Lardo Love: Dirty Fry Fetish (Portland, OR)

Anything with the word, “pork scraps” in its description commanded my full attention. And I had to admit that this massive pile of pig and potatoes from Lardo, which would normally be considered a side dish, was possibly my favorite meal of the trip. Here’s why:

1) The component that I originally turned my nose up at, ended up being my favorite part (I secretly poo-pooed the banana peppers' entire existence in the dish. What a fool I'd been!).

2) The strange simplicity of three or four ingredients, the likes of which I’d seen and tasted a million times before, combined in a way that made me feel like we were meeting again for the first time.

3) PORK SCRAPS!!!!

Dirty Fries: pork scraps, marinated peppers, fried herbs, parmesan ($7)

What exactly was a pork scrap? Well, apparently it was all the crispy odds and ends left over from Lardo's array of pork parts which graced their menu. 

Dirty fries were the potato equivalent of a Ben and Jerry’s pint chock full of chunky treasures, but instead of chocolate chips and cookie dough, pockets of bacon curls and shredded pork popped up between crackly trees of fried parsley and basil. Half melted pearls of grated parmesan were melted just enough to wrap it all together into one cosmic cocoon of cheesy, pork fatty, potato goodness.

But what really threw me were the marinated, banana peppers. I was worried they were going to overwhelm the dish, the way many marinated items often do, their liquid seeping heavily from their pores into every aspect (I’m talking to you sundry tomatoes!).

But this stayed balanced with sour bursts comparable to English “chips” doused in malt vinegar; dressed, but still with an audible crispiness and stiff heartiness that easily bore the load of toppings with the effortlessness of Atlas. It was a feat of French fry strength, and I couldn’t wipe the pig-eating grin off my face.

Donut Duel:Voodoo vs. Blue Star (Portland,OR)

Voodoo Donuts (22 SW 3rd Ave)

No matter what kind of research you did on Portland, Voodoo Donuts was bound to come up, so we hit the dingy section of Skidmore (immediately sending my sophomoric mind to the thought of "skid mark", which wasn’t too far off from the general vibe of the neighborhood), and went to see what all the hubbub was about.

Out of the grungy gray (catty-corner to the, “Keep Portland Weird” sign), pink and purple peeked out  like an arrow pointing to a larger than life gingerbread man impaled with a pretzel stick stake through the heart - we had arrived.

Illuminated dessert cases spun in hypnotizing circles of doughy offerings mounded with fruit loops, Oreos, candy, meats, and mayhem. It was like a child playing dress up and covering their face in lipstick, not knowing where to draw the line (literally). But that’s what gave Voodoo its spark – the novelty of it all; the lack of rules; the countless options that pumped fresh blood into that childlike artery, that rarely tapped vein of endless possibilities.

ODB: Of course, I got carried away with the over-stimulating visuals and silly names, so I inevitably opted for an, “Ol’ Dirty Bastard” (circular, no-hole donut topped with chocolate, peanut butter, and crushed Oreos), which was better in theory than flavor. The mixture of peanut butter and Oreo cream gave a weird (Wu) tang to its tongue-searing sugar content, and caused me to go “taste-blind” for a while, much like seeing spots after a camera’s flash, but burning my tastebuds instead of the corneas.

Pumpkin Spice:  Unfortunately, my petite, pumpkin treat was fully muted by ODB’s residual waylaying of my palate, but when I went back and ate the other half a couple of hours later (yes, I saved my donut!), the nutmeg and pumpkin spice were fully present, though it was nothing special enough to order again.

Maple Bacon Bar: But Voodoo did come through on the maple bacon bar. Ah, yes – bacon maple donuts were everywhere nowadays. The new “thing” as it was. Most bakeries (including duel opponent, Blue Star) opted for the classic circle donut, coated in maple glaze with a handful of crumbled bacon on top. And though this may have looked more appealing, the fact was, I really didn’t want a donut full of Bac-Os.

The whole point was to recreate the magic that happened on a breakfast plate when pancake’s syrup snuck over to the bacon’s bedside for a salty/ sweet serenade that evolved into a love affair whose likes hadn’t been seen since peanut butter and jelly first shimmied between two slices of bread together.

Voodoo pinpointed the vulnerability of that romance, stretching out two strips of bacon on a fluffed, queen-sized mattress of square dough, fitted with a smoothed, flat sheet of maple glaze. This was a romance (and a donut) for the books.

Blue Star (1237 SW Washington St)

As much as Voodoo resurrected the kid in you, Blue Star brushed you off, cleaned you up, and snapped you into adulthood. They were, in essence, the fine dining of donuts. But just because Blue Star took their work seriously, didn’t mean they were stuffy by any means. 

I considered them to be the Mary Poppins of pastry. The type of adult you wanted to be: inventive, intelligent, fun-loving, but with a precise, professional nature which saw work as an opportunity to excel, while still keeping it enjoyable. Flour flew around the open kitchen and a tower of to-go boxes balanced to the tippy-top of the ceiling like a child’s building blocks constructed with an engineer’s accuracy.

They served several variations of dough - buttermilks, classic white, stuffed donuts, and fritters  - providing a blank canvas for multiple techniques and their extensive pantry, which churned out recipes as involved and thought-provoking as any entrée.

This included options like Marionberrry pepper jam with peanut butter powder, hard apple cider fritters, blueberry bourbon basil, and crème brulee puffs adorned with an injection of Cointreau to squirt into the center – welcome to adulthood!

Chocolate almond ganache

You could never go wrong with chocolate and nuts, especially when it involved quality chocolate spun into a thick ganache and chopped, roasted almonds transformed into a buttery topping.

This was a finger-licking, face-muddy-ing kind of donut, where a bite into its center led to a nostril full of chocolate for both a satisfying and playful experience.

Raspberry/Rosemary Buttermilk
I made the mistake of involving the kid behind the counter in my Sophie’s Choice of donut dilemmas when it came to which buttermilk I should choose - lemon poppy or plain? What I wasn’t expecting, was for him to come out of left field with a third (unmentioned) option of raspberry/rosemary. “It’s my favorite. You’ll love it.”

As far as Sophie’s Choice, it was pretty much like saying, “Forget the kids, and take the dog.” But even though I knew it wasn't the right decision, I listened to his suggestion - and regretted it immediately. Its explosive, hot pink hue practically flashed a neon sign that read, “high sugar content” and the cloying raspberry glaze was like a needy girlfriend that you couldn't escape.  

But the actual donut itself was perfection – rich, moist, crisp on the outside, tender on the inside. It was a thing of buttermilk beauty and the best base dough by far...though I still regretted my misstep of not going with my gut (why did I forsake you, lemon poppy, why??!!).  

Beignets

Biting into a beignet was like having a pillow fight with your mouth, but instead of feathers flying around the room, powdered sugar billowed above in candied clouds.

These were pretty big for beignets, but they still remained light and airy, though they didn’t have that fried, funnel cake quality that I craved from this donuty delight.

Meyer lemon/ Key lime curd donut

*We have a winner! And a new cham-peen!* This curd-filled donut curled my toes. I always thought I hated jelly donuts, but what I realized, was that I just hated that they were filled with (usually cheap, corn starchy) jelly.

When pregnant with the love child of what tasted like lemon meringue and key lime pie, I realized it was all about conception and choosing the right parents for the pairing. This little bundle of joy deserved congrats. It’s a…winner!

Final Judgment:

Best base dough:  Buttermilk (Blue Star)

Best bacon maple donut: Voodoo

Best donut overall: Meyer lemon/ Key Lime curd (Blue Star)

Overall winner: Blue Star = gold star!! (Sorry Voodoo, don’t hex me!)

Father’s Office (Santa Monica)

Father's knows best?

Welcome to the land of ketchup exile. Chef Sang Yoon enforced a strict code of, “You’ll eat it and like it.” As in do not touch, sully, or sabotage. Yoon fitted Father’s burger to his exact specifications and that meant no ketchup on the premises. Inserting that type of personal perspective was akin to adding a blob of paint to a Degas or editing a piece by Vonnegut. It just wasn’t done.

Actually, it was almost as if Father’s Office was daring you to give him lip about the way he ran things – starting out with getting physically barred at the door by a bouncer’s stiff arm until your ID was checked (21 and up, even during the daytime) or ordering food through the bartenders, who were already busy slinging beers, so you’d have to wait until they got to you.

If you didn’t like it, then leave. They dared ya.

But it was obvious there was heart beneath the tough bravado and a homespun intimacy to the place - bare bones with a handful of wooden tables and chairs; a raw plank designated as the bar. I think the idea was that if you were willing to stick around through a little abuse and minimal fanfare, then Father’s would agree to feed you. We came for the much talked about burger, but I was already coveting other items like the lamb skewers with Japanese eggplant, goat cheese gratin, and spicy, oatmeal stout ribs with orange blossom honey glaze.

Burger (and frites served with garlic, parsley aioli): Caramelized onion, applewood bacon, Gruyere, Maytag blue cheese, arugula

I ordered my burger medium rare, but would probably go for medium next time – a little bloody for my liking, but the quality of beef was so extraordinary that I didn’t mind. A thin patty of caramelized onions seated itself atop the meat like a sweet and savory settee, making it clear why the synthetic sugars of ketchup weren't necessary. Peppery sprigs of arugula blossomed between sticks of bacon and pungent blooms of blue cheese for a bouquet of bold flavors, thoughtfully arranged with all the spontaneity of an English garden.

My only complaint was the choice of bun - some type of French roll that dissolved into a soggy wet-nap due to the burger's juicy center. Besides that, I had to admit it was one damn, good burger. The best burger? I wasn’t sure whether I was ready to call Father’s daddy just yet.

Dede’s Teajuice City (San Diego)

Getting Schooled on Szechuan

I had to admit, I got a little nervous when I heard we were having cold, pigs' ears. All I could picture was gnawing on a chewy piece of cartilage and looking for the closest napkin to discreetly spit it out in. But to my surprise, when the ear appeared in a pickled pile of mismatched meats and greens, it ended up becoming my favorite plate of the night.

My culinary guides knew exactly what to order at Dede's, including this concoction from "the cold box", a refrigerated display case, flaunting its wares and offering an assortment of paper thin slices of pigs’ ears, tripe, spiced brisket, and housemade pickles, along with some sort of chopped greens that were snappish, stemmed and leafy (but not bok choy). It was all tossed together in a meaty salad of vinegar and greens, a Szechuan specialty that immediately became my favorite.

This life-changing appetizer was followed with a hot pot of seasoned beef, scallion pancakes, leek dumplings, and dan dan noodles (squat noodles covered in a thick, fiery paste with a texture similar to peanut butter). Every selection was a success, and somewhat unexpected coming out of this nondescript kitchen planted in a square plot of strip mall; its dining room wallpapered in plastic menus and outfitted with uncomfortable, metal-framed chairs.

Our meal ended with a complimentary plate of melon and it was a gesture that matched the mood of the meal - a refreshing surprise. Especially when it came to that cold, meat plate. I never imagined that pigs’ ears and pickles could have such a symbiotic relationship (now I knew why pickled pigs' feet were so popular!). 

Besides performing phenomenal food feats, the tangible enthusiasm of the staff transmitted like radio waves through the kitchen to its dining room, and Dede's taught me two very important lessons:

1) Pigs' ears were perfection at any temperature.
2) Never judge a Szechuan by its strip mall.

STK: Meat Market (Midtown, NYC)

This love child of the classic steakhouse and swanky nightclub was hip, but definitely not hipster. In fact, STK seemed to represent the "anti-hipster" with its gleaming fields of clean-shaven faces and tucked shirts; professionals arriving fresh from work, dressed up to get down.

DJ STK

A Kendrick Lamar number was playing…kind of. His remixes were getting remixed with a remix, so there was no steady song. Old classics were spun with disarming, jarring techno beats (I think Otis Redding might have opted for jumping off the dock if he heard this rendition) and our twenty-something waiter perfected his role of the annoyed and aloof server, probably because he knew we were nobodies. 

Dinner

Bread: Popover with blue cheese and side of chive oil

Whether it was bread, or chips and salsa, or a saltine for God’s sakes, I was always happy to see some type of complimentary nosh arrive to tide me over before the actual meal. But when it appeared in the form of a savory muffin-cake puffed out with hunks of blue cheese melting down the side, there was another level of excitement all together! Popovers ‘bout to pop off, son!

Chive oil glistened as a liquid emerald of minced herbs and oil, which was a welcome addition since the the bread was somewhat dry, but that didn't mean I hadn't been impressed and pleased by the overall presentation. 

Entree: 10 oz. Filet mignon with bernaise sauce and side of Yukon mashed potatoes

Simple dimple - meat and potatoes. This was perfectly cooked and plated nicely, but nothing to jump up and shout about. Tasty, but not memorable, which was fine. We knew what we were getting into. We weren't there for the steak or the scene.

We were drawn in by STK's gigantic, outdoor plaza on this rare City night, 75 degrees with no humidity, and we were determined to take full advantage of it...even if that meant swatting away techno beats like mosquitoes throughout our meal - it was worth it.

Snacks and the City: Pig’s Head, Crack Pie, and Cantaloupe Juice (NYC)

Greeley Street Park

First order of business: Greeley Street Park. We’d discovered this path of gourmet food stalls too late the previous summer, when we were already on our way back to the train station after a day of gorging. It had been absolute torture to discover this culinary Xanadu with full bellies, like Hansel and Gretel stumbling on the witch’s candy compound and not being able to take a bite. But today, we came prepared…to eat freely at Greeley!

Cannibal: Pig's Head Cuban (pig's head, Vermont ham, pickles, gruyere)

Got head? Definitely a greasy handful, but the layers of toasty bread, ham, head, and melted cheese sealed it all together in one drippy, fatty, indulgent experience.

Red Hook Lobster Company: “The Connecticut” Lobster Roll (butter, scallion, lemon)

I considered “The Tuscan” (lobster/ basil vinaigrette), but couldn’t have been happier with “The Connecticut” - a quarter pound of lobster doused in citrus-soaked butter. Served in the traditional, hot dog-esque bun, its usual white bread ways instantly dissolved beneath the weighted luxury of lobster and melted butter, but that was ok, Red Hook's Maine focus was the lobster, and they succeeded in getting the point across. Claw meat for one and all! Let the good times (lobster) roll!

Momofuko Milk Bar: Crack Pie

I ripped into the miniature, cardboard package I’d purchased for $5.50 and wished they included a magnifying glass so I could find my piece of pie. I was a little disappointed about the size until I chomped a bite and all the air went out of the room as my mouth filled with a balloon of butter and sugar. It coated the entire surface area of my palate like a thick Vaseline of baked euphoria sealing in a million motes of decadence. I tried to identify the flavor, mumbling to myself, “It tastes like, like…” 

“Pecan pie without the pecans!”, my mom blurted out. She was right. Though, the filling was more solid than wiggly. There was a buttery chew beneath its thin coat of caramelized armor that gave way to a rich, rounded denseness that tasted somewhat molasses-y. Its deceiving simplicity had so many layers that I kept searching for answers as I devoured it…just one more bite.

I had to admit that my itsy-bitsy portion was enough, but I was considering going back for a second slice to take home. Because really, when would I be able to get another? And it only made sense to buy two since they were so small…

And that was how they got you hooked.  Crack pie, indeed.

Streets of SoHo

Jack’s wife Freda: Cantaloupe juice

A wise man named Pee Wee Herman once said, “If you love it so much, then why don’t you marry it.”

But you can’t elope with a cantaloupe…

Let me start from the beginning. Summer in the City = back of my neck feeling dirty and gritty. We were parched and sweaty, so this open-faced eatery shone like a beacon. I loved Jack’s Wife Freda immediately, not only for her welcoming, intimate interior which felt like a classy, charming, and modern European aunt who openly swaddled you against her breast in a gigantic hug of tastefully upholstered booths and tiny tables, but for the few seats outside that made for excellent people-watching while dining al fresco.

After coming straight from Greeley Street, we were only interested in drinks, but they welcomed us anyway. We glugged down water by the glassful like thirsty horses at a trough, as the poor waiter repeatedly returned with his pitcher to try and keep up with our emphatic gulping. Also, when we asked if it was ok to only order “drinks”, they probably thought we meant cocktails, but our scorched, sandpaper tongues sought out the unique offering of cantaloupe juice.

And well, I don’t want to over exaggerate here, but it might have been the best decision of my life!

I couldn’t believe how cantaloupe-y it was! I mean, I’ve bought cantaloupes before and they were always hit or miss – some with barely any flavor at all. But this juice, this nectar of the gods, this beautiful miracle fruit, multiplied cantaloupe’s usual silky sweet nature by a gigafruit (yes, gigifruit) as if they discovered some ultra-concentrated formula in a lab. But the way it slipped softly over the tongue, I couldn’t imagine that they added anything artifical. It was just cantaloupe, on a pedestal, naturally. Its velvety afterglow washed over the tongue in a cleansing wave. This was 16, portable ounces of magnificence.

I was in love.

But you can't elope with a cantaloupe...
So I'd have to settle for our summer in Soho.

Children of the Corn (New Jersey)

I spent a good amount of my summer childhood in Jersey shucking corn. All year long we waited for our famous, “Jersey sweet corn” to arrive, so almost every night, my mom would hand me a paper bag to take outside and shuck however many ears we needed.

The problem was, in the Jersey humidity, that corn silk would stick to every inch of you. It was like being covered in a head of fine hair that would inevitably get in the mouth, all over the legs, and usually a good amount would still be on the corn.

But I just recently found out the most amazing trick EVER!!!

1) Take the corn, still in its husk, and put it in the microwave - four minutes an ear.

2) Remove from the microwave and cut about an inch off the fat end with a sharp knife.

3) Squeeze from the skinny end and the ear shoots out without any hair on it!!

The heat must bring the fibers together, creating some type of slippery, silky net that allows the corn to slide out completely bald! I can’t imagine how many hours this could have saved me as a kid.

But then again…

There was something about having to help out with the meal and work a little for your food that was character building. Those times where I sat covered in corn weave were also peaceful, thoughtful moments; calming and methodical; comforting in the sounds that went along with the job - the freeing pop when pulling the husk away from the cob, the white noise of traffic; the blinking, neon flashes of the evening's first lightening bugs. I wouldn’t take that away from them….every kid should give a shuck.

But as for us adults – use the microwave! It’s a lifesaver.