Whitman’s

Walt Whitman once wrote “A great city is that which has the greatest men and the greatest women.” Whitman died in 1892, a good quarter of a decade before the cheeseburger reached full popularity. Therefore it is with no small irony that the relatively new burger restaurant on 1st ave. and 9th st. derives it’s namesake from the fully-bearded poet.

The Juicy Lucy at Whitmans'

Entering the small restaurant you are faced with an counter to order at, and a counter to eat at. Upon further inspection there is a small staircase that leads you to a dining room downstairs.  Buried underneath ninth street the candle-lit room has enough tables for about 20 diners. The menu isn’t loaded with options, but the quality depictions put the salivary glands to work.

The Juicy Lucy, which seems to be their signature menu item, is probably the greatest best place to start. The menu describes the sandwich as “beef short rib blend stuffed with pimento cheese, caramelized onion, bibb lettuce, tomato, spicy pickles, sauce,” and while it’s only ‘stuffed’ with cheese the other items gently sit atop the beef.  Not all food comes with warnings however this menu reads, “*caution; juicy lucy is very hot in the middle and might squirt.” In this particular sandwich’s case ooze is probably a more accurate representation of what happened. Suffice it to say, the cheeseburger is remarkable, and satiating.

Unfortunately some of the other options are less satisfying. The PB&B Burger, or “ny grass fed beef, organic peanut butter, heritage farm bacon.” Is exactly, and precisely just that. No lettuce, tomato, or onion. No mayonnaise, or ketchup.  No special sauce, and no thick, juicy, cheese-stuffed, beef patty. Peanut butter. Ground Beef. Bacon. Dry, odd,  and luckluster.

The menu also boasts the $12 “locally sourced dry-aged grass-fed beef, seared onion, bibb lettuce, tomato. Blue ribbon bun…” know as “The Walt.” Walt Whitman, considering his description of what made a great city, would be less disappointed in modern day Los Angeles, than a diner would be with this meaningless, and fruitless effort in taste.  When served a high end meat, at an increased price you expect a flavor-topia. Instead the result is a rather run of the mill burger. In the end, maybe American farmers started stuffing cows with hormones to make them better. To improve taste, as well as production.

When eating often we try to work around our plate to save the best for last, and this review is no exception. If you ever happen to eat at Whitman’s do yourself a favor, order the Bleu Cheese fries.  Since the burgers are rather small, you won’t mind having the extra food. More importantly you will never look at cheese fries the same way again. Delicately tossed in a bleu cheese crumbles and oil, these fries are simply delectable. The potato crisps themselves are delicious, but there can be no words to match the beauty of what is done in this magical bowl. Shared by the table, or as a side to your burger ,these fries are the great neutralizer and closing argument in the debate about whether this restaurant is worth a visit.

Walt Whitman once claimed “A great city is that which has the greatest men and women…” but then again, how can we trust a man who never had a cheeseburger?

Ippudo

“… I guess you only like to go alone when you blog about restaurants, huh?” Eric asked me.

“Hmm, I guess.” It had never occurred to me, but in fact I did generally only write about places I had been to alone. “But I also like to defecate alone, and I don’t blog about that.”

“…but you do write about it,” Eric retorted, “you just don’t blog about it.”

“Right.” I said. The question has been asked before, and I’m not clear why, but people assume that in order to write about food, one must attend the restaurant alone, in peace, where they can collect their thoughts. Suffice it to say it had never occurred to me that in order to write up a restaurant I had to be only, however to clarify; it has only ever occurred to me to write up a restaurant when I was alone.

Eric had been in town for a couple of days but not in the City itself, so when we met for lunch, I wanted to take him somewhere good. I had been tipped off about the Ramen house Ippudo the night before by a friend’s sister. I had mentioned that David Chang’s Momofuku Noodle House was some of the best food in town, and she said Ipuddo was better. In the past I have toyed with the idea of reviewing Momofuku, and even dined there with the intention, photographing my food, and taking notes, but I have determined a master chef, deserved better than this novice critic. There will be a Momofuku review, just not today.

So after meeting up with Eric on this rainy day, Ippudo it was. Considering the plethora of Ramen houses in the east village, one simply cannot exist without being at least servicable. Truth be told, I arrived on a semi-full stomach. Waking at about 11:30 and seeing the poor weather I decided it was a perfect day to use some of the corn-meal I had bought for cornbread and turn it into mush; a midwestern favorite I learned to appreciate during my stay in Southern-Indiana. The recipe I followed, on the back of the container, was for 8-9 servings, and only having an appetite for 4-5 people, I was left rather stuffed. Luckily Eric and I didn’t meet up for another couple hours.

Chai siu baau

When we arrived at the restaurant we were told there would be a 20 minute wait. We spent the time pouring over the menu. On the way to our seats the hostess yelled something, in what I must assume was Japanese, and the rest of the staff yelled back. Once seated it took little deliberation before we agreed we should split the pork buns. They were delicious, up to Momofuku’s standard. Two simply weren’t enough, but at $8 a plate, two was all we were going to get. Honestly I could have eaten 40.  Whomever first plated the pork bun, really cracked the code on the sandwich/taco/bun/whatever-you-want-to-call-it-carbohydrates-and-stuff-in-between-deliciousness. The only gripe I would have with this item is in fact the pork to bun ration. Too much bun, not enough pork. It’s a difficult balance to strike, as you don’t want too much pork, and not enough bun either; Momofuku-1 Ippudo-0.

When mulling over the ramen choices there are many variations on the theme. For a couple extra dollars here or there, you can get unlimited noodles; extra pork; or even different items added to your ramen, such as pork belly. To test the place in it’s most honest incarnation one must go with the standard ramen. However Ippudo won’t let you off that simply as for a couple extra bones you can get a starter and a light salad. How could I refuse?

Grilled Eel

There were four options, and none of the first three mattered since the fourth was grilled eel over rice. A delicacy and a treat. This eel was fantastic. Cooked well, sauced to perfection, and the rice was fluffy and sticky. I could have eaten 17 more bowls, or even an entire eel. Eric was nonplused. “I mean, grilled eel is always great,” he mused, “this just doesn’t stand out.” I started to realize why one should review food when alone.

The salad was lacking anything worth noting outside of the dressing, which was designed with soy sauce. The heavy saltiness of the sauce really changed my perspective on salad, and not in a positive way. I was happy to have rejected most of the salad and relish my eel with each succulent bite. Ippudo-1, Momofuku-1

The ramen arrived before I had finished my eel. At this point, I was truly stuffed to the gills, but I pressed onward.

Ramen

Ramen is delicate. The flavors must be treated with great respect, and the result can be the success of a meal that can satisfy even the most cynical of eaters. Ever since seeing the classic Japanese film Tampopo, it has been my search to find that perfect ramen. The meat in ramen often finds itself a little dried out — such is the nature of meats in soup — The noodles are rarely made fresh, and the egg is seldom both  perfectly runny, and yet still contact.

Ippudo pulls the noodles in house, which is a rare treat if you are ever afforded the opportunity to witness the act. It results in a noodle slightly doughy, but delicious in it’s own right. They add ginger to the soup, which enhances the depth of flavor, but also at times overpowers the delicate broth. The pork is dry, but lean, and the egg is perfect. The search for my perfect bowl of ramen continues, however the best I’ve found is still at Setegaya, which used to have a location on 1st between St Marks & 9th st. Momofuku-2, Ipuddo-1

After we finished out meal we waited about 20 minutes for our server to even ask us if we wanted anything else. After asking for the check another two and half years went by before our wannabe-hipster-waiter finally brought it. In reality all the hoopla does this noodle-house a disservice. The understated nature of a tiny store-front with a small menu and good service is all that is necessary when you want a bowl of noodle soup. No real eater goes to a restaurant for the fine china, or the feigned enthusiasm of a wait staff. People who do, are probably morons, and they probably live in places like Southern-Indiana, and eat things named after their texture; like mush.

Ippudo, for all of it’s flaws in management, is still a great restaurant. The food speaks for itself. The wait is a shame, and being only a few blocks away are other great noodle-houses, I can’t imagine going out of my way to eat here again. In the end, in the instance of ramen, one’s own preferences reign, and the variations can be subtle. Worthy of a rainy-day lunch, a chance to impress a business associate, or fantastic grilled eel.

Double Down

As Americans we are not only victims, but we are slaves. We are slaves to an almighty power that weakens us in the most unexpected of ways. It was this force, that got me out of bed this morning, that instructed me to put on my pants, and guided me past a gauntlet of eateries to my eventual destination. As I stumbled up 6 blocks on first avenue it was this unwavering hope that continued to drive me. This omnipotent quality that held me true when I passed by two ladies scarfing down what could only have been the most delectable of pizzas. It was this genius energy that prevented me from satiating myself at David Chang’s Momofuku Noodle Bar. It was this faith that prevented me from going astray and satisfying my every gastrointestinal whim at S’Mac on 12th street. It was the very God that keeps America in chains 145 years after the civil war. The unholy God of advertising.

As soon as the first television advertisement aired the country was abuzz with concern. What was it? How could this be legal? People are going to be having heart-attacks at KFC’s all over the country! Is, in fact, the Double-down the government’s realization of the death panels Sarah warned me about?

All jokes aside the double-down has in fact been making news all over the country in the most unlikely of places. Even Nate Silver of fivethirtyeight, a political statistician’s website, had his own post about the healthiness of the sandwich. However it was not the news, but the intrigue that led this reviewer to his destination on this fateful afternoon. Having not had KFC, or frankly, any fried chicken since 1995 it seemed nothing short of necessary to experience bacon, and mayonnaise hugged by two fried breasts. The result?  I will not be breaking any news when I say this; television advertisements are dirty liars.

While the walk was strenuous, and the temptations of quality food were aplenty, the greatest challenges still lay ahead. Entering the Kentucky Fried Chicken on 14th st, and 2nd avenue is like walking into another world. First off; because it’s down the street from the Ear and Eye infirmary, so it is filled with nurses, and people imitating pirates; but more importantly because it’s a far cry from the vegan, raw, and health-food eateries that plague the village. The menu is stark and offers little in the ways of hope. Online KFC claims the sandwich has a meager 540 Calories, however an article from AOL news claims that this is an unfair estimate, placing the sandwich closer to 1,190 calories. While nothing on the company’s website suggests this the menu in the store realizes both of these estimates. The sandwich is marked, on the menu, as ranging anywhere from 475-1080 calories, similarly the cole-slaw is ranged from 180-640 calories. With a medium Dr. Pepper placing at 200 calories, my meal could have been anywhere between 855 and 1920 calories. Which is actually a perfect lunch for me, as I am on a extremely strict diet of somewhere between 2,265 and 5,760 calories per day.

When I ordered the sandwich the woman behind the counter announced, at a loud volume, “THE DOUBLE DOWN!” After a number of other loyal customers, with less of an interest in destroying their future, got their meals, my number was called. It was to begin. On a very anticlimactic tray my food arrived. The paper place mat was held in place by some mashed potatoes left over from the tray’s last customer. The sandwich was hidden in a box, displaying the jovial Colonel Sander. He bared an uneasy smile, almost as if to say “I’m not really comfortable with what you’re about to do.” As I listened to the children next to me argue about who was a better ball-player, I said what might very well be my final prayers, and began my venture into the unknown.

The sandwich was disappointing. It was bland, and the bacon was lacking significantly. The “Colonel’s sauce” was almost unnoticeable, and frankly is the least appetizing sounding condiment I have ever heard of.  As far as the Monterey Jack cheese is concerned, I had completely forgotten that it was even on the sandwich.  I only remembered it was there when I double checked to make sure I wasn’t leaving anything out.

Now to the chicken; growing up one of my strongest memories was after a soccer game when a parent brought KFC for the team, just like a commercial. I remember never having had eaten anything like it.  The chicken was juicy, and the exterior was a perfect crisp. It was the holy grail of fast food, and completely forbidden in my home. Sean, another player on the team, and I finished over 3 family sized buckets of the delicious birds. When my mother came and found me, with fried bits orbiting my mouth, she was horrified.

As we grow older, and mature into the people we are, I suppose our taste-buds weaken, but I think we also gain a knowledge of what is good, and what is most definitely not. For instance, I am often reminded by my brother that I loved Raffi as a child. Suffice it to say memory led me astray; the chicken was dry, the fried was unimpressive, and overall the sandwich was a huge disappointment. Of course the biggest disappointment of all is that I didn’t even die after eating it. In fact, 2 hours later I don’t even really feel sick. At least not any sicker than I normally would after consuming 855-1920 calories in one sitting.

NOTE: When I was leaving I had planned to take note of the caloric range on the menu, but got distracted as two men were beaten and arrested outside the KFC. When I returned home I studied the internet and found that neither KFC’s website, nor any of the articles pertaining to the sandwich mention the in store representation, and therefore I retraced my steps to the store in order to accurately report the caloric range displayed on the menu.

S’Mac

Mac & Cheese? Yes please. America’s favorite comfort food is not only making an appearance but it’s having it’s own awards show in the East Village.  On 12th st S’Mac, or Sarita’s Macaroni & Cheese, the sky is the limit when it comes to the mucusey elbow pasta that defined the American childhood. Choose from an assortment of the restaurant’s favorite recipes or build your own selecting everything from possible cheeses, blue, brie, cheddar, goat, manchego;  “mix ins” including andouille sausage, basil, broccoli, ham, figs, hot dogs, or tuna. Yes. That’s right. Figs.

There is a Mac & Cheese for every occasion at S'Mac

It seemed like it would be wrong to judge the restaurant based on a customizable selection, as selecting one’s own favorite ingredients might lead to a mixture of whole wheat elbows, in blue  and pepper jack cheeses, with tomatoes mushrooms, and buffalo sauce… maybe figs too. Therefore an order of 3 of Sarita’s recommendations was in the cards.

The Parisienne is s the only order that comes with figs, but it is also loaded down with Blue cheese and shitake mushrooms and seemed too heavy for a dinner of three Mac & Cheeses. The Buffalo Chicken flaunted the buffalo sauce, but chicken is pretty boring. Finally the Masala is listed simply as a blend of “North American comfort food” and “Eastern Spices.” Not tonight. So which three made the cut?

The Mediteranian

Infused with the standard flavor profiles of kalamata olives, goat cheese, spinach, and roasted garlic it’s hard to go wrong with this classic combination. The goat cheese dominates the taste, with the salt of the olives getting cut by the creamy richness of the thick fromage. The spinach and garlic add texture but aren’t identified by their own tastes. The dish sings as it’s richness is only matched by the history of the region it’s hails from.  If you like a greek salad, but want to have a heart attack before you’re 30 this is your dish. Eat it while it’s hot, as with all the dishes, when they congeal it can get dangerous.

The Alpine

It seems that over the years America has decided that in order to serve mac and cheese we must stuff pigs into it. If it be ham, bacon, pork belly, butt, or shoulder. Since this combination seems to be everywhere it must be mightily popular, but then again,  so is Glen Beck. The Apline is simple: Gruyere, and Slab Bacon. It is completely dominated by the flavor of the bacon as the gruyere tends to take a back-seat adding texture, cholesterol to something that doesn’t need either. The bacon itself is tough and chewy. This was easily the least favorite.

La Mancha

The La Mancha is Sarita’s “spanish” mac and cheese. Loaded with manchego, fennel and onions, this bowl packs the most bang for your buck. Although limited to three ingredients this really has a deep intensity. While this bowl lets you appreciate each of the three amigos individually they are also a bountiful layered beast. If one character in this novela of a pasta dominates it’s the fennel, but it is delivered in the best way possible: coated in delicious cheese. If for some reason you are only going to eat 1 bowl of macaroni and cheese as a meal, get this one. It’s by far the most stunning on the menu.

If New York is rich with flavors then  S’Mac is the Fort Knox of flavor. Eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we may die, or possibly the next day if we do things right.

Things S’Mac should add to it’s roster of “mix ins” Lobster, sriracha and peas.

Kool Bloo

The self-proclaimed fast-food joint has locations throughout the city which it claims to know. “Dinner is mostly way past six, and breakfast is rarely before noon, and at KOOL BLOO we understand this. We also understand New Yorkers. We know that you can be both intensely health conscious and incredibly indulgent (sometimes within the same day), and that’s why KOOL BLOO is GOOD FOOD FOR EVERY MOOD.” Sure I haven’t woken up, let alone eaten breakfast, before noon in over a decade. And I’m not going to disagree that I try to stay healthy, and get some physical activity in every day (even if it’s just leaving my bed for more than to go to the bathroom) meanwhile eating as much as I can possibly fit into my body. But is Kool Bloo good for every mood?

Well try this mood; feverish, home in bed by 6:00 pm despite having nothing to do the next day, and barely staying awake long enough for the food ordered to arrive? It may not be every mood, but it certainly is just about the worst of moods to consume food. When the food arrived the pea-soup was slightly tasteless, albeit being sick, the taste-buds are barely effective. A little cracked pepper livened things up a bit, but in the end the thick, and overpriced sauce-like soup might have been too much for this already weakened eater. By the completion of the soup there wasn’t enough energy left to start on the sandwich, so by the grace of God, the sandwich and I ended up where we belonged, in the refrigerator, and in bed, at least for the night.

When morning came so did the hunger. The hunger that never truly left. The original plan was to heat up a bowl of soup. Some black-bean, vegetable nonsense, but then memory served and the sandwich was rediscovered where it had been left. Maybe, just a bite since it was only 10:00am. Maybe if it’s really good, I can heat it up. Well as one bite turned into two, and before it became possible to bake, or even microwave the stack of products it was already mostly consumed. It would be unfair for one to critique a sandwich based on the merits, of it being a day old, and eaten by a taste-bud-less consumer, and cold, but one must do what one must do, and do it fairly.

A completely different sandwich. Courtesy of NYCfoodguy.com

When I ordered the sandwich I asked the gentleman “what is the difference between the crab-cake sandwich and the crab-cake, mac & cheese, and mashed potatoes platter.” His response was of course “You get different variety of sides with the platter… and only one crab-cake. On the Sandwich you get two. And Tomato. And Onion. And Tartar sauce.” At this point we all know which I opted for. “Okay, and would you like the Tomato, onion, and tartar sauce on the sandwich?”

“Yes. Please.” Upon visual evaluation, it seemed like most of the tartar sauce didn’t even make it on the sandwich. Taking it apart I muttered to myself “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The lettuce, tomato, red onion, and two crab-cakes all seemed to be in tact, and in proper placement, however the tartar sauce seemed to be completely bereft. Yet in eating the sandwich, I noticed no such void. Tartar sauce always runs the risk of being too tangy, in this case there was a perfect amount to cut the acidity of the onion, and add it’s own level of flavor. A little bit ended up on the hand, but of course that could also just have been the collateral damage from the intense ravenous eating that took place over my kitchen counter. Perhaps it was the sickly-delusions that lied to my eyes because munching through this sandwich, that the God of Sandwiches, himself, may have made in his own image, delight was served with every single bite.

Now to the onion, after all it is just a slice of onion. NO, it isn’t just a slice of onion. Most sandwiches have a nice faint piece of white onion. One you might have picked up from any grocer. Well that is meaningless. This onion is not meaningless. This onion, like the tomato, is a 1/3-1/2 inch thick honking slab of red onion. This is a bold decision, not just because of color but because of flavor. This is why even after explaining to me that the sandwich came with tomato, onion, and tartar sauce and I decided I wanted the sandwich, the man on the phone had to repeat “do you want it with tomato, onion and tartar sauce?”

Finally, the crab cake. About the size of a flattened golf ball, any restaurant could easily get away serving one such patty. The choice was to serve two. A choice that ratchets the sandwich up a couple of dollars to its home of $12.95, but meanwhile prevents you from feeling cheated, or disappointed. Now part of me half expected when ordering a crab-cake sandwich to get food poisoning. Just assuming that it’s almost definitely a frozen cake; how long has it been frozen? Where was it frozen? At what temperature was it kept at? Well if this cake was left out for 6 days in the sun before being frozen on the cold floor of an old, Alaskan, gymnasium, and then shipped to New York in an old sock where it was finally de-thawed and deep fried, I would eat it again in a heartbeat. The batter was light, the crab taste was subtle, and the texture was divine. If Sebastian only knew, than he too would be jealous of life, or death, above the sea.

The sandwich sang, and so did my belly. In regards to every mood? The jury is still out, but as far as the most unlikely of moods, I concede, and will order Kool Bloo again.

Also recomended: Mac & Cheese, Chipotle Chicken Wrap, and the Nachos.

Artichoke Pizza

The East Village’s Artichoke pizza has been quickly growing quite the reputation since it opened last year. With all the hub-bub of the Pizzeria it was time to see what all the hollering was about.  Not having eaten in almost 24 hours due to alcoholism, it seemed like a dripping slice of the famous pie would be just what the doctor ordered, if your Doctor is one who wants you to go into cardiac arrest.

Too rich for my blood, and heart. Picture courtesy of Glenwoodnyc.com

The hole in the wall on 14th st. doesn’t have chairs, and it doesn’t have tables. The kitchen is larger than the dining room. New Yorkers silently munch on their glop covered dough in silence facing the walls of the 7×8 foot room as a line in the middle leads out the door. The server asks quietly “What kind” of which the customers have a choice of Artichoke, Sicilian, Margarita (original) and Crab. The customers quietly respond “Artichoke” one after another and he throws another slice back in the over, returning with another customers melty slice. In the back two men assemble new pies randomly dropping gigantic chunks of cheese onto a dough the size of a dinner table.

The slice comes out and the server quietly announced “Artichoke” as it seems to be the only thing ordered. If you’re lucky enough to find a spot on the wall where there is a tiny shelf just below an average person’s chest you can hunch over your slice in the safety between  your two elbows. The slice is undeniably mucusey.  One could call it “Artichoke Pizza” in name only as it is really pizza with T.G.I. Friday’s Spinach-Artichoke Dip heaved onto it.

Check out that bready crust. Picture courtesy of mightysweet.com

Unfortunately the crust itself is pretty unpleasant as well. It’s thickness is necessary to hold the weight of the Spinach Dip, but a mouth full of what almost tastes like sourdough is not ideal when scarfing down a fresh pie. While the heavy slice makes it very filling as a $4 slice, you might be inclined to purge afterward, if only it wouldn’t result in another greasy mess.

The slice does have its advantages, however. The first bite is breathtaking. It’s like having a dollop of piping hot cream explode in your mouth. Unfortunately the magic is short-lived. When you struggle through this caloric journey, the age old phrase keeps coming to mind “Too Rich For My Blood,” and your heart .  As the pizza sets in your stomach, like the sun over the pacific, be aware of the hype, and next time slop some of Stouffer’s Spinach Artichoke Dip onto a slice of Dominos, new and improved pizza, and call it a day.