Momofuku Ko-My-God

We just celebrated our fifteenth anniversary. FIFTEEN. WHAT?? It's crazy that I've spent almost one-third of my life married to The Boy, but there you go. We're still having fun, even during the medical crappiness of the last couple of years.

So how to mark the event? We left it kind of late to do anything big, partly because I was due to start the new ritual of weekly chemo and twice-a-day radiation and we didn't know how I'd feel. As it turned out, I was doing okay, so with just over a week to go, we found a hotel in New York and booked train tickets for the following weekend.

The big question, of course: Where to eat?

Scoping around for something new, I checked in with our friend Eric, who a) reminded us that he and his wife had recently had a fab meal at Momofuku Ko and b) pointed out that reservations for our Saturday night would open up the following day.

Okay, sold.

In theory, at least.

The deal with Ko is that they have 12 seats — not tables, seats — which become available ten days ahead at 10am. The trick is to be online at 9:58am and hit "refresh" constantly.

So I was. Click, click, click. Refresh, refresh, refresh. One minute to go ... 9:59:48 ... click ...

Ten o'clock. Click.

No availability.

WHAT??

Yep, them's the breaks. Luckily, I also knew to keep clicking; people cancel, spaces open up. And lo, after only another 30 minutes of hitting "refresh," I saw an opening. Click. Got it.

(And then another couple of heart-pounding, adrenaline-filled minutes where I had to fill in contact details and give a credit card number while a timer counted down 120 seconds. Aaagh, the number's wrong! Aagh, I can't spell my own name! This, it seems, is why I'm not cut out for the bomb squad.)

So, after a fun day in Manhattan, including a lovely pub lunch at Jones Wood Foundry (bangers and mash! Steak and kidney pie! Listening to New Yorkers concerned about the contents of toad in the hole!) and a romantic walk through a rainy, misty, almost-deserted Central Park, we headed to the East Village.

Okay, a disclaimer now: Ko is known for discouraging photography. As the website puts it:

may i take pictures?
no.

Which would hurt less if I hadn't found 600+ Ko photos on Flickr.

But whatevs. No lovely food shots here, but a few observations to give you a sense of the experience.

The room is long and narrow, and dominated by a counter running down the middle. On one side are 12 stools; on the other, three guys with sharp knives and a lot of stainless steel.

The music is eclectic — Wilco, Pink Floyd, NWA ("it's the big boss man's iPod," we're told) — though loud; we have to shout to communicate allergies to the staff, and we don't always hear all the details of each dish as they're presented.

That, combined with the fear of being yelled at for pulling out a phone, means we don't take notes. And it's hard to remember all ten courses plus snacky extras.

Still, there was:

Light-as-air chicharrón dusted with huitlacoche;
Melty Spanish mackerel contrasted with pickled shallots and blood orange;
Tiny, delicate shrimp with a texture I can only describe as creamy, something I've never encountered before;
A rich potato chowder with soft littleneck clams and andouille (just outside my current capacity for spicy food, but still fabulous);
Venison tartare, served under sunchoke and Brussels sprout leaves and over fermented black beans. No, shut up, it was insane. The venison was like maguro in texture, the beans added a deeper meaty angle, the leaves gave a crunchy foil to the soft flesh. The only thing even more better was the egg.

Ohhh, the egg. Soft-boiled, smoked, served with a generous spoonful of caviar on top of buttered onions. Simple, right? Oh look, here's a recipe. And a better picture.

The other dish often cited in discussions of Ko is the lychees with Riesling geleé topped with chilled, shaved foie. It's like a rich, grown-up, sophisticated sundae. Sadly, by the time it appears for us, I'm dragging — it's well past my bedtime — so I can't give it the full attention it deserves.

And I hardly touch the last savory course, a tender piece of duck with baby turnip and berries. Which makes me feel bad, especially as the poor guy firing up the first batch accidentally set the whole pan alight and had to start over.

Oh, a word on the chefs. There are some jobs I'm just not cut out for: teacher, nurse, anything in sales. Add to that: Cooking in a tiny restaurant where you're almost nose-to-nose with the diners. These guys had an incredible Zen-like approach, calmly, methodically prepping and plating, slicing translucent slivers of fish, using tweezers to pick out the perfect microgreen garnishes, trimming meat down to its tastiest essence, while dealing with distracting customer chit-chat. I'd last ten minutes before I was throwing plates across the room.

Desserts were lovely — a coconut-lime sorbet with meringue and banana and a sour-orange sorbet with panna cotta, Earl Grey and caramel — but seemingly not as creative as the mains. Which reminded us of dinner at Rosanjin, in which a dinner of dishes in a formal, traditional Japanese style concluded with ... cheesecake and strawberry ice cream. So maybe it's a thing.

After about two and a half hours, we rolled out, tired and full and happy. Ko goes in our Top Ten Meals of All Time.

And now I'm back to sucking scrambled eggs and milkshakes. At least I still have tastebuds, for now. Once they're gone, I'll entertain myself with looking at photos of dinner at Ko.

Other people's photos, anyway.

Rosanjin, New York: Seven courses and sake

We spent President's Day weekend in New York (as did the rest of the world, apparently). For us, this has become something of a tradition, as the long weekend falls around our wedding anniversary, so it's a good excuse for a few days of concentrated eating, walking, eating, shopping, and eating.

This year, The Boy was in charge of finding restaurants. His method was to check out Michelin-starred places on OpenTable, narrow it down to cuisines we were less likely to find in Boston, and then see what was actually available.

Which is how we ended up eating a seven-course traditional Japanese meal, paired with sake, at Rosanjin in Tribeca.

The style of dining is called kaiseki, and refers to a multi-course meal characterized by colorful presentation, a balance of flavors, and the use of seasonal ingredients. Most of the cooking styles are familiar enough: there's a soup course, and sashimi, grilled fish, rice, and tempura. (Wikipedia has a good overview of kaiseki.)

Our exposure to Japanese food is limited. Yes, we love sushi, and we like going to places like Samurai in Boston, where we can get fatty grilled yellowtail collar and monkfish liver.

But we still weren't sure what to expect from this experience. Would it be very traditional and full of ritual? What if they gave us finger-bowls and we drank from them and everybody pointed and laughed?

Rosanjin is a tiny, intimate space with only about ten tables. There's no music (yay!) and the few other diners (all Japanese) talked in hushed tones. Normally, I'd love this, but this time it made me feel exposed: if I messed up, everyone would have a front-row seat.

But of course, I didn't need to worry. The staff was wonderful and patient, explaining every course in detail, giving background on the provenance and flavor notes of each sake, answering all our questions.

It's just a shame that I don't remember most of what they said.

Did I mention seven courses of sake? Actually, eight, because they brought more with the check. Plus there was no menu, so we had no point of reference apart from the verbal description at the start of each course.

So here are nice pictures, with hazily recalled details.





First course: a dumpling of (tapioca or semolina) topped with caviar and fresh wasabi, topped with a single flower petal, in possibly a sesame-laced broth:



Second course: mackerel, fluke, and (something) sashimi. This was almost too pretty to eat.



That carrot, by the way, was about an inch and a half long. Teeny-tiny.

Next, yellowtail and abalone and something with sweet Japanese ginger.



And we're three sakes in at this point, coming up on number four.

One feature of kaiseki is that all the dishware is beautiful, and chosen to enhance and complement the food. The same was true of the sake glasses — no ceramic cups here. Each one was delicate, engraved or painted or marbled with color.



Next, something I hadn't encountered before: a salmon fishcake (though textured more like the dumpling from the first course) in a gelatinous soup, with very umami-ish marinated eggplant and a long, single noodle ribbon, topped with scallion, finished with gold.



Yes, gold.



Up next, a basket of tempura: asparagus, pumpkin, and eel. Which was fantastic.



The asparagus was not what I'd call seasonal, but hey.



Then came rice and beans. This was a very sticky rice with a scant handful of beans, which The Boy liked (of course), though I found it a little bland. But I loved the accompanying dark, complex miso soup, and the side dish of dried, salted seaweed and soy beans.



And finally, dessert. This was, at least to us, unexpected: strawberry yogurt ice cream and cheesecake. With berries. Nothing seasonal about that. Still tasty, though.





It's possible that some of the courses were customized for us: When The Boy made the reservation, there was a specific question about allergies. As he's allergic to anything with an exoskeleton, we may have had the non-seafood versions of some dishes. That said, the couple at the next table, who ordered the nine-course menu, seemed to be getting more or less the same dishes as we did.

We love living in Boston; food-wise, there are a lot of excellent options. But New York always has more — something different, a new twist, a narrower niche.

Which is why we followed Saturday's classic Japanese dinner with Sunday's nouveau Austrian. And a visit to a speakeasy.

Being (almost) normal in NYC

We always try to do something special for our anniversary, and this year it felt particularly important to celebrate. So we headed to New York City for eating, shopping, eating, museum-ing, eating, and walking. And eating.

The big caveat was that I was supposed to avoid crowds, sniffly kids, and any risk of exposure to colds, germs, and general infection. I've been fantastically lucky so far in terms of staying healthy throughout treatment, but a nasty flu would be tough on my immune system. So we were more observant about our surroundings that usual, but otherwise took no strict precautions.

We always visit MoMA. This time, there was a good exhibit on the design of the modern kitchen and the movement to more efficient use of space. Among the articles on display was something I recognized from my childhood:



I have a strong memory of drinking ice-cold milk out of these Tupperware beakers.

There was also an installation by George Maciunas, displaying the packaging from all his food consumption during one year in the '70s. His diet seemed to consist of imitation rum, powdered egg nog, and some 200 cans of lemonade.



Yep, that's healthy.

(Having said that, I was quite taken with this poster and was happy to find the related postcard in the gift store:)



Healthy and Good with Butter!

And then, of course, it was time to eat in the MoMA Cafe. The Boy had a salad with arugula, paper-thin bresaola and Humboldt Fog cheese (which, due to my no-blue-cheese restriction, I could only stare at, wistfully).



Mindful of my nutritionist's advice to pile on the protein, I went for a trio of bruschetta: tuna with olives; lemon hummus with prosciutto; white-bean puree with roasted root veggies.



Dinner that evening was at Union Square Cafe, which was fabulous. Sadly, it was too dark for good photos, so you'll just have to take my word for it that The Boy's pork chop was nine inches thick, and that my grilled lamb chops came with a creamy, garlicky gratin dauphinioise, and probably took care of my protein quota for the day.

On Saturday, we'd initially planned to walk the High Line, but then I saw that the Concorde was on display at the Intrepid Museum. I'd always wanted to fly in it, and this was the closest I was now likely to get. So we headed to the waterfront, and ended up seeing not only inside the pointy bird but also exploring a submarine and the aircraft carrier itself.













After lunch at Vynl, where the service was so-so, the food was diner but good and the bathrooms — four separate spaces dedicated to Cher, Dolly Parton, Elvis and Nelly (?) — were fabulous, we took a cab to the halfway point of the High Line and started walking.

It was so cool to get a different view of the city.





There's a nice gallery of old photos showing the High Line in operation.

Our next stop was a couple of chocolate stores in SoHo: Kee's Chocolates and Vosges. Apparently I was too overcome to take photos in either place.

At Kee's we tried four flavors of handmade chocs: smoked salt, fennel, blood orange, and lemon-basil. They were all amazing, though the latter was a definite winner.

At Vosges we picked up some items we hadn't seen locally, and I was also forced (forced!) to get a chili-cinnamon hot chocolate. Oh boy: a warm, spicy embrace. Completely delicious. Apparently I need to pick up their Aztec Elixir blend to keep me going at home.

Dinner that night was at Resto, a Belgian-isch place whose motto is "Bringing fat back." This speaks to me.

Actually, what spoke to me most was that one of the first items on their menu is bitterballen, which we fell in love with on Aruba and actively sought out while stuck at Schiphol airport at Christmas. They're usually deep-fried balls of meat in a roux sauce, but at Resto they're a little drier, which doesn't detract at all and makes them easier to eat.



Then we went for the charcuterie plate:



Again, it was a little too dark for good photos, but this gives a sense of the selection:



Each meat had a side — the lamb with tzatziki, the chorizo (unexpectedly) with honeyed ricotta — and each was full of fresh flavor. We also ordered the tête de cochon sandwich, which was good but not fantastic; the thick brioche and the slaw overwhelmed the meat, which to me is the whole point of eating a pig's head.



Full to bustin' as we were, it was somehow necessary to get the beignets. They were more like donut holes than the rectangular, powdered-sugar-coated treats we expected, but they were warm and accompanied by three dipping sauces: berry compote, melted chocolate, and caramel. So that was nice.



Apologies again that the photos do not do justice to this meal!

All in all, it was a lovely break; so good to get away from all the hospitally stuff, and stress, and overload, and just act like normal people.

Eating our way through NYC: Part two

So, to recap: we've had Cuban sandwiches, French bistro food, and what the New York Times describes as a "high church of reverently prepared fish."

Where next?

Answer: The Morgan Library, first to check out the building (by Charles McKim and Renzo Piano), and then the holdings (manuscripts by Mark Twain, Alexander Pope, Galileo, Mozart; silver cups from first-century Rome; three, count 'em, three Gutenberg Bibles).

And then the cafe, with its oversized, horseradishy deviled eggs:



and its three-martini lunch.



Then we wandered down Broadway so I could check out the first US branch of Top Shop (verdict: cheaply made and overpriced. Much worse than the US H&M. Or perhaps I just have to accept that I haven't been in Toppo Shoppo's target demographic for, ahem, 20 years).

And then it was time to eat again, so we scooted over to A Salt and Battery, discovered that it was full to bursting (which I guess is a good thing) and repaired next door to Tea & Sympathy.

It was the first time we'd managed to get in; the place only has room for ten tables, and would frankly be more comfortable if they took a couple out. It's so small that people waiting for a table have to stand outside (not fun on a freezing January day).

On the other hand, there's a lovely selection of sponge cakes on the counter, a gregarious Bet Lynch-like manager, and a menu of bangers and mash, scotch egg and sausage roll.

It's definitely a niche, and seemingly populated by young female American Anglophiles, and so they can get away with charging (get this) $5.95 for Heinz tomato soup (yes, from a can) and $7.50 for a cheese and pickle sarnie. But it was also the rare chance for me to get my fix, so I didn't care.

We got tea, which came in mismatched china (oh, how quaint!)



And then I ordered a bacon butty (which was good — ah, proper bacon! — but could have done with a couple of slices of fried tomato to add moisture) and The Boy went for the Cornish pasty.



And that's when I realized we'd have to come back.



The meat was perfectly seasoned, deep and rich and full of flavor. There were recognizable chunks of veggies. And jus. It was one of the best Cornish pasties I'd ever tasted.

For our last meal of the visit, we went to eat oysters in the basement of a train station. (I know, it sounds a lot like getting sushi from a gas station.)

The Oyster Bar is a cavernous space just off the dining concourse underneath Grand Central. One section is laid out with long, diner-like counter seating, and the rest is ... this:



It turns out the architect, Rafael Guastavino, patented a method of creating vaulted spaces using interlocking terracotta tiles.



And his first work in the US? The Boston Public Library, for McKim, Mead and White. There. You learned something.

But we weren't there to improve our minds; we were there to consume bivalves. Luckily, the Oyster Bar has one or two choices.



We settled on four: the Bras d'Or, the Chincoteague, and two locals: Oyster Ponds and Westhampton. It was fascinating to taste the differences that location makes to the same animal. The first, from colder waters, was small and briny; the second, from warmer Virginia, was long and salty. The Oyster Ponds had an iron-ish tang, while the other Long Island type was surprisingly sweet.



It was only fitting to have champagne and toast the end of another fabulously food-filled trip.

And then we caught the train back home.

Eating our way through NYC: Part one

After Christmas we took the train down to New York for a few days, spurred on by the deeply discounted room rate at the Roosevelt that I won in a Twitter contest (and they say Twitter is pointless! Ha!).

Previous experience of Amtrak food had made us wise, so we combined the pernil that The Boy roasted for Christmas Eve and the baked ham I'd done for Christmas Day, and lunched on Cuban sandwiches while watching snowbound New England zip by.



We settled in at the hotel, rested for a short while, and then headed out to our first stop: a bar at a railroad station.

Okay, it was nicer than that. The Campbell Apartment used to be the office of a 1920s railroad tycoon, and was furnished in the style typical of rich men of the time ("Make it look as though I plundered it all from Europe!").

As we were there early on a Sunday evening, we'd expected it to be quiet. But the place was almost full, so we squeezed into a space at the bar. The solo, overwhelmed bartender was Andy Dick-level clumsy; while we sat there, he broke, spilled and knocked over more barware than we own.

Still, he muddled a lovely combination of Bourbon, fresh ginger, lime and rosemary:



And then to dinner at Benoit, an Alain Ducasse joint. Our previous encounter with the Ducasse brand had been at the then-newly opened Adour, which was incredible.

Benoit, by comparison, was not so outstanding (and a comparison of menus shows just an average $10 difference in entrée price between the two).

Not to say it was bad; just that the food seemed made with a heavier hand. The escargots (which, though ordered as an appetizer, came out slightly after the mains) were largely tasteless, and the boudin noir wasn't as bold as it could have been.

On the other hand, The Boy got a lovely selection of magical animal in his choucroute:



And dessert was baba au rhum, served in an adorable domed silver dish:



Time to roll back to the hotel and rest up before the next day's lunch.

First, a morning at MoMA, to check out the Tim Burton exhibit.

Then a brisk walk of a couple of blocks (coatless, because the line for MoMA's cloakroom was too damn long) to Le Bernardin.

As it's one of only four three-star restos in New York, and not a place for a cheap nosh, we expected the place to be hushed, refined; populated by the kind of people who respect the chef's art and the sanctity of a great meal. And, for the most part, that's who we found.

Apart from the old broad at the table behind us.

"Why is it all fish? You know I'm allergic to fish ... I can't eat anything on this menu. Oh, lobster, that I can have. Can you ask them to do me plain lobster, with butter, and just some steamed vegetables? I don't know why they have to have so much fish ... don't put your fork in my food, what are you doing? I can't believe this ... oh, I can't eat anything on the dessert menu, I'm allergic to everything ... just some vanilla ice cream, maybe two scoops."

I have no problem with people who have food allergies. I just don't understand:

a) Why someone would go to a seafood restaurant if they can't eat the central ingredient;
b) Why someone would go to a place known for exquisite, creative, thoughtful dishes if they have no interest/ability to try them;
c) Why someone can't KEEP THEIR DAMN VOICE DOWN.

I just had to get that out. Sorry. I feel better now.

Apart from that, the meal was fantastic, and I wish the photographic evidence had come out better.

I started with the freshest sea urchin I've had, served in a citrus broth:



The Boy had raw tuna, pounded thin and layered over foie gras:



then lightly breaded monkfish with a ginger-turnip purée:



and I had skate wrapped in nori, served with oysters and winter greens:



And then. Oh, and then.

Dessert.

See this?



Grapefruit, vanilla, tarragon. Soft, crisp, creamy, tart, cold.

And this?



Okay, yes, the first word is "blurry." But then: cinnamon, caramel, pear, salt, fromage blanc. The green spheres are liquid pear. Liquid. It involves some molecular gastronomy magic, and results in a sphere of poached, puréed pear encased in a delicate skin, which bursts in the mouth, releasing sweet, spicy juice. Completely amazing.

Even made me forget the loud, allergic lady.