Dreyer's new Girl Scout Cookie ice cream flavors

via Serious Eats

I’m kind of an ice cream snob: milk fat content’s too low, too icy, blah blah. So despite the fact that I’m sure I’d be talking crap about the quality of this ice cream base, I have a feeling you wouldn’t be able to hear me with my mouth crammed full of Thin Mint ice cream. Bon bons, my arse. Don’t you want to see my 9+ months preggers butt sitting on the sofa knocking this back from the gallon container? You’d better not say no.

Mmm donuts via Bon Appetit

Super pleased to see that Peter Pan Donuts in Greenpoint, Brooklyn made it onto Andrew Knowlton from Bon Appetit’s list of America’s Best Donuts. Damn, do I miss my daily donut habit from when I lived nearby… chocolate cake, jelly-filled, cinnamon, Boston Cream… When it was Amanda’s birthday, I even took the trip over there to get some for her. Donut heaven.

Couldn't resist the baked beans opener. Beans from Durgin Park were detestable.

I missed the usual Monday Heifers trip last week, using my husband’s trip to Boston to attend a nerd-tastic web design conference, An Event Apart, as an excuse to tag along, visit some friends, and EAT, Boston-style.

We stayed with our friends, Tarina and Brian in West Newton a fifteen-minute train ride from Back Bay, Boston. Having just sold their place in Jamaica Plain, they recruited our help moving the last of their furniture on our first day. Sweet vacation, right. They made up for it. Our reward? A brunch at neighborhood, pre-Prohibition bar-restaurant, Doyle’s Café, well-known for their corned beef and cabbage, their brunch, and their extensive beer selection.

The interior of Doyle's

Strawberry Pancakes from Doyle's

Doyle’s unself-conscious, casual dining room was lined with rickety, wooden-backed booths and filled with tables bedecked with red-checked tablecloths. The scene was mostly families with rowdy kids, probably post-church, and felt like true neighborhood Boston.

Our waitress was young and affable, though others seemed gruff and looked to have been working at Doyle’s for decades. I had my favorite breakfast stand-by: two eggs, sunny-side up, home fries, rye toast (all rye that I had in Boston was dark rye, more like pumpernickel), and bacon. The home fries were perfectly browned and amply seasoned; the eggs, nicely cooked. All in all: a perfect diner-style breakfast. And a terrific meal to start off the trip…

Clio

The next morning I took an early train into the city. Not having had much time to plan, and with the drizzle threatening to worsen, I thought I’d find a nice place to hunker down, eat some breakfast and do a little planning. I’d heard wonderful things about Clio, Kenneth Oringer’s high-end, experimental restaurant on Commonwealth Avenue. Though I wouldn’t have time to have a dinner there, I did see that they had a daily breakfast.

Perfectly fluffy waffles as Clio were perfectly boring.

Brunch being the bane of many a chef’s existence, I find it’s often a good indicator about a restaurant. At Clio however, it seems utterly disconnected from the restaurant’s greater concept. Located in the Eliot Hotel, the restaurant’s brunch caters to the upscale traveler, serving pristinely plated and perfectly cooked omelettes and waffles, along with a Continental breakfast buffet (yes, I said that), nowhere near a match for the spectacular sounding dinner menu.

I chose the waffle with seasonal berries with a side of Applewood smoked bacon. Don’t get me wrong. Everything was perfectly executed, the waffle light and fluffy, the bacon crisp and smoky, but it felt a bit like I was judging a final at the French Culinary Institute (grade: A-) than a soulful breakfast from the chef of a reknowned restaurant.

Charlie’s Sandwich Shop

For lunch, I took a step in the other direction, heading to diner-style sandwich shop, Charlie’s. If every place the Heifers visit could be like Charlie’s, I’d be in heaven. Amazing looking place, with an old oak fridge behind the counter. Surly waitress tempered by sweet-as-hell guy manning the grill by the name of Arthur. A regular customer sitting down next to me and asking Arthur (seemingly because of a dietary condition, “Arthur, what can I have?” To which he replied, “Meatloaf!” which arrived promptly, accompanied by the uncustomary sautéed spinach and tomatoes.

Oh, how I loved thee, Charlie's

I, however, had Charlie’s most famous dish, the award-winning Turkey Hash. Despite its desperate need for salt, the hash was delicious: a nicely browned circular patty about 8 inches in diameter of ground turkey mixed with finely chopped potatoes and onions. [Amanda: Mmmmm....hash patty....] It was a lovely vehicle for my two over-easy eggs, some Frank’s hot sauce, and the salt.

Charlie's fantastic Turkey Hash

How very art school. A shot of Charlie's reflection in the mirror at the rear of the restaurant.

Durgin Park

The next day, I stopped in at this most famous of Boston restaurants, established in 1742 and born as Durgin Park in 1927. I felt played. Sue me for seeking a little nostalgia. You know how they always say, they don’t make it like they used to? I’m hoping that that’s the case at Durgin Park, else I stand in amazement that this place has stayed in business all these years.

The Durgin Park dining room

All I read about Durgin Park is just how much pride they take in their meat (they are most well-known for their enormous Prime Rib). And the meat-locker on display as you enter the restaurant solidifies this in one’s brain. So you can imagine how I felt when the Yankee Pot Roast I ordered arrived at the table. On the menu, it was deemed one of the specialties of the house, but what arrived looked like it came off a depression-era cafeteria line: dry, gray pot roast with a helping of beef gravy that could just as easily have come out of a jar. Accompanied by French Fries and steamed carrot coins, the meal felt like something one’s mother would stand over the table and make them finish.

Gray Yankee Pot Roast at Durgin Park

It got worse. I also tried the Boston Baked Beans. Being a girl who loves baked beans from a can, it’s pretty hard to disappoint me, but Durgin Park succeeded with it’s way-too-sugary-sweet rendition that was practically inedible.

If you can believe that I didn’t call it a day at that point, I ordered dessert. I was anxious to try the Indian Pudding, a New England specialty, consisting of a cornmeal pudding made with molasses and spices such as cinnamon and ginger. Gummy and cloyingly sweet, the only thing edible on the plate was the (albeit icy) vanilla ice cream.

My favorite patron at Durgin Park. He looks like he at here in the old days...

Mike’s Pastry Shop

With one lousy dessert in my belly, I sought to end the afternoon on a high note, heading over to Boston’s Little Italy, the North End. There lay Mike’s Pastry, a shop that’s been in business since 1943.

So enamored was I with the cases full of pastries, that I accidentally ignored the line snaking to the door. I just nestled right up to the counter, ordered my cannolo and was on my way (it says something for the feeling of disorder that no one noticed my inability to follow protocol). [Amanda: A likely story, dude.  "Accidentally ignored," my ass!]

Pretty cakes on display at Mike's

And so I ate my lovely cannolo, sitting on a park bench and enjoying a brief respite from the rain. The cannolo was filled with light, not too sweet ricotta that was not whipped to within an inch of its life as many cannoli fillings are. It didn’t have any of the typical chocolate chips or candied angelica mixed in, but did have chocolate chips adhered to each end. Result: success in obliterating the memory of tasteless pot roast from my memory. The Yanks should stick to cannoli.

Happily eating my cannolo...

xoxo Meg

Doyle’s Café
3484 Washington St.
Jamaica Plain, MA 02130
(617) 524-2345
www.doyles-cafe.com‎

Clio
370 Commonwealth Ave.
Boston, MA 02215
(617) 536-7200
www.cliorestaurant.com

Charlie’s Sandwich Shop
429 Columbus Ave.
Boston, MA 02116
(617) 536-7669

Durgin Park
340 Faneuil Hall Market Pl.
Boston, MA 02109
(617) 227-2038
www.durgin-park.com

Mike’s Pastry Shop
300 Hanover St.
Boston, MA 02113
(617) 742-3050
www.mikespastry.com

Behind the griddle at Jim's Steaks, Philadelphia

For more images from this trip and other Heifers adventures, check out our photo stream on Flickr.

This Monday Meg and I were New Haven-bound. We laid out a rigorous itinerary of two pizza joints, burgers and ice cream; plotted and printed maps, checked train schedules, and roped in a third heifer, my good buddy Sledge who lives in New Haven. Just to be sure that an 11am arrival wouldn’t be too early, I checked the schedules of the establishments on our itinerary, and…aside from one, they were all closed on Mondays. So it was that we ended up heading toward the safety of Philadelphia, home of multiple 24/7 cheese steak places.

First and second on our itinerary were Geno’s and Pat’s, respectively – probably the two most famous cheese steak joints in the land of cheese steaks. Housed in wedge-shaped structures, pointing at one another across an X-shaped intersection in South Philly, each one has its devotees. We briefly discussed buying a sandwich from each and eating them side-by-side, but we saw no comfortable place nearby to do so, and we didn’t want to open ourselves up to unknown abuses for bringing a sandwich from one place to eat at the other. So, we decided to eat one of each in rapid succession.

Geno's

Pat's

Because we came to it first, we started at Geno’s. Though every place in Philly that offers cheese steaks – and there are a LOT of them – seems to offer a choice of provolone or Cheez Whiz, in our minds, salty, tangy, heavily processed Whiz is the way to go. So we ordered one sandwich, “Whiz wit” – that’s “with Cheez Whiz and sauteed onions” in the local parlance – a classic Philly cheese steak order. Then we stepped down to the next window to pick up a birch beer (at both Pat’s and Geno’s you order and receive your sandwich through one window and order and receive sides and drinks from a separate window).

Cherry peppers at Geno's

Meg had been intrigued by the little round peppers she noticed somebody eating while we waited in line to order. When she went to get us napkins, she spotted them in bins at the condiment counter and grabbed us each one red and one green.

According to the men who shared a table with us, these spicy, tangy little orbs, which make a pleasant, juicy pop at first bite, are known as “cherry peppers.” Whatever they are called, we were all too pleased to have them when it turned out that our sandwich was so bland. The Whiz was watered down and runny, the meat, gray and unseasoned, and the onions, sparse. The roll was nice, with a satisfyingly chewy exterior, but it wasn’t enough to elevate the sandwich beyond just acceptable.

I really like cheese steaks, but they’re simple fare, never greater than the sum of their parts – steak, cheese (or cheese product), bread, perhaps some onions and maybe peppers and/or mushrooms if you really want to gild the lily, though some would argue such additions are sacrilege – so it’s important that all the components be just right in order to end up with a sandwich that’s just right. Geno’s missed the mark, and off we headed to Pat’s.

Guidance at Pat's

A sign beside the sandwich-order window, which delineates the rules for ordering, is brusque, as are the men behind the counter, a quality which unites the two competitors. But whereas Geno’s – heavily branded, smattered with “patriotic” signs (e.g. “I’m mad as hell, and I want my country back!”) and slicked with garish yellow and orange – comes across with swagger, Pat’s – housed in a no-frills, slightly nautical white building, surrounded by red wire-mesh picnic tables – seems simply prosaic.

Cheese steak at Pat's

As it turns out, Pat’s directs the energy that it doesn’t pour into gaudiness and arrogance at making a superior sandwich, boasting of tastier meat, a more liberal application of more flavorful onions, and a thick, creamy slap of undiluted Whiz – straight from the can (stacks of which are proudly displayed in Pat’s front window).

The roll was similar to Geno’s, with a pleasant, chewy crust and crumb. I overheard the Philadelphian sitting beside us claim to her tourist companion that the secret to a real Philly cheese steak is the roll, that the secret to the roll is Philly water, and that as a result, a real Philly cheese steak cannot be found anywhere but Philly. It reminded me of similar arguments that I’ve heard in New York about pizza and bagels. I’ve yet to test the validity of these claims, but I always enjoy hearing them and the blind pride that they convey.

In addition to red and green cherry peppers, Pat’s condiment bar offered the aptly, though unimaginatively, named “black peppers”. They looked like brown-black versions of the small, dried red peppers that you might find in Chinese take-out. In flavor they were only mildly spicy and imparted a lovely smokiness when crammed into the sandwich. They were a nice extra touch that helped make Pat’s our hands-down favorite of the dueling icons.

Jim's griddle

It was not, however, our favorite of the day. That honor must be bestowed upon Jim’s, perhaps the third most well-known cheese steak joint in Philly. Well before we took the first bite of our sandwich, we were thoroughly enjoying this place. Decked out with a black-and-white hexi floor, black-and-white Art Deco light fixtures, shiny chrome accents and signs lettered with a graphic Deco font, it’s a lovely place to wait in line for a while (something that one has to accept when visiting any of the iconic Philly cheese steak joints at lunch time).

Cheese steak at Jim's

Then there’s the show. Behind a grease-spattered plexiglass shield, with the side of a wide spatula, a cook deftly hacks chunks from a massive heap of ruddy, thin-sliced beef. With the same spatula, he slides the chunks toward the center of the well-seasoned griddle, spreading and chopping them along the way, and occasionally dousing them with water, giving rise to dramatic billows of steam. At the other end of the griddle, lies a glistening pile of onions, from which he slides off a lightly browned portion for each sandwich that requires it. With each order, he grabs and splits a roll, applies the appropriate cheese, slides a portion of beef over toward the onions and a portion of onions toward the beef; then he turns the cheesed roll over on top of the portioned beef and onions, presses down, slides his spatula underneath, and flips the whole thing tidily over onto a waiting paper tray. Then it’s onto a tray, on to the condiment/beverage station, and ultimately hoisted to the upper counter, waiting before quivering eyes and nostrils as monetary transactions are made.

Jim's meat slicer in action

After sucking down two cups of insipid fountain birch beer at Geno’s and Pat’s, we were relieved by Jim’s lack of a fountain and happy to order a can of reliably tasty Dr. Brown’s black cherry soda.

Heading for the upstairs seating area with soda and sandwich, we stopped for a moment to marvel at the automatic slicer, which gives rise to the beautiful heaps of beef that become the hashed filling for Jim’s sandwiches.

Though we were slightly disappointed by the lack of cherry or black peppers at the condiment counter, we didn’t really miss them. The roll was chewy on the outside but soft on the inside, compressing into a thin, juice-soaked wrap for the fillings. The steak in our sandwich was nicely browned and seasoned, the onions were perfectly cooked, flavorful, and like the thick, tangy Whiz, amply applied. There was nothing ground-breaking about the sandwich – and with a classic Philly cheese steak, there shouldn’t be – it was just plain good, the perfect, deliciously satisfying sum of all its parts.

Cherry water ice

As we headed to our final planned destination, the heat and humidity of the day (and perhaps the three cheese steaks we’d consumed) began to take their toll, so we decided to cool off with another Philly favorite, water ice. At Rita’s, a popular source for the stuff, we ordered a small, red cherry flavor. With a texture more coarse and crystalline than Italian ice and more dense, less liquid than a slushy, our water ice was indeed refreshing, but its flavor was one-dimensionally sweet and artificial. We ditched it after a few spoonfuls apiece, and with day-glo red lips, we marched on.

Soda syrups behind the counter at the Franklin Fountain

At the Franklin Fountain, a carefully wrought Victorian-era soda fountain, Meg and I were a touch overwhelmed by choice. Should we follow our natural inclinations and get ice cream, or should we get an egg cream or a float or a phosphate – all prepared with hand-made sodas (flavored syrup and soda water, drawn from the Fountain’s beautiful vintage soda fountain)? Then there were all the appealing flavors and accoutrements to choose from, about 20 or so of each.

Banana ice cream with warm caramel sauce

Vanilla ice cream with hot fudge and peanut-butter sauce

It took us a while to sort it all out, taking occasional breaks from our pondering to look around and admire our surroundings and point out newly spotted details, of which there were many. Eventually, we took the road most travelled (at least by us) and ordered sundaes: a scoop of banana ice cream with hot caramel sauce for me, and a scoop of vanilla with sweet and salty peanut-butter sauce and hot fudge for Meg. Though the ice cream-to-sauce ratio was a bit high for our tastes, the ice cream itself was rich and creamy and tasted of natural flavorings, and the sauces were tasty (the hot caramel sauce was more akin to butterscotch syrup, but enjoyable nonetheless).

The house-made rootbeer, which Meg decided to order for the road, had a complex, homemade flavor, with hints of cinnamon, molasses, wintergreen and more.

Shane Candies' interior

Our last stop of the day was just a few doors away from the Franklin Fountain: Shane Candies, established 1911, which claims to be the country’s oldest candy store. I had been before and had no desire for anything more to eat, but I really wanted Meg to see the amazing original interior – all-white with parallel walls of built-in, curlicue-framed shelves and glass cases with wainscoting bases running the full length of the store. The candy selection is extensive and enticingly displayed in the style of plenty. Both suckers for color and bounty, we each headed back to the train with a sack of candy in tow.

xoxo Amanda

Geno’s Steaks
1219 9th St.
Philadelphia, PA 19147
www.genosteaks.com

Pat’s King of Steaks
1237 E Passyunk Ave
Philadelphia, PA 19147
www.patskingofsteaks.com

Jim’s Steaks
400 South Street
Philadelphia, PA 19147
www.jimssteaks.com

Rita’s
239 South Street
Philadelphia, PA 19147
www.ritasice.com

The Franklin Fountain
116 Market Street
Philadelphia, PA 19106
www.franklinfountain.com

Shane Candies
110 Market St
Philadelphia, PA 19106
(215) 922-1048

in the window of a bakery on Avenue J in Brooklyn

xoxo Meg

the fruits of our labor

Having returned from our New Jersey excursion several weeks prior with a 3-pound log [Amanda: Meg, I believe it’s called a schlong. No kidding, I believe it is.] of Taylor Ham in tow, Amanda and I set out to introduce the chefs at No. 7 (the restaurant we both work at) to this salty, porky object of our affections.Amidst Saturday morning brunch preparations – biscuit baking, egg whisking, Bloody Mary mixing – I took my first turn at cooking in the restaurant’s high-end kitchen, albeit with some pretty low ingredients. With pork roll, a loaf of Wonder Bread, and yellow American cheese in my arsenal, I set out to convert Tyler, Gabe, and Petey to the wonder that is a Taylor Ham and cheese sandwich.

I sliced the roll into about 30 slices, each approximately one-quarter inch thick, made radiating slits at each slice’s perimeter, pan-fried them in their own (plentiful) grease until nice and brown, and stacked them atop fluffy slices of white bread layered with cheese. In the future, I would toast the bread, but I was trying to create as little commotion as possible and not burn myself and risk humiliation in the company of seasoned cooks.

the guts of the sandwiches

The resulting sandwiches were as good as I remember from my youth: cheese melty from the hot pork roll, the caramelized crust of the meat providing a little contrast to its saltiness and a little crunch around the edges. Amanda assembled two giant platters of sandwiches that fed the entire staff of dishwashers, bus boys, porter, cooks and servers.

I have a hunch that the boys liked them. A Taylor Ham, Arugula, Cheddar & Tomato Omelette just made its debut on No. 7’s brunch menu. Sweet.

Xoxo Meg

Defonte's signage

For this Monday’s adventure, we planned a simple trip to Woodside, Queens, to sample the much-revered burgers served at Donovan’s Pub. But as I ran a few errands around the neighborhood that morning, enjoying the warmest, most beautiful weather we’d had in months, the idea of spending the entire afternoon inside seemed grievously wasteful.

I called Meg. It’s so nice out; do you think we should save Donovan’s for some oppressively hot day at the height of summer when all that time in an air-conditioned subway car and a cool, dark bar would be a welcome respite? Sure!

After a little contemplation, we agreed on a trip to Red Hook. An isolated neighborhood along New York Harbor, Red Hook has no subway coverage and can be a bit of a journey by bus, but it’s only a 15- or 20-minute by bike from both of us. Aside from being just far away enough for a bike ride there and back to help assuage consumption-induced guilt, Red Hook is also just a pleasant place to visit and hang out: lots of quiet cobblestone streets lined with comely old warehouses and character-full residential buildings, always breezy and redolent of the sea – usually in a good way; one excellent grocery store, a few nice little bars, and, as we were about to sample, some pretty good grub.

A Sign on the Side of the Building

Defonte’s Deli, a Red Hook establishment since 1922, was the first stop on our itinerary. Save for a few reports of blandness, we’d heard a lot of great things about this place, and we were anxious to finally try it.

We briefly debated the handful of sanctified sandwich combinations posted behind the counter. Then we ordered the Valentino – fried eggplant, roasted peppers, provolone cheese.

Sandwiches at Defonte’s can be ordered by the half or the third, both of which are massive. Ordering a whole sandwich is apparently not an option. I’m not sure why that is, but I like to imagine that it’s Defonte’s way of protecting its patrons from themselves. At any rate, with at least a couple of rounds of lunch on the docket, we ordered a third.

While our sandwich was being prepared, we perused the beverage offerings in the cooler. After briefly discussing the appeal of Manhattan Special (a local coffee soda that I’m for and Meg’s against) [Meg: I'm for it for you, doll, but I don't really drink coffee...], our sights lit upon a slight anomaly in the realm of sandwich-shop beverage offerings: Budweiser.

Minutes later, with a couple of cans of The King of Beers and our sandwich in hand, we headed deeper into the ‘hook, towards the water. At the end of one of the piers, we happened upon a few lawn chairs, and there we sat, in the sun, cool breezes ruffling our feathers as the harbor lapped at the rocks below.

New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty from Our Lunch Spot

In that setting, with those ice-cold beers, shit on a shingle might have made for a perfectly lovely lunch, but the stupefying perfection of our circumstances aside, I’m pretty certain that the Valentino was a fantastic sandwich. The toothsome eggplant – not too tough, not mushy – imparted a meaty quality to the sandwich, and, against all odds, its nutty, fried coating still maintained a nice little crunch here and there. The roasted peppers were flavorful and fresh-tasting and like the fried eggplant, perfectly textured. All things taken together, the Valentino was a tasty, messy delight.

Valentino, Shortly Before He Met His Demise

For our second stop, we’d planned on going to Anselmo’s, a new coal-oven pizza joint.

Coal ovens are a rarity in the city. No longer legal to install, the few operating today are only allowed to do so because they were installed before they became illegal. Coal burns hotter than wood, so pizzas cook more quickly in coal ovens, which generally allows for thinner, crisper crusts. The story with Anselmo’s, as I’ve heard, goes something like this: some guys that operate a chemical shop nearby bought the building so they’d have a safe place away from their chemicals to take smoke breaks and hang out. When they discovered that the place housed an old coal oven, they realized they were sitting on something special, and decided to open a pizza joint to take advantage of their priceless find.

I had eaten at Anselmo’s twice before this outing with Meg. The first time had been delicious and exciting; the second had been less so (the crust was inexplicably flavorless and devoid of salt) but not so much so that I wasn’t enthusiastic about a third try. Meg was anxious to give it her first. Tyler and Gabe (chef-owner and sous chef of No. 7, respectively), who had just bought new bikes together that day and were looking for any excuse to ride, came out to join us [Meg: I wish I had some witty jab about them buying bikes together to insert here... but alas, they've lucked out.].

We ordered two large pies. One was Neapolitan – red sauce and fresh mozzarella – with pepperoni and mushrooms. The other was a white pie – ricotta and mozzarella – with basil pesto and artichokes. This time the crust was a touch under-salted but nonetheless quite nicely flavored with a perfect amount of char on the bottom and a crisp-chewy texture. The toppings were fresh, tasty (except for the flavorless mushrooms, which, despite my general affinity for funghi, are not worth the investment in this case) and liberally applied without suffocating the crust. The white-with-pesto combination is especially winning in my estimation.

After pizza, the boys headed back out to the water with us, where they goofed around on their bikes and chatted with us a bit before heading back inland. Meg and I stayed in Red Hook, making a quick trip to the aforementioned “excellent grocery store”, Fairway, to pick up a couple of odds and ends.

Though we were not at all hungry at this point, we both agreed that we could use a little something sweet, so we headed to Baked, a local bakery that supplies just about every specialty food shop and café in Brooklyn, and turns out often delicious (though not always) layer cakes, brownies, cookies and cupcakes. After a great deal of debate, we settled on the intriguing Brewer’s Bar to share.

Then we headed inland for the excellent 2-for-$5 happy hour at Bar Great Harry on Smith St. Exhausted, we ordered a couple pints of Yuengling and collapsed into a table near the open French doors along the sidewalk. We ate our Brewer’s Bar – a gooey blonde brownie, similar in texture to a cellophane-wrapped Kraft caramel, with a strange mealy mouth-feel and only the vaguest impression of malt or yeast – and sat at that table for hours, enjoying the breeze and eachother’s company, our day ending much like it had begun on the pier. Both of us were happy to have put Donovan’s off for another day.

xoxo Amanda

Defonte’s Deli/Sandwich Shop
379 Columbia St.
Brooklyn, NY 11231
(718) 625-8052

Anselmo’s Coal Oven Pizzeria
354 Van Brunt St. (at Sullivan St.)
Brooklyn, NY 11231
(718) 775-5386
http://www.anselmosbakery.com

Baked
359 Van Brunt St.
Brooklyn, NY 11231
718/222.0345
http://www.bakednyc.com

The pie we (almost) conquered

The hubby and I took a little jaunt out to Midwood on Sunday for a pie at famed pizzeria Di Fara. I never thought I would so thoroughly enjoy an hour plus wait standing up, but being able to watch 73 year old proprietor Domenico De Marco at work was priceless. In his corner storefront, De Marco has been making pies in the same fashion for over 40 years. True to what I’d heard, the pizza is phenomenal, but the overall experience went way beyond my expectation.

Di Fara on Avenue J in Midwood

Though framed press clippings hung on the dining room walls are kept up-to-date, decor has truly fallen by the wayside and looks like it hasn’t changed since the 70’s. So much care is given to each pie produced, however,  that it’s understandable.

Back dining area

Upon arriving, there is some semblance of a line formed at the front of the restaurant, where folks step up to the counter and place their order with Dom’s assistant — for a “regular pie,” “square pie,” or individual slices (supposedly the most expensive in the city at $4 a pop). Then a good long wait ensues.

The floor in front of the counter. Think this place has seen its share of customers?

The menu

While waiting, you can watch De Marco as he works, producing each pizza almost entirely solo. True, his assistant takes orders and assists in the production of the pies, but each pizza he produces seems to be directly touched only by his hands. And I mean directly by his hands which must be hardened by years of doing this, because he often removes the pizzas from the oven with his bare hands.

Dom and his assistant working. Assistant is grating Romano cheese.

For each pie, the dough is formed into its appropriate shape, sauce is spread atop it, buffalo mozzarella plunked down, regular mozzarella shredded on top (cheese is shredded pie-by-pie), a sprinkling of Romano cheese (freshly grated by De Marco’s assistant) applied, and some olive oil liberally doused on top. The pie is then baked, checked frequently by De Marco’s watchful eye.

De Marco standing on boxes of tomatoes and olive oil to rotate pies in the oven.

As each bubbling pie is done, De Marco removes it from the oven, puts it either on its pizza tray or in its box, asks who it’s for (not of the assistant, mind you, but of the “audience,” most of whom are paying careful attention to the waiting list). Once he knows whose pie it is, he proceeds dress it, giving the pie a healthy sprinkling of Romano cheese and clipping fresh basil onto it thoughtfully but haphazardly. Basil flies lands everywhere including on the pie, in pieces both small and large. Our pie also got a good dose of olive oil at this point. All of this gives the  feeling that De Marco is dressing the pie just as you like it.

De Marco snipping basil onto the cooked pizza. Note the hands of eager customers lined up along the counter.

How did it taste? Remarkable. The tender crust is denser and heavier than many other famed NYC pizzarias (Lombardi’s, Grimaldi’s), and it still bears the marks of De Marco’s fingers. And the Romano cheese lends a sharpness that’s this pie’s signature. Most noteworthy, though, is the super fresh, slightly spicy basil that wilts from the heat of the pizza and provides contrast to the still molten olive oil and cheese.

And well, as delicious as it was, I just couldn’t pack in a fourth slice. Hopefully it will taste as good tomorrow for breakfast.

xoxoMeg

Di Fara Pizza
1424 Avenue J, Brooklyn NY 11230
(718) 258-1367
http://www.difara.com/

Mike Geno, "Jelly", Oil on Wood, 8 x 8 inches

When I was in art school, I found oil paint so beautiful, so viscous and icing-like that I kind of wanted to eat it like a pre-schooler. Thank you, Mike Geno, for reminding me of that. I promise not to eat your paintings. Though I would like to own one. Luckily, you also sell affordable archival prints.

xoxo Meg

Honeysuckle cocktail created by Aisha Sharpe of Contemporary Cocktails for the event.

Because of my not-so-secret foodie crush for Grant Achatz, my husband, Willy, and I went to the panel Gender Confusion: Unraveling the Myths of Gender in the Restaurant Kitchen held at the Astor Center Monday night. The panel included not only my favorite molecular gastro-genius of Alinea, but also heavy-hitters Dana Cowin of Food & Wine, Ed Levine of Serious Eats, and writer Gwen Hyman.

Panelists were presented with five courses, each consisting of two preparations of the same main ingredient (say squab or pasta + asparagus), one by a male and one by a female chef. The question: could the panelists tell if each dish was the man’s or the woman’s?

The panelists were reluctant to say that they thought there would be a discernable difference. They were, however correct in their guesses more times than not. Grant Achatz pointed out that while the panelists didn’t believe in gendered cooking, many of the participating chefs did. Anne Burrell said she “cooks like a girl chef,” because that’s all she knows how to do.

Male/female stereotypes were both supported and debunked. Dana Cowin correctly guessed that a “pasta” course conceived by Brad Farmerie of Public and Double Crown consisting of shaved salsify “noodles” was the man’s dish, because of the heavy use of cooking gadgets. Cowin came to her conclusion by way of the observation, “Who likes toys? Boys like toys.” Hilarious.

The warm fava bean salad with spring garlic, chilis, and tofu prepared by Julie Farias of The General Greene however, was mistakenly thought to be made by a man, as it had a greater number of ingredients than Doug Psaltis’ of Smith’s sautéed scallops, fava beans, and smoked ham prep which was tossed together and presented in a bowl. The panel concluded that the more carefully composed composition was that of a man.

Through all of this, Willy and I wondered:

• Why are we tying gender to sex? Can’t men make so-called “feminine” food?

• Why not talk about the elementary fact that women outnumber men as home cooks but not professional cooks? Why is home cooking so-called women’s work and restaurant cooking is not?

• Would it be more interesting to talk about how hospitable (or not) professional kitchens are to women chefs?

Lastly, might I mention that the cocktails made for the cocktail “course” by Eben Freeman of Tailor (Rhubarb Gimlet: gin, fresh rhubarb juice, sugar, lemon, celery bitters) and Aisha Sharpe of Contemporary Cocktails (Honeysuckle: gin, lemon, honey syrup, grapefruit, tonic), included in the $35 admission, were lovely and plentiful?

xoxoMeg

p.s.: I was curious where Grant Achatz would have dinner when he was in town. He then tweeted that he went to Ramen Setagaya. Good to know. Sincerely, A Stalker