Hastily overlooking the Hudson Valley Restaurant Week fine print, my husband Rich and I met our friends Liz and Brian for a “great-food-good-deal” type of dinner.  Okay, so Bedford Post is only offering a HVRW menu for lunch, but that didn’t stop us from loving Bedford Post.  Although the price was more than we anticipated, we found our dinner to be well worth the price of admission.

We started off with a shared pasta: house made orechiette (ear-shaped pasta) with spicy pork sausage ground into a paste, tender bits of cauliflower, and clean-tasting rosemary.  First of all, there is nothing like homemade pasta (sorry Barilla).  This orechiette was gorgeously al dente.  So the first thing you noticed was mouthfeel: a great bite.  Next, there was a slow heat- presumably from the ground sausage, which seemed ingenious as a paste rather than in chunks.  I think that bites of traditional sausage might have taken away, texturally, from the pasta; as conceptualized, the dish was rich and flavorful, and it placed the house made pasta front and center: the star of the show.  Flavor-wise, the sausage gave spiciness first, then the cauliflower gave a meatiness, and finally the rosemary gave a clean finish.  Bravo!

We also shared the macaroni (elbow pasta) with creamy white cheddar.  It was well-received around the table.

I simply couldn’t resist the Tunisian chickpea stew, which turned out to be one of my favorite dishes.  Overall, it had a beautiful balance: savory, meaty, umami-ish.  A basic broth surrounded tender chickpeas, garnished with a slice of lemon, a poached egg, black olives, capers, and a harisa-style red chili paste.  I thought something was vaguely citrusy, but perhaps it was my sensitivity to the capers, or maybe a squeeze of lemon…? The waitress informed me that what I’m calling harisa (traditionally red chili, olive oil, garlic, salt, caraway, coriander) was actually a house made Calabrian chili paste.  Since Tunisia and Calabria are about 200 miles apart (as the crow flies, over the Mediterranean Sea), I’m going to make the wild-and-crazy assertion that Calabrian chili paste would likely have similar flavors as Tunisian chili paste.  Either way, there was such depth of flavor to this incredible dish.

Liz had the John Boy’s Farm chicken, a local purveyor I know and love from our experiences at Crabtree’s Kittle House.  It never fails to be juicy, tender, and all-out fabulous comfort food.  Served with roasted potatoes, rosemary, and green olives, this is a go-to dish that you couldn’t possibly get wrong.  The skin is crisp, just fatty enough to be flavorful, beautifully seasoned, and yet the meat has its own distinctive au jus flavoring.  Seeing John Boy’s chicken on a menu affirms, for me, a chef’s commitment to local and ethical ingredients.

Rich, who couldn’t decide between the two fish entrees and was feeling playful, asked our waitress to surprise him.  He wound up with an impressive, juicy striped bass in a spiced tomato broth and topped with mussels.  The pure-ocean flavor of the bass further convinced me of Chef Jeremy McMillan’s affinity for higher-end proteins.

Brian and I both opted for the steak frites.  I ordered my skirt steak medium-rare.  When it came out (pretty dark, as you can see below), I got a little nervous.  It looked more like medium-well to me.  I braced myself, bit, and… breathed a huge sigh of relief.  The meat had a STRONG, sweet balsamic flavor.  Clearly, the chef had tenderized this tough cut in vinegar, which gave it a darker hue; however, it was a perfectly medium-rare tender with a nice char on the outside.  The thin fries were good… I could’ve taken or left them.  The aioli, however, was a whole other story.  Cream and garlic…? Oh heavens! I could’ve gone all “Frank’s Red Hot” and “put that ___ on everything!” Seriously, folks, I would’ve spread that aioli on anything that wasn’t nailed down.  It could make a piece of wood taste good.  If I weren’t too embarrassed, I probably would’ve asked the waitress to put it in a container for me.  (I didn’t.)

We also ordered a side of Brussels sprouts with chili, garlic, and lemon.  Trust me- these are not your Momma’s Brussels sprouts! For starters, unlike the soggy, brownish mini-cabbages of school cafeteria nightmares, these sprouts had a gorgeous green color and a caramel-crisp exterior.  Once again, deep, deep flavor, this time soaked in oily goodness.

We hesitated on dessert, but that hesitation lasted about fifteen seconds.  The peanut butter mousse was a house made chocolate gelato topped with a creamy peanut butter-white chocolate mousse and topped with a chip of sweet nut brittle.  While chocolate and peanut butter have been an “item” since Harry Reese of Hershey, Pennsylvania quit his dairy farm to open a candy business in 1928 (maybe even before then), this dish plays with the concept just enough to be simultaneously whimsical and yet reverent to the flavor pairing’s tradition.  I loved the temperature change (icy cold gelato and less-cold mousse).  I truly enjoyed the flavors, and the texture (creamy, creamy-foamy, crisp) was also playful.

What I didn’t expect to fall in love with was the ricotta pound cake with Meyer lemon curd.  I don’t loooove lemon.  I don’t even really like lemon.  (Lemon Meringue -that little tart!- was my least favorite Strawberry Shortcake character.)  But this… oh my, this was something special.  Light, airy, creamy cake… sweet and just-slightly-sour-lemony custard… toasted almond slivers with a lemony coating… it took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to snatch the plate away from Liz (it was her dessert), shove my face into it, and make nom-nom-nom sound effects like Cookie Monster attacking a plate of Chips Ahoy.  It was so flavorful and yet so light.  Once again, nice colors, great play on texture (spongy, liquidy custard, crunchy candied almonds) , and flavors that were just down-home delicious.  I stand corrected on the whole lemon issue.  This dessert changed my mind about lemons.

I was so unexpectedly impressed by Bedford Post.  We didn’t have one bad dish… not even one middling dish.  Although the menu items do tend to “play it safe” with standard-ish favorites, Bedford Post is refined and yet hearty.  I can’t help but be impressed by the ingredients, the execution, the deeply developed flavors, and the sheer number of house-made components.

We also had pretty great service.  Our waitress was knowledgeable about each dish’s preparation and encouraged us to try different beers and desserts with “on-the-house” samples.  That kind of friendly “try-it-ness” is usually reserved for Mom-and-Pop shoppes, and it isn’t what I expected from a clearly successful, high-end restaurant.  Don’t get me wrong… we definitely appreciated it.

It was the perfect combination of warmth and just-plain great food that made this dinner so memorable.  After Blue Hill (to which I am practically wedded despite the fact that I haven’t written it up yet), Bedford Post is now my second favorite Westchester eatery.  Will we be back? You bet your sweet lemons! 

My initial foray into the world of Peter Kelly, at Yonkers’ x2o, left me a little empty.  There had been so much hype coming off the initial reviews and the Bobby Flay victory.  (I love Flay and his willingness to put himself out there for throw-downs, but, really, who hasn’t beaten him at this point? J)  x2o’s food gave off this cold, factory-like vibe, as if different components of each dish were plated at different stations.  It felt efficient and precise but also disparate and not quite cohesive.  And don’t get me started on the Kobe beef hot dog…

Nearly three years later, after numerous assurances that, “his Rockland locations are so much better,” I opted to try Restaurant X with my sister for Hudson Valley Restaurant Week.  Chef Kelly was using all-Hudson-Valley ingredients, and how could that be bad?

Okay Chef, bring it.

When we first walked in, it took us a few minutes to garner the attention of the two hosts, but we were then warmly welcomed and showed to our table.

Restaurant X has been accused of looking a little “rundown.”  The front foyer had on its Sunday finest with deep red walls and dark, ornate woods. The dining space was warm and sunny with panoramic windows overlooking a duck pond that is probably much prettier in the summer.  My sister immediately characterized the clientele.  “It seems like the kind of place that older [note: my sister is 24] married people frequent regularly and order the same thing as each other,” she ventured.  (As our meal proceeded, her speculation was quasi-confirmed.  Four of the four tables around us were middle-aged couples; three of the four ordered the same entrée as their respective spouses.)

With no time to waste, we were immediately treated to thin dinner rolls and, being St. Patrick’s Day, delicious, crusty ends of soda bread.

For an appetizer, I opted to try the warm butternut squash flan.  It was beautifully plated and served in a sweet garlic confit and topped with a “rocket” (looked like a micro green –arugula?- with purple edges) salad.  The garlic confit (think roasted garlic only tidier and more efficient in process) was tender, sweet without the caramelization you get from roasting, and delicious.  Honestly, it doesn’t get much better than garlic and oil… The greens were fine, offering visual aesthetic.  The flan, however, was scaldingly hot and pretty bland.  The dairy (milk, eggs) totally drowned out any butternut sweetness.  It seemed like a miss- I didn’t get nearly enough of the side notes I’d expected: maple, maybe ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, or cloves? Heck! Even throw me a little parmesan cheese! Nope.  Nada.

My sister received a similarly scalding hot onion soup gratin with sherry and caramelized Pine Island black onions (yummy and from Warwick!).  Our appetizers came out with diner speed and outrageous temperature, which once again, bespoke a machine-like culinary efficiency.  I have this vision of mis-en-place being hastily thrown into an oven, plated with a doily, and thrown in front of the waiting consumer.  My sister’s reaction?

“French onion soup is French onion soup.  It’s hard to mess it up.”

My entrée was the pan-roasted Murray’s organic chicken.  (Murray’s is one of the few local –i.e., Pennsylvania– farms that offers certified humane chicken, so I try to habitually support them.)  What came out was a mediocre, albeit juicy, boneless, skinless chicken breast… the same kind I buy at DeCicco’s for $6 a pound and cook for myself at home.  It wasn’t strongly seasoned or very flavorful; nor was the port glaze it came in.  The tastiest component of the plate was the asparagus risotto.  At first I was getting this faint taste of Swiss or Gruyere, but thinking that odd, I dug in to find out more.  Truffle oil. I inquired with the waitress, “Does this asparagus risotto have truffle oil in it?”  She transmitted my question to the kitchen and came back with an affirmative response.  One of those not-on-the-menu, little, unexpected surprises…

My sister had the Captain Lawrence beer braised short ribs. How delicious does that sound? And it was. This dish was my favorite in the meal.  The beef was flavorful and tender.  The white cheddar grits were hearty and also flavorful.  The fried Brussels sprouts had nice caramelization on the exterior, making them a little chewier (a good thing!).  My sister thought they were greasy, but I suppose my oil threshold is a little higher. 

The desserts were pretty standard fare: cream (a buttermilk panna cotta or a crème brulee), chocolate (with caramel center), fruit (a cobbler), or a cake (citrus almond pound cake).  We decided to share the apple-cranberry cobbler and the chocolate “Milky Way” galaxy: a hemisphere of chocolate ganache with a soft caramel center and crème Anglaise.

For the most part, the desserts were as hit-or-miss as the savory courses.  The cobbler was tart and tasty, served covered with thin strips of pastry, a dollop of cinnamon ice cream (the most outlandish thing on the menu, really). and a rolled, pirouline-like crisp.

The “Milky Way” was a visually nifty but unremarkably flavored ganache spaceship with a stylized sugar garnish and a shortbread-like biscuit in the shape of a shooting star.

I really, really wanted to like Restaurant X.

I really, really wanted to walk away impressed.

We were ceremoniously imparted with a pair of coconut macaroons along with our check.

A lovely couple at the table next to us, regular patrons, shared their enthusiasm.   “It’s the only place of its kind near here,” they shared.

I really, really wanted to share their enthusiasm.

But it still felt very robotic to me… like plates prepped well in advance and rapid-style fired.  It felt more like a large-scale operation than individual, lovingly plated dishes.  I could probably forgive the assembly-line automaticity if the menu were more unique, but Restaurant X caters “safely” to its Westchester-Rockland crowd of regulars; there are no wild-and-crazy experimental dishes here.  Then again, knowing and catering to his market is probably what makes Chef Kelly the successful owner of four restaurants.

I don’t know… I hear his brunches are amazing… and that Xaviar’s is really the place to go.  Maybe I’ll give it another shot. 

My text message went something like this: “Left my camera battery at home in the charger! I’m going to cry!!!”

My husband Rich and I were already at Red Rooster’s copper U-shaped bar thirty minutes ahead of our reservation time, waiting for our friends Jesse and Jessica to arrive.  We had been talking up Marcus Samuelsson’s newest venture for two straight months, consumed with anticipation.  I paused outside to take my signature “front door shot,” and realized the camera wouldn’t click. My stomach sank… oh no! I had walked clear out of the house without my camera battery! It was like that recurring nightmare where you show up to class for a final exam with no pencil, or worse- no pants.  Drowning my sorrows in “the Savoy” —a refreshing cocktail made with Wodka vodka, lemon, muddled grapes, and agave— I resigned myself to the situation (admittedly this was only after testing the limits of my cell phone camera and finding them utterly unsatisfactory).  Sometimes, it seems, Fate reminds you that it’s normal to eat at a restaurant without leaning obnoxiously over everyone’s food to snap photos.

“Sometimes,” my husband consoled, “you need to just enjoy yourself and eat.”

SIGH.  FINE.

Jesse and Jessica arrived only a few minutes after us with appetites in tow.  We had a few impatient cocktails at the bar and hovered at the hostess station as the time got further and further from our 9:30pm reservation.  The hostesses were gracious and pleasant, bringing four glasses of champagne over as the clock neared 10:15.  We were finally seated more than forty-five minutes past our reservation time.  Okay, I get it.  Red Rooster is popular.  It’s delicious, it’s trendy, it’s new, and it’s chic.  But with a celebrity chef-owner of Samuelsson’s stature, nothing makes a 45-minute wait even remotely acceptable.

Fortunately, this was my only bone to pick all evening.  Our server was welcoming and well-informed, noting my shellfish allergy (which I had long ago filled out and forgotten on my OpenTable reservation profile) and outlining which dishes to try or avoid.  This attention to detail was typical of the night and the hallmark of brilliant (warm, friendly, knowledgeable) service.

At this point, I have to admit that I feel a little “naked” without my pictures, but I guess I don’t need them to tell you how incredible Red Rooster’s food was.  We ordered a veritable smorgasbord of snacks, appetizers, entrees, and desserts for the table, and I’m going to share them a little differently than usual:

SNACKS

APPETIZERS

ENTREES

SIDES

DESSERTS

35 West 64th Street (between Broadway & Central Park West)

Liz and I met early at Picholine’s unmanned bar, ready for another fabulous Restaurant Week lunch.  We had left the “husbands” at home, leaving us free to gorge ourselves on French food and discuss the finer points of Liz’s upcoming wedding.  No one came to take our drink order, but we were seated early and resigned ourselves to ordering a cocktail at the table.

The dining room, with ornate white molding, lavender walls, and crystal chandeliers, was notably feminine.  Liz accurately described the decor as what you’d expect if Housewives of Beverly Hills star Lisa Vanderpump had a restaurant on the East Coast.  Frank Bruni, less kindly, called it “cloying,” “monochromatic,” and “the architectural equivalent of a bridesmaid’s dress” in his 2006 review.

It seemed as good a place as any to discuss Liz’s wedding dress fitting, and we settled in with glasses of Pol Roger Extra Cuvée de Réserve.  A restaurant’s champagne list tells you a lot, and I rather enjoyed this brut, which had a lot of structure and depth for a non-vintage champagne.

Picholine’s pretty-as-a-picture set-ups made us feel like the grown-up equivalent of girls at a tea party.  It was a great place for a girls’ lunch, or perhaps a date. 

Our first taste was an amuse bouche of micro-thin salsify chips accompanied by sweet potato panna cotta (creamy but not sweet) topped with a port gelee.  The chips were remarkably thin and light with a cerebral, sweet-to-spicy flavor progression.  The flavor was intense: star anise, sea salt, and cardamom.  It was probably my favorite dish of the day- powerful, flavorful, smart, and bold.

We had chosen our meal carefully to sample and split.  The 2-course lunch ($29) offered more exciting choices than the limited Restaurant Week menu ($24), so opting for the regular menu seemed like a no-brainer.  Liz’s appetizer was a tuna “napoleon” with flavors of the Riviera and olive oil ice cream.  As you can see, the “napoleon” was a layered “cake” of beautifully colored tuna slices and a crunchy, puffed-rice-type of chip topped with watercress.  The olive oil ice cream was a bit thin and flat; it could’ve been richer.  Here began my line of thinking about Picholine.  The amount of work that went into the dish was clear.  There was a lot of technique, a lot of planning, and beautiful plating… all with a remarkably modest price tag.  It wasn’t, however, knock-down-drag-out delicious.  Something seemed missing.

My appetizer was a chestnut veloute poured tableside over cèpe marmalade with chocolate granola and a bacon-maple mousse.  It was extremely subtle, technical, and had depth of flavor… but somehow the sum didn’t equal the whole of its parts.  I could appreciate the rich chocolate (not sweet) of the granola, the earthiness of the cèpe mushrooms, and very faint bacon-maple… but I didn’t have the irresistible urge to gobble down the entire bowl.  These dishes felt brilliantly thoughtful…all brain.  Where was the heart? Where was the soul? It felt polished and discerning but not passionate.

I hoped the entrees would change my mind.  Liz had pan-seared diver sea scallops “rossini” (a reference to 19th century composer and truffle-and-foie-gras lover Giaccino Rossini?) with black truffle oil, foie gras-pistachio dressing, and topped with thin slices (like cheeky little berets) of sunchoke.  The pan-sear was perfect, the textures lovely, the flavors deep and rich… and yet not entirely memorable.

My entree was the grilled Columbia River sturgeon.  I was tempted by the skate wing “pastrami,” because -like hanger steak- I feel that putting skate wing on a menu is a challenge to the eater.  When done well it is sweet and flavorful; when done poorly, it can be terribly dry.  Looking back, I feel certain that the technique would have been perfect: cooked on the cartilage and the fillets perhaps later removed to retain moisture.  I also considered the Elysian Fields lamb.  Although I’m not a huge fan of lamb, this Pennsylvania farm prioritizes a humanely raised philosophy and has the stamp of approval of Chef Thomas Keller’s input.  It appears regularly on the menus of both The French Laundry and Per Se, and if it’s good enough for T.K., it’s good enough for me.  That said, I was intrigued by the Pacific Northwest sturgeon, one of the largest and oldest living freshwater fish.  It tasted, ironically, like pure ocean and was quite tender if not a little bland.  Served with salsify fondant (a little more flavor), Syrah sauce (the bulk of the flavor), and topped with foam, it was once again technically proficient.  The pommes “Lyonnaise” were thinly “mandolined” and stacked like a gratin or a terrine; they tasted deliciously of butter and fat.  The crisp top layer and soft texture beneath made this simple, comforting, and one of my favorite parts of the meal.

We were reasonably full and could have skipped dessert, but I feel like the additional course often provides more information in the big picture of a restaurant. While waiting, we opted for another champagne-based drink.  I had a hibiscus cocktail, while Liz tried the pomegranate.  Mine was delicious: subtle, dry, and aromatic with visual aesthetic.  Hers was bright red, a bit sweeter, and also refreshing.

Hibiscus

Pomegranate

We chose the “chocolate and peanut butter” dessert: a mousse, crisp croustillant, and peanut butter sorbet served with whimsical peanuts encased in sugar and shaped like toothpicks.  The peanut butter was subtle in flavor, the chocolate rich, and the dried white crumble (front of the plate) was also peanutty and innovative in form.  This dish was incredibly complicated but muted in flavor.

My overall impression of Picholine’s food? It’s erudite, polished, and utterly masterful.  And, yet, it’s like a woman with luxe hair, porcelain skin, stunning eyes, full lips, high cheekbones, and a size 2 figure who is not described as beautiful.  One can appreciate it for its discrete parts and for the effort and technique that go into each plate.  But something feels missing. Worried that I was being unduly tough, I dug up some older reviews of Picholine.  The New York Times gave Picholine three stars (“excellent”) in 2006, and New York Magazine gave it four stars (“exceptional”).  With a 2007 James Beard nomination for the country’s Outstanding Restaurant in 2007 and two consistent Michelin stars from 2008-2011, Picholine clearly has street cred.  Yet Frank Bruni noted Picholine’s “seemingly chromosomal stuffiness,” its lack of “energy and style,” and that it is fundamentally “too quiet” despite its “first-rate ingredients and superior execution.”  What isn’t in Bruni’s review (or mine) is sheer deliciousness… because it simply isn’t there.  Picholine is refined.  I wanted so badly to fall head over heels in love with it, and yet I walked away feeling like there was some missed potential… a lack of confidence? a very head-over-heart approach? a lack of wild, reckless abandon? It felt zippered up way too high at the neckline and with floor-length hems too low to show any real natural beauty.  You got the sense that there was something fabulous underneath, but it was heavily cloaked in a genteel modesty.   I admire Chef Terrance Brennan for Picholine’s philosophy and proficiency, but at the end of the day, only the passion and complexity of the amuse bouche and the pommes lyonnaise really stood out and were truly memorable.

119 McDougal Street (between Bleeker and West 3rd Streets)

Mamoun’s flagship location in Greenwich Village is older than I am.  Serving Middle Eastern food since the early 1970s, Mamoun’s now has locations on St. Mark’s and in Connecticut.  My husband and I stopped by to pick up a few falafel sandwiches, which were irresistible at $2.50 each.  The falafel (made of chickpea, onion, parsley, garlic, and various spices) was greener (more parsley) than I’d ever seen.  The vegetables were fresh, and the pita held together well.

My husband had the kafta kebab (seasoned lamb with onions and parsley ground into a patty then grilled) platter: two patties served with a salad, olive oil, lemon juice, tahini sauce, and two warm pita breads.  [Photo unavailable due to rapidity of ingestion]

We got a small piece of absolutely delicious, flaky, honeyed baklava:

and a small piece of mabrume, a tidy pile of pastry (vaguely similar to Italian sfogliatelle) topped with honey, whole almonds, and chopped pistachios and walnuts.  It was impossible to eat in one sitting but disappeared very easily after several successive fork-in-hand passes through the kitchen.

Mamoun’s was sort of an accidental find for us, but at prices so low and with flavors so great, we’d definitely go back!

113 McDougal Street (between Bleeker and West 3rd Streets)
New York, NY 10012
212.475.3850
http://www.minettatavernny.com/

Our family has developed a pleasant tradition of dining out in lieu of birthday gifts.  My brother, the consummate carnivore, chose Minietta Tavern over a month in advance of his 28th birthday and forwarded slews of e-articles about Pat Lafrieda and the famed Black Label burger in the time spanning late December to mid-February.  We were well-versed in what to expect and arrived with sky-high expectations for this $26 burger.

After climbing through the burgundy curtain, we stepped into the bar area, replete with alternating black-and-white floor tiles, original glass-front oak wood bar, and white tin ceiling.  The gentleman in the gray suit and hip black glasses reading the Times at the bar could’ve been a strategically planted character; I could completely picture the bar stools sixty years ago filled with men just like him.

When our table was ready, we headed into the back dining room, which crams a lot of people chair-to-chair in a medium-sized space with narrow walkways for the staff.  The walls were covered in framed caricatures and black-and-white photographs with a fresco depicting Greenwich Village around the top of the room.  Couples and young families packed into the Paris-red leather banquettes for brunch.  As we prepared for our own meal, we watched two plates consistently pass us by: the thick brioche French toast and the signature Black Label burger.

We started off with a basket of Balthazar Bakery (which falls under owner Keith McNally’s empire) breads.  The collection was a sumptuous start, and we simply devoured (clockwise from the top) buttery croissants; a dark, thick-crusted Bordeaux-style cannelé with its custardy center and a marzipan flavor; a fruit focaccia; a moist, rich chocolate brioche; and (in the center) a nutty maple doughnut.

My husband Rich ordered a side dish, the duck hash with soft potatoes, as an appetizer and then proceeded to good-naturedly heckle my father about leaning toward the Green Market omelet instead of the Black Label burger.  The hash was served in a cast-iron skillet and looked like “pulled duck.”  It was fatty, abundant, and enjoyed around the table.

My brother’s girlfriend, Mel, and I split the salade d’agrumes (a citrus salad) with pomegranate seeds, thin slices of fennel, mint and dotted with chopped pistachios.  As you can see the colors were beautiful; the flavors were light and refreshing.

We also split the Black Label burger (which accounted for the rest of the table’s entrees, including aforementioned heckled Dad), which came with an obscene mound of thin French fries, a slice of butter lettuce, a tomato wheel, and an old-fashioned (super-sugary and achingly acidic vinegar) pickle that none of us quite cared for.

Minietta Tavern and the Black Label burger are practically synonymous at this point.  The juicy, eight-ounce burger itself is the result of laborious artistic process and revision.  Pat Lafrieda’s blend of dry-aged Kentucky ribeye, skirt steak, and brisket (in proportions guarded with NASA-esque security) is plancha-griddled to form a crust and sprinkled with clarified butter, salt, and pepper.  It is served on a custom Balthazar Bakery sesame-crusted brioche bun with caramelized onions.  [Nick Solares' in-depth expose of the Black Label burger on SeriousEats.com is, by far, the most detailed account its complexity and origin.]

When ordering your temperature, note that Minietta’s medium is really medium-rare, it’s medium-rare is really rare, etc cetera.  So a “well done” burger still comes with a pink center.  We ordered ours “medium,” which came with a pink-red center.  As you can see, the bun was just perfectly moistened with juice and fat on the top bun, while the bottom bun was buttery and just-nearly soaked through.  The dry aging of the beef itself gave it an earthy and (I mean this in the best possible way) moldy taste that my brother and I both related to a moldy cheese flavor.  My friend Jesse (who dined there earlier this year) called it an “umami taste,” which I’m inclined to agree with.  Thick like a meatball (which I LOVE in a burger), I can’t say it was my favorite burger ever, but the flavor was certainly unlike any other.  Honestly, I’m not totally sure the dry-aged taste was totally for me, but speaking objectively, it was rich and wildly flavorful.

My mother and sister shared a burger that was “extra well-done” and didn’t care for it.  At the more thoroughly cooked temperature, the meat got a bit gristly, and my sister got a hard piece (we speculated it could be cartilage) in her burger.  Although we agreed that, like hanger steaks, the burger probably wasn’t best-suited for the “well-done” meat lover, my sister felt (and, in the spirit of fairness, I’m including her opinion) that the waitstaff should gently warn diners that the dish isn’t recommended at higher temperatures at the time of ordering, giving them a heads-up to either order another dish or knowingly risk the repercussions.

For dessert, we shared a chocolate-hazelnut dacquoise with a rich chocolate ganache and hazelnut meringue.   The flavors were spot on and led me to believe that much of Minietta’s success follows on the heels of its incredible Balthazar baked goods.

Another star was the Balthazar fruit galette with currants and lightly charred pears: sweet, tart, with subtle almond-marzipan flavors and a delicate, crunchy crust.  How gorgeous are these colors?

We also shared an âssiete de chocolats (chocolate assortment) by renowned chocolatier Jacques Torres.  Proceeding clockwise from the half sphere in front —which was a milk chocolate with a deliciously gooey rum-caramel-brown-sugar-and-butter center— was a dark chocolate square, a milk chocolate hexagon with a butterscotch-y center,  a milk chocolate square with a cinnamon/hazelnut center, and the dark chocolate heart ( in the middle) that tasted like passionfruit.

On the whole, Minietta’s food was rich, delicious, and flavorful.  Did it live up to the hype? Well, it’s hard when the hype is so amplified.  We enjoyed ourselves, and I’d definitely consider going back for that brioche French toast.  More than anything, though, our meal left me wanting to visit Balthazar Bakery.  Now that was some amazing stuff, and it just goes to show what the right shared investments can do for a restaurant.

The past few weeks have been barbecue-filled for us (see Blue Smoke and Hill Country).  When my brother got a group of friends together to celebrate his birthday at Rub BBQ, my husband Rich and I were excited to round out our “city barbecue tour” with yet another hot spot.  We walked through the cold-catching curtain and into a pretty small dining room with tables concentrated on one side of the space and a bar at the rear.

My brother, Mike

We sat under this super cool, 3D sphere of light-up art depicting RUB and its surrounding storefronts.

My brother, Mike, in front of said super cool, 3D sphere of light-up art depicting RUB and its surrounding storefronts

I started off with the frighteningly girlish razzle dazzle cocktail: a bright pink, lemonade concoction that was tasty but overly sweet and acidic.

My brother Mike had done his homework and knew RUB’s specialties.  For an appetizer, he ordered the barbecue chicken wings, which were totally unique in flavor but so, SO vinegary (and -for the record- I adore vinegar).  I didn’t care for them quite so much; they were just too acidic for me.

Mike’s girlfriend, Mel, had a basket of fried green tomatoes with Cajun remoulade.  They were thickly battered and super (temperature) hot.

Rich and I split the BBQ chicken empanada, which was also filled with chipotle and potatoes.  It was definitely flavorful, and the crust was thick enough to hold up to multiple bites.

My brother had a 2-meat platter with pulled pork and hot link sausage with a side of onion strings.  All platters came with a light, cakey corn bread, sliced pickles, and two slices of white bread.

He also ordered the signature burnt ends, which are basically smoky brisket trimmings; they were flavorful and tender, and it’s easy to see why they’re a signature dish.  These are not to be missed!

Rich also had a 2 meat platter of brisket and spicy BBQ sausage with onion strings and barbecued baked beans.  If you look closely, you can see the pink smoke ring around the edge of the brisket, the hallmark of superior smoking.

I had the pulled chicken (exactly the same as the barbecued chicken only served off the bone) with collard and mustard greens.  The chicken was definitely a bit dry, but the greens were way better than expected, not at all bitter.

Mike’s friend had pork ribs:

and another friend had RUB’s only real vegetarian option, the portobello mushroom burger.

For dessert, we had a basket of chocolate chip cookies with chunks of bacon in them.  The bacon flavor was pretty subtle and smoky, unless you bit into an actual bacon chunk.  Then it was utterly delicious.  The cookies were served cold and probably would’ve been fantastic if slightly warmed.

We also shared the deep fried Oreos topped with powdered sugar.  Seriously, the only way to make an Oreo taste better is to deep fry it, and there’s pretty much no substance known to man that doesn’t taste good fried.  So we indulged in these huge zeppole-like pockets of dough with melty chocolate-cream goodness at the center.  Fortunately, they were served hot.

Of the three BBQ joints I’ve hit up lately, RUB is -sadly- not my favorite.  It definitely had high points, but it simply didn’t warrant an “outstanding” review.  If you’re looking for fun food activities, I’d definitely recommend hitting up RUB as part of a NYC barbecue tour, but on its own, it was -at best- “pretty good.”

30 West 26th Street (between Broadway & 6th Avenue)
New York, NY 10010
212.255.4544
www.hillcountryny.com

“How does the whole Restaurant Week thing work?” I asked naively, wondering how this system matched the $24 lunch Restaurant Week promise.

Hill Country is set up cafeteria-style (I guess they call it “market style” to eliminate the grammar-school-lunch-lady connotation), so you claim a wooden table, grab a tray, and visit each of the different stations for your fixin’s.  Being adventurous eaters but, alas, relatively small girls, we wound up with similar, sparing sampler platters.  I tried a beef back rib, moist brisket (as opposed to the lean brisket), and a pork spare rib, which was wrapped up in greasy brown butcher paper.  All three meats were tender and juicy.  The brisket was a little too fatty for me, but it was definitely moist.  Both ribs were meaty with a nice, slow-heat, rich-tang barbeque sauce.  The spice of the sauce wasn’t overwhelming, but it snuck up on me, unexpected.

We each had a piece of dense, sweet cornbread with ancho honey butter.

Erica had the banana cream pudding topped with two vanilla wafers- not as overly sweet as one might expect but creamy and delicious.

116 E 27th Street (between Park and Lexington Avenues)
New York, NY 10016
212.447.7733
www.bluesmoke.com

Ravenously hungry, my husband Rich and I, along with our friends Liz and Brian, couldn’t contain ourselves to the Restaurant Week menu.  Eyes undoubtedly bigger than our stomachs, we ordered a few appetizers off the RW menu, a brazen move we would later pay for in the form of piles of unfinished food and takeout boxes.  First, we tried Blue Smoke’s North Carolina salt peanuts, which are specially made for the restaurant by the men’s group of a Methodist church.  A little oilier and saltier than your standard can of Planters, they were tasty and slightly smoky, but peanuts are pretty much peanuts.

The table then shared iced oysters on the half shell with spicy cocktail sauce.

Then, a fabulously clever play on the corn dog —corn-battered shrimp— served on skewers with an avocado lime mayo.  These were worth risking the effects of my (admittedly mild) shellfish allergy.  The avocado lime mayo alone was one of the best things I had all day.  Light, fresh, and very clean tasting, I could’ve easily devoured a jarful with some plain tortilla chips.  The shrimp were tender with a crisp snap and perfectly crunchy fried crust.

Still off the menu, we shared perfectly round corn hush puppies with a sweet jalapeno marmalade.  The ‘pups were crisp on the outside, soft and doughy on the inside… like savory little cakes.

Our last off-the-Restaurant-Week menu item was a generous basket of charred-skin sweet potato wedges with a white maple dip.  These were starchy with nice bite, cut just thick enough to enjoy.  They were sweet, but not as overly sweet as you might think.  The whole dish showed restraint (on the part of the chef, of course, not the eater). 

Brian and I each chose the chipotle wings with creamy blue cheese.  The plate was a generous helping of at least 8 wings slathered in chipotle sauce, which also had a mild to medium slow-build heat.  The wings themselves were meaty, but I prefer a crispier skin.  This was the point in our culinary marathon when I knew I was in trouble.  Two wings in, I was keenly aware that there was a lot more food coming and that I would have to will myself through the Brobdingnagian portions.

Brian ordered the hanger steak, which had been a strong contender as I considered my options on the train ride downtown.  As many of you know, I consider hanger steak on a menu a direct challenge to me, as the eater.  When someone has the cajones to put hanger steak on their menu, I feel like they are boldly promising to make it worth my while.  Sometimes the leap of faith is richly rewarded with a soft, well-tenderized, and incredibly flavorful treat.  More often than not, it’s a very tasty but tough, chewy cut of meat.  I refrained from the dare this time, figuring I’d be able to taste Brian’s dish enough to satisfy my curiosity.  Although it was very tasty, I was glad I hadn’t taken the risk.  The steak was definitely a bit tough and would not have exceeded my Harold-Dieterle-Perilla-high hopes.

Liz had the grasshopper brownie sundae, also with fresh cream.  The fresh mint was a bit strong for me, but the hot-cold balance and rich chocolate were a success.

With barely any zest left in me, I forced my fork into my dessert solely for the sake of my readership.  (Oh, the sacrifices I make for you… I hope you’re grateful. )  I had chosen wisely… buttermilk cake with ginger beer pears and creme fraiche, which sparked a table-ful of South Park “cream freesh” jokes.  The cake was spongy and soft and paired (bad pun intended) beautifully with mildly spiced pears.  Again, it was a muted, restrained dessert, one where you can feel the passion behind it, but it doesn’t slap you in the face.  (Think Ethan Frome versus The Notebook.)

Finally, as we gathered our mountain of takeout boxes in takeout bags, we were each treated to a very hospitable wrapped chocolate chip cookie from the Blue Smoke Bake Shop.  There’s nothing I love more than a restaurant parting gift (see Del Posto and Momofuku Ko); I think it’s a touch of class, particularly during Restaurant Week, that separates the proverbial wheat from the chaff.  A take-home goodie is the sign of an eatery that takes nothing for granted and is still trying to woo you, an unnecessary but generous gesture of appreciation.  Just slightly crisp around the edges and chewy everywhere else, this cookie is like a kiss from your grandmother.  As full as we were, we shared one on the train ride home.

Overall, the generous portions, punctual seating, and clean flavors (sweet, salty, savory) won me over.  The menu was intriguing and left us enthusiastic to visit again.  The timing between courses was a little slow, but —rather than a flaw— I would see this more as an opportunity to relax, drink, talk with friends, digest, and linger over each plate.  Blue Smoke was unpretentious, hearty, and welcoming.  Good value, good food, good price.  I can safely say that I blew through and over my Weight Watchers points pretty hard today, but it was well worth it.  I left full and still have lunch for tomorrow… although those mashed potatoes in the fridge might not make it ’til morning.