New Year, New Lobster

Every New Year's Day, my best friend, whom I refer to as SWF (Smart Wine Friend) and I have a lobster dinner. This started 8-9 years ago, though the origins are somewhat unclear. Legend has it that there was an old ogre named ... eh. Screw it. The real beginnings were more like this:

SWF: Hey Courtster. Wanna come over for lobster tomorrow?
Me: Uh Duh. Yes.

That first dinner was pretty slamming and since then the tradition has kept up, hangovers not withstanding. Every year we have been getting a little more hardcore culminating in our rendition of Thomas Keller's Butter Poached Lobster on Sauteed Leeks with Pommes Maxim and a Beet Reduction last year. Now smart wine friend is the pragmatic one. He is organized, neat and always insists on impeccable presentation. I, on the other hand, am over-ambitious, under-skilled and not the least bit organized.

But this year, we kept it simple. Neither of us were feeling up to butter poaching, or stacking Portale style, a lobster claw on top of its tail, on top of a puree and underneath some fried thing, much less leaving the warm confines of our apartments with our significant others in tow.

Canneloni was the initial thought weeks ago, before New Year's Eve reveling got in the way. But neither of us could agree on a sauce and on the day of, neither of us wanted to drag out the pasta maker.
Plain old boiled lobster or roasted lobster would have been simple but neither of us could fathom boiling something and just throwing it on a plate.

There were emails. Recipes. Arguments. Smoke Signals. Mom Jokes. And finally we settled on:
http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/spicy-lobster-noodle-salad

Jean-Georges Vongerichten's Spicy Asian Noodle and Lobster recipe it was. Light enough to satisfy the requirements of most New Year's resolutions, spicy enough to get your taste buds going, yet hearty enough to fill us all up. The only subs we made were using Bean threads instead of cellophane noodles and Elderflower syrup instead of Elderflower Cordial (the latter being much thinner than the former, but an equivalent amount of syrup was fine in this recipe.)

The final product:

Looks a little weird in the picture, but was beautiful in person (my mom used to say that about me a lot when I was a kid). And delicious. Hopefully 2010 will continue to be just that: delicious, light, beautiful and a little spicy.

Chicken Stock

At some point in my life I became moderately obsessed with stocks. No not like "Hi I'm Bernard Madoff and I love spooning with my cellmate because I sold bad" stocks. I'm talking chicken, beef, and veal stocks. Like the bowl cut I had in kindegarten (see Exhibit A), I am not entirely sure why this came to be, but it has. I am fairly certain that Nina Planck's Real Food had something to do with it. I am also relatively certain that it had something to do with my rather unattractive Type-A-I-Must-Control-Everything personality that my 11th therapist told me was irrational. I am positively sure, that it also had something to do with money, because my first 8 years in New York City were spent being broke, tired and hungry. In that order.

Exhibit A: Yeah... you want the knee socks don't you?

Now stocks and stockmaking techniques are essential for so many delicious things. All sauces. Soups. Stews. Remouillage. Broths. Fumes. And unlike my paycheck... a little goes a long way. Now if you are a stock virgin (which we all are at some point), there are a few principals that all good stocks obey. In no particular order, they are:

1. Impurities are bad. Bone stocks are delicious but there are a lot of impurities in bones. Blood. Cartilage. Fat. All of these things will leave a good stock looking (and tasting) like the East River (google it if you do not know what the glorious East River looks like). The "impurities" by the way, end up looking like a gross gray brown foam on the stop of your stock. And getting rid of these impurities is essential. There are a variety of ways to do this. Like most, Thomas Keller espouses skimming and a very slow simmer. But skimming every 5 minutes is only fun for approximately the first 5 minutes... after that it is the equivalent of watching wet furniture dry, Thoreau style. Tom Colicchio swears by a 2 minute impurity removing pre-boil. I was fairly resistant to this at first. All those yummy flavors literally down the drain. But this method (which is my current favorite) does not lose a lot of flavor though it does get rid of a lot of impurities. And then you can skim a little less frequently.

2. Low and Slow. I had a Home-Ec teacher in junior high school named Miss Bacon. Really I did. And whenever we cooked with milk, she would chant, "Low and Slow". Like the lyrics to "Islands in the Stream", those words play back in my head at rather inopportune moments (e.g. during college soccer games). But for stock-making, low and slow is key. Rapid boiling will recirculate impurities back into the stock. Always start with cold water. Warm slowly. And keep at a low simmer. Thomas Keller recommends one bubble per second.

3. Bones first. You can't skim once your veggies go in (because a lot of them are floaters). So simmer your bones first and once you are impurity free (and after about 2 hours... or whichever is longer) add your veggies.

4. Strain. Yeah, you think your skimming got all of the impurities out? You're WRONG like that MTV show "Jersey Shore". And that is where this final step is sort of important. When your stock is done it must be strained. Now Thomas Keller has all this fancy stuff, but a piece of doubled over cheese cloth in a sieve has worked perfectly fine for me. He recommends ladeling the stock into the sieve because pouring can force some of the chunks right on through. Ladel. Pour. Ultimately it is your decision, but I've already drank the Ladel Punch and that is where I stay.

4. Chicken Feet. Cow Feet. With those 4 words, I probably lost both of my readers as fast as I turn off a Cagney and Lacey re-run. And there is something weird about looking at unpedicured chicken toe nails (nee claws), that seems about as appealing as being one of Tiger Woods's girlfriends. But take my word, they do add a lot of flavor, they find a nice use for what is often considered waste, and nutritionally there is a lot of protein is those little feet.

5. Fat. I have no problem with chicken fat, but a fatty stock makes for a greasy soup/stew/sauce or whatever it is that you are making. So after my stock is done, I bring my stock to room temperature and stick it in the refrigerator overnight. Thomas Keller does this ice "shock" thing, but I don't have an ice maker and my little 12 cube tray doesn't fit the bill. The good thing about animal fat in cooking is that it solidifies and is easy to remove. The bad thing about animal fat in your body is that it solidifies and is NOT easy to remove. And not for nothing... (my English teacher just rolled over in her grave with that last piece of fine writing) there is a reason that the day after every Thanksgiving is like winning the lottery for most plumbers. Don't throw this stuff down your sink. Really. Unless you think your plumber is hot. If that's the case, throw it all down there... and find yourself a good therapist.

6. Garbage in... There is a difference between being resourceful and using disgusting. Stocks make good use of things that you might otherwise throw away (bones, etc.). Stocks are NOT, however, good hiding places for rotten vegetables. Garbage in = Garbage out.

7. The Great Celery Debate. Typical stocks use leeks, onions, and carrots. But celery... It depends which camp you join. Thomas Keller and the saucier's at Le Ferrandi do not add celery. They think it is too strong for a good stock or demi-glace. Tom Colicchio will use celery. Alice Waters uses it in her broths. Who is right? Well, I've never done a randomized, double blinded placebo controlled trial to be honest, but no celery means one less thing I have to buy (or one more thing for me to munch on while I skim). And thus, for no particular reason, I've joined the celery-free camp.

8. Brown stocks. You can make brown stocks brown by doing two things. First, you have to roast the bones. Second you add tomato paste. Lest you get romantic ideas of deep brown stocks arising from lovely roasted bones, the brown coloring of these stocks comes from the addition of tomato paste. (Sorry to disappoint you.) Tomato haters: don't worry. the tomato paste is not for flavor. And roaster beware: if you burn your bones you might as well just stop there. Burned bones make a ridiculously bitter stock. Don't bother. I found this out the hard way and expensive way while making demi-glace.

9. Herbs. To add bouquet garnis, or not add bouquet garnis. That is the question. Well sort of. It really depends what you are using your stock for. I tend to add it. Plus it is a great way to use the stalks (as opposed to the leaves) of your parsley. So I throw in some parsley stocks and a few sprigs of thyme.

10. A 10th rule would have been nice. Lots of good things come in 10's. But my rules for stocks do not. Sorry.

Stuffing and other such matters

Stuffing is a bit like underwear. When you are little, you take what your mother gives you. It may inform your later choices. It may cause a deep-seated aversion later in life. But as a youngster, you are a captive audience to your parents' stuffing whims.

Stuffing is also a bit like meatloaf. You can put anything in it, for better or for worse. When I was a child, my then unmarried uncle had us over for dinner. Meatloaf was the cuisine du jour, and it came as quite a surprise to all that it was actually very good. My dad, being my uncle's brother, commended him, "This is pretty good, Jerry. What did you put in it?"

"Everything left in my refrigerator, " he replied, smiling proudly.
"Sour cream, carrots, raisins, mayonnaise, bread, beer...."

I watched my little sister hold back a gag. She was the child who did not like the food on her plate touching and insisted until the age of 14 that all foods went to separate sections in her stomach. Conveniently the dessert section of her stomach, much like a David Hasselhoff concert, always seemed to be empty.

I'm not sure what bothered me more. The fact that I liked the meatloaf, or the fact that you could hide any food in that meatloaf. I became convinced that meatloaf was some sort of culinary conspiracy, capable of hiding anything within its meaty center. But either way, it took another 25 years for me to eat meatloaf again.

Now, I was raised on sausage stuffing. My Italian grandmother made stuffing that was 100% meat: sausage to be specific. My mother added her own mom-tastic blend of bread, Stove-Top, mushrooms, veggies and spices. Over the years I've been working on my own stuffing, and it does, of course, contain sausage. To me stuffing without sausage is like a pool without water. You could... but really, what's the fun in that?

There have, of course been many mis-stuffs along the way. The year of white wine in the stuffing was not a good one. And the year of brioche also tasted pretty terrible. There was another year where I decided "rustic" was the order of the day, but the super large cubes didn't say "rustic"; they screamed "inside out sandwich".

And so it is with no small degree of pride that I present:

The Trial and Error Contessa's Thanksgiving Sausage Stuffing

(because, as always, being barefoot is overrated)

This recipe makes a 14x10 glass pan of stuffing as well as a small 9 x 9 glass pan. It serves a small army.

Bread:

I'm a big fan of plain and simple. But I took a rule from the strata rule book which says: dry out your bread to get rid of the bready-water so that it will soak up all your stuffing-y goodness.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Slice 2 French baguettes into 1/2 inch cubes. Place cubes in a rimmed sheet pan in a single layer and toast for approximately 20-25 minutes. Don't layer it, or your under layers will stay soft. It may take a couple of pans to get everything toasted.

Sausage and Veggies:

Uncase and saute one pound of spicy Italian pork sausage and one pound of sweet Italian pork sausage. As I put it into the pan, I rip it into 1 inch chunks which makes breaking it up a little easier, instead of chasing large chunks around the pan with a wooden spoon. Cook sausage until just slightly pink in center. Cooking to fully done will make for VERY done sausage in your stuffing. Put your stuffing in a big huge mixing bowl. Don't even think about mixing your stuffing in your glass pan. It is a bad idea and results in stuffing stuck to your pan, not to mention a mess.

When the sausage is done, use the fat left from the sausage to saute your chopped veggies. You can play around with this. I use 3 (peeled, chopped) carrots, (4 stalks, chopped) celery and (2 large, chopped) onion, but certainly this is up for grabs. As this sautes, add chifonnaded sage (about 6-8 leaves), fresh thyme (2-3 tablespoons), and 2 T chopped rosemary. I also add some red pepper flakes, though this is purely optional.

When veggies are tender, add to big fat mixing bowl.

Liquids and Extras:

Now this is a matter of taste, for sure, but I like a moist stuffing, but not a custardy stuffing and I certainly love a crispy top. Because of this I combine 3 cups give or take of chicken stock and 1-2 cups of heavy cream together and then add these to the stuffing. Fold in the liquids until all the bread pieces are moist but not swimming in liquid.

This is when I add extra yummies. This year I added 1 cup of dried cranberries, 2 chopped and peeled Granny Smith apples, 1 cup of pecans (toasted in a hot pan, tossing frequently, until slightly browned and nutty smelling, but not burned!) and 1/2 - 1 cup of chopped flat leaf parsley. (No, please don't use that curly parsley. It's useless.)

This is when I add salt and pepper to taste, because once you add your raw eggs, you probably aren't going to want to do the "taste" part of "to taste". Taste some bread with a bit of sausage because the sausage adds a lot of salt and if you don't taste it with the bread, you will over-salt your stuffing.

Whisk 4 large eggs together and add to the mix as well. Spread this mixture into buttered ceramic or glass pans. These can be refrigerated up to 12 hours. Make sure that you take your stuffing out of the refrigerator about 45 minutes prior to cooking so that it comes to room temperature.

When your turkey comes out to turkey perfection, increase your oven head to 425 degrees. Once heated, cook your stuffing, covered with foil, for 35 minutes. Remove foil for the final 15 minutes of your cooking if you like a crispy top.

The Morning After

As the sun rose, and the dust cleared, one thing was certain: Nothing was left. The rising sun slowly drew an outline around each remnant of the prior day's battle. There was no evidence of the lives that were at that very spot just 12 hours prior. Only carnage and refuse. In this battle, there were no victors. And somewhere, in the distance, just barely audible above the wind rifling through the previous day's remains, the soft sound of "Taps"played.

(insert record scratching sound here)

Yeah, that's bullshit. Let's throw it out there: I've declared victory against my age old nemesis; the Puddy Tat to my Tweety bird; the Tom to my Jerry: The Turkey. This is a victory on a grande scale: so grande that the word grande deserved that extra "e".

So what was on the menu?
Turkey: As I mentioned prior, I had considered dry brining. Certainly would have been far easier given my space limitations, but because my DiPaola's turkey didn't arrive until the day before Thanksgiving I was left with a wet brine. I used Alton Brown's Good Eats recipe, with a couple of tweaks.

Stuffing: There are only two reasons for Thanksgiving to exist: football and stuffing. Growing up, my grandmother, who is Italian, made a bread-less stuffing. I get quizzical looks from most people. "Did she stuff it with air?" ask my favorite anorexics, their eyes glittering with excitement. But, no, my grandmother's stuffing was pure unadulterated sausage. Now before you make some snide comment about a pig crawling up a turkey's ass... well what do you think a terducken is? Now, I've never been able to embrace full-on sausage stuffing for myself, but every year, my stuffing has a healthy dose of pork-a-liciousness. This year I think I have come upon the magic formula.

Pumpkin Soup: I hate making pies. It is the whole crust thing. I hate rolling out pie crust, and the thought of a store-bought crust makes me feel like a David Beckham-size sell-out.  But a Thanksgiving without pumpkin is like a Christmas without a kid peeing on mall Santa's lap: Yeah... it's still Christmas, but it's a lot less fun. And so this year, in lieu of pumpkin pie, I made pumpkin soup. I was going to make Bobby Flay's Pumpkin Soup, but after reading the reviews, I ended up changing it up quite a bit.

Cranberry Sauce: I make a damn good cranberry sauce. I've made approximately 583 types of cranberry sauce, and I think that all of them have been pretty damn good. And yet, every year, 80% of each goes uneaten. (The line my dad used to pound into my head, comes to mind: "Courtney, maybe it's not everyone else. Maybe it's you.") Bearing this in mind, and with my therapist's phone number clenched tightly in my fist, I took a different route this year. Most complain that cranberry sauce is too sour. So I soured up something sweet instead: I made Brian's Pickled Raisins from Susan Goin's cookbook.

Green Beans: I figured a lack of green on the table would be a mistake, and though my preference would have been brussel sprouts, roasting them for an hour would have been impractical. So green beans almondine with lemon it was.... courtesy of the amazing Alice Waters.

Rolls: yeah. I bought these. And then... I forgot to serve them. Oops.

Chocolate Terrine and Caradamom Creme Anglaise: I make Thomas Keller's recipes with very little regularity because I actually have a day job. But Thomas Keller's Chocolate Terrine is easy to make and can be made up to 3 days ahead. His Bouchon version is served with Creme Anglaise and hand peeled pistachios (See: "Day Job"). And so for this iteration, I served it with something that didn't require hand peeling little green nuts: Cardamom Creme Anglaise.

Goat Cheese and Pumpkin Panna Cotta: Approximately 3 hours before guests were to arrive, I panicked: What if there wasn't enough food? Or wine? Or even worse than all of these things: dessert? And so, thinking about as lucidly as Kanye at the VMA's, I decided to come up with a dessert. This is it.

Recipes will follow... I'm going to go eat some stuffing.

Turkey

There are few foods that give me more anxiety than Thanksgiving Turkey. Perhaps it is really post-traumatic turkey disorder. Thanksgiving turkey anxiety started approximately 4 years ago.  I was a resident, on home-call for Thanksgiving. Having never made a turkey before, I naively thought, "What's a turkey? It is really just a big chicken."

Yeah, that's like telling a Pediatrician that children are just small adults.

The trouble started the night prior to Thanksgiving. Being used to dashing into Whole Foods or some other market, and getting a cute, but dead, 3 pound chicken, I left the turkey purchase until the day before. Unfortunately one of my patients decided to come into the ER bleeding, and I didn't get out of work until midnight the night before Thanksgiving. So instead of a lovely, free-range, organic turkey, I was left staring at mass-market birds perched, frozen solid as rocks, under fluorescent lights bearing names such as Hickory Hills and Green Acres.

Being rather sure that my turkey had never seen hickory, hills or any sort of green acre, I walked home, lugging the equivalent of an 8 pound ball of ice, back to my apartment, muttering curse words at the store manager who had not thawed the birds the night before Thanksgiving, and not really placing blame on the person who deserved it most... me.

A quick google search, and I came upon the cold water method of thawing a turkey. This involved sticking your turkey in a pot and rinsing it with cold water, frequently changed, until the bird was in a state where it would no longer shatter when dropped from 10 stories. Now this all sounded good and easy, but google failed to mention that as my turkey thawed, my fingers would freeze.

I proceeded to mutter more curse words, this time at google, at 1am.

At approximately 2:30am, I had the turkey thawed to the point where I could remove the giblets from its rear. I reached one of my numb and frozen hands into the turkey's rear and with a quick snap of ice, a bag of giblets and a turkey head went flying into my sink.

I don't really remember what happened next.

When I came to, the turkey (thankfully) was not on the floor, though I was, shaking at the thought of pulling a turkey's head out its ass with my bare hands. Now I've always been a bit squeamish about what my friend calls "Food with a Face", regardless of how ugly or cute that face is. Hypocritical, I know, but it is a problem I face every time I cook a lobster or avoid a whole fish.

By 4am, I felt fairly comfortable that the turkey, sans head, that had frozen my hands and given me a heart attack, was thawed to the point of being cookable that afternoon.

After 4 hours of fitful sleep, dreaming of turkey heads falling from the sky like hail, I awoke and consulted the world of the internet on how to cook a turkey... because clearly everything on the internet is true. In A Cook's Bible, Christopher Kimball had eschewed brining chickens, and since his recipes had never let me astray, I eschewed all recipes involving brine. And since "Mon Poulet Roti" is my favorite Thomas Keller recipe (and perhaps the only one I make with any regularity), I went for high heat until my turkey's thigh was of the appropriate temperature.

Did I mention that turkeys are not big chickens?

Well, thank goodness for gravy, and the good patience of my guests. That Thanksgiving was a dark meat Thanksgiving and the breast meat ended up simply being the butt of future turkey jokes. (What's tougher and harder than Courtney's turkey? Joan Rivers.)

Two years later I was forced into yet another turkey episode. Determined not to face another Great Turkey (are not big Chickens) Debacle, I started researching turkey roasting methods a month ahead of time. I had a new boyfriend of only a few months, and I was determined not to have him make turkey jokes for the rest of our relationship, regardless of how long or short that time was.

"Why don't you braise your turkey? Mark Bittman does it. Turkeys are really not built for roasting, " said my Smart Wine Friend (SWF), whom I've known since I was 4 years old. Of course at that time, he was not a Smart Wine Friend, he was just a Smart Friend.

"I know," he continued. "You want that Norman Rockwell moment when the big fat turkey comes to the table."

In theory I did, even though my "dining room" table was merely a 36 inch round piece of particle board coated with cheap beige laminate, circa early 1990's K-mart. But determined to conquer my Turkey-Phobia, I moved forward.

Dry brining, as it happened, had become de rigueur in the years since the Great Turkey Debacle, and so dry brining it would be. Oddly, the concept of dry brining came to most people's consciousness via Judy Rodgers' Zuni Cafe Cookbook recipe for, of all things, chicken. Several people immediately espoused the idea, including Russ Parsons of the LA Times. Every year since 2006, Mr. Parsons had written about, added and tweaked his version of a dry-brined "Judy bird", starting with a full on, LA Times turkey-roast-off in 2006.
http://www.latimes.com/theguide/holiday-guide/food/la-fo-turkeycontest,0,3586629.story

Needless to say, the dry-brined turkey won the LA times turkey contest, neck and wings above the rest. (Sorry, I couldn't resist that one.) And with Martha Stewart dry brining and Cooks Illustrated dry brining... really, how could I say no? (Even if the recipe came from a chicken) And so I embarked upon a 3 day salting expedition of a 12 pound bird, using a bit more than the recommended 1 tablespoon of kosher salt per 5 pounds of turkey rule.

It wasn't bad, but it wasn't great. I ordered an organic, free-range turkey from Gramercy Meat Market and followed the Parsons' recipe to the letter, with the exception of adding a bit of bay leaf and sage to the salt brine a la Martha.
http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/roasted-dry-brined-turkey
Once again, turkey disappointment. The skin looked a pale and uneven, and the breast meat was pretty dry again despite my rigorous thigh temperature checks. Turkey 2. Me 0.

This year my turkey anxiety started after the Fourth of July. I found out that, once again, I was on-call over Turkey weekend, and thus would not be leaving the isle of Manhattan or my 400 square foot apartment for Thanksgiving. I started reading, studying, reviewing, and taking notes. I've been watching turkey videos the way college boys watch football, living vicariously through someone else's poultry. And I've been having turkey nightmares.

This year, Mr. Parsons will again, be dry brining his turkey.
http://www.latimes.com/theguide/holiday-guide/food/la-fo-calcook18-2009nov18,0,4954438.story
Martha, on the other hand, will be making a turkey that looks like roadkill 
http://www.marthastewart.com/how-to/how-to-spatchcock-a-turkey
(Though, this method will likely lead to a more evenly cooked turkey than anything that I make).
Dean and Deluca will be serving the breast first and putting the thighs back in the oven, and I, well... I was going to give the dry brined turkey another try, fiddle with temperatures, tin foil and flipping. Basically the poultry equivalent of Mary Lou Retton dressed like Liberace in my oven.

However, I ordered my turkey from DiPaola's turkey farm, and it is arriving the day before Thanksgiving essentially nixing the dry-brining option. (From all my research, if you dry-brine for only a day or two, you will end up with a dehydrated bird that never got to rehydrate itself.) And so, this year, I shall be wet brining in my 20 square foot kitchen. My boyfriend (yes, the same guy, stayed with me despite my dry turkey last year) has been laughing at my turkey nightmares, my turkey video watching and my basic obsession over November 26th. But Big-Chicken be damned.

This year, I will win.

My Last Meal

NYC restaurants come and go, much like Mariah Carey's mustache in "Precious" and Lindsay Lohan's addictions in real life. (Well, actually, maybe the latter never really "go", they just sort of mutate.) And though I'd be hard pressed to tell you what my favorite restaurant is, I'm never at a loss for my favorite dishes. So here we go, in no particular order: these are some of my favorite dishes from restaurants big and small. No doubt this list will need to be updated again, maybe when Mariah grows a beard.

LA ESQUINA: Tortilla Soup this soup is thicker and less limey than your average tortilla soup. It has plenty of shredded chicken and adobo and, unlike most, the tortillas are always crunchy. There will definitely be a blog about this in the future.
RAOUL'S: Frisee Lardons: you want the Lardons? You can't handle the Lardons. But for once, it is not just the bacon that makes this densely packed frisee salad stand out. The two dressings are amazing and the blanched, toasted pistachios add both texture and taste. Without a doubt this Frisee puts all others to shame.
BALTHAZAR: French Fries: While some of you are rolling your eyes, I will be stealing your fries. These double fried, well salted, skinny fries are the best I've had short of Thomas Keller's at Bouchon and...
SPOTTED PIG: French Fries: I feel like a kid at an Easter Egg hunt when I get a side of these super-fine fries. They are fried with small slices of garlic and rosemary leaves which may be the best part of the fries.
MAIALINO: Porchetta Sandwich: This is a new addition and will likely be responsible for several inches of fat on my thighs. I'm not quite sure how to describe this delicious porky wonder other than the fact that the pork is all at once salty, creamy and garlicky. And hey! Don't judge a Porchetta by its pricetag, because this sandwich is worth way more than $10.
AROMA KITCHEN and WINE BAR: Calamari: Fried calamari is the food equivalent of Ked Sneakers and tie dye. So yesterday. And you could play a good set of handball with the grilled calamari at most places. But you won't want to throw the calamari at Aroma against a concrete wall. This perfectly cooked calamari is stuffed with a soft, bread based stuffing replete with almonds that add a crunch.
FATTY CRAB: Chicken Rice: Despite the fact that I am Asian, I hate rice. Yeah, yeah. I've heard it all. "Thank goodness you're not still in Asia, or you would have starved." So it was with tremendous skepticism that I put Fatty Crab's Chicken Rice in my mouth at all. But one taste and the rice seemed to be inconsequential next to the rich chicken flavor... without a chunk o' meat in sight. So maybe I do like this rice... but I'd probably still starve in Asian according to some people.
MINETTA TAVERN: Black Label Burger: No doubt you have read other blogs about the "$26 dollar burger" or the "burger that's not really a burger, but more of a steak". That's like saying that Chanel Haute Couture isn't really clothing just because the majority of  us can't fit into it or afford it. It's still clothing. And this is still a burger. Made out of a secret blend of Pat LaFrieda beef, this magical burger is set on a dense half-brioche Balthazar roll and served with slowly sauteed onions. No there is no cheese. Yes, you may get dirty looks if you ask for cheese. But do me a favor, the first time you try it, get it without the cheese. Come on. You can do it. You'll see that adding cheese to your first Black Label is like adding salt to Thomas Keller's food without tasting it first

Restaurant Lowdown: Maialino

Life is full of disappointments. Getting the "Darbie" doll instead of the real "Barbie" doll at Christmas. When college admissions committees decide that your "safety" school really should have been a "reach" school and then that same safety school dings your financial aid. Your prom date (or lack thereof).

This was the disappointment I felt when a small, fairly well known Italian eatery opened on my corner. I liked its LES sister and now it was mine for the eating. Morning, noon or late night. Paninis galore.

But alas. Like my prom, the experience is a let down, and the food is rather dull.

A mere 2.5 blocks further, Danny Meyer opened Maialino in the former Wakiya space in the Gramercy Park Hotel. Now Mr. Meyer is a quintessential host with gracious sensibilities, a discerning palate and a keen eye. I sat next to him once at Ed's Lobster Bar and he was reserved, though kind, and very soft-spoken.

And unlike the Darbie Doll, Danny Meyer has never disappointed me.

The front area (Bar Maialino) consists of a bar and other long high rise tables with barstools where you can dine on wine, salumi, formaggi and small plates. There is a $10 porchetta sandwich, which, may have been one of the finest new pork products to enter my mouth in years. The Italian Kale and Pecorino, was at once light, salty and creamy. And at $13, the eggplant parmigian (which is the most expensive of the small plates) is a hearty, thick cut, not over-cheesed version of my favorite vegetable in a portion that would feed more than 5 models screwing in a lightbulb.

The back of the house is formal dining. (This menu is not available at the bar.)

The wines were reasonably priced by the glass and the quartino and the service was exceedingly gracious and hospitable.

So sayonara little Italian-place-on-my-corner that will disappoint me no more. (If I wanted that, I'd try to on the size 25 jeans that sit in the back of my closet like a wardrobe arch nemesis, taunting my ass.) The extra 2.5 blocks to Maialino is worth it. And I'll need the calorie burn for the porchetta sandwich.