Bite the Big Apple: Saturday

Saturday we moved hotels, since we had a good deal at the Westin Times Square - thanks to my brother's awards points and generosity. Our room wasn't ready yet, so we entrusted the front desk with our corned beef from Stage Deli and my medication, which they promised to refrigerate. Then we headed off on the Q train to Coney Island.



It was a cold and rainy day, so Coney Island was desolate. But we didn't care, and neither did all of the kids on the train who completely lost their minds when the Cyclone came into view.







Our first stop, Nathan's, was no trouble to find at all. I was surprised to discover a Kenny Rogers Roaster sandwiched between the hot dog and seafood counters. I went for a chili dog and a dog with peppers.









The mustard is so good in New York - this photo did not turn out well, but the mustard really makes NY dogs. Nathan's was not the same as the Nathan's you buy in the market. They were flavorful with a nice snap and an explosion of fat. I ate them both. Bob had a cheesesteak, but I was focused on my hot dogs. Did I mention the fries? I can see why the birds swarm this place.





I had also ordered frog's legs and a lobster roll from the seafood counter, expecting to pick a little at everything. I sabotaged myself by wolfing down those two dogs. The frog's legs weren't nicely cut into drumettes as they had been in Paris, and the bright daylight didn't hide the unappetizing black veins. They had also cooled already, so the frog's legs just weren't the same. Plus I couldn't get the word "articulated" out of my head as I stared at them. The lobster roll was more like lobster-flavored mayonnaise, so we just picked at it.



We wandered through the rides, some of which are in Astroland and some of which aren't. Astroland has been the subject of much debate as it is slated for demolition to make way for condos. Locals are up in arms about it, even though they promise to spare the historic Cyclone. Most of the rides are carnival rides that could easily be packed up and relocated, but it's about tradition.




I loved the trippy artwork, especially the clowns. There were also a lot of devils. And dead rappers. It was a little like Thugland.













Bob went on the Cyclone first so I could take pictures and he could report back on its scariness. He said it wasn't scary, but it was really painful.



I picked The Breakdancer as the next ride, since I love spinning and I had never been on that one before. It was dedicated to Ant, "Loved by Many, Hated by Few, Respected by All." I can only hope when I'm gone I am hated by few. As the ride started, the MC started shouting, "This one is for you, Big A!" I realized, "Uh oh, this ride is in tribute to his dead friend. It is going to be one hell of a ride." And it was.



After a few intense minutes of spinning, I decided to video the ride. It was really hard struggling against the G forces to get out my camera and I gripped it in my fists. After awhile, the ride switched to spin the other way. It seemed to go on forever. This ride was never, ever going to end. The hot dogs in my stomache considered relocating. The MC asked if anyone wanted off, but no way was I going to wimp out after not going on the Cyclone. So we started all over again. Spinning, spinning, spinning; it wouldn't stop. I knew I was going to live out the rest of my life on that ride. I was going to die on that ride. Hated by few.



The video I took lasts for a full minute, and it was less than a third of one spin in one direction. So at the very least we rode for 9 full minutes. That is a conservative estimate. After the ride, we both had to sit down and we were not feeling so good. The hot dogs decided they had enough and started a fistfight.

We walked along unsteadily as the booths and rides started shutting down. I had hoped to go for pierogie while we were in a Russian neighborhood, but I knew if smelled cabbage I was going to hurl. So we jumped on the train back to Manhattan.



When we arrived at the hotel, we discovered they had lost my medication. After an hour of freaking out, it was finally found. Bob returned to the room triumphantly, and I asked, "Where's the corned beef?" I will not even try to describe the look he gave me. Our room was fantastic, the view was spectacular, and I was sad that the experience of checking into a room like that had been marred with worry. I called the manager to get the name of the desk clerk who hadn't been very nice about the whole thing. Instead he let me complain to him for about 5 minutes, then asked, "What can we do to make it up to you?"
"What are you offering?"
"Have you had dinner tonight?"
"No, we have been too busy freaking out."
"May I offer dinner at Shula's, our steakhouse?"
"Well, we were meeting a friend for dinner. Would dinner for three be pushing it?"
"It wouldn't be pushing it at all."
And so instead of heading down to SoHo as arranged, we ended up calling our friend John to come to Times Square for a free steak dinner.



The atmosphere was warm and cozy in the dim restaurant. The restaurant theme was the Dolphins' 1972 winning season. Kind of a specific theme. In spite of that, the decor was tasteful and more reminiscent of a supper club than a sports bar. A bottle of champagne started at 130 dollars, and we decided to not completely take advantage of the hotel manager. John and I each had a 20-dollar glass of the champagne, but stopped at one and switched to beer. My mother always taught me to order from the middle of the menu when being treated, and we all chose steaks in the 40-dollar range, even though they had one for 80.

For starters, John had a bisque, which I didn't sample since he had a cold. Bob had something that has completely slipped my mind and I ordered lobster cocktail. I didn't know yet that in New York a lobster cocktail is comprised of one half a Maine lobster in its shell. So it was kind of a decadent meal after all. The lobster was thrillingly cold and sweet.



Our steaks were high quality and cooked to perfection. The sides turned out to be big enough for the whole table. I could have lived on leftovers for two days. The crab mac and cheese kicked total ass and I will be hunting down the Shula's in LA for that specific dish. John's twice-baked potato was rich with cream and cheese, and Bob's lobster mashed potatoes were unexpectedly good.



The damage was around 360 bucks after tip, so the hotel still got off cheaper than if they had comped us a night. One hour of my worry is certainly pricy. While Bob waited for the leftovers, John and I hung around the landing where a lot of people wanted to know if they could help us.

We walked around Times Square to work off the heavy food, and hit Ripley's Believe it or Not museum. I love visiting them when I travel because every museum has different stuff. John took exception with calling things "unbelievable" when they were just "unfamiliar". "Can you believe people would be SO STUPID to think masks ward off evil spirits???" I have to concede that there is a really patronizing tone in a lot of the commentary. I will still happily pay 20 bucks to see the life of Christ in toast.











Usually each museum has one shrunken head - the Times Square museum had about 10, including one of a caucasion with a big walrus moustache. Later I would disturb passers-by on the street when I remarked, "I have never seen so many severed heads all in one place before!" I also discovered that when my head is in a jar I kind of look like Drew Barrymore. Maybe I will have a big jar made to wear around from now on.



Back on Times Square, things were jumping. I seemed to be the only person to notice that there was a huge fistfight taking over the corner across the street. When a bunch of the people fighting made a break for it and ran towards us, I grabbed Bob. When a huge phalanx of cops started across the street, I called out to John, and headed back towards the hotel. My cell phone rang, and it was John, "Where'd you go? You're missing the riot!"
I said, "Whenever I see more than 5 cops coming my way, I go the other way."
He said, "That's a good rule. See you guys tomorrow?"
"Sounds good."

Bite the Big Apple: Friday continued

We met my friend Anne-Marie at MOMA for an afternoon of Starry Night and Mademoiselles du Avignon.











A lot of the modern pieces involved lights and film and made me kind of dizzy. The photography exhibit was a study of light I would have liked to check out more. But by this time the museum, which was free after 4pm, was crammed with so many people it became uncomfortable.





Bob and I said goodbye to Anne-marie and wandered down the street to nosh along 54th. We happened upon London, and thought we would see what Gordon Ramsay has to be so cocky about. If the bar menu is any indication, he has every right to be a screaming bastard.



The lamb samosas were made with lamb confit rather than ground lamb. It was flavorful without being too gamey. I was unsure of how short ribs could be interpreted into bar food, but damn if they didn't debone the ribs to make futuristic little squares topped with a rosette of mashed potato. Precious. They were also delicious and filling.



The ultramodern unisex bathrooms confused the British tourists, but they were clean and larger than our hotel bathroom.



As we enjoyed our drinks, I looked up and who was passing but Jean Baptiste. I called out, "Jean Phillipe!" Ramsay cleverly hires only men named Jean-something to keep things simple. We chatted about the upcoming opening of Gordon Ramsay in West Hollywood's London Hotel. We could have happily dined on bar food all night, but we had seen a few other places that looked intriguing.



The Oyster Bar looked very Roadfood-y, but the overeagerness of the host and the resigned looks on the diner's faces gave me cause for concern. We decided to have a beer and think about it.



The garlic bread was nicely seasoned, so we decided to order, but with restraint. I selected the cold seafood appetizer since it would be hard to muck up, and easier to tell if the seafood was off. The plate was a huge disappointment. The crab and lobster were overcooked and flavorless. The shrimp were just wrong. Bob tried one oyster and declared it bad. I worried, "Bad as in spoiled?" He said, "Bad as in not good." The quality of the seafood was good, and the potato salad was delicious. It seemed like maybe once this place was loved a long time ago. Someone made sure the garlic bread and potato salad recipes were classic. But something happened - the place was sold, and now the restaurant is lonely and moribund.





We escaped the Oyster Bar and immediately spotted an Original Ray's Famous.



I hear so much crap about California pizza from New Yorkers - how pineapple doesn't belong on pizzas, blah, blah, blah. I was simultaneously disappointed and vindicated to see that the REAL New York slices had toppings like Buffallo wing, pineapple, BBQ chicken, and even broccoli. Broccoli! It's a sin against God and man.



Our first slices in New York were nice and foldable, although my Margherita wasn't nearly as good as Bob's pepperoni and sausage.





We jaywalked across the street to the Stage Deli for rugelach, cheesecake, bagels and corned beef for breakfast. Checking out the standard celebrity Polaroids on the wall, I was amused to see instead of the usual pose, Sally Jesse Rafael was perched atop the counter hugging a giant jar of pickles.







I never understood the appeal of black and white cookies before. Stage Deli's was a light, fresh and spongy cookie topped with soft royal icing. I think if a place becomes famous for something, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. High turnover means fresh goods, and this is what their cookie had going for it. I don;t think I'd ever eaten a truly fresh black and white before.

The NY cheesecake was very familiar, not too sweet, and a little powdery. I have to admit I prefer creamy Philadelphia-style cheesecake. Although you have to give them points for the rugelach cheesecake, "Hey, you got cheesecake in my rugelach!" "No, you got rugelach in my cheesecake! Hey..."

Bite the Big Apple: Friday at Nougatine

Friday we had reservations at Nougatine, the "casual" dining room of Jean-Georges. Of course, New York casual is not LA casual. Everyone was so stylish I could have snapped a photo in any direction and printed it in a magazine. I asked a man in a suit where the restroom was before I realized he didn't work there. I was still coming off of working the graveyard shift and had not adapted to the time change. I had rolled out of bed and rushed to Nougatine on an empty stomach. So I was not interested in the prix fixe menu that had previously looked so appealing.



Bob ordered from the prix fixe, and I ordered an artichoke as well as a crab salad and ice cream/sorbet medley, and asked the server to let the chef decide the order in which the dishes should come out. Bob's salmon confit was lovely, tasting very much like lox and served with toasts.



My artichoke arrived first. I was very pleased. They had cooked the hell out of it - exactly how it should be. At some point in the 80s, LA restaurants decided everything should be cooked al dente, especially vegetables. They have never quite recovered and continue to serve rock-hard artichokes. The homemade mustard mayonnaise was intense with lemon and horseradish. The horseradish began to sting about halfway through my artichoke, and I wondered why the chef had chosen such a strong dish as my starter.



When my crab salad arrived, I understood. The server poured the sauce over, which was made from lemon, horseradish, and reportedly melon, although it was lost in the horseradish. They really love horseradish. A lot. The peekytoe crab was sweet and cold, but the occasionally overwhelming bites of horseradish started to make my head swim. Halfway through the course, Bob and I switched plates. His chicken was moist with a crispy, salty, almost southern-fried skin. It was exacty what chicken should be. Bacon and olives are an unlikely duo, but were addictive and kept the chicken from being too mundane.



For dessert, Bob chose the chocolate biscuit with chantilly, which was like an upscale Devil Dog.



I went for the selection of ice creams and sorbets. Unlike Los Angeles, no one feels the need to tell you what is on your plate. There is a hesitation on their part to impose that can leave one feeling a little abandoned. I was also the only person in the entire restaurant drinking iced tea. In spite of the busboys waging a silent war on empty water glasses, it was hard to get refills for my tea.

Anyways, I am happy when they don't tell me what is on my plate because then I get to guess. The first sorbet overshadowed everything else - it was a lime/mint bursting with flavor. The second sorbet was a mild cucumber, which was unusual and fun. There was vanilla malt ice cream and a strawberry sorbet. The final ice cream stumped me. The flavor was so mild, I could hardly taste it after that crazy lime/mint. I knew it was a fruit because it made my sour recepters twinge. I finally gave up and asked. The server had to check with the kitchen, which surprised me. I guess nobody ever asks. It was rhubarb. Although 4 out of 5 ain't bad, I felt like I had lost the game.



(Thanks for the tip, JG!)

Bite the Big Apple: Thursday

By the time we arrived in our comfortable, yacht-like room at the Essex House, Bob and I were too tired to go wandering the streets in search of slices. It was raining cats and dogs, and the street along the park looked desolate. I called down and asked if the hotel restaurant had available tables.

"Is it casual or formal?"
"Casual"
"Really casual?"
"Really casual"
"Levis casual?"
"Of course"

I had not taken the time to research our hotel very thoroughly. I was too busy debating delis and figuring out museum schedules. We stumbled into South Gate, Kerry Heffernan's restaurant (and former location of Alain Ducasse). You might guess this place was not exactly what you would call casual.



I knew we were going to hit a lot of restaurants, so I asked if I could take the menu as a keepsake. The server raised an eyebrow, "Would you like a pen to take notes? Are you...?"
I said, "Oh no, but I have a friend who always asks me what I ate and I can never remember all of these gastriques and things."
After the server left, Bob asked, "Are you pretending to be a rube?"
I was tempted to say, "With you in that shirt I don't have to pretend" but I secretly enjoyed how comfortable Bob was in his Mike Watt plaid in such a swank restaurant. Especially since he was seated next to a man who was wearing a bowtie unironically.



An amuse bouche arrived, and I said, "Oh! An amuse bouche!" I've experimented with different pronunciations, but no matter how I say it, servers always seem pleased and never correct me. Maybe it's because I get so excited, like a child pointing at a zebra and yelling, "Horsie!" The salmon tartare with olive tapenade was delicious, which surprised me because I am no great fan of raw fish. In spite of that, I was pleased too see there were also cheese gougere.



Bob started with the smoked char. The presentation was almost too precious. It was cold smoked, like lox - it was interesting to try fresh savory.



My foie gras was ingenious. Nicely charred and custardy, the meat sat in a sauce of rhubarb (sorry, that's rhubarb coulis - I don't want you to think I'm a rube). Fresh rhubarb was carefully cooked to match the consistency of the foie gras. As the daughter of Canadian farmers, I have cooked more than my share of rhubarb, and it is no mean feat to get rhubarb to that point without it breaking down. The dish included tarragon-preserved kumquats. Although the taraggon flavor was lost, kumquat was a perfect match for the foie gras. A crisp coated with pistachios jutted out jauntily - but it was not a crisp. It was like a flatbread, but wasn't a flatbread. When the chef came around to greet the tables, I asked him about it and after a little "who's on first" confusion about my crisp not being crisp, he explained that it was a Middle-Eastern crepe. And something about eggs. I had no idea what he was talking about. There was a time when if I read all of my cooking magazines and FOOD sections, I could keep up. You could not stump me. But now I sometimes watch Top Chef and I don't know what the hell they're talking about. Maybe it's time for me to up my game. Or maybe it's a good thing to not know everything; perhaps it makes me slightly less insufferable.



There are a few drawbacks to my uber-sensitive palate. I balk at gamey, fishy and bitter flavors. Bob revels in these things. And so he loved the oven roasted lamb loin that I found too lamb-y. The spring vegetable and lamb cassoulet accompaniment fell flat with a watery sauce, no sausage, and edamame in place of beans. I don't normally order hangar steak because of its toughness, but I was seduced by the short rib ravioli. I was right - the hangar steak was a little too tough, and the ravioli were sheer heaven. Angel's breath in a sheet of pasta that was light as air. I wished I had an entire plate of just the ravioli. The chianti vinegar reduction and onion soubise were lovely.



For dessert, I angelically ordered the cheese plate. When they set the table, they arranged the silver with the tines of the fork pointing towards me. I'm sure that is proper for the cheese course, but it still felt vaguely threatening ("In my country, that means you are marked for death.") Then my best intentions fell by the wayside as I ate the drunken goat, triple creme and camembert with slice after slice of rustic bread. Bob ordered the mille feulle, which I immediately deconstructed. Sometimes I just can't help myself. The chocolate sheets were of high quality, but unremarkable. The chocolate quenelle was kind of bland, but the banana layers were spectacular. I wished there was more of the banana cream, and the bottom layer was simply fresh bananas topped with broken bits of bruleed sugar. Eaten altogether, the layers worked together perfectly. Oh, there was also a nice banana ice cream quenelle and banana powder. I wondered what it would be like to snort banana powder, and decided it was time for me to turn in.

Krust: Kranky, Kantankerous and Krude

Written with Lindsay Williams-Ross

We consider our restaurant reviews to be recommendations, not critiques. We only slam a place when our hand is forced. There are just some people who should not go into any industry where dealing with the public is a chief priority.

It truly pains us to do this. We so wanted to love Krust. We so wanted to write a glowing review and turn you on to this hidden bakery-cafe in Burbank. It fills a real culinary void in the neighborhood. The menu is not exactly complex or cutting-edge. Anyone who can plug in a hairdryer without electrocuting themselves can operate a panini press, and the paninis seem to be the center of their lunch menu. We can't speak for breakfast items, since we haven't had the constitution to get up and be insulted first thing in the morning. Still, the food is simple, clean, tasty, and well-presented - exactly what you want for a nice, relaxing girls' lunch. But time and time again, no matter how many times we visit, we have yet to enjoy that pleasant lunch

It could have been so nice...



The interior borders on perfection - decorative carvings, comfortable seating, and a beautiful array of baked goods. However, the layout is a little off-balance. The menus are on a stand by the door, off to the side, and completely hidden if anyone stands near it. The first bakery case used to be filled with tempting goodies, but it now sits empty. The large bakery case to the right is filled with - jewelry. Yes, jewelry. For sale. It makes the room seem like one of the hobby/careers of rich wives (Ooh, let's start a party planning company! I took a jewelry making class once - you make such good cupcakes; you should start a bakery! ).

The only case that actually contains baked goods lies inconveniently below the register. If you want to make a selection, you have to crouch down, and sometimes ask other patrons to move out of the way (or peek between their legs).

The set-up at the counter is also awkward. If you are waiting for a to-go order, there is nowhere to stand that isn't blocking the bakery case, the servers, and the other patrons' egress. There are signs everywhere telling you what they don't have, and a huge sign on the countertop that begs you to review them on YELP, which reeks a little of desperation.

One of the co-owners, who we believe is named Kaylene, runs a tight ship--Captain Bligh tight. When you reach the counter, there is no smile, no greeting. The confusing layout sends mixed messages and every move you make is open to chastisement (why didn't you see the menu before you came up to the register?). You'd better know what you want before you get to the front of the line--you certainly aren't going to get any friendly suggestions of what to order, and your inquiry about a dish is her inconvenience. In any service industry, explanations to innocent questions (delivered by a smiling and upbeat customer) ought to err on the side of the customer being right--or at least give the impression that the customer is important.

Your order is taken in a snippy and perfunctory way, then coolly tapped into the register. The requisite questions ("coleslaw or salad?") are delivered in the same tone as a surgical nurse offering you your choice of injection via the arm or the rear end. She is so reticient to speak, she skips over important points, like the fact that their iced tea is made with a fruity red herbal tea and not the usual black tea.

Once you find a place to sit, your food will come out without much delay (an upside, for certain), but it will be tossed down on your table as if by a surly teenager whose night it was to help Mom serve the tuna casserole. And, as you were warned via sign: If you order separately, the food will be delivered separately. If you ordered a hot item, it will arrive after the cold item. CAVEAT EMPTOR, folks.

Krust has "rules" about things--some are on signs and some are not--and the ways the management chooses to enforce them are blatantly unprofessional. We've been yelled at, sneered at, glared at, and lectured. We've been talked about in the kitchen by the whole staff, within earshot of the dining area. On one visit Kaylene attempted to ensnare one of us in someone else's argument. If you dare break an unwritten rule, you are treated as if you just peed on the floor.

For example, on our most recent visit, we quietly took a few pictures of the baked goods on display and the food our own plates. We have been doing this kind of thing for a long time, and choose to be very subtle about it so as not to disturb the other diners. We use a teensy camera, no flash, and take it quick. We are polite; we never take pictures of people, whether patrons or servers, without permission.



If something is on our plates and we have paid for it, it seems like we should be able to do with it as we wish, within the boundaries of public decency. If a bakery item is clearly on display, it is begging to be photographed. We will ask permission if anyone is around. But if someone is already barking at us and ignoring our attempts to make nice, it's not exactly an environment that encourages questions. We might have asked for permission, had she ever given either of us so much as a "hello" even once during the many months we have been patronizing the cafe.

So, minutes after a subtle and quick shot, after the camera was already put away, Kaylene came flying across the room at us like a banshee. "You can't take pictures here!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know. Maybe you should put up a sign by the door."

"Lots of people come here to review us and THEY ASK FIRST."

We were a little surprised by her statement since the first rule of restaurant reviewing is not to tell the restaurant that you are reviewing it. We were also surprised at how personal she was making the whole incident.

We didn't say any of these things out loud. We just nodded apologetically while she ranted, willingly accepting our punishment for breaking the unwritten law. She stormed back across the restaurant, and then she turned to us from behind the counter and sniped, "...And I don't appreciate it!"

That was the final straw.

When did we get married? Did we marry and divorce this woman without remembering it? Why was she suddenly acting like a furious ex-wife? A restaurant professional walks quietly over to your table, says, "I'm sorry. We don't allow pictures." and gracefully walks away. Instead, this had become an MTV's Real World drama.

We were so upset, we couldn't stay to eat. Lindsay walked up to the counter to request to-go containers for our untouched food. As she approached the kitchen, she could hear the owner still ranting to the staff. Then she told Lindsay that she didn't like the fact that we were sneaky.

The Burbank-NoHo-Toluca Lake area has long needed a great bakery-cafe serving breakfast and lunch options without the scenester vibe of Studio City's Aroma. It sounds great in theory, but on every one of our visits to Krust our experiences have been consistent. Consistently uncomfortable, disappointing, and negative. It's too bad, because we wanted to love Krust. We'd have settled for like. We were taking those pictures so we could write a wonderful review. But now all we can do is warn you to stay away. The harpy behind the counter has driven us off one too many times.

It is hard to understand how someone can pay such minute, Martha Stewart-ish attention to detail in their decor and food, and then not give a tinker's dam about customer service. Perhaps it is all about control. The perfection of the icing swirls and the just-so placement of every jar might not be the result of her aesthetic, but of having to make every little thing perfect or die trying. And what is the X factor? What is the one thing the owner can't control? The patrons. We have to wonder if she wishes we would all just go away and let her finish perfecting her rosettes.


Krust
1723 W Verdugo Ave
Burbank, CA 91506
(818) 842-7696