
For the entree, I went with the striped bass over white bean puree with black olives. I was happy with the selection; the fish was moist and supple including the skin portion which put up no fight to the fork or incisor, and the bean puree was a velvety background for the gentle punch of the black olives.
Dessert was the gamble. Bay leaf panna cotta with rosewhip jam and homemade shortbread cookies. I was hesitant to order this, as I have only known bay leaves to be temporary flavoring agents in Italian cuisine, specifically appetizers and entrees but never desserts. But my reasoning suggested that it wouldn't have become a Restaurant Week menu item if they hadn't figured it to be a more-than-presentable pleasant surprise, which is just what it turned out to be. Al three components met each other well, and the dish didn't stand a chance.
I was just two rather generous blackberry champagne cocktails deep by the finish, and awash in satisfaction. The only low mark for Clink would have to be in the category of service; our waiter was the very portrait of lethargy. I imagined a slightly higher standard of persona, given the quality of every other aspect of the establishment, but Clink gets very high remarks nonetheless, and the ever-prestigious "would do again."
Ladies and gentlemen, I am tearing it up.
Things kicked off last Friday with Robert at a place called Clink. Located inside of the ironically named Liberty Hotel -- renovated from a gorgeous building that was once what I imagine to be a rather endearing prison -- Clink is just as posh as the hotel in which it is nested. I must confess, any establishment which features champagne cocktails made strictly with Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin champagne can put its hand down my pants. I'm not sure exactly what I mean by that, but I'm happy with how it came out and I think I've communicated my point well.
They even have a separate champagne bar with all Veuve Clicquot. I'm like, yeah, put your mouth on it.
Moving right along.
The appetizer was slowly-poached hen egg and laughing bird shrimp with toasted brioche. The egg portion was a bit awkward, given that the tiny Yankee Candle-ish vessel in which it came made it slightly difficult to access the slop once the egg's, uh, hull had been breached. But the shrimp were as delightfully unique as their name would imply (though, fortunately, unaccompanied by laughing birds), and the brioche was perfection.
For the entree, I went with the striped bass over white bean puree with black olives. I was happy with the selection; the fish was moist and supple including the skin portion which put up no fight to the fork or incisor, and the bean puree was a velvety background for the gentle punch of the black olives.
Dessert was the gamble. Bay leaf panna cotta with rosewhip jam and homemade shortbread cookies. I was hesitant to order this, as I have only known bay leaves to be temporary flavoring agents in Italian cuisine, specifically appetizers and entrees but never desserts. But my reasoning suggested that it wouldn't have become a Restaurant Week menu item if they hadn't figured it to be a more-than-presentable pleasant surprise, which is just what it turned out to be. Al three components met each other well, and the dish didn't stand a chance.
I was just two rather generous blackberry champagne cocktails deep by the finish, and awash in satisfaction. The only low mark for Clink would have to be in the category of service; our waiter was the very portrait of lethargy. I imagined a slightly higher standard of persona, given the quality of every other aspect of the establishment, but Clink gets very high remarks nonetheless, and the ever-prestigious "would do again."
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Fat Tuesday
Last night was my inaugural trip to L'Espalier. Ever since I got into the whole fine dining thing, it's been my understanding -- by way of various reviews and rankings -- that L'Espalier was one of the best, if not the best, of the gourmet establishments in all of New England. L'Espalier's philosophy puts forth an unabashed embrace of everything that is opulence, punctuated by their recent relocation, nestling into the third floor of the brand new Mandarin Oriental Hotel Boston, adjoining the Prudential Center on Boylston Street in the heart of the Back Bay.
Their menu, which features a rotating seasonal menu as well as a constantly-changing tasting pre-fixe, aims to combine local ingredients with contemporary French cuisine, accented by an infusion of traditional New England cooking styles.
As Hanah and I were attending an event as opposed to a regular reservation, the menu was completely pre-fixed, which was fine, as I found all of the courses more than agreeable by the provided menu. Each dish was paired with a wine by L'Espalier's resident wine expert, or "cork dork," Erich Schliebe. Dork he was, but that's never really a pejorative, and though I generally prefer quietude and isolation for fine dining, it was nice to have a little more light shed on some wines I would ordinarily never try (translation: reds).
The first pairing was Tasmanian salmon and shrimp roulade with lemon-apple vinaigrette and arugula with apple strips cut similarly to the strings of carrot one finds in a bland salad. In this case, however, the apple strips paired nicely to give a sweet, tart juxtaposition to the bitterness of the arugula. The vinaigrette was sparse, which is probably for the best as the roulade was plenty moist by itself. The salmon portion of the roulade, which was a good two-thirds of the portion, was surprisingly pate-like in texture; I usually expect cooked salmon to be at least somewhat flakier. The shrimp portion, nested within the more generous salmon, was the best part of the dish.
It was enjoyable, but not necessarily masterful. In my opinion, the best dishes are defined by the way each element combines to make a singular taste sensation when combined in a single bite. In the case of the roulade, the arugula and apple strips seemed fairly auxiliary. This is, perhaps a testament to the strength of the actual seafood portion, but moreso it seemed like the flora was tossed on for the sake of color and texture variation, perhaps unnecessary for this particular dish. Enjoyable, not doubt... but not quite masterful.
The wine pairing -- appropriately white -- was a 2006 Domaine Richou, "Chauvigne," Anjou, Loire. Schliebe announced that it would have a distinct "wet wool" or "barn" aroma. Though these are two "flavors" I cannot say I'd posit as enticing, and though I found the description applicable upon first inhale, I nonetheless found the taste of the wine to be enjoyable. It was gentle and a bit steely, a fine accompaniment for the dish with which it was served.
The second course was a dark meat chicken lasagne with smoked bacon, tomato, olive and red wine. The red wine, in this case, was the same wine for this dish's pairing, 2005 Chateau Dubraud, Premieres Cotes de Blaye, Bordeaux, only it was an ingredient to the abundant sauce topping the lasagne portion. A small toss of baby pea greens was resting atop the dish, and like with the appetizer, I could not really understand its presence outside of a desire to introduce color and texture diversity to a dish which stands up fine without.
I ate the pea greens as quickly as I could to get them out of the way and then focused on the lasagne and my accidentally generous pour of Bordeaux. Both were very satisfying; though I have to be coaxed into white meat chicken these days, I needed no persuasion to indulge in its fattier, darker counterpart. The lasagne was hardy and perfectly portioned for the second course of four, and the Bordeaux -- in the sauce or in the glass -- was equally full.
When Schliebe was announcing the third wine of the evening, he invited interaction from his audience by asking what kind of nose this wine had. Across the room, the frumpier female component of the only couple that might've been close to the age of Hanah and me was busy taking a deep whiff. She then lowered her glass and confidently declared, "Grapes!"
Rather than laugh, the entire rest of the patronage exchanged knowing stares of mutual understanding. It was not so much that we all hated her, or that her knowledge of wine was lacking. It was just that, should some catastrophic event have trapped us in the restaurant for an indeterminate amount of time, and should the food supplies have been exhausted, chosing the first person to cannibalize was no longer going to be as difficult as it might've otherwise been, had she said, say, bacon.
Yes, bacon, the cork dork announced, was the aroma of the wine. A modest inhale did nothing to validate his claim, and Hanah agreed. I figured maybe I was missing something. That, or the bitch in the frock across the room wasn't so far off with "Grapes!" But a deeper breath revealed the bacony secrets of the 2007 Domaine Les Grand Bois, "Cuvee Les Trois Sceurs," Cotes du Rhone. A taste introduced something I don't often encounter; a red wine I'd actually purchase on my own.
The rich, meaty red was completely in step with the third course of grilled flank steak over rosemary polenta with sweet vegetables. This dish was exceptional; each element combined to a distinct harmonious sensation, and separate, each flavor was still its own treat. The only improvement would've been for the dish to have been hotter upon arrival, thus maintaining the freshly-cooked texture of the polenta through the full period of consumption. Or perhaps I should just talk less and eat more when the steak is served. Either way, here, at last, was what I'd not just been hoping for, but rather, expecting from L'Espalier.
The fourth and final course was the grand cheese tasting of "Soft Comforts."
The plate featured an array of six soft cheeses, served with small slices of very lightly buttered crisp baguette. The first one tried was a "Green Hills," from Sweet Grass Dairy based out of Thomasville, Georgia. It ended up being my second favorite of the assortment, even though it had no singular distinguishing quality.
The second cheese was "Grayson" by Meadow Creek Dairy in Galax, Virginia. Hanah pegged this one early on; it was very close to the more common Muenster. The firmest of the six, texture-wise, I did not bother to spread it on the baguette chips, simply parsing bits by knife or fork and delivering them directly to the pie hole.
Third up was "Nancy's Hudson Valley Camembert" from Old Chatham Sheepherding Company in New York. Very soft, this was light and airy, and spread more like melted butter than anything else. Fine, but nothing exceptional.
Fourth was an "Organic Triple Cream" from the Champlain Valley Creamery in Vergennes, Vermont. This cheese was a strange and fickle mistress. It was distinctly bitter when it was in my mouth, and yet the moment I had finished each bite, it left an aftertaste that made me wish to taste it again. That description probably applies to a few people, too.
Fifth was the only import cheese, a "Brie de Nangis" from Normandy, France. It wasn't true brie, we learned from Louis Risoli -- cheese expert of L'Espalier -- because true brie is made from unpasteurized milk and aged only for thirty days. The United States will not allow unpasteurized dairy aged less than sixty days into the country. Apparently I'll have to go to fucking France for real brie. This "brie" was humble, though it may have been difficult for anything of subtle flavor to follow the Vermont camembert.
I was lucky enough to save what would be my favorite cheese for sixth and last, the "Colorouge" from Muoco Dairy in Fort Collins, Colorado. It spread perfectly, carried a graceful balance of salt, bitterness and even a bit of tartness. Delicious.
Really, though, it didn't matter in what order I ate the cheeses, because the wine pairing was the highlight of the evening. I am partial to Alsatian wines to begin with, and the 2005 Schoenheitz "Holder" Gewurztraminer was spicy, tangy bliss. I've got to hunt down a full bottle for myself.
The event was topped off with a small plate of sweets. A mint-filled dark chocolate, a small cube of merengue, and a nougat cube with crushed pistachio for each of us was delivered with the check, keeping me from impulsively requesting a glass of the 2007 Banfi "Rosa Regale" Brachetto d'Acqui from the Piedmont region of Italy that I'd been eyeing since discovering the limited listing of dessert beverages.
As if the unexpected sweet plate was not enough, we were given strawberry Parisian macarons at the coat check.
L'Espalier is not my new favorite restaurant, but it was a very fine place to spend Fat Tuesday, and though it seems as though rough times may lie ahead for the gourmand -- in the wake of Excelsior's closing, Pigalle is suddenly offering three courses plus drinks for twenty bucks every Tuesday, whereas the Top of the Hub is participating in the dinner set of Restaurant Week for the first time in memory -- my faith in proper indulgence has been somewhat restored. I look forward both to my upcoming Restaurant Week reservations as well as an eventual return to L'Espalier for a crack at their regular menu.
In the meantime, however, I've got to get on finding that Gewurztraminer.
Their menu, which features a rotating seasonal menu as well as a constantly-changing tasting pre-fixe, aims to combine local ingredients with contemporary French cuisine, accented by an infusion of traditional New England cooking styles.
As Hanah and I were attending an event as opposed to a regular reservation, the menu was completely pre-fixed, which was fine, as I found all of the courses more than agreeable by the provided menu. Each dish was paired with a wine by L'Espalier's resident wine expert, or "cork dork," Erich Schliebe. Dork he was, but that's never really a pejorative, and though I generally prefer quietude and isolation for fine dining, it was nice to have a little more light shed on some wines I would ordinarily never try (translation: reds).
The first pairing was Tasmanian salmon and shrimp roulade with lemon-apple vinaigrette and arugula with apple strips cut similarly to the strings of carrot one finds in a bland salad. In this case, however, the apple strips paired nicely to give a sweet, tart juxtaposition to the bitterness of the arugula. The vinaigrette was sparse, which is probably for the best as the roulade was plenty moist by itself. The salmon portion of the roulade, which was a good two-thirds of the portion, was surprisingly pate-like in texture; I usually expect cooked salmon to be at least somewhat flakier. The shrimp portion, nested within the more generous salmon, was the best part of the dish.
It was enjoyable, but not necessarily masterful. In my opinion, the best dishes are defined by the way each element combines to make a singular taste sensation when combined in a single bite. In the case of the roulade, the arugula and apple strips seemed fairly auxiliary. This is, perhaps a testament to the strength of the actual seafood portion, but moreso it seemed like the flora was tossed on for the sake of color and texture variation, perhaps unnecessary for this particular dish. Enjoyable, not doubt... but not quite masterful.
The wine pairing -- appropriately white -- was a 2006 Domaine Richou, "Chauvigne," Anjou, Loire. Schliebe announced that it would have a distinct "wet wool" or "barn" aroma. Though these are two "flavors" I cannot say I'd posit as enticing, and though I found the description applicable upon first inhale, I nonetheless found the taste of the wine to be enjoyable. It was gentle and a bit steely, a fine accompaniment for the dish with which it was served.
The second course was a dark meat chicken lasagne with smoked bacon, tomato, olive and red wine. The red wine, in this case, was the same wine for this dish's pairing, 2005 Chateau Dubraud, Premieres Cotes de Blaye, Bordeaux, only it was an ingredient to the abundant sauce topping the lasagne portion. A small toss of baby pea greens was resting atop the dish, and like with the appetizer, I could not really understand its presence outside of a desire to introduce color and texture diversity to a dish which stands up fine without.
I ate the pea greens as quickly as I could to get them out of the way and then focused on the lasagne and my accidentally generous pour of Bordeaux. Both were very satisfying; though I have to be coaxed into white meat chicken these days, I needed no persuasion to indulge in its fattier, darker counterpart. The lasagne was hardy and perfectly portioned for the second course of four, and the Bordeaux -- in the sauce or in the glass -- was equally full.
When Schliebe was announcing the third wine of the evening, he invited interaction from his audience by asking what kind of nose this wine had. Across the room, the frumpier female component of the only couple that might've been close to the age of Hanah and me was busy taking a deep whiff. She then lowered her glass and confidently declared, "Grapes!"
Rather than laugh, the entire rest of the patronage exchanged knowing stares of mutual understanding. It was not so much that we all hated her, or that her knowledge of wine was lacking. It was just that, should some catastrophic event have trapped us in the restaurant for an indeterminate amount of time, and should the food supplies have been exhausted, chosing the first person to cannibalize was no longer going to be as difficult as it might've otherwise been, had she said, say, bacon.
Yes, bacon, the cork dork announced, was the aroma of the wine. A modest inhale did nothing to validate his claim, and Hanah agreed. I figured maybe I was missing something. That, or the bitch in the frock across the room wasn't so far off with "Grapes!" But a deeper breath revealed the bacony secrets of the 2007 Domaine Les Grand Bois, "Cuvee Les Trois Sceurs," Cotes du Rhone. A taste introduced something I don't often encounter; a red wine I'd actually purchase on my own.
The rich, meaty red was completely in step with the third course of grilled flank steak over rosemary polenta with sweet vegetables. This dish was exceptional; each element combined to a distinct harmonious sensation, and separate, each flavor was still its own treat. The only improvement would've been for the dish to have been hotter upon arrival, thus maintaining the freshly-cooked texture of the polenta through the full period of consumption. Or perhaps I should just talk less and eat more when the steak is served. Either way, here, at last, was what I'd not just been hoping for, but rather, expecting from L'Espalier.
The fourth and final course was the grand cheese tasting of "Soft Comforts."
The plate featured an array of six soft cheeses, served with small slices of very lightly buttered crisp baguette. The first one tried was a "Green Hills," from Sweet Grass Dairy based out of Thomasville, Georgia. It ended up being my second favorite of the assortment, even though it had no singular distinguishing quality.
The second cheese was "Grayson" by Meadow Creek Dairy in Galax, Virginia. Hanah pegged this one early on; it was very close to the more common Muenster. The firmest of the six, texture-wise, I did not bother to spread it on the baguette chips, simply parsing bits by knife or fork and delivering them directly to the pie hole.
Third up was "Nancy's Hudson Valley Camembert" from Old Chatham Sheepherding Company in New York. Very soft, this was light and airy, and spread more like melted butter than anything else. Fine, but nothing exceptional.
Fourth was an "Organic Triple Cream" from the Champlain Valley Creamery in Vergennes, Vermont. This cheese was a strange and fickle mistress. It was distinctly bitter when it was in my mouth, and yet the moment I had finished each bite, it left an aftertaste that made me wish to taste it again. That description probably applies to a few people, too.
Fifth was the only import cheese, a "Brie de Nangis" from Normandy, France. It wasn't true brie, we learned from Louis Risoli -- cheese expert of L'Espalier -- because true brie is made from unpasteurized milk and aged only for thirty days. The United States will not allow unpasteurized dairy aged less than sixty days into the country. Apparently I'll have to go to fucking France for real brie. This "brie" was humble, though it may have been difficult for anything of subtle flavor to follow the Vermont camembert.
I was lucky enough to save what would be my favorite cheese for sixth and last, the "Colorouge" from Muoco Dairy in Fort Collins, Colorado. It spread perfectly, carried a graceful balance of salt, bitterness and even a bit of tartness. Delicious.
Really, though, it didn't matter in what order I ate the cheeses, because the wine pairing was the highlight of the evening. I am partial to Alsatian wines to begin with, and the 2005 Schoenheitz "Holder" Gewurztraminer was spicy, tangy bliss. I've got to hunt down a full bottle for myself.
The event was topped off with a small plate of sweets. A mint-filled dark chocolate, a small cube of merengue, and a nougat cube with crushed pistachio for each of us was delivered with the check, keeping me from impulsively requesting a glass of the 2007 Banfi "Rosa Regale" Brachetto d'Acqui from the Piedmont region of Italy that I'd been eyeing since discovering the limited listing of dessert beverages.
As if the unexpected sweet plate was not enough, we were given strawberry Parisian macarons at the coat check.
L'Espalier is not my new favorite restaurant, but it was a very fine place to spend Fat Tuesday, and though it seems as though rough times may lie ahead for the gourmand -- in the wake of Excelsior's closing, Pigalle is suddenly offering three courses plus drinks for twenty bucks every Tuesday, whereas the Top of the Hub is participating in the dinner set of Restaurant Week for the first time in memory -- my faith in proper indulgence has been somewhat restored. I look forward both to my upcoming Restaurant Week reservations as well as an eventual return to L'Espalier for a crack at their regular menu.
In the meantime, however, I've got to get on finding that Gewurztraminer.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Delicious Future
If you're ever down on your luck, or down on your finances, I highly recommend purchasing a box of these bitches right here. I realize the photo is backwards; for this I apologize. I have zero graphics editing capability, but I'm willing to imagine that you get the fucking idea.Unlike risking it by ordering from your local Chinese takeout or delivery establishment, a box of La Choy guarantees satisfaction. I'm here to tell you that they are efficient. They battle hunger and bad moods at the same time, as the cookie part is, well, a fucking cookie, and the fortunes are overwhelmingly optimistic.
I still trust them, however, because they swirl largely around the original three tenets of fortune-telling from ancient China: wealth, travel, and wealth-fueled travel. Because fortune-telling is a delicate art, it's important to eat the entire box, like I just did, in order to get the clearest picture of your future.
Here's what I learned:
"You income will increase."
This is great news, assuming they meant "Your income will increase." If they really meant it the way they spelled it, well, then I just don't know what to make of it.
"You will lead a rich and successful life."
Boosh! Clarification. Clearly, my financial standings are on the upswing. Let's do this.
"Grant yourself a wish this year, only you can do it."
I'm pretty sure that needed a semicolon, but that's nitpicking. The cookie is right; only I can grant myself a wish. Maybe this is the year I finally visit Europe. Or fuck Grady Sizemore. Thank you for lighting the way, La Choy!
"You will find good luck when you go home."
See what I'm talking about? Does my future rock, or what? Eh? And this one's right, too. I'm already home, and I've got kickass fortune cookies. Also, vodka is here.
"No need to worry! You will always have everything that you need."
I wish I knew how to quit you.
"Be on the lookout for coming events. They cast their shadows beforehand!"
Translation: if I look for what happens in the future, I will be able to know what happens in the future. Side note: if, in the future, mankind discovers time travel, I'm coming back to rape myself at this exact moment. Okay, future-me didn't appear. I hereby predict that we never figure that out. Or that my memory is just awful.
"Soon life will become more interesting."
Considering that "May you live in interesting times" is technically an archaic Chinese curse, I am hereby worried about my relationship with La Choy.
"Opportunity is knocking at your front door."
And we're back. La Choy knows my bedroom preferences; I trust La Choy again. But what is this strange opportunity?!
"A friend will bring you a big surprise soon."
I am glad I am not a woman, especially at this moment, as this could surely have been a reference to the pregnancy-related interruption of one's menstrual cycle. But the most recent dong-check came back positive; I can probably just take this prediction straight-up. But which friend will it be?!
"A gathering of friends brings you lots of luck this evening."
Unless I don't have to be present for this one to pan out, I'd better go hang out with the roommates tonight, because really, who am I to defy the fates?
"Soon you will be sitting on top of the world."
Well, looks like success of all kinds is imminent if not unavoidable.
I feel closer to buying my own island. But in the much more immediate future, clearly there should be some grocery shopping.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Epic Cure for the Epicure
The mourning of Excelsior will officially cease on February 24th, with my inaugural visit to L'Espalier in its new location at the posh Mandarin Oriental Hotel on Boylston Street.
In the same cholesterol-impacted vein, I've finally gotten around to making the appropriate preparations for the winter edition of Boston's Restaurant Week. Thankfully, the title itself is false advertising, as the event is actually two weeks long, with several restaurants -- such as OM Restaurant & Lounge in Cambridge -- extending the pre-fixe offer through the entire month of March.
Though the idea is to try new places in the search for a "new favorite" restaurant, I couldn't help but mix in a few returns when I was slotting the seven reservations I've made for the late March event.
The lineup:
Friday, March 20: Clink at the Liberty Hotel - This is a place I haven't been to before, but the pre-fixe they've posted is engaging to say the very least.
Saturday, March 21: Oishii - This will be a lunch outing, as Oishii decided to break from the majority and continue to offer the lunch pre-fixe on that particular Saturday.
Monday, March 23: Tremont 647 - I haven't been here before, but even just from their limited Restaurant Week menu, I have very high hopes for this place.
Tuesday, March 24: The Palm Boston - I've been here twice, which makes the return feel like cheating. But I've only ever had their 16 oz. filet mignon extra rare with asparagus; that's not offered for the event, so it's an opportunity to branch out.
Wednesday, March 25: Gaslight - Okay, so I've been to every place that's left on the list at least once. Gaslight offers traditional French cuisine, and since they've included braised veal cheeks, cassoulet, and champagne sorbet for this one, I can't really resist.
Thursday, March 26: Le Petit Robert Bistro (Kenmore) - I've been to the Columbus Ave. ("South End") installment, and loved it. French food, again -- this time with a little more creative flair on the menu -- this location is a little closer to home, where I'm hoping for a slightly less crowded atmosphere. It looks like they're offering their full, standard menu for the event; a major plus.
Friday, March 27: Top of the Hub - I've only ever been here for drinks and a split dessert, and it was enjoyable, but at the same time, a total tease. So I've landed -- unexpectedly -- Friday night reservations sixty stories up in the Prudential Tower. Who knows; maybe they'll even honor my request for a window table facing downtown.
By the end, I hope to have a new love. But I'm sure to have a larger ass.
In the same cholesterol-impacted vein, I've finally gotten around to making the appropriate preparations for the winter edition of Boston's Restaurant Week. Thankfully, the title itself is false advertising, as the event is actually two weeks long, with several restaurants -- such as OM Restaurant & Lounge in Cambridge -- extending the pre-fixe offer through the entire month of March.
Though the idea is to try new places in the search for a "new favorite" restaurant, I couldn't help but mix in a few returns when I was slotting the seven reservations I've made for the late March event.
The lineup:
Friday, March 20: Clink at the Liberty Hotel - This is a place I haven't been to before, but the pre-fixe they've posted is engaging to say the very least.
Saturday, March 21: Oishii - This will be a lunch outing, as Oishii decided to break from the majority and continue to offer the lunch pre-fixe on that particular Saturday.
Monday, March 23: Tremont 647 - I haven't been here before, but even just from their limited Restaurant Week menu, I have very high hopes for this place.
Tuesday, March 24: The Palm Boston - I've been here twice, which makes the return feel like cheating. But I've only ever had their 16 oz. filet mignon extra rare with asparagus; that's not offered for the event, so it's an opportunity to branch out.
Wednesday, March 25: Gaslight - Okay, so I've been to every place that's left on the list at least once. Gaslight offers traditional French cuisine, and since they've included braised veal cheeks, cassoulet, and champagne sorbet for this one, I can't really resist.
Thursday, March 26: Le Petit Robert Bistro (Kenmore) - I've been to the Columbus Ave. ("South End") installment, and loved it. French food, again -- this time with a little more creative flair on the menu -- this location is a little closer to home, where I'm hoping for a slightly less crowded atmosphere. It looks like they're offering their full, standard menu for the event; a major plus.
Friday, March 27: Top of the Hub - I've only ever been here for drinks and a split dessert, and it was enjoyable, but at the same time, a total tease. So I've landed -- unexpectedly -- Friday night reservations sixty stories up in the Prudential Tower. Who knows; maybe they'll even honor my request for a window table facing downtown.
By the end, I hope to have a new love. But I'm sure to have a larger ass.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Trust Falls
The cat is out of the bag; the best player in baseball for the last dozen years -- Alex Rodriguez -- used performance enhancing drugs at some point. I say "at some point," because, well, I find myself unable to trust his half-hearted confession. It's difficult to trust public statements by clientele of Scott Boras in general to begin with, but the infidelity caveat applies here: he who has cheated before may well cheat again.
That is to say, Rodriguez is now copping to the fact that he's used banned performance-enhancing substances, and this makes his previous statements of categorical denial into blatant falsehoods. Therefore, why should anyone decide to now take him at the specific details he offers -- or doesn't offer -- in the interview he gave to Peter Gammons. Was the use limited to his time with the Texas Rangers? Was he truly unaware of what substances were going into his body?
The oblivion defense is disturbing. Not because it's so unlikely, but rather, if it's actually true that so many baseball players, in their youthful naivete and ambition, were wholly unconcerned with what substances were being injected into their asses, then I could've had quite the sex life in my late teens by posing as a sports trainer and hanging around spring training to offer experimental -- but totally organic! -- suppliments. No pain, no gain, eh slugger?
More disheartening to the baseball fans and purists is that Rodriguez and Bonds are just two of over one hundred players who tested positive in the 2003 testing conducted by Major League Baseball. How many more giants of the game were tainted? Will we ever find out the full list of names? Do we even really want to know anymore?
In recently discussing the topic with an acquaintence, he poignantly quoted: "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you."
It is nearly impossible to wrap my mind around the magic of the 2004 Red Sox if it were to suddenly surface that Manny or Ortiz or Millar was on that list. It would cheapen what is, to me, the greatest sports comeback story in history. It would cheapen the World Series win. And yet, I think I'm willing to risk that considerable loss for the sake of the truth.
I'd rather know.
As for Rodriguez, my annoyance is endless. His talent is unquestionable, "PED's" -- as they're now apparently to be referred -- be damned, and he has an excellent shot to overtake Barry Bonds as the official career home run leader. Much as it pains a Red Sox fan to embrace a Yankee, prior to the recent news of the failed drug test, I had sort of a soft spot for Rodriguez.
Though I don't know all the details of his personal life, every one that does occasionally surface indicates that the guy is a head case with talent only matched by various layers of insecurity. Reviled by fans of his former team, reviled by New Yorkers even when he was putting up numbers that would've been awe-inspiring from anyone else, quietly disliked by teammates and recently thrown under the bus in book form by Joe Torre, Rodriguez was something of a tragic hero in my eyes.
A total asshole whose talent shined regardless of a persona that comes off as, to be kind, less than endearing. In previously believing that he was clean, and that Bonds was not, I considered Rodriguez to be a strange if not bittersweet salvation for the purity of baseball. I am a fan of baseball before I am a fan of the Red Sox, and I similarly value integrity over results. This being the case, it was easier to digest a jerk of a Yankee atop baseball's most hallowed career record list than to stomach the resillience of Bonds's farce.
The dilemma is no longer gently weighted by a hint of righteousness, it is simply the choice between a rock and a hard place at this point, demanding that we continue to tip our respective teams' caps to Hammerin' Hank. With Alex Rodriguez no longer truly eligible for the crown, the search begins for someone who actually has a shot at the heights once he's done re-setting the "record."
Lucky for me, another recently-started search for "Number One" will be much more pleasant. Though I had embraced Excelsior as my favorite restaurant through its closing, I had, regrettably, never had the pleasure of dining at the establishment which is routinely ranked as the tops in New England, Boston's own L'Espalier.
L'Espalier, according to Babel Fish, is French for "The rib stall." Which is not actually helpful. A rib stall, according to my attempts to translate English to English, is "the name of a form of Arbre, generally fruit-bearing, obtained by a technique of size making it possible to have a tree with form punt. The technique was popular with the Moyen-âge in Europe to decorate the walls, but the creation of the technique is older and could date from the ancient Egypt. The word rib stall refers to the lattice on which the seedling is pressed at the time of its growth."
I confess, I was kind of hoping it would translate to something promisory of a grand eating experience, like "delicious explosion" or "Excelsior." But I'm glad I've at least cleared up what it means. Which is lattice. For fruit-bearing trees. Brilliant.
Anyhow, I'll be assessing their fare two weeks from today, joining Hanah for their "Cheese Tuesday" traditions. Per their website, the theme for the installation we'll be experiencing is "Soft Comforts." C'est la brie!
That is to say, Rodriguez is now copping to the fact that he's used banned performance-enhancing substances, and this makes his previous statements of categorical denial into blatant falsehoods. Therefore, why should anyone decide to now take him at the specific details he offers -- or doesn't offer -- in the interview he gave to Peter Gammons. Was the use limited to his time with the Texas Rangers? Was he truly unaware of what substances were going into his body?
The oblivion defense is disturbing. Not because it's so unlikely, but rather, if it's actually true that so many baseball players, in their youthful naivete and ambition, were wholly unconcerned with what substances were being injected into their asses, then I could've had quite the sex life in my late teens by posing as a sports trainer and hanging around spring training to offer experimental -- but totally organic! -- suppliments. No pain, no gain, eh slugger?
More disheartening to the baseball fans and purists is that Rodriguez and Bonds are just two of over one hundred players who tested positive in the 2003 testing conducted by Major League Baseball. How many more giants of the game were tainted? Will we ever find out the full list of names? Do we even really want to know anymore?
In recently discussing the topic with an acquaintence, he poignantly quoted: "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you."
It is nearly impossible to wrap my mind around the magic of the 2004 Red Sox if it were to suddenly surface that Manny or Ortiz or Millar was on that list. It would cheapen what is, to me, the greatest sports comeback story in history. It would cheapen the World Series win. And yet, I think I'm willing to risk that considerable loss for the sake of the truth.
I'd rather know.
As for Rodriguez, my annoyance is endless. His talent is unquestionable, "PED's" -- as they're now apparently to be referred -- be damned, and he has an excellent shot to overtake Barry Bonds as the official career home run leader. Much as it pains a Red Sox fan to embrace a Yankee, prior to the recent news of the failed drug test, I had sort of a soft spot for Rodriguez.
Though I don't know all the details of his personal life, every one that does occasionally surface indicates that the guy is a head case with talent only matched by various layers of insecurity. Reviled by fans of his former team, reviled by New Yorkers even when he was putting up numbers that would've been awe-inspiring from anyone else, quietly disliked by teammates and recently thrown under the bus in book form by Joe Torre, Rodriguez was something of a tragic hero in my eyes.
A total asshole whose talent shined regardless of a persona that comes off as, to be kind, less than endearing. In previously believing that he was clean, and that Bonds was not, I considered Rodriguez to be a strange if not bittersweet salvation for the purity of baseball. I am a fan of baseball before I am a fan of the Red Sox, and I similarly value integrity over results. This being the case, it was easier to digest a jerk of a Yankee atop baseball's most hallowed career record list than to stomach the resillience of Bonds's farce.
The dilemma is no longer gently weighted by a hint of righteousness, it is simply the choice between a rock and a hard place at this point, demanding that we continue to tip our respective teams' caps to Hammerin' Hank. With Alex Rodriguez no longer truly eligible for the crown, the search begins for someone who actually has a shot at the heights once he's done re-setting the "record."
Lucky for me, another recently-started search for "Number One" will be much more pleasant. Though I had embraced Excelsior as my favorite restaurant through its closing, I had, regrettably, never had the pleasure of dining at the establishment which is routinely ranked as the tops in New England, Boston's own L'Espalier.
L'Espalier, according to Babel Fish, is French for "The rib stall." Which is not actually helpful. A rib stall, according to my attempts to translate English to English, is "the name of a form of Arbre, generally fruit-bearing, obtained by a technique of size making it possible to have a tree with form punt. The technique was popular with the Moyen-âge in Europe to decorate the walls, but the creation of the technique is older and could date from the ancient Egypt. The word rib stall refers to the lattice on which the seedling is pressed at the time of its growth."
I confess, I was kind of hoping it would translate to something promisory of a grand eating experience, like "delicious explosion" or "Excelsior." But I'm glad I've at least cleared up what it means. Which is lattice. For fruit-bearing trees. Brilliant.
Anyhow, I'll be assessing their fare two weeks from today, joining Hanah for their "Cheese Tuesday" traditions. Per their website, the theme for the installation we'll be experiencing is "Soft Comforts." C'est la brie!
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Adieu Excelsior
In the past week, I have lost two things. Two things which were incredibly dear to me, only one of which was replaceable. My debit card vanished, seemingly into thin air, during a week in which I had just sent out rent as well as another check for a substantial sum. I don't panic often; few things legitimately throw me off. But before I actually got through to a representative from my bank on the phone, I was nervous. As it turns out, my fund had not been touched, and my checks had cleared without a hitch. A new ATM card is supposedly already en route. Instant relief.
The other loss, however, is absolutely irreplaceable. And, as I am an awful human being, causes me more actual grief than when I hear about people I don't know dying. My favorite restaurant, Excelsior, closed.
Getting dressed up and going out for fine wining and fine dining is one of my favorite things. I cannot help it; I just love it. And Excelsior was always my favorite; it was just right. In recalling a recent trip there, I wrote this past August:
You get the idea.
This morning, in making dinner plans for Sunday with Erika, I decided to see if OpenTable lists the restaurant we're planning to hit up. Alas, no luck; no points. But while I was at their site, I decided to poke around and check out the menus of the newer restaurants. And they didn't quite pique my interest. And then it occurred to me that Excelsior had probably put up a new menu since their New Year's Eve dinner, which I unfortunately did not attend. So I pull up the website, and notice that there are no links for menus, or directions, or... anything at all.
Just some brief "Thanks for the memories" blurb from the owner, informing roving gourmands like myself that they had closed, promising to reopen as a different restaurant providing a more casual dining experience.
But I don't want a more casual dining experience. I want Excelsior.
And really, reopening as a different restaurant sacrifices such a fantastic name. Excelsior is the kind of name you give to an estate. Or a powerful vehicle. Or a magical crystal. One comedian, I vaguely recall, suggested it replace the word "vagina," as a means of empowering women.
How had they closed without my knowing? Where were the warnings? Did I skip over the wrong part of one of the foodie newsletters I get? I did a quick search for some sort of news on when this had occurred, only to discover that it had happened yesterday. Had I known they were closing, I'd have gone just one last time. I was supposed to go in December, when they participated in OpenTable's "Restaurant Stimulus Week," which was essentially an impromptu Restaurant Week with a pre-fixe menu for participating establishments. But the now-ex-boyfriend was uninspired by the menu, and so we didn't go.
My last meal at Excelsior, it turns out, was the dinner outing for my twenty-third birthday. The details, recounted, are worth remembering:
They also made one of my favorite cocktails -- Bailey's and Frangelico on the rocks -- perfectly.
Dammit.
From what I can gather from the news bits on Excelsior's closing, the tough economic times are to blame. And so it comes to pass that, for the first time, in the strangest and most unexpected of ways, I can actually feel the sting of recession. In my mouth.
My courses of action are clear. Step one will involve mourning. Mourning will involve drinking.
Step two is to voraciously search out new love during the winter edition of Restaurant Week.
On a completely unrelated note, there ought to be a way to tell Pandora "I don't really want jazz right now. Keep the jazz in there, but when I hit next, and there's another jazz song, and then I quickly hit next again, and there's another jazz song... yeah, take a hint. I just need some time and space. From jazz. I'll call you. No, yeah, it's cool. I'll call."
The other loss, however, is absolutely irreplaceable. And, as I am an awful human being, causes me more actual grief than when I hear about people I don't know dying. My favorite restaurant, Excelsior, closed.
Getting dressed up and going out for fine wining and fine dining is one of my favorite things. I cannot help it; I just love it. And Excelsior was always my favorite; it was just right. In recalling a recent trip there, I wrote this past August:
"Excelsior is the kind of place the pulls out all the stops. Situated in a prime location on Boylston, the ground level is limited to their bar menu, with only handful of tables and leather seats harbored in a dark room of raspberry chocolate invitation. Having given my name, the three of us were escorted to the metal-trimmed glass elevator, a sort of Wonkavator for adults. The elevator has but two options for floors, one and two, though it actually escorts you through second floor -- at which you are treated to a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of their wine keep -- before arriving at the third floor, still surrounded by wine selections on three sides, where the other door opens and the host is expecting you.
From there, we were escorted through the main restaurant space to our table by the window overlooking the Boston Public Garden, with clear view of the pond and bridge. For this alone, going to Excelsior makes me feel like a king, minorly indulging my Yertle the Turtle complex -- by which I feel like master of all I survey -- and if their menu offered peanut butter and grape jelly on Wonderbread white with the crusts cut off, it wouldn't really change a thing.
The view is beautiful. The wait staff is refined and handsome. The patrons are sharp and luxurious. Life is good at Excelsior, before one has even ordered."
You get the idea.
This morning, in making dinner plans for Sunday with Erika, I decided to see if OpenTable lists the restaurant we're planning to hit up. Alas, no luck; no points. But while I was at their site, I decided to poke around and check out the menus of the newer restaurants. And they didn't quite pique my interest. And then it occurred to me that Excelsior had probably put up a new menu since their New Year's Eve dinner, which I unfortunately did not attend. So I pull up the website, and notice that there are no links for menus, or directions, or... anything at all.
Just some brief "Thanks for the memories" blurb from the owner, informing roving gourmands like myself that they had closed, promising to reopen as a different restaurant providing a more casual dining experience.
But I don't want a more casual dining experience. I want Excelsior.
And really, reopening as a different restaurant sacrifices such a fantastic name. Excelsior is the kind of name you give to an estate. Or a powerful vehicle. Or a magical crystal. One comedian, I vaguely recall, suggested it replace the word "vagina," as a means of empowering women.
How had they closed without my knowing? Where were the warnings? Did I skip over the wrong part of one of the foodie newsletters I get? I did a quick search for some sort of news on when this had occurred, only to discover that it had happened yesterday. Had I known they were closing, I'd have gone just one last time. I was supposed to go in December, when they participated in OpenTable's "Restaurant Stimulus Week," which was essentially an impromptu Restaurant Week with a pre-fixe menu for participating establishments. But the now-ex-boyfriend was uninspired by the menu, and so we didn't go.
My last meal at Excelsior, it turns out, was the dinner outing for my twenty-third birthday. The details, recounted, are worth remembering:
"Roast leg of lamb with Vermont goat cheese, ratatouille, and Israeli couscous. I lucked out in my rare-as-possible order, as the lamb was practically still twitching. But I also had an end-piece that clearly had been sitting on the bottom, so even the most cooked of the three quarter-inch-thick slices was tender and juicy. The couscous were firm to the point of almost being grainy, and slightly dashed with olive oil and sage. They blended into the chevre flawlessly, and the vegetable portions from the ratatouille polished off a quartet of textures while the ratatouille juice and lamb drippings made each bite incredibly moist. Truthfully, I'm not sure what the point of Irsaeli couscous is, as they were tasty but in no way significantly stood out from any other couscous I've had. It was one of the best dishes I've had in a very long time, rivaled perhaps only by the lobster schnitzel offering that's a regular staple of their winter menu."The lobster schnitzel mentioned was their signature dish. It was a flattened, breaded lobster tail drizzled in creamless yam lobster bisque, accompanied by a generous amount of lump claw meat stacked on a custard of cave-aged gruyere cheese resting atop gently pickled green heirloom tomato slivers. It was, as an old acquaintance of mine would have put it, "the true definition of oral sex."
They also made one of my favorite cocktails -- Bailey's and Frangelico on the rocks -- perfectly.
Dammit.
From what I can gather from the news bits on Excelsior's closing, the tough economic times are to blame. And so it comes to pass that, for the first time, in the strangest and most unexpected of ways, I can actually feel the sting of recession. In my mouth.
My courses of action are clear. Step one will involve mourning. Mourning will involve drinking.
Step two is to voraciously search out new love during the winter edition of Restaurant Week.
On a completely unrelated note, there ought to be a way to tell Pandora "I don't really want jazz right now. Keep the jazz in there, but when I hit next, and there's another jazz song, and then I quickly hit next again, and there's another jazz song... yeah, take a hint. I just need some time and space. From jazz. I'll call you. No, yeah, it's cool. I'll call."
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