Somebody, please burst POP burger’s bubble

A lot of ink and many column inches have gone into trying to convince people that celebrities are just ordinary folks like you and me. Look! Reese Witherspoon pumps her own gas! Oh my! Tori Spelling buys dog food from Costco! Keanu Reeves forgets to zip up! Well, my friends, they almost had me convinced. But recently, I had a meal at POP burger that taught me that celebrities are unbelievable idiots, unworthy of their station in life, undeserving of our regard, un-damn-Tweetable.

It happened last Sunday. I’d spent the afternoon pushing through the hordes at FAO Schwartz, looking for a toy garbage truck for my son. Deciding not to pull the trigger on a $65, scaled down, German-made, uber-functional garbage truck, I broke out of the crowd and scanned my surroundings for lunch options. Not a whole heck of a lot in the Fifth Ave. and 58th St. area. And then I saw it. POP burger. The name flew back into the dusty, floppy-disk reaches of my long-term memory, and I recalled seeing the restaurant featured in the “Burger Paradise” show on the Travel Channel. POP burger was praised as a hip spot to fuel up after a long night of partying. And, the burgers were so good, that celebrities like Jay-Z and Justin Timberlake would order oodles for recording sessions. Jay-Z and Justin Timberlake!

Yeah, well, the burgers are not great. You can’t specify the done-ness, so you end up with these medium/medium-well patties, that are somewhat light-colored, with unidentifiable red flecks throughout. They’ve got a reasonably beefy taste, but the texture just screams elementary school-lunch burger. The bun is dry, eggy, and over-dominant. Finally, there’s a Russian-dressing special sauce, which adds absolutely nothing to the mix. My onion rings were beautiful to look at, perfectly fried, golden and glistening. But, they tasted somewhat off, mealy-malty, with a nasty after-taste. What, I asked myself, is wrong with these hip-pop gods? What is wrong with the universe? Why did I pay $17 for burger, onion rings, and a shake? What am I doing, trusting Travel Channel restaurant recommendations?

All is not lost. POP burger does make an incredible milk shake. Rich, thick, creamy, chocolaty, and not over-sweet. I sipped contentedly, sitting in the shadow of a fountain, watching street dancers separate Wisconsinites from their hard-earned money. Mmm.

I’m back. I missed you. I’ll never leave you again.
-Eatist

Po’ boy virgin no longer

How did I manage to live three and half decades without eating a po’ boy? This I ask myself, after having one of the great sandwiches of my life, the fried oyster po’ boy at Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station. For a mere $8.25, you get huge, succulent fried oysters with shredded lettuce on a hollowed out baguette, slathered in tartar sauce. I squeezed some fresh lemon juice over innards and set to. The oysters were insanely tender – you could nip them in two with your front teeth – hot and very juicy. Each time I bit into the sandwich, a rivulet of oyster and tartar sauce would flow from the other end of the fresh baguette, forcing me to suck my fingers and mop my lips in an unseemly way. Did I mention that I was doing my wolfing underground, in the crowded Bryant Park subway station? I’m normally not a proponent of eating on the subway, and I’m sure I didn’t win any new friends with my animalistic chomping (like a lion savaging a fresh kill) , but there was NO way that I was waiting to get home to eat that bad boy. I was so blissed out after my meal, I didn’t even react to the hare krishna who made a snide comment after I ignored his attempts to engage me in a discussion about “Indian philosophy.” My own private nirvana trumped whatever he was selling.

David Chang, I am thy humble servant

Today I had the good fortune of dropping by Momofuku Bakery and Milk Bar on 13th and 2nd Ave when it wasn’t packed with customers. The place is plastered with signs saying “take a number” and the deli counter-style number dispenser and red LED “now serving” sign were very evident. But only one hipster couple separated me from pastry chef Christina Tosi’s sublime creations. I ordered the malted chocolate soft serve with peanut butter halvah. It was served in a small dish, not much bigger than a whiskey glass, with one of those Baskin Robbins teeny-tiny sample spoons. Soft serve. I never knew it could be like this. The peanut halvah was crunchy and buttery, with just the right amount of nuttiness to complement the tang of the malt and sweet bitterness of the chocolate. I kept waiting for the taste to go sour on me, but it held up perfectly – this was no funky Pinkberry. I marveled at the ultra-smooth and even texture. Not an air bubble in sight. As I neared the bottom of the cup, I discovered a hidden layer of halvah. It was like finding a forgotten Christmas present on New Year’s day.  I could have cried.

Marooned in Chelsea

Maroons, a southern and Jamaican restaurant on 16th St between 7th and 8th Aves., certainly delivers on its promise of food, family, and home. Saturday night in the dining room reminded me of family dinners at home – noisy, chaotic, and competitive, unsparing of anyone’s feelings. When our (large) party was finally seated, we were told in no uncertain terms to get down to ordering, eating, and clearing out, because there was another party of 16 fast on our heels. Great start to an evening, eh? No worries, we didn’t intend to linger over the food here, anyway. The menu was packed with decadent soul food classics and accented with savory Caribbean dishes. I went with the fried chicken, served with mac and cheese and collard greens, with catfish fingers and cod fritters to start. The cod fritters were the weakest dish of the night. The outer crust was leathery, the inside tasted mealy and fishy, and the whole concoction was covered with a hot-sweet sauce that my table-mate aptly described as “General Tso’s sauce.” The catfish fingers were a different story altogether – flaky white meat, battered and fried, spicy, and not at all greasy. The fried chicken was outstanding. The portion size was gargantuan, at least a half a chicken (a healthy, schoolyard bully-type of chicken). The crisp browned coating had a nice kick and meshed beautifully with the moist, flavorful meat and the fragrant collard greens (the mac and cheese I could take or leave). There were several birthdays being celebrated last night, including one in my party. Each time, the servers would turn out the lights, start clapping, and sing Happy Birthday, a la Stevie Wonder, to the rafters. Sitting there in the candlelight, suffused in the warmth of good company and soul-recharging food, I considered myself very lucky indeed.

Porchetta mia

I had to see what the fuss was all about. Time Out New York editors named the porchetta sandwich at Porchetta the best thing they ate or drank in 2008. This unassuming (but delicious looking) pork sandwich seemed an unlikely choice for this honor, so off went I to check it out before all of the other New York foodies stampeded the place and started bringing down standards. Porchetta, on 7th St. between 1st Ave. and Avenue A, serves up the meat in tiny premises no bigger than my current apartment. Most of the floor space is occupied by huge ovens which slow-roast the porchetta, the heady assemblage of boned pork loin, pork belly, aromatic herbs and spices, garlic, sage, rosemary, and wild fennel pollen.

I ordered the sandwich, which consists of slices of porchetta on ciabatta. Curiosity got the better of me before I even reached 1st Ave., so I took shelter from the snow under a store awning, unwrapped the brown paper (a nice touch), and took in the sandwich. It was smaller than I thought it’d be, not much bigger than my hand. The ciabatta was lovingly made, crusty yet yielding. With the first few bites, I concentrated on the flavoring of the porchetta. The seasoning was subtle, letting the natural flavors of the pork dominate, but the herby undercurrent still sparked strange rustic visions. I was a peasant farmer in Italy, taking my midday meal in a undulating field of wheat. The next few bites, I concentrated on the textures. The pork was drier than I wanted, but didn’t seem overcooked. Every now and again, I’d hit an especially fatty bit of meat and the pork would just start singing. I was less pleased with the crisped pieces of skin that were surprisingly, off-puttingly hard. Think pork jaw-breakers, folks. Overall, I enjoyed the sandwich. Perhaps you saw me there on 7th St., mmming and ahhhing over my sandwich, licking 70 percent of my fingers. However, the feeling was more like than love; Porchetta showed me something new but didn’t end up changing my life.

Roll with it, baby

New York’s been an absolute icebox the last few days, so today I sought out summer on a plate – the classic New England lobster roll. Growing up on Long Island, I have always felt a strong kinship with the coastal states to the north, a shared love of the sea and shore, lighthouses, and especially seafood cooked in shacks. Even though I get horribly sick on boats, have only sailed once in my life (and got horribly sick), and sank my only peacoat in Central Park lake, I can’t help but mythologize the crisp Yankee lifestyle. So, in search of a little food therapy, I walked into Ed’s Lobster Bar on Lafayette and Spring St. 

It’s a narrow space, with a long marble bar running nearly the length of the restaurant. I was greeted warmly at the bar and invited to take any seat (Ed’s does not take reservations). Looking around, I admired the clean, uncluttered design. Lots of whites, grays, and silvers. Not a lobster trap in sight. I decided to start with a bowl of New England Clam Chowder and have the lobster roll as my main course. I spied a delicious sounding “muddled lemonade or limeade” on the menu, so I ordered a glass of limeade. My server made the limeade in front of me, forcefully muddling several lime wedges over sugar with a wooden implement, and adding ice and water. It was the most delicious and refreshing drink that I’ve had in a long time. The clam chowder was expertly done, with perfectly cut pieces of clam, onion, and bacon floating in a creamy broth, garnished with an in-shell clam and fresh chives. The lobster roll was packed with a generous serving of lobster, mayo, and chives sitting neatly in a well-buttered and toasted bun. On the side were golden french fries, seasoned with sea salt and a serving of Ed’s pickles, which are thin slices of cucumber steeped in vinegar. The lobster roll at Ed’s is of the “dry” variety, which means much less mayo than the rolls served at someplace like Mary’s Fish Camp. It was a good roll, but I felt that the meat was too shredded (I prefer chunks), and the flavor of the lobster was a mite too fishy and briny and not quite sweet enough (paying $27 for anything served on a hot dog bun can make one a little hyper-critical). Still, it was a wonderful lunch and I’m sure I’ll be back the next teeth-chattering day.

Indecent proposal

Earlier this week, I was on my way to the playground with my son, when I noticed an agitated looking Asian man trying to make eye contact with me. I am often accosted by agitated Asian people, so I figured that this one would be disposed of by the usual “I’m sorry, I don’t speak [Korean, Chinese, Japanese, Tagalog, etc.].” But this guy was seriously persistent. He was saying something to me about his car and beckoning me to come with him. I had my son in the stroller so I was very wary, but I followed him halfway down the block to his minivan. He jabbed his finger at the passenger side window. Ok, I’ll bite. I peeked inside and saw his car keys lying on the passenger seat. Ouch. Just as I was about to say something bland about coat hangers and triple-A, he walked to the back of the minivan and opened a small rear window. He gestured at my son and then I finally get it. This guy wanted me to put my two-year old baby boy IN that window and somehow convince him to scramble over two rows of seats to the front of the vehicle, retrieve the keys, and return to sweet freedom of the back window. Uh-huh. I declined. Some people will do anything to save a buck.

Bloomington burger blues

This post comes to you from the Hoosier heartland, good old Bloomington, Indiana. I’m vacationing in this storied college town with my family and keeping my hungry eyes peeled for memorable eats. A go-to fine dining restaurant here is the Scholars Inn, a gourmet cafe and wine bar on North College Road. The owners and executive chef Jake Brenchley have done a great job creating a warm and relaxed dining experience, with sharp service and a tantalizing and accessible menu. I ordered a Caesar salad to start, described as ”Romaine hearts, bell peppers, brioche croutons, and basil caesar dressing.” For my main course, the truffled aged filet burger, “8 oz. filet mignon and prime beef patty, braised mushrooms, white truffle oil, and confit steak fries.” I literally rubbed my hands together in anticipation.

The salad was amazing. Half a dozen long, uncut stalks of crisp Romaine presented horizontally on a rectangular plate, evenly dressed with a hearty Caesar dressing. The sweetness of the peppers contrasted beautifully with the bite of the dressing. One of the most modest Caesars I’ve ever had –  why do so many restaurants seem to think that a good salad has to be big enough to do a snow angel in?  – but one of the best. After that lip-smacking start, the burger turned out to be a real disappointment. The patty was rich and flavorful, wonderously beefy. Hallelujah! Everything else was a mess. For starters, the bun was an onion roll, which neither fit the flavor nor the the character of the burger. An onion roll. It was like putting foie gras on pizza dough. The mushrooms and truffle oil made the top half of the burger soggy, oily, and too darned rich. The bottom of the burger was strewn with a medley of fresh green herbs, which I cast aside with undisguised disdain. Herb somebody else’s burger, why don’t you? The whole package was confused and prissy and not worth the price of admission. The steak fries were right on point, though. Golden brown, peppered, spud perfection.

Slap happy

My son has taken to pummeling me lately. I’ll be carrying him down the street, maybe headed to the park or a local shop, remarking on the weather, pointing out semi-domesticated animal friends, when all of a sudden, he’ll rear back and crack me one across the cheek. Then he laughs. Loudly. The first time this happened, I was so shocked and taken aback that I started laughing too. Big mistake. Emboldened and encouraged by my laughter, eyes aglitter, he started whaling away with the rapidity of a lawn sprinkler. I had to put him down I was laughing so hard. 

He’s also into head-butting. This is a more serious matter, since his head is just tremendous, a real wrecking ball. He’ll lower his head into my jaw and erupt in peals of laughter. Before I can get the first “hey, stop that” out, he’s head-butted me again. And again. I try the advanced parenting stuff I think I know. “Kiddo, when you hit me with your head, that hurts me.” He responds with raucous laughter and another head-butt. My only option for preserving my jaw and his head is to carry him home under my arm, like the Sunday paper.

Eating the East Village

If I could move anywhere in the city right now, strictly for eating purposes, it would be the East Village. The diversity of the restaurant scene, the boldness of the chefs, and the accessibility of the experiences (except for Momofuku Ko, I suppose) is unmatched. If you’re young, hungry, and don’t mind dropping your hard-earned cash on night life and good meals, head on over to the land of thin jeans, cigarettes, Bustelo, and barely camouflaged yuppies. Tonight, I sampled two places that had been on my radar for some time, Setagaya Ramen on 1st Ave. at 9th St. and Crif Dogs on St. Mark’s Place near Ave. A.

Setagaya’s ramen is shio style, which means that salt is used as a key flavoring agent in the broth (as opposed to soy sauce). The broth is clear-brown with gorgeous yellow fat globules floating on top. Very flavorful and light-bodied, without the in-your-face porkiness of a tonkotsu ramen broth. After experiencing the blast furnace-heated broth at Ippudo, I was somewhat disappointed in the merely mortal temperature of Setagaya’s. The noodles were the best part of the meal, beautifully cooked, with a nice rebound after each and every chew. The accompaniments (pork, bamboo shoots, seaweed, scallions, egg) were very good but not profound. The pork slices were thin and (I felt) overcooked, but the half egg, teetering on the edge of hard/soft-boiledness (and on its way into my food item hall of fame) definitely got and kept my attention.

Crif Dogs had me at hello. But, admittedly, deep-fat fried hot dogs are not exactly the hardest sell for me. I chowed down on a Good Morning dog, which consists of a bacon-wrapped hot dog, fried egg, and slice of American cheese, on a Wonder-bread soft hot dog bun. The bacon was perfectly crisped and melded to the juicy hot dog like a second skin. The egg and cheese helped round out the subversive, breakfast-as-dinner feeling of eating this dog. Another protein rush, but no aggression this time. The waffle fries were forgettable but the RC cola, dark, lush, co-la tasting cola, was just delightful.