As evidenced by my Serbian stuffed burgers post, I really like the idea of cheese as burger entrails rather than burger beanie. Even though you’re probably consuming the same amount of dairy and meat either way, there’s something so satisfyingly savage about biting into a patty and encountering oozing, orange gobs.  Whitmans in the East Village offers such a rugged experience with its Minneapolis-based Juicy Lucy burger.  The grass-fed beef is encased by thick layers of char (a little less blackening would have been preferable) and a squishy, seed-studded bun. I liked the old school bun choice because it was able to house its corpulent tenant with ease.  Like a tootsie pop, three bites led me to the core — which was gushing with a pliant but melty pool of spicy cheese.  Fresh new pickles and caramelized onions also garnished the burger for added tang, sweetness, and freshness. I actually would have liked a little more of where that came from.

Fries are an extra $3, but order ‘em. They’re a beautiful golden color and crisp on the outside, soft on the inside.

Though I was feeling pretty full and paunchy, I couldn’t pass up the iced coffee float promised by Goods’ seductress chalkboard.  Goods is a silver trailer in Williamsburg with outdoor patio space that offers burgers, fries, and the like.

The float was equally tasty and sloppy. The coffee is Intelligentsia and the dark chocolate hazelnut gelato is Il Laboratorio del Gelato.  The whole contraption is topped with thick, freshly whipped cream.  The chocolate and cream blended nicely into the coffee, though while I was eating it I kind of wished I was just having gelato and whipped cream.

Though its owners have enjoyed relatively considerable success in the restaurant biz, Totale Pizza still seems like the benevolent pizza underdog whose innocent yet manipulative puppy eyes command your praise and support.  Not only is it a little late to the wood-fired world of personalized Neapolitan pies (behind Motorino, Keste, Paulie Gee’s), but its barely-there existence on the flashy, seedy St. Marks strip and unlikely Fanny Brice-Nicky Arnstein of a management duo designate Totale as unassuming, if not a little peculiar. Perhaps it is this mystery (and a worthy mention in New York Magazine’s  ”Cheap Eats” guide of 2010) that draws twenty-somethings like myself, salt-and-pepper couples, and groups of tourists to its modest, black and white-tiled dining room.  After all, it’s not every day that a local ingredient, gourmet pie type shacks up with a man whose living is earned selling dollar slices to drunken coeds and babbling hobos.

I don’t care what these dudes’ pizza background is — they definitely know their way around a menu and a restaurant in general.  Both Gregory Ryzhkov and Eli Halali greet customers outside the pizzeria’s open facade and constantly circle the restaurant, making their customers feel welcome and pampered.  Not only does this create a warm presence within the restaurant, but it really demonstrates Ryzhkov and Halali’s endearing pride and confidence in their product.

I ordered the margherita pie ($9), and Jessica and I split the arugula salad ($5) and Totale pie ($10). Not bad prices when compared to Motorino, eh Georgie boy? Unless your idea of fun is shelling out $16 for raw basil and sea salt, which I could just as easily taste by toting some weeds to Manhattan Beach. The arugula salad was bigger than my head (that’s saying something). It was certainly fresh and simple, incorporating arugula, red onions, and pecorino romano, but a bit too heavy on the salt and lemon juice.  Each bite was shockingly sour.  The pecorino romano was the best I’ve ever had at a restaurant.  Instead of tasting like nondescript Swiss cheese, it was sharp and dry.

The margherita pie (pictured above) was definitely an upgrade from its competitors. The middle was soupy but not heavy, only saturating the very tip of the triangle. The crust was slightly charred, giving it that gentle scraping sound as it was torn, chewed, and cut. The outside was crisp and pocked by dark blotches; the interior bready.  Some basil, blackened at the tip, was scattered at the center.   The sauce tasted like fresh tomatoes, a teeny bit sweet but balanced by the haphazard fleck of sea salt.

The Totale pie, the restaurant’s signature, subtly combined sweet, salty, and earthy flavors into one unique whole. Thin wisps of red onion sweetened the pie, while the pecorino romano and sea salt provided contrasting flavor.  I usually hate sweet, but the onions were just baked, not caramelized, so the pie wasn’t cloying.  Inch-long fragments of rosemary and pine nuts garnished the top.  Though this is supposedly the must-try pie, I think I was more of a margherita fan. Don’t get me wrong — I still thought this pie was excellent.

I’m not usually in the East Village much, so when I’m back in the hood I like to hit all my old haunts. Jess and I headed over to Sundaes & Cones. S&C’s varied selection of flavors and creamy, lightly wet ice cream texture make mixing and matching ideal — the scoops just blend together inside a cup.  Jess wanted to imitate a Ferrero Rocher candy and ordered chocolate and hazelnut, while I got mint chip and chocolate fudge swirl.  I think the chocolate fudge swirl and hazelnut are my two new favorite options.  Chocolate swirl had clouds of vanilla and fudge puddles, while the hazelnut had a natural, barely sweetened flavor.

After seeing Danny’s photos of the Vietnamese fare at Pho Grand, I’ve been determined to head over there to try the cutely packaged summer rolls and piping hot noodle dishes.  The restaurant’s sloping roof and wide wood paneling resembled that of a ski chalet more than it did a Chinatown hole-in-the-wall. Though instead of bunny slope babes in tight snow pants (a fashion phenomenon I never understood), there are surly, deadpan waitresses whose no-bullshit service gets you in and out of the place in 20 minutes. I’ll take business over bimbo any day, especially when it comes to mealtime.

We started with an order of summer rolls, whose translucent encasements revealed pastel interiors of pink shrimp, green mint sprigs, and white rice and vermicelli noodles. A gritty, viscous peanut sauce accompanied the rolls for dipping. The appetizer tasted nutritious and refreshing; perfect for a hot day. Next up was the pho — I ordered an eye of round and brisket one, which lent both a mahogany hue and beefy flavor.  With the aid of a little soy, sriracha, and lemon juice, the broth grew more complex.  One slurp tasted slightly sweet; the next a thin, spicy gravy. A woven pile of noodles rested at the bottom, sopping up the array of flavors as well as rogue flakes of brisket.

It’s almost taxing to choose from menu’s list of 20+ small plates.  Most of them contain the expected traif-tastic ingredients (pork belly, bacon, lobster, and the like), though there are untainted kosher options, like steak and chicken wings, as well. Here’s what we ordered:

bacon-rimmed pomegranate cocktail,

fig & goat cheese salad,

short rib sliders,

pork belly,

confit chicken wings,

seared foie gras,

and bacon doughnuts.

Though each dish was certainly fun and creative, I thought that the food didn’t always live up to its creator’s lofty ambitions. Most dishes would have been good if just one ingredient were left out.  The pork belly, for instance, was equally crispy and tender, but I could have done without its too-sweet tomato jam topping.  The same goes for the foie gras, which was velvety under a delicately fried egg, but topped with unnecessary shards of candied ham chips. The highlights of the meal were the bacon cocktail, whose subtle smokiness masked the bitter alcohol flavor and enabled me to drink heartily (and quickly), the confit wings, which were the most tender, melt-off-the-bone wings I’ve ever sampled, and the bacon doughnuts, because I never get tired of that savory-sweet combination.

Even though I wasn’t raised even the teensiest bit kosher (my mother has been known to serve pork loin on Chanukah), I still felt pretty rebellious after eating the corrupt offal. I can only imagine how liberated the likes of Philip Roth would feel after consuming so many porcine goodies.

Today’s weather did not make the long-holiday-weekend-to-work transition any smoother. This morning’s stifling heat made me uncharacteristically angry at a cute baby who mistook my turquoise headphones for playthings.  I’m usually angry during my morning commute to work, though this indignation is almost never directed at babies.

Lucky for me, lunchtime was filled with impromptu ice pop vendors rather than sticky-fingered toddlers. I noticed a raspberry-clad Cooking Channel truck parked on my office’s Midtown street. The heat almost propelled me to keep walking toward the air conditioned oasis, but the possibility of an edible giveaway led me to the truck. Sure enough, the Cooking Channel truck was doling out free People’s Pops (a Chelsea Market establishment that promises fresher pops your typical synthetic Good Humor treat). The choices were apricot chamomile and raspberry basil, the latter being the obvious hit amongst its fuchsia-stained patrons. I jumped on the bandwagon and ordered the raspberry pop. When I bit into it, I was excited to find clusters of fresh raspberries and their crunchy seeds throughout.  Though the basil flavor was altogether missing, I enjoyed the modern, icy take on the grandmother’s gelatin mold.

For dinner, it was off to Mesa Coyoacan in Williamsburg with Em, my old roommate. It seems the two of us are not only compatible in our love for chocolate Cheerios and laid-back living arrangements but are also equally scatterbrained — we agreed to meet at “the Mexican place on Graham Ave” but forgot to specify which one. There are three to my knowledge. Em headed to my favorite hole-in-the-wall takeout joint, New Mexico Place, while I grabbed a table at Mesa Coyoacan. Oops.

My entree was delicious. I ordered the enchiladas verdes stuffed with chicken ($12). The soft corn tortillas tasted grainy and homemade, and they were filled to the brim with shredded chicken pieces. The salsa verde, tangy and lightly spicy, was tamed by thin, cool dashes of crema and avocado crescents. Melted, browned queso topped the enchiladas for extra salty flavor. I’ll most certainly be returning.

A few months ago my mother discovered that Lidia Bastianich was heading to my hometown of Toms River, NJ to perform a cooking demonstration.  Mom excitedly snagged tickets — nothing of the sort ever happens in Toms River, unless you count the roving carny trailers that set up shop in the Ocean County Mall’s parking lot every summer. After attending this embarrassingly disorganized event (Lidia’s culinary exhibition, not the seasonal circus), it’s pretty understandable why Crystal Lil’s has been the only game in town thus far:

Strike 1: The unfulfilled promise of food. My mother halted my pre-event snackfest because there was supposed to be a gaggle of food vendors at the culinary event. After sifting through the crowds of weathered Italian women and their blonde-by-bottle daughters, we entered a room of kiosks manned by small business owners. Only 3 of them were restaurants serving thimble-sized portions of cheap wine, inedible cous cous, and mediocre arugula salad.  NEXT.

Strike 2: Disproportionate and understocked goodie bags. We had about an hour to kill in our unaccommodating folding chairs, an interim during which we soon realized that the plastic swag baggies we had received at the front door were seriously upstaged by those of our neighbors. We watched enviously as the other patrons extracted measuring spoons, vegetable seeds for private garden cultivation, water bottle grips, apples, recipes, and business cards from Lidia’s various restaurants. All that was in my bag were a couple of useless flyers, a chip clip, and a stress ball that soon proved to be more functional as an anger management device.

Strike 3: Two clowns who I didn’t pay to see opened for Lidia. The first was a restaurant owner from Point Pleasant who made a “heart healthy” lamb with cous cous. A. I’m not a fan of gamey lamb, and B. the woman who prepared the dish spoke in an indiscernible mumble. The second was Joe Leone, a caterer from Point Pleasant. I’ve had his food before, and it’s pretty good.  Even though he turned out to be a jovial guy, he still served as a useless time filler whose food I didn’t get to sample. (He made polenta cupcakes and a swordfish entree that didn’t look too special.) Finally, Lidia graced us with her presence. She was very personable and cute and spoke sincerely about her enjoyment of sharing recipes with others. When her microphone repeatedly produced booming feedback, she gingerly said, “Sound guy? Why is this so noisy? I just…don’t want to annoy them.”

She prepared a lobster salad, which would have been edible had she not included the crustacean’s shells, legs, and greenish excrement. After the salad had elicited sufficient gag reflexes from the audience, she made two simple (and tasty looking) pasta dishes. The first was a rigatoni with sausage and fresh ricotta, the second a take on pesto that incorporated cherry tomatoes and almonds rather than pine nuts. Though I was so far back, I was just barely able to get a whiff of the sausage pasta dish. This made me even hungrier! Last but not least, she made a dessert of bread slices soaked in espresso and rum and separated by freshly whipped cream. She was only on for about 30 minutes and then conducted a Q & A session (we left at this point). Kind of a gyp.

Strike 4: I know it’s customary to adhere to the three strike rule, but this event merits a fourth. The demonstration was supposed to be promoting Lidia’s new cookbook, Lidia Cooks from the Heart of Italy, but the book was nowhere to be seen.  I expected large images of the cover decorating the room and tables housing crisp stacks of books, but no go.  Lidia Cooks from the Heart of Italy was virtually inaccessible to the audience (supposedly there was a “meet and greet” room where the books were sold, but there was no obvious indication of this in the venue). Actually, when linking to her book above, I had to Google the name because I wasn’t sure what it was. That’s a bad sign.  It seems this event promoted local Toms River businesses much more effectively than it did Lidia Bastianich.

That being said, I still had a great time with my group.  When events are letdowns, sometimes it’s even more fun to laugh at them with good company (over a desperate late night dinner at TGI Friday’s!).

This week, I’ve actually been pretty glad that my bosses didn’t spring for leather desk chairs. I can feel the sweat creeping through my porous polo shirt and shorts (Bermuda shorts; I’m no office hoochie), but luckily the seat’s cushy upholstery won’t claim my sticky top layer of skin when I stand up. I do wish my superiors would jack up the A/C, though. Despite yesterday’s equally lethal heat and humidity, I decided to take a little 10+ block lunch excursion to No. 7 Sub. I’d been wanting to go since it opened and was especially enticed by the olive oil poached tuna and broccoli sandwiches.

My friend/coworker Nick manned the brutal walk with me.  I had read about the long waits and probably should have heeded other bloggers’ advice a little more — Nick and I were disappointed to encounter a mixed group of Midtown nine-to-fivers and tattooed hipsters hovering outside the entrance.  The 15 minute wait just to order a sandwich didn’t help my indecisiveness.  While outside in the heat I craved the light and refreshing tuna and haricot verts, but my feelings changed as soon as I saw the broccoli and its milky blanket of fresh mozzarella inching through the toaster.  Now for the ridonculous part — we waited a solid 25-30 minutes for our sandwiches.  It seems the kitchen/sandwich assembly line is pretty inefficient and understaffed (not to mention underdressed. If the sandwich bagger didn’t have tattoo sleeves, she basically would have been slingin’ sandwiches in the buff.). Only one guy up front puts all the fixins (cilantro, fried lemon, crushed potato chips, etc.) on the sandwiches, which I think partly accounts for the time problem.  If I had to wait another 5 min., my combination of near heatstroke, frustration, and caffeine-induced jimmy legs would have left me belly-up on the floor. Needless to say, I took a pretty long lunch hour that day.

The broccoli sandwich did not disappoint.  It was on the smallish side, which is good because I’ve been trying to ease up on the portion sizes lately, but not so good when you remember that a meatless sandwich cost $9. (All subs are $9, regardless of ingredients). The broccoli’s texture was spot-on — softened, but with plenty of resilient bite.  The sandwich definitely played up its Italian flavors, too.  The broccoli tasted like broccoli rabe; lightly garlicky, though it had a tingly, peppery aftertaste rather than a bitter one.  The mozzarella was extremely soft, white, and creamy and was complimented by a dusting of crisp and nutty arugula.  My favorite part of the sandwich was the fried lemon.  Lemon and broccoli is always a winning and fresh combination, and the batter gave the lemon bits a crystallized, candy-like texture.  I would have liked to see even more studs of fried lemon in the sandwich.  Also, the bread was very fresh, but on the chewy side.  I prefer mine crusty and messy, with thick shards falling to the floor after each mouthful.  It’s a real shame the wait was so inconvenient, because this is by far one of the best and most interesting lunches I’ve had in Midtown yet.  The website does promise delivery in the near future, so fingers crossed!

Both were disappointing — I took two bites/sips and left the rest over, which is something I NEVER do. (I once picked a dead fly out of a cup of Italian ice and continued to eat my dessert. I’ve got a pretty high threshold when it comes to food.) The cocoa wasn’t really a liquid.  The consistency was viscous, its burnt taste and chalky texture lingering on my tongue long after I had taken a swig. The cookie was no different from those available at Starbucks and Guy & Gallard. Each leaden bite separated into dry, bland crumbs.

Can anybody get a slice of rhubarb pie in this town?

A couple weeks ago I went to Pies ‘n’  Thighs in Williamsburg, the fried chicken and pie establishment whose name also functions as a suitable porno title. The menu’s rhubarb pie option was my main reason for going, not only because I love the tangy fruit (a classification that Wikipedia just confirmed for me), but I suppose I’ve succumbed to the crimson deluge of rhubarb crisps, pies, and crumbles on food blogs lately.  The fried chicken platter I ordered for dinner, priced at a fair $11, consisted of 3 generous hunks of chicken (I believe I got 2 breasts and a thigh) and a side of cheese-and-tabasco-covered elbow noodles that encompassed half the plate. The chicken was a pleasant surprise — it was crisp and juicy (especially that fattier dark meat that I prefer), and infinitely more satisfying than the overpriced ($25!) fried chicken dinner at the lauded Blue Ribbon.

When it came time to order that desired slice of pie (ignore that statement’s inherent kinkiness), the server, who carried more heft in her hips than in her personality, told me that Pies ‘n’ Thighs had run clean out. I had to settle for a subpar piece of banana cream, whose too-shiny, too-yellow filling employed banana extract rather than fresh nanners.

I had a similar experience tonight at the Blue Stove, also in Williamsburg. I’d lived in the neighborhood for a solid 7 months but didn’t make the harrowing 10-minute walk there until after my move to Park Slope.  The space is about 1/4 bakery, 3/4 open, white-walled cafe with only a smattering of seats (and thus only a smattering of unrelenting laptop squatters). The chalkboard menu, that filthy liar, promised a tempting blackberry rhubarb pie that I later discovered was unavailable. I got the peach pie instead (blueberry and blackberry mousse were also up for grabs) and was much happier with my runner-up selection than I was at Pies ‘n’ Thighs. The peaches were fresh, not the saccharine canned variety, and the crust was bready and sturdy (could have been a little flakier). It even had a little sugar-dusted heart crafted into the top. I’ll definitely be returning to taste the red velvet cupcakes and (hopefully, someday) the rhubarb pies!