how to eat like a bird

small bites: a roast pork sandwich at Chino’s

Back in 2005, New York magazine named this palm-sized concoction one of the best new sandwiches of the year. Three years later and off the radar, it’s still incredibly good. They mound a generous amount of delicate roast pork onto a seasoned and toasted steamed bun and garnish it with mild kimchi, cilantro and a creamy, house-made mustard sauce that makes it complete (and arguably worth the whopping $9 price tag).

The better deal is at lunch, when Chino's offers two small plates for $12. You can get the same-sized sandwich plus something else. But even if you can’t get there for a weekday lunch, this sandwich is kind of worth it (if you are of smallish figure with a non–bear-like appetite). I was surprised to find that while I wasn’t full after eating it, I wasn’t at all hungry three hours later. (Four hours later was a different story).

Chino’s is at 173 Third Avenue, between 16th and 17th Streets.

a Cuban sandwich from Sullivan St. Bakery

If you're going to have bread, at least make sure it's good bread. And for me, if I'm going to have bread, it's going to be in the form of a sandwich. I'm not a "give me bread and butter" on a deserted island kind of girl. I'm a "give me bread and assorted deli meats and cheeses" kind of girl. Not to mention condiments. Condiments are my favorite food group.

I trekked all the way to Sullivan Street Bakery, thinking "I will not get the Cuban; I will not get the Cuban." Not because I felt like one and was resisting temptation, but because I didn't feel like one and wanted to try listening to my body for once, rather than my head, which is smart enough to know that... c'mon, the Cuban sandwich is going to be the best one. (House-made roasted pork, prosciutto di Parma, pickles, Gruyere, and three types of condiments--aioli, mustard, and mayo?)

I knew I had probably missed out on their buzzed about ramp sandwich, but thought they'd have something similar to that in a seasonal vein. But, to not drag out the suspense, I took one look at what was on display and decided to wait 10 minutes for the Cuban. In truth, all the breads at the bakery look gorgeous and all the sandwiches, even the very pretty PMB: pancetta, mango, and basil, look meager. That's because they're on a bread called a flauto which does indeed resemble a flute, being probably no wider than an inch and a half. It's rather effete and European, and a lumberjack would take it for a breadstick. I decided I better go for the heartiest.

It was fantastic. I took one bite and I understood why so many cops were milling about, pointing at foccacia studded with cherry tomatoes and concord grapes. They do things right over there. The bread was so fresh, it would have been a shame to press it into a real Cuban. The crust wasn't too hard and didn't get in the way of spectacular ingredients, which were portioned in single layers. Half the time I get a sandwich, I have to pull out some meat from the middle because it's too much for one bite. This was just right. The sandwich didn't need to be overstuffed because there wasn't too much bread. It seems such a simple thing, but it made a world of difference. I wouldn't hesitate in trying any one of their sandwiches now. They may look anemic but, judging by the Cuban, they're full of flavor with wonderful, thoughtful ingredients.

Then something strange happened. I stopped eating halfway. I was full. I couldn't believe it. It wasn't even a two-hander really--it was a swizzle stick. I could have pressed on with no hardship on my part, but I think because I knew it'd be pretty good later, it was easy to put it aside. Also, they had bagged it to go, so it only took a second to wrap it up and move on out.

I had the other half many hours later and while the bread was not so fresh, it may have been even more enjoyable because I ate it in bed, lying down, which is something I like to do. Another plus for the one-handed, effete sandwich. You can read and eat at the same time. Jim Lahey, of Sullivan Street Bakery--he, who also invented the no-knead bread, is kind of a genius.

Sullivan St. Bakery is located at 533 W. 47th Street, between 10th and 11th Avenues. Sandwiches are $6.

vicarious feeding

Difara's Pizzeria from Chris on Vimeo.

I saw this ode to Di Fara's pizza posted on Slice and have watched it three times now, which is not as many times as I watched that You Tube clip of a baby panda sneezing, but this is longer and much more satisfying--especially for a girl off wheat and dairy for a couple of weeks.

You may think the stills alone would drive me delirious with longing and to curse the very day I thought of detox but, in fact, this video calms and lulls me into a positively beatific mood. Something about the timelessness of the atmosphere, how it's shot--the music and customers, Dom's craft, makes me trust that it will all be there long after my bout with wanting to be healthy. All in due time.

Disclosure: If I am to speak with frankness, I suggest people in the near vicinity get over there now because the man is not getting any younger. (Take the Q train to Ave. J in Brooklyn; they are at 1424 Ave. J.) Save some slices to take home, and eat at midnight.

bewitched by frisée (and a cookie)

Frisée is usually the last bit of stray green left on a salad plate. That's because the stuff is unruly, a little bitter, and seemingly impenetrable to the redemptive qualities of any old vinaigrette. In a picture of mild and tender mixed greens, frisée is the one that sticks out, the one "that does not belong."

The thing is, though, frisée has no business co-mingling with baby greens. It needs stronger counterparts like lardon, a poached egg, lardon grease, a stinky Roquefort, a dry martini. Here it is in a 'wichcraft sandwich packed to the gills, accompanied by marinated white anchovies, a soft-boiled egg, roasted onions; and tempered by a parsley-caper vinaigrette that matches the anchovies in briny saltiness and overall umami effect. It's a very good sandwich--cooling in its bright Mediterranean flavors but still soulful.

Caveats: sometimes they pile on the parsley-caper vinaigrette which makes it overly salty, but it's easy enough to scrape some off. While this is my favorite cold sandwich at 'wichcraft, my favorite overall is the grilled cheddar with smoked country ham that sometimes comes with pear and, in the winter, quince.   

I could have had half and saved the rest for later because the frisée retains its integrity so well. (But I didn't.) And look how cleverly they toasted the inside of the country bread so the ingredients wouldn't soak through. --I don't know if this was a one-time fluke or if they've always done this and I never noticed before because I'm usually so hungry by the time I eat lunch, things are a blur.

I also had a cookie, which I never feel guilty about at 'wichcraft because: 1) they're so good it seems rather parsimonious to pass up the chance, and 2) they're very small--about an inch and a half in diameter and $1 each, so it is a very singular indulgence (as compared to their equally good, very moist coffeecake which I suppose is only sinful because I squirrel it away for later, refusing to share). My favorite is the oatmeal cookie, which is tender and slightly chewy with a cream-filled middle that is more like a buttery and nutty light ganache than the sugar-packed monstrosity of Oreos and their like.

Caveat: not actual size.

a time to fast

Of all the articles in the food issue of The New Yorker, I am most captivated with the one about not eating. While Judith Thurman's time at the holistic fasting spa We Care is limited to three days and one colonic, the article goes beyond her personal experience and reminds us that not all fasting is about fad dieting embarked upon with foolish haste. Rather, human beings have fasted since biblical times (when everyone was skinny) and almost all major religions subscribe to a period of abstention associated with a time for introspection, atonement, and renewal.

Also, after a colonic a man once found a marble he had swallowed when he was five years old. Who knows the degree of crap inside us all?

I don't have thousands of dollars to live out my Magic Mountain fantasy. (The spa is a frequent stop for celebrities on the way to red carpet events, but, moreover, serves as a sanatorium in the desert for wealthy clients in need of detox who can stay for a month at a time). But I am in need of a fast. I'm not yet completely over my summer cold--after an unexpected chilly night, I can feel my throat close up and, more disastrously, suspect my taste buds are being muffled by layers of phlegm. I'm not quite as bad as David Sedaris, who admits in the same issue of The New Yorker that taste-wise he cannot tell the difference between an apricot and a peach. But I'm not enjoying my meals so much.

A friend and I dined at Perilla over the weekend. And while the famed spicy duck meatballs were even better than expected (delectably tender and juicy with a flavorful kick to them), I found the rest of the meal just okay. Very well done but a little boring. My friend loved her mussels in, I think, a green curry coconut sauce, but we both found her wolfish bland. Light and summery but not that flavorful. My skate with a pastrami and cabbage slaw was much better but I didn't clean my plate (the entree portions are pretty big) and don't feel the need to have it again. She really liked the slaw and while I thought pastrami was an inspired choice (usually people use bacon with skate), I would have preferred the cabbage braised to have a silky and sweet component against the crispy skate wing, and wished the whole thing which was tied together with a mustard sauce to be more mustardy. --But, see, maybe my palate is muffled or jaded. I am sure after a few days of fasting, everything will taste ambrosial.

As an aside, we did see the chef and winner of the first season of Top Chef, Harold Dieterle, slouched in a banquette talking to some people. He's a favorite for both of us and when you see someone you've seen on film or TV, you always note how different they seem in real life--she's a giant! or she's so petite! But Harold looks just the same. Maybe because he appeared in a reality show. The double chin he sometimes has is gone, but the grimace, the shrug is all the same, so that was rather endearing to see.

I'll outline the details of my fast later. --I'll be supplementing with some liquids and a lot of gazpacho so it won't be like I'm depriving myself of all sustenance. And I'm going to base the dates loosely to coincide with the upcoming Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish new year) and Yom Kippur (a day of atonement ten days after the new year.) I hope this is not heresy as I am not Jewish but thought it would make me feel better if a lot of other people were thinking introspectively, and well, repentantly, about their lives at or around the same time (as well as not eating on Yom Kippur). And after all, I am Korean and attended Catholic school. I read Ian McEwan. If I'm not already well versed with the ins and outs of atonement, I only have myself to blame.

But more on that later. First, there are some dinner plans to be met, produce to take advantage of before summer's end, and a small ham to be cooked in Coca-cola.

confession: mac and cheese pancakes

If one sees macaroni and cheese pancakes on a menu, is it not incumbent upon one to order said pancakes if only for novelty's sake? These pancakes are the work of Shopsin's, and not nearly as indulgent as they look or sound because even I could have no more than two. About six come to an order, and everyone at your table will want one, making it easy to disperse the calories.

These are not so much rich as they are regressive. The cheddar was mild and the elbow noodles, soft. I felt like a toddler using surprisingly grown-up silverware. A plastic spork would have done the job just as well. But the batter was light, lacy, yielding, and it's easy to see why they offer over 20 different kinds of pancakes on their menu.

Located at the southern end of the Essex Street Market (120 Essex Street, between Delancey and Rivington), Shopsin's is open from 9-3, Tuesdays through Saturdays.

Related: a lunch at Shopsin's on Essex.

a prosciutto and arugula pie at Isabella's Oven

The best reason for not eating this entire pizza right then and there was the leftover slice I got to take home and nosh on at one in the morning, straight out of the box at room temperature. It was even better then when I no longer felt full from beer, half a rice ball, and the two slices I did have. I wished I'd portioned better to have more leftovers. Isabella's brick oven pizza is thin and light with a crisp elastic crust that didn't turn soggy at all, even many hours later.

I harbored no guilt over my midnight rendezvous with prosciutto, carbohydrate, and cheese because, as you can clearly see, that's some arugula strewn on top. And, in all candor, this pizza is so light and good it's easy to inhale four or five slices quickly (as my friend with the fast metabolism did), so I felt I'd been rather restrained.

If I had to do it all over again though, I'd skip the just okay rice ball even though it came with a better than okay red sauce. I wouldn't skip the Peroni though, because Isabella's back garden is so pleasant and charming in all its own accord--even with the cheap plastic seats--that it practically calls for one to kick back with a beer. If I could have thrown a stick at some kids and told them to get the hell off my lawn, I would have.

Isabella's Oven is at 365 Grand Street, between Essex and Norfolk.

confession: Chipotle

A few years ago, I walked into a spanking new Chipotle's and tried a carnitas (pork) burrito that was so salty, I took a few bites and never went back. That is, until two weeks ago. A friend of mine mentioned that her sister liked the chain. Now, her sister is a marathon-running, edamame-loving skinny girl who doesn't own a TV set on principle, so this took me by surprise. Perhaps the oversalted pork was a relic of the past.

I figured I'd try it again sometime, but chocked it up to a hypothetical in the far future. But lo and behold, two days after that conversation, there it was, beckoning to me across Broadway on 110th Street, just as I'd been scanning the landscape for something to eat and just as the principles of The Secret decreed. If you envision it, it will come. For some people, it's a parking space; for me, it's an oversized burrito.

There was a buzz to the place. It was prime lunch time, and people there looked like content squirrels, holding onto their rather large portions blanketed in foil. I wanted to join them. The line moved quickly, the lady in front of me ordered a barbacoa burrito--the braised beef--and all thoughts of a grilled chicken bowl, sans flour tortilla, left my head as I found myself parroting back after her. I knew it wasn't necessarily what a skinny person would order, but I wanted to experience Chipotle in all its injudicious glory.

I sat down with my burrito loaded with rice, black beans, the shredded braised beef, hot salsa, and sour cream. The tortilla was warm and the rice buttery and speckled with cilantro. It was tasty. But salty once the beef and maybe the beans entered the equation. Not so salty that I wasn't able to finish the whole thing this time, but enough that I wondered why no one else seemed to be frowning in bewilderment at the amount of salt in their food. The next day my face felt swollen and tight at the same time from all the sodium.

Chipotle doesn't publish nutritional information on their site, maybe because while they tout the integrity of their ingredients, it doesn't mean that calorie, fat, and sodium counts aren't sky high. According to this calculation, the burrito I had contained over 1,100 calories, 44 grams of fat, and a whopping 3,551 mg of sodium. It's recommended that an adult not exceed 2,400 mg of sodium daily. Even if you skip the beef, that only brings it down to about 800 calories--1,000 if you add the guacamole which is included as an option for a vegetarian burrito and which contains nearly the same amount of fat and sodium.

Perversely all this research only made me want to try another burrito. While it had been way too salty for my taste, I had enjoyed the mouthfeel of all the different ingredients. Even the rice tasted velvety. Basically, Chipotle is designed to make you crave their particular brand of fat and salt, and there are plenty of testimonies from people who claim they are addicted. But I also wanted to create my own concoction that would play down the salt factor. Perhaps I could even get away with ordering the barbacoa if they heaped a ton of guacamole on it? Sure, my face would still balloon up but I wouldn't taste the salt as much. Or a veggie with just the rice and beans and ALL the salsas? I think this is how these "do it your way" places get you hooked. Eventually, if you go enough, you'll tweak until something is to your liking. I never appreciated Subway until I had the Italian BMT with 35 pickles. 

Thankfully, any branch of Chipotle is out of my way for now, so maybe I'll forget about it. It seems a shame to be addicted to some giant burrito that's been slapped with salt when one can get a nicely chargrilled carne al pastor taco with fresh cilantro, lime, and radish with a made-on-the-premises salsa at any one of a number of places in East Harlem, one being Taco Mix. These tacos are whisper light as they hit the plate and they won't show up on your face the next day.

a lunch at Shopsin's on Essex

Shopsin's General Store is now open in the Essex Street Market, which has undergone a bit of a makeover of late--nothing extreme, but better lighting, new signage, and a couple more eat-in options. Wedged in an unassuming corner next to Saxelby Cheesemongers, Shopsin's doesn't seem so different from any other market stall until you view the menu which, while not as extensive as its famed original incarnation, is still imaginatively liberal in scope and diverting. The breakfast items read like a dream raid on a night kitchen (poached eggs on garlic bread, scrambled eggs with pulled pork).

I've never particularly wanted to eat at Shopsin's, in much the same way I've never wanted to meet J.D. Salinger. I'd rather read about it. But good things come to those who don't care, and Shopsin's has come to me. Bypassing the poutine and the bread pudding french toast, I settled on the turkey sloppy joe for lunch. It was perfectly fine with a buttery, toasted sesame seed bun that reminded me of suburban summers in a good way, but I would go back to try the regular sloppy joe. The service was warm and timely, and I believe that was the proprietor Kenny ambling into the kitchen whenever an order came in. The space is small, but a trio of tables provide more comfort and privacy than one would assume.

I also got banana ebelskivers to go, figuring I would have one on the street and save the rest for later, but they were amazing and I had four straight away, and really could have eaten the whole portion by myself. Eight dollars seems a lot for maybe eight ebelskivers--more than for the sandwich--but you can't get them just anywhere, and they were delicious.

Shopsin's is open from 9-3, Tuesdays through Saturdays. Despite the many esoteric items on the menu, it's also a good option for anyone who wants a simple old-fashioned breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast or a boxed lunch of sliders.

Shopsin's is at the southern end of the Essex Street Market, 120 Essex Street, between Delancey and Rivington.

a lobster farm in the city

On a quiet summer weekend when almost everyone seems to have vacated town for prettier, seaside retreats, I will sometimes feel the need to dip something in drawn butter. That's when I head down the street to where Allen meets Hester for my own lobster shack experience, courtesy of Chinatown wholesalers and the Canadian lobster trade.

It's not en route to Maine, but for wholesale prices, anyone can walk into The Lobster Farm and pick the lobster of her choice from massive tanks categorized by size. Prices range from $8 and change per pound for 1-pound lobsters to $9.75 per pound for 2-pounders. (For comparison's sake, Fresh Direct offers 1 1/2-pound lobsters for $12.99 a pound.)

Someone will hold up the lobster to show you how alive it is, weigh it, and unceremoniously stuff it into a plastic bag. Request a female if you eat the roe. Supposedly a female also has a wider tail. I took a nice 2-pounder home, which was plenty for two, alongside an order of chipotle chicken nachos. I know it sounds discordant (i.e., trashy) but it was rather good all together--if you're stuck in concrete environs, you may as well have your favorite takeout food. You shouldn't eat tomalley (the green stuff), in case it contains dioxins from polluted waters, but I just had a little, and with a dash of lime on a tortilla chip, it approximates an upscale guacamole. (I share, for those of you who want to do this for your next Top Chef challenge sponsored by Corona.)

Steaming is the best way to cook a lobster if you're unsure of what you're doing. It's gentle and hard to mess up, even if you're off by a couple minutes. There are various steaming times cited on different websites, but I go with this one because people from Maine should know what they're doing (18 minutes for a 2-pounder). Dip in butter with a side of Old Bay seasoning. I don't own a whisk or a microplane grater, but somehow I have these. For clarified butter, you're supposed to melt the butter and spoon out the milk solids that rise to the surface, but I just nuked some butter in the microwave and moved aside the solids with a handy lobster claw.

The Lobster Farm is at 40-44 Allen Street, between Hester and Canal.

Not for the squeamish: (feisty, before and after).

   

a bowl of ramen at Setagaya

Is this worth eating? What with the pools of grease obvious to the naked eye? The stark strip of fat running through the pork? Yes(!), the answer is yes. They're pretty small pools of grease, relatively speaking, and look, the broth is clear. Most likely the egg is organic and comes from a chicken that chose to stay in.

As soon as this was set before me, I forgot it was 92 degrees outside and not so air conditioned inside the Setagaya on 1st Ave., a new outpost of a Tokyo chain known for their shio ramen. I was too concentrated on composing perfect bites of noodles against broth, ribbons of spring onion, the delectably soft egg, all the while parsing out rations of pork to last me through the bowl. (Not that they're stingy--you get two pieces with different textures, both quite good.)

I was most impressed by the not too salty, seafood-based broth. You can find the same style of toothsome noodles and better roast pork in the Hakata ramen at Menchanko-Tei, and I will probably always crave the pork in Momofuku's ramen more than any other, just for the way that fatty slice of pork belly dissolves in your mouth (it's primordial). But Setagaya's broth was more complex than any hearty pork-based broth. It was fragrant and smelled lightly of kelp. It had the potential to emboss itself onto your memory if you had good recall. Me, I'd have to go more than once.

I had about 3/4 of the deceptively deep bowl, losing interest after I'd had enough of the broth and gone through my favorite accoutrements (the pork). So I felt more than satiated but still quite virtuous. When I deigned to look up, I realized it was still hot, and that going there to meet my friend in the blinding white heat of the midday sun was an accomplishment in itself, and even maybe, could be chocked up as exercise. I was rather dewy after all that, plus I'd had a lot of water. It was kind of like Bikram.

Ramen Setagaya is at 141 1st Avenue, between St. Mark's and 9th Street. The shio ramen is $9.50. You can get extra sides of pork ($5) and egg ($1) if you're feeling festive (gluttonous), but I thought the portions of both were just right to leave you wanting more for next time.

Here is the menu: