La ba porridge

I was hanging out at home with my dad when the phone rang. "Okay, yes, mm hmm," I heard him say, and then he hung up. An hour or so later I heard the doorbell. The folks at the Fo Guang Shan temple—a Buddhist organization that my parents sometimes help, but are not affiliated with—had made a delivery of two large containers of vegetarian la ba porridge. They didn't do this only for our household, either, but for a long list of people around the city.

Not knowing anything about the tradition, I consulted The Google and found that la ba porridge is typically eaten on the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month on the traditional Chinese calendar. It's not only a date that typically signifies the beginning of the Chinese New Year celebration, but for Buddhists it's the date Sakyamuni, the first Buddha, is believed to have attained enlightenment. (There's a pretty good explanation of the history here.)

Can't say I'm religious, so for me the congee was mostly just congee. I heated up a bowl and found it chunky with ingredients, tasting both hearty and healthy but just a little bland. It's probably something I should eat more of.

"Big bowl" congee at Chao Zhou

I was still feeling sickly, with a wretched cough and sore throat, so for breakfast TL suggested we go to Chao Zhou in Flushing for congee. I know Chao Zhou primarily as the "big bowl place" for the giant replica of a red bowl and chopsticks on its roof; I'd gone a number of times before, but it had been a while.

TL said he liked the "Hong Kong style congee" which I'd never had, so that's what we got. The creamy rice porridge was studded with squid, dried scallops, shrimp, and shredded ginger, and topped with green onions, fried noodle threads, and peanuts. (I believe this is also sometimes called "little boat congee" or "junk congee" since that's where you would go to get it.) One order is huge and filling, and it served both of us without difficulty.


On the table I spotted their dim sum menu, so we also added on steamed roast pork buns, shu mai, and rice steamed in lotus leaf. None was anything special; each more adequate than anything else. And the shu mai in particular was mushy in texture and unappealing—neither of us ate more than one.

The congee here is nice when you're sick, but the food overall seems average (I think that's why I stopped eating here). It's your basic Flushing Chinese joint: not good, not bad, but handy when you need a okay place to eat.

A strange cup: Cocoa Bar

As romantic as it seemed, something about this place just didn't sit right with me.

After dinner at Pho So 1 the four of us made our way to Cocoa Bar randomly, simply because it was one of the closest dessert places in the area. The place was nearly empty, and right from the beginning things felt sort of off. It began with the high prices and numerous unavailable items, continued with misdelivered orders and concern about the freshness of the desserts; and ended with some (possibly intentional?) miscalculated charges on the bill. And throughout the course of the night the owner exhibited odd, awkward behavior that did nothing to make the place feel cozier. I can't explain it—he just seemed chummy in a way that didn't feel chummy at all.

We tried to enjoy ourselves despite, and I did appreciate my spicy dark hot chocolate for its balanced level of heat and sweetness and good ingredients. TL seemed to really like his chocolate truffle cake, too. But both JL and LB were put off by the gelato and brownie dessert, and I think we were all put off by the vibe of the place overall. I think it's safe to say that Cocoa Bar isn't a place to which I plan on returning.

It's all in the broth at Pho So 1

If what you do on New Year's Day is any indication of how the rest of the year is going to be, then my 2009 is going to consist of me waking up feeling horrible, going back to sleep, getting up to shower, going back to sleep, waking up again, and then sleeping some more. And then around five pm, finally getting up to eat.

In my defense, after all the New Year's Eve festivities TL and I hadn't gotten home until about five in the morning, and by that time I had lost my voice and was feeling terribly ill. I'd started feeling crappy even while at Ssäm Bar, and by the end of the night I was done for. (It didn't help that we had run around so much in the cold—a cute dress under a thin wool coat and arctic wind just don't mix.) So when JL and LB asked where we wanted to meet for dinner, nothing sounded appealing until TL mentioned a Vietnamese restaurant AS had recently recommended. A giant bowl of hot, steamy pho seemed like just the thing.

We met at Pho So 1 on Mott Street, a below-ground restaurant with a cheery yellow awning and equally cheery service. TL ordered summer rolls and I tried a piece of bánh cuon, which were steamed rice flour crepes filled with a mixture of minced vegetables, shrimp, and meat, served with nuoc cham and pieces of the circular "pork loaf" often found in bánh mì. Unfortunately, I wasn't into the mushy texture and muddled flavor of the dish. It might have been a proper version but for me it was a pass.

The pho, however, was just what I needed. JL, TL, and I each got the house version, and it arrived in a seriously massive bowl brimming with rice noodles, beef balls, and pieces of tendon, rib eye, and flank. The flavor of the broth was great—meaty, clean, and fragrant—and we all agreed it was among the best any of us had ever had. Each sip was wonderfully soothing and felt perfect for my aching throat.

I've heard more good things about Pho So 1 since, and I'm excited to try some of the other things on their menu. If the pho we had is any indicator, the rest is definitely promising.

New Year's Eve at Momofuku Ssäm Bar and Milk Bar

Maybe my hands were shaking from excitement when I took these photos.

A month or so before New Year's Eve, I took the liberty of making a dinner reservation for eight at Momofuku Ssäm Bar. I had a specific purpose in mind, and probably at least some of you recognize the above picture for what it is: the whole roasted pork butt served as the feature of their bo ssäm. For those unfamiliar with what that is, it's basically the massive hunk of meat you see above accompanied by white rice, different sauces, a platter of raw oysters, and bibb lettuce, and you're meant to use the pieces of lettuce as wrappers for meaty mouthfuls of the rest. In other words, a pig-fest, straight up.

I made the reservation without knowing who would join me, and then basically did a call-out to friends to see who was down. Luckily we ended up with the full eight (you do need at least six people in order to make a bo ssäm reservation), because I don't know how any fewer can get through this meal.

I didn't realize exactly how much food we'd be getting at first, though. So when the server said that most groups getting the bo ssäm usually also get four or five starters, I thought we were being conservative by only ordering three.

The cult-following pork buns from the Momofuku empire don't actually impress me that much—especially since the price of them is so steep (an order of two costs nine bucks; that's $4.50 per, yo!). People seem to talk about them as one of the greatest inventions ever, but if you look at Peking Duck or the Taiwanese gua bao, it's really nothing that new. What Momofuku does offer, though, is a high-quality variation using good ingredients, and so for that I suggested getting them, especially since others at the table hadn't tried 'em before.

The other two starters we ordered were the honeycrisp apple kimchi, with "burger's smoked jowl, maple labne, arugula" and the satur farm's fried brussels sprouts, with "mint, scallions, fish sauce vinaigrette." I liked the first dish a lot, which was basically pieces of honeycrisp tossed in a kimchi puree and paired with bacon and yogurt. And even though TL usually doesn't like brussel sprouts, he was quite fond of the Momofuku rendition, going back for seconds and even thirds of the stuff.

Then came the bo ssäm:

Glorious, fatty, gigantic, meltingly tender and flavoful pork butt, the meat coming right off the bone. There's about seven pounds of pig on that platter.

Platter of oysters; bibb lettuce. In the bowls: kimchi, kimchi puree, scallion sauce, and sweet pepper paste. You can consume the bo ssäm any way you like, but my favorite method—stolen from TL—was to fold a bit of meat, a bit of rice, a bit of sweet pepper paste, and a whole raw oyster into a lettuce leaf and to eat that in a few bites. In that way the brininess of the oysters playing off the meat was maximized. Who knew those two would work so well together?

We tried mightily, but damn, we just could not get through it all. Our bellies were straining and there was still a pile of meat left on the plate. Even a dare to TC with several hundred dollars at stake didn't result in her polishing it off…not even close.

Everyone knows there's always extra room in the stomach for dessert, though, so after our meal we trooped through the back of Ssäm Bar to the adjoining and newly opened Momofuku Bakery & Milk Bar. I shared a piece of the pumpkin blondie pie with TL, which was good but so dense and sweet I only wanted a few bites. I also had a piece of GQ's blueberry cream cookie, which was absolutely delicious—tender and rich and buttery and crisp and full of fruit. If we didn't have several parties to attend afterward, I would have seriously considered getting a whole one for myself. As it was, I'd already gone beyond my limit—I spent the remainder of the night trying to gracefully digest. Lesson learned: eat light on New Year's Eve, not decadent.

Setting the bar at the table: The Redhead

So if I'm going to eat dinner in a bar-like restaurant, the photos are going to be terrible. This was true for Red Egg, and it's true (as you can see) for my meal at The Redhead as well. Sorry, but since I just have an ol' point-and-shoot, you'll have to bear with me.

The Redhead—which, unlike Red Egg, really was only a bar first—has gotten some press lately, most recently in a New York Times roundup of the year's notable restaurants with "great eating at contained prices," and just before that in an article titled "Great Meals for Two, Under $100 (It’s Possible)." While looking for a hip yet comfortable place to catch up with some girlfriends (without breaking the bank), it seemed like the perfect spot to meet.

And it was, for our purposes. MB had already eaten though BH and I hadn't, but since we snagged a table in the front bar area, it wasn't awkward for two to eat and one only to drink. And all of us were down to nibble on the bacon-peanut brittle, which was the perfect alcohol accompaniment: a little smoky, plenty salty and nutty, and just sweet.

For our dinner, BH and I decided to share two of the starters and a plate of their buttermilk fried chicken. Above on the right is the cider-braised fall squash paired with pieces of pork belly and candied pecans; on the left is the sunchoke and sweet potato salad, which included crunchy hazelnut halves, slices of pear, goat cheese, and a smattering of watercress. Both were well done, and the two plates disappeared lickety-split.

(It's funny, because I had no idea what a sunchoke was, and then I put a piece of the tuber into my mouth and realized that I was eating the same thing my parents grow in their garden and had never known the name of. A friend of theirs had actually once told them it was some kind of peasant rubbish vegetable from China, but boy was she wrong. They were pretty tickled when I came home with my newfound wisdom.)

The fried chicken came with a piece of moist, nubby cornbread and a salad of frisee, baby spinach, apples, and candied walnuts, all of which came together harmoniously. The chicken was juicy and moist within, and the crackling outside skin was salty and crisp and full of flavor. I thought it was pretty great, and BH ended up declaring it one of the best pieces of fried chicken she'd ever had.

After the plates were cleared we continued to linger with glasses of wine. We ended up spending several hours at The Redhead in total, and by the time the sweet chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies (top of post) arrived gratis with our check, it was just as if we'd gone out to dinner and then to a bar for drinks afterward, all without us ever having to leave the table. Especially since it was such a cold night, that was a decidedly welcome aspect of dining at The Redhead.

Seeking the perfect grilled cheese: Think Coffee

At Think Coffee, where I ended up after parting ways with DL, I noticed that in the several months I'd been gone they'd done away with the menu of panini and salads and replaced it with a choose-your-own-grilled-cheese selection. There was a choice of whole grain or white bread, five or six cheeses, and an assortment of proteins, add-ons, and spreads. For my lunch I decided to go simple, choosing Gruyère and pesto on white.

While I always figured I could never get enough cheese, this sandwich seemed overwhelming, particularly because once the melted cheese was paired with the oily pesto and butter-soaked bread, the whole thing was a terrible grease-bomb. It was enjoyable in a decadent sort of way, but I quickly suffered from palate fatigue and had to stop eating after the first half. I wished I could have traded the other half for a green salad, or anything else fresh-tasting and acidic.

A week later, though, I decided to give it another shot, choosing my pairings more wisely this time. I avoided all the oily spreads and asked for taleggio on whole-grain with Branston Pickle, which I figured would cut the richness of the melted cheese. Unfortunately, after I placed and paid for my order, I was called back up to the counter and told that they were out of pickle. As I debated what else to add in replacement, the guy mentioned that they also had truffle cream, "which we don't usually offer, but which I'd be happy to add to your sandwich." Truffle? Cream? Yes, please.

So it was yet another rich, heavy sandwich. But I found this one easier to handle than the other, and I was happy about the truffle cream addition, which infused each bite with its earthy perfume. It's not every day a girl gets to eat something truffle-y, you know.

After finishing my sandwich and about to crumple up the waxed paper it had rested on, I found a surprise nestled in more wax paper beneath: a homely chocolate chip brownie, too ugly to sell but in good enough shape to secretly tuck into a customer's sandwich order as a gift. As I resumed proofreading with a mug of green tea to accompany me through the afternoon, I broke off occasional chunks to pop into my mouth, knowing the sweetness I tasted was in more than just the brownie.

Baked brunch at Balthazar

This is how you start the day off right: with a ramekin of eggs baked in thyme and cream, accompanied by toast soldiers for dipping. Where I had it, though—at Balthazar with DL—was significantly less relaxed than this post would lead you to believe. Blame it on the holiday season; even with a frigid wind sweeping the streets the place was packed with gleeful tourists, and the din was impressive. The prices ain't cheap, either. Still, at our little table where a single movement meant a good elbow rub with our neighbors, the food was good and the conversation even better. Brunch and a long-unseen friend on a cold, cold morning: the company warms your heart, methinks, better than hot coffee.