The Flying None (Coast to Coast)

Snacks on a Plane

It’s kind of like the Magnificent Seven or the Fantastic Four, but not really. I’m the Flying None. Namely, because I give zero fucks and take no shit when it comes to transporting my favorite East Coast snacks across the country. 

What I mean is, I’m often stopped at airport security for the five pound log of pork roll in my purse. Or for my coat containing eight, back to back slices of Vic’s pizza, triple-wrapped in plastic - its neon, orange, grease often thought to be some type of radioactive liquid. My bags are scoured by security guards who look up with questioning stares when unearthing tubes of Hartmann’s liverwurst or getting caught in a poppy seed rainstorm after upending a satchel of hard rolls.  Homemade lamb barley soup balks in frozen form, and will be called a casserole if anyone asks – “no liquids”, no problem.

And it goes both ways. I humped a backpack of homemade tamales from Cali to Jersey last Christmas. I’ve smuggled salamis, stowed sandwiches, hidden hummus…there’s no boundaries when it comes to having a piece of home in your pocket (or in the overhead compartment, which doubles as an amazing mini-frig for the six hour flight!). It’s all about commitment to the cause.

Take the pork roll. Stuff your pockets with pizza. Leave your pride at home. You have none.

You are, The Flying None.

Just a Victim of Circa’s Stance (San Diego)

Sold on California Soul Food

The dude with white hair down past his shoulders motioned to us from behind the bar, asking if we had a reservation since the place was packed on Friday at 8:30pm. Even though we shook our heads, he gave us a friendly nod and worked his way through the crowded dining room, proudly waving us towards the only remaining table.

Circa looked like a working, shoebox diorama of a restaurant. Seating was almost too close for comfort, eking by with only an inch of elbow room in between tables. But this community of close eaters was about to teach me an important lesson: how to love thy neighbor’s dinner.

Circa's Stance

Circa claimed to have “California soul food”, conjuring images of fat-free chicken and gluten-free waffles or whole wheat “faux” mac-n-cheese or something equally gag-worthy. But instead, Circa delivered a magical mash-up that blended farm-to-table freshness and comfort food favorites (i.e. Green Bean Casserole: organic brown beech mushrooms, goat cheese cream, fresh oregano, crisp onions - $8).

Dinner

Cast Iron Fried Jidori Chicken: duck fat roasted fingerling potatoes, bacon braised collard greens, blonde ale gravy ($17)

My decision was easy enough since the woman at the table to my left ordered the cast iron fried chicken and I thought, “I want that.” It came wrapped up in a neat package with lots of moving parts, all fitted together in a well thought out plan of edible engineering. Every element was more than I’d hoped for: golden coins of potatoes were fork tender, yet still firm, crisped with duck fat. The bacon waved in identifiable slices amid a pile of rich, collard greens, stewed and lush, but not mushy. The chicken’s skin came off in crispy pulls to expose the tender flesh, ripe with natural juices, and bright notes from the blonde ale gravy brought a bouncy bite to a potentially heavy dish. The portion was on the small side, but enough to sooth the beast (= my appetite) and I truly enjoyed every bite.

Dessert

“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor. Won’t you be mine? Won’t you be mine? Won’t you be my neighbor?”

I felt like Mr. Rogers as my gaze gallivanted around neighboring tables, winking hello and studying every dish that put down roots in my area. I longed to make friends with them all. And I went for it...by awkwardly gawking at the couple on my right while they plunged into their desserts, and I nodded admiringly, knowing I would soon follow suit by ordering the same.

Cast Iron Skillet Apple Pie: spiced date vanilla bean ice cream, caramel ($10)

I felt like Laura Ingalls celebrating some special occasion where Ma busted out the cast iron skillet for a personal-pan-style apple pie, and its novel presentation and flaky top crust were praiseworthy.

Berries & Cream: fresh berries, lemon lavender anglaise, pistachio ice cream ($7)  

The lemon, lavender anglaise daintily fluffed itself beneath a skirt of fresh berries, leaving behind a perfumed trace of lavender and the clean cut of citrus = a palate’s happy ending.

Coming Full Circa

Bratwursts, pork belly, lamb shanks, pork and beans, burgers – Circa had comfort food covered. Their beer menu had a bounty of microbrews and desserts were given the same attention to detail as dinner. I was also interested in checking out their brunch menu for the Chilaquiles Skillet: corn tortilla chips, pork chorizo, stewed white beans, poached eggs, red chile sauce, cilantro, pickled radish, farmer’s cheese ($12.50) and BBQ Benny: slow-cooked bbq pork butt, poblano cornbread, cilantro, poached eggs, hollandaise, homefries ($13), along with the $5 Happy Hour menu during the week.

Although I hated the idea of trendy, niche markets, I had to admit that Circa pulled off their concept of “California Soul Food”. Their sunny disposition worked like enchanted chlorophyll nourishing the food, the staff, and the even the stifled surroundings. In fact, their cramped quarters only added to the experience and made me realize that the world would be a much friendlier place if everyone was Circa-sized.

Tourists in Tinseltown (LA)

I was always puzzled by the duality of this dog eat dog city curled like a cat amongst the California hills, built up towards the sun and shrouded in smog. Hollywood was Jekyll and Hyde: the bad boy that charmed one minute and caused heartbreak the next; the mean girl who gave an unexpected invite to her party. 

You didn’t want to entertain this “too cool for school” smugness, but at times it was hard to resist. My relationship with LA was one that I didn’t reminisce over often, but once in a while, the romance of this city snuck up on me.

Elan Hotel (8435 Beverly Blvd)

I couldn’t rave more about the Elan Hotel than if I had glow sticks in my hand and techno music blaring in the background. The staff was a delightful and accommodating band of brethren from the time we checked in to our (free) late checkout the next day at 2pm*. Elan held the charm of a boutique hotel, while remaining surprisingly affordable, offering free continental breakfast in the sunny lobby (as well as wine and cheese at 5pm), free wifi, parking ($23 a night), and my AAA card saved me $43! Elan was also within walking distance from stalk-worthy restaurants like Bazaar, Animal, Son of a Gun, and LA’s famous Farmer’s Market.

Farmer's Market window shopping within walking distance

*We were there on a Monday, so the same flexibility might not apply on weekends.

Runion Canyon (2000 N Fuller Ave)

Only about a 10-15 minute drive from the hotel, we easily found free parking about a half a block from Runion Canyon’s entrance. Several trails were set before us like a choose-your-own-adventure book and we decided to take the high road. Admittedly it was quite the climb, but our trek was worth a glimpse of the smog-snuggled city and a level gaze with the Hollywood sign.

Quality Food and Beverage (8030 W 3rd St) 

The place was pretty much empty, except for one regular who was chatting up the waiter about how good his granola was. Jazz was playing, but not that horrible Muzak junk. I’m talking soulful rhythms that lulled me into past decades and a quiet trance of comfort, similar to the ease of relaxing in a favorite relative’s kitchen. 

Quality was the classic luncheonette’s modern sister: clean, straightforward and confident in her skin with the simple, classy appeal of wood trim and crisp, green awnings.The menu was fitted with homemade breakfasts, sandwiches, burgers, and a couple of chalkboard soup specials. 

I went for a cheeseburger (feta), medium rare. Quality came through, not with a brick-sized, pre-formed patty, mind you, but a nice, thin, equal opportunity burger that allowed all of the ingredients a fair share of the spotlight. There was nothing I hated more than a “fat guy in a little coat” burger = a gigantic wad of meat on a barely-there bun, blocking out any other topping with its burly beefiness. But here, a solid foundation was layered with equal parts beef, bun, and cheese, creating a burger worthy of the name, Quality.

Fonuts (8104 W 3rd St) 

How very LA. Baked and steamed donuts. And vegan, no less. But the whole “never judge a book…” and all that nonsense. Plus, I’d read an article a while back on Fonuts’ owner, Waylynn Lucas, so we when we came upon her miniature dollhouse of a space, fitted with only a tiny, vintage stove masquerading as a coffee station and a few trays of wayward donuts, my curiosity was peaked.

Normally, I wouldn’t use the word “curiosity” to describe vegan food. It was usually more like, “suspect” or “disgusting” (especially when it came to ruining a perfectly good donut!), but I was about to eat my judgmental words.

I chose two Fonuts: one sweet (chocolate/hazelnut) and one savory (rosemary/olive oil). Ok, so first of all, there was a reason why the word “moist” was still around, even though it was kind of disgusting because sometimes there was no better way to describe something so juicy and flowing and lubricated, and ok, you get the point…but OHHH SOOOO MOIST!! When broken in half, the chocolate/hazelnut looked like well-watered, nutrient rich soil sowing seeds of toasted hazelnuts. And the rosemary/olive oil was an unctuous, herbaceous masterpiece. Hands down the best olive oil cake I'd ever tasted.

I noticed they’d sidestepped the vegan vendetta in a couple of options like the maple/ bacon and chorizo/cheddar, but even these members of the line-up had me suspect. There was no way these Fonuts could be healthy. Baked? Steamed? Good for you donuts? I wasn’t buying it. They were just too tasty, too special, too decadent…there had to be something like ground up babies in the batter. But I guess that was the east coast cynic in me, because in reality, wasn’t a vegan donut the epitome of LA? Fonuts were a tangible version of LA’s dueling dichotomy, a town of juxtapositions. Healthy Donuts ; Tinsel Town and the Boulevard of Broken Dreams; Jekyll and Hyde. 

And the city I hated to love (because I had to admit it…Viva Las Vegan!).

To SUR, with Hate (LA)

I’m not proud to say I have a weakness for most of the Housewife mayhem that spouts from the blowhard mouth of Bravo, sucking me and many of my unassuming friends in for the train-wreck. This included my east coast pal, Taryn, so we agreed that the next time she visited San Diego, we’d road trip to LA and eat at (Beverly Hills Housewife) Lisa Vanderpump’s restaurant, SUR.

As the setting of Vamperpump Rules, SUR buzzed like a hive of iniquity where the pretty and privileged, degenerate, worker bees (and self-perceived queens) pollinated all the drama you could stomach.

Vanderpump’s Vibe

But this hive was a heap, and my first thought upon entering was that of a basement/ warehouse turned restaurant. The purple, velvet curtains shuttering the entrance were heavy, but cheap looking, like the kind you’d see in some high school stoner’s bedroom. Light was scarce. We were seated right next to an enormous, concrete planter, which looked more like a lawn ornament from an English estate than indoor décor, especially since it cut into my side like an oversized man spilling from his seat on a plane.

We weren’t given any menus, so I asked the kid filling our water, and he looked at me like I was nuts. He paused then said, “Let me see if we have any.” He came back with only one menu. For us to share? Was this an LA thing? (Menus are soooooo 2014!!)

Eats

Apps: Fried goat cheese balls, cucumber salad, mango sauce

But in fact, there was one item which we already knew we wanted - fried goat cheese balls. In one particular episode, the show’s evil queen, Stassi, raved about them. I'd pictured finely sculpted orbs, rolled lightly in breadcrumbs and herbs, but I should have known better than to trust that lying trollop! Three deep-fried, teeny tiny balls, no bigger than a marble, arrived masquerading as mozzarella stick’s ugly step-sisters. The only thing that could cut through their inch-thick breading was the mango slime that drenched the limp bed of grated carrots and cucumbers beneath.

Entrée: Roasted rack of lamb, rosemary red wine sauce, two side orders

SUR’s selections read like a cafeteria menu – pick a side and a veg - was that served on a metal tray? We kept trying to decide on entrees, but between the four chicken dishes, meatloaf, and pasta, it was slim pickings. The only thing that caught my eye was the lamb, and I paired it with a side salad and mashed potatoes (yawn). At this point, Taryn looked over in disappointment and said, “Do you just want to split an entrée?” I mean, it only made sense to order one meal, since we only had one menu, and after the cheese ball blunder and the lackluster list before us, I readily agreed…and we couldn’t have made a better decision.

First of all, the SIDE salad was served on the same plate as the lamb and potatoes, which meant that all of the balsamic vinaigrette and the lamb’s watery, red wine sauce ran together, until there was no separating the two. And could there be anything more unappetizing than warm, wilted lettuce? I think not. I’ve seen Lisa Vanderpump’s house; her closet was bigger than most apartments. She could afford to spring for a few salad bowls.

The lamb was under-seasoned, but decent. The four, petite chops were cooked to the correct temperature and had enough of their natural juices left to wash away the gluey after-paste from SUR’s extra starchy, mashed potatoes.

Dessert: Crepes with dulce de leche and whipped cream

Dessert was the only highlight. Delicate crepes, thinner than the tablecloth, came folded and filled with the caramelized, creamy decadence of dulce de leche, and topped with homemade whipped cream. Tasty, but definitely not worth the trip. 

Boulevard of Broken Dinners

What was worth the trip was our “celebrity” sighting of Katie (the girl next door who finally found her voice). And Peter (the "I want to be Rico Suave” manager, but just a goofy guy [with great abs]), who was nice enough to take a picture with us.

And in reality (TV), that’s what we were there for: the cheap thrill. The fact that dinner was a disaster only made sense because we had ditched our integrity for a quick dance with celebrity, and our palates were punished for such shallow sins.

Feasting Flashbacks: A December Night at Nougatine at Jean-Georges (Manhattan)

Who knew that our little legs would carry us from the theater on W. 45^th street to Central Park West in such a hurry? Maybe it was the sea of holiday traffic propelling us forward, our feet barely touching the pavement (unlike the few poor fish struggling upstream), that had us knocking on Nougatine’s door at 5:30 pm, even though our reservations weren’t until 7 pm.

Nougatine, Jean-Georges’ sister restaurant, or should I say Siamese twin, shared the same location and was separated only by a wall…and atmospheric conditions - Nougatine as the laid-back lounge vs. the elite sophistication of Jean-Georges.  Ninety minutes was a long time to spend at the bar, but once we realized we could order the entire menu bar-side, we decided to get dinner cracking.

Snacks

We got cracking alright, even though a nut cracker wasn’t needed for the fanciful array of bar snacks spilling over in silver bowls - wasabi nuts, cinnamon almonds, seasoned popcorn = one posh nosh.

Mental note:

1) Coming here for drinks would include access to these snacks.

2) Come here for drinks.

Drinks – Such Great Heitz

Wait, I was confused. The Heitz Cellar cabernet I wanted was…$29 a bottle? That seemed kind of low, but there was a glass for $15, so that had to be the bottle price, right? My brow creased in confusion until I figured out that it cost $15 for a tasting, and was $29 a glass!!

Nurse! Nurse! Someone call a nurse because that’s what I’d being doing with this glass for the entire meal – talk about savor the flavor. But just when I had one sip left, a couple came up to the bar in search of two seats. There was one on either side of my mother and I, so even though we were right in the middle of dinner, I asked if they wanted us to move down so they could sit together.

They couldn’t thank us enough and as we slid our plates down (with the help of the attentive bar-back), the bartender came over and said, “That was really nice of you.” And with that, he took out the Heitz Cellar bottle and poured me another full glass! YES!!! Now, that’s what I call instant karma cabernet.

Raspberry Lychee Bellini : Drusian Prosecco, Raspberry, Lychee

The cocktails weren’t much cheaper, since the Bellini was $18, but then again, we were at a Jean-Georges joint, so I guess that was to be expected. Plus my mom loved their bend on a classic Bellini - switching the peachy for lychee – nice twist!

Eats

Amuse bouche: Chestnut broth with spinach/cheese ravioli

Of all the infectious olfactory senses Manhattan could extract, there was one which I loathed: roasted chestnuts. It was impossible to escape the fuel-filled force field surrounding these vendors and their suffocating stench, choking the throat and nostrils. So when our amuse bouche of chestnut broth was placed before us, I was still stuck on that street stank, but then poof:

Nat King Cole appeared in a cable knit cardigan, his crooked arm resting languidly on a mantle above a roaring fire, before slowly turning and belting out, “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”

Besides my mental crooning, I was making noises that were bordering on inappropriate every time I had a sip. I couldn’t control the guttural grunts that spewed from my mouth as I downed this magical elixir.  The pillow of mini-ravioli fluffed nicely on the tongue, but in reality was just a distraction from my broth. Oh, my beloved broth!!!  My biggest regret was not asking for an entire bowl of you!!

Lobster burger with Gruyere cheese, green chili mayonnaise, yuzu pickles

Step over SpongeBob because crabby patties ain’t got nothing on Nougatine’s lobster burger. This compact cutie was succulent and full of hunky lobster, which paired well with the subtle tang of Gruyere and though it worked as a sophisticated snack, I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it as a memorable dinner pick. 

As usual, my mom and I agreed that there was just nothing better than lobster au natural with drawn butter (note: as an admitted lobster purist, I’m not the most objective).

Veal Milanese – parmesan, pecans, lemons, capers, escarole

Boy, was it chilly out, and whenever I visited the East Coast, all of my wintery, comfort food cravings came back with ferocity. My usual go-to was some type of burger* or pasta dish, but the idea of thinly sliced medallions of lightly fried meat was exactly what I was looking for.

 Lemon led the way, popping up like spring flowers for a perpetual brightness in a somewhat heavy dish, and a smattering of chopped pecans added somes unexpected woody undertones. My veal: like velvet. It became the supple, paper-thin lining in a cape of beaded breadcrumbs, the craggy surface catching all the salty bursts of capers and freshly grated parmesan.

Dessert Amuse: Truffles to go

nou·ga·tine(ˈno͞oɡəˌtēn/) noun
1. nougat covered with chocolate.

We were handed two shiny bags, each containing a small box big enough for a pair of earrings. And indeed, it was a matched set…of house-made truffles! Tiny squares covered with sheer, dark chocolate dissolved into the airy, homespun nougat that gently tousled the tongue before waving good-bye.

*How big is your burger?

When I was still debating what to order, I considered checking out their cheeseburger. But I needed to see how thick their burgers were because I’m not a fan of biting into a giant wall of meat, so I figured I’d ask. Simple question, right? Not so much. Since my karma-pouring pal was busy, I asked the second bartender, who I will nickname Snotty McClure (SMC) and this was the conversation that followed:

Me: Excuse me, could you tell me how thick your burger is?

SMC: The usual thickness.

Me:  So would you say it’s a big burger?

SMC: There are bigger burgers.

Me: Um, so is it thick or thin?

SMC: Relatively thick.

Me: *moving thumb and index finger up and down to mimic its possible thickness* This big? Or this big?

SMC: Well, how are you going to have it cooked?

Me: Medium rare, medium.

SMC: Then yes, it would be a relatively thick burger.

Me: Okkkkkkkk, thanks.

Service

Besides that, service was impeccable, especially the bar-back who helped us move down when the couple arrived and gave us our parting gift of truffles.  And of course, the St. Peter of Pours, my favorite bartender, who saw to it that a second coming of cabernet passed through my pearly whites.

Spies like Us

Also, the couple who we moved down for ended up being some sort of super connected, Nougatine know-it-alls. Besides calling everyone by their  first name and having the bartender prepare his “usual”, the man started ordering dishes that were nowhere on the menu! Of course, as a Grade A eavesdropper and unapologetic, staring champion, I watched with mouth agape as suspicious sauces and incognito entrees were laid before them, course after course.  

Nougatine’s narrative

What I learned from my night at Nougatine was that sometimes you needed to take the table less traveled, and sit bar-side.  It might just end up being the best seat in the house. Also, it doesn’t cost anything to be nice…and sometimes that karma came back immediately in the form of free wine and secret menus of Manhattan's restaurant world.  

Animal: Man’s Best Friend (Los Angeles)

If you’re looking for a sign - don’t.

There isn’t one.

Animal was the Katherine Hepburn of restaurants – a plain face that eventually took your breath away. At a first glance, unnoticeable, but within minutes her comfortable spunk unraveled into a contagious, atmospheric smile that crackled through the air. I felt an automatic sense of kinship in a space that boasted maybe 20 tables and a back bar that squeezed in six or so. There was a certain comfort that laced itself around the room like a favorite pair of Chuck Taylors, which probably made sense as a shoe choice here, considering whom the owners were.

I’d taken a liking to Jon Shook and Vinny Dotolo from the time they had a short stint on the Food Network with, Two Dudes Catering, where they showed up as wet behind the ears, long haired kitchen punks making their way in the culinary world. Now about a decade later, they were big wigs (hair pun intended) in the LA restaurant scene with hits like Animal, Son of a Gun and their collaboration with Chef Ludo Lefebvre at Trois Mec (where admission tickets were taken instead of reservations).

Drinks

If hard booze was your bag, then you needed to grab a cocktail at The Dime across the street because Animal only served beer and wine, which meant a light, fruity bottle of Beaujolais for my mom, Edna (aka Eddie) and I.

Eats

White nectarine, radish, agretti, local goat cheese, almond vinaigrette ($8)

Eddie had an unhealthy obsession with goat cheese, so we’d made it a rule that whenever it appeared on a menu (which was a lot), we’d order it. This time, I was definitely taking one for the team, since the idea of a fruit salad didn’t exactly make my mouth water.

But in one trippy mouthful I was out of my seat and in my head, churning through my brain’s nostalgia. I think it was the agretti - a Mediterranean succulent (not often seen in the US) – with its lightly bitter, refreshing aftertaste that conjured up memories of freshly cut lawns on a summer evening.

Mixed with the fragrant, silken texture of rose petals, discs of raw radish, and the nutty grit of almond vinaigrette, my palate plucked at more memories of loam, and grass, and flowers.  The earthiness was countered by the sweet squish of ripe nectarine and threw me back to Jersey circa 1980’s - Matthews fruit stand, where we’d stop most days on the way back from the beach.

Summer. Youth. Innocence. Happiness.  

Poof! I arrived back at my seat disheveled, still trying to wrap my mouth around the complexities that had just torn my brain in two. There were no words. Just admiration and awe.

Roasted figs, hazelnut, buttermilk, blackberries, crispy ham ($12)

*Pursed lips* Hmmm….this wasn’t what I’d pictured at all. It arrived foaming at the mouth and I hadn’t prepared for that, but I guess I’d let it slide since this foam was of the buttermilk variety and wasn’t much more than a visual effect anyway. The real feat was the figs, and I assumed the foam was used as “edible fog” to pull off the trick that was about to be played on the senses.  

A small amount of crispy ham brought an underlying salty component (though actual ham was scarce) and released some of its flavor into the figs. The addition of hazelnut added another layer of hearty, protein-like depth and however the figs had been cooked, they had an almost meat-like quality to them (in the same way a Portobello could seem meaty).

I was reminded of a science experiment back in grade school where a student was blindfolded and the teacher held a slice of apple under their nose, while they bit into a piece of raw, peeled potato.  The mind, sensing the apple’s scent and similar texture, fooled the palate into thinking an apple was being eaten instead of the potato.

Here, the ham’s essence was transfused into the figs and invoked a similar illusion. It reminded me of Dr. Frankenstein bringing life to the monster – “It’s alive!” – turning fruit to meat! But just because you could build a monster, didn’t mean it always made the most sense after it was completed. The experiment was impressive, but I probably wouldn’t order this again.

Chicken wings, orange gastrique, mango amba, cilantro ($11)

I was always a little gun-shy when it came to ordering wings. I'd been there before. Hung my heart on a wishbone and had it broken to pieces. The heartbreak came when the promise of crispy skin and succulent meat was met with flabby, undercooked outer-parts and dried up, inner tendrils. It was almost impossible to get the right equation of crunchy skin + moist meat, but Animal knew how to handle these birds – ain’t no thang.

Wet naps appeared as a prelude to the sticky, orange glaze that glued my fingers in place for precise crunching into a translucent, candy shell, giving way to plumped, succulent chicken meat that still had a ton of integrity…so much integrity,  I would still respect this chicken in the morning. And ask for more.

Pig ear, red chili, lime, maple, duck egg ($16)

Eddie was a little worried when she heard me order the pig’s ear…and then she wouldn’t stop hogging it! This was hands down, my new favorite version of bacon and eggs. Crispy slivers of pig’s ear were wound like brambles of bacon sticks beneath the white cape and golden emblem of a sunny side up, duck egg.

My knife and fork went to work shredding it to pieces, letting the yolk flow as a gooey, viscous sauce around the browned, salty edges of sliced ear. Thin lines of Sriracha and maple syrup encircled the bowl’s interior, so that when the egg and ear were lifted out, it bumped a bit of heat and sweet. I can’t tell you how much I loved this dish – its look; its feel; its interactiveness – this was worth coming for alone. Forget the silk purse, I’d rather keep the sow’s ear.

Balsamic pork ribs, crispy potato, lemon chili vinaigrette ($26)

These ribs were teeth-tender (who needed a fork?) slabs of cooked perfection, but unfortunately the “acid trip” I experienced here was nothing like the out-of-body epiphany I had with the nectarine salad. The balsamic wasn’t fully cooked out of the ribs, so a strong, vinegary steam rose up to clog the nostrils and taste-buds with a bitter cloak.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if the beautifully crisped, coin-shaped potatoes beneath weren’t drenched in lemon as well.  But even though it contained more acid than Timothy Leary, I’d probably give it second chance since I truly believed in my heart, it had been an accidental overdose.

Bacon chocolate crunch bar with salt and pepper ice cream ($9)

Hunks of bacon flexed in wavy curls like meathead versions of chocolate chips between layers of dense dark chocolate – I was smitten. The salt and pepper ice cream also intrigued me, as my mind imagined all of the toppings I could pair with this: nuts, fruit, candy, jams, use it as a daily condiment for pies and cakes!!

My only issue was that it became salty squared (and I love my salt!) when both the ice cream and bacon bar were eaten together, but as separate components, their novelty was an endearing end to a noteworthy meal.

Service with a smile

Easily, some of the best service I’d ever had.  There was a genuine, unadulterated enthusiasm from all of the wait staff, hostess, runners…every single person we encountered. There was nothing but good vibes and pride flowing through the room. Our table was visited by multiple people, multiple times, but we never felt rushed or intruded upon. In fact, it was exactly the opposite. We left feeling well-cared for, well-fed and frankly, loved.

Poison and Ivy: Juniper and Ivy Revisited

My first experience at Juniper and Ivy had been a positive one, so when my mom (also a Top Chef fan) came to town, I made sure to book a dinner at Chef Richard Blais’ place. I guess that’s why I was so surprised, when after making reservations two weeks in advance, we were led to a table in the bar instead of the dining room.  

The mismatched height of chair and tabletop immediately contorted me into the Hunchback of Notre Dame, which allowed me to enjoy our view overlooking the servers’ station brimming with crumpled receipts and broken, brown butter cookies (for some reason the cookies didn’t have the same appeal as my last visit, where they were served as a final goodbye…now they only offered a most unappetizing hello). I asked if they had anything in the dining room and there were two open tables that could accommodate us.  So…why weren’t we offered one of those first?

Strike one.

Also, it was so much louder this time (they were pretty much at full capacity), so loud that it was hard to carry on a conversation. The warehouse-style cement floors and high ceilings absorbed no sound. And for this Jersey girl, whose voice was set at volume 10 on the regular, if I wasn’t able to talk above the chatter, then it was pretty fucking loud.

EATS

Weiser Farm Potatoes: La Quercia Proscuitto/ Nitro Hollandaise/ Cured Egg Yolk

I was so excited to show my mom how Blais could bend the ordinary, but these basic fingerling potatoes didn’t turn the tricks that caught my attention last time with a similar dish, and although I liked the idea behind these spuds, they were lacking in most areas.

I apologize for the poor quality of most of the pictures, but it was hard to even shed light on the photos this visit ( also, the shadow on the potatoes give the illusion of more toppings than in reality - don't be fooled!).

Mainly, I would have just have loved a little more of everything - yolk, hollandaise, prosciutto – something besides fistfuls of fingerlings. Unfortunately, this plate of potatoes remained just that.

Corn Fritters: Old Bay Aioli

I fell for these fritters hook, line and sinker…as in dead weight, heavy as lead, cast iron sinkers. They were borderline undercooked, offering up a dense center that wasn't just dough heavy, but so heavy with garlic, it overrode every other flavor, especially the corn whose sweetness was masked completely.

Strike two.

Bacon Wrapped Rabbit: Stuffing/ Cranberry/ Mushroom Jus

This was the first item of the night that truly impressed me. The rabbit was sinfully salty from the crisped bacon wrapped around its sides, and it had the consistency of a succulent, juicy cut of pork. The stuffing was decent and cranberry relish was ok, but the rabbit was the prize.

I also adored the mushroom jus on the plate, but I was fighting a losing battle with the giant rounds of thick, seared sweet potatoes (not seen in the menu description), whose desperately dry centers sucked up all of my precious gravy.

Ahi Tuna: Mushroom Puree/ Huckleberry/ Carrot Top Salsa Verde

Does anyone else see PEPPER CRUSTED mentioned in the tuna’s preparation??!! Me neither and it was kind of a big deal since my mom had always been sensitive to spice. With her entrée course coated in pepper, it kind of put a damper on the main component of her meal. 

Even though it was served with an array of tasty sauces - the barely there huckleberry, the "carrot top salsa verde" (which was pretty much just carrot tops), the decadent, earthy mushroom puree - there was just no escaping the pepper's spray.  

Strike three.

Yodel: Devil’s Cake/ White Chocolate/ Hazelnut Brittle/ Hot Chocolate

We ordered the yodel for dessert, which I had raved about after my first visit, and like the last time, it was a home run. But it was already too late. Blais had lost the game. Sure, he was a real chef and didn’t just play one on TV, but while he was busy filming his new Food Network show, Hungry Games, a new season of Top Chef and running his other restaurants,  it seemed details were being missed in the kitchen.

No bread this time. No post-dinner cookies (and I knew they were around since I saw them while I sat hunched at my bar table). I realized that since Blais wasn’t always present (though he was in-house on my first visit, which was probably why it was so on point), his kitchen didn’t necessarily put out the same quality of food every night. My mom’s final word summed up the meal - “disappointing”.  Unfortunately, it was enough to convince me not venture back a third time because the price wasn’t worth the inconsistency.