Cairo is fucking loud.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Eats
Soumarelo
Can you really objectively write about a place you visit as much out of some sort of largely baseless love for the owner as much as you visit for the food? Soumarello is such a place. You casually mention to the owner that you’ve heard good things about the soup. Five minutes later there is soup on your table. You spy a large plate that looks interesting heading for a table of five who appear to know how to order. “It’s not on the menu but I can make it for you…right now,” he says. In the end, though, the owner could be a complete monster and Soumarello would still be worth the visit. What do they serve at Soumarello? Whole chickens, as delicate as snowflakes, waiting to be deconstructed and dipped into tiny cups of potent garlic paste. Fragrant rice. Sandwiches filled with crisp falafel and just the right amount of taziki sauce, pickled vegetables and lettuce. Steamy, perfectly savory, chickpea soup. Everything is nice. I will say that I still prefer the mutabal at Zankou.
Ciro’s
Ciro’s appears as I suspect it looked twenty, maybe thirty years ago: wood-paneled walls with generic beer signs placed with no philosophy for design. Comfortable wrap-around booths, perhaps meant for a post burrito slumber, sit next to square tables. A jukebox with
Akasaka
Akasaka can be found on the same lonely stretch of road that contains one of the best lunch spots in the world, Foo Foo Tei. When you first make your way into the restaurant you’re greeted with the sound of water from a bubbling fountain just as you duck your head under the hanging piece of stenciled fabric that marks the way to the main door inside. There’s a small outdoor seating area, but I can’t ever resist the pleasure of sitting inside. Upon entrance you may run into someone, or push the door against their back, as there will likely be a cramped line filling the tiny foyer that you first encounter. If you have a reservation, you’re good. If not, you may be in for a wait. The restaurant is about the size of a master bedroom (at the most) and is divided between the main area and two semi-private side areas (one more private than the other). Signed photos of stars that probably don’t even know they’re stars vie for space with what appear to be family pictures and computer printouts of the roll offerings. There are no windows and no visible doors beside the one you enter through. It’s all a bit cozy to say the least. And in the center of it all, at least spiritually, is the sushi chef, the owner's daughter, handling the customers at the bar and the fish with equal ease.
What about the fish? Everything at Akasaka seems big and bloated. The Rainbow Roll, a plump specimen that as much in common with the Hollenbeck burrito at El Tepeyac as with a Rainbow Roll at any fru-fru LA sushi joint, is worth every bit of the $25 it costs. The Salmon Skin Salad, a not too salty marriage of large amounts of crisp salmon skin, avocado and daikon radish sprouts, is sometimes more salmon than salad, but consistently good. There’s a great seafood udon bowl containing (you guessed it) a pile of sea-going creatures swimming in a briny broth that reminds you of where they came from. And then there are combination platters that combine decent teriyaki with sashimi. The only downer I’ve ever really had here is the $65 platter combo, sort of the combination “boat” of Akasaka. It seemed a little long on fried chicken and tempura in comparison to the other stuff. Not so much my thing. Returning to their strengths, though, I followed it up, on my next visit, with the Chirashi Sushi bowl I spied on a neighboring table on my previous visit. The dish contains 20-25 pieces of sashimi- salmon, shrimp, yellowtail, tuna, liver, uni, scallop, squid and more, sitting simply and unadorned, the way I like it most- neatly arranged atop a bowl of sweetly seasoned rice topped with tempura flakes. You even get the shrimp head, deep-fried as an appetizer.
My Taco
I would eat at My Taco once, maybe twice, a year. Or maybe more, depending on whether I find something other than the house specials, Barbacoa and Carne Asada Fries (both pictured above). Don’t get me wrong, both are delicious. The Carne Asada fries is a generous portion of potatoes topped with delicate chunks of beef, cheese and a healthy dollop of guacamole. The large order of ever so slightly charred Barbacoa drips with something I’ll call “flavor,” and is accompanied with small tortillas, chopped onion, cilantro and a cup of liquid fat meant for dipping, dressing or submersion. It’s all very wonderful, paired with chipotle salsa, pureed avocado and charred jalapenos, and could probably satisfy a family of four or an NFL lineman. My hesitation to head back anytime soon lies solely with the burden of an increasingly health-focused conscience that holds a particular aversion to foods in which I can actually feel the fat running down my throat. You can take that as an endorsement.
Asohka the Great
Artesia
Time and place, I guess, affects one’s experience in a restaurant as much as it does one’s experience with a movie, or an album. I could cite endless examples from watching 2001 at an actual theatre to seeing an old Kurasawa with the rain beating on your window to listening to a Merle Haggard record while driving in the deep South. And then there’s Artesia’s Asohka the Great on Christmas Eve, full of Indian-Americans, young and old, some with turbans, some without. Time interacts with place and with food. You have the feeling that everyone else is somewhere ordinary, eating turkey, drinking sparkling grape juice, and you’re doing something that at least seems a bit more extraordinary. I take a cheap pleasure out of the fact that I may be the only native Alabamian in the restaurant. There’s an aural hum that combines with a chilly night, the sight of large Indian families enjoying their meals, and rushing waiters, to offer a feeling that at least seems unique.
We paired Chicken Vindaloo with Palak Paneer, as we often do, and found that, aside from the ambience, one may not have to drive all the way to Artesia for good Indian food, if Asohka does, in fact, produce good Indian food. What we had was great, especially the Potato Paratha, but nothing I haven’t previously found in
Thursday, January 24, 2008
More eats
Ord Noodle (Thai Town)
Somewhere in a cave in northern Thailand, or maybe in some monastery, or maybe in a Bangkok prostitute's suitcase is a secret box containing the recipes for the first two noodle dishes at Ord Noodle. At least that's how I imagine it. "Number one dry, and number two wet." Or maybe it's the other way around. That's the way I order when I don't mistakenly order the less transcendent sukiyaki instead. Medium spice, which is usually more than enough. Taken apart the dishes are micro-repositories of complex spices, sensation-inducers and flavors that might be allowed to speak for a country if an ambassador was busy. Together, they're pretty much the Thai version of McCartney and Lennon. Order a Thai iced tea, sit back in the Eames chairs, and wander around the collage of pictures on the wall. Don't worry about taking it all in the first time as you'll probably be back.
Wahoo's (Everywhere)
Where I head when I don't really want to make a decision. Nothing really brilliant, just clean tasting fish burritos and tacos with a rice and white bean option you should definitely exercise. I'm guessing the skatecore/polaroid design scheme would have been nice when I was 12. Now it's kind of whatever.
El Parian (Los Angeles)
I can be kind of a pussy when it comes to certain foods. I'll try congealed blood cubes. Or grasshoppers. Probably even cow testicles if the opportunity arose. But there's something about dishes that seem to cross way past the far frontiers of heart healthy that pushes me away. The birria at El Parian, cuts of goat drowning in a large bowl of liquid, artery clogging, fat droppings, is one of those. I opted instead for the goat tacos, a seemingly healthy alternative of kid laid out with cilantro and onion on perfectly crafted tortillas with radish on the side. Maybe I saved a few minutes off my life. Maybe not. Was it worth it? Maybe I should ask my friend Will, who actually had the balls to try the real stuff.
Somewhere in a cave in northern Thailand, or maybe in some monastery, or maybe in a Bangkok prostitute's suitcase is a secret box containing the recipes for the first two noodle dishes at Ord Noodle. At least that's how I imagine it. "Number one dry, and number two wet." Or maybe it's the other way around. That's the way I order when I don't mistakenly order the less transcendent sukiyaki instead. Medium spice, which is usually more than enough. Taken apart the dishes are micro-repositories of complex spices, sensation-inducers and flavors that might be allowed to speak for a country if an ambassador was busy. Together, they're pretty much the Thai version of McCartney and Lennon. Order a Thai iced tea, sit back in the Eames chairs, and wander around the collage of pictures on the wall. Don't worry about taking it all in the first time as you'll probably be back.
Wahoo's (Everywhere)
Where I head when I don't really want to make a decision. Nothing really brilliant, just clean tasting fish burritos and tacos with a rice and white bean option you should definitely exercise. I'm guessing the skatecore/polaroid design scheme would have been nice when I was 12. Now it's kind of whatever.
El Parian (Los Angeles)
I can be kind of a pussy when it comes to certain foods. I'll try congealed blood cubes. Or grasshoppers. Probably even cow testicles if the opportunity arose. But there's something about dishes that seem to cross way past the far frontiers of heart healthy that pushes me away. The birria at El Parian, cuts of goat drowning in a large bowl of liquid, artery clogging, fat droppings, is one of those. I opted instead for the goat tacos, a seemingly healthy alternative of kid laid out with cilantro and onion on perfectly crafted tortillas with radish on the side. Maybe I saved a few minutes off my life. Maybe not. Was it worth it? Maybe I should ask my friend Will, who actually had the balls to try the real stuff.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
PCH: Ragged Point to Monterey
Mostly awesome shit from the trip:
1. View from Ragged Point.
2. Heated floors, oatmeal soap and generally awesome aesthetic at Glen Oaks Inn, Big Sur.
3. View of Point Sur.
4. 17 Mile Drive, Pebble Beach, Carmel by the Sea
5. Monterey Bay Aquarium
6. Fish Tacos and Enchiladas at Big Sur Roadhouse
7. Walking in the rain with the redwoods at Big Sur National Park
8. Iron Maiden Pub-picture of Vince Neil on the wall
9. Elephant seals near Hearst Castle
Less than awesome shit from the trip:
1. Cannery Row-While the neighborhood above is kinda charming and affords a nice view of the bay, the old Steinbeck haunt is basically what you would expect: Bubba Gump Shrimp, Starbucks, mini-malls.
2. Most of the food I ate
3. Carmel by the Sea-Kind of like a Thomas Kinkade painting that threw up and became a town. Thomas Kinkade has some sort of national archive in neighboring Monterey. Honest.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
GOOFIN'
1.The Stranger on the full aural experience that is Tokyo.
2.The NYTimes on food markets.
3.NG takes you around the world in 80 books.
4.One of the greatest travel films ever (I know because I saw it) c/o Werner Herzog
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
More Food in LA
Foo Foo Tei (Hacienda Heights)
Foo Foo Tei is located on a cold palisade of concrete walls and sparse vegetation. It's one of the ugliest streets I've seen since my day stranded in Needles, CA. Somehow it just happens to contain two of my favorite restaurants in LA. If you get to Foo Foo Tei a bit early you might beat the crowds. If not, get ready to wait awhile. Inside, florescent lights and wooden paddles displaying the ramen selections function partially as ambiance, but the real aesthetic is provided by the parade of Japanese Americans-businesspeople and families on weekdays, baseball players, families, and couples on the weekends-huddled over giant steaming bowls of ramen. Aside from the noodles they come for simple dishes of grilled salmon, mackerel and squid, bowls of rice and eel, fried tofu, all waiting to be dressed with massive amounts of the chopped garlic that sits on each table.
Wa (Hollywood)
Started by Matsuhisa expats from what I’ve read, Wa seems to take inspiration from the same Tokyo/Lima pipeline. Wear black, bring an I-phone and acquire a few friends in the industry if you want to blend in. The sushi is fine, though nothing that really gets me excited for the price I paid. Of course, this likely says more about my bank account at the time than it does about the quality of the fish here. I really enjoyed the ceviche, soaked in a savory, cilantro touched pool, served in a martini glass.
Pinkberry (Everywhere)
Pinkberry encapsulates the experience of the sleek and pristine Tokyo healthy yogurt emporium—from the trademark scent that greets you to the minimalist design to the overpriced trinkets that line the shelves—as well as anything I’ve seen outside of Tokyo. Needless to say (I guess), they also seem intent on mimicking the prices. I’m one of those who buy into the scam completely.
Euro Pane (Pasadena)
I’m fairly confident I’ll never see a more effective horror film than The Exorcist. I doubt I’ll ever read a better book than Moby Dick. And I doubt I’ll ever see a better drummer than Hamid Drake. I’m also pretty sure I’ll never enjoy an order of French Toast more than the offering at Pasadena’s Euro Pane. It’s really hard to describe what it is that makes it what it is, although I think it comes down to its texture: grainy in a way and simultaneously delicate, moist but not at all damp. Each piece dissolves in your mouth. What else is there to eat? Flaky croissants with suitably strong coffee, frittata’s and the pear pastries that I order every once in awhile when the French Toast is sold out.
Palm Thai Restaurant (Hollywood)
Not the first place I would go to get Thai food but definitely the first I would go on a Friday night at 10ish to get papaya salad and steamed fish while being serenaded by a Thai Elvis.
Foo Foo Tei is located on a cold palisade of concrete walls and sparse vegetation. It's one of the ugliest streets I've seen since my day stranded in Needles, CA. Somehow it just happens to contain two of my favorite restaurants in LA. If you get to Foo Foo Tei a bit early you might beat the crowds. If not, get ready to wait awhile. Inside, florescent lights and wooden paddles displaying the ramen selections function partially as ambiance, but the real aesthetic is provided by the parade of Japanese Americans-businesspeople and families on weekdays, baseball players, families, and couples on the weekends-huddled over giant steaming bowls of ramen. Aside from the noodles they come for simple dishes of grilled salmon, mackerel and squid, bowls of rice and eel, fried tofu, all waiting to be dressed with massive amounts of the chopped garlic that sits on each table.
Wa (Hollywood)
Started by Matsuhisa expats from what I’ve read, Wa seems to take inspiration from the same Tokyo/Lima pipeline. Wear black, bring an I-phone and acquire a few friends in the industry if you want to blend in. The sushi is fine, though nothing that really gets me excited for the price I paid. Of course, this likely says more about my bank account at the time than it does about the quality of the fish here. I really enjoyed the ceviche, soaked in a savory, cilantro touched pool, served in a martini glass.
Pinkberry (Everywhere)
Pinkberry encapsulates the experience of the sleek and pristine Tokyo healthy yogurt emporium—from the trademark scent that greets you to the minimalist design to the overpriced trinkets that line the shelves—as well as anything I’ve seen outside of Tokyo. Needless to say (I guess), they also seem intent on mimicking the prices. I’m one of those who buy into the scam completely.
Euro Pane (Pasadena)
I’m fairly confident I’ll never see a more effective horror film than The Exorcist. I doubt I’ll ever read a better book than Moby Dick. And I doubt I’ll ever see a better drummer than Hamid Drake. I’m also pretty sure I’ll never enjoy an order of French Toast more than the offering at Pasadena’s Euro Pane. It’s really hard to describe what it is that makes it what it is, although I think it comes down to its texture: grainy in a way and simultaneously delicate, moist but not at all damp. Each piece dissolves in your mouth. What else is there to eat? Flaky croissants with suitably strong coffee, frittata’s and the pear pastries that I order every once in awhile when the French Toast is sold out.
Palm Thai Restaurant (Hollywood)
Not the first place I would go to get Thai food but definitely the first I would go on a Friday night at 10ish to get papaya salad and steamed fish while being serenaded by a Thai Elvis.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Eating LA
Machos Tacos (Los Feliz)
A five minute walk from Machos Tacos takes you to Frank Lloyd Wright's warm, beige, brick ode to the West, the Hollyhock House, complete with a panning view of the LA metro valley. A thirty minute uphill climb takes you to Wright's Ennis Brown House, a toweringly dramatic behemoth of a fortress, built with immense stone bricks, that looks like it might fit in more in 1115 AD Guatemala, and offers an even more ridiculously entrancing view of LA. Both look more like temples than houses. On the way up to the latter you'll likely site innumerable multi-million dollar homes, from expensive haciendas with Spanish tiles, to charming little alpine wannabes with thatched roofs and fairy tale chimneys, to sleek, ultramodern creations of geometry possibly populated by androids. And if you still want more, there's a nice view of Griffith Observatory from the intersection of Los Feliz and Catalina.
Machos Tacos, on the other hand, is not much to look at, at first at least. Sitting on the corner of
Nem Nuong Ninh Hoa (
Zankou (
The mutabal at Zankou is in its own league among the adequate menu of wraps, plates and side items. It may be my favorite single item in LA, at least in the realm of things I would most want to have an endless bowl of as I watch a football game. There's a characteristic smokiness to the product that begs the question of why the owners don't offer a complimentary beer the same way a snooty pub might with good cheese. The chicken wraps, coated with just the right amount of a suitably potent garlic sauce are pretty good as well. As are the pickles. And the tabouli. But make sure you try the mutabal.
In n Out
Mexican greasy spoon on Broadway. The kind of sunny, urban, well-trafficked spot that you're quite sure, upon the first look inside, local Mexican families approve of. Framed culturescapes of
Monday, November 12, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
AWESOME
Kaiseki. Coffin Hotels. Dirty panties in vending machines. Visitor Q. Robot Coke machines that walk the city. The Boredoms. And now...foiling thieves and urban bandits with mailbox, manhole and vending machine disguises. Only in...well, you know.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Somebody send me a plane ticket to NYC
Richard Prince is the Royal Trux of the art world, appropriating and devouring pulp and popular culture from muscle cars to cowboys in a way that the people that work at The Wire and Artforum drool over. The Guggenheim is holding a little Richard Prince retrospective (Spiritual America) until January. Hopefully it will move around a bit, maybe all the way to LA, after that.
In other kinda NYC news, the New York Times features an interesting article on the remote island of Faro (population 572, off the coast of Sweden) in today's issue. It sounds like the kind of place--dirt roads, no banks, no schools, lot's of old people, rain, desolate views-- that might be either extremely boring or the most amazing two or three days of your year. Ingmar Bergman used to live there and, apparently, was protected by locals who informed Bergman stalkers that they had no idea where he lived. All this being said, there's a more lengthy article somewhere in the NYTimes archive from an issue of the magazine from last summer. I'm adding Faro to my list somewhere between Bali and Oman.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
CHEERS
Inventorspots, which I had never heard of, has two nice little lists, one on weird Japanese drinks, the other on the Japanese propensity for making things small. Mother's Milk? Classic.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
EATING OUT
88 Tofu House
5490 Buford Hwy.
Doraville, Atlanta
If conventional Asian cuisine has a comfort food it might be Korean. The Japanese have yakitori, noodles and tempura (adopted from the Portuguese) alongside the aesthetic brilliance of their food. The Chinese have dumplings and pancakes to go against the banquets of Beijing. Vietnam has Pho, Malaysia roti. But there's something about the warmth and simplicity of a standard Korean meal--ponchon, deceptively complex soups, and beef that Argentians would salivate at--that, at least in my mind, puts Korean food on par with the food you might find at a roadside diner in Elberton, Georgia.
88 Tofu House looks like it could have fit right into the visions of daylight and late-night roadside LA diners in Pulp Fiction, or Swingers. Like numerous other Buford Highway restaurants, it exists in a charmingly
retro roadside building, stolen from the 70s, one you imagine probably sold burgers and/or country fried steak in a previous life. Booths are of the same molded wood model you find in an old Burger King. There’s a compact and succinct IN/OUT sign on the edge of the street. There’s even evidence of what was probably a drive through window—can you imagine drive-thru Korean on the way to a ponchon and tofu soup picnic?
For my money, though, 88 Tofu House is at its best in the late hours (it’s open for 24 of them), when the harsh afternoon natural lighting scheme gives way to the soothing shades of night, youthful experts on the way home from Happy Karoake, and bubbling cauldrons of comfort. If you’re looking for any of the standard Korean tofu soups, there’s a good chance you’ll find it here. Seafood tofu soup, mushroom tofu soup, beef tofu soup, beef honeycomb tofu soup, combination tofu soup (if you want some of all of the above)—they’re all here, along with 20 or so other varieties. The soups come to your table in black, iron bowls that look like they could be used to grind corn in if you wanted. Still alive when they arrive, you might have to wait a five to ten minutes to really try them. When you do, you’ll find a reasonably seasoned, not too salty, broth with slippery, delicate pieces of tofu and the accompanying meat or vegetable. The broth is flavorful and rich without overpowering the palate with salt.
While you’re waiting for the soup to cool, there are plenty of other options to occupy your time and stomach. As always, there’s ponchon, the Korean tapas that function as appetizers and/or complements to proper Korean meals. Kimchee is the staple, whether it be in the form of marinated cabbage, cucumbers or—my favorite—small, cubed pieces of daikon, where the vegetable absorbs just enough of the savory brilliance to salt
your tongue. Marinated sprouts are a clean palette cleanser for later in the meal. Rectangular, inch long, pieces of cream colored jello are mildly salty and topped with a slightly spicy chili sauce. Dried and salty sardines are far too salty, but I’m highly averse to sodium. You might feel differently.
The comfort factor of the soups continues with the other entrees, devoid of aesthetic style or novelty, but robust in flavor and mass. LA short ribs come on a sizzling oval platter, alongside grilled onions, richly caramelized if a little fatty. Bulgolgi arrives thinly shredded with a subtle sweetness, with a metal, circular container of steamed rice.
The combos featured on the inside of the menu pair any of the tofu soups with the above beef dishes or a bowl 88 Tofu’s rice hash. The hash comes in a bigger version of the bowls used for the soup and slowly cooks until you’re finished with it. Rice forms the bedrock and is topped with zuchini and carrots julienne, thinly sliced dried seaweed, a small serving of bulgogi, and a raw egg. By the time you reach the bottom, portions of the rice have cooked to the point that you have to scrape them off the bottom with a spoon, at which point you might be offered a cup of hot water to pour to aid in the task. It’s certainly worth your time as the rice attains a consistency enjoyable in itself. Maybe not the most practical thing for a picnic, but unbeatable when it comes to late night
searches for sustenance.
Rollin' Bones
77 Edgewood Ave.
Atlanta, GA
I am not one of those BBQ guys. Like self-proclaimed Civil War buffs who throw out references to Pickett’s Charge at Thanksgiving dinner or middle-aged, ruffled-shirt clad baseball enthusiasts who take any chance possible to inject Earl Weaver’s name into a cocktail party conversation, BBQ guys wear their ‘cue loving on their sleeve like an attractive tattoo and scour and crawl over North Carolina and Texas back roads with Pentecostal fervor. I’m not one of those guys. I just like BBQ.
What education I do have began at Ollie’s BBQ in Birmingham, AL. Ollie’s was located right off of Interstate-65, around downtown Birmingham, somewhere around the line where black people stopped living and white
people started living. Infamously (or famously depending on whom you ask), Ollie’s had a part in the desegregation of the South as the Interstate Commerce Commission used its jurisdiction to force Ollie’s to integrate by way of an ultimatum that shut down shipping of supplies via interstate to the restaurant until it agreed to integrate. My memory of the restaurant is tied to snapshots of exceedingly plump black waitresses, a large counterspace curved in several different spots that gave way to a semi-open kitchen, religious publications offered for sale by the cash register in the front, and the simple plates of BBQ sandwiches, garnished with a few pickles, with a light and clean, vinegar based sauce in squirt bottles on the side.
My dad was always a fan of Birmingham’s Golden Rule, and particular to the point that he refused to eat at the location near our house, on a stretch of strip malls that would fit it in Los Angeles, opting instead for the distant Irondale location. Sadly, I never made it to the Irondale spot.
Somewhere around college I made it to Dreamland, the Tuscaloosa spot regularly name-checked by Saturday afternoon sportscasters during Alabama football games, and found a sparse rectangular room with long family style tables adorned with paper towel rolls, and a similarly sparse, but rich in particulars, menu featuring sweet tea and ribs.
I moved to Georgia in the mid-1990s and visited Harold’s, a two room shack a few steps from the Federal Pen, that serves rich Brunswick stew and smoky, refreshingly non-uniform slices of pork atop Texas Toast, sauce on
the side, allowing you to taste the flavor of the meat and the process itself, before or apart from the sauce. Daddy Dz was next: heavy, thickly sauced ribs with more than competent side offerings of broccoli casserole, collards and the like. Outside Athens I found Paul’s (open on Saturdays and 4th of July), a non-descript space off the town square, full of camo and dry goods, a place that feels more like a Sunday church supper, with paper plates, table loafs of white bread, and deeply flavorful chopped barbecue. With some decent, but less impressive, stops in between, I figured I had just about done the Atlanta/Athens BBQ scene. And then I found Rollin’ Bones.
Rollin’ Bones does not look authentic. With large glass windows that visually-aerate and relax the setting, a patio decorated with IKEAesque furniture, a streamlined flat screen I would love to own and numerous reviews from stylish magazines adorning the wall, the restaurant looks more like a trendy local (Tacqueria del Sol) that woke up one day to find itself serving barbecue instead of burritos. You can’t really trust appearances.
The menu features hot links, ribs, barbecue plates, sandwiches and a host of side items (the collards were a bit too salty, but fine nonetheless).
When you order a chopped pork sandwich, make sure to grab a fork as well. Take your sandwich (via the to-go box they may provide you) to the patio, settle down in the downtown air and open the box. What you will find is a combination of toasted bread sprinkled with herbs, slowly fading into a bread goo as it sops up the rich, sauce saturated pork it shelters, sauce spilling out the sides into the container creating a bedrock of flavor just in case you want more. The sauce is thin enough, a little oily some might say, but in possession of a subtle spice that hits you right where you want it to. I finished mine in under-two minutes. I then used my fork for the collards, which I suppose is what it was meant for.
5490 Buford Hwy.
Doraville, Atlanta
If conventional Asian cuisine has a comfort food it might be Korean. The Japanese have yakitori, noodles and tempura (adopted from the Portuguese) alongside the aesthetic brilliance of their food. The Chinese have dumplings and pancakes to go against the banquets of Beijing. Vietnam has Pho, Malaysia roti. But there's something about the warmth and simplicity of a standard Korean meal--ponchon, deceptively complex soups, and beef that Argentians would salivate at--that, at least in my mind, puts Korean food on par with the food you might find at a roadside diner in Elberton, Georgia.
88 Tofu House looks like it could have fit right into the visions of daylight and late-night roadside LA diners in Pulp Fiction, or Swingers. Like numerous other Buford Highway restaurants, it exists in a charmingly
retro roadside building, stolen from the 70s, one you imagine probably sold burgers and/or country fried steak in a previous life. Booths are of the same molded wood model you find in an old Burger King. There’s a compact and succinct IN/OUT sign on the edge of the street. There’s even evidence of what was probably a drive through window—can you imagine drive-thru Korean on the way to a ponchon and tofu soup picnic?
For my money, though, 88 Tofu House is at its best in the late hours (it’s open for 24 of them), when the harsh afternoon natural lighting scheme gives way to the soothing shades of night, youthful experts on the way home from Happy Karoake, and bubbling cauldrons of comfort. If you’re looking for any of the standard Korean tofu soups, there’s a good chance you’ll find it here. Seafood tofu soup, mushroom tofu soup, beef tofu soup, beef honeycomb tofu soup, combination tofu soup (if you want some of all of the above)—they’re all here, along with 20 or so other varieties. The soups come to your table in black, iron bowls that look like they could be used to grind corn in if you wanted. Still alive when they arrive, you might have to wait a five to ten minutes to really try them. When you do, you’ll find a reasonably seasoned, not too salty, broth with slippery, delicate pieces of tofu and the accompanying meat or vegetable. The broth is flavorful and rich without overpowering the palate with salt.
While you’re waiting for the soup to cool, there are plenty of other options to occupy your time and stomach. As always, there’s ponchon, the Korean tapas that function as appetizers and/or complements to proper Korean meals. Kimchee is the staple, whether it be in the form of marinated cabbage, cucumbers or—my favorite—small, cubed pieces of daikon, where the vegetable absorbs just enough of the savory brilliance to salt
your tongue. Marinated sprouts are a clean palette cleanser for later in the meal. Rectangular, inch long, pieces of cream colored jello are mildly salty and topped with a slightly spicy chili sauce. Dried and salty sardines are far too salty, but I’m highly averse to sodium. You might feel differently.
The comfort factor of the soups continues with the other entrees, devoid of aesthetic style or novelty, but robust in flavor and mass. LA short ribs come on a sizzling oval platter, alongside grilled onions, richly caramelized if a little fatty. Bulgolgi arrives thinly shredded with a subtle sweetness, with a metal, circular container of steamed rice.
The combos featured on the inside of the menu pair any of the tofu soups with the above beef dishes or a bowl 88 Tofu’s rice hash. The hash comes in a bigger version of the bowls used for the soup and slowly cooks until you’re finished with it. Rice forms the bedrock and is topped with zuchini and carrots julienne, thinly sliced dried seaweed, a small serving of bulgogi, and a raw egg. By the time you reach the bottom, portions of the rice have cooked to the point that you have to scrape them off the bottom with a spoon, at which point you might be offered a cup of hot water to pour to aid in the task. It’s certainly worth your time as the rice attains a consistency enjoyable in itself. Maybe not the most practical thing for a picnic, but unbeatable when it comes to late night
searches for sustenance.
Rollin' Bones
77 Edgewood Ave.
Atlanta, GA
I am not one of those BBQ guys. Like self-proclaimed Civil War buffs who throw out references to Pickett’s Charge at Thanksgiving dinner or middle-aged, ruffled-shirt clad baseball enthusiasts who take any chance possible to inject Earl Weaver’s name into a cocktail party conversation, BBQ guys wear their ‘cue loving on their sleeve like an attractive tattoo and scour and crawl over North Carolina and Texas back roads with Pentecostal fervor. I’m not one of those guys. I just like BBQ.
What education I do have began at Ollie’s BBQ in Birmingham, AL. Ollie’s was located right off of Interstate-65, around downtown Birmingham, somewhere around the line where black people stopped living and white
people started living. Infamously (or famously depending on whom you ask), Ollie’s had a part in the desegregation of the South as the Interstate Commerce Commission used its jurisdiction to force Ollie’s to integrate by way of an ultimatum that shut down shipping of supplies via interstate to the restaurant until it agreed to integrate. My memory of the restaurant is tied to snapshots of exceedingly plump black waitresses, a large counterspace curved in several different spots that gave way to a semi-open kitchen, religious publications offered for sale by the cash register in the front, and the simple plates of BBQ sandwiches, garnished with a few pickles, with a light and clean, vinegar based sauce in squirt bottles on the side.
My dad was always a fan of Birmingham’s Golden Rule, and particular to the point that he refused to eat at the location near our house, on a stretch of strip malls that would fit it in Los Angeles, opting instead for the distant Irondale location. Sadly, I never made it to the Irondale spot.
Somewhere around college I made it to Dreamland, the Tuscaloosa spot regularly name-checked by Saturday afternoon sportscasters during Alabama football games, and found a sparse rectangular room with long family style tables adorned with paper towel rolls, and a similarly sparse, but rich in particulars, menu featuring sweet tea and ribs.
I moved to Georgia in the mid-1990s and visited Harold’s, a two room shack a few steps from the Federal Pen, that serves rich Brunswick stew and smoky, refreshingly non-uniform slices of pork atop Texas Toast, sauce on
the side, allowing you to taste the flavor of the meat and the process itself, before or apart from the sauce. Daddy Dz was next: heavy, thickly sauced ribs with more than competent side offerings of broccoli casserole, collards and the like. Outside Athens I found Paul’s (open on Saturdays and 4th of July), a non-descript space off the town square, full of camo and dry goods, a place that feels more like a Sunday church supper, with paper plates, table loafs of white bread, and deeply flavorful chopped barbecue. With some decent, but less impressive, stops in between, I figured I had just about done the Atlanta/Athens BBQ scene. And then I found Rollin’ Bones.
Rollin’ Bones does not look authentic. With large glass windows that visually-aerate and relax the setting, a patio decorated with IKEAesque furniture, a streamlined flat screen I would love to own and numerous reviews from stylish magazines adorning the wall, the restaurant looks more like a trendy local (Tacqueria del Sol) that woke up one day to find itself serving barbecue instead of burritos. You can’t really trust appearances.
The menu features hot links, ribs, barbecue plates, sandwiches and a host of side items (the collards were a bit too salty, but fine nonetheless).
When you order a chopped pork sandwich, make sure to grab a fork as well. Take your sandwich (via the to-go box they may provide you) to the patio, settle down in the downtown air and open the box. What you will find is a combination of toasted bread sprinkled with herbs, slowly fading into a bread goo as it sops up the rich, sauce saturated pork it shelters, sauce spilling out the sides into the container creating a bedrock of flavor just in case you want more. The sauce is thin enough, a little oily some might say, but in possession of a subtle spice that hits you right where you want it to. I finished mine in under-two minutes. I then used my fork for the collards, which I suppose is what it was meant for.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
MORE DO'S AND DON'TS
1. 285N out of Dallas-Stretches of steadily moving two lane pleasantly interrupted by little towns like Clarendon with motels like the It'll Do Inn, Western Skies Motel and the L.A. Motel. Lot's of boot and hat shops. One town had a restaurant that served Thai, Chinese and Lao. There isn't even a Lao restaurant in Atlanta...
2. Horse Hotel (Amarillo, TX)-Free 72 oz. steak. If you can finish it. Free limo service too, whatever that means.
3. 25 N to Santa Fe-Nothing against I-40, which from Amarillo to Arizona runs through some amazing landscapes, but this little road, completely absent of billboards is everything you might have imagined this region of the country to be. Curving back and forth as you ascend, the road cuts through a stretch of sunflower colored fields decorated with sponge prints of dark green trees and bushes, punctuated by red rocks, boulders seemingly stacked atop each other, pink skies and those purple mountains you've heard about in that song you've heard a million times.
4. Santa Fe-My 45 minute stint in downtown Santa Fe was alright, just alright. I'm guessing the downtown historic district isn't built with dogs in mind, as there was nowhere to eat with a welcoming patio. Or maybe it was just because it was Sunday. I'm guessing Santa Fe is one of those old towns (oldest capital in the USA actually) that caters to well off guests who frequent the premium shops in its downtown. Not really my thing. Starving at 9 PM, we finally found the Blue Corn Cafe in a strip mall and feasted on a huge burrito filled with black beans cooked to the wonderful consistency of a paste, and chicken tacos in blue corn shells. More than satisfying.
5. Meteor Crater-Sadly, too tired to stop.
6. "Indian" Stores and Native Reservations-The not so great aspect of the drive, traveling past desolate settlement after desolate settlement and AUTHENTIC Indian Craft store after AUTHENTIC Indian Craft Store. I'm guessing that at least 50% of those working at the Love's Travel Stop, on a cozy 99 degree afternoon, halfway between Albuquerque and Flagstaff, would rather be hanging out in suburban Raleigh or Norfolk, where their Great Great Great Grandfather lived. But ultimately they got legal casinos, isolation and rampant alcoholism so I guess they're really happy with the way things turned out.
6. Flagstaff, AZ-Kind of like Athens, GA but in Arizona. We took Route 66 off I-40 into the downtown, which is a charming little grid of two to three story brick buildings, housing bars, clothing stores, record stores, restaurants and more bars. The busy train tracks run alongside Route 66 and past the downtown; the hotels offer their apologies for the noise upfront. A couple of good sized mountains tower over the town. And you can get to the Grand Canyon in an hour or so. Our hotel was actually on Route 66, which still features a nice array of seemingly vintage motels, like Motel El Dorado, and bars like Crazy Bill's.
2. Horse Hotel (Amarillo, TX)-Free 72 oz. steak. If you can finish it. Free limo service too, whatever that means.
3. 25 N to Santa Fe-Nothing against I-40, which from Amarillo to Arizona runs through some amazing landscapes, but this little road, completely absent of billboards is everything you might have imagined this region of the country to be. Curving back and forth as you ascend, the road cuts through a stretch of sunflower colored fields decorated with sponge prints of dark green trees and bushes, punctuated by red rocks, boulders seemingly stacked atop each other, pink skies and those purple mountains you've heard about in that song you've heard a million times.
4. Santa Fe-My 45 minute stint in downtown Santa Fe was alright, just alright. I'm guessing the downtown historic district isn't built with dogs in mind, as there was nowhere to eat with a welcoming patio. Or maybe it was just because it was Sunday. I'm guessing Santa Fe is one of those old towns (oldest capital in the USA actually) that caters to well off guests who frequent the premium shops in its downtown. Not really my thing. Starving at 9 PM, we finally found the Blue Corn Cafe in a strip mall and feasted on a huge burrito filled with black beans cooked to the wonderful consistency of a paste, and chicken tacos in blue corn shells. More than satisfying.
5. Meteor Crater-Sadly, too tired to stop.
6. "Indian" Stores and Native Reservations-The not so great aspect of the drive, traveling past desolate settlement after desolate settlement and AUTHENTIC Indian Craft store after AUTHENTIC Indian Craft Store. I'm guessing that at least 50% of those working at the Love's Travel Stop, on a cozy 99 degree afternoon, halfway between Albuquerque and Flagstaff, would rather be hanging out in suburban Raleigh or Norfolk, where their Great Great Great Grandfather lived. But ultimately they got legal casinos, isolation and rampant alcoholism so I guess they're really happy with the way things turned out.
6. Flagstaff, AZ-Kind of like Athens, GA but in Arizona. We took Route 66 off I-40 into the downtown, which is a charming little grid of two to three story brick buildings, housing bars, clothing stores, record stores, restaurants and more bars. The busy train tracks run alongside Route 66 and past the downtown; the hotels offer their apologies for the noise upfront. A couple of good sized mountains tower over the town. And you can get to the Grand Canyon in an hour or so. Our hotel was actually on Route 66, which still features a nice array of seemingly vintage motels, like Motel El Dorado, and bars like Crazy Bill's.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
DO'S AND DON'TS SO FAR
(For the next few days or so, I'll be driving from Atlanta to Los Angeles. Some highlights...)
1. Davenport's Pizza (Birmingham, AL)-I really never understood what it was that made Davenport's so good. The ingredients and methods of manufacture seem pretty standard, at first, and obvious when you watch the cooks. There are no sun dried tomatoes; no imported cheeses; no wood grilled chicken. And then recently I realized the secret: the tactic of lathering the pizza with sauce and ingredients before covering the top with deli size slices of mozzarella, creating, in effect, two separate and distinct layers of experience. The pies are cut into small rectangular pieces allowing you to eat some pieces in the whole, and others layer by layer.
2. Vicksburg Welcome Center-Sitting on the gateway to the West with a towering view of the Mississippi and an old bridge that looks like it could have taken cannon fire from Union ships.
3. Ft. Worth Weather-Driving into Ft. Worth around 7, with the city having just experienced a week straight of rain, we found a cloud that seemed 10 miles in length, stretching across the sky with a bottom layer defined by a gray-purple hue and a top layer that looked like snow spilling over a New England log house. Lightning flashed intermittently. I felt like something was lumbering above me about to engulf my car. Pretty soon it rained, a lot.
4. Route 66-I spent about 10 minutes on it. Satisfied. For now.
5. Rudy's BBQ (Denton, TX)-Dry rubbed, oak-fired, Texas barbecue. The spicy chopped sandwich, garnished with fresh onions and spicy, pickled peppers and carrots on the side, was a slightly charred, smoky, ode to everything you imagine good barbecue to be. The green beans salad was slightly frozen, and the corn cob perhaps a bit overcooked but, again, the sandwich is worth the trio alone.
6. Crow Collection of Asian Art-In downtown Dallas. Nice little museum with a great gift shop. The highlight was a temporary exhibit of female Buddhas via various media. The 1000 paper cranes that hung from the mezzanine were nice as well.
7. Dealey Plaza-Kind of eerie actually, even at 2 in the afternoon. The conspiracy guy that gave me a 10 minute, well-researched and evenly paced audio-visual sales pitch on the multiple killer theory only added to the mood. The major DON'T, though, arrived in the form of three, sun-dress attired sorority types who took turns preening and posing, smiles blaring, in a manner that might make even a Hilton sister frown, as their friend took photos of them standing on the X that marks the spot of the spot on the road where the first shot hit JFK. It was amazing.
8. Teppo-Yakitori/Sushi in a Dallas club/record store/restaurant neighborhood. Watch out for the spicy Japanese mustard that comes with the yakitori. Make sure you sit on the automated, Japanese style, toilets. And try the beef tongue.
1. Davenport's Pizza (Birmingham, AL)-I really never understood what it was that made Davenport's so good. The ingredients and methods of manufacture seem pretty standard, at first, and obvious when you watch the cooks. There are no sun dried tomatoes; no imported cheeses; no wood grilled chicken. And then recently I realized the secret: the tactic of lathering the pizza with sauce and ingredients before covering the top with deli size slices of mozzarella, creating, in effect, two separate and distinct layers of experience. The pies are cut into small rectangular pieces allowing you to eat some pieces in the whole, and others layer by layer.
2. Vicksburg Welcome Center-Sitting on the gateway to the West with a towering view of the Mississippi and an old bridge that looks like it could have taken cannon fire from Union ships.
3. Ft. Worth Weather-Driving into Ft. Worth around 7, with the city having just experienced a week straight of rain, we found a cloud that seemed 10 miles in length, stretching across the sky with a bottom layer defined by a gray-purple hue and a top layer that looked like snow spilling over a New England log house. Lightning flashed intermittently. I felt like something was lumbering above me about to engulf my car. Pretty soon it rained, a lot.
4. Route 66-I spent about 10 minutes on it. Satisfied. For now.
5. Rudy's BBQ (Denton, TX)-Dry rubbed, oak-fired, Texas barbecue. The spicy chopped sandwich, garnished with fresh onions and spicy, pickled peppers and carrots on the side, was a slightly charred, smoky, ode to everything you imagine good barbecue to be. The green beans salad was slightly frozen, and the corn cob perhaps a bit overcooked but, again, the sandwich is worth the trio alone.
6. Crow Collection of Asian Art-In downtown Dallas. Nice little museum with a great gift shop. The highlight was a temporary exhibit of female Buddhas via various media. The 1000 paper cranes that hung from the mezzanine were nice as well.
7. Dealey Plaza-Kind of eerie actually, even at 2 in the afternoon. The conspiracy guy that gave me a 10 minute, well-researched and evenly paced audio-visual sales pitch on the multiple killer theory only added to the mood. The major DON'T, though, arrived in the form of three, sun-dress attired sorority types who took turns preening and posing, smiles blaring, in a manner that might make even a Hilton sister frown, as their friend took photos of them standing on the X that marks the spot of the spot on the road where the first shot hit JFK. It was amazing.
8. Teppo-Yakitori/Sushi in a Dallas club/record store/restaurant neighborhood. Watch out for the spicy Japanese mustard that comes with the yakitori. Make sure you sit on the automated, Japanese style, toilets. And try the beef tongue.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
WEEKLY NY TIMES UPDATE NO. 2
On one of our last nights in Tokyo our newfound friends led us up through the quiet hills and alleys of Ebisu, through the doors of an apartment building, up several flights of stairs, and into a living space that I would love to have called my apartment; only it wasn't an apartment, it was a bar. Apparently such places, found through word of mouth and in dark alleys rather through advertising and drink specials, have become evermore popular among Tokyoites tired of Rappongi techno-blaring bars like Gas Panic. At least The New York Times thinks so.
There's also a short article that I've yet to read on Bali, which is somewhere on the short end of my list for where to go next.
And if you're wondering what to do the next time you're in Atlanta, try this. They are right on with the Starlight Drive In recommendation, but I would recommend the Atlanta History Center over Cyclorama, and the downtown Hilton, owing to its proximity to Trader Vic's over any of the hotels they suggest.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
PICTURES
Off the beaten path Shanghai, c/o The New York Times.
Where not to go to the beach, c/o Fodors.
What people are eating these days, all over the world, c/o Time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)