The really good: Great NY Noodletown, where my consort and I headed for Saturday lunch when I realized it had to be the safest place in Chinatown after getting shut down by the Health Department. The roast duck was outstanding as always, the lo mein with a plethora of ginger and scallions sublime again. But the sautéed pea shoots were also amazing, light and fresh and greaseless, with just enough chunky garlic. All of that came to about $20 before a good tip. Also as always, the waiters were both patient and efficient. WIGB? Guiltily, because there are so many other places we should try, especially the newish Malaysian and Vietnamese ones. But I can never forget that health inspector quoted in the New Yorker eons ago: No sane New Yorker eats in Chinatown. 28 Bowery at Bayard, 212 349 0923.
Post Category → Chinese
New York minutes/Late December 2009
The pretty good: Great N.Y. Noodletown in Chinatown, where my consort insisted we head after hearing from a chef at an amazing party that the God of Momofuku had been inspired by a dish there. We hadn’t been in years, but aside from the price of the roast duck to go, nothing seemed to have changed much, although the staff was mellower and the proportion of Caucasians was higher. We waited briefly for wedged-in-tight seats at a communal table and had steaming-hot tea instantly. Ordering duck rolls from that kitchen was not the smartest move, but the two of them benefited from great ingredients if not skillful frying. Bob got advice from both a tablemate and the waiter on the quest dish, and it was both surprisingly simple and lively. I’m a duck junkie and almost overdosed on roast duck on rice. We walked out stuffed for $14.25 including tax and tip. WIGB? Absolutely. 28 1/2 Bowery at Bayard, 212 349 0923.
The pretty bad: The Edison Hotel’s cafe off Times Square, where I met a friend in from the mashed potato mines in Boston who needed to eat close to Penn Station and which I will not dignify by calling the Polish Tea Room. Despite two sentences in Times Square, I’d never been, and now I see why. The room has its weird charm, but time apparently stopped in the kitchen about the time grape jelly in individual packets was invented. The toast was industrial, the fatty bacon (which I’d ordered crispy) was stringy-scary, the scrambled eggs had something crunchy in them I hope was shells; only the home fries were respectable if not great. My friend succumbed to stewed prunes and an order of blintzes with sour cream; the latter choice, she said, would have been better with something acidic. The damn things were huge, though. She had coffee, I was too timid and settled for club soda, which was served in a plastic Coke cup. The ancient waiter was shuffling evidence that decades of experience don’t always pay off. WIGB? Not on a bet. Good thing I’d noticed online that the tip is included or we would have felt even more ripped off.
The decent: Dhaba in Curry Hill, where Bob and I wound up for a fast lunch after the Wednesday Greenmarket when I needed to do a curry-leaf-and-Kalustyan’s run and his choice, Tiffin Wallah, had too long a line for its $6.95 smorgasbord. I guess we got our extra $3 worth: A table opened up fast, and the app and bread were waiting on it by the time we got through the mobbed buffet line. As always, I had only veg (saag paneer, aloo matar, kadhai bhindi, dal, plus curds and chutneys) and was fine with it all; Bob indulged in lamb and various chicken curries, too, then we split the carrot dessert. Can you say filling? Dinner was a mesclun salad followed by popcorn. . . WIGB? Maybe. The place looks great, and the staff has almost gotten its act together. 108 Lexington Avenue near 28th Street, 212 679 1284.
New York minutes/Earlyish June 2009
The good: Dim Sum Go Go in Chinatown, where a friend and I sat for 2 1/2 hours over exactly $27 worth of food, tax and tip while the waiters just kept refilling the teapot and water glasses. At a nice window table we split steamed dumplings (including duck, Chinese parsley, seafood), fried turnip cakes and shiu mai, all faultless. So what if half the other patrons came in clutching guidebooks and the only Asians in the joint were staff? It’s clean and bright and hospitable, not to mention very easy to talk there. WIGB? Anytime. 3 East Broadway off Chatham Square, 212 732 0797.
The seriously good: Bar Boulud, where a friend and I wound up with a great sidewalk table after an odd little evening of Will “Tear Down This Myth” Bunch and “Laughing Liberally” in the Theater District; we just wanted salad and a glass of wine, but $12 for either seemed a little steep at the first places we considered, and PJ Clarke’s looked and sounded like a 20-something WASP convention in Bedlam. So we took our $24 across the street. Of course once we sat down salads seemed absurd when there was all that charcuterie to be had, so she ordered Grand-pere and I chose the excellent $15 tourte de canard, with foie gras layered throughout. My white was all of $9, but her red took forever to arrive, as did her knife. Bread, though, was excellent. The waiter seemed disappointed by our dainty order, although he warmed right up when I asked for a kitty bag for my half-eaten paté. WIGB? Such a deal! And Wyl-E was so happy. 1900 Broadway near 63d Street, 212 595 0303.
The “terrific:” Kefi, yet again, where my friend in from a dining wasteland was quite pleased and not just because we were comped really good orzo with shrimp, feta, spinach and tomatoes. The waiter listened when he wanted something more austere than the glass of white I ordered while waiting for him, and the bottle whose name I didn’t note was a step up and poured at just the right pace as we split the always-great spreads and then swordfish and striped bass (the latter made a superb lunch next day to share with The Cat WCTLWAFW). Gary paid, which should have made me feel terrible, but the place is such a bargain. WIGB? Very soon, I’m sure. 505 Columbus Avenue near 84th Street, 212 873 0200.
The oddly off: The New French, where it was damn lucky the food was as spectacular as always and the design holds up because the service and noise level were mortifying. I didn’t realize what a bad choice it would be for the combination of a soft-spoken scholarly writer and someone who, in the immortal phrase of a friend in Treviso, “chews words.” I couldn’t hear her, and she had it even worse — at one point she thought I was talking about Craig Claiborne rather than John Hess and reacted as if I had said Paula Deen was the new Julia Child. The waitress was an absolute ditz in a half-full room: took forever to come over, had to be hailed for a second glass of rosé, forgot my friend’s second beer, never refilled the water glasses, had to be hailed for the check, had to be hailed again to be told she overcharged me by $4 (sparkling/Spanish/what’s the diff?). And if I had to hear the same track of the Mamas and Papas blasting over all the braying one more time. . . . Still, WIGB? Absolutely. That Cheddarburger with heap o’ fries is just the best. Friend was happy with fresh tuna sandwich, too. And they let us sit far, far longer than Pearl would. 522 Hudson Street at 10th, 212 807 7357.
New York minutes/Early March 2009
The good: Cabrito in the West Village, where my consort and I wound up because it was geographically convenient when I was in peanut-reputation-rehabilitation wonderland and he was on his way home from Dumbo. I got there first and would have walked right back out if the bartender et al had not been so insistently pleasant — it was almost unsettling. The place looked cramped and crowded and potentially tequila-fueled loud, but the niceness was seductive. I chose to stand near the door to wait after being encouraged to walk through to see if Bob had arrived, but they laid out a menu and brought a glass of water and it was hard to say let’s move on when he did. My gills were bulging from all the peanut products earlier, so I only ordered rajas con crema with flour tortillas, which was just right. But his plate of carnitas was outstanding, crispy chunks of barnyardy heritage pork with good corn tortillas and salsa verde. I still hate the Barfry-holdover tumblers sentenced to serve as wineglasses because they make even good pinot blanc taste jug-like, but it was hard to complain with fine service to go with the food. WIGB? Absolutely. The huaraches with chorizo are calling my name. 50 Carmine Street between Bedford and Bleecker, 212 929 5050.
The pretty good: Klee in Chelsea, where we headed after the opening of the intense Jonathan Torgovnik show at Aperture on children born of rape in Rwanda. Luckily, all the stylish gallerygoers preening in front of the photos made it easier to transition to food and drink, but Red Cat was jammed and Company (as the sign says on the restaurant) looked even worse from a block away, so Klee it was. Bob just plunged in without checking the menu, and it turned out to be rather more ambitious than I imagined, with a tasting menu and a sommelier and other pretensions. The place was almost empty aside from a couple of tables in the back and one in the window, so we were happy enough with a table near the bar — at least until the hostess seated the Large Family exactly next to us, a braying woman with three other hearty eaters who made big noise as we tried to talk and eat. WTF? We shared the Liptauer, paprika-pungent with thin bread chips, then I just had the “Alsatian pizza,” which I ordered as tarte flambé and should have known was “Alsatian pizza” — the dough was like a flour tortilla. Flavors were right, though. Bob ordered $27 duck, a huge tender breast set over wheat berries, but I guess I need my glasses checked because I thought the plate was draped in kitchen twine used to hold the two halves of the slab together. He forked up a segment and I yelped, “Don’t eat that! It’s string!” And it was julienne of lemon zest. Not good when garnishes go bad. “Steal of the day” in wine was a nice enough verdicchio for $36, endorsed by the sommelier. WIGB? Maybe. The bar looks very accommodating, and we’re down there a lot. 200 Ninth Avenue near 22d Street, 212 633 8033.
The not bad: Grand Sichuan in the West Village, where Bob and I had lunch after a trip to the Greenmarket on which we bought exactly one apple. (It was us, not the season.) He wanted Asian and I remembered online and other positive vibes for this place; only when we finished did Bob confess he’d been skeptical because nothing on Seventh Avenue South is ever very good or lasts. The service was rather addled (they stuck us at a bare table and took their sweet time both setting it and delivering the food), and bad music was compounded by scary paintings. As for the food, scallion pancakes were cooked to a greasy crisp and close to flavor-free, while the $17 tea-smoked duck had great flavor and crunchy skin but geriatric flesh. Since he’s traveled so much in China, Bob is obsessed with “ma po to fu,” and for once he got a pretty sensational rendition, the silky curd in a super-spicy sauce with a lot of nuance. A full portion at $9 was more than enough for a second lunch the next day. WIGB? Maybe, but the duck is far superior at Wu Liang Ye on 48th. 15 Seventh Avenue South near Carmine, 212 645 0222.
New York minutes/Latish September 2008
The good: Wu Liang Ye in Midtown, where I dragged my consort with his queasy Stella stomach after the zooey opening at ICP and where we were both transported (I’ve only been to Hong Kong, and once; he’s been there and to China at least four times on extended trips). I thought of it after reading Ray Sokolov’s piece in the WSJournal, although I have long known Zarela raves about it. And just walking there felt authentic, with mega-cockroaches claiming right of way on the sidewalk and with the requisite stairs to the dining room one flight above street level. We got a table right away, surrounded by roughly 75 percent Asians, and when the buzz-cut waiter snarled at us for asking whether the Sichuan dumplings could be fried (“Fried? You can get fried anywhere!”), we knew we were in good cooks’ hands. The (boiled) pork dumplings were sleek and silky, in a sublimely spicy chile sauce, and the green beans with spiced sauce (pork? onion? both?) were absolutely worth the shocking $14.95. But the winner was the camphor-smoked half-duck, not as smoky-wonderful as one that still haunts me from Hong Kong but very succulent and flavorful and not at all fatty — plus the meat tasted fresh, which is far more remarkable than you might think. Big glasses of wine were around $7.50, and we walked out with enough leftovers for a huge lunch next day for a little over $50 before tip. WIGB? Can’t wait. 36 West 48th Street, 212 398 2308.
The reliable: Toloache, yet again, where we headed after “Burn After Reading” and had our usual satisfying experience at the oven-facing bar watching that amazing cook do her thing so efficiently. We split the huitlacoche quesadilla and the tacos de pastor and were totally happy with food, wine and service. The cat might be away with Yerba Buena etc., but the mice are not playing. WIGB? Over and over, obviously. 251 West 50th Street, 212 581 1818.
The geographically adequate: Stella Maris at the South Street Seaport, where three of us retreated after the scrum around the Murray’s Cheese table at the Edible Manhattan soiree and where we paid too much for too little but were happy to have a sidewalk table despite the racket from the dining room (if the Wall Street meltdown sobers assholes up, it might be worth the suffering). I had just come from a press event and had no interest in more food, but I tasted the tiniest bit of the sausage and the duck confit and was happy that was as far as I went when Bob woke up next morning feeling the room spin. And not from the overpriced wine. Remind me never to order torrontes again, though. That is a grape finding its way in the world. WIGB? Only if I could not crawl farther uptown.