American – Page 8 – Writing With My Mouth Full

Fette Sau

354 Metropolitan Avenue near Havemeyer Street, Williamsburg, Brooklyn
718/963.3404
about $60 for four, with a gallon of beer, without tip
♥ ♥

In case it hasn’t been obvious, I love pork. I was having a bad day and all I wanted was to get a couple of drinks where I can sit outside and enjoy the warm weather. I wanted to forget, even for just a few hours, that a family member was in the hospital. I wanted good food so that I can feel happy in my stomach and then stronger in my heart to accept whatever bad news that may come next. I was even willing to take the L to Brooklyn to find that kind of comfort, as far away from Bellevue Hospital as I could.

I was with great company including Scott Gold, the author of The Shameless Carnivore: A Manifesto for Meat Lovers, and we talked about the experiences he wrote in his book during his quest to eat 31 kinds of meat. (I don’t want to ruin the book for you but among my favorites are the hunting for squirrels, salivating for the caribou and spitting out the bull’s penis.)

He shared his stories as we picked on the oh-so-moist and fatty brisket, spicy and snappy pork sausages and the perfectly cooked pulled pork. We couldn’t deal without some veggies so we also ordered the broccoli and the potato salad–both helped cut the fattiness on our palates. The baked beans were barely touched but I saw through the empty glass gallon of beer by the time we wiped our hands clean with Wet-Naps.

German for “greasy sow”, Fette Sau not only provided a great place to enjoy the warm night air, it also gave me a chance to appreciate and enjoy what was around and in front of me: enjoyable company and a happiness-inducing plate of pork.

Freemans

End of Freeman Alley, off Rivington Street between the Bowery and Chrystie Street
212/420.0012
about $80 for two, with drinks, with tip
â™¥

Package something well and watch the people come. This seems to be Freemans’ motto and it works. First, the location that still confuses people who do not hang-out in the area: where the hell is Freeman Alley? It’s a nook off Rivington, right before you hit Chrystie if you’re coming from the west. Then there’s the design of the space: modeled after a country lodge, there are stuffed birds behind the newer bar inside. I never thought of having my own deer antlers in my apartment until I first stepped into Freeman’s a couple of years ago.

The owners, William Tigertt and Taavo Somer, know that New Yorkers love being a part of something cool. From secret entrances that Angel’s Share made hip more than ten years ago, to douchebars blocked by big, burly men, we all like to brag that we got in before anyone else. In Freemans nowadays, you can count how many guys with facial hair are wearing fedoras and sweater vests under their blazers. After a while, everyone just looks the same.

What doesn’t change, though, is the length of wait and the service. I have spent an hour at the bar drinking with my friend waiting to be seated. I have also stood at the bar waiting to be seated at the bar. (Freemans only takes reservations for groups larger than six.) The other patrons can get testy and who can blame them when people hover, waiting to grab their seat? I have seen this happen where angry words were exchanged between hungry guests. The exhausted maitre d’ also gets impatient. God forbid, you ask how much longer you have to wait.

As soon as you’re seated, you just want to eat. There was an Estonian empanada our waiter couldn’t describe. I think the cook’s mom is from Estonia, he simply said, before he walked away to mind the three other tables next to us. When he finally returned, he took our orders down and we waited another thirty minutes before everything was served all at once. We were eating our artichoke dip with our fennel salad and our main course of roasted cod. We never heard from him again until we waved to get our checks. Good thing I’ve had enough Rum Swizzles to numb the painful experience of trying to be hip.

Crave Ceviche Bar

946 2nd Avenue between 50th and 51st Streets
212/355.6565
about $120 for two, with five drinks, with tip
♥ ♥

Depending on whom you ask, ceviche may have originated from Peru or Ecuador. Wherever your allegiance lies, it’s seafood marinated in a citrus-based concoction to “cook” the meat without heat. Crave Ceviche Bar doesn’t want you to forget what they’re trying to serve you–everything is creatively “ceviche’d”. I had fun determining which taste originated from where.

The Kona Kampachi, my new favorite fish from Hawaii, was marinated in pressed lemons and tomato paste. The chorizo happily melded with the natural sweetness of the kampachi. The puré of artichokes and red peppers balanced everything out. Spain, right?

I loved the salmon tartare in yuzu and huckleberry. A mess of galangal, capers and white truffle essence may sound confusing but for some reason works here. I couldn’t miss its Asian-flavor galore. Throw in the oven-roasted tomatoes and cauliflowers and you have yourself some old Italian influence. We enjoyed the black cod sashimi with roasted beets and crispy latke ceviche’d in apple cider vinegar and yellow bean apple purée. It could be your next Hanukkah special! I found the spicy yellow fin tuna the most simple, but at least the yuca made it somewhat exciting.

In a more hushed setting, restaurants like Le Bernardin have thrived in the New York City scene for years. Maybe it is Eric Ripert’s footsteps that Crave Ceviche Bar is following. They have a raw section on the menu, as well as “cured but cooked” and also traditional dishes using shrimps, lamb loin and Peking duck in the same vein that their midtown counterpart has “almost raw”, “barely touched” and “lightly cooked” selections.

Each dish will set you back at least $14 with the most expensive topping at $28. Add the cocktails the cute bartender mixes behind their newly-licensed bar and you’re looking for a $120 bill for two. After a couple of hours, we were tipsy and out of cash but still hungry. I can’t explain how we ended up at a Japanese bar for a pitcher of Sapporo draft and a big bowl of pork belly soup afterwards, but Crave Ceviche Bar definitely made us crave some more.

egg

135A North 5th Street off Bedford Avenue, Williamsburg, Brooklyn
718/302.5151
about $90 for dinner for four, without drinks, without tip
â™¥ â™¥

Updated, December 2008: We closed egg for one Friday night to celebrate my birthday where we had fried chicken, sautéed kale, collard greens, mac-n-Grafton cheese, plus some corn bread and biscuits–all deserves another ♥

I know the owner of egg, that breakfast place in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, with the hipsters waiting outside on weekends. George Weld is a good friend and he also happens to be the chef. Forgive me if this review may seem biased, but I swear I’m not giving anything to this restaurant that’s not well-deserved: three hearts for breakfast and two for dinner.

For years, egg shared space with Sparky’s and only served breakfast until noon. Now, egg has taken over the entire space and is serving lunch (on weekdays only) and dinner until 10pm. A liquor license is on the way. All the menus are still Southern-inspired, and they still get all the ingredients they can from small and local producers. Needless to say, I am happy and proud of the egg family–so we made the trek from Harlem to Williamsburg one weekend to congratulate them.

After a ridiculous 40-minute wait for breakfast, we were finally seated right by the door. A few more diners came in before the waitress put up a note saying that the kitchen was closed until 6pm. People still came in to try and get food, letting in the draft behind me. I was uncomfortable and cold, but our waitress made sure that we got the next table that freed up farther from the entrance. After being transfered, we finally took our coats off and enjoyed our late breakfasts of eggs, grits, scrapple (pork scraps with cornmeal), bacon, hash browns, and pork sausage. For a place full of hipsters, the attitude of the staff makes you feel like you’re not even in New York City. They’re friendly, accommodating, and very patient with the hungry customers.

Given the wait, we took our time to eat and only left when the restaurant was empty. My three-egg Grafton Cheddar omelet was served with broiled tomatoes and hashbrowns. The cheese was sharp, but the tomatoes balanced everything out. I wish the restaurant would offer more side vegetables in the future. I also got a side of sausage at the end. Perfectly salty and juicy, I would choose it over any kind of eggs. Cameron’s cheese grits didn’t last very long. They weren’t too mealy or too soft, and the cheesy tang was perfectly balanced with the creamy texture. And the biscuits–oh, the biscuits–transported us with their crispy edges and fluffy insides. Have I mentioned the lightly sugared donuts brought to our table before our plates arrived?

We spent the rest of our afternoon walking around the neighborhood and checking out the stores down Bedford and Grand. After several drinks at Larry Lawrence, two more people joined us, and we all decided to walk as fast as we could back to the restaurant to eat dinner. We made it before they closed the kitchen at 10pm, but alas, there was no more fried chicken. This was upsetting to our entire party, but we made do with the pork chops and sausage with cabbage, fish and hominy, and perhaps the best dish on the menu, slow-roasted duck and dirty rice.

The menu is straightforward, and the food is hearty. One of my friends was surprised to love the cabbage, but another wished the pork were tastier. My duck was crispy outside and tender inside. The “dirty” rice reminded me of how Filipinos would scrape off the oil and spice bits from the bottom of a pan with rice and serve it just the way it is: dirty. The fish was under-seasoned–we bet a side of fried chicken would have made it taste better! While they’ve got the breakfast down pat, dinner is very new to egg, and it definitely needs to be refined. Never running out of fried chicken would be the perfect place to start.

Robert’s Steakhouse at the Penthouse Executive Club

603 West 45th Street off Eleventh Avenue
212.245/0002
about $90 each for a group of six, with drinks, with tip; dances were separate
â™¥

When a friend of mine told me about an upcoming girls’ night out that involved going to a strip club, I immediately said yes after I confirmed that they wanted to see girls stripping, not boys. Just right up my alley because, really, naked boys are not as nice to look at. Speaking from experience, I told them that we can only go to Penthouse on the West Side highway because it’s the only club that will allow a group of man-less women to enter. It’s a ridiculous rule, but we had no choice in the matter. I was told that girls do not buy as many drinks as guys, and if they’re not that drunk, they won’t be buying as many dances. Whoever came up with that had obviously no clue who we were.

Our table was for 7:30pm. Our party of six wasn’t completed until 8, but they let us sit and wait at our table next to a pole dancer. We all decided that an expensive bottle of red wine might just make us too sleepy, so we ordered our martinis. Drinks were $20 each even if you were just getting vodka with soda.

At Robert’s Steakhouse, they didn’t discriminate: my friend’s first lap dance was at $40, the same price charged to the guy sitting at the next table wearing a crisp suit. The girls dancing in the corner told us they can’t come to our table because they don’t do lap dances, so we had to wait for the others to approach us. After several drinks, we were brave enough to go up to a girl we liked and pay for our own. After more drinks, they just came up to offer us a dance.

But this is a review of the food, and I must tell you that a hundred-dollar porterhouse steak is much better with some form of entertainment. We only managed to finish one porterhouse and I felt bad when we had to leave the other one barely touched. I suppose I could have sat there and finished it for the next two hours, but my friends were eager to go downstairs and meet the ladies. (One said, You don’t want to smell like meat when the girls dance for you.) We had the steak packed to go, but after several hours of giving away Andrew Jacksons, no one knew who ended up taking the extra food home. After several hours of $20 drinks, too, no one knew what the hell was really going on. I do remember the delicious bowl of Brussels sprouts. The creamed spinach and roasted potatoes were also good matches to our meaty, charbroiled steak. Whoever was in the kitchen wasn’t distracted by the view we were getting.

Adam Perry Lang, the restaurant’s executive chef, also co-owns Daisy May’s BBQ a block away. He ages and cooks the steaks in a broiler with two different temperatures so that the meat gets seared the right way without sacrificing the juiciness of the inside. And boy, were they juicy. I love my meat bloody and buttery, and Robert’s Steakhouse served a mean plate of it.

Be thankful that this is only a review of the food.