Forgive the long stretch since our last post, but between a trip to the other side of the globe and a job change, it's been busy lately and we've just now had time to settle again. There has been chowing going on, however -- and here are some regrettably brief thoughts on places we've been since the blog posts stopped:
Dos Caminos on 3rd Avenue -- maybe it's just because I'm from
SoCal and know good Mexican food, but it's been a rarity to find it anywhere outside. This member of the
B.R. Guest empire (which includes Ocean Grill, Atlantic Grill,
Isablella's, etc.) was not the exception. Even though Madonna was reported to chow here with A-Rod, it goes to show celebrity hot spots can also fall flat. Even though the fish we both ordered was cooked fine and tasted fresh, it was also bland (why anyone would think avocado "leaves" make an exciting crust for tuna is beyond me) and the guacamole scam perpetrated frequently in the city was on full display here, with a paltry amount offered up with way too much lime (a preservative for those who choose to make mass quantities in advance, as opposed to the charm and freshness of
tableside preparation). Not a bad meal, but not memorable and overpriced at that. We did have a better Mexican meal several months back at
Hell's Kitchen in, you guessed it, Hell's Kitchen, which offers an interesting menu balanced out by fair prices. The best Latin food in recent memory, perhaps ever in this town, can be found at
Cafe Habana on Elizabeth and Prince Street. True, we've only brunched here twice, but the
seasoned roasted corn on the cob covered in
cojita cheese and lime juice alone is pilgrimage-worthy. I also opted for a "
Michelada" -- something I'd
never seen or heard of before -- which involves a tall parfait glass half-full of ice, fresh lemon juice and
Tabasco with salt around the rim. Into it you pour a bottle of Corona and squeeze lime. It's
delish. For entrees, Alisa got the classic
Huevos Rancheros and I got
Chilaquiles, a dish done so differently so many places you never quite know what you're gonna get. It's one I ate growing up in San Diego that always consists of fried corn tortillas, red or green sauce, cheese and chicken or veggies in a casserole of sorts. Since arriving here, I've had it as a sad little pile of corn chips with red sauce and some grated cheese or a whole elaborate cheesy blissful casserole at
Quantum Leap, a duo of vegetarian joints in the east and west village that does it expertly (although occasionally skimps on the portions). At
Habana, it more resembled the pile of chips, put an ample pile that had started to submit to their soft tortilla form under the weight of a zesty green sauce and
melty white
queso with tender pieces of chicken hidden all across the plate. The accompanying black beans, with herbs still wading inside, are among the best I've ever had anywhere. We can't wait to go back.
like butter. And the fries, as he promises in the book, were sublime. It is a rather loud joint though and even the second time when we sat in an alcove, where the din is lessened, we were across from a table of two drunk tourist couples who's banter drove us insane. That brings up a serious pet peeve I promise not to dwell upon at length: People with loud or irritating voices at adjacent tables who can literally ruin a meal. I learned during that second trip to Les Halles to soldier through it, enjoying my food and talking loudly to Alisa, in hopes of: a) being heard and b) sending a message to the next table that they were way too loud. I failed at the latter. Anyway. Enough said. Speaking of ways to mainline cholesterol, we made our second visit to Pearl Oyster Bar on Cornelia Street in the Village. Even at $27 apiece (the market price that day), their lobster rolls were fantastic -- a whole lobster, it seemed like, big chunks of claw and tail slathered in mayo on a bun barely able to contain all the lovely meat -- and accompanied by a mound of shoestring fries (I think there's something to thinner fries tasting better, probably related to more surface area to be fried in oil). As if that weren't enough to put us on the busroute to bypass, we split a caramel praline parfait (they put some caramel at the bottom as well so you don't eat the best part first, then find yourself left with lonely vanilla) and some steamers, which, even though I've 
had clams many a time, I had never officially ordered them as "steamers." A small bucket of long necks (I learned that's to indicate an actual neck of sorts emerging from them -- reminiscent, in miniature and far less intimidating form, the humongous neck that makes up the bulk of a geoduck clam, something I may never be brave enough to try) arrived with some warm salt and parsley water (Passover flashbacks) and drawn butter. Extras aside, the lobster rolls here are a dead-ringer for those at nearby Mary's Fish Camp, where we went once. Is there any difference? Someday soon, perhaps, I'll have an answer.
