While my trip to the East Coast did not contain as many novel food adventures as a I might have wished (I just typed 'might of wished' first. Clearly ten days in Indiana was too many), it did include some lovely moments in which restaurants re-interpreted dishes I took for granted.
There is a small eatery in Montclair, New Jersey, which seems to be patronized entirely by women, and if you hit it at the right time, only women over sixty-five. It is called Sweet Basil, the staff is pure Jersey, and it doesn't seem the likeliest place to encounter, say, a fabulous Ahi sandwich or a menu that carefully notes when things are vegan. But to leave aside the more surprising aspects, someone in the kitchen had the idea that home fries, aka hash browns' mundane cousins, ought to taste good. Specifically that they ought to taste like steak fries, those chunky and potato-intensive versions of French fries that show up at lunch with your veggie burger if you are lucky. Consequently you will be fighting over your lightly crisp, delicious breakfast sides for the first time in your life, rather than attempting to foist them off on your neighbors.
Slightly less surprising given its place in the New York food pantheon, The Cookshop in Chelsea does more than just a great brunch. After having joined the thousands who have been unceremoniously tossed from Shopsins for transgressing one of its many arcane rules (we were a party of more than four, and we didn't pretend with sufficient guile to be parties of three and two that just happened to be there at the same time), our family and The Nicest People In The World-East Coast Division landed at the Cookshop just as lunch service started. Now, as a Californian who doesn't eat meat I have developed something of a connoisseurship of the fish taco. Without fail, whether at five star restaurants or taco trucks, these arrive as a chunk of fish at the bottom of the taco covered with an inappropriately large amount of cabbage. Someone in the kitchen, it is to be hoped not the same person who chose the outfits for the waitstaff, decided that perhaps they might try slicing the fish and tossing it with the toppings instead. This creates a balanced taco that is actually enjoyable to eat throughout, rather than an acrobatic feat.
Finally and most serendipitously was an instance in which the common New York custom of hanging a Zagat review in the window was enough to stop me in my tracks: a 29 for food at the Grandaisy Bakery on Sullivan Street. Accounting for the sometimes maddening wisdom of crowds, I will try anywhere that's over 20, but places that rate 24 or above are so rare as to be must-visits. I have never seen a 29. After being momentarily distracted by the possibility of a beet and goat cheese panino, I recovered my poise and sweet tooth and purchased a cream cheese danish. This thing doesn't even have a filling, how good could it be? Like a previous experience with the baked goods from Batter Bakery, the bite began with 'well, eh' and ended with 'oh my God.' The creamy perfection was baked into the dough itself. 29 indeed.
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