Eat at Jules'

Broadway East

2008-03-13T18:59:00.003-04:00

'Localvore' comes to the deep L.E.S.

Localvore (or locavore) is a new buzzword for a phenomenon that's been around for a while: the focus on seasonal, local food. Locals on the Lower East Side -- not known for its indigenous edible produce -- have been eagerly awaiting Broadway East, a restaurant long in the making that specializes in food and drink of the Northeast, and New York state especially. After a long construction and a chef change before it even opened, the restaurant finally raised its curtain last Friday. Mr. H and I went on Wednesday.

If you happen to be mired in the thinking that vegetarian cuisine is simple, bland, beloved only by dreadlocked-topped tree-huggers -- Broadway East's decor is the first element to shoot that down. The restaurant has three rooms, all sleek and modern. The front, done in wood and white, greets diners (and drinkers) with a long bar and several tables. Pass through a short hallway to the main dining room, with space-age hanging lamps, red plush booths and long wood planks on the ceiling. At the back is what looks like an outdoor garden; it's actually enclosed, and the greenery is revealed as plants covering the top 10 feet or so of a two-story wall. At the bottom, on the lower level, a rectangular lounge.

All of the beer and wine is local (there's sake but no liquor), and I had a good Cabernet Franc from Long Island. Mr. H and I had a hard time choosing, since the menu has lots of intriguing-sounding options, spanning different types of cuisines. It's not totally vegetarian; there are a couple of fish choices, and a chicken. To start, I settled on the fennel and blood orange salad, which like all of the dishes, arrived in a healthy portion. It was accented with seitan chorizo, which was delicious but a little too salty. Mr. H chose the beet salad, a deconstructed dish with a golden beet tartare; sliced red beets dressed in miso; wasabi cream; and "mountain caviar," which a google search reveals to be a seed called tonburi.

For mains, he had the Mysore thali, a sampling of Indian dishes. I tasted the fingerling potato masala and smoked tofu tikka: both had delicate and complex spices. I had the crispy coconut tempeh, one of those dishes that shows vegan food doesn't have to be austere: it was hearty, coated in coconut and presumably fried, and served on a bed of whipped sweet potato, sauteed greens, and curried lentils.

We finished with a chocolate cake with (vegan) black sesame seed ice cream. The cake wasn't as chocolately as I would have expected, but did have a pleasant lightness. The ice cream was great, like frozen tahini.

The service was efficient and friendly, and I was also a fan of the servers' outfits: white linen shirts with gray vests.

Hooray! Our 'hood continues to evolve as a culinary destination.

Broadway East
171 East Broadway between Jefferson & Rutgers Sts.
212-228-3100

Restaurant Week(s)

2008-02-06T14:15:00.002-05:00

The Upside of the Early Shift

Every weekday morning my alarm goes off at 3:15, and my brain belches out a wordless exhalation, profound and complex in its misery and resignation, but if forced to boil it down and render it into a simple phrase, that phrase would be: Shit, not again.

One of the few compensations for my daily awakening, followed by gropings in the dark and a near-unconscious shower, is what happens when my working day is done. It's midday, and I'm free. Sometimes free to be exhausted and immobile, but free nonetheless. So I was resolved to take advantage of the two weeks dubbed Restaurant Week, which offer prix-fixe, three-course lunches at fancy spots around town for the bargain price of $24.07 (and at one of these restaurants, inexplicably, $24.08). Here's the rundown:

A Voce

I love the high ceilings and the window that runs the height and length of the front of the restaurant. The decor is very Scandinavian, down to the Eames chairs, and quite elegant.
Since my ears were still thawing on this chilly day, I began with the artichoke soup, accented with cubes of what tasted like Jerusalem artichoke; swirls of mint pesto and yogurt; and lamb raviollini. A delicious combination. My main course, sauteed scallops with pumpkin puree, apple froth and sauteed wild mushrooms, was just this side of too sweet. But I liked the unusual mixing of flavors. My dessert, a riff on tiramisu, wasn't as rich as I would have liked.

The service was excellent, and this restaurant gets high marks for not skimping on adventurousness or ingredients on its RW menu. That means I'll be going back to pay full price.

Cafe Boulud

I expected classic, and classic is what I got, from service to food. The name "cafe" is pretty amusing; there's nothing casual about this place, from its low ceilings and clubby feel to the white tablecloths and changing of silver to reflect one's order.

I started with a green salad with grapefruit and an orange-shallot vinaigrette, which I foolishly expected to be more exciting than it was. My main, skate with pearl onions, carrots and swiss chard, was one of the best pieces of that fish I've had, very tender and rich. (Presumably a heavy hand with the butter, in the classic French style, was partly responsible). I finished with a peanut-butter-caramel-chocolate cake, and tasted my friends' molton chocolate cake and lemon tart. All were decadent.

Funny that I picked these two without remembering the chef at A Voce used to be at Cafe Boulud. You'd never know it from the restaurants.

A Voce
41 Madison Ave. at 26th St.
212-545-8555

Cafe Boulud
20 E. 76th St. at Madison Ave.
212-772-2600

Polyphonic Spree

2007-11-18T15:28:00.000-05:00

Most indie-rock shows in New York are competitions in looking the most blase. Who has their arms folded the most nonchalantly? Whose head is cocked back at just the right, disinterested angle? Who keeps a running commentary to friends at the best stream-of-consciousness pace about what other show/restaurant/club/party would be so much more interesting at the moment?

Try the contest a Polyphonic Spree show. Let's see...the girl next to you is singing along, her face shining in rapt attention. The guy in front of you has his hands held high, thrusting in rhythm to the music. Hmm...the girl next to him is swaying, sometimes jumping up and down.

Ironic postures are difficult to maintain in the face of the joy-blast that is a Polyphonic Spree concert. Friday night at Terminal 5 (a new venue that was a dance club called Club Exit in its previous incarnation) was a typical love-fest.

A large red banner was stretched across the stage before the show began, blocking any view. Then, a pair of scissors appeared at the center, eventually cutting out a giant heart. Finally, frontman-cum-cult leader Tim DeLaughter stepped forth and cut the last piece away, revealing the 20-something-piece ensemble in all their glory. DeLaughter demands, and gets, concertgoers' attention with his blend of love and neediness, constantly exorting the crowd to participate. His charisma -- and the band's militaristic uniforms -- always lead Mr. H and I to wonder if there are vials of Kool-Aid hidden in the bass drum. The music is tough to describe specifically, but one can say it's anthemic, epic, orchestral, uplifting. The spiritual feel was reinforced when halfway though, the band exited the stage and reappeared wearing white choir robes. Cannons periodically shot confetti over the crowd.

One of Mr. H's favorite stories:
He saw Polyphonic Spree play a few years ago at Central Park Summerstage. It was a gray, blustery day. The band began performing the song, "Sun." DeLaughter sang, pointing his finger straight up to the heavens. Then, the clouds parted as he sang, "Hey it's the sun and it makes me shine/Hey now it's the sun and it makes me smile." The 5,000-strong crowd, including Mr. H, went crazy. Then DeLaughter took his finger down and the clouds rolled back in. "Pretty neat trick, huh?" he said.

Dream double-bill: Polyphonic Spree and Flaming Lips.

Cookshop

2007-10-01T15:23:00.000-04:00

Fresh...Except for the 10th Avenue Exhaust

You may be wondering what's become of me lately. Jules, you may ask me in your head, where have you been? Can you even still call this a blog if you only post every 6 months? I am going to go ahead and say yes, because happily there seem to be no rules in the blogosphere. If people can post videos of their cats every day and call it a blog (and I have no evidence this exists, just a hunch), then why not these infrequent ramblings?

With no further ado, I'd like to tell you about a lovely restaurant called Cookshop. The fashion among restaurants for some time has been to cook what's "seasonal," what's "at the greenmarket today," what "the chef found when he went shopping." This philosophy is rarely executed as well as it is at Cookshop. Mr. H and I ate there on a recently Friday evening, unfortunately opting for the seating outside. While the seating area itself is pleasant, the traffic rumbling by and the frequent exhaust belchings by delivery/FreshDirect trucks is not. The restaurant is more comfortable inside, with a healthy-sized bar area, and the main dining room done in light wood and cream. I believe the chairs are bamboo, and I always welcome a little sustainability.

The dishes at Cookshop change daily, so I'll try to conjure up our meal without my typical crutch of the online menu. I started with an eggplant puree with green olives and parsley, listed as a side on the menu. The eggplant itself was slightly bland, could have used perhaps some garlic. But the olives -- I usually don't like the green -- were large and flavorful, and the parsley (some special "greenmarket" variety?) was particularly sharp. Mr. H had a purslane salad with hazelnuts and a delicious honey-pepper vinaigrette. This was my first introduction to the crunchy, stemmy purslane, which I've read was considered a weed in North America until some enterprising chef realized her Asian neighbors were eating it.

My main course was cumin-crusted wahoo, a toothsome white fish, with a garlic-yogurt sauce. Yogurt doesn't spring to mind with fish, but here it worked to great effect. But my blogger spidey-sense fails me: I forget what my vegetable accompaniment was. Mr. H had a steak with chimichurri, which he enjoyed. Each of the ingredients tasted freshly prepared and were thrown together in sometimes unexpected ways.

The drinks at Cookshop are also worth mentioning, especially the quartino of a 2005 cabernet sauvignon from Panacea Wine Co. And the service stood out as well: our waiter was pleasant and chatty (appropriately so), and helpful with some special menu requests.

I'd been to Cookshop once before, and I'll be back again. Like its neighbor Red Cat up the street, it provides a homey experience that at the same time elevates the food above the mundane.

Cookshop
156 10th Ave.
At 20th St.
212-924-4440

A Music Detour: Bonnaroo (Belated)

2007-08-01T16:07:00.001-04:00

Everything You Need to Know About Bonnaroo 2007

BEST BAND YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF: Mute Math. Imagine you walk into This Tent at Bonnaroo, for the first band you see at the festival, and the band is fantastic. Imagine the band is playing energetic rock with dancey beats. Now imagine that the drummer has his snare drum on top of the lead singer's keyboard at the front of the stage, and he's perched on that keyboard, hammering away, and then he falls, and the drum falls...A few minutes later the band members are all jumping around like cooking popcorn, and the same drummer crashes into a wall of lights behind them, then when it falls, jumps up and down on it, breaking bulbs. Then they all stagger off the stage.I magine you have just had a great beginning to Bonnaroo.

MOST OVERHYPED BAND THAT DIDN'T DELIVER: Rodrigo y Gabriela. Ok, maybe you've never heard of them either, but this duo from MexicoCity had been talked up by friends and other people at the festival. They play sort of hard-rock acoustic guitar with a Latin flavor. Maybe after Mute Math I just wanted the rock. Despite Gabriela's raised fist or bullhorn sign in the air after every song (the universal gesture of metalheads, I guess), this wasn't it.

MOST OVERHYPED BAND THAT DID DELIVER: The Hold Steady. Sure, they sound a lot like Bruce Springsteen. But this was probably the most psyched band to play Bonnaroo, and they had a great energy that made you want to dance, or jump up and down, or hug them, or all of the above. And you had to love it when lead singer Craig Finn said, "There's so much joy in what we do up here." Awww!

BEST REUNION: The Police, but of course. They could have been tearing each other's hair out backstage for all I know (and apparently they did trash their trailer), but who doesn't love to hear "Roxanne" or "So Lonely" or any of the other hits live? These guys are amazing musicians, and any rancor between them didn't prevent them from playing well. Sting did solicit "ow-wee-oh" singalongs a little too frequently from the crowd, but we were in an indulgent mood. Line of the night: Copeland saying, "Sting will now take off his clothes and dance among you." (He didn't, much to some ladies' (not my) chagrin). Extra points to Copeland for being a Bonnaroo vet and the most pumped of the three.

BEST BAND RECOMMENDED BY BEN CHANG: Annuals.
He saw them at the Bowery Ballroom and liked 'em: it was a good call. These guys, from Raleigh, NC, have a nice alterna-rock sound with good percussion. I'm a sucker for good percussion.

BEST VISUAL & AURAL FEAST: The Flaming Lips.
If you haven't, go see them. Now. I don't want to give too much away, but there are laser pointers and Santa Clauses and a spaceship involved.

HOTTEST SORT-OF AUSSIE: John Butler (of the John Butler Trio).
Apparently he's big Down Under, where he relocated when he was 11. And he's talented: the Trio's sound is bluesy roots rock, with a dash of social consciousness.

BIGGEST UNEXPECTED SHRUGS: Wilco & Regina Specktor.
I was excited to see both of these acts, but they left me a little cold. Wilco was very mellow, Specktor too talky. As I discussed with indie-rock maven and co-worker Mark B, at a festival like Bonnaroo the pressure is on to keep spirits high and momentum flowing.

JACK OF ALL TRADES: John Paul Jones.
Yes, THAT John Paul Jones. He played with Uncle Earl, the great all-girl bluegrass band whose album he produced; he played the "Superjam" of Zepp tunes with Ben Harper and ?uestlove of The Roots; he played with country folker Gillian Welch.

SHYEST ROCK STAR: Caleb Followill of Kings of Leon.
They played a fun set (I was a fan already), and though they rocked I gotta say he seemed a little freaked. The next day, I saw him walking to see The Police, and said, "great show." He turned bright red (maybe it was the heat) and said softly, "thank you." He was wearing the tightest jeans I have ever seen on a man (and I lived in the East Village!)

BAND I LOVE LOVE LOVE BEFORE & AFTER BONNAROO: Dr. Dog.
I first saw this band from Philly in a sort of shack at South by Southwest last year. The little blond singer/guitarist was wearing a busted straw hat. His button-down was soaked in sweat. There was a really drunk friend of theirs right in front of the band who looked at any moment as though he'd topple onto the guitarist (or me, for that matter). Their music was a catchy Beatles-Beach Boys-influenced rock. I bought their latest album, and lo, it was good. At Bonnaroo, the blond guy had a shaggy beard & sunglasses instead of a hat, but he was still sweat-soaked, and he and his bandmates were still jumping around unsteadily, and they still were awesome. Yes, I said awesome!

LADY WITH A LOVELY VOICE: Feist.
This is another album I've been listening to recently, and Ms. Leslie Feist of Canada is just as good live.

BEST TUBA: The Roots' sousaphone player.
The Roots were great at getting the crowd going, and despite Jon Parales of the NY Times saying the band's "Masters of War" was too long, Mr. H & I ate it up. It's a Dylan song, and their version starts with the lyrics being sung to the tune of the "Star-Spangled Banner." By the end, the guitarist had rolled off the stage, still playing madly, to run down a walkway into the crowd -- and the tuba player had followed him.

BEST NOT-AT-ALL-HIPPIE BAND PLAYING TO WHAT HAD BEEN A JAMBAND FESTIVAL: The White Stripes.
This show got one of the largest crowds of Bonnaroo. They were dressed in their traditional red, and Jack White was running around the stage like crazy, while Meg sat demurely (and without much talent, some around me would opine) behind the drum set. There's something fierce and sweet about this band at the same time, with Jack's voice sometimes quavering as it rose, sometimes screeching.

SPEAKING OF CROWDS: You may wonder what it's like to be at a festival with 80,000 people, most of whom are camping, in 90-degree heat in Manchester, Tennessee.
There is indeed a funk -- I'm sure some of it was coming from me. People are indeed bombed out of their minds. There was indeed nakedness, most notably for me the guy without a stitch on-- except for his hat -- his body dyed entirely red, and dancing his ass off. But for a festival of this size, it was incredibly well-run, just as I found last year. The toilets were kept in reasonably good shape, there weren't terrible lines for food (though the prices seemed to have gone up from last year), people seemed in good spirits and were non-violent as far as I could tell, and bands played on time. The worst thing by far was the dust. When it doesn't rain on a huge festival grounds for four days, and there are many shuffling feet, a haze of kicked-up dirt hangs everywhere. That said, bring on Bonnaroo 2008!

Belle de Jour

2007-08-01T16:07:00.000-04:00

She's no Catherine Deneuve...but she'll do.

Call-girl by day, bourgeoise housewife by night, the Catherine Deneuve of "Belle de Jour" was no doubt shocking to audiences in 1967, with the main character's sexual fantasies of humiliation. It's a provocative name, then, to choose for a French bistro in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, a few blocks north of the bustling South Street Seaport. When I told a Frenchman, presumably the owner, that I knew the movie, he tossed his head and said dramatically, "Je suis Belle de Jour!"

Belying the name, however, the ambiance at the restaurant is much less apres-le-scandale than comfortable and classic, much like Deneuve's evening identity. Despite its proximity to the bridge, the location on a quiet corner of a cobblestone-lined street gives the impression of a calm neighborhood place that the nearby tourist hordes haven't yet discovered. It has pretty textbook bistro decor, with brick-colored tile floors, wood chairs and furnishings, and the requisite tables on the sidewalk.

The menu fits the classic bistro mold as well: moules frites, salad with goat cheese, tuna tartare. On one visit, a filet of bass was moist and delicious, served with a casserole of turnips, fennel and carrot. The endive salad was dressed with a refreshing orange vinaigrette. On the second, the food remained solid, but there were some sour notes: my friend found the addition of mustard to a pate toast a little odd. And the choice of keeping shrimps' heads intact with a risotto was a dubious -- and messy -- one in such a saucy dish, especially since said dish was oilier than it should have been. All was redeemed, however, by a warm creme brulee with candied lemon peel. The kitchen may need a little fine-tuning, and perhaps a trip to the motherland? But I'll give this belle the benefit of the doubt, since the first visit was the better one, and make another trip to her boudoir.

Belle de Jour
259 Front St.
At Dover St.
212-226-7676

Casanis

2007-01-16T17:46:00.000-05:00

Le vrai francais? Close enough

I've had a couple of disappointing eating experiences in the area TimeOut has goofily dubbed "BelDel" -- below Delancey. I just like to call it "my neighborhood." As I've discussed before, restaurants here have proliferated like ticks on a hound dog, as Dan Rather might say. And the odds would say that not every newcomer will be up to snuff. More on the laggards later: first, let's talk French bistro.

Casanis looks like many of the other faux-francais places around town: black-and-white tile floors, unmarked wine bottles lining the walls, mirrors. It feels convivial, except it's usually half-full at best. That's a shame, since the food is solid. This isn't a destination restaurant, but it's just what I like in "my neighborhood" and you probably like in yours: a reliable, not ridiculously expensive, cozy spot.

I've visited Casanis a few times, most recently on a Saturday night around 7:30 p.m. My friend the acupuncturist and I wanted a low-key place. We both commented appreciatively on the music selection, the sort of lounge-y soundtrack you hear on Buddha Bar compilations. The waiter was familiar from a previous visit -- a young, shy Frenchman who smiled when I ordered in his native language (he wasn't laughing at my pronounciation, I hope). He promptly brought us serviceable bread and the glasses of wine we'd ordered: a pinot grigio and a nice, fruity malbec.

We weren't terribly hungry, so only ordered main courses: the risotto with wild mushrooms and scallops for her, and the special for me, which requires a bit of explanation. It obviously was something concocted by the kitchen with the ingredients on hand, and though on paper it sounds odd, it turned out well. On the plate were head-on shrimp, mussels and scallops, artfully arranged spoke-style, with creamed leeks, sauteed bok choy, and crispy bits of potatoes. Ex-shells, I cleaned the plate. My friend's risotto was as it should be: the sauce rich and creamy, the rice retaining some firmness.

In true French style, we lingered over our glasses of wine until we asked for the check. Surprised that we skipped a decadent French dessert? My restaurant knowledge in the area is sorely lacking in the dessert department for one reason alone: Babycakes. It's a vegan bakery (yes, you read right) on the same block as Casanis, that serves low- or no-sugar cupcakes, mini-brownies and other treats, along with my favorite -- the delicious chocolate-chip banana cake. Oh la la indeed.

Casanis
81 Ludlow St.
At Broome St.
212-677-9383

Babycakes
248 Broome St.
Between Ludlow and Orchard
212-677-5047

Bar Americain

2007-01-01T13:50:00.000-05:00

Holiday Gorging

In a long season of holiday eating, it's appropriate my feasting peaked on the final day of 2006. For almost a month I've been making like a grizzly bear and storing up for winter. I've seen many friends, raised many glasses, eaten many, many rich meals. Now is the traditional time when gym membership surges and we retreat to our couches, remotes in hand and Netflix queues packed, to wait out the cold weather -- even though it hasn't arrived yet this season.

So -- New Year's Eve. Within 10 blocks of Times Square. A meal at a restaurant run by a celebrity chef, Bobby Flay. A place popular with tourists. For which we need a letter, faxed by the restaurant, to access, since surrounding streets are blocked by barricades to control the festive crowds. Sounds like just the kind of intimate, hassle-free meal Jules loves, right?. Yet when I walked out of Bar Americain three hours later, I couldn't have been happier. Isn't it nice when a restaurant defies expectations?

We arrived and met our friends at the bar, where they were happily quaffing what they described as expertly-prepared Pimm's Cups. We were led to a round, comfortable booth under a large, ugly spool-like lighting fixture. The room is a long, high-ceilinged rectangle done in brown and cream. It wasn't until nearly the end of the meal that I realized Bar Americain actually paid attention to something increasingly left neglected in NYC restaurants: acoustics. That ugly fixture absorbed noise, and even though the room was packed with people, their conversations weren't obtrusive at all. The music was low enough we could talk comfortably, six around the table, without raising our voices.

Our server was a southern girl, and aspiring actress (shocker) who'd coached all the South Carolina drawl out of her voice but retained the charm. The service throughout the meal was excellent.

I started with a great cocktail with rosemary, vodka (which I switched from the gin advertised on the menu), grapefruit juice, and soda. Later we ordered an excellent bottle of red zinfandel called Starlite.

Mr. H and I shared a delicious, filler-free Dungeness crab and crawfish cake as a starter. Our friends also enjoyed their choices, including the johnny cake topped with barbecued duck. The girls -- sisters whose husbands also joined us -- preferred their asparagus chopped salad to their other appetizer, grilled pizza with bacon and caramelized onion.

The main courses were equally well-done. My red snapper, "Florida-style," was pan-sauteed, served over a chipotle-black bean sauce and spinach, and topped with an avocado-mango salsa. The first bite left me feeling I'd made the wrong choice; the fish wasn't terribly flavorful. But it grew on me as I took care to get a bit of each garnish, and I looked down at the end to find an empty plate. Mr. H's cioppino was decadent, with lobster, other shellfish and fish in a thick, creamy, garlicky tomato broth. After he devoured the fish, I kept reaching over with a spoon for more of the delectable sauce. The only glitch in the mains was our friend Dan's veal chop special, which had been cooked more than he'd requested. Our waitress promptly whisked it away and returned equally promptly with his nearly-raw chop, exactly how he wanted it.

Being a tourist-geared joint, the portions are not for the faint of heart or small of stomach, especially illustrated by the desserts. We got a handful to share for the table: the cheese plate, the German chocolate layer cake, the sticky toffee pudding sundae, the blackberry souffle and the caramelized apple tart. The last was my favorite, but none were bad. Somehow we finished almost every bite, and after tea and coffee rolled ourselves out of there and headed to Radio City Music Hall.

I'm not an extremes kind of girl -- I don't go in for the binge and purge of December vs. January, the cleanse, the carrot/cottage cheese/wheatgrass diet. But I wouldn't mind some milder eating for the next few weeks....

Bar Americain
152 W. 52nd St.
Between 6th Ave. & Broadway
212-265-9700

Parea

2006-12-18T17:52:00.000-05:00

The name of this restaurant, according to its website, is "nearly impossible to translate," but essentially means a group of people who enjoy being together. Parea succeeds in achieving this sort of camaraderie surrounding food -- my favorite kind of camaraderie, of course. The atmosphere works to foster this feeling, with a combination of long, communal tables and more common two-and-four tops. The ceiling is raised, and a canopy of leaves, made out of metal, give it a further airy feeling. Large columns give a taste of the restaurant's Greek pedigree without giving a heavy or solemn feel to the room.

Parea bills its food as "modern Greek cuisine," but besides its presentation, doesn't stray too far from the traditional fold, especially in terms of ingredients. I started with the most traditional Greek drink -- ouzo. I've developed a taste for the licorice-flavored liquors favored in the Mediterranean basin: ouzo, pastis, raki, arak...and Parea had, to my untrained eye, a good selection. When we sat down (I'd had the drink at the bar), we ordered a bottle of Greek red, that was decent but not spectacular. The food, however, delivered: grilled octopus salad with black-eyed peas; roasted eggplant spread; and a delicious moussaka with lamb.

The main course, however, was the standout: Mr. H and I shared a wild Pacific sea bass, wrapped in grape leaves and roasted. The flesh of the fish was tender and juicy, the grape leaves lending a slightly bitter but not overpowering note. At $35 per person, it was far from a bargain, but also included two sides. We chose the Greek thick-cut fries, and the horta, a mustard-green-like vegetable. Both were tasty. Our friends were pleased with their selections as well.

Parea
36 E. 20th St.
Between Broadway & Park
212-777-8448

Outlet Koca Lounge

2006-12-13T17:15:00.000-05:00

Shabu Shabu that pot is hot!

The past few years have seen an explosion of restaurants and bars in Jules' neighborhood. Ah, gentrification and the mixed blessings that accompany it. Luckily, the hordes north of Delancey Street have not seen fit to cross below it in force, so there are a number of small restaurants that have retained their charm and are turning out some delicious food. Unfortunately in the case of Outlet Koca Lounge on a recent Monday night, there wasn't even a trickle of customers.

This narrow restaurant has a modern look, with a sleek bar and exposed brick. According to our waiter, the owners had originally planned to open a bar, but like many aspirants in the 'hood, failed to get a liquor license. They turned to food instead, and settled on an Asian fusion menu, featuring Shabu Shabu. Diners order one of four types of soup broth, each named for a season, and it's brought to the table in a pot and placed on the induction burner in the center. It comes with an assortment of vegetables and whatever meat or seafood one selects. Then, much like Korean BBQ, you cook your own meal before your eyes. It's a gimmick yes, it's a bit kitsch, but it's fun and obviously it wouldn't be worth much if it weren't tasty. In this case, it was. Mr. H and I chose the "spring" broth, similar to tom yum soup, and ordered clams, scallops and shrimp to cook along with our vegetables. We started with very thin, crispy yam and taro fries, which would be delicious alongside a frosty beer.

Alas, Outlet Koca (which is planning to change its name early next year) still doesn't have that pesky liquor license, so in the meantime you'll have to supply your own adult beverages. That's really the only reason (and not even) not to visit this spot.

76 Orchard St.
Between Broome & Grand
212-477-9977

Bouley

2006-11-20T17:31:00.000-05:00

A Celebration of Jules!

For the big 3-0, I knew I was in for a celebratory dinner. I just didn't know where (Mr. H loves surprises!). So I was very pleased when our cab turned south and deposited us in front of Bouley, one of the top spots on my "to-eat" list. I love the big wooden door and the scent of apples that greets you when you open it: they're stacked in crates on the floor and on shelves along the entranceway.

The service throughout the meal was impeccable, the atmosphere cozy but elegant. So that said, I'll just skip straight to the food.

I take it Bouley is known for its breads, and we weren't disappointed. We started with an apple-raisin roll and a harder, cylindrical roll. Then the bread cart came around, with the choice of 10 or so breads. We got the fig and the walnut-saffron. So tasty.

Then to start, a taste from the chef: grapefruit three ways. Fresh sections, granite, and foam. Maybe more of a summer flavor, but it was refreshing and bracing.

I had the braised hamachi appetizer, which is one of the best things I've ever eaten. The hamachi had a wonderful melting texture, and was paired with an odd-sounding but delicious foam/sauce of cavaillon melon, hon-shimeji mushrooms and ginger. Mr. H chose the sashimi-tuna starter, which had a great crunchy fennel garnish.

We weren't very original for the main course, both opting for the organic duck with braised endive. The duck was tender and tasty, with some sort of sweet sauce. They brought a side of potato puree, obviously loaded with butter and so good.

Then the dessert extravaganza! The pre-dessert dessert was a concord grape soup with some sort of creamy ice cream in the center. This was really essence of concord grape, intense and delicious. I ordered the caramel "chiboust," a sort of meringue-tart with a plum center and a side of heady prune-armagnac ice cream. Mr. H had the chocolate "frivolous," with various (generously-sized) chocolate tastes including a chocolate creme brulee.

Unbeknownst to me, Mr. H had arranged for a birthday treat as well. He wasn't sure what it would entail, so that's why we ordered two desserts. But it was a full other dessert! So we gorged ourselves on a mini chocolate soufflee with three types of ice cream. The candle was cleverly anchored in a raspberry. To top it all off, everyone was brought a fruit & cream parfait to accompany their desserts. Then to top off the top, a plate of cookies arrive. And when Bouley sends you out the door, it does so with a wrapped lemon tea cake. Whew!

A quick mention of the wine -- Flowers 2004(?), a smooth and excellent Pinot Noir from Sonoma.

Jules is back... (and more on Tides)

2006-10-21T14:31:00.000-04:00

You may have noticed a bit of a hiccup in Eat at Jules'. This wacky "blogging" phenomenon has been a bit of a challenge for this working gal (no, not "working gal" in the colloquial sense). There have been changes afoot in my professional non-eating life that have made it tough for me to indulge my passion for eating and writing about it. But I'm back with a renewed commitment (for now, at least) to digesting my meals online, so to speak. (That's much less ew than it sounds, I promise).

Let's start with a mention of a restaurant I've written about before, and one of my perennial favorites: Tides. This pocket-sized seafood place never disappoints Mr. H and I. On a visit last week, we had some of their amazing bouillabaisse, which I remembered sampling last winter. It really hits the spot on a blustery night: rich, tomato-y broth with a generous variety of seafood: lobster, scallops, clams, mussels, shrimp, squid and fish. We'd started with a plate of simple yet well-grilled and salted vegetables, and had of course a couple of glasses from their very brief but strong wine list.

Tides
102 Norfolk St. @ Delancey
212-254-8855

New England Tour

2006-08-28T14:37:00.000-04:00

I love me some lobstah

Well, kids, I am waayyy behind on catching you up on my eating adventures. It may take me a few days to relate all of my lobster tales, not to mention a couple of meals at home in the Big Apple. Bear with me...

We set off from NYC in a rented car on a Friday afternoon, winding through hours of traffic -- the FDR, the Merritt Parkway, the wilds of Massachussetts. Finally we arrived at our first stop, Keene, NH, chez our friend the rabbi, his wife, and their two tots. Of food note -- Rachel's homemade challah (and challah French toast the following morning, appropriately heavenly) and their beautiful garden. The latter was stocked with horseradish and tomatoes and dill, oh my! And made me remember wistfully the gardens of my childhood in the suburbs. Three-and-a-half-year-old Reuben presided, telling me authoritatively, "it's not ready yet," when I checked on the ripeness of a tomatillo.

After a stop at a picnic-style bat mitzvah reception alongside a lake (mmm cupcakes), we headed eastward to Portland, ME. Our friends had made reservations at Street & Co. in the quaint downtown area, all cobblestone streets and people spilling out of bars. The place is so popular we couldn't get a seating until 9:45. The room is rustic, with exposed beams, but with an ambiance problem in the form of glaring spotlights, which they turned down on request. The meal started out promisingly: I had a "taste:" a slice of seared tuna with a mint rub in harissa sauce. And Mr. H chose the seasonal salad, a tasty and somewhat unusual composition including fennel. But the menu has multiple personalities: while the tastes, first courses and salads provide a more adventurous Mediterranean mix, the right side of the menu, with grilled courses and pastas, cleaves closely to the traditional New England formula. All of the main seafood dishes came with unexciting sides -- sauteed zucchini and summer squash and rice. My grilled sea scallops were well-prepared, but I was hoping for a little more zing after the tease of the first course.

That was about all we saw of Portland. The next morning we set out for Lebanon, ME, down winding country roads that led us to a charming little house alongside a lake -- the summer home of Mr. H's cousins. Our food experience there deserves mention because it's a great idea for any group summer lunch: a platter of veggies like cucumber, steamed asparagus, green beans, and potatoes; boiled shrimp; and hard-boiled eggs. Cousin Elaine made a delicious noodle kugel, a dish that always brings back great memories, and an eggplant caponata. Good conversation and company, a beautiful view of the lake, delicious food -- this was shaping up to be a great trip.

And finally, our last stop: York Harbor, ME, on the southern coast. The rocky coastline and grand homes overlooking the ocean were wild and charming all at the same time. And here, my friends, comes the lobster. Here are the spots we hit, in summary:

Fox's Seafood next to the Nubble Lighthouse: fresh, fresh lobster and friendly service. It was here that we were introduced to new shell lobster (which has just molted), which I found to be very sweet and tender. Mr. H and I devoured our lobsters and still felt compelled to try dessert. In my case, the homemade blueberry pie, with homemade ice cream was decadent, but Mr. H's brownie sundae beat my dessert in that department. (There are many homemade ice cream shops in the area, and Fox's owns Brown's ice cream close by.)

Chauncey Creek lobster pier: the best location of the trip, on a pier overlooking a river. We watched a fishing boat unload, and then watched one of the fishermen catch not one, but two striped bass that must have been 3 feet long. We ordered lunch in a shack on the pier, and the guy helping us plucked Mr. H's live lobster from a tank and put it in a bucket. We said goodbye before he headed to the pot. This hard shell lobster wasn't quite as good as at Fox's, but we loved the setting and I enjoyed my lobster roll.

The Oar House: just across the line in Portsmouth, NH, and about a 20-minute drive away from York. Portsmouth is an interesting little city, with what looks to be a recently-redone downtown with lots of pedestrians. It's also a working port, and the restaurant had both an indoor area and an outdoor patio overlooking the water. The view -- of bridges over the river, of moored ships -- was great. The food wasn't not quite as great, though the service was very friendly. Mr. H's grouper was pretty tasty; the seafood in my scampi was either not as fresh as it should have been, or more likely, a bit overcooked.

Food & Co.: a gourmet food shop and cafe in York, we had a very pleasant brunch outside here. Quite a tranquil spot.

Barnicle Billy's etc.: a popular spot in the Perkins Cove area of Ogunquit, this is the offshoot of the original Barnicle Billy's next door. The former is a more casual lobster shack; the latter, a sit-down place. Once again, I opted for the boiled lobster, and it was again a sweet new-shell. Most of the restaurants we'd been to had haddock on the menu, so Mr. H finally ordered it, and liked it -- a firm and meaty white fish. Afterwards we stopped at a soft-service ice cream place along Long Beach so I could satisfy my sweet tooth.

Stonewall Kitchen: the headquarters of the jams and sauces maker is headquarted in York, so deserves a mention as well. You've probably seen their products in gourmet grocery stores, and if you've been to the company stores, you know it's a taster's paradise. Pretzels and crackers are set out to sample the merchandise. The HQ store was large, and also housed a cafe, though we didn't eat there.

Norma's: a decent diner on Rt. 1 on the way back to 95, the principle merit for our purposes was that this place served an all-day breakfast.

Whew, a lot of eating over a relatively brief period of time (4 1/2 days). More on recent NYC restos soon....

Falai

2006-08-15T14:48:00.000-04:00

(Note: I'm abandoning my cutesy-creative titles so posts on specific restaurants are easier to find.)

I walked into Falai on a beautiful Saturday night around 8pm, never expecting to actually score a table in the back garden, yet alone anywhere in the restaurant. The host/sommelier, an Italian guy wearing (surprise!) hip glasses with heavy black frames, was standing behind the counter. He eyed me. "How many will you be?" he asked. "Two," I said. "Two girls...?" he asked hopefully. Alas for him, no. Fortunately, he found it in his heart to offer us a table in the back garden, until a 9:15 reservation came in. It was a perfect arrangement, since my friend Hong Kong Hefner (it's his DJ name, no kidding) had to leave at that time to catch a movie.

Falai is a striking restaurant, design-wise, and its most prominent feature is the lack of color. The walls are white, the chairs are white, the floors are white -- you get the idea. In another restaurant, the sterility would be oppressive, but here, since the tables are close together and the service is warm, the feeling of intimacy survives. The back garden is lovely, though it's easy to forget you're actually outside; large, white umbrellas block all but a glimpse of the tenements above.

The look of the place is a clue that you're not in for a rustic Italian experience -- or even a now-typical, more refined New York Italian experience. Falai, in other words, is a less challenging companion to the adventurous cuisine of wd-50, less than a block away. My perfectly tender-chewy-crisp octopus starter was accompanied by candied celery and fried sage. Hong Kong Hef had a delicious pasta starter whose details I can't exactly remember, since I can't find a menu posted online anywhere. His main course was more memorable -- a special of seared tuna with walnut-citrus paste and fennel cream. The walnut paste reminded me, strangely enough, of a more delicious version of the Sabra-brand vegetarian "chopped liver" I buy at the supermarket. My branzino was good, but not quite to the level of the tuna. It was served atop a fava bean puree.

The meal wasn't cheap, about $65 pp with two glasses of wine and after tax and tip. But it seems to me that next time, when giving up the table isn't necessary, when I can linger over my a bottle of vino instead of a glass, on another cool evening in the garden -- it'll be even more worth it. Even if the Italiano didn't so much as wink at me on my way out.

Rawk!

2006-08-03T10:43:00.000-04:00

Pure Food and Wine

It's hot outside. What better time to eat food that hasn't been heated over 118 degrees? That's right kids, it's time for a trip to the magical world of raw food, where nuts masquerade as cheese and "ice cream" is a figurative term. Restauranteurs Matthew Kenney and Sarma Malngailis opened Pure two years ago to try to elevate their chosen cuisine to a haute-r level.

The restaurant's design was a good place for them to start: it's a low-ceilinged, zen-lounge kind of space with red walls. The ambiance is soothing yet elegant, as if it's been vetted by a feng shui master. There's a large, attractive patio space in the back, but only a few brave souls sweated through their meals the day I visited. Pure has an extensive list of organic and biodynamic wines, and we ordered a decent bottle of rose followed by a very nice Riesling. The service was friendly and relaxed, and the staff didn't seem to mind that part of our group arrived late.

After surveying the tempting-looking plates arriving at neighboring tables, we made our selections: a chanterelle "ceviche" for me, which arrived in a martini glass, and Thai lettuce wraps for Mr. H -- the better choice of the two. For main courses, I chose the lasagna, much-touted in other reviews and on message boards. The still-crisp zucchini and thickly sliced tomatoes were layered with sweet sundried tomato sauce; pesto; and pine-nut "ricotta." Mr. H had the chili-lime tortilla wraps, which were simple yet tasty, with an avocado and tomato filling. He loved them.

He also looked forward to dessert. My Mr. H, very unlike myself, has an aversion to dairy for various reasons, and a vegan dessert is a special treat for him. Of course we had to order the dark chocolate layer cake, which arrived with chocolate "ice cream" and was as decadent as we could have hoped.

A tasty meal? Yes. A completely satisfying one? I'd have to say no, and I can't put my finger on exactly why. I ate at another of Matthew Kenney's ventures, a short-lived vegan place called Heirloom, maybe 6 months ago. There, I found the food bland, unable to stir excitement in my palate. It's not the idea of vegan; I've been to other vegan spots, like Gobo or Counter, that I found more satisfying, the flavors more full somehow. Pure was several steps above Heirloom, definitely. And I would go back. But who knows, maybe I just prefer 119 and up.

The Hipsters Love 'Em Some Deer Heads

2006-08-01T15:46:00.000-04:00

Freemans

The hipsters were thick along the alley that day, slouched in expressive poses against the exposed brick. It was just another Sunday brunch rush at Freemans, a recently uber-trendy, now merely fashionable restaurant tucked away on the Lower East Side. Our group of four was greeted pleasantly enough by the tattooed host with requisite mussed hair, and we took up a post just outside the window to wait and wilt in the heat. Luckily we didn't wait long.

I've been to Freemans before, but I doubt I'll ever get used to its rustic decor. By "rustic," I mean dead animals -- lots of 'em. A deer head here, some antlers there, a goose frozen in flight. It's meant to be kitschy, presumably, and it is. Thankfully Freemans doesn't rely on decor and trendiness alone: the food, which could be described as rustic American, is solid.

Case in point: the white Cheddar cheese grits that accompanied my poached eggs, creamy and decadent, with grilled tomato on the side to cut the richness. Mr. H's smoked trout (with hardboiled eggs) was very tasty, especially with the accompanying spark of horseradish cream.

I'm not sure how willing I'd be to brave the hipster scrum on a typical weekend night, but on a weeknight, or a lazy weekend midday, I'll muss my hair, arch my eyebrow ironically, and try to blend in.

Under the Sea

2006-07-31T10:46:00.000-04:00

Tides

I always feel like I've privvy to a secret when I walk into Tides, a tiny seafood restaurant on the Lower East Side. The streets are increasingly bustling with bar-goers' activity, but still most of them seem to have overlooked this place. Part of the reason is the size: it has maybe 25 seats, under an undulating ceiling sculpture composed of thousands of bamboo skewers, meant to evoke the sea floor. Tides' welcome is always warm; the co-owner Steven recognizes us and beckons us to a table, and he or one of his servers offers us a few tastes of wine to help us decide. On Friday night we picked a Valipolcella, a faintly spicy red that was light enough that it didn't overwhelm the food.

And the food is the real reason to come here, with a menu that changes seasonally so as to keep us guessing on our periodic visits. This time we started with plump mussels cooked in a creamy -- but not heavy -- tomato-accented broth. What followed was one of the best, if not the best, dorade I've ever eaten. Its skin rubbed liberally with sea salt, stuffed with fresh thyme and rosemary, it was simply grilled, its flesh succulent and flavorful. The grilled veggies on the side were a great complement, even if the plate did get a little crowded. Mr. H's shrimp were less exciting, but tasty as well, rubbed with a tangy sauce and grilled on a skewer. We finished with fresh fruit and a baklava-type pastry with dried cherries and chocolate, then headed, blissed-out, to the bar next door.

The Jury Duty Lady

2006-07-25T20:32:00.000-04:00

Today I ran into a woman with whom I'd been called for jury duty a few months ago. I couldn't recall her name, but I remember her because we had lunch together, with a couple of other women, and it was one of those great New York moments when you get a glimpse into the diversity of the city.

The Jury Duty Lady stood out in particular because she was obssessed. She spent the meal railing against food corporations and genetically-modified organisms, as she dug into her stir-fried beef. She told us she was a sometime journalist and always activist. Her obssession was specific: she wasn't generally healthy (she said as she lit a cigarette), she just thought GMOs were harmful. She told us tofu was especially dangerous, since soy was one of the main GMO culprits. Oh, and don't get her started on Monsanto. I remember thinking how fun she must be at cocktail parties.

Tuesday is the day for my CSA -- community-sponsored agriculture. I paid a fee at the beginning of the summer, and now every week I go to a local community center to pick up my share of organic vegetables from a farm upstate. As I approached the center today, I saw a familiar face: the Jury Duty Lady. "I served on jury duty with you," I said. She remembered me, remembered what I do for a living, remembered that I'm planning a wedding. (I said she was obssessed, not that she wasn't nice). She told me she was making a documentary about GMOs, that it would blow my mind. She interviewed the head of the CSA program as I filled my bags with lettuce and eggplant, onion and corn. After I was done I didn't want to interrupt, so I slipped away.

It got me thinking, this Jury Duty Lady encounter, about choosing battles. Of course I don't want to eat things that are bad for me, and I don't doubt that agribusinesses do not have my best interests at heart. I'm glad Jury Duty Lady is there making her documentaries and raising her voice. As for me, I'm happy to pick up my organic vegetables every week, and reserve my rage for other battles. Which battles? More on that another day.

Goin Downey Oshun, Hon

2006-07-24T14:53:00.000-04:00

I came late to my native Maryland's treasured pasttime of crab-eating. As a child, I disliked seafood, and the idea of pulling apart an insectile, bottom-dwelling sea creature to get at a few measly morsels of meat that I wouldn't like anyway was far from appealing.

How times have changed.

First of all, I'll eat pretty much anything that comes out of the sea. Second of all, sitting down to a heap of steamed blue crabs, covered in Old Bay, is a welcome exercise in focus and determination the likes of which are not often found often in the eating world. When else, besides hunting and preparing your own food, do you get so close to the guts of the creature you're eating? When else do you appreciate those tidbits of flesh you consume so much, as when tediously extracted from the shell?

My latest foray was to an appropriate venue for crabs -- I went "downey oshun." That's Baltimore-speak for "down the ocean," i.e. Ocean City, Marylanders' favorite beach spot. Mr. H and I opted for an all-you-can-eat joint on 31st St. You better believe my lips were stinging with Old Bay when we were done, hon.

Tapas with the Evil Overlord

2006-07-20T10:58:00.000-04:00

Tia Pol

It had been awhile since I'd spent quality time with my pal the Evil Overlord (who recommends these tips), and with whom I've shared many delicious meals in the past. This time our quest was a tough one: find delicious food in an environment that would make us forget about the 100-degree day outside, cuisine that would help us overlook the sweat beading on our brows and pooling in our bellybuttons, refreshing drinks that would act as a cool breeze to soothe our cranky souls. Going for grub from a sunny clime seemed like a good bet, so we chose Tia Pol, a narrow slip of a tapas bar on a lonely block in far west Chelsea.

I'd read the restaurant gets packed, and indeed when I arrived around 6:30, people were already lining up for the handful of small tables at the back, none large enough to accomodate more than four people. As I waited for the EO, I continued on my summer rose kick and ordered a great one from Rioja. Refreshing drink: check.

Luckily the EO arrived and a couple of spaces opened at the bar, so we didn't wait longer than 15 minutes. Unfortunately, the seats were next to the door, which admitted blasts of sauna-like air along with each group that arrived. But with drinks gripped firmly in hand (the EO ordered a summery white sangria), and as small plates started arriving, it just didn't seem to matter.

The EO being the EO, he convinced me (ok, not with too much prodding) to eat something I usually avoid out of respect for Mr. H -- pork. In my defense, it was accompanied by something I never avoid -- chocolate. Atop sliced bread and itself topped by saffron threads, it was a rich little treat to begin the meal.

We followed it with piparras from the specials board, long green peppers with sea salt, their skins blistered by the grill. And I prompted the EO to try boquerones, marinated white anchovies garnished with chopped green olives and pine nuts. As is our wont when eating a delicious meal, the EO and I kept pausing, mouths half-full, to say, "This is really good."

For a second round, we had fava bean puree with cheese on toasted bread, which was satisfying and tasty if not exciting. The fried fish, in small pieces of what turned out to be mako shark, was crispy and salty. And the setas -- the Spanish version of oyster mushrooms -- were delectable, sliced thinly and dressed with a little olive oil, vinegar, and chopped tomatoes.

All throughout the meal we'd been eyeing the big jars of olives and marcona almonds sitting behind the bar. We didn't want a whole order, but when I told the bartender that the EO had never tried the marconas, she gave us a few to try. Salty and fried in oil, they were predictably delicious.

We couldn't stop there, so we opted for a sweet treat, the torta de santiago. It's a not-too-heavy almond cake, accompanied by a thick swirl of dulce de leche sauce and a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

By this time the crowd was pressing in behind us, so we vacated our seats and headed out into the oven. But, my belly filled with such good food, I strolled across town to meet Mr. H, immune to the heat and almost welcoming of the moisture that gathered at the small of my back.

"Fuck Restaurant Week"

2006-07-13T07:14:00.000-04:00

Marseille, Hell's Kitchen

That's what the server said to us as we were ordering. But let me back up:

Restaurant Week is one of those tourist-fueled New York institutions that some natives approach with caution. Sure, you get a 3-course meal at a top restaurant for $35 -- but does the chef throw something together haphazardly out of some leftover slop he's trying to get rid of in the kitchen ? Does the restaurant try to turn your table more quickly because the waiter knows you're not shelling out the big bucks?

Luckily, the answers at Marseille, a French brasserie, were no to both questions.

The room reminded me of other France-inspired joints in town: lots of burnished mirrors, high ceilings, curved booths. But the food ended up being less humble, less rustic, than a Balthazar or Pastis. Being uptown, the vibe was different as well: the crowd was older, headed to the theater; and the noise level was lower, the tables more widely-spaced.

We settled into a semicircular booth facing two chairs and were greeted by our waiter, a 50ish gentleman with spiked gray-white hair. I was excited to see a whole page of roses on the menu, since it's an overlooked wine, and ended up ordering a nice glass from Burgundy. Three of us went with the prix fixe RW menu, while my fiance, who I'll call Mr. H for our purposes, ordered a la carte. Hence eliciting the waiter's comment: "As we say in the kitchen...fuck restaurant week!"

With all due respect, of course.

So the three of us got a first course of wonderful, subtle smoked trout topped with fresh cilantro and slivered apples in some sort of cold green sauce. Which sounds unpleasant, but tasted fresh and summery. Mr. H got the grilled octopus in a vinaigrette, which as billed by our saucy waiter, was very good.

Main course for me was a tender and falling-apart duck confit, just as it should be, interestingly and not unsuccessfully paired with baby arugula, fresh corn and sauteed peaches. Mr. H's "golden snapper" melted in the mouth.

At desserts, unfortunately, Marseille had a misstep, at least in my case. What was billed as a carmelized banana tart came out deconstructed: raw banana with one caramelized side, biscuit, and vanilla (?) ice cream. Let's just say it wasn't an inspired interpretation. The others seemed to like their creme brulee.

So say what you will (and our waiter certainly did) about RW, it may not have boosted our Marseille paycheck, but it did prompt me to give the place a try. The food guaranteed I'll make another visit.

Work in Progress: Jules on Bonnaroo

2006-07-01T16:13:00.000-04:00

Apparently I'm still getting the hang of this blogging thing. The idea is to post as events happen, or at least in a timely fashion. It's been two weeks since that 80,000-strong music festival in the backwoods o' Tennessee, and I haven't found time to get my thoughts together. Here are some initial, random impressions before the longer tale:

Crocs must be giving out dime bags each time they make a sale. There's no other way to explain their ubiquity at Bonnaroo. Hippies aren't known for their stylish footwear (Birkenstocks, anyone?), but plastic clogs with holes in colors like neon green and lavender make Birks look like Jimmy Choo's. And to all my friends (and a future father-in-law) who own these inexplicably trendy shoes, um, ignore what I just said.

Matisyahu performed on Sunday (no Shabbat shows, of course) and one of the odder moments of his otherwise rousing set was when he grabbed his baby and carried him out on stage. The boy's ears were covered by large, blue headphones, and he blinked out at the crowd, frightened. His daddy said, "This is why we were put on this earth -- to have babies!" The half-naked, packed and sweaty masses cheered back at him.

Back in Basque

2006-07-01T14:28:00.000-04:00

Euzkadi, East Village

If I want thumping music, I'll go to a nightclub. The first impression of Euzkadi is not its rustic ambiance and brick walls, but the loud, dance music that's causing one of the diners at the neighboring table to shout to his companions. Judging from a short vacation in the Basque country, these people like their share of partying, and the vibe at Euzkadi reflects that this Friday night.

We order a couple of glasses of Rioja, and I ask the waitress if they can turn down the music. "People ask that all the time," she says. "But on Fridays and Saturdays, they like to keep it loud. I'll ask, though." It seems odd that management would put their own party proclivities over customers' requests, but luckily the music actually does seem to lower a notch or two.

The adequate Rioja is whetting our appetite for tapas so we check out menu, ignoring the main course section. We're here to graze. Luckily, Euzkadi offers many options.

All of the food comes at once, which has its advantages, but naturally the main disadvantage is that our small table is now crowded with dishes. We get one "pintxo" -- Basque for tapas. In this place it refers to toast with various toppings. We choose the goat cheese and fig confit, both of which are generously proportioned and together a rich combination.

Next I turn my attention to the piquillo peppers stuffed with cured cod, or bacalao. This is always a winner, even though the cod is a bit more moist and less pungent than what I'm used to. It's accompanied by a refreshing watercress salad. We also opt for another classic, patatas bravas. It would be tough for a restaurant to get these wrong -- crispy potatoes topped with a garlicky mayonnaise. The sauteed spinach with chickpeas, raisins and pine nuts is simple yet tasty.

By this time, the music is still loud, but the food has won out. And we're beginning to feel the festive ambiance ourselves. To end the meal, we each get another glass of wine and the cheese plate. It's a generous offering of goat and blue cheese, Idiazabal, Manchego, another cow's milk cheese and a square of quince paste.

We pay the check and prepare to go, but end up striking up a conversation with a man at the bar. He's next to the host's computer controlling the music, and keeps interjecting the Stones and the Doors in between the vehicles for thumping bass. The host buys us another drink -- sangria, which we'd overlooked when ordering.

At $40 per person not including tip, we're satiated, appropriately social, and a little drunk. Just as tapas should be.

Welcome to whatever this is

2006-06-13T11:55:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I've got something to say and I want other people to hear it. Sometimes (ok, often) I've got an opinion and I want to share it. Sometimes I eat a delicious falafel, a delectable chevre, a transcendant chocolate, and I want to talk with my mouth full.

So here it is, my mishmash of thoughts on pretty much anything and everything, for anyone who's interested.