SoHo – Page 3 – Writing With My Mouth Full

Smith’s

79 MacDougal Street off Houston
212/260.0100
about $45 each for two, with tip
â™¥

I’ve been wanting to go to Smith’s since it opened, but every time I would remember to walk by, they always give me an estimated hour-long wait. One Monday night, I was able to get a table for two on short notice. The place was full, but when I asked our waitress if we can chill with our drinks first before ordering anything, she told us we can stay as long as we want because it wasn’t going to be a busy night. I was so glad to hear that, too, because I was losing faith with restaurant servers due to most recent experiences. Our waitress continued to be attentive and pleasant the entire night.

When we finally started to feel hungry, we ordered several small plates to share. I loved the squid, charred with lemon, olives and pancetta bits, and I thought it was a good match with the heavier, more substantial artichoke pasta with black truffles. A steamed egg with Gorgonzola and polenta was a sophisticated dish even though I feel like foams have come and gone. The Portuguese sardines were butterflied and were quite tasty with tomato confit, but oh, is that more foam? I loved how crunchy the fish was but the small bones were cumbersome in my mouth. One even pricked my gums and I had to excuse myself and go to the bathroom to pull it out.

Either we were getting more drunk as we sampled dish after dish, or that our choice of sparkling wine really matched everything we ordered. Even the roasted beets became more interesting–I love beets, don’t get me wrong–but with creamy horseradish and a nutty flavor, it was a nice complement to the corzetti pasta and earthy mushrooms.

I loved Smith’s for its location and coziness more than the food itself, but that strip off Houston is so unexciting otherwise I’d definitely come back to make sure it gets a share of my business.

Bun

143 Grand Street off Lafayette
212/431.7999
about $45 for two, with tip
♥

Update, 2008: Michael Bao has left Bun

I can only imagine how hard it is to work as a waiter/waitress in a city teeming with restaurants, but for everybody’s sanity, find another job if you can’t even put up with a simple request from one of your customers. I eat out a lot and I’d like to think that I know what I want when I’m ready to eat. There are things I expect when I pay for my food and one of them is some kind of service from the restaurant’s staff. Now, I’m not talking about waiting on me hand and foot; I just want the menu as soon as I sit down, the food I’ve ordered after a reasonable wait, and my bill, preferably with the correct total, after you’ve cleared the last plate from my table. I could even understand if you don’t know an ingredient off the menu (the cute waiter at E.U. during its opening week who told us periwinkles are cured meat) or if you’ve forgotten today’s specials (the waitress who touted the lamb shoulder as chops), as long as you don’t act like an asshole afterwards and try to make me the bad person because of your mistake.

We went to Bun, Michael Bao’s new restaurant on Grand Street, to show our support for a new Asian restaurant opening in the midst of multi-million glass condo buildings coming up in SoHo. It wasn’t a particularly busy lunch hour and we were able to score the table near the door as soon as we walked in. My friend and I were the only Asian-looking customers inside. We couldn’t but help notice the lacquered red stools at the bar and the canvas Asian prints on the wall. The prices on the menu are obviously set to pay for the restaurant’s decor: $6 for a summer roll, $9 for a bowl of pho, $12 for a hot pot.

To start, my friend ordered one salmon roll served with anchovy sauce. The sauce reminded me of the Filipino bagoong from the north. The roll is simply a Vietnamese summer roll, only with salmon was used instead of shrimps. Berkshire pork is touted several times on the menu, so I opted for the vermicelli noodles, the restaurant’s namesake, with a few slices of them tossed with shrimps. We both ordered the pho for our main course, even though we knew our lunch tab was already running up to $40 without drinks.

The chicken pho was bland and we were surprised that it was peppered with pieces of chicken skin, complete with the small goose bumps. It’s just like eating at home, said my Chinese friend, but we wondered how the non-Asians in the restaurant felt upon seeing them in their soup. They do not taste bad, of course, but I know people who would be put off with boiled chicken skin in their dish, if not for the looks of it, the jiggly fat underneath. My bun was the day’s saving grace. I can’t make sure that the pork was indeed Berkshire pork since it’s not as distinctively sweet as a Niman Ranch pork, but the sweet and sour sauce had just the right Vietnamese flavor. At Xe Lua in Chinatown, I always order the beef bun when I’m not craving their pho.

It was only after the bun came that I realized I’ve ordered too much food. I got our waiter’s attention to ask him to cancel my beef pho. The order was already put in, but I’ve made a mistake, and I know it wouldn’t be too hard to accommodate my request. Instead of going back to the kitchen, our waiter tried to convince me that I should take the pho to go. He only stopped insisting when I told him that I’m not going to eat reheated pho back in the office.

When our bill came, the $9 for my canceled pho was still there. I tried to get our waiter’s attention again, but he kept looking away whenever he saw me looking. Fed up of waiting, I walked up to the bar, assumed the only guy behind it without chef’s white was the manager, and asked him to please take off the $9 off my bill because I’ve canceled that order earlier. When I returned to our table with the correct bill and we were getting ready to leave a tip, our waiter finally made an appearance and told us, I don’t have control over the computer to change your order or the bill. I nicely reminded him that I, too, don’t have that access and that was why I expected him to do his job.

We still left a 20% tip because we didn’t want the other waiters at Bun to think their own efforts are not appreciated. But I hope the restaurant owners realize that only one ugly feather can make an entire plume look bad.

12 Chairs

56 MacDougal Street between Houston and Prince
212/254.8640
about $120 for four, with drinks, with tip
â™¥

12 Chairs tastes so much better from the outside than inside. We were famished, but another restaurant around the area couldn’t accommodate four people for at least another hour. We walked down one of my favorite streets in the city and stopped in front of 12 Chairs. It’s one of the restaurants on the block I’ve been meaning to check out but never remember to visit when I’m in the neighborhood. It looked good when we peeked from the street, so we went inside.

And then a shock of light surprised us. Did it all of a sudden transform into a pizza parlor? Why the hell is it so bright inside? We were there with a couple more people, but the space felt abandoned and lonely. The Mediterranean menu looked simple enough, but nothing was so exciting that we just ended up ordering a bunch of appetizers.

I liked the stuffed grape leaves–I never skip them when I see them on any menu. A soft yogurt dip drizzled with olive oil came with them. I appreciated that the beets weren’t from a can, and believe me, even New York restaurants do that. 12 Chairs roasted them just right. The egg salad guacamole was a more interesting dip than it sounds and a good accompaniment to the falafel and pita bread. The veal dumplings were on the heavier side, and the chicken pockets–I don’t know why any restaurant would admit to calling them that–were stuffed with spinach. I was a little more hungry, but because I was already feeling unsure about 12 Chairs, I ordered the safest thing on their list: a medium-rare burger. It unfortunately came with Thousand Island dressing, which I’ve asked to be left out, but it was satisfying until the last bite.

Cafe El Portal

174 Elizabeth Street between Spring and Kenmare
212/226.4642
$32 for two, without drinks, with tip
â™¥ â™¥ â™¥

Good Mexican food is hard to come by in New York City, so when I find a place I like, I try to go back whenever I crave Mexican food that’s more filling than one taco off the street. I’ve been going to CafÃ© El Portal for several years now. I’ve known it as the “blue underground place” because of the lively paint color outside and the way you have to take small steps from street level to get in. They have since repainted the faÃ§ade a more somber washed-out red, but the food remains as satisfying as ever.

My favorite is their huitlacoche quesadilla, essentially a corn mushroom that grows within the individual kernels of a corn, disfiguring the ear and turning off any one who wants to eat a perfectly good cob. Oh, but it’s delicious when it’s cooked, sweetened with onions and flavored with epazote, a Mexican herb with the distinct taste of anise. CafÃ© El Portal adds soft goat cheese with it to cut through the overwhelming taste of the mushroom. I can never pass on this dish whenever I’m eating there.

If I am, however, in a taco mood, I go for their salty chorizo tacos, served with both beans and rice on the side. They’re not cheap on the crumbled chorizo either–two are perfect with the accompanying green salsa. My mouth is watering just thinking about it. While you’re there, make sure you order the mango or the strawberry margarita to push all that heavy lunch down.

Goblin Market

199 Prince Street between MacDougal and Sullivan
212/375.8275
$150 for three, with four drinks, with tip
â™¥ â™¥

I’m pretty sure that when the poet Christina Rossetti wrote Goblin Market, she didn’t imagine a restaurant team to be inspired by it. There was something tempting, almost lustful, about the magical fruits the goblin-men were selling. The weak suffered, but one girl stood her ground and kept the evil fruits at bay. The restaurant itself is less creepy than the poem, but the menu is quite persuasive.

We started with a couple of glasses of Cava while we chatted over the menu. They were out of octopus and the charcuterie, so I picked the mahi-mahi ceviche to satisfy my seafood craving. The apple jalapeÃ±o vinaigrette had the right spike, and although creamier than the ceviche I’m used to, I could have ordered a larger plate of it. The watermelon panzanella didn’t fare so well. The sun-dried tomato emulsion was interesting, but the taste too powerful for at least one of us.

It was before July 4th and I was saving myself for the next day’s barbeque fest, but the only seafood dish available was the salmon. A bed of peas, bibb lettuce and mushrooms in a delicate lemon-flavored sauce sounded delicious, if not risky, because how many times have I ordered salmon and it was overdone? My companion encouraged me to give the restaurant a chance. I was glad I did–the salmon was flaky and moist at the same time. The peas and the greens needed to be there; I couldn’t help but scoop up some of the lemon sauce all over my plate.

For the one who wanted nothing but meat, the Angus steak was perfectly done. There wasn’t a trace of the potato purÃ©e on her plate when the waiter took everything away.

It’s rare when a restaurant in New York City has a lot to say but makes so little noise. Goblin Market was certainly in the news when it first opened, but it took me a while to actually visit and taste for myself. Thanks to tourists lining up for anything Mario Batali–they gave us a two-hour wait at Lupa–we walked over to the more quiet Sullivan Street without so much fanfare. I just wished I went sooner.

Related post/s:
Salt is on MacDougal
And so is Provence