Pie crusts (and molds) were meant to be broken
This would be your neighborhood pizzeria’s rich, city cousin. Walls of earthy, Tuscan gold and reds were the first hint that, though this might mimic a stereotypical pizza joint, some serious dough had been dropped to sling pie gourmet-stlye.
That was to be expected from Chef Mario Batali, along with partners Nancy Silverton (aka the mozzarella maestro) and Joseph Bastianich, who carried their high-end motif over from Mozza’s Osteria (next door) to the Pizzeria’s more casual vibe (641 N. Highland Ave.)
Fresh peppers and lemons popped as usable artwork along the pizza bar, a wood burning oven in the background. Tables danced cheek to cheek on the dining room floor - close quarters to say the least, but with familial appeal.
Our server, however, did not exude the same warmth as his venue. He would be playing the stock character- “LA waiter”- designer glasses framing a rushed and superior demeanor, as if we had just crashed his dinner party. But our wayward host was a minimal distraction compared to the food.
Appetizer: Stuffed squash blossoms with ricotta ($12) – Perfect pockets of delightfulness. “Nature’s Cheeto” exploded in hot, melted bursts from the tender valise of blossom. It had me considering a second round immediately and possibly another in lieu of dessert.
Salad: An anchovy vinagriette, rather than “dressing,” was drizzled over mixed greens with stalks of frisee and flashes of radicchio ($14.) We were left with its garlic-y afterglow and pearls of parmesan wisdom that even had the anti-anchovist at the table raving about its non-fishy finish.
Pizza: pies contained four squatty slices, arched on imperfectly shaped pizza crust, with the artisan individuality of a snowflake.
Sausage/rosemary pie- ($15) I wanted to take a sauna in its steam of smells. Can scents by lick-able? The sweet perfume was strong enough to overwhelm the neighboring table, who inquired, “What IS that?” and then ordered one of their own.
Squash blossom/Burrata pie ($18) - as mentioned, my addiction to the squash blossoms began early in the meal and picked up here, paired with Burrata mozzarella and tomato. Burrata’s consistency was similar to that of a Cadbury cream egg. It oozed. It ran. It pooled around the flesh of the blossoms and added a little give to the crunch of the crust.
Dessert: Gelato - (three scoops, $7)
1) We ordered the olive oil gelato, having already sampled it once at the Osteria (next door), and reveled in the memory of its savory, sea-salt sprinkles.
2) Giandiua (hazelnut) had a nutty roundness that meshed flawlessly with its chocolate background.
3) This chocolate chip mint (CCM) ruined me for life. I had been swindled, bamboozled, led astray by my past CCM experiences. But here, it was like chewing on a stalk of mint with a cold rush that ended in the deep swirl of dark chocolate. Its ivory hue ensured natural ingredients and a clean finish, leading me to believe that all other CCM’s were just green with envy.
Biscotti plate- this sampling was like an edible jigsaw puzzle, fitting various shapes on a plate to form one concise picture - decadence. Pieces ranged from delicate toasted almond cookies to the teeth cracking goodness of hazelnut biscotti.
Top it off: Before we left, I noticed we were sitting near Stephen the sommelier from the first season of Top Chef. He had his signature wide-topped tie and well-fitted suit, a decanter of red to his right. I leaned over and said, “You should have won.” It was a lie, but I had to say something. Chatting it up with celebs while eating at a “very now” place is sooo LA- didn’t you know daaarrling?
Street parking easily accessible (valet $8.50)
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
San Diego pizzeria- Ciro's
Ciro’s (1226 University Ave) reminds me of Disneyland, where I’m nickel and dimed for every ounce of enjoyment they can suck from my soul.
A 50 cent charge is included on debit purchases under 10 dollars and since a majortiy of their business is pizza by the slice (two slices and fountain soda for six dollars) and since I never carry cash, this is annoying.
It’s also disturbing that an extra side of blue cheese is close to a dollar and even more disturbing that they almost forgot to give it to me. I caught that, but only noticed the absence of my celery and carrots when I got home. If you’re going to gouge people, at least give them what they paid for.
But they really don’t seem to care what you paid for, if you’ve ordered or whether you’ve been standing there for 10 minutes while they call Joey to see if he’s, “up for getting trashed later.” But the tip jar is proudly pushed to the front of the counter for their stellar service (why am I tipping you for handing me a slice and a cup?)
The pizza is thin crust and tasty, but the margarita pizza is the only one I would make a special trip back for. Chopped tomatoes instead of sliced made this a noteworthy version with a perfect balance of garlic and basil.
And the wings, they would be ordered again. Their original blend gave a little sweet, a little spice and plenty of meat, but get ready to pay through the nose if you order 25 wings and like blue cheese.
Clearly built for the drunken stragglers of Universal who are willing to pour out their pockets for a bit of late night grease, Ciro’s looks much different in the light of day. The attitude, effort and additional costs make it easy for Ciro’s to remain a one night stand.*
*I did just receive a $5 off coupon for delivery, so maybe I’ll invite Ciro’s back to my bedside again (but only if I’m looking for a late night booty call.)
A 50 cent charge is included on debit purchases under 10 dollars and since a majortiy of their business is pizza by the slice (two slices and fountain soda for six dollars) and since I never carry cash, this is annoying.
It’s also disturbing that an extra side of blue cheese is close to a dollar and even more disturbing that they almost forgot to give it to me. I caught that, but only noticed the absence of my celery and carrots when I got home. If you’re going to gouge people, at least give them what they paid for.
But they really don’t seem to care what you paid for, if you’ve ordered or whether you’ve been standing there for 10 minutes while they call Joey to see if he’s, “up for getting trashed later.” But the tip jar is proudly pushed to the front of the counter for their stellar service (why am I tipping you for handing me a slice and a cup?)
The pizza is thin crust and tasty, but the margarita pizza is the only one I would make a special trip back for. Chopped tomatoes instead of sliced made this a noteworthy version with a perfect balance of garlic and basil.
And the wings, they would be ordered again. Their original blend gave a little sweet, a little spice and plenty of meat, but get ready to pay through the nose if you order 25 wings and like blue cheese.
Clearly built for the drunken stragglers of Universal who are willing to pour out their pockets for a bit of late night grease, Ciro’s looks much different in the light of day. The attitude, effort and additional costs make it easy for Ciro’s to remain a one night stand.*
*I did just receive a $5 off coupon for delivery, so maybe I’ll invite Ciro’s back to my bedside again (but only if I’m looking for a late night booty call.)
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
San Diego bar- Hamilton Tavern
Tap--- tap--tap___ Telegraph white__ served on tap- tap____
Like Ahab in search of his white whale,
I was Rehab in search of my white ale.
I had heard of this rarity, this Telegraph white, but was not prepared for a smoky glass of liquid barbeque. This hickory switch (up) stung my senses and branded beer its own food group, which seemed to be the norm at Hamilton’s Tavern*.
*Makings of a modern day beer hall:
1) Beer tap studded ceilings
2) Belgian craft beers, local and microbrews
3) Over 130 bottles, along with unlikely tap features like, Port Party Pants
4) Pool tables, fuse ball tables, darts and shuffleboard
5) Greasy bar treats
Food orders were placed through a window manned by the surly, female chow-slinger who reminded me of a speakeasy bouncer that had just received the wrong password.
It was worth her glowering:
Beer soup- Learn it, live it, love it. You might leave ten pounds heavier if you actually treated it like a bowl of Campbell’s with its heavy cheddar and beer base, but it’s a fry’s best friend and random spoonfuls washed down my burger like an oyster shooter’s beefy cousin. The bowl was bigger then my head, bigger than Frankenstein’s head, bigger than Great Grape Ape’s head….Four of us shared a bowl and still didn’t come close to finishing.
Burgers- I debated between the Hamilton (avocado, bacon, manchengo, onion jam and house bbq sauce- yum!) and l’america burger (cheddar, lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle), so I went with the choice that would make Uncle Sam proud (and I felt obligated since it looked like his long lost brother was sipping an Anchorsteam in the corner.)
L’ America was a two handed burger, but didn’t have an insurmountable wall of meat (1/2 lb.) All bites were balanced with precise burger to bun ratios and its distinct char easily made it one of the best in town.
Wings- I was thrilled with the wings, but my standards are different than most. I like them petite and crunchy (no disgusting, wobble skin), so they might be too small for some, but for my needs they were first rate (battered in Wahoo wheat beer and homemade wing sauce.)
6) Jukebox- Wow, when was the last time I heard, “Stairway to Heaven?” Probably when it turned 100,000 on the odometer of my eardrums, just as, “Shook me all night long” had left the party sometime during high school. But their comfortable lyrics were like sliding into a favorite T-shirt that had been pushed to the back of the drawer and by the end we were howling a rousing rendition of, “Stand by your man.”
Come early if you want a table (only four in total, along with two booths by the pool tables) and dogs seem to be welcome patrons.
Call me Ishmael…For I will regale this tale to the masses.
Call me a cab… I might be at Port Party Pants for a while.
Like Ahab in search of his white whale,
I was Rehab in search of my white ale.
I had heard of this rarity, this Telegraph white, but was not prepared for a smoky glass of liquid barbeque. This hickory switch (up) stung my senses and branded beer its own food group, which seemed to be the norm at Hamilton’s Tavern*.
*Makings of a modern day beer hall:
1) Beer tap studded ceilings
2) Belgian craft beers, local and microbrews
3) Over 130 bottles, along with unlikely tap features like, Port Party Pants
4) Pool tables, fuse ball tables, darts and shuffleboard
5) Greasy bar treats
Food orders were placed through a window manned by the surly, female chow-slinger who reminded me of a speakeasy bouncer that had just received the wrong password.
It was worth her glowering:
Beer soup- Learn it, live it, love it. You might leave ten pounds heavier if you actually treated it like a bowl of Campbell’s with its heavy cheddar and beer base, but it’s a fry’s best friend and random spoonfuls washed down my burger like an oyster shooter’s beefy cousin. The bowl was bigger then my head, bigger than Frankenstein’s head, bigger than Great Grape Ape’s head….Four of us shared a bowl and still didn’t come close to finishing.
Burgers- I debated between the Hamilton (avocado, bacon, manchengo, onion jam and house bbq sauce- yum!) and l’america burger (cheddar, lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle), so I went with the choice that would make Uncle Sam proud (and I felt obligated since it looked like his long lost brother was sipping an Anchorsteam in the corner.)
L’ America was a two handed burger, but didn’t have an insurmountable wall of meat (1/2 lb.) All bites were balanced with precise burger to bun ratios and its distinct char easily made it one of the best in town.
Wings- I was thrilled with the wings, but my standards are different than most. I like them petite and crunchy (no disgusting, wobble skin), so they might be too small for some, but for my needs they were first rate (battered in Wahoo wheat beer and homemade wing sauce.)
6) Jukebox- Wow, when was the last time I heard, “Stairway to Heaven?” Probably when it turned 100,000 on the odometer of my eardrums, just as, “Shook me all night long” had left the party sometime during high school. But their comfortable lyrics were like sliding into a favorite T-shirt that had been pushed to the back of the drawer and by the end we were howling a rousing rendition of, “Stand by your man.”
Come early if you want a table (only four in total, along with two booths by the pool tables) and dogs seem to be welcome patrons.
Call me Ishmael…For I will regale this tale to the masses.
Call me a cab… I might be at Port Party Pants for a while.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
San Diego restaurant- Super Cocina
Holy Mole- Rediscovering a Mexican mainstay
It might have been my 5’9, WASP-y, blonde friend that made us stand out at Super Cocina (3627 University Ave), or the way I pronounced my emphatic, “Hola!” with the “H.” Either way, the woman behind the counter dismissed our language barrier and just started ladeling samples from her sauna of steaming pans.
We had just entered…
The Taqueria Zone: Imagine you have stumbled upon a speck of an eatery, a rundown concrete box, whose cafeteria-like nature pushes plastic trays with pre-sectioned plates amongst the click of red and yellow tile.
The twist: Instead of non-decipherable, mystery meats from some hair-netted, kitchen Frau, traditional Mexican dishes are heaped with familial generosity into tangible tastings of patience. Chaffing dishes simmer meats to “fall off the bone” status and waft the sense/scents of Sunday dinner, where passed-down recipes run the kitchen:
Chicken mole- (dark brown) I had whole-heartedly dismissed mole from my repertoire, disliking its bitter, chocolate aftertaste, but this stood out with a distinct, peanut finish that had me questioning my prior prejudice.
Spicy pork- (red) fiery and tender in a roasted chili sauce, I labeled this “shredded heat” for its texture and spice.
Pork Verde- (green) this mild sauce didn’t lack forward flavors. Garlic and cilantro were punched up for a refreshing depth to this sometimes blander option.
From these favorites (and other options like carnitas, tacos and burritos), I chose two items for under $5 (including beans and rice), so I had to go with the spicy pork... and chicken mole. That’s how life-altering the mole was- they had converted me in minutes.
Not only had Super Cocina revolutionized the way I thought about mole, but about food in general. How many dishes had I written off that had another side to show me?
The mole wouldn't have even gotten a second glance if I hadn’t been offered a taste. The willingness of the staff to educate us with multiple samplings ensured pleasure from whatever was ordered and erased any chance of miscommunication, even if we spoke different languages.
I also threw in an empanada for good measure (fried dough is always a winner) and the horchata is one of those rare delights that’s just gross enough to work (who knew milk’s sweet, lumpy cousin could be so tasty?)
I recommend going before 7pm since the fresh pans usually stop flowing around then (they close at 8:30.) Take-out also makes sense if you want to sip a cerveza when downing a bowl of “shredded heat” because sadly enough, they don’t serve alcohol here. What they do serve: epiphanies by the plateful.
It might have been my 5’9, WASP-y, blonde friend that made us stand out at Super Cocina (3627 University Ave), or the way I pronounced my emphatic, “Hola!” with the “H.” Either way, the woman behind the counter dismissed our language barrier and just started ladeling samples from her sauna of steaming pans.
We had just entered…
The Taqueria Zone: Imagine you have stumbled upon a speck of an eatery, a rundown concrete box, whose cafeteria-like nature pushes plastic trays with pre-sectioned plates amongst the click of red and yellow tile.
The twist: Instead of non-decipherable, mystery meats from some hair-netted, kitchen Frau, traditional Mexican dishes are heaped with familial generosity into tangible tastings of patience. Chaffing dishes simmer meats to “fall off the bone” status and waft the sense/scents of Sunday dinner, where passed-down recipes run the kitchen:
Chicken mole- (dark brown) I had whole-heartedly dismissed mole from my repertoire, disliking its bitter, chocolate aftertaste, but this stood out with a distinct, peanut finish that had me questioning my prior prejudice.
Spicy pork- (red) fiery and tender in a roasted chili sauce, I labeled this “shredded heat” for its texture and spice.
Pork Verde- (green) this mild sauce didn’t lack forward flavors. Garlic and cilantro were punched up for a refreshing depth to this sometimes blander option.
From these favorites (and other options like carnitas, tacos and burritos), I chose two items for under $5 (including beans and rice), so I had to go with the spicy pork... and chicken mole. That’s how life-altering the mole was- they had converted me in minutes.
Not only had Super Cocina revolutionized the way I thought about mole, but about food in general. How many dishes had I written off that had another side to show me?
The mole wouldn't have even gotten a second glance if I hadn’t been offered a taste. The willingness of the staff to educate us with multiple samplings ensured pleasure from whatever was ordered and erased any chance of miscommunication, even if we spoke different languages.
I also threw in an empanada for good measure (fried dough is always a winner) and the horchata is one of those rare delights that’s just gross enough to work (who knew milk’s sweet, lumpy cousin could be so tasty?)
I recommend going before 7pm since the fresh pans usually stop flowing around then (they close at 8:30.) Take-out also makes sense if you want to sip a cerveza when downing a bowl of “shredded heat” because sadly enough, they don’t serve alcohol here. What they do serve: epiphanies by the plateful.
Friday, July 11, 2008
San Diego bakery- Heavensent
(Hell) Bent at Heavensent - Saying Hell no to the halo
In a rush, I went against my better judgment and decided to pick up dessert at Heaven sent. I had remained distant (emotionally, geographically it was just blocks away), after several unsettled spats between their treats and my taste-buds. This recent trip of desperation only solidified why I Hades this place so much.
My cake-loving companion and I set off to choose a couple delights for a birthday celebration, but this wasn’t an easy task by any means. Mainly because the entire staff had the attitude of an annoyed teenager whose mother kept badgering them to clean their room (apparently, I was mom.)
We received a blank stare with our order (free of charge), as the girl (later referred to as Teen Trauma) searched our faces, to see if the new season of Candid Camera had picked her as the butt of a joke where “crazy customers” ordered more than one item. With body language bordering on tantrum status (stomping feet, audible sighs) she began collecting our outrageous order of THREE desserts.
“This is to go,” we mentioned, trying to cut her annoyance by clueing her in that it wasn’t all for us, but that just meant she had to get a box. Now she was pissed.
I was almost scared to ask for a chocolate malted at this point, but since it was 90 degrees outside, I took my chances. I lost. When I asked for the drink “to go”, Teen Trauma said, “I can’t do that.” Of course this made absolutely no sense, but neither had any of her other behavior, so I figured once they handed it to me in a glass, I would ask for a to-go cup and do it myself.
We waited at a nearby table when Teen Trauma 2 (the male version) sidled up with a parfait topped with bananas and malt balls. What the...? Again, I had to wait in a line as long as Purgatory and again Teen Trauma seemed exasperated by my presence. I told her that I ordered the drink, a chocolate malted, “You know, like a milkshake?”
“I’ll refund your money back.”
Um, how about offering me what I originally ordered? It would be nice to make a profit and give the customer want they wanted, wouldn’t it? It didn’t matter. Call me bat girl because I was gone faster than one out of Hell.
As for the desserts, their passage through my pearly (white) gates didn’t leave without judgment:
Guinness stout chocolate cake- the dark chocolate cake with cream cheese icing was tasty, but I’d rather spend my money on the actual beer- the name made it a novelty, but didn’t warrant a $7 price tag.
Cheesecake- cut them into triangles if you want, but three sides of “blah’ are congruent to “blah.”
Angel food cake- finally this lived up to its namesake and made for some summertime sinning with fresh strawberries and REAL whip cream-everything was balanced, airy- dare I say, heavenly.
Too bad that was my only glimpse into the light because it wasn’t enough to make me a believer. Their penance would be paid in profit losses and diminishing clientele, but that would be their cross to bear (claw.)
In a rush, I went against my better judgment and decided to pick up dessert at Heaven sent. I had remained distant (emotionally, geographically it was just blocks away), after several unsettled spats between their treats and my taste-buds. This recent trip of desperation only solidified why I Hades this place so much.
My cake-loving companion and I set off to choose a couple delights for a birthday celebration, but this wasn’t an easy task by any means. Mainly because the entire staff had the attitude of an annoyed teenager whose mother kept badgering them to clean their room (apparently, I was mom.)
We received a blank stare with our order (free of charge), as the girl (later referred to as Teen Trauma) searched our faces, to see if the new season of Candid Camera had picked her as the butt of a joke where “crazy customers” ordered more than one item. With body language bordering on tantrum status (stomping feet, audible sighs) she began collecting our outrageous order of THREE desserts.
“This is to go,” we mentioned, trying to cut her annoyance by clueing her in that it wasn’t all for us, but that just meant she had to get a box. Now she was pissed.
I was almost scared to ask for a chocolate malted at this point, but since it was 90 degrees outside, I took my chances. I lost. When I asked for the drink “to go”, Teen Trauma said, “I can’t do that.” Of course this made absolutely no sense, but neither had any of her other behavior, so I figured once they handed it to me in a glass, I would ask for a to-go cup and do it myself.
We waited at a nearby table when Teen Trauma 2 (the male version) sidled up with a parfait topped with bananas and malt balls. What the...? Again, I had to wait in a line as long as Purgatory and again Teen Trauma seemed exasperated by my presence. I told her that I ordered the drink, a chocolate malted, “You know, like a milkshake?”
“I’ll refund your money back.”
Um, how about offering me what I originally ordered? It would be nice to make a profit and give the customer want they wanted, wouldn’t it? It didn’t matter. Call me bat girl because I was gone faster than one out of Hell.
As for the desserts, their passage through my pearly (white) gates didn’t leave without judgment:
Guinness stout chocolate cake- the dark chocolate cake with cream cheese icing was tasty, but I’d rather spend my money on the actual beer- the name made it a novelty, but didn’t warrant a $7 price tag.
Cheesecake- cut them into triangles if you want, but three sides of “blah’ are congruent to “blah.”
Angel food cake- finally this lived up to its namesake and made for some summertime sinning with fresh strawberries and REAL whip cream-everything was balanced, airy- dare I say, heavenly.
Too bad that was my only glimpse into the light because it wasn’t enough to make me a believer. Their penance would be paid in profit losses and diminishing clientele, but that would be their cross to bear (claw.)
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
San Diego bakery- Golden Donut
The Midas TouchA faded, plastic ring meant to signify crispy batter, sagged above the ordinary, almost invisible font, “Golden Donut,” and reminded me more of buying tires than eating sweets, but this covert treasure squeezed four fundamentals of baking into their shoebox-sized shop (quality, freshness, variety and price) like jelly into a...
We walked into a smell of confections so strong that I rushed to shut the door, its precious scent escaping like heat from a house in winter. Pepto- Bismal colored counters stretched along glass cases with apartment levels of diverse pleasure (all with appetite-accessible floor plans) and the penthouse boasted the best.
Two of my favorite words - “butter” and “milk”- together formed the title of my top contender in the pastry arena. Mini-loaves, the size of individual cornbreads, were the most indulgent and most addictive piece of dough around.
Buttermilk serving suggestions:
glazed- everyday.
chocolate: celebration!
plain: could I get away with using these as rolls at my next dinner party?
…and only $3.85 for a box of six, it was clear that my accomplice and I would be sticky sick with sugar highs before the day was through.
With a knowledgeable air of a tenured professor, the woman behind the counter pointed out and named each delight we questioned, using her tongs with practiced agility. “Move down if you want to talk,” she ordered other customers blocking the register, but it held a familial softness more like, “Shoo!,” from a mother whose children were underfoot while cooking.
Lenient with their selection (i.e. buttermilks count as a donut in the six-pack), the box filled up fast with powdered raspberry jam, chocolate icing and cinnamon sugar. Mini chocolate and vanilla donuts flaunted high-end accessories like nuts and rainbow sprinkles for the same effect of a string bikini - attention whores (better throw them in the box too*.)
*Warning- Do not try Golden Donut if you have any plans of dieting soon. It will ruin you for swimsuit season.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Los Angeles restaurant- Osteria at Mozza
Mozz-art for the mouth
Aperitiv: My mind kept wandering off the road and down the avenues of possibility that sprang from the words, “mozzarella bar.” I was still trying to wrap my brain around this myth-like monument featured at Chef Mario Batali’s, Mozza (6602 Melrose Ave), when my aunt and uncle’s overnight layover in LA gave me the perfect excuse to insert myself into this culinary conundrum.
After pre-ordering a bottle of wine by phone, Mozza called back to inform me it would be $4 higher than originally quoted. It was a minimal difference, but their attention to detail gave me a firm handshake of a first impression before I even stepped through the door.
Amuse bouche: With all the giddiness of a school girl, I replayed the Osteria menu (vs. the Pizzeria, next door) in my head as we dipped into dark chocolate woods (including wine racks creeping close to the ceiling), contrasted by cloudless sky colored walls. Cherry red, meat slicers gleamed with all the appeal of a new bike and porcelain pedestals laden with caramelized leeks and asparagus flaunted roasted sugars like the Willy Wonka of vegetables.
We managed to scalp front row seats at the marble-topped mozzarella bar, manned by the legendary Nancy Silverton (expert cheese maker/restaurant partner) wielding her curds and whey. Our waiter, James*, fiddled with my uncle’s new camera and after telling us he had been a photography major at NYU (“Get out, we’re from NJ”), that was all we needed to create an instant bond (bond with James = James bond). *all mozzarella and pasta decisions were made upon James recommendations.
He handed us our first, complimentary bite of the evening that spread goat cheese, black olives and greens on a toasted baguette. Can taste-buds become fluent in Italian? Si et grazie.
Cheese course: Though many campfire tales had been told of Burrata mozzarella, nothing could prepare me for the reality. Slicing it was similar to the effects of biting into a Cadbury cream egg, but the oozing center was composed entirely of fresh cheese. Caramelized leeks and sturdy garlic bread only intensified this mild rendition with some sweetness and substance ($15.) To say I was blown away is an understatement.
Proscuitto and Burrata ($15, pictured above) also played its game of dismantling my pre-conceived notions of “mozzarella” like gazing into a funhouse mirror with a rearranged sense of the familiar. I couldn’t get over the texture. Two golf sized balls of mozzarella sat on a plate, wallpapered with proscuitto, but their consistency reminded me of a poached egg with a thin, outer layer that peeled back from the “yolk” (ham and eggs- Mozza style.)
Octopussy: James swore up and down that the octopus ($18) was like no other and repeatedly mentioned its tenderness with tourettes-like intensity, so again we listened to our James bond, our own 007 (yes, he speaks Italian and scuba dives) and if I hadn’t known it was octopus, I would have guessed it was a buttery pork chop. This was a must order item 1,000 times over, and though I'd never been a fan, this easily scored a ten(tacle.)
Pasta course: A giant ravioli with ricotta and egg yolk center ($18) might have been my favorite dish of the evening. Skeptical about a runny yolk (but reassured by James), my doubt was washed away with sage brown butter, homemade pasta and parmesan. My only complaint was that I wished I were at home, so I could have licked the plate.
True comfort food blended orecchiette pasta ($18) with the artery slowing serenity of sausage, swiss chard and the panko-like crunchiness of fresh breadcrumbs.
Meat course: Their crispy half duck ($29) achieved multiple awards from this judgmental jaw:
1) #1 crispiest skin on a duck
2) #1 juiciest meat on a duck
3) #1 original accoutrement*
*Wasabi pears were just another imaginative and complimentary dynamic to this dish served atop a wooden cutting board with a large enough knife to reenact carving Thanksgiving dinner all for myself.
My aunt “mmm-ed” over her thinly sliced steak ($26), candied with aged balsamic and tart from sheets of parmesan resting amongst mixed greens. My uncle’s monkfish ($29) in a red diavolo sauce was tasty, but my duck easily earned top billing.
Dessert course: Olive oil gelato and rosemary cakes with rosemary brittle ($11)- need I say more. I was suddenly a judge on Iron Chef. This was a whole new realm of dessert and I reveled in its savory, sweet seduction. Olive oil gelato ingrained rock salt sprinkles, while the brittle consisted of a sprig of rosemary encased in a clear piece of crystallized sugar and tasted as if eating the sprig itself (without the stem.) Mini cakes were pillows that fluffed my palate for satisfied exhaustion after a job well.
In a word: Memorable.
In a few words: I go to bed dreaming of the yolk/ricotta ravioli.
Final words: absolutely worth the trip (or several); ask for James.
Aperitiv: My mind kept wandering off the road and down the avenues of possibility that sprang from the words, “mozzarella bar.” I was still trying to wrap my brain around this myth-like monument featured at Chef Mario Batali’s, Mozza (6602 Melrose Ave), when my aunt and uncle’s overnight layover in LA gave me the perfect excuse to insert myself into this culinary conundrum.
After pre-ordering a bottle of wine by phone, Mozza called back to inform me it would be $4 higher than originally quoted. It was a minimal difference, but their attention to detail gave me a firm handshake of a first impression before I even stepped through the door.Amuse bouche: With all the giddiness of a school girl, I replayed the Osteria menu (vs. the Pizzeria, next door) in my head as we dipped into dark chocolate woods (including wine racks creeping close to the ceiling), contrasted by cloudless sky colored walls. Cherry red, meat slicers gleamed with all the appeal of a new bike and porcelain pedestals laden with caramelized leeks and asparagus flaunted roasted sugars like the Willy Wonka of vegetables.
We managed to scalp front row seats at the marble-topped mozzarella bar, manned by the legendary Nancy Silverton (expert cheese maker/restaurant partner) wielding her curds and whey. Our waiter, James*, fiddled with my uncle’s new camera and after telling us he had been a photography major at NYU (“Get out, we’re from NJ”), that was all we needed to create an instant bond (bond with James = James bond). *all mozzarella and pasta decisions were made upon James recommendations.
He handed us our first, complimentary bite of the evening that spread goat cheese, black olives and greens on a toasted baguette. Can taste-buds become fluent in Italian? Si et grazie.
Cheese course: Though many campfire tales had been told of Burrata mozzarella, nothing could prepare me for the reality. Slicing it was similar to the effects of biting into a Cadbury cream egg, but the oozing center was composed entirely of fresh cheese. Caramelized leeks and sturdy garlic bread only intensified this mild rendition with some sweetness and substance ($15.) To say I was blown away is an understatement.
Proscuitto and Burrata ($15, pictured above) also played its game of dismantling my pre-conceived notions of “mozzarella” like gazing into a funhouse mirror with a rearranged sense of the familiar. I couldn’t get over the texture. Two golf sized balls of mozzarella sat on a plate, wallpapered with proscuitto, but their consistency reminded me of a poached egg with a thin, outer layer that peeled back from the “yolk” (ham and eggs- Mozza style.)
Octopussy: James swore up and down that the octopus ($18) was like no other and repeatedly mentioned its tenderness with tourettes-like intensity, so again we listened to our James bond, our own 007 (yes, he speaks Italian and scuba dives) and if I hadn’t known it was octopus, I would have guessed it was a buttery pork chop. This was a must order item 1,000 times over, and though I'd never been a fan, this easily scored a ten(tacle.)
Pasta course: A giant ravioli with ricotta and egg yolk center ($18) might have been my favorite dish of the evening. Skeptical about a runny yolk (but reassured by James), my doubt was washed away with sage brown butter, homemade pasta and parmesan. My only complaint was that I wished I were at home, so I could have licked the plate.True comfort food blended orecchiette pasta ($18) with the artery slowing serenity of sausage, swiss chard and the panko-like crunchiness of fresh breadcrumbs.
Meat course: Their crispy half duck ($29) achieved multiple awards from this judgmental jaw:
1) #1 crispiest skin on a duck
2) #1 juiciest meat on a duck
3) #1 original accoutrement*
*Wasabi pears were just another imaginative and complimentary dynamic to this dish served atop a wooden cutting board with a large enough knife to reenact carving Thanksgiving dinner all for myself.
My aunt “mmm-ed” over her thinly sliced steak ($26), candied with aged balsamic and tart from sheets of parmesan resting amongst mixed greens. My uncle’s monkfish ($29) in a red diavolo sauce was tasty, but my duck easily earned top billing.
Dessert course: Olive oil gelato and rosemary cakes with rosemary brittle ($11)- need I say more. I was suddenly a judge on Iron Chef. This was a whole new realm of dessert and I reveled in its savory, sweet seduction. Olive oil gelato ingrained rock salt sprinkles, while the brittle consisted of a sprig of rosemary encased in a clear piece of crystallized sugar and tasted as if eating the sprig itself (without the stem.) Mini cakes were pillows that fluffed my palate for satisfied exhaustion after a job well.
In a word: Memorable.
In a few words: I go to bed dreaming of the yolk/ricotta ravioli.
Final words: absolutely worth the trip (or several); ask for James.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
