Del Posto

For my birthday, my wife took me to Del Posto for lunch. It’s a Batali/Bastianich enterprise located in NYC’s meatpacking district. The façade of the restaurant is rather unassuming and could easily be mistaken for an office entrance, which was exactly what we did when we walked past it and had to double back.

Walking on 10th Ave, we stopped a block away at Crafsteak’s to study its menu. It looked very appealing. I seriously considered jettisoning our original plan for a meal at Craftsteak instead. My wife expressed misgivings about such a late cancellation. I wondered aloud: Does Craftsteak have the same validation policy as Del Posto for the garage where we had parked our car? It is certainly plausible - the garage is the closest one around to either restaurant. However, between wrestling with the qualms of cancelling late, and the possibility of a parking validation disappointment distracting us from completely enjoying lunch, we decided to stick to Del Posto.

The doors opened into an impressive and opulent dining room. It looked like the interiors of a grand Italian villa, or at least what I imagine a grand Italian villa to look like - the closest I’ve been to Italy was a couple of trips to the Secaucus, NJ Olive Garden.

The food had hits and misses. We'd wanted a tasting menu but apparently it wasn't available at lunchtime.

Amuses were some kind of soup with honey (blah), what I'd call codfish nuggets but I'm sure they had a fancier name, and sunchoke chips with some creamy dip that tasted pretty good.

First impressions were that the presentation isn't a top priority at this place. Food looks carelessly tossed onto bowls, cups and dishes that were either too big for the portions, or otherwise inapproriately sized. No thought given to make the presentation attractive.

While the bread was pretty good on the whole, bread service was awful. When we'd clearly exhausted one of the bread varieties, nobody took the trouble to refill/refresh - maybe nobody noticed.

Of the 84 pages of wines they have on offer, I had the good fortune to pick one that was out of stock. Without checking with me first, the server produced a bottle that was "similar in style and at the same pricepoint". I had no problems with that - it was after all at the same pricepoint, so I won’t be getting ripped off any worse than I had planned for.

For first course, I had the lobster and cauliflower and my companion the salumi. The lobster was overcooked and chewy - but the flavor was good. The cauliflower was creamy and had a nice sweetness that complemented the sweetness of the lobster.

The salumi was a complicated multi-dished course consisting of several selections of cured meats, a spinach tart (erbazzone), and a couple slices of what looked like rabbit terrine. The cured meats were very good, but the rest of the course rather forgettable. The erbazzone had absolutely no flavor whatsoever, and reminded me of a pot pie I once ate at a diner. Parts of the rabbit were too tough - impossible to overcome despite sustained and enthusiastic chewing. I had no choice but to spit it out.

For mains, we had the grilled striped bass and the pork loin. I enjoyed the striped bass but I thought the dish overall was out of balance and skewed toward being overly sweet. I wish there had been some acidity to play against the sweetness of the fish and the cauli.

The pork loin dish was a stack of two gigantic bricks of pork - a portion I expected to see at the Olive Garden more than at a fine dining restaurant. The loin was cooked to a perfect temperature. The meat appeared moist and yielded easily to the bite. The only complaint with this dish was again its sweetness and one dimensionality. The candied figs and the caramelized stuffed onion all sang the same sugary tune.

I don’t remember much about the desserts, except that it was chocolaty and it was pretty good.

All in all, it was an okay meal, but for the money, there are better choices in Manhattan. I don’t know if it’s us, but we don’t seem to have any luck at picking Italian restaurants.

A Pair of Nuts

Let’s do it right and start the festivities with a duo of nuts. Don’t ask me why, but it just feels right to do a pair at a time. I submit for your consideration these two antioxidant-filled cans of fun.

The Peanut Shop of Williamsburg, Virginia Peanuts Lightly Salted

The Peanut Roaster Selects Golden Gourmet Peanuts

This is the second time I’ve cracked a can of the Williamsburg peanuts. The first one had a baseball theme, but both look like they contain the same product - I found nothing on the labels to suggest otherwise. If my whisky-addled mind recalls correctly, the baseball nuts were a little larger and crunchier, but I don’t know if that was by design or due to differences in the cooking process or variability in their peanut supply or both. I believe the same folks who make this also sell nuts under the “Smithfield Tavern” label.

Close-up of The Peanut Shop's Nuts

The Williamsburg nuts are lightly salted. You should be able to see from the close-ups that these have almost no visible salt, while the Peanut Roaster’s nuts are coated with a fine dusting. The nutrition label has these goobers coming in at 40mg of sodium per a 28g serving, while the Roaster’s are 85 mg.

"Golden Gourmet" just came back from a Florida vacation

Salt content is always an important consideration. I’m well known in my family for being an intolerable fusspot when it comes to salt levels. My preferences exist in a very narrow band.

Williamsburg’s lightly salted nuts are salted too lightly for my taste, and the Roasters’ are just a tad too salty. However, I found a happy medium when the two are eaten in combination.

John Edward, “a happy medium”

It is unthinkable to throw a nut party without the proper libation. I stuck my head in the fridge and pondered deeply, finally emerging with this German pilsner. The Radeberger pilsner is a light and refreshing brew - a fine choice even if I say so myself. The hoppiness of the beer cuts nicely through the oiliness of the peanuts. It was also the only beer I had.

On balance, the Roaster’s nuts appear darker than Williamsburg’s but they are similar in size. Being nuts of the Virginia variety, they are both bigger than the Planter’s. Planters do not reveal what cultivar they use for their regular cocktail peanuts. The Virginia nuts also cook up crunchier and less greasy compared to Planters.

Besides the saltiness, I could not find much else to differentiate the two. Though the Roasters’ look more “roasted”, the flavor isn’t appreciably better or worse. It is important, however, to take note of hidden treasures in both cans. They are something quite special - something I like to call the “uber-nuts”.

Uber-nuts are nuts that look like they got too much face time with some very hot oil, causing small blisters to form on the surface. The uber-nuts tend to have the heartiest crunch and the best flavor. I wish I could take credit for the discovery, but this is hardly the first time a link is made between hot oil, blisters and giddy pleasure. That’s a story we know all too well, am I right guys? You know I’m right.

In Search of the Perfect Peanut

Peanuts don't get no respect. It occupies a lowly position on the nut totem pole. You won't find it in "Deluxe" nut mixes. In the English language, the word is slang for a small or insignificant person. Getting paid peanuts means getting very little money - possibly only enough to afford peanuts - the cheapest nut.

Here's a case in point. A can of Planters mixed nuts that claims to have “less than 50% peanuts”.

It would seem the folks at Planters don't think very highly of the peanut.

The claim itself gives interesting insights into how the marketing mind works: “Customers dislike peanuts, so the only hope we have of selling this product is if we limit how much goes in the can.” Fair enough, but why do they then turn around and pad up to half the can with the unwanted nut? Jackasses!

Why does the peanut get the bum’s rush in the nut world? You won't find the answer here.

That's because the peanut is my favorite legume. Ferran Adria once said, “Remember a very good peanut is always preferable to a not that good lobster”. He didn’t actually say that, but I think you know the point I'm trying to make.

Granted, the average peanut you find on the grocery store shelves doesn’t do the peanut justice. Ever since I ate some salted peanuts served on a Malaysia Airlines flight (of all places), I was smitten by the humble goober pea. The peanuts were large and crunchy, and tasted so good I was convinced they spiked it with MSG.

It was a culinary awakening - we've all had those before, right? It's an experience that is difficult to describe. I want to say it's like losing one's virginity, but that sounds salacious and that's not what I'm about, man.

Maybe it's like... see if I can illustrate with a story... You've just come back from summer vacation, and that frumpy girl you've known since junior high has transformed into one hot chick. Her braces are gone, she's traded her glasses for contacts and you catch sight of her tossing her long silky tresses carelessly, hither and thither and hither again. She beckons you over and as you sit close to her, she made no effort to move away, already a good sign. She reaches into her backpack with one hand, and takes your hand with the other and and places something in it and whispers in your ear, "I think it's time we start to spice things up". OMG! a bottle of Naga Bhut Jolokia hot sauce! Hello! At one million Scoville units, the Naga Jolokia is only the hottest pepper on earth! You almost wet yourself with joy.

From that moment on, the Planters nuts I had accepted as the "goober standard" could no longer cut it. My tastebuds have been liberated. I had to find some better nuts, and on these pages, I will share my trials and triumphs with you, dear reader. I hope some of you will join me in my quest.

Enough talk. Let’s crack open a can of nuts and get this party started!

NJ Dining: Chengdu 23, Wayne

I can't believe it's been over a year since my last blog entry. I've exceeded all previous estimations of laziness. Anyway, here's a restaurant review - one of many more to come, I hope.

Chengdu 23 opened a few weeks ago in Wayne where the Taipei Noodle House used to be. I was sad to see the old restaurant close, in spite of its poorly chosen furnishings: the bright red sofa in the shape of a hand in the waiting area looked oddly out of place. I'd enjoyed their Taiwanese beef noodle in soup - and I’d enjoyed it even more when I got the idea of ordering it with both brisket and tendon.

According to the new lao ban nian/proprietress, the previous owner had tired of the business and wanted out.

Well, I’m happy to report that the red sofa is gone, but the fish tank remains. Along with fortune cats, lightbox posters of Hong Kong skyrises at night and walls adorned with International currency notes, the aquarium has become de riguer in Chinese restaurants.

What’s not de riguer, however, is an aquatic freakshow. There’s a goldfish in the tank with something growing out of its forehead I’m pretty sure doesn’t normally grow out of a goldfish’s forehead. If the lao ban nian had any entrepreneurial inclinations at all, she’d charge admission for the sight.

Dinner and a show. Brilliant! Well, enough about the ambience.

We chose mostly from the non-Sichuanese items, because my two year old daughter was with us. Feed her anything spicy and she’ll turn into Miss Fussy McFussbucket; crying real tears and screaming for water.

So we ordered the beef brisket spicy noodle appetizer (the only item with a *, for Daddy only), half a peking duck, shrimp chow fun and chicken with broccoli - for my Chinese American daughter who has developed a worrisome palate for authentic American Chinese.

The spicy noodle turned out to be the best thing we ordered, and I can see it being an excellent replacement for my erstwhile "regular" - a slightly different rendition of pretty much the same basic ingredients, done at the same location. What more could a fella ask for?

To be frank, I could’ve done with more noodles and more beef. At about the same price, the new serving is less than half of the old one.

The shrimp chow fun was different from other versions I’ve had. The dark specks that were clearly visible on the pale rice noodle were not burnt wok detritus as I had first suspected but finely ground black pepper. The chef’s liberal hand with the pepper mill elevated the chow fun from what would have simply been a source of workaday carb and protein.

The other dishes were pretty unremarkable. I couldn't tell the Peking duck from regular roast duck. The skin was more chewy than crispy, and lacked the deep hue that comes from treatment with maltose. For half a duck, the restaurant had decided that exactly two pancakes would be sufficient accompaniment. When I requested extra, I got the impression that they're a precious commodity.

The server quizzed: How many pieces more, exactly, would I like?

About twenty minutes later, he arrived bearing two pancakes. With the grand gesture of someone who was about to give a lifetime worth of earnings to charity, he declared that the extra pancakes would be on the house.

At the end of the meal, after the dishes were cleared away and the check requested, I was hoping to be surprised with a wedge of orange or two and maybe if we were lucky, a small bowl of red bean dessert. What we got, instead, was a small plate of canned pineapple chunks in syrup. Our two year old, a fruit-in-syrup eating machine, devoured the entire thing.

After which, she pleaded: More, more. More, pleeeeease!

“How many pieces more, exactly, would you like?” I asked.