Tasty Burger is tasty

Over the summer, my colleagues and I have been monitoring two developments close to our office: a careful stack of fire-engine-red cans that promises to become a Cougar Puma City; and the transformation of an overlooked gas station into Tasty Burger.

One of them has finally opened.

And because some of us have friends in high places, our office got a delivery of Free Burger coupons.



Note that Eric is particularly excited by this.

It's strange how you can walk past a building a million times, but only become aware of its existence once its purpose changes. How could you miss this now?





The Pulp Fiction theme is carried indoors (and to the menu, which includes a Big Kahuna burger.)



For once, I wasn't the only one shooting the food.



I can't tell, but from the timing this might have been for the Boston Phoenix review of Tasty Burger.

We sat outside and ordered: shakes, onion rings, fries, plus cheeseburgers all round.

Would the burger look anything like the one on the coupon?



Um, no. But still:



Sometimes a burger means a dry bun, obtrusive salad, and overwhelming meat. This was not that; this was meat and cheese and lettuce and tomato and bread forming a single entity of soft, warm, salty, comforting juiciness.



Sure, it's not pretty. But where would we be if we only paid attention to pretty things?

The onion rings were a delicate tangle of sweet batter. The fries were thick and soft inside. Next time, I'm getting them with sausage gravy.



Meanwhile, there's still no opening date for Puma City; the friendly security guards have said late summer/September/October.

And Tasty Burger's big sister across the street, Citizen Pub and Oyster Bar, is finally due to debut in a couple of weeks.

So there'll be more chances to pick up something tasty.

Animal: Would you like some meat with your meat?

Back in April, the New Yorker published a piece about two longtime friends ("the Bill and Ted of the Los Angeles culinary scene") and their restaurant, Animal.

By the time I'd finished the article (" ... maple-sausage gravy and foie gras ..." "... lamb-tongue ravioli ..." "... experimenting with veal testicles ...") I knew: I wanted to go to there.

So when we were planning our California trip, much like with San Francisco and Chez Panisse, reserving a table at Animal was the next step after booking the hotel.

This is one of those times when I'll just let the food do the talking.

Here's the room: sparse, clean, well-lit.



(The guy in the white jacket standing at the bar is Daily Show correspondent Josh Gadd, who had recently filed a rather relevant story. He was the 0.5 of our 1.5 celeb sightings in LA.)

To begin, a plate of head cheese, mixed with vinegary ramps and topped with three nuggets of sweet cornbread:



And rich, deep chicken liver pâté on toast.



Next, pig's ear, sliced thin, fried crispy with chiles, finished with lime, topped with a fried egg.



This was perfectly balanced: just as the heat threatened to become overwhelming, the citrus kicked in and took over. And mixed with warm egg yolk? Crispy heaven.



We'd only ordered one more dish — the oxtail poutine — but figured we could always get something else.

And then it came.



Big soft fries, soaking up rich, complex gravy and tender meat, with cheddar cheese pulling the whole thing together. It was awesome, over the top, decadent, potentially fatal.

So rather than ordering more meat, we skipped to dessert. Something nice and light. Pound cake with strawberries? Dulce de leche, perhaps, or panna cotta with nectarines?

Nope.



Bacon-chocolate crunch bar. Dark and sweet, salty and smoky. Sweeter than the Vosges bar, and better balanced, perhaps because there were other flavors to even out the contrast (nuts, plus a salt-and-pepper crème anglaise).

In the same way dinner at Au Pied de Cochon is a necessary part of our trips to Montreal, I suspect all future visits to Los Angeles will automatically include a meal at Animal.

Sooo ... when can we go back??

Au Pied de Cochon: bonjour, canard en conserve!

Last weekend we took an almost-spontaneous (i.e. with only two weeks' notice) trip to Montreal. The drive up was a little rough — a six-hour trip after a full day's work — but we pushed onward, motivated by a constant drumming rhythm:

Duck-in-a-can, duck-in-a-can, duck-in-a-can ...

I wrote about our previous trip to Montreal, the highlight of which was dinner at Au Pied de Cochon, where The Boy realized his lifelong dream of eating poutine with foie gras and I discovered that my lifelong dream would be eating canard en conserve.

Now we were returning to fulfill that dream.

The only available table was at 9:00, which is later than we usually eat. So we prepared accordingly: we spent the day shopping on Rue Saint-Denis and took an afternoon nap. Oh, and we had an early lunch at Bières et Compagnie, a Belgian-style brasserie with 100 beers on tap and a lovely ostrich/duck/pheasant sausage plate:



(That was The Boy's lunch. I just had a simple salad.)



(Okay, it was loaded with Toulouse sausage. But salad nonetheless!)

Anyway, back to the main event.

Au Pied de Cochon was, as always, loud and busy. People at a long table in the window taking turns standing and making exuberant toasts. A group of six hip young guys, devouring plates of meat and passing around a plate of salad. An older guy with a graying ponytail and matching beard, looking like a world-weary corsair, steadily making his way through a plate of blood pudding.

We knew, of course, what our main objective was; but what else to order? Even with the best of intentions to be restrained, the menu at PDC almost dares you to try everything.

Come on, you haven't had the duck carpaccio before! What about the boudin and foie gras tart? Or the guinea fowl liver mousse? Or the Quebecois version of chicharrón, oreilles de crisse?

But we were good, and ordered salad.

Among other things.

Most notably, the cromesquis de foie gras:



They look innocent enough, don't they? But here's the deal: They're cubes of foie gras, breaded and deep-fried. The breading becomes an impermeable shell and the inside turns to liquid.

To eat, you put the whole thing in your mouth, close your lips, and bite. And suddenly it's as though the entire inside of your head is bathed in warm, soft, rich, deep, soothing liquid.

It actually, literally, seriously brought tears to my eyes.

As another snackeroo to begin, we ordered the plate of cochonailles. In fairness, we expected a small sampling of tasty pork bites. Earlier in the week, we were at Craigie on Main's Whole Hog dinner (see review from the people sitting behind us), where the tiny, delicate cochonailles looked like this:



So naturally we were surprised to find that at Au Pied de Cochon, the cochonailles looked like this:



Head-cheese terrine, two types of pâté (one of which is hidden beneath the bread), sausage, half a deviled egg, a lovely onion jam, something dolloped with mustard that I don't even remember, and that dark brown square, which is essentially salty beef-stock Jell-O.

But it's okay, because we also had salad.



Layers of fresh beets and goat cheese I could easily have eaten for dessert, had there been room for such a thing.

And then it came.



When they say "duck in a can," they mean it: the waiter brings a can, and a can-opener, and pours the contents out onto toast topped with celeriac puree.

My photographic skills are not sufficient, so I advise you check out Claudine's Flickr photo to see it in all its glory.

The magret: perfectly cooked, moist, meaty, delicious.
The foie gras: soft and tender and all the better for sitting in balsamic meat broth.

The cabbage: well, when the description essentially translates to "embuttered," what else needs to be said?

And despite the richness of the dish, serving it on toast somehow made it seem like home-cooked comfort food; as though there was really little difference between opening a can of duck and a can of beans to throw over toast for a quick lunch.

It was a luxurious and decadent experience, and one I highly recommend.

Interestingly, though, when I asked The Boy whether he'd order the same thing next time, he said no.

Not because he didn't enjoy it, of course (he later admitted he was disappointed that he had to share the foie gras with me; thanks, honey).

But as he pointed out, there are so many other things left to try: the foie gras burger. The lamb confit. The fries made with duckfat. The foie gras-stuffed pig's foot ...

Cheap eats and a meat ship

In these troubled economic times, we're all looking for ways to cut costs. One easy solution is to spend less on food.

But does that mean mealtime needs to become monotonous?

Heck no!

What would you say to a hearty bean soup, or perhaps some sophisticated cucumber-avocado sandwiches? They can be yours, as long as you have that magical, indestructable pantry staple: Spam.

Yep, get your fill of gelatinous meat-like-food-product menu ideas at spamrecipes.net, where you'll learn:

• The secret behind the Hawaiian Spam Sandwich (psst: it's pineapple)
• The mystery of the Polynesian Bake (apricots, maraschino cherries and more pineapple)
• And the complex distinction between the Hot Spam Sandwich and the Cold Spam Sandwich (hint: in one, the Kraft Sandwich Spread is optional).

What's that you say? You're looking for something made with slightly less mechanically separated chicken?

How about something with an exotic Asian element? Beef and Broccoli Stir-Fry, or Lo Mein, or Taco Ramen Salad?

Okay, the last one gives it away; we're talking Ramen recipes in all their high-sodium glory.

Still, who can say no to Chicken Hollandaise Ramen, all Frenchified with egg yolks, lemon juice and margarine?

Or, for a special occasion, Creamy Chicken Ramen:

1 package chicken ramen noodles
2 cups water
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 3oz. can mushrooms

Cook noodles according to package directions and drain. Heat soup concentrate, mushrooms and 1/4 seasoning packet over medium heat for five minutes. Top noodles with sauce.

Mm-mmm good! (And big thanks to Mike for finding the above and thinking, Hey, LimeyG would like these.)

But there are times when delicate dishes of chicken and pineapple and canned mushrooms just aren't enough; when even the most thrifty gourmand seeks something more satisfying.

For these occasions, it's worth checking out This Is Why You're Fat, a fantastic photographic picnic basket of artery-clogging, metabolism-slowing, sleep-inducing dishes (or handfuls, or things on sticks) guaranteed to fill you up.

Example: Gravy-covered pizza.



Example: The bacon donut.



Example (and my particular favorite): The meat ship, created from sausage, bacon, pastry and ground pork.



Ahoy, me heart(attack)ies!

Mochica, Montreal: a call to llamas

Our other fab meal in Montreal was at Mochica, a Peruvian restaurant on Rue Saint-Denis. This meant we got to speak English, French and Spanish all in one meal.



We ate there on our previous trip; that was my first encounter with Peruvian culture, and were I less well-educated, I'd have come away with the impression that the Peruvian diet consisted largely of llama and pisco.

Oh, and, at least according to the (non-work-safe) statuary in the restroom, that Peruvian men are extraordinarily talented.

It turned out we were lucky to get a table on this occasion; they were expecting a party of 21, a graduation celebration, which would occupy half the restaurant. This is their table, but really it's just an excuse to show you the cool wall work:



The waitstaff were lovely all night, beginning with the point at which our waiter, referring to the imminent arrival of the large group, said, "You might want to order now, if you can; I'd hate for your order to get lost in the crush."

We started with the rellenos de papa de llama:



Rellenos de papa are a Puerto Rican favorite: fist-sized balls of mashed potato, stuffed with meat and deep-fried (here's a recipe; check out this vid of chef Wilo Benet's easy instructions for putting them together).

At Mochica, they're loaded with llama and olives; the potato is light and fluffy, with the lightest crunch on the outside.

Our other app, ceviche de pescado, is also popular in Puerto Rico. The difference at Mochica is that rather than serving the fish in bite-sized chunks, they slice it paper-thin—almost translucent—so it melts on the tongue with a bright bite of lime.



(By this point, the large party had arrived and spent an hour taking turns in giving speeches, from which I am forced to conclude that Peruvian dinnertime is traditionally a long and overly formal occasion.)

Then to our mains; sadly (as may be evident from the above images) the light in the restaurant wasn't quite bright enough for photos, so you'll just have to take my word for it that everything was lovely. The Boy's dad had llama a la parilla, a generous grilled llama steak with rosemary; The Boy went for goat stew, which came tender and warmly spicy and (for a nice change) had very few bones.

I had llama a la Cuzqueña, a spicy, complex llama stew. On the menu it noted that the llama was "from Compton," which I assume means this Compton, rather than this Compton.

Only The Boy's mom wasn't completely happy, in part because the food was spicier than she liked, and also because it wasn't quite what she expected. She'd been hoping for something closer to the simple, hearty, home-cooked meals of her childhood (which sounded fabulous) rather than this light, modern take. But otherwise, the evening was lovely.

And a final example of Mochica's customer service: The Boy's dad couldn't find his gold chain, and thought he might have lost it in the restaurant. I called Mochica the next morning and left a message, explaining we were leaving for Boston so needed a rapid response. The co-owner quickly got back to me to say they'd searched the place but couldn't find the chain, and he hoped that hadn't spoiled our experience, and wished us a safe trip home.

(We found the chain in the car later that day; it had fallen off and slipped down the passenger-side seat. D'oh!)

Montreal, like New York, is so generously stuffed with restaurants that it would be easy to eat at a different place every night. But along with Au Pied de Cochon, I think of Mochica as becoming one of our defaults: a restaurant we could easily visit on every trip and try something new and interesting.

(But more importantly: are all the guys like that??)

Au Pied de Cochon: pig-out, Montreal style

The Boy's birthday coincided with our trip to Montreal, so when I asked where he wanted to go for his celebratory meal, he had an immediate answer: Au Pied de Cochon.

Both our previous Montreal trips had included visits to this palace of porkiness; it's one of those restaurants that, when brought up in conversation, causes a Pavlovian reaction for us. And we were pretty sure The Boy's parents would approve. (They did. Oh, boy, they did.)

Au Pied de Cochon is a long, narrow, noisy room, with clusters of tables at both ends and a bar that runs the length of the intervening space. If you sit at the bar, you get to watch the chefs at work in the tiny kitchen.

On past visits, we've sat at a table in front, squished between other diners and subject to waiter traffic. This time, we got a table at the back of the room, which felt a little calmer (though no less cacophonous).



We started with a plate of cochonailles (which, as we learned from the pig-fest at Craigie Street Bistrot, kind of translates to "little bits of porkular loveliness"). And then to the main event.

The Boy's mom went for the signature dish, a fabulous plate of pig's foot braised until fall-apart tender, with pommes purées and a crispy mushroom-cream-filled cake.



The Boy's dad had the lamb shank confit.



Do I even need to say how gloriously moist and juicy and fatty it was? (Wanna make it yourself? Here's a recipe. Stock up on duck fat.)

I had the PDC Melting Pot, a crock stuffed with pommes purées topped with garlic pork sausage, blood sausage, pork belly and bacon, as well as a couple of sweet roasted onions. Yes, it looks obscene. No, I couldn't eat the whole thing, though I gave it a damn good try.



And The Boy?

On our first visit, he'd considered getting the poutine with foie gras because it seemed so decadent. On our second--having actually tried poutine--he thought about it but passed for something else. And then we made our own version of posh poutine at home, and he came to fully grasp its potential.

When we started to talk about taking his parents to Montreal, he mentioned the poutine with foie gras. When we discussed going to Au Pied de Cochon, he observed that they had poutine with foie gras.

And so, finally, he got what he wanted. It may look like hell, but it tastes like heaven.



Au Pied de Cochon is a fun, lively place. (And loud. Did I mention it's loud?) The crowd is young and hip, the staff are cute in a tousled punk/pirate sort of way, and the restroom is awesome:



Yes, that's a full-on dishwashing sink with rinsing nozzle. And yes, the hand towels are in a steam table.

Oh, and they have a dish called canard en conserve--or, en anglais, the less-romantic-sounding duck in a can. The adorable chef/waiter couple from Toronto, sitting at the next table (close enough that we could follow their conversation, apparently) ordered it, and we got to watch as it was served. From the can. A can-opener is involved.

I wasn't able to take photos, so I direct you to Claudine's gorgeous frame-by-frame reveal on Flickr. And take a look at the rest of her PDC set; her camera skeelz are much better than mine!

Anyway, we have to go back. We still haven't tried the duck carpaccio, or the bison tongue, or the venison tongue, or the (gasp!) pied de cochon stuffed with (gasp!) foie gras, or ...

Oh, UBurger, you!

After our literal pig-out earlier in the week, I should have taken a break from the carnivore lifestyle. But then my former work buddies invited me to Friday lunch at UBurger, and I could hardly say no, could I? That would have been most impolite.

The atmosphere at UBurger is burger-joint-modern: bright colors and corrugated steels walls, bus-'em-yourself tables, chalkboard menu.



When we turned up at noon, the place was buzzing with BU students, office workers and the occasional state cop. Though the busy lunch rush meant we had to hover for a table that would fit all eight of us, it also meant the line was long enough that I had time to check out the options and change my mind a dozen times before it was my turn.

There are the straightforward burgers with lettuce-cheese-pickles-onions (or the Cowboy, with bacon and BBQ sauce, or the Stunt Double cheeseburger with spicy Jack, jalapeños and banana peppers, ow ow ow). And then there are the build-your-own options, which include everything from guacamole to sautéed mushrooms. And that's if you ignore the left side of the menu, where the healthier choices (chicken sandwiches and salads and, um, hot dogs) live.

With the clock ticking and the cashier staring expectantly, I settled on tomato--no, wait--onion--no, wait--okay, definitely cheddar and roasted peppers.



Bun: soft and fresh.
Cheese: well, coulda been a thicker slice--it wasn't quite a generous enough serving to stand up to the other ingredients--but still pretty flavorful and slightly sharp.
Peppers: red and yellow, sweet with a gently vinegary bite.
Meat:

(reverent pause)

Mmmmeeeaaattt. Just right, in the Goldilocks sense. Not too McThin, not too macho-mouthful thick. Lightly seasoned so that the fundamental flavor was good and beefy, cooked to a medium-well that stayed juicy without being greasy. For $4.50, it was a satisfying and tasty deal.

Of course, it would have been remiss of me not to try a little of everyone else's food--you know, for reference.

Onion-ring perfection means different things to different people; The Boy likes his thick-sliced and generously battered. My preference is for thin, delicate rings in a lighter, crispier coating. And presto, that's how they do 'em at UBurger. Sweet onions, too.



The fries at UBurger are hand-cut, skin-on, lightly salted, not too greasy, not too crispy--they actually taste like potato (no, really!).



And then there are the frappes. I was tempted to get my own, but they're enormous (maybe 16oz). And given that they're composed largely of locally made farm-fresh ice-cream, it seemed wise to turn away from temptation.

So I just stole from other people. Which was the right decision, because they are so insanely good that I would have chugged a whole one myself. The strawberry frappe was velvety, not cloying, but with just enough citric-tart-sweetness that you want to keep feeling it hitting your tastebuds.



I also tried the mint Oreo which can only be described as, well, creamy-smooth liquid mint Oreo.

Did I roll out of there in a post-meatal daze? Of course. Was I marginally less productive for the rest of the afternoon? Sure. Am I likely to return (following a surfeit of vegetable-based dishes and power-walking)? Absolutely.

For more, check out the Boston Globe's review of UBurger.