I’d had my eye on the newly-opened M Noodle Shop for a while and decided I was in the mood for something warm and soupy for dinner tonight. They deliver, but I’m cheap and takeout means you’re off the hook when it comes to doling out the tip dollars. Before I left, I conducted some perfunctory Yelp and Menu Pages research to get an idea of the tasty dishes and those that should be avoided. I tend to take yelp (or any other review site, for that matter) comments with a grain of salt — the message-leavers seem to be frustrated, pretentious food writer wannabes who complain readily and praise reluctantly.

This may be a sign of deep-seated obsession, but I tend to associate all establishments (whether relevant or not) with a specific food memory. Come to think of it, giant images of food, rather than decor, size, exterior, or lighting, are evoked when I envision a certain location. Take Dunkin’ Donuts, for example. My mind produces a pumpkin-infused latte and breakfast wrap stuffed with artificial egg and melted cheese, not pink and orange lettering and an interminable a.m. queue. Instead of the wide screens and cushioned red seats synonymous with movie theaters, I see a large bucket of popcorn that I must hold at arm’s length so that its greasy bottom doesn’t stain my pants.

I’m really terrible at being adventurous when it comes to menus. Once I find a dish I like, I hold onto it like grim death (in the words of a very wise and horse-faced comedian). At Thai restaurants, I always get something noodley because a.) I absolutely can’t resist carbs, and b.) as much as I try, I really don’t enjoy the flavor of curry. Pad See Ew and Pad Woon Sen both combine eggs and green Asian vegetables (usually Chinese broccoli or bok choy) atop broad, chewy noodles or skinny, transparent noodles, respectively. I always order one or the other, depending on the menu’s options.

A recent bout of illness, which occurred most inconveniently on the Union Square L train platform during morning rush hour, has curbed my usual gluttonous eating habits this week. As a result, updating my blog has suffered (along with my overly acidic stomach).

The steak was a thing of beauty. Huge (the waiter attempted to serve it to my boyfriend, then laughed sheepishly when he discovered that I was the hungry culprit), encased by tenderizing tubes of fat, and the pinkish color assumed by tomato soup when combined with milk, the cut screamed “dig right in!” from its au jus shelter. Eating steak like this is almost a cannibalistic endeavor. When a steak is brought from kitchen to table, heads turn and conversations cease as restaurant patrons eye each plate, compare it to their own, and decide what to order if they haven’t already done so. Each cut stands alone, untainted by sides of french fried potatoes or steamed asparagus, on a simple white plate. Here, its individual personality (unyielding? tender?) and physical attributes (red? fatty?) can be clearly evaluated by the diner before he or she embarks on the spiritual process of consumption.

I ordered my prime rib medium rare, which allows the delicious, natural flavor of the meat to expose itself. Each bite was juicy, tender, and lightly salty when dipped in the thin gravy. Though I love prime rib, I think I’ll try a less fatty cut next time. Nearly half the steak consists of fat, which reduces the edible quantity and makes cutting a tiresome task.

The sides were pretty yummy too. The creamed spinach was emerald green, creamy, and sometimes crunchy. The mashed potatoes were buttery, though the texture could have been a bit less dense.

We decided to forego dessert as we were too stuffed to speak to each other (a wise choice, considering we were both incapacitated throughout the remainder of the evening). My stomach did survive the event, though not without repercussions. I had a second subway scare the next morning and nearly had to bail at Lorimer St. on my way to work. Hopefully I will have a speedy recovery so I can revert to my fried food and oversized portion tendencies!

This title may be a little harsh, because my lunch + dessert from Macaron Cafe wasn’t nearly as stomach-churning as the restaurant’s gimmicky, questionably gay (or maybe just excessively European?) male greeter/waiter of sorts. But it was a total letdown, both taste and price-wise.

The cafe’s interior is blatantly feminine, accented with polka dots and all discernible shades of pink — hot, rosy, pale, salmon — you name it. Stereotypically French staples, like Nicoise salad, quiche Lorraine, and croque-monsieur, as well as a variety of sandwiches filled with gruyere, brie, or ham, are featured on the menu. The aforementioned Frenchman (who, for our purposes, shall hereafter be referred to as “Jacques”) was exaggerated in appearance, accent, and obnoxiousness. Cloaked in all black with a red-checked scarf flung “effortlessly” around his neck (he probably spends hours setting it in place each morning, along with his gelled hair and manufactured scowl), Jacques greets all customers at the door and proceeds to stand eerily close to them with a clipboard.

“Am I supposed to order to you, or…?” I asked Jacques, dreading his response.
“Yezzzz. Why do you theenk I am ztanding ‘eere wiz zees cleepboarrrrrd?!” he replied smugly.
Is it just me, or are greeters supposed to make diners feel welcome and comfortable, not slimy and violated?

I ordered the Thursday special, the endive & ham de Paris, and my friend ordered the roast beef sandwich. We also picked up a little box of 6 macarons to taste for dessert. I thought I had gotten a sandwich, but to my surprise it was some bizarre, wet, wannabe artichoke wrapped in tough ham and swimming in a gloppy mixture of melted gruyere and lumpy bechamel sauce. The moisture from the ham and endive produced an unwanted fluid film atop the cheese, watering down the dish.

The roast beef sandwich was the opposite of my meal — overly dry and bland, the meat carelessly plopped in the center.

And finally, the pièce de résistance (not really): the macarons. All in all, they weren’t terrible, but the pastry was dense and gummy; the creme-filled interiors too sweet and predictable. Here they are, flavor by flavor:

Lemon, which was saccharine rather than lightly tart,

apple cinnamon, which tasted a lot like Apple Jack cereal (aka seriously lacking in spicy cinnamon),

espresso, my favorite of the bunch, due to its biting, real coffee flavor (finally one which wasn’t too sweet!),

wedding almonds, which oozed of marzipan overkill,

raspberry, which was utterly flavorless,

and honey-lavender, which tasted like a mixture of prickly menthol and simple syrup.

Macaron Cafe is all about the allure. It’s colorful, cutesy, and kitschy, but don’t be charmed by the brightly colored walls and cookies. The taste just doesn’t live up to the aesthetic.

Yep, you read that recipe correctly. Cheese, banana, ham…AND a list of other ingredients which are perfectly innocuous and delicious until combined to form this cracked out version of a savory/sweet bread pudding. Here they are (read at your own risk):

* Butter
* 12 slices white bread
* 8 large slices deli ham
* 4 bananas, sliced on the bias
* 2 cups shredded Cheddar
* 2 cups crushed potato chips
* 6 slices cooked and crumbled bacon
* 4 large eggs
* 1 cup milk
* 1 cup cream
* Pinch freshly grated nutmeg
* Salt and freshly ground black pepper

ready for eatin’

I could definitely see where Paula was going with this recipe, low brow as it may be. The bubbly, baked cheese and bacon pieces added crunch and saltiness; the banana sweetened anything with which it came into contact; and the heavy cream-and-butter-soaked layers enhanced the soppy texture synonymous with bread pudding. Though many bites I took were less than satisfying (pretty much anything the saccharine banana had encountered), I kept going back for more. I even went back for portion #2.

My uncle broke out these deceptively erotic-sounding Japanese candies on Thanksgiving (he lives and works in Vietnam for a good chunk of the year). Amidst the conventional dessert lineup of pumpkin trifle and pecan and apple pies, these babies were definite social misfits (we all pointed and laughed at them, like proper hecklers should). Of course I had to try one, though I was a little grossed out by the name. Probably because my rendition of a “meltykiss” involves unwelcome lip-to-cheek contact with an aunt whose mouth produces an inordinate amount of saliva.

There he is, in all his anti-climactic, cube-shaped glory. Nothing but an unassuming truffle candy. The meltykiss was actually quite tasty, though. Like the English description on the box denotes, the chocolate is extremely creamy and soft once you get a couple of good chews in. I’d take Meltykiss any day over the unforgiving, waxy version from Hershey’s. If I can ever say the name with a straight face, that is.

I recently moved from Kensington to Williamsburg (real original, I know), a transition which significantly boosted my dining out and delivery options. Kensington’s few decent eating and drinking establishments are neatly contained on a modest strip of Cortelyou Rd., while Williamsburg’s streets are brimming with trendy restaurants and dive bars. Though I’m knee-deep in banh mi enclaves and Thai hole-in-the-walls, the one thing I do miss about my old stomping grounds (besides the ENORMOUS ShopRite on Avenue I, of course) is NYC Icy.

This Italian ice and sherbet shop is a straggler — its exotic flavors (i.e. mango basil and Mexican chocolate) appeal to a younger, more adventurous crowd, yet it remains isolated from its hip Cortelyou counterparts. The menu is divided into two types of cold treats: ices (sans leche) or sherbet (con leche). I was a real sucker for the apricot ginger sherbet. A pale peach color, the dessert is flecked with hunks of crystallized ginger and fresh apricots. The apricot is tangy, and the refreshing ginger always manages to clear the old sinuses a bit. Sometimes I’d go REAL crazy and pair it with the Mexican chocolate, a sherbet with some serious cajones. It’s infused with chile, which prickles the tongue and gives you a healthy dose of the chills (perfect for summer!). The one thing that NYC Icy can improve upon is the texture of the sherbet. The consistency is resilient and putty-like, making spoon insertion a cumbersome task.