I finally broke into the Momofuku empire (more like totalitarian dictatorship) a few weeks ago with a trip to Noodle Bar. The relentless snowstorm that day caused the little eye makeup I was wearing to smear and clump, which I was unaware of until the spiky-haired waiter served me water with a stare of repulsion. I'm clearly not cut out for the likes of David Chang and overpriced pork buns.
Though the weather outside was frightful, I decided to man up and sample the obscure soft-serve flavors. The smoked maple ice cream was my favorite part of the meal -- the soft-serve was ridiculously creamy and melted in my mouth in milliseconds, its flavor slightly syrupy, subtly smoky, and complicated by crunchy, salted walnuts on top. A layer of protective paper gripped the cone a little too tightly -- I think I may have ingested some glue along with the sugary waffle.
After this overall positive soft-serve experience at Noodle Bar, I've been itching to get my hands on some of the goodies at Milk Teat Bar. Situated next to Ssam Bar, Milk Bar's interior is populated by long, high wooden tables meant for leaning only. Music plays loudly, and yuppies communally huddle around the counters sharing their pies, cakes, and ice cream. Though it smells tantalizingly sweet, the space is not the most accomodating environment for taking off your coat and staying a while with your buddies. Next time, I'll order my dessert to go so I can sit and enjoy it in my apartment.
I ordered the snickerdoodle soft-serve with a side of hot fudge. Chang did it again -- it was velvety in texture and tasted like a lightly salted cinnamon graham cracker. The fudge was thick and rich, though it's served in a small plastic cup and must be manually applied. At $5 for a miniscule portion of soft-serve and an extra buck for hot fudge, that dessert should have come with its own set of go-go gadget arms to feed me.
Throwdown with Bobby Flay exemplifies the arrogance of its Food Network chef host. In every episode, Bobby challenges another chef or restaurant owner to a public “throwdown” in which the two compete to discover who actually cooks up a tastier version of the local chef’s signature dish. Bobby travels to American towns like Buffalo, New York, where citizens’ identities are comprised almost entirely of intense local pride, and attempts to strip them of their hopes and joys by cooking their own dish better. Luckily, he rarely wins, as I discovered one uneventful Saturday night of watching four glorious hours of Food Network television shows.
I had the privilege of attending a throwdown last Tuesday in Union Square, in which Bobby competed against the Dessert Truck for the title of chocolate bread pudding king of the universe. I’ve sampled the Dessert Truck’s best-selling bread pudding many a time on late night walks home through Astor Place and can attest to its creamy decadence. The warmth and sweetness of this dessert and my disdain for Bobby Flay left me quite biased as to who I would designate the winner pre-tasting.
The Dessert Truck and an unidentified white truck were parked behind two red cloth-covered tables on the west side of the park. Jerome Chang and Chris Chen, the Dessert Truck founders, pretended to be hosting an episode featuring mobile food vendors. Finally, Bobb-O and his lady groupies, Stephanie and Miriam, arrived on the set via truck (how ironic) and alerted the audience of the show’s actual intent. The two began whipping up their bread pudding – Bobby’s was a chocolate-coconut bread pudding with passion fruit syrup, and the Dessert Truck guys served their famous chocolate bread pudding topped with a bacon anglaise.
I had to throw some serious ‘bows into the guts of freeloaders who had crawled onto the set mid-show in order to get a taste of both recipe renditions. Bobby’s bread pudding almost made up for the smug smile perpetually plastered to his face (emphasis on the almost). Its texture was more complex than the Dessert Truck’s – he layered chocolate ganache, coconut flakes, and airy bread layers to create a light and subtly sweet bread pudding. My favorite aspect was the drizzled passion fruit flavoring, whose concentrated sourness added depth to the pudding.
The Dessert Truck’s pudding was sweeter and a bit heavier; its simplicity a winning attribute. The bread, which the Dessert Truck boys buy from Sullivan St. Bakery, sits atop a thick layer of smooth pudding. The bacon-infused anglaise was understated; its nearly-hidden saltiness enhanced the pudding’s sweetness.
Three hours of standing in the sun left me irritable and slightly arthritic, so I left before the judging. Even if I had stayed, I wouldn’t be able to reveal the winner or the Food Network overlords might slay me with their sharp Santoku knives and Cuisinart blades. I’m still quite torn over who I’d choose as my bread pudding hero. I think I’d have to go with Bobby Flay, though I’m extremely reluctant to admit this tragic resolution.
When I bite into a piece of fried chicken, I expect a specific sequence of sensory details to follow. There should first be an audible crunch, then a thick layer of meat softened by its own juices, and finally a greasy residue to stain my lips and require a hefty stack of napkins at the ready. With this idealistic image in my mind, I ventured to two of the city's fried chicken outposts -- Dirty Bird To-Go in Chelsea and Piece of Chicken in Hell's Kitchen -- in search of the bird that could most closely match this description.
Dirty Bird To-Go's small, white brick interior is accented by bright orange barstools. Its menu touts Southern comfort food, such as buttermilk fried chicken, smashed potatoes, kale, and macaroni and cheese. Lighter options, like rotisserie chicken, salads, and wraps, are also available for those who choose to leave without the feeling of grease seeping through their pores. I ordered the 2-piece buttermilk fried chickenplus 1 side option ($8.10) with smashed potatoes. The sassy Latino cashier, whose hips were swinging rhythmically to Spice Girls' "Stop", barked "no!" when I requested my gravy on the side. Apparently, it's all or nothing at Dirty Bird.
Two fairly generous pieces of chicken were quickly brought to the table, accompanied by a pile of gravy-topped mashed potatoes and a wedge of cornbread. I vowed to pace myself with the meal, keeping in mind my subsequent trip to Piece of Chicken and the taunting waft of meaty steam rising from the chicken before me. A rich mahogany hue, the thick, crispy layer of skin encased its meaty interior. Audible crunch? A definite check. The chicken itself was moist enough to be pried off the bone with my fingers. The potatoes were buttery and creamy, though their pudding-like consistency was a bit too dense for me. I should have opted out of the gravy; its pure smoke flavor brought me straight back to memories of fried-chicken-Fridays at my childhood day camp. After taking a sample of cornbread, I decided to skip it altogether. It was cement-solid and bland.
I guess the feisty cashier didn't quite get his fill pre-meal. As I walked out, he sarcastically hollered "you're welcome" in a tone that seemed surprisingly masculine in comparison to the soft, effeminate one that had so accurately mimicked the Spice Girls lyrics.
I could feel the mashed potatoes and fried chicken thrusting their burly fists into the walls of my stomach as I made my way uptown to Piece of Chicken. This place is known for its $1 fried chicken and consequently frightening weekday lunch lines. Unlike Dirty Bird, it's a large take-out window which offers no seating. I ordered a piece of chicken ($1) and a side of mashed potatoes and gravy ($2.75). Unfortunately, my chicken was tainted by condensation as it endured a 45-minute subway ride in a Styrofoam box. On the plus side, I experience no heckling by puny staff members as I enjoyed this meal in my comfortable room. The battered skin was wispier than Dirty Bird's and fried to a perfect, caramel hue. Though it had gotten soggy since it couldn't be eaten on the premises, its flavor possessed tanginess from the buttermilk and required no salt. The potatoes were lighter and fluffier in texture and tasted natural rather than overpowered by cream and butter. This gravy was ruddy in color and had a modest kick to it, though it didn't add much flavor on the whole.
Though both eateries boasted some pretty mean fried chicken, I'd have to say Piece of Chicken is my preferred poultry restaurant. The sides were more satisfying than Dirty Bird's, and the whole package cost half the price! A mere $4.75 gets you two tasty pieces of chicken and a heaping portion of potatoes -- just make sure to find a comfy bench to eat your chicken right away so it doesn't get water-logged.
Dirty Bird To-Go 204 W. 14th St. (b/w 7th & 8th Aves.) 212.620.4836 Price rating: $-$$
Piece of Chicken 362 W. 45th St. (b/w 8th & 9th Aves.) 212.582.5973 Price rating: $
I was obliged to eat out tonight as my decrepit refrigerator left me dinnerless and desperate, AGAIN. Craving comfort food, I headed over to Katz's to sample the matzoh ball soup. As it turns out, the employees there are just as useless as my fridge. My soup came with a fork and knife, but no spoon. I don't know if you've ever attempted it, but lapping up thin broth with a fork is a downright frustrating practice.
Oh, and my meal also came with salt packets and Saltines, just in case the bowl of dehydration they call matzoh ball soup needed some extra seasoning. Katz's should save the salt for the pastrami and pickles. The ball itself was flimsy, separating into molecular-sized morsels beneath the substantial weight of that plastic fork.
Spice. Kyotofu. Chickalicious. What do these three have in common, other than their spaceship-like, colorless interiors? Their overwhelmingly Asiatic clientele.
Ok, so it makes sense that Asians would flock to Spice, a Thai restaurant, and Kyotofu, a Japanese dessert bar. Heck, they belong there more than I do. But there's no reason I should also feel like a poser at Chickalicious, a sweets-only eatery which can claim no particular ties to Asian cuisine. So why, when the 'rents and I stopped in for a post-dinner snack the other night, did we feel like we were the targets of Sesame Street's "one of these things is not like the other" game? (Unfortunately, the all-white cookies in this clip provide an inaccurate representation of Chickalicious' actual demographic.)
The only conclusion I can draw from my findings is that Asians dig minimality. A sterile, pure white dining room is their calling. Throw in some plastic chairs and recessed lighting and they'll really go crazy.
I never did get to try the food at Chickalicious dessert bar. Apparently the atmosphere was too swank for the Geneslobs -- after taking one glance at the peppercorn ice cream and cantaloupe soup menu options, my parents decided that Chickalicious to-go across the street was more their speed.
ginger-spiced carrot cake
My ginger-infused carrot cake was tasty (although I'd eat anything schmeared with cream cheese icing), and my parents both enjoyed their mocha and mango (separate, not combined) smoothies. I'm still eager to try the more sophisticated dessert bar, but I'll have to do some major 'fro straightening and Hello Kitty shopping before I can fit in with the crowd.
Both have sparklingbaby blues and flowing, golden tresses -- well, Paula used to be blonde, and C. Mac definitely cheats. Points to Paula for honesty. And both have an uncanny ability to haunt me in my sleep with their seemingly drug-enhanced television personalities and unblinking stares. But who is the creepier of the two? My answer, for now at least, is neither of the above. Paula's "Tastes Like Lasagna Soup" recipe easily wins the most frightening prize. Shudder. For Thanksgiving, I'm going to request that my mom make "Almost Turkey" and "Mimics Stuffing, but Tastes Nothing Like it Cause it's Actually Cranberry Sauce".
A few days ago I ventured into the Wild Wild West to hunt down Van Leeuwen Artisan Ice Cream Truck, a pilgrimage I've been meaning to make since the dawning of summer. Ben Van Leeuwen pampers his ice cream with more tender love 'n care than your ninety-year-old widowed neighbor treats her tabbies. The ingredients are all super high quality, organic, and, well, pretentious-sounding. The chocolate, par exemplum, is scraped from the bittersweet gonads of the Patagonian cocoa beast...not quite, but it's not that far a stretch from the truth. In actuality, Van Leeuwen uses 72% chocolate chips which are shaved ultra-thin and stored in uber-regulated temps to ensure sufficient in-mouth melting.
The verdict? I ordered the peppermint & chip, which was refreshingly minty rather than artificially sweet. The chocolate chips did melt in my mouth, but so would you if you were only .0000000000000002 centimeters wide. A scoop makes for a great snack if you're in the mood for something sweet but don't want to feel gorged. You'll be paying $3.95, but look on the bright side: The ice cream transforms into solid gold once it's digested, so you'll actually be refunded by your own gilt excrement!
Van Leeuwen Artisan Ice Cream Truck SE corner of Prince & Greene St. $ (although in ice cream terms, $$$)
photo courtesy of Eater
