The Mango Lassie

My parents were visiting last weekend, and in true Lassie style, much of that time was spent eating. Our meals included visits to Mile End and Zabb Elee, near-perfect bagels from Park Slope’s Bagel Hole, Blue Smoke fried chicken and ribs at the Jazz Standard, lunch at the Upper East Side’s Paola’s with other Oregon relatives who happened to be visiting and a homemade feast with Daddy Salmon’s relatives out in Long Island. On Sunday, we drove with Second Breakfast, Okonomiyaki and my cousins Rice Ball and Leftover Girl to Doylesville, Pennsylvania where we toured the unbelievably ornate Fonthill Castle and then walked along the path that runs between the Delaware river and a former shipping canal. The drive home took longer than we had hoped, so we all decided to go out for dinner. Rice Ball, who is nine, had school the next day. Luckily, there is a restaurant right next door to his house in Williamsburg: an Uruguayan spot called Tabaré.

The restaurant is a cozy little space, dimly lit, with windows looking out to the street and a small patio out back. A table for eight was easily arranged after 8 pm on a Sunday night, something that might not be possible at some of the happening places on Bedford Street. (Hipsters, science has revealed, don’t need sleep. Or is it just that they don’t have jobs?) I’ve tried Argentinian food, Brazilian food, Peruvian food and Colombian food, but I can’t say I had ever knowingly tasted Uruguayan food before visiting Tabaré. A quick glance at the menu revealed that the country’s cuisine is heavily influenced by those of its European settlers from Italy, Spain, Portugal and France. Empanadas graced the menu, alongside lasagna (spelled “lasaña,” the Spanish way) and fish cooked “en papillote” (or “pescado en papel”). We started by ordering beer and wine, a necessity after enduring the sluggish tunnel traffic back to the city. Trying to be as authentic as possible, Mango Mama ordered the Uruguayan Pilsen, while I went slightly further afield and ordered the Argentinian Quilmes. It seems the Argentinians best their Uruguayan neighbors at beer as well as wine; the Quilmes had more flavor and depth than the Pilsen.

We started with an order of delicious Provençal-style mussels, cooked in a buttery broth of garlic, shallots and white wine. This came with a buttered slice of grilled baguette and could have made a lovely meal by itself. In fact, Okonomiyaki had ordered another bowl of mussels for her main course. Dining with EB himself, we could not, of course, pass up the opportunity to order empanadas. These come in three flavors, and one order includes two. I selected caramelized onions, gruyere and fontina and Spanish tuna and black olives. These were both tasty, although I preferred the tuna. They came with two dipping sauces: one a chili-spiked oil and the other a slightly spicy blend of parsley, cilantro, garlic and oil olive, similar to the Yemeni condiment skhug. Then came the main courses. Okonomiyaki got her mussels, and Leftover Girl got the fish (which that evening was pollock) cooked in parchment paper. The fish was tender and flaky beneath a crisp shell of herbed grated potato. It came with a simple, but exquisite, salad of multi-colored cherry tomatoes.

Almost everyone else got the dish that is clearly the restaurant’s speciality: the chivito completo. This is a traditional Uruguayan sandwich, made with filet mignon, bacon, mozzarella, onions, green olives, lettuce, tomato and a fried egg. (Rice Ball ordered his with nothing but steak.) Served on a burger bun with a side of crispy fries and house-made mayonnaise, this sandwich was a heavenly blend of salt, fat and protein and would no doubt prove deadly if eaten with any kind of regularity. I ate some of other peoples’ sandwiches, but in an effort to try more menu items, I had opted for the potato gnocchi of the day. These were rich with a pleasant chewiness, but they came with a heavy, creamy, tomato-based sauce that was infused with so much sage that the herbal flavor became a little off-putting. The sauce, otherwise well made, was also too weighty for its already opulent base. This is not to say I didn’t finish my meal, but I felt uncomfortably full after doing so and had a soapy sage taste lingering on my palatte.

We were all pretty full, and Rice Ball had to go home for bed, but our server brought over some flan, courtesy of the restaurant. She had seen me taking pictures of my food, and Leftover Girl had accidentally mentioned something about my blog, so I was initially concerned that this gift was a way of guaranteeing a better review. But our server assured us that the gift was planned all along and Okonomiyaki said she had gotten a free dessert almost every time she had eaten there. Besides, the Mango Lassie’s good opinion cannot be bought! I have to admit, though, that flan, creamy and perfectly caramelized, was pretty darn good.

Tabaré
221 S. 1st St.
Brooklyn, NY 11211
347.335.0187

Ever since the New York Times began its love affair with Smorgasburg, I have been wanting to visit the new food extension of the Brooklyn Flea. It’s a farmer’s market that has more prepared-food vendors than growers and bakers, and it sets up every Saturday on the Williamsburg waterfront. I finally made it there with Empanda Boy in tow (one hour trip, thanks to the MTA) on Saturday afternoon. We wended our way from the Bedford Ave. L train stop towards the waterfront through throngs of hipsters embarked on their weekend plans. The waterfront area, officially known as East River State Park, was redone in 2007 and has the spare, geometrical feel of new parks like Brooklyn Bridge Park and Chicago’s Millennium Park. The grass is bright green and is trimmed tightly within its angular, concrete boundaries. The only trees are short and provide no shade, and there are clusters of pseudo-architectural benches atop lots and lots of concrete. The lack of shade was immediately evident as we passed through a crowd of people scrunched together in the 90-degree heat, eating in the shadow of one of the new high rises.

There is no shade whatsoever within the confines of the market itself, which is set up on one side of the park inside a chain-link pen in a gravel area that is used for concerts. My friend Crawdad was supposed to meet us later, but it was already 2 pm, so EB and I got down to the business of deciding what to eat, meandering our way among the booths as the sun beat down. We started with a sandwich from a stand called Bocata that was too beautiful to be ignored: spicy Spanish chorizo, infused with smokey pimentón de la Vera and topped with a flame-roasted red pepper. The flavors immediately transported me back to my beloved Spain! We ordered it with salted, blistered padron peppers, which were mostly sweet with just a hint of heat and were totally addictive. The sandwich with side came to $10, a bit steep for a relatively small plate, but undeniably unique and delicious. Avoiding the sun-baked picnic tables, we sat down to eat in the meager shade of a concrete ledge and planned our next move. Now stuck in Spanish nostalgia mode, I decided to try the boquerones en vinagre (vinegar-cured anchovies) from Bon Chovie (punny names abound at Smorgasburg). These are apparently new to the menu, which otherwise focuses on fried anchovies. The fried ones looked delicious, but I wanted something clean and refreshing on such a hot day. The tangy boquerones atop toast with bright red tomato cubes fit the bill. They tasted like they had just been pulled from the sea, helping to justify their $6 price tag.

Still hungry, EB went to wait in line for a BLT from Landhaus. We had seen people carrying these throughout the market, and with their incredibly thick-cut bacon slabs, they looked like a cartoon version of a BLT, something Fred Flintstone might snack on. Landhaus also sells the maple bacon by itself, served on a skewer, which I was tempted to try. But if you’re getting the bacon, then why not get the whole sandwich, right? As it turned out, the sandwich was a tad bit disappointing, and not because there was anything wrong with the flavor. The bread was fresh and crusty, the tomato ripe, the mayonnaise lightly seasoned and the lettuce properly fresh and undoubtedly local. The problem was in the texture: Usually the thin, crispy bacon gives the BLT the crunch it needs, but here the thick-cut bacon was too chewy and fatty to deliver that effect. Next time, I would order the bacon on a stick and be done with it. Still, at only $5, it’s not like this BLT was breaking the bank.

Crawdad arrived while we were waiting in the Landhaus line. Without pondering for too long she ordered just what I had hoped she might: a lobster roll from Red Hook Lobster Pound. I had been wanting to try one of these but feared that getting one for $16 would have maxed out my food budget in one fell swoop. Crawdad took the plunge, and came back from the stand with a toasted white bread roll overflowing with big chunks of glistening lobster. She must have seen the longing in my eyes because she kindly offered me a bite. The flavors were pretty straightforward, just sweet, tender pieces of lobster lightly slicked with mayonnaise and topped with a dusting of paprika and chopped scallions. Crawdad thought the sandwich a bit too simple to merit the price, and I can certainly see that point of view. But in this case, I suppose you are paying for the ingredients. And sometimes it takes the most practiced hand to know when to leave naturally occurring perfection alone.

Finally, it was time for dessert. After hours of scoping the scene, I knew I wanted a chocolate-dipped frozen banana from the Nana’s Bananas stand. (Fans of the show “Arrested Development” will immediately think of the Bluth family’s banana stand.) I opted to have mine rolled in candied nuts and sea salt. It was a magnificent dessert, offering all the satisfaction of an ice cream bar made with the best chocolate around. The sea salt enhanced the other ingredients, giving it a heightened flavor profile. EB got a tasty, but unremarkable “You’re Berry Nice” smoothie (told you there were lots of puns) from Salud, and Crawdad got a rhubarb shaved ice from People’s Pops (too much ice, too little rhubarb).

The food at Smorgasburg was very good, though slightly monotonous in its artisanal, organic, hyper-local, gentrified-ethnic way. It was also little pricier than I would have liked. But, hey, this is Williamsburg, not Queens. Most of all, though, I think everything would have tasted better if I had had a shady place to sit and eat it.

Smorgasburg
Between North 6th and 7th Streets on the East River (close to Kent Avenue)
Williamsburg, Brooklyn

For a complete list of vendors go here.

There are some restaurants that are fawned over so much by the food media and my fellow bloggers that they become impenetrable in my mind. I convince myself that I’ll never be able to go to them because I’ll never be able to get a reservation or the line will always be impossibly long. For some reason, Motorino, touted as New York’s best pizza by multiple outlets, was one of those places.

Finally one Saturday about a month ago, Empanada Boy and I decided to go out to dinner after spending most of the day cooped up inside. It was already pretty late, so on the spur of the moment, I thought, why not take a chance with Motorino? The restaurant has two locations, one in the East Village and the other in Williamsburg. We went to Williamsburg, and to my surprise, there was a mere 20-minute wait when we arrived. The restaurant is crowded, but cozy and well-lit, with a bar where you can wait for a table to open up. We ordered some beers, which helped pass the time nicely. We were seated at a somewhat cramped table in the middle of the dining space, but any thoughts of displeasure vanished when we saw the bubbly-crusted Neopolitan-style pizzas wafting out of the kitchen toward neighboring tables.

We started with a punchy, flavor-packed salad of arugula, bacon, figs and gorgonzola. I loved how the peppery zing of the arugula played off the creamy, smoky and sweet toppings. For one of our pizzas, we selected the seasonal Brussels sprout pie, topped with fior di latte mozzarella, garlic, pancetta and pecorino. This had a lovely autumnal depth from the roasted sprouts and garlic. The mozzarella added creamy richness, while the pecorino delivered a hint of funk. And the crust was fantastic: light, with marvelous chew and satisfying blackened pock marks along its bubbly, olive-oiled edge.

Our second pizza was more traditional, but also delicious. Unlike the Brussels sprout pizza, this one had a slightly sweet, slightly tangy tomato. It also had spicy soppressata, creamy fior di latte, chili flakes and garlic. This pizza was delicious and beats out most I’ve had, but I still think I liked the Brussels sprouts better for its unique combination of flavors and ability to capture the essence of the season. Surely I’ll be interested in eating something lighter come spring, but for the encroaching cold of December, that pizza hit the mark.

Most importantly, I now know that an off-the-cuff trip to Motorino is possible any time I feel like a great slice (or three) of pizza. Empanada Boy and I may well find ourselves waiting at the bar there again soon, as the craving moves us. Maybe we’ll even stop in tonight…

Motorino
319 Graham Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11211
718.599.8899

Also at

349 East 12th Street
New York, NY 10003
212.777.2644

This is a very momentous blog post because it is the first one to feature Percy, the dog who Empanada Boy and I adopted in May. Mango Mama was visiting New York last weekend, and we had planned to take Percy on a hike in New Jersey. But we were in need of some breakfast before we set off from (the fittingly named) Uncle Second Breakfast’s house in Williamsburg. He didn’t have any food in the house because my aunt and cousin were away. When it comes to Williamsburg restaurants, Uncle SB’s expertise is an hyperlocal, meaning it extends to the three blocks surrounding his house on each side and not much further beyond that. Luckily, he lives in a neighborhood packed with worthy restaurants. SB settled a place just a few blocks away called Lodge. It’s a spacious restaurant with windows that open wide onto outdoor seating. Inside, it’s decorated in the fake hunting-lodge style with wood paneled walls, taxidermied animal heads and other rustic accoutrements. We took a seat outside so Percy could remain close at hand.

As it turned out, we only ordered two distinct dishes between the four of us. Mango Mama, EB and SB ordered a breakfast sandwich made on a brioche bun, stuffed with a fried egg, pesto, bacon and a fried green heirloom tomato. The sandwich was commendable for its seasonal ingredients and its resulting fresh, bright flavors. All agreed, however, that an heirloom tomato should never be fried. The breading dries out the slice, masking the beautiful sweet-tart flavors of a tomato in season. This was particularly a problem in this context because the sandwich would have benefitted from the moisture of the tomato juices. Tasty, crispy home fries came alongside the dish, making about as substantial a breakfast I’ve had in recent years for a price as low as $8.

Though tempted by the sandwich, I decided to change things up by ordering a dish of corn cakes topped with poached eggs, crispy bits of Mexican chorizo, chopped tomatoes, pureed avocados and crumbled goat cheese. The egg yolks drizzled over the corn cakes when I broke them open, lubricating the whole dish. The chorizo added a nice kick of spice, but I think a bit of spicy salsa or hot sauce may have been the only thing missing.

Lodge also has a General Store next door, which sells a variety of gourmet items and sandwiches for takeout. It looks like a low-key, high-quality spot, which is pretty much what I found its sister restaurant to be. As for Percy, he managed to get his leash tangled up in the chairs and barked at a particular server who somehow rubbed him the wrong way, but he definitely got a few morsels that dropped on the ground. All in all, it was a pretty good place for his first restaurant visit.

Lodge
318 Grand St.
Brooklyn, NY 11211
718.486.9400

Fourth of July weekend was a burger-filled few days for Empanada Boy and me. We didn’t know it when the weekend began, but we would be eating two great burgers before Tuesday rolled around. One of these came on Independence Day itself when EB’s uncle Iceberg—a burger connoisseur if there ever was one—grilled some tender, juicy patties on his back deck in Westchester. But before we even dreamed of these, we happened upon some of the finest burgers I’ve had this year. These came from DuMont, a Williamsburg spot with a great backyard seating area. We went there with Cousin Ketchup who was house-sitting at our aunt and uncle’s place in the neighborhood.

I knew DuMont was famous for its burger—the owners have even opened a second more casual location called DuMont Burger where the menu consists of a burger, a mini burger and a turkey burger, in addition to a few other sandwiches—but I had assumed at least one of us would opt for hanger steak or half chicken on the menu at the more upscale sibling. I was wrong. None of us could pass up the opportunity to try the lusciously described burgers. We made the right choice. The expertly charred exterior of the patties gave way to a perfect, rosy medium-rare. Buns were light, but chewy brioche, with egg-washed tops, and pickled onions made for a truly standout condiment amidst the usually satisfying additions of tomato, lettuce and pickle. Being burger purists, none of us ordered cheese, although cheddar, American, Danish blue and Gruyère are available, along with bacon. Ketchup and I opted for the green salad side, the only accompaniment I could contemplate eating after I saw the massive size of the burger. I also knew I would be able to snatch a few French fries from EB who has never been able to pass up a fried potato. The fries were excellent—just the right thickness to be crispy on the outside and soft at the core. They were evenly salted and garnished with a minced parsley, a nice and surprisingly flavorful touch.

In short, this was a near flawless burger experience. The next time I go to DuMont, I won’t even look at the menu. No matter what’s on it, I know I’ll come back to that burger every time.

DuMont Restaurant
432 Union Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11211
718.486.7717

DuMont Burger
314 Bedford Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11211
718.384.6127

“What is an arepa?” So asks the rhetorical question on the website of Caracas Arepa Bar. If you click on the link you learn they are “dense, yet-spongy corn flour rounds,” “pita-like pockets” “cake-swaddled melange” and “like a Latin Sloppy Joe,” among many other descriptors. But, as I found out recently the best way to really understand what they are is to try them yourself. I met up with my friend Onion there a few weeks ago to do that.

I learned about the restaurant from Sweet Tea, one of my colleagues, who is Venezuelan-American. I asked her if there are any good Venezuelan restaurants in New York City. She didn’t know of many, she said, but there was one great one I had to try. That place was Caracas Arepa Bar, which has outposts in Manhattan’s East Village and in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

The Manhattan location is small and nearly always crowded, there happened to be a table for two waiting for us when we arrived. (It was also pretty dark inside, hence the poor quality of my photos.) Onion and I scanned the menu of arepas and liked the looks of too many of them to narrow it down. So we ordered, a curiara (Spanish word used in Venezuela for “dugout canoe”) filled with three varieties. The one we ordered, called La Popular, included two halves each of: La De Pabellón, with shredded beef, black beans, white salty cheese and sweet plantains; La Reina Pepiada, with chunky chicken and avocado mix salad; and La Mulata, with grilled white cheese with jalapeños, sautéed red peppers, fried sweet plantains and black beans.

Our server convinced us we needed an appetizer too, so we ordered tequeños—little fried dough sticks filled with melted, stretchy cheese. Those came with a slightly spicy dipping sauce, and they were satisfying (if a little too bland) in the guilty way jalapeño poppers and cheese fries can be, especially when eaten between swigs from our bottles of Negra Modelo.

As it turned out, we probably didn’t need an appetizer. Our arepas arrived in a wooden serving dish that was indeed reminiscent of a dugout canoe, but this one probably would have sunk to the bottom of the river because it was so filled with food. The arepas were chewy corn pockets that made for easy finger food. The only problem with this kind of finger food is once you start eating one, you can’t put it down for fear of it falling apart completely. Instead, I end up eating everything a bit too quickly.

My favorite arepa was the beef one. The salty cheese was like the crumbly Mexican cheese cotija, and it accented the slightly sweet beef and the plantains nicely. The chicken one was my least favorite; the meat was a little dry and the avocado lacked kick to counterbalance its fatty richness. (I added some of that hot sauce I’d put on the tequeños for some extra flavor.) The cheese and jalapeño one was more interesting, having great texture, heat and sweetness.

All-in-all, three halves of an arepa amounts to plenty of food for one person and enough variety to keep even the most indecisive eaters happy. If you still don’t know what an arepa is after reading this post, I suggest you go out and try one yourself.

Caracas Arepa Bar
93 1/2 E. 7th St.
New York, NY 10009
212.529.2314