Want: The Fat Radish

I have a thing for radishes--and my cousin does too.  We share them at my home on a regular basis, and we shared some at The Nomad, and we recently shared an email pining after that particular occasion.  I bought a black radish today--it is hopelessly romantic, like black velvet, the Anna Karenina of radishes.  I will slice it very thin, drape it with a little olive oil, sprinkle it with Galveston county salt, and offer it a little butter on the side.  Radish, salt, butter: a combination that I think of as part of my wardrobe.  If my clothes had a taste, it would be this.  If my perfume were a snack, it would be this.  You want to go to there, don't you?  So do I.  And so I want to go to The Fat Radish.  I heard about this place over the summer, and though I don't see a radish on the menu, I'm keen (as a radish is as much an idea as it is a root vegetable).  Here's what I'd like to taste: oysters (always oysters); grilled cheese and pickles (always pickles); celery root pot pie; the bacon cheeseburger with duck fat fries, and the scallops with beet and sweet potato hash; maybe the fat radish plate too (here, I expect to find an actual radish).  I want to leave The Tenement museum and stroll down Orchard street as the violet hour takes over and go...to there.  Would you?

Went: Dumbo General Store

I did it!  I finally went.  Brooklyn Heights being devoid of many weekday breakfast joints, I went downhill to the general store.  The iced latte was swell--and had some sort of maple-y syrup-y flavor about which I was too shy to inquire.  I haven't been so good with the blogging of late, and so I failed to take a photo of the amazing Egg in a Cloud, which is baked and fluffy egg whites surrounding a soft cooked yolk.  It rests on some ham, fontina, and toasted brioche, and overlooks a field of creamed spinach. CT had the old-fashioned breakfast, which came with some exceptional bacon.  I wish I'd had a cookie.  And I'm glad I went to there.

Went: John Dory

We went to here after finding The Breslin not yet open, and No.7 Sub shuttered.  5 pm on a weekday in a neighborhood devoid of many options, Jon Dory it was.  I complained about the smell upon entering--something a little sickly and desperately washed, like a sidewalk in front of a nightclub.  It was one of the first hot days of the summer, so maybe they just didn't have the seafood disposal down yet.  I was hot, and unhappy, and maybe I wasn't inclined to think favorably of them--but enough excuses; I didn't like it.  The waitress was unintelligible, and disinterested.  The food was diminutive, and vaguely unpleasant: we started off with a glass a Gruet for me, and a beer for the gentleman, and a half dozen oysters.  They were okay.  The roasted peanuts with garlic and rosemary were quite good, and spicy.  Chilled crab and avocado in a shot glass was mushy and ill-seasoned  The oyster pan roast, while relatively tasty, only bore three oyster bodies in about 12 ounces of cream, which was just mean-spirited.  The highlight of the meal were the parker house rolls, warm, and brioche like in their sweetness.  I wanted to go to here, I should not have gone to here, and I will not go back to here.

When I Went to Some Wants

Sausage stuffed pears at Elsewhere

I have come limping back to my cousin's web side, and must make amends for keeping quiet when I went to theres.
First, there was Vinegar Hill House.  I went to there.  The cheese board, the cast iron chicken ( succulent, good enough to get again), and a candle in my unmemorable dessert.  There was Sigmund Pretzel Shop--one of the very first postings in this blog.  I went to there.  Sunflower seed pretzel, cheese pretzel, warm cinnamon sugar pretzel, a girl behind the counter bored by my indecision.  There was Vandaag.  We went to there.  An assortment of pickled things, none of which were among the stranger or more interesting Vandaag purports to make. A burger, okay.  A seat too close to a window on a freezing Winter evening.  A surprisingly delicious ice cream sandwich.  There was Char No. 4.  I went to there.  They were out of the shrimp and grits, and I wasn't much in the mood for anything else.  Except some 3 oz pours of whiskey, and some fried balls of something kindly brought to us on the house.  Buttermilk Channel.  I went to there. Again.  It was New Year's Eve, and they let me take home a balloon.  And gave me a glass of pink champagne just for being me.  The Duck meatloaf  continues to be excellent.  There was Momofuku.  We went to there.  Pure bliss.  

Biscuits and pretty nails at Elsewhere

There have been others, theres I never wrote about to begin with, destinations never to receive a place in line with all the published wants--Five Leaves, Elsewhere (I may never go elsewhere in Times Square), two aborted attempts at Balaboosta (we WILL go to there), X2O (Yonkers, foodie destination), one aborted attempt at Prime Meats (two hour wait at 7 pm? ), Rubirosa, Strong Place, and some place whose name is lost to me.  And now, you.  Which serves me right for turning my back on the blog.  Now I've dipped my fingers onto the keyboard, it might not be so hard to jump back in.

Balaboosta

214 Mulberry St.

Fortunately, we already have plans to go to there. Of particular interest to me: pickles, hummus, smoked eggplant bruschetta, falafel-wrapped meatballs, grilled calamari, brick chicken.

Peels

325 Bowery at 2nd St.

I want to go to there -- mainly for breakfast. They have a whole section on their breakfast menu called "Build-a-Biscuit." Sam Sifton says that the biscuits -- "salty, airy hosts" for delectable toppings such as sausage and pepper-jack cheese, make you want to hunt ducks.

We Went to There: Fatty 'Cue

A nice Eastern European man picked us up in a grey Lexus, number 96. He took us to a weird, industrial block in Williamsburg near the water. We stopped at the building with a red rooster painted on the side. The air smelled of smoked meats, pickles, chilis.

Our waiter was especially chatty. He wanted to make sure that we knew that sharing was encouraged (we did,) and that we were planning on ordering some greens (we weren't necessarily, but then we did.) He also told us that Sam Sifton inhales his food and that the smoked crab laksa recipe was off the menu, being tweaked -- the night's only disappointment.

We ordered some cocktails. I had the 'Cue, with rum, smoked pineapple, tabasco, and Pernod. It was intensely spicy, citrusy, and strong. M tried one of the cocktail specials -- a rootbeer sazerac. It was syrupy and tasted of winter spices. I was tempted by the Hitachino bombers (too overpriced) and the Recession Special, which includes a shot of whiskey, a shot of pickle back, and a PBR tallboy.

We started with a bowl of cucumbers, pictured above. They were cut into chunks, and tossed with smoked chili, brown rice vinegar, and sesame seeds. They were like spicy, un-pickled pickles: acidic with vinegar but fully crunchy and refreshing inside. The only problem was that there were too many -- probably two, three whole cucumbers. With these we ordered a plate of the 'Cue Coriander Bacon -- smoked, thick-cut bacon served with delicate toast triangles and a little cup of creamy yellow curry custard. The bacon was perfectly fatty and rich -- best enjoyed, I thought, with another item we ordered off the snack menu: Bowl of Noodles. Sam Sifton described this dish as "the OxyContin of Ramen" -- the noodles sit in a bowl of resting meat juices, chilis, and scallions, which nicely coat the noodles upon tossing. Also, the bowl came with a soup spoon full of house-made Sriracha. This may have been one of the best dishes of the night.

Our large-plate item was the Brandt Farms Beef Brisket, pictured above. The plate came with two cuts of brisket -- one fatty, one lean -- four doughy bao buns for sandwich-making, pickled red onions and cilantro, a little palette of chili jam and aioli, and a cup of bone broth. My technique was this: smear the inside of the bao with the aioli (I wasn't ready to fuck with the chili jam), lay the fatty cuts into the folds, pile on the pickled onions and cilantro, press the bao closed, and dip into the bone broth; eat; repeat; pick at the leaner cuts, which then paled in comparison to their fattier predecessors.

Then we had our pie. We ordered the whole pie menu -- which consisted of only two kinds of pie -- but still. We got a slice of spiced pumpkin pie, and a slice of whipped peanut butter pie with a chocolate top layer and a pretzel-crumb crust. These were First Prize pies -- they were second rate pies, but they were made by a company called First Prize Pies. The spiced pumpkin needed to be spicier and moister, and the whipped peanut butter pie desperately needed more salt. The meal ended on a high note, however, as we received a couple of moistened hand wipes with the check. Thanks Fatty 'Cue! Stay tuned for more Williamsburg Theres in the coming months..