in praise of sardines

"We freeze it fresh every day."

A whole week of temperatures over 80˚ (Saturday the mercury climbed as high as 97˚!). In San Francisco. In July. Simply amazing.

To celebrate our extraordinary good fortune, I headed across the Bay to my favorite gelateria, Sketch.

Sketch is located in a sliver of a shop in the posh and very un-sketchy Fourth Street shopping district of Berkeley. The storefront is set back a couple dozen yards from the street, across the way from Eccolo, an Italian restaurant I helped to open. As a beacon to alert passersby, the owners, husband and wife Eric Shelton and Ruthie Planas-Shelton, placed a shiny 1920's Italian ice cream cart near the sidewalk. The cart lures people into the inviting scoop shop, a tiny cocoon adorned with a few antique ice cream scoopers along one wall.

I love Sketch and all its quirks. First off, the awning advertises "ice cream." While the consistency is undoubtedly "creamy," there is nary a drop of cream in the frozen confections. Neither are there eggs nor any of the other varieties of thickeners typically found in products labeled "ice cream." Eric and Ruthie limit their palette of ingredients to three: Straus organic milk, sugar, and the star ingredient. (This strict minimalist approach must be the inspiration behind the shop's name).

The flavors at Sketch are all about the main ingredient. Peach tastes like the best peach you've ever eaten. The owners obsessively procure the finest from our local organic farms and they want every nuance of those ingredients' subtle flavors to reveal themselves. I find that their approach to gelato is identical to the jam making ethic of June Taylor, whose still room is located just a few blocks away. (Not surprisingly, I spied more than a few of Sketch's colorful bowls scattered around June's kitchen at a class I took there a few weeks ago).

By eschewing richer ingredients in favor of purity of flavors, these former Aqua pastry cooks are clearly taking their cue from Sicily, the birthplace of gelato, as opposed to northern and central Italy, which don't shy away from using cream and eggs (now you know why you gained 15 pounds on that last trip to Rome and Florence). Eric told me the key to the satiny texture of their gelati is, as I quote him in the title of this post, that they freeze each of the 14 flavors fresh daily and hold them at precisely the right temperature (slightly higher than home freezers).

Another oddity: no cones. Again in a nod to Italy, the gelati are mostly served in cute brightly colored plastic cups, like the one pictured below that *briefly* held my apricot and hazelnut gelati.

In lieu of cones, you can choose to have your 'scream served in a crêpe or accompanied by one of the changing array of pastries and cookies, all of which are excellent (and contain all the cream and eggs omitted from the gelati).

Quirk number three: each customer is only allowed 2 tastes. I actually didn't notice this policy, but read about it online. It doesn't concern me. I don't stray far from the theme I pictured above (one scoop featuring whatever sexy local fruits are in season and one of the extraordinary nut gelati). My pilgrimages across the bridge to Sketch are too few, so I tend to stick to that familiar tango of textures and flavors that my tongue finds so ravishing. According to online reports, other flavors that consistently receive raves are Scharffenberger chocolate, tangy Straus yogurt, and Blue Bottle coffee. I read (and fleetingly have even noticed) that Sketch also serves sorbetti and granite.

If you're in New York and want a Sketch-like experience, head to Cones in the Village. Based on recommendations from Eric and Ruthie, I made tracks to this small scoop shop on Bleecker Street, which apparently gets the highest Zagat rating in the city. From what I read in the press clippings posted on the window, the owners of Cones share much of the same philosophy as our Sketchers. The main difference is that they add a little cream to their base (1 part cream to 3 parts milk). And, of course, cones are available here. The shop, however, lacks the charm of Sketch and flavors tend more towards the traditional. That said, my hazelnut was every bit as outstanding as Sketch's.

For a creamier, more traditionally custard-based experience, head to Il Laboratorio del Gelato. Their selection of flavors are amongst the most innovative you'll find (reminiscent of another Bay Area gem, Mitchell's). If I could sing, I would've have broken out in an aria over the black sesame and the mascarpone flavors I sampled.

Sketch
1809A Fourth Street
Berkeley
510.665.5650

Cones
272 Bleecker Street, between Morton and Jones
New York
212.414.1795

Il Laboratorio del Gelato
95 Orchard Street, between Broome and Delancey
New York
212.343.9122

Counter Revolutionaries Storm NYC!

(Make that "Counter Revolution takes NYC by storm.")

When dining out, is there anything more fun than eating at the kitchen counter? Several of my favorite restaurants offer mostly or exclusively counter seating, including Canteen in San Francisco and Pinotxo and Cal Pep in Barcelona. Other faves, like A16 in SF and Casa Mono in NYC, also feature counters with a view of the action. For better or worse, these extreme open kitchens release us chefs into the wild, providing us the opportunity to easily interact with our guests and to keep an eye on our wait staff.* For the diner, the combination of theatrical spectacle and access to the kitchen can't be beat.

Recent articles in the New York Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, and Food & Wine indicate that I am not alone in my adoration. Kitchen counters, where diners perch on stools directly across from the leaping flames of the grill, are a hot new trend (in more ways than one). Restaurant kitchen designers of top-tier restaurants, including Joël Robuchon's L'Atelier in Paris, draw inspiration from Japanese sushi bars, Spanish tapas bars, and mid-twentieth century American lunch counters, such as Swan Oyster Depot.

After my visit to New York City over the Fourth of July weekend, I have to add two more places to my list of favorite spots featuring kitchen counter dining: Momofuku Noodle Bar and Degustation. N and I visited both in one day, with lunch at the former and dinner at the latter. I can't recall when I've last eaten as well and had as much fun!

The two chefs at Momofuku, David Chang and Joaquin Baca, apply their experience working at some of New York's top restaurants to reinterpret Japanese and Korean noodles and dumplings.

N and I took the edge off the sweltering New York City summer with a platter of mildly spicy seasonal pickled vegetables or kimchee. The wild ramps and baby turnips were particular standouts. Be sure to save some to eat with your noodles.

We equally loved our other appetizer, baby octopus salad. The tiny cephalopods were cooked until tender and then tossed in a spicy Vietnamese-style dressing with tangles of kombu (a type of sea vegetable), shredded carrots, and mushrooms.

N ordered a spicy bowl of kimchee stew, which came with a side of steamed rice. It was rich and satisfying, but not as photogenic as the Momofuku ramen I ordered. This bowl of noodles is a pork-lover's fantasy. Braised Berkshire pork shoulder and belly bathe in a bacon-infused pork broth along with noodles, sweet peas, slivered scallions, mushrooms and a slow-poached egg. For the uninitiated, slow-poached eggs are a product, I believe, of the molecular gastronomers (I first sampled one a couple of years ago at WD~50). The egg is poached in its shell in 140˚F/60˚C water for 45 minutes or so, resulting in an ethereal custard-like consistency.

Speaking of WD~50, that restaurant's mutton-chop-sideburned chef, Wylie Dufresne, sat a few seats down the bar from us while we dined at Degustation later that same day. In contrast to San Francisco (where avant-garde Winterland was forced to shutter this weekend due to lack of business), New York diners have started to embrace El Bulli-inspired molecular gastronomy. Our exciting dinner at Degustation included a smattering of foams, gelées, and, not surprisingly, another slow-poached egg (this time served with fried asparagus and jamón serrano). The young (26 years old!) chef, Wesley Genovart, is of Mallorcan descent and worked in Spain's most experimental kitchen outside of El Bulli, Mugaritz, so the cuisine is decidedly Spanish.

Degustation differs from Momofuku and most other kitchens that feature counter dining in that Chef Genovart faces the diners as he cooks. Since he never turns his back to you, the feeling that you are watching a one-person performance is amplified. I, for one, would lose my mind if I were in his clogs, but Chef Genovart didn't seem to mind the attention.

Highlights of our multi-course dégustation (French for "tasting menu") included a one-bite "tortilla." You know you're in for some culinary hi-jinx when you see those tell-tale quotation marks. In this case, Spain's iconic potato omelet transmogrified into paper-thin strips of potato surrounding shallot confit and a quail yolk. The yolk explodes in your mouth as soon as you bite down, so you have to act fast to keep yolk from embarrassingly dribbling down your chin.

Other favorite dishes included the endangered dish known as foie gras. Chef Genovart seared the foie then served it atop bittersweet caramel water gelée and sweet-tart cherries.

We also particularly enjoyed the squid stuffed with short ribs and the crispy pork belly with grilled scallions, shimeji mushrooms and pickled jalapeños in a sherry gastrique.

I was impressed with the well-edited wine list of mostly Spanish offerings, which naturally pair well with the menu. We had glasses of sparkling Cava from Pere Ventura, a lively white Basque Txakoli from Txomin Etxaniz, and a smooth red from Ribera del Duero from Viña de Val.

Check out my Flickr slideshow for more pictures and descriptions of our meal at Degustation.

Momofuku Noodle Bar
163 First Ave.(10th & 11th Sts.)
212.475.7899
No reservations, serve lunch and dinner, open 7 days

Degustation
239 E. 5th St. (2nd Ave.)
212.979.1012
No reservations, serve dinners only, closed Sunday
________________________________
* We cooks quickly realize that these wide open windows between kitchen and dining room work both ways. As I learned from first hand experience cooking at the now closed L'Amie Donia, a top-rated French bistro in Palo Alto that included 8 counter seats, diners can see and hear everything, including some things I'd wish they couldn't. They hear our curses and witness our mistakes, including the inevitable cuts and burns. Unlike the powdered and perfectly quoiffed celebrities on the TV Food Network, we cooks aren't at our prettiest during the dinner rush. Our white coats are smeared with some combination of sweat, soot, and sauce. Being on stage all the time with no place to hide adds an extra layer of stress to an already pressure packed job. Will I incorporate a kitchen counter into my eventual kitchen design? Stay tuned....

Food|and Drink|Restaurants|Review|New York

A taste so delicious that it caused me to miss my flight

This is one of those confessional stories that I normally would be extremely selective about who I tell. 99.9% of the population just wouldn't get it. Frankly, they'd see me as a glutton. Or a buffoon. Probably both.

But, hey, I figure if you're still checking in on my blog after I haven't posted for a month, then there's a good chance that you might be part of that 0.1% that would be sympathetic to my gluttony enthusiasms.

You see, I missed my flight yesterday for a couple of slices of pizza. Plain. Cheese. Pizza. No toppings. The menu posted on the grease-stained wall calls it simply "regular."

My odyssey began at 11 yesterday morning in Manhattan. What am I doing in NYC? This is a story about pizza, so where else would I be? Really, though, my darling wife N is there for the summer. Something to do with graduate school, a masters degree, training for her promotion into school administration, yadda, yadda. All I know is I missed her, so I visited her over the long holiday weekend. More on the rest of the trip another day.

At 11, I departed the place where we were staying on the Upper West Side, suitcase in tow, umbrella poised over my head. I dodged puddles, ignored the light rain, and hopped aboard the A train to JFK. I learned the hard way that a few sprinkles are enough to grind the subway system to a halt, so it took 2 hours to reach the airport. Then again, the ticket only cost $2, so I can't complain. I checked in my bag, leaving me 4 hours to grab a bite to eat in Brooklyn before my 5:30 flight began boarding.

4 hours. Seems like plenty of time for a couple of slices of pizza, no?

The object of my quest wasn't just any pizza, but you probably suspected that already. Although I didn't know this at the time, my Grail has been universally praised in virtually every publication that writes about food, New York, and/or pizzas (even the London-based Financial Times). This pizzeria receives a 27 in the most recent Zagat Survey, the same score as Jean Georges (!!??). Pizza blogger Adam of Slice has written about it so often, it is its own category. It is featured prominently in Ed Levine's pizza guide.

I, however, had only read about it in Molly's memorable post last September on her food blog, Orangette. Her story and accompanying photos were enough to convince me that I needed to visit DiFara Pizza.*

From the airport, it took me 3 transfers and over an hour to reach the pizzeria. When I last checked my watch, it was well before 3:00, leaving me an ample 2 hours to eat and get back to the airport. [At the time, I had no idea that waits at DiFara routinely exceed an hour.] All I knew is that there were only about 10 people in front of me. Shortly after I arrived, 2 of them tossed up their arms in disgust and left, a gesture which should have given me pause, but instead strengthened my resolve. Mind you, I was ravenous, having eaten little more than a croissant for breakfast.

I was also completely mesmerized by what I saw before me. Time had ceased to have any relevance.

If you can't be with the one you love...

On a narrow shelf above the slicer at the front of the restaurant, where the deli man performed the final step in the magical transformation of tough beef brisket into ethereally tender pastrami and corned beef, dozens of mustard jars stood like toy soldiers, proudly displaying their labels.

"I really ought to buy one," I thought, "and bring it back to N as a surprise." Then I glanced outside at the steady rainfall and pictured myself schlepping the jar around in one hand, while balancing my flimsy umbrella in the other, as I sloshed from one of my million errands to the next. It would be hours before I headed back to my hotel room.

"What good is the mustard without the pastrami or corned beef?" I reassured myself.

I felt a twinge of guilt, as at that moment my stomach was reveling in the object of N's and my shared affection, one of the massive sandwiches of the famed Second Avenue Deli on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Though full to the point that my belly ached as much as it has after any Thanksgiving feast, my nose couldn't resist being intoxicated by the earthy, spicy aromas that engulfed it. Garlicky, salty vinegar continued to dance on my tongue to the sounds of the crunchy-crisp rhythm of the half-sour pickles that echoed in my ears. I swooned at the thought of the samba of flavors, the sweet coleslaw and, of course, that sharp mustard that had, just moments before, punctuated each bite of my juicy pastrami on rye.

My reverie was abruptly broken by a woman's voice. "Can I get you something else, hun?"

I hesitated. "No, that'll be all." Next time, I consoled myself. Next time I'll get the mustard.

There will be no next time.

I awoke yesterday to the sad news {broken to me, in the way that can only happen in our technologically accelerated era, by a comment on this blog by a longtime reader who lives in Spain...thank you "nopisto"!} that Second Avenue Deli, which had closed its doors on January 1st, would not be reopening. The kosher deli had become a landmark in the 50 years since it was founded by Abe Lebewohl, a Ukrainian immigrant who was tragically murdered a decade ago.

I can't recall a visit to New York that didn't include a visit to this temple of pastrami and corned beef.

For a foodie, losing a favorite restaurant can be as devastating as losing a close friend {I am embarrassed to report that I am that obsessive. Pronouncing my loss, say, "as devastating as losing a pet goldfish," doesn't do justice to my sense of grief... please feel free to tell me to get a life}.

All that remains are our memories. Thankfully, because of this blog, I recorded what has become my last pilgrimage to Second Avenue Deli just a few months ago {read about it here}.

Growing increasingly distraught after David pointed me to these depressing photos, the dreary morning rain outside my San Francisco window mirrored my sullen mood.

My heart {or was it my belly?} lifted momentarily when I recalled reading of a New York-style deli opening in the Presidio Heights neighborhood of San Francisco within the building that houses the Jewish Community Center. Hopes raised further when I remembered that the illustrious Joyce Goldstein had been hired as consulting chef.

Like a widower that starts dating too soon after his wife's passing {Prince Charles comes to mind}, I made tracks to the California Street Delicatessen and Cafe (website not operational yet), where I spotted this sign.

(Early) Autumn in New York: Prune

How do I begin to describe the place that, in my mind at least, is the Platonic ideal of that convivial little boîte that everyone wants to have just down the block from their home? Will I be able to do it justice, to convey how absolutely perfect it is?

Here is my attempt. Call it my ode to Prune.

For me, Gabrielle Hamilton's little gem of a restaurant is truly the perfect neighborhood bistro, the kind of place I could only hope to open in my dreams.

I position Prune at the top of my pantheon of tiny, quirky chef-owned restaurants that I have become enamored with over the years. At the very least, this list would have to include Pinotxo and Cal Pep in Barcelona, El Cairat in Falset (Catalonia, Spain), Delfina (especially before they expanded, when Craig still manned the stoves nightly and Ann stood watch over the floor), Liberty Cafe, Woodward's Garden (5 or 10 years ago), and the recently opened Canteen, all in San Francisco. When it comes to restaurants, these are my beloved "sardines." [Here's a suggestion: if you share my enthusiasm for small neighborhood restaurants, feel free to add your own favorites to the list in the "comments" section].

There seems to be no detail of Prune that I don't adore. The antique zinc-topped French bar, which seats just four people on rickety, uncomfortable stools. The long buttercream wall lined with distressed wooden mirrors, each topped with votive candles. The way that the candles, the silver-dipped bare light bulbs along the walls, and the school-house lamps hanging from above manage to cast a flattering glow on all the diners. Tables that are placed so ridiculously close together that the server has to pull your table completely away from the wall every time you want to sit down or get up from the banquette.

I also love the brief, well-edited list of wines and cocktails. And the professional servers, sporting tight pink T-shirts, tattoos and piercings, reminding you that you're dining in the East Village and not Paris.

But really, it's the food that brings me back again and again (I try to dine or brunch there on every visit to New York). Gabrielle Hamilton's food is as sassy and original as her writing. From the spicy, messy boiled peanuts that (currently) begins a meal to the chunk of bittersweet chocolate that ends it, the gustatory experience at Prune is delightfully unique.

As usual, on this past visit I struggled to choose among the many tempting menu offerings. Thankfully, there wasn't a tuna tartare, caesar salad, flat-iron steak, or rotisserie chicken anywhere in sight. Instead, I was faced with the happy task of deciding which unusual appetizer I craved more amongst a selection that included sweetbreads, monkfish liver, head-on prawns with anchovy butter, and sardines.

Of course, smart reader, you guessed which I chose! The kitchen served the ceviche-style cured fresh sardine fillets on top of toasted ciabatta and thinly sliced avocado, scattered with ribbons of scallions. The tart vinegar of the marinade, the creaminess of the avocado and the crunch of the bread played off each other so naturally it made me wonder why this isn't as classic a partnership as Fred and Ginger or Hepburn and Tracy.

(Early) Autumn in New York: pastrami sandwiches and cheesecakes

I am not Jewish.* I have never lived in New York City.

However, for some reason, a lot of the foods I crave the most come from the culinary traditions of the Eastern European (Ashkenazi) Jewish community that are on display in so many delis, bakeries and shops in New York City. It drives me crazy that I can't find a decent bagel, smoked fish (salmon, sturgeon, whitefish, sable, you name it, I love them all), pickle, cheesecake or pastrami in San Francisco.

Maybe it's due to some sort of karmic connection that continually draws me back to New York? My grandparents lived on Long Island and my mother was raised there. My wife, N, grew up just across the GW Bridge. My college years were spent within striking distance of the city, just a short hop on the Shuttle (anyone remember People's Express?) or Amtrak from Washington, D.C., for many long and crazy weekends.

On my visit there last week, I made a special effort to seek out the best examples of two of these favorites, pastrami sandwiches and cheesecake.

I've had pastrami everywhere, from the infuriating Carnegie Deli to the crowded Katz's in New York, from Langer's and Nate n' Al in Los Angeles to Niman Ranch's version here. But nowhere have I had better pastrami than at the Second Avenue Deli.

Located on the Lower East Side, this deli is an institution. Unlike many of the other delis I've visited, Second Avenue Deli is glatt Kosher, so no dairy products are served. Thus, those of us with a weakness for the abomination known as the Reuben (in which the lily, usually corned beef but sometimes pastrami, is not only gilded but smothered to death and embalmed with the addition of thousand island dressing, Swiss cheese and sauerkraut) will not be tempted to stray from purity. Sorry N.

One taste of the pastrami here and you will be glad that nothing is there to interfere with the impossibly tender layers of juicy meat. It possesses a perfect balance of briny saltiness, peppery seasoning and creamy fat. A dab or two of deli mustard adds the right amount of zip and zing, but nothing else is needed. Aside, of course, from the two slices of caraway-studded rye bread that hold the whole thing together.

Lest I forget, the experience wouldn't be complete without Second Avenue's complimentary dish of sweet-and-sour coleslaw (no mayo) and my favorite bright green, crunchy half-sour pickles (full-sours and pickled green tomatoes are included, too).

Although I rarely have room, the mushroom-barley and matzoh ball soups are good here, and the potato latke with the obligatory applesauce isn't bad either.

But for real New York-style cheesecake you'll have to go elsewhere (remember, no dairy).

For the quintessential cheesecake experience I headed to an adorable little pastry shop some 75 blocks up Second Avenue on the Upper East Side called Two Little Red Hens.

With Ed Levine's article in the New York Times as my guide, in which he tasted about 50 cheesecakes over the course of a month last year (poor Ed, such a hellish job), I sampled the cheesecake here that he called the "first among equals." Sure enough, just as promised, this cheesecake manages to achieve that elusive combination of creamy richness and ethereally light fluffiness, without being too sweet.

Just to make sure I was getting a taste of the finest New York has to offer, I stopped into another store on his list, Eileen's Special Cheesecake in SoHo, where I sampled a mini-cheesecake that, though amazing, was not quite as tasty as the slice I had at Two Little Red Hens. Or maybe, unlike Ed Levine, two cheesecakes in one day is too much for me.

* When I published this yesterday, I forgot to add my hearty wishes for all the best in the new year. Happy Rosh Hashanah!

Food|and Drink|Restaurants|Review|New York

(Early) Autumn in New York: Casa Mono

For your listening pleasure, may I suggest you download this Billie Holiday song (you'll have to open the link in a new window) to play in the background while reading this post, which will be the first in my Autumn in New York Week on "In Praise of Sardines."

I vanished from the blogosphere for a few days while I stole away to New York. Ostensibly there to do some research for a project, my stomach apparently had a different agenda entirely. It was there to eat, and eat well, at that.

Appropriately, the gastronomic focus of this trip quickly became the sardine. At each of my three dinners in New York last week, I managed to get a taste of my favorite little fish.

Because of New York's closer proximity to the Iberian peninsula, restaurants import the big fat true sardines, sardina pilchardus, from Portugal. They are admittedly plumper and tastier than the faux sardines, clupea harengus pallasi, that we find in our local Pacific waters in the Bay Area, which are actually small herring.

I wasn't surprised to find sardines on the menu at my favorite Spanish restaurant this side of the Atlantic, Casa Mono. After my flight landed late Tuesday night, I headed to the Gramercy Park tapas restaurant desperately hoping to snag one of the few coveted seats at the counter. Happily, I did!

Reminiscent of tapas bars in Barcelona, like Cal Pep or Pinotxo, all that separates the diner from the Casa Mono kitchen is a short glass partition, preventing a surreptitious swipe from the cooks' mis en place. To get any closer to the kitchen, you'd have to work the line.

I started my meal with a glass of sparkling pink Spanish Cava (from Codorníu) and the Ensalada Mono, which despite the name neither contained monkey parts nor gave me a throat infection. Rather, it playfully riffs off some quintessential Spanish ingredients to create a salad you would find nowhere in Spain: frisée with manchego cheese and quince membrillo-sherry vinaigrette, showered with pimentón-flavored crushed almonds.

Next came two delectable fried sardines, reminding me why, despite the obvious fact that I would scare off potential readers, I couldn't resist naming a blog after what is essentially bait. The plump, juicy sardines were accompanied by a salad of sweet onions, preserved lemons and chives. These paired nicely with an extremely aromatic white wine from Gramona Gessamí (Penedés, 2004), an unusual blend of muscat and sauvignon blanc.

For my final tapa I enjoyed a couple of tender fried sweetbreads, accompanied by caramelized roasted baby fennel bulbs. How I wish we would see sweetbreads on more menus in the politically correct veal-phobic Bay Area!

For dessert, I enjoyed the refreshing and barely sweet Mono sundae, which featured pumpkin arrope and the same crumbled almonds that were on the salad.

All in all, I perfect welcome to my brief stay in New York City. Stay tuned tomorrow and the rest of this week for more stories about my eating adventures in the Big Apple.

Food|and Drink|Restaurants|Review|New York|Spanish

New York - torrid toro at Bar Masa

Writing about eating a whole day's worth of meals for $40 made me think about the other end of the spectrum. The big splurge.

It's time I write about my dinner (really a midnight snack) at Bar Masa, where my wife and I spent well over $40 on one dish, a platter of sashimi. But I'm getting ahead of myself here and will get down to the blow-by-blows later. First, let me tell you how I ended up here.

As you probably know, I had just gotten back from my month in Spain when I landed in New York to meet up with N. While I was picking up tips on how to perfect my paella and tortilla, my wife had spent the summer wrapping her mind around finance and philosophy in grad school.

The night after I returned, we had planned to meet up with one of her classmates at Tavern on the Green. Quelle horreur! Not that tourist trap (just look at their website)! Do I bring friends who visit us in San Francisco to Pier 39? But, alas, you cannot deny a pregnant woman's wish, especially when she, like N, had just survived six weeks of grad school. So off to Tavern on the Green we went.

If the lights of the Tavern weren't as bright as three suns, you'd probably smell it before you saw it. It reeks of horse shit from the dozen hansom cabs perpetually parked outside the legendary restaurant. The lights I had expected, but the smell was an unwelcome surprise.

We hurriedly entered the building to get away from the stench and were transported to the 1970's television of my youth, like walking onto the set of the Love Boat and Love American Style. Waiters in powder blue tuxedos with over-sized ties, women with big hair, tropical drinks with little umbrellas, plastic ferns, disco music. We quickly fumbled our way through the carnival fun house maze of lights and mirrors searching for our friends to no avail.

We briefly stepped outside to get our bearings and were quickly reminded of why we had run inside in the first place. With a choice between horse shit and disco balls, we made a second trip through the labyrinth, this time admiring the kitsch value of the place. Seen through a mai-tai or two, we might be able to warm up to the place, in an ironic sort of way.

However, after learning from a cell phone call that our friends wouldn't be able to join us, we happily bolted.

By Spanish standards, it was still early, barely eleven. That's when we decided to scurry over to the world's most expensive food court, the Time Warner Center in Columbus Circle.

Dosas: A Tale of Two Cities

As promised, I want to write a couple of posts about my brief stopover in New York on my way back from Spain.  I met up with my wife, N, who had been studying at Columbia Teachers College for the summer.  After a month of Spanish food, I craved something, anything, not made with olive oil.

As is often the case when we're in New York, I especially craved Indian flavors, in particular South Indian snacks like dosas, idli and sambar.  For those of you unfamiliar with the amazing snack foods of South India, here's a quick primer.  First, they are all vegetarian.  Second, most of the dishes originate from versions of the same batter, which is made from a type of lentil, urad dal, and sometimes rice that are soaked, ground and fermented overnight in a process similar to making sour dough.  The batter can be shaped into dumplings and steamed (called idli, sometimes spelled iddly), shaped into doughnuts (vada/vadai) or balls (bonda) and fried, made into thick pancakes (oothapam) or large thin pancakes (dosa/dosai).  In restaurants, all are usually accompanied by coconut chutney and a bowl of spicy sambar, a stew of toor dal (another type of lentils, sometimes called pigeon peas) and vegetables.

To get our fix of South Indian food, we headed to Murray Hill (dubbed "Curry Hill" by the locals for its abundance of Indian eateries), around Lexington and the high 20s.  It was a Monday, so a lot of places were unfortunately closed.  We noticed a lot of Indians eating in Dosa Hutt (102 Lexington Ave. at 28th St.), which may or may not be the second location of the well-known South Indian restaurant of the same name in Flushing, Queens.  Regardless, everything we ate here was perfectly prepared, although considerably tamer than what I have had in India.  My butter dosa (cooked in butter instead of oil) was so tangy and crisp yet tender that we ordered a second one.

Coincidentally, a week later in the Bay Area, on our return trip home from Tassajara Hot Springs, we stopped over at Dasaprakash (2636 Homestead Rd., Santa Clara) to get another fix of the delectable dosas.  Dasaprakash is, in our opinion, the best South Indian restaurant in the San Francisco/San Jose area and belongs on our Short List.  How did they compare?  We were split on this one.  I preferred Dasaprakash, because the flavors were more authentically spicy--incendiary would be more apt.  N, who for some odd reason prefers that her food not scorch her taste buds and bring tears to her eyes, liked Dosa Hutt a bit better, but agrees that Dasaprakash is more authentic.

New York: Tia Pol

Before I headed off to Spain for the month of July, one of the last restaurants I chose to visit was, oddly, Spanish. I had enjoyed a fabulous meal at Casa Mono when I was last in New York in April, but I didn't have time to go to Tia Pol, a cute little tapas bar in the Chelsea neighborhood. In April, I had passed by the tiny sliver of a restaurant and was immediately smitten. I have a soft spot for little restaurants with a lot of personality, mainly because that's the kind of restaurant I have always dreamed of opening.

I am happy to report that my little crush has blossomed into a love affair. If I lived in New York, I would become a regular here. Tia Pol, apparently named after a neighborhood cat the owners became acquainted with when living in Spain, is an authentic tapas bar. It's the kind of place you hope to find in Madrid, but often only do if you know someone who loves food. The food is flavorful and cleverly presented and the service is charming.

We started with the only good gazpacho I have ever had in the States, thick and tomatoey and enriched with lots of fruity olive oil. One taste and I was transported to Sevilla. Obviously, given my passions, when I saw there was a special of sardines a la plancha, I couldn't resist. I was not disappointed. As the night progressed we ordered more and more dishes, including succulent cubes of grilled lamb pinchos morunos, mouth-watering anchovy and olive gildas, pacquetitos of serrano ham wrapped around artichokes and cheese. My favorite dish of the night was a plate of paperthin slices of salt cod carpaccio accompanied by a streak of romesco sauce and an anchovy laden frisée salad. Leave room for dessert, especially the almond torta santiago with dulce de leche.