Sushi of Gari

Every so often, Dan and I like to treat ourselves to omakase at Sushi of Gari. Say every eighteen months or so (er... it's expensive). If you've never experienced omakase, save your pennies and do it. You receive sushi from the chef piece by piece, and if they're doing it right, you go through the entire meal with a body buzz.

Sashimi (including my favorites, sea urchin and sweet shrimp):

Something delicious:

Some delicious clam thing:

Red tuna with tofu sauce (incredible):

Salmon with blistered tomato - strange, but it works:

A jewel box of tartare:

Yet another piece that made us swoon (mackerel? I forget. It's shiso and sea urchin on top):

Yeah. Gari knows what he's doing.

I Ate Chicken Knees

Oh dear.

Yakitori Totto.

It's a restaurant.

According to New York:

Although yakitori means "grilled chicken" (usually on a stick), the time-honored working-class Japanese food that is the featured dish at this second-floor Midtown restaurant is taken beyond its usual place as street fare with the restaurant's use of premium chicken. Seated at the bar or at a row of small tables in one of two dining rooms, the predominantly Japanese crowd favors its grilling done in the traditional manner (i.e., not cooked all the way through). If rare poultry makes you nervous and you don't want to look like a timid American by ordering it well done, the menu extends beyond chicken kebabs, with noodles and soups, tofu skewers in a dark miso sauce, and a smattering of seafood. Most dishes seem designed for accompanying drinks, especially shochu and sake, which, for their part, can make negotiating the steep one-flight staircase down to the street something of an adventure as well. — Ethan Wolff

The thing is, Yaf is an "adventurous eater." He's the one who's like, "let's find the shadiest possible Indian place with 4-cent curry whose spiciness will remove your socks yet linger with you as the best meal of your life!", whereas I am more "Let's go to the mock-shady place that's actually more expensive but makes you look cool." So I was getting all macho when I ordered the "Soft Knee Bone" on a stick.

You guuuuuyyyyyysssssssssss.

It was GROSS.

Mango Chutney Mayommmmmmmm

Panicky suggested we go to Pommes Frites last night.

Pommes Frites is a teeny tiny weensy bitty little hole-in-the-wall on 2nd and 9th that serves fries. I thought maybe they were purveyors of all kinds of greasy food, specializing in Begian frites, but no. They serve fries. The menu is extensive in its array of dipping sauces. No bathroom. Of course, it was awesome: a feeling of basically obligation to eat deep-fried potato bits and mayonnaise for dinner. Who cares that it's hell on my arteries? It was all they had! Besides, it's not like you do that every day.

Then I got home. Dan was like, "New Haven this weekend! [NB: Harvard-Yale game] We can go to Rudy's!"

Rudy's serves fries. With dipping sauces.

My hypothetical cardiologist is not gonna like this.

Craft = Very Different From Kraft

So Dan and I went to Craft last night--Tom Colicchio's restaurant, for Top Chef watchers. It's an interesting concept-- meals come family-style and you customize them with sides of your own choosing. It's very ingredients-driven, and although it's a really dramatic space, the focus is squarely on the food. Basically, I read that something like "potato puree" was going to blow my mind. This is a tall promise. Potatoes are potatoes, you know?

We had:

starters of:
Oysters
Foie Gras with Peach
Beets with Tarragon

followed by mains of:
Braised Pork Shoulder with Tomatillo
Sauteed Cod with Almonds

with sides of:
Corn Risotto with Pancetta
Mixed Mushrooms
Potato Puree

and finished with a single scoop of:
Coffee Crunch Ice Cream

And then we died.

Seriously, people. A potato, it is not just a potato. I don't know what's in that puree, but I don't care if it involved torturing babies. Then we went to an Iron & Wine concert and commented that this was a very adult date, which was fitting, because it was for my birthday (big day is tomorrow). Since I'm turning 26 and work with recent kindergartners, I've been keeping the Big Bday on the DL, but if that's what being a grown-up is like? I think I can deal.

Del Posto: The Enoteca

Okay, let's talk Italian food.

More specifically, Mario.

To be painfully, orgasmically direct: Del Posto.

Did you read Heat? Bill Buford quits his job as fiction editor of The New Yorker (Meghan's top five high school dream jobs: Tony-award winning actress/playwright, United States Senator, Madonna's personal assistant, deity, fiction editor at TNY) to work as a Babbo kitchen slave for a year. He then moves to Italy and chops meat with a massive Dante-quoting butcher, dragging around pig carcii. It's a well-told story of the ignored bits of the restaurant world, and we learn that, aside from being the best Italian chef in the country, Mario Batali, of Po/Babbo/Lupa/Molto Mario/Otto/The Spotted Pig/Iron Chef America fame, is fucking insane.

Anyway, Del Posto is Batali with the Bastianichs, including darling dear diminuitive Lidia Bastianich, owner of Felidia/host of Lidia's Family Table on PBS where she cooks actual Italian in a much less cutesy but probably more informative way than, say, Giada DeLaurentiwhatsiiiiiiis. I love her. I love her so much that I almost don't want to write about how she has almost no hair, but... there it is. Anyway, judging from Spotted Pig Christmas party at Del Posto last month,

(this was their cake:




Okay?)

--I thought that Del Posto was another rocking you-should-really-have-tattoos-to-fit-in joint but no, it is inventive Italian food in a more refined setting. Like, a super-fancy hotel lobby with decorative pianist. It takes a month to get a reservation, and the veal shank is $95.

Unless you are smart like me and Dan, oh yes. Or if you read food blogs at work.

The bar section at Del Posto is off to the left of the restaurant, private and pretty. Upon entry, it seems to be just a part of the regular restaurant--except you reserve your table the day of. The menu is smaller, with one other big difference: a 4-course tasting menu is $41. It really makes no sense.

Consider what we had: coppa (paper-thin slices of house-cured pork shoulder)with avocado and onion, beef carpaccio with liquid mozzarella and capers the size of chickpeas, penne marinara (ok that sounds boring, but trust me, it was bites of fresh-made al dente heaven), ravioli with cauliflower and black truffles, swordfish with sweet pepper relish-salsa, bass with pork lentils that Dan claimed taste of his mother's mushroom soup, bread service with warm mini-baguettes, focaccia, and rolls served with sweet butter and a dollop of straight up lardo, and then dense, moist chocolate cake with almond aftertaste and my chocolate tart with hazelnut cream and gold leaf. Yes, they serve you gold. Your $41 meal includes GOLD. You don't need to wait until you are BFF with Oprah to eat gold, Dennis, you can do it now! For $41!

Go. Go now. I know $41 ($60 with wine pairings, which is even better. This was the first time I tasted wines and reacted with glee. They were chocolately and fruity and sweet and smooth and ohmyGodIhavetostopthi nkingaboutthisaslejr hy987329283v) isn't the cheapest meal around, but value wise this is even better than Kwik Meal.* You, too, for $41, can see Lidia Bastianich greeting diners as you smear high-end pig fat on breadsticks, and enjoy the best plate of pasta of your life. You may or may not have the joy of sitting next to a couple on their first awkward date and listen to the girl talk about anorexia for an hour + (they were still going when we left), but I am confident you will love it, just the same. I told Mother about it this morning, and she wants to go for the upcoming parental anniversary. "And you should come!" she said.

Aw. I'm a sucker for romance. I'm in.


*Kwik Meal is the best street vendor in the city, for sure. $7 lamb over rice from The Russian Tea Room's former sous-chef. Delish.

Eli, You Rascal

Elihu Yale knew what he was doing when he placed his university within slightly difficult walking distance of Sally's Apizza. We were very grateful for it as we strolled from campus, thinking that after cheeseburgers and a grilled doughnut (it is a revelation, the hot grilled doughnut) and a melon-sized bucket of frites with curry mayo (no one said the New Haven food tour would be lite) we'd need a hunger-inducing walk.

Except that to eat at Sally's Apizza, one must wait outside for 30 minutes and then, after ordering, another 45 to eat. We began banging our heads on the Formica tables and begging the solitary server with our tear-filled eyes, but once we were served all was well. Perfect crust, nicely charred with spots of brick-oven wood-burning black, red winter tomatoes, good cheese. No slices. We got extra.

I'd include pictures, but I spilled coffee on my camera.