Dancing on My Table

Last night we decided to eat Indian. It may seem a strange choice for New York, but is it? In a city where you can eat anything, why not dahi puree, peas and paneer or a masala dosa? Off we headed to a place with plenty of recommendations we’d pulled off the internet. Found it easy enough, and in we walked but something made my spine stiffen as we entered. It was 8.00pm but not busy. I was seated yet again on a banquette, but this one was terrible. I was dwarfed by my partner sitting straightbacked on a high chair. With my breasts threatening to rise and fall in a plate of rogan josh I felt miserable. Partner suggested swapping seats. That made it marginally better, except now I had to sit upright like a giraffe while he sloped. I was twitching, like a caged animal, sensing danger. Then the menu came and the reason for my ill ease registered. The smell when I walked through the door reminded me of a hospital, not a restaurant – disinfectant! There were no cooking smells at all. For an Indian restaurant this is unusual: a good one fair reeks of spices, onions, chillies and ginger and a fair commotion can generally be heard coming from the kitchen. As soon as I saw ‘fattoush’ and ‘parmigiano’ on the menu (I kid you not) I baulked. Now fattoush as a salad might eat quite nicely with Indian food – I’ve no idea – but I didn’t want to find out. We excused ourselves politely and fled out the door as another waft of disinfectant filled our nostrils. A backward glance at the chef, arms folded over belly standing in the kitchen with nothing to do, convinced us that we had had a lucky escape.

The rules: if a restaurant is empty at prime dining time, there’s probably a very good reason – the food is bad. If the chef is visibly not cooking in the kitchen it probably means the food is all prepared ahead ready to be microwaved when ordered, or worse still, if you can’t smell food it’s possible the food was trucked in from somewhere else. If the seating is uncomfortable at the beginning of the evening, think of how it will be in one hour’s time. If there are matches on the menu that don’t pique your curiosity and sound bizarre, the chef probably doesn’t know his onions from his scallions, and if the place smells of disinfectant – RUN!!!

Breathing the fresher air out on the street, while waiting for a cab to transport us some place else, I idly puruse a menu posted on a restaurant window right where we are standing. It reads well. Italian. Burrata on the menu. Homemade pasta and lots of fish. We stuck our noses in. It was busy and buzzy. It smelled like my Italian mamma’s kitchen. We wanted ‘in’, but we decided to hedge our bets. We booked a table for 8.30 then quickly walked one or two blocks along to check out a Spanish tapas bar which had been our second choice of the evening. It was pumping, lively and loud, full of the glorious smells of sizzling shrimps, garlic, red wine, and fried croquettes. We wanted in here, too. But we made the decision to book it for lunch the following day as the table offered was tiny and the space crammed, and to return to the Italian spot for dinner. What a great choice. We had lucked in on two exceptional restaurants. Let me share them with you so you know where to get good food next time you’re in New York

Tarallucci e Vino
Union Square 15 East 18th Street New York
Tel 212 228 5400

I could have had the sage fritters with anchovies, or the spinach and red endive salad, capra verde, walnuts, pear and white balsamic vinaigrette, or the crispy fried hazelnut crusted goat cheese, roasted beets and walnut vinaigrette, but I didn’t. I couldn’t resist the burrata cheese – call it an addiction if you like – served with a warm vegetable salad and orange glaze. It was a little bit soupy, with tiny nuggets of zucchini no bigger than a skinny fingertip, slim asparagus, snow peas, fava beans and baby corn. And in the centre, a melting white lava of burrata. To die for?

Just about. The pointy little bread rolls brought to the table first hadn’t just been reheated, they had been cooked to order and were magnificently crisp and the sesame seed focaccia tasted of gorgeous fresh sesame seeds (as opposed to rancid ones). These were served with a fresh green and fruity thick olive oil. My dining companion ordered the carpaccio of beef with braised fennel, arugula, mustard vinaigrette with a parmesan mousse and a sliver of croquante. The mousse was much firmer than expected, very buttery, but the lingering flavour of aged parmigiano, without any fustiness, made up for it. The dish as a whole was overwhelmingly savoury, sending all the umami taste buds into a frenzy.





Mains were duck pasta, made with layers of pasta sheets and rich chunks of duck sauce – pronounced ‘divine’ by dining partner (he didn’t share, mind). I ate all my lamb, too, a roasted rack with fava beans, roasted cherry tomatoes and a fresh buttery oregano emulsion. Rich and tasty, the meat was cooked to medium-rare, although a little rarer near the bone. As good as it was, American lamb (and I generalize because I can) does not compare with New Zealand lamb, the latter being sweeter, less fatty and not as gamey. We had to pass on the cheese course, but next time we’ll leave room as the choice of sheep, cow and goat cheeses, served with the likes of acacia honey, green tomato mustard, pumpkin ginger compote, Lambrusco jelly, lavender honey and plum or pear mustard sounds like a delicious meal all on their own.

Details about our Tapas experience next!

So many places to eat, so few nights…but the decision was made and off we went to the Rustic Canyon Wine Bar and Seasonal Kitchen, 1119 Wilshire Blvd (tel 310 393 7050). I wasn’t sure what we were in for but one dish I ate sent me into raptures and was instantly memorable. As is often the case, the small plates or appetizers on a menu can hold more appeal than a meat-laden assortment of entrees which are largely big pieces of meat with extras. To be fair, Rustic Canyon, has some nice offerings of local sea bass with caponata, whole roasted trout with escarole, currants and pinenuts, pan roasted ‘Jidori’ chicken – which I learnt means a chicken probably given a name at birth, spending its days running free scratching for worms, and generally living a molly-coddled life so it can end up on a menu at $26.00 somewhere.

But it was the roasted baby beet salad that I was after because I was on a mission to eat burrata. Wikipedia tells me burrata is a fresh Italian cheese, made from mozzarella and cream. The outer shell is solid mozzarella while the inside contains both mozzarella and cream, giving it a unique soft texture. But I can tell you more than that: it is the softest silkiest spun ball of num-num you’re ever likely to eat (you can see I’ll never get a job with Wikipedia!). My salad was layered with chioggia beets, that’s the gorgeous little ringed slice of beet you see on top of the salad in the pic, quartered baby red beets, slivered celery and a few celery leaves, which, are nice, in moderation (too many and they taste bitter), sliced crunchy apples, and little nuggets of toasty salty walnuts, and hidden in the middle melting layered globs of burrata. And no, I don’t share. This was all doused with a tangy honey and rosemary vinaigrette. Heavenly. Yes. Beautifully balanced with acidity and hint of sweetness. Yes. All gobbled up, platter licked clean. Yes.

My dining companion ordered cappelletti pasta stuffed, and I mean STUFFED full of potato and burrata, topped with a pale rosy-pink sweetish ragu. All rather light, luscious and lovely. Then he ordered the grilled pork chop with slices of roasted pears sitting on little mounds of celery root puree, and chanterelle mushrooms. The pork was cooked perfectly – pink to the centre, juicy and tasty. I followed my salad with ‘mezzaluna’ pasta shapes, stuffed with a filling of sweet butternut which spilled out like liquid gold, and tossed with brown butter and crispy sage. All delicious, no dessert required. The only grizzle was with the wines, some of which we tried by the glass before switching to a half bottle, but the proverbial match made in heaven eluded us this time.

I’m writing this from one of my favourite hotels, Loews, Santa Monica Beach, California. I love it because the hotel is so airy and spacious with gorgeous tall palm trees growing in the centre of the lobby, and the atmosphere is so casual and summery, which is a relief when you’ve flown 12 hours from New Zealand and left a squally spring behind. I’m able to open my windows onto a balcony and can see the rolling waves of the Pacific Ocean. Life ain’t so bad.

Last night I ate at Josie’s Restaurant at 2424 Pico Boulevard (tel 310 581-9888). I was stood up. My friend coming from the east cape got delayed by fog, so I was on my own. Rather than eat inhouse I decided to keep the reservation we’d made at Josie’s so went off alone. I felt fine, not awkward, although I sensed that everyone, wait staff included, wondered what the hell I was doing there eating alone amongst lovers and couples, families and friends. It’s a weird feeling when you realize that everyone is feeling way more awkward than you are, and that they expect you are feeling awkward. But I just ordered, ate, talked to my inner self, paid the bill and caught a cab home. Anyway, I liked the two things I had, with reservations, both appetizers: a watermelon salad with a little fresh cilantro (coriander) and slivers of pickled red onion and three fat crispy crunchy pieces of pork belly.

Then a small quail, bacon-wrapped (it was a piggy kind of night!) which was cooked to perfection, pinkish tender flesh with little cubes of what seemed like parsnip and baby florets of cauliflower, mushrooms, tiny diced pumpkin and single Brussels sprout leaves with a thyme jus. There was plenty of flavour and nice textural contrasts but both dishes were too sweet for my taste, but then, I don’t have the American preference for sweet flavours in savoury dishes. A good squirt of lime juice on the watermelon would have lifted it out of the ordinary into the extraordinary, and would have made a fresh counterpoint to the rich salty pork, and if the quail jus had been less syrupy more flavours would have come through from the other ingredients. Of course, that’s just one view…

We’re off somewhere different tonight, then on to the Big Apple tomorrow.

Here’s a wickedly tasty treat to serve up on Father’s Day – golden, spicy chicken drumsticks, so tender that the meat falls off the bone. Serve to dad as a snack with a chilled beer, or as part of a meal with steamed rice, or a rice salad, and either a cucumber and yoghurt salad flavoured with mint, or a spicy eggplant dish with tomatoes and onions. He’ll thank you for it!

Spicy chicken drumsticks