Stephen’s Raspberry Brownies

Here’s a guest entry, written by Stephen, my husband—yes, the famous “S” has asked to be de-anonymized. We had a dinner party last weekend (which I’m planning to write about, I promise), at which we served warm, cozy, comfort foods: butternut squash & apple soup, macaroni & cheese, salad, and for dessert, Stephen’s raspberry brownies. We forgot to take pictures of the finished product—they got gobbled up pretty quickly—so you’ll just have to use your imagination. Honestly, they looked exactly like regular brownies, of the fudgy/chewy variety.

Hi again. I cooked up this hare-brained variation back when I was single. I was always looking for the easiest way to make something unique. In this instance, I started with something surefire: brownies-from-a-box. I’ve had so few real-deal brownies in my life, it’s difficult for me to compare, therefore brownies-from-a-box are perfectly fine (as opposed to, say, sauce-in-a-jar).

As far as brands go, I’m not a loyalist. I can’t tell much of a difference between Betty or Duncan, especially since their instructions/directions are identical. I also buy a 12 oz. bag of frozen raspberries.

Defrost half of the raspberries. Next, strain them through a small strainer. (I thought this must be the silly, man-in-a-kitchen method, but Debbie says it’s exactly the way she’d do it. If you know a better way to get the juice separated from the seeds, let us know!)



I pour the raspberries into the strainer, put the strainer over a larger bowl, and press a small glass bowl onto the raspberries, forcing the juice through.



I find it helps to use a spatula to scrape the excess off the bottom of the strainer, especially if the raspberries aren’t completely thawed.



I do this mashing until I have a little more than 1/3 cup of raspberry juice.



Make the brownies, following the recipe on the box except for one detail: swap the 1/4 cup of water with the 1/3 cup of raspberry juice. That’s it. The end result is moist raspberry brownies, but without resorting to the usual tricks (i.e. the brownies-in-a-box actually had a recipe for raspberry brownies on the back, which called for some kind of reddish demon frosting. Yuck.)

This is exactly how I made it the first time out about seven years ago, and I haven’t altered the recipe since. (Other experiments included morphing brownies-in-a-box with bananas and hazelnuts. Failures, both.) The next time I try it, though, Debbie and I will go out on the limb further, probably substituting some of the oil with more raspberry juice, as well as using more egg whites than eggs.

In all honesty, the raspberry taste is mild. So, as for a serving suggestion, you might want to defrost more of the raspberries and add them to the top or make more raspberry juice and decorate the plate the way they do in restaurants nowadays. Y’know, the way it looks like someone drew on your plate.

Debbie's note: If you want to get REALLY fancy, you could also try swirling some seedless raspberry jam into the batter, after it's already in the pan.

Continue reading

Birth of a Restaurant: El Bocadito

Take an informal poll about fantasies at the Greenmarket, Fairway, or Whole Foods, and one will pop up with impressive frequency (after winning the lottery, of course): The desire to open a restaurant. What food-obsessed New Yorker hasn’t dreamt about owning her own place, imagined throwing open the doors and watching the hungry (and attractive, and moneyed) hordes stream in? The glamour, the excitement, the food… The reality of following that dream, though, is not quite so glittering.

This is the story of Holly Grabelle’s tiny Lower East Side space, El Bocadito. It’s about food, money, and real estate, a combination that's as New York as the egg cream.

Holly and I met four years ago, when she was the manager of the takeout location of Sage American Kitchen and I was the director of sales and marketing for the parent company. Neither of us lasted there very long, and we didn’t exactly stay in touch afterwards, but back in April I got an email from her with the exciting news that she’d just signed a lease on a tiny space on the Lower East Side. Her plan was to open an eatery inspired by the street foods of Mexico, a place with authentic nibbles and a funky urban-latino vibe. On the tail end of a sunny spring afternoon, I trekked over to check it out.

The block, south of Delancey between Broome and Grand, was still grungy, although Little Giant had established a beachhead a few doors north. There was no electricity inside the space, so we propped the door open and huddled in a pool of diminishing sunlight. Holly had warned me that it was in rough shape and she was right: electric-blue walls and a dropped acoustical tile ceiling, remnants of the cell phone store that had recently vacated, made the 400 square feet seem even tinier; the worn checkered floor was ugly and poorly maintained; the basement was dank and filthy. The lack of a gas line meant all the cooking would have to be done with electrical equipment, which would limit the menu (you can’t get a proper char on a taco al pastor without open flames, after all). But when viewed through Holly’s eyes, the place had nothing but potential—she’d checked out 18 other spaces, and this was by far the best, for the best price. She was giddy with anticipation. The plan was to open in late summer, to work out the kinks before the crowds returned to the city.

Holly quit her job managing someone else’s restaurant (saying “I didn’t want to be the assistant to an entrepreneur”), secured an SBA loan to supplement her life savings, hired an architect to maximize the space, and began working with her Mexican busboy-turned-cook on a simple menu of bocaditos—little tastes. All she wanted was to open a welcoming neighborhood spot, to let some of the Mexican cooks who toil in this town’s upscale French, Italian, and American restaurants make the humble, flavorful food they eat at home. In the blink of an eye, she’d committed to spending more than $50,000.

But less than three weeks later Holly hit her first snag, and it was a doozy: Her landlord called her in for a meeting. Major construction was planned for the building, something about structural problems. He wanted her out. She wasn’t even in yet, but he wanted her out. Veiled threats were made, and Holly believed them—after all, the company manages $500 million in assets, more than 5,000 multifamily units. They were huge, and she was just one woman. Holly’s restaurant—and her life—screeched to a halt. As Holly put it, “It’s not like I’m opening a Subway, where you say, ‘Oh, OK, we’ll just go somewhere else.’”

For the next four months Holly’s existence was focused on lawyers and negotiations. She wasn’t ready to give up the space, not without a fight—and the landlord’s refusal to show proof of the “structural problems” made her doubt there was really anything wrong (other than, perhaps, her bargain-priced lease). By August, when Holly had originally planned to have her soft opening, no progress had been made. Her free rent, typically given to cover a few months of build-out, had expired, and she was still waiting to hear back from the landlord on her lawyer’s breach-of-contract letter. “It’s been three-and-a-half months of meeting with lawyers, pulling my hair out, and escaping to friends’ houses on weekends,” she told me at the time. “It’s like being unemployed and having the day off”—the boredom, the anxiety, the waiting for something to happen. It had taken a toll on her physically, too—a stomach ailment led to a 15-pound weight loss, which on Holly’s small frame made her look frail and gaunt (although I must admit, the effect was gorgeous, like an LES rocker chick—very Heroin Chic). Holly fired her lawyer, and found a new one. His advice: “You know this is all testosterone.” Pay the rent and start working. When I next saw the space, in mid-September, the transformation was already tremendous: Primer on the walls opened up the space considerably. Most of the drop ceiling was gone, exposing a lovely pressed tin several feet higher up. The smell of freshly-cut wood was invigorating. And Holly, too, was looking better—she’d regained a few pounds and was feeling fine. She now hoped to open El Bocadito before the holidays.

By early December, work was almost complete. A curved, blackened steel bar had been installed towards the back of the space, which would delineate the main cooking area. Drop-dead gorgeous light fixtures, smoky olive green glass pendants with long, elegant bulbs, hung over it. In the front part of the room, built-in tables had been installed, hinged to fold flat against the walls, creating more floor space as needed. A pair of large antique mirrors reflected light and provided a feeling of openness. Final graphics for the logo and menu, inspired by Mexican advertising, were on the way. In the basement, a small miracle had transpired: The space was clean and bright, with a walk-in refrigerator and prep station in place and a cozy bathroom nearly finished. Holly’s cell phone rang constantly while I was there and a parade of workers traipsed in and out: Two guys worked on electrical stuff, another tweaked the custom steel, a fourth examined a bit of flooring that needed replacement, a handyman hung metal brackets for the glass shelves that would become the bar, and so on. And through all the hubbub, Holly was a calm, centered force, dealing with each mini-emergency as it arose, never freaking out (as I’m sure I would have). There were still several pieces of equipment to be installed, kinks to be worked out, inspections to be held, so she was now aiming for a friends-and-family opening early in the New Year, with an official opening soon after.

Oh, and the landlord? Nothing but nice, now. Holly had no idea why there was such tsuris in the beginning, and she probably never will.

The weekend of January 7, El Bocadito held a soft opening. S and I stopped by on Sunday night and sampled several dishes from a limited menu: super-fresh guacamole (S particularly loved this) and mellow refried beans with homemade tortilla chips, fried whole and extra-crackly; a chicken taco in a soft flour tortilla, accompanied by three glorious salsas of varying intensity; and a fabulous taquito dorado (deep fried taco) filled with spicy chorizo. Everything wasn’t perfect—heck, it was only their second night—but it showed great promise, and every one of the 23 seats was filled when we left. And best of all: Not a single item on the menu costs more than $10.

The following week, El Bocadito hit a trifecta of sorts in the publicity game: Daily Candy ran a notice, as did Florence Fabricant in the Times, and a short piece I wrote appeared in Time Out. (Their infuriating, “new and improved” site doesn’t let me login to get the link. Anyway, an announcement ran there, too.) Business was booming from Day One, January 13—so much so that Holly and her crew haven’t quite had time to work out the kinks yet. They’re still adjusting daily, making sure the spice level is right, the portions are a good value, the service is consistent and friendly, and the overall experience makes customers want to return. Once the liquor license comes through, the drinks menu, created by mixologist Christopher Baljag (a Mexico City native), will be zesty and tequila-based: muddled banana or fresh ginger margaritas and tangy tomato-orange sangrita, plus Mexican wines and beers. Plans are in the works for breakfast and lunch—Holly’s goal is to make it a cozy neighborhood hangout for any time of day. If you’re curious, by all means check it out this weekend! And do report back here—I’d love to know what you think.

El Bocadito is at 79 Orchard Street, between Broome and Grand. 212.343.3331. Closed Mondays.

Continue reading

Well THAT Was Disappointing

It didn’t take long: New York magazine has solved the great City Fakery mystery: It’s an offshoot of CB. Apparently owner Maury Rubin felt we weren’t giving enough props to his all-organic ingredients, so he built a bakery where even the walls are made from organic materials. Yes, it’s a giant, smug, greener-than-thou lecture wrapped in a sinfully delicious layer of cookie dough.

I’m not sure why Maury thought New York City needed such an obnoxious stunt. The cookies were obviously CB’s. Why insist that your staff lie to the public? All we wanted was a cookie, and some of us wanted to know its provenance. We didn’t need a big whoop-de-do that led to…walls made from sunflower seed husks (hence the bakery’s code name: Birdbath). What was the point of all this? A CODE NAME for a bakery? Come on. That’s just so over-the-top, it’s inane. Sure, some of us might appreciate the facts around the construction of the place. But are we going to suddenly become eco-activists? Are we going to reconfigure our own homes with tables made of recycled blue jeans? Most importantly (for Maury’s business plan, at least), are we going to buy more baked goods? I don’t think so. We’re going to buy our cookie(s), and if we have a modicum of willpower, we’ll wait until we’re out of the store to start eating them.

Continue reading

Braised Escarole and White Beans, from My New Favorite Cookbook

I’ve been unfaithful. Three times, just in the last two weeks. And I don't feel a bit guilty.

For years, my list of favorite cookbooks has remained unchanged: The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook by Ina Garten, How to Cook Everything by Mark Bittman, and The New Doubleday Cookbook by Jean Anderson. When I needed information, instruction, or inspiration, they were my never-fail companions, my comfort, my pleasure. Their tattered and spattered pages were testament to my devotion.

And then my birthday rolled around, and I received a gift. A very seductive, very beautiful gift: All About Braising: The Art of Uncomplicated Cooking by Molly Stevens. Now, braising is hardly a sexy subject, but it’s just about the best way to cook at this time of year. As Stevens says in her introduction, “The Principles of Braising”:

“At its most basic, braising refers to tucking a few ingredients into a heavy pot with a bit of liquid, covering the pot tightly, and letting everything simmer peacefully until tender and intensely flavored….The miracle of braising lies in the fact that the process demands so little from the cook yet what actually occurs is quite complex and wonderful.”

That introductory chapter is, in my opinion, worth the price of admission all by itself. Covering such topics as “What really happens under the lid of a braising pot,” “Understanding why a certain cut of meat is tough or tender,” “Choosing the right braising pot,” “Alternative methods for browning,” and “Individualizing a braise,” it’s been like a mini-cooking course for me. I’ve made lots of braises in my time, but never with any particular thought or understanding of what I’m doing. That’s all different now. I’m openly, brazenly, deeply in love with braising, and with this fabulous cookbook.

My first date with my new paramour was Braised Celery with Crunchy Bread Crumb Topping:



Simple, elegant, subtle, it made me swoon. Convinced that this new relationship might have promise, I tried Braised Potatoes with Garlic & Bay Leaves (sorry, no pic). It, too, delivered pure, smooth, satisfying flavor with a wonderfully easy preparation. Could it be I was falling in love? One more tryst was all it took to convince me I’d found a new heartthrob: Escarole Braised with Cannellini Beans.

I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but until I met All About Braising, I’d never made beans from scratch before—I’d always considered it too time-consuming, requiring too much advance planning. But something about Stevens’ encouraging, warm voice made me think that this time it might be worth it. I didn’t follow her bean-making instructions exactly—instead of soaking the beans for 8 to 12 hours, I boiled them for 2 minutes and let them soak for an hour or two—but I’m pretty sure the end result was just as lovely as it would’ve been done her way. The beans were creamy and tender, the escarole sweet and bitter at the same time, a sprinkle of red pepper flakes added spice, and a last-minute drizzle of fresh lemon juice and olive oil brought a level of bright, luscious flavor.

I haven’t even made it past the vegetable chapter yet. There’s still Chicken Breasts Braised with Hard Cider & Parsnips, Whole Chicken Braised with Pears & Rosemary, Pot-Roasted Brisket with Apples, and Red Wine-Braised Short Ribs with Rosemary & Porcini. These are the kinds of foods that make my heart race in the depths of winter—soothing, powerfully flavored, hearty yet not fat-drenched… I’m a goner, folks. Deeply in love with a cookbook. And I’m not ashamed to say it.

Escarole Braised with Cannellini Beans
Adapted from All About Braising: The Art of Uncomplicated Cooking
Serves 6, according to the book, but that’s as an appetizer or side. S and I ate the whole recipe for dinner, along with a salad and some toasted bread rubbed with garlic.

The Beans
1 cup (8 ounces) dried cannellini beans, picked over and rinsed [I couldn’t find cannellini, so I used Great Northern]
1 cup chicken stock
Water as needed
1 small onion (about 4 ounces), peeled and quartered
1 small carrot, peeled and quartered
2 garlic cloves, peeled and bruised
1 bay leaf
1 T. extra-virgin olive oil [optional]
Coarse salt

The Braise
1 medium head escarole (about 1 pound) [I used 2 small heads, about a pound and a half]
2 T. extra-virgin olive oil
3 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
Pinch of crushed red pepper flakes
Coarse salt & freshly ground black pepper
½ lemon
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil for drizzling

Soaking the beans, according to the cookbook: Place the beans in a medium bowl, cover with water, and let soak for 8 to 12 hours at room temperature. Drain and rinse.

Soaking the beans, the quick way: Place the beans in a medium saucepan, cover with water, and bring to a boil over high heat. Let it boil for 2 minutes, then remove from heat and let soak for 1-2 hours. Drain and rinse.

Cooking the beans: Place the soaked beans in a medium heavy-based saucepan (2 ½- to 3-quart). Add the stock and enough water to cover by 1 ½ inches, then add the onion, carrot, garlic, bay leaf, and oil [I skipped the oil]. Bring to a simmer over medium heat. Once the liquid simmers, partially cover the pot, lower the heat to a gentle simmer, and cook until the beans are tender, 1 to 1 ½ hours. (The cooking time will vary according to the dryness of the beans.) If at any time the level of the liquid threatens to drop below the level of the beans, add just enough water to cover. Ideally, when the beans are tender, they should have absorbed enough of the cooking liquid so that the pot is moist but not soupy. [That didn’t exactly happen with mine—I may have put too much water in initially, but when the beans were tender it was still quite soupy. I just didn’t use all the liquid in the later step.] Season with salt to taste, and set aside to cool in the cooking liquid. (The beans may be made 1 to 2 days ahead. If they will be sitting for more than 2 hours, transfer the beans and the cooking liquid to a bowl and keep them covered and refrigerated.)

Washing and trimming the escarole: [Stevens’ method is fairly time-consuming and complicated. I didn’t follow it—I just cut my escarole into 1 ½-inch strips and dunked it in two changes of cold water, then pulled the floating leaves from the water and transferred to a colander.]

The aromatics: Combine the oil, garlic, and crushed red pepper in a large lidded skillet (12- to 13-inch) over medium heat. Warm just until the garlic becomes fragrant and golden around the edges, about 2 minutes. Don’t allow the garlic to become dark brown or you’ll have to start over.

Wilting the escarole: Add the escarole a handful at a time, stirring and allowing it to wilt some before adding the next handful. (It’s fine if the escarole still has water clinging to it, this will help it begin to braise.) Season with salt & pepper.

The braise: Pull the carrot and onion pieces and the bay leaf from the pot of beans and discard. But don’t be too fussy and try to get every last piece of onion, as some may have disintegrated right into the beans along with the garlic. When all the escarole has wilted, spoon the beans and cooking liquid into the skillet [remember, I had too much liquid so I didn’t use more than about ½ cup here], season with salt & pepper, gently stir to incorporate the beans. Bring to a gentle simmer. Cover, adjust the heat to maintain a low simmer, and braise until the greens are very tender and the cooking liquid has thickened some from the starch released by the beans, about 20 minutes.

The finish: Stevens prefers this dish soupy, so she serves it as is. If, like me, you’d like it less soupy, she says to remove the lid and boil to reduce the liquid for about five minutes. Season with a generous squeeze of lemon juice and salt & pepper. Serve warm or at room temperature, with a thread of best-quality olive oil drizzled over the top.

Continue reading

In Which a Trip to Trader Joe’s Leads to Black Lentil Stew

Trader Joe’s rocks my world. Now, maybe if I lived near one it wouldn’t be as thrilling to walk through those automatic doors (and heck, it looks like someday soon we’ll have one on 14th Street, right on the L line) but for now, every time we hit one my shopping cart becomes a mini Death Star, with a magnetic pull so great no simmer sauce, condiment, or (reasonably low-fat) sweet can resist it. Our friend Tim over at Totally Joyous Recipes/Food Talk actually works for TJ’s (Get it: Totally Joyous=Trader Joe’s), creating recipes using their products—talk about a dream job!

This weekend S and I visited the one in Marlton, New Jersey, walking out $92 poorer but so much richer in the interesting-pantry-items department. Along with the Habanero-Lime salsa, Korean Bulgogi sauce, and peanut butter-filled pretzels, our treasure trove contained a package of black lentils. Smaller and rounder than their brown cousins, they winked at me from their plastic baggie, promising exotic, earthy flavors and, let’s admit it, tons of fiber.



Course, once I got home I realized I didn’t exactly know what to do with them. The recipe inside the package was for black lentils and sausage, and we’re not too big on the links, so I hit the Internets and started looking for ideas. I didn’t find much, to be honest, and was thinking I’d have to completely wing it—and then I hit on this recipe from Cooking with Amy. The perfect jumping-off point! As I’m wont to do, I toyed, I changed, I tweaked the lentils’ beady black noses, and came up with a fabulously rich (though shockingly healthy), seductively creamy, and deeply flavorful stew. It’s two days later and we’re still loving the leftovers, astonished that something so humble could yield something so sexy—and in under an hour!



Black Lentil Stew
Adapted from Cooking with Amy
Serves 6

1 ½ cups black lentils
½ T. oil
1 small onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 small sweet potato, peeled and diced small
2 small or 1 large carrot, peeled and diced small
2 ribs celery, diced small
1 T. garam masala
1 T. cumin
½ T. ground ginger
¼ t. cayenne
1 can chicken broth (optional)
4 ½ cups water (if not using broth, increase to 6 cups)
salt to taste

Sort and rinse lentils and set aside.

Heat the oil over low-medium heat in a large pot or dutch oven (I used Medium Blue). Add the onion and garlic and sauté until nearly translucent, about five minutes. Add the sweet potato, carrot, and celery, and sprinkle spices over all. Cook a few moments, until the kitchen fills with an intoxicating scent of curry and the vegetables begin to soften, four or five more minutes Add the lentils.



Pour in the broth (if using) and the water and bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer, covered, for 20-30 minutes, until lentils are cooked through but still have a hint of bite—add salt about five minutes before the end. Serve over couscous or brown rice.

NOTE: This will thicken as it sits, so you may need to add a little more water or broth when reheating.

Continue reading

So I'm Not the Only One...

Today Kelli over at Lovescool wrote about the suspiciously City Bakery-like cookies at the unmarked storefront on First Avenue--the same guys I blogged about last year. A comment posted on her entry sent me to a recent discussion at Chowhound, where the bizarre denial of any CB connection is being debated as we speak... Apparently CB owner Maury Rubin has been spotted in the vicinity, which only makes me wonder--is this some extremely unusual soft opening of an offshoot? Hardly seems likely, since the CB guys seem to know what they're doing well enough to skip over an opening THIS soft. So what's the explanation? Again, conspiracy theories are welcome in the comments section.

Update 1/16 here.

Continue reading

Did Somebody Say “Chicken Chili”?

Here’s a recipe I’ve been toying with lately. I’m pretty satisfied with the results—more than satisfied, actually. I’m in love with the results! If I do say so myself, this chicken chili kicks some serious ass. The original inspiration was the Turkey Chipotle Chili in The Gourmet Cookbook, but after all my toying with it the only remainder is the technique, really—instead of tomatillos I’ve used canned tomatoes, celery takes the place of green peppers, I’ve added chili powder and cut the canned green chilies completely, I’ve banished the evil herb, cilantro, from my pot, and of course chopped chicken breast replaces ground turkey. It’s filling, it’s got a nice kick to it, and even though it’s high in flavor, it’s very low in fat. Served on top of brown rice, it’s one heck of a good meal.

Chicken Chili
Serves 4-6
Inspired by The Gourmet Cookbook

2 canned chipotles in adobo
1 cup water
1 T. vegetable oil
2 large onions, chopped
4 T. minced garlic, divided
4 ribs celery, chopped
2 T. ground cumin
2 T. chili powder
2 lbs boneless chicken breast, roughly chopped into ¼-inch pieces
1 container Pomi chopped tomatoes (or one large can of plum tomatoes, chopped)
1 ½-2 cups low-sodium chicken broth
2 bay leaves
1 ½ t. dried oregano, crumbled
2 t. salt, or to taste
1 T. cornmeal
1 19-oz can white beans, drained and rinsed

Puree chipotles with water in a blender and set aside.

Heat oil in a large pot or dutch oven over moderate heat. Add onions, 2 T. garlic, and celery and cook stirring, until onions are softened, about 10 minutes. Add cumin and chili powder and cook, stirring, for 30 seconds. Add chicken and cook, stirring, until no longer pink, about 8 minutes.

Add chipotle puree, chopped tomatoes, broth, bay leaves, oregano, and salt, and simmer, uncovered, adding more water if necessary to keep chicken barely covered, for 1 hour.

Add cornmeal and simmer, stirring occasionally, for 15 minutes. Stir in white beans and remaining 2 T. garlic and simmer until beans are heated through, 3 to 5 minutes. Adjust salt to taste. Discard bay leaves before serving.

Continue reading

In Which My Hairdresser's Broken Ankle Leads to a Fab New Korean Restaurant—in Williamsburg, No Less

A few weeks after my surgery, I realized that my hair was something of a disgrace. Not just because I’d become a housebound sloth with perpetual bedhead—no, it was shaggy and unruly and looking distinctly like an overgrown privet hedge. I called Victoria, my hairdresser of ten years; a few hours at her one-woman midtown salon would get me behaving like a real live human being again. The next day she returned my call from her home in the Poconos, with bad news: After an ice storm the weekend of my surgery, she’d slipped and broken her ankle in three places. Multiple surgeries and an erector set of metal pins later, she’s on bed rest for two to three months. I was distraught for her—having been on bed rest for three weeks before my miscarriage, I knew exactly how challenging the next few months would be for her. Not to mention the potential damage to her business, with all her clients forced to change hairdressers in the interim.

When we hung up I set about finding someone to handle my mane, preferably someone local. It didn’t take long to get a recommendation for Aki, the owner of Commune, a ten-minute walk from home. I made an appointment, and went over the very next day. Aki was very sweet, and treated me very gently—going to a new salon was a bit traumatic for me, after all those years with Victoria—and naturally we chatted about neighborhood restaurants. She’s Japanese, and mentioned that she’d been pleased with the new Korean-Japanese place down the street, which piqued my interest. I’m by no means an expert in either cuisine (and in fact I tend to wonder when places claim to offer more than one kind of Asian food), but I do happen to love Korean barbecue. And kim chee…mmmmm. Aki’s thumbs-up was enough to make me take note.

Last night S and I went over there for dinner, and I must say Aki’s endorsement was spot-on. This place rocks! The first thing you notice when you walk in is that it doesn’t smell—most of the Korean bbq places I’ve been to share one major drawback, and that’s the stench coming off all those tabletop grills. It’s as bad as cooking latkes, I tell ya. But although Dokebi has tabletop grills, there was a glorious lack of stink—I asked our waitress later, and she told me the owners had bought super-fancy tables with built-in exhaust systems, which cost something like $10,000 each. Could turn out to be a very smart investment—as long as the food stays as good as it was, they should earn that money back and then some. This place has the makings of a neighborhood classic. The space itself has the funky Williamsburg vibe, with exposed brick walls and unexpectedly comfy wooden benches surrounding those fancy tables, a modern rock soundtrack, and a staff that’s young and cute and hip-but-not-too-hip (read: friendly). The back room, down a long hallway, holds a full bar with smaller tables, and don’t tell anyone but I’d swear someone was smoking a cigarette back there (shocking!).

The only thing they don’t seem to have nailed yet is the flow of service. We ordered a jap chae appetizer—cellophane noodles w/vegetables, in a nod to the neighborhood available vegetarian or with the traditional beef—but before it arrived I’d already been served both the salad that came with my entrée (outrageously good ginger dressing) and the entrée itself, a plate of raw chicken breast in a spicy sauce, ready for grilling, along with rice and three small plates of spicy pickled vegetables. The jap chae finally appeared a few minutes later, and because my food was already happening S ate the lion’s share—though I did nab some, and it was wonderful, with thick, very chewy noodles, a beautiful mellow soy-sesame flavor, and very fresh, barely-cooked vegetables.

My chicken was fully cooked and I was eating it out of my rice bowl (and enjoying it very much), when the waitress came rushing over to tell me that it was traditional to eat it wrapped in lettuce leaves, if I wouldn’t mind waiting a minute while she fetched some. I nibbled on kim chee in the meantime—kirby cucumbers, cabbage, and what tasted an awful lot like pineapple, pickled in a fiery marinade. Yowza. She returned with a small basket of very fresh greens, with spears of kirbys and carrots and a small dish of thick tawny-brown sauce alongside. Her instructions: Take a leaf, put a little rice in the center, add some chicken and some sauce, and wrap the whole thing up like a burrito. I did as I was told and savored the results. It was wonderful, crispy and spicy and smoky and messy.

I had pretty much demolished my chicken by the time S’s bibimbop finally arrived—again with the less-than-perfect service—but it was worth it. He’d opted to pay $2 extra to have it served in a hot stone pot, which creates an intoxicating crust of rice on its surface. Topped with shredded vegetables and marinated beef, with a bowl of deep red chili sauce for extra flavor, it was the ideal comfort food for a cold night. S had requested an egg on top, and when the bowl arrived we realized the egg was fried—we both understood a raw egg was traditional (though it’s not mentioned on the menu at all), so that was a surprise. Didn’t stop S from plowing through that bowl until it was done, though. And oh, that crusty rice—I was so stuffed from my meal I barely tasted his, but I had to have a little of the golden brown crunch.

Yeah, the service isn’t perfect. But that’s a tiny complaint in a vast sea of enthusiasm. If you live in the neighborhood (and even if you don’t), get yourself over to Dokebi. You’ll be glad you did.

Oh, and as for my hair: It looks amazing. And it costs $60 less than Victoria. I’ve got a real quandary on my hands now…

Dokebi Bar & Grill is at 199 Grand Street, Williamsburg. 718.782.1424.

Continue reading

Must Be a Lot of New Year's Resolutions at Play...

A curious thing happened here at Words to Eat By today: Several hundred people stopped by the site. Now, that in itself isn't unusual at all. But what is unusual is what drove them here--a google search on "The Biggest Loser." Who would've guessed that of all 3,190,000 sites that mention it, this little ol' blog is #10. Yowza.

If you're curious, I first blasted the reality show here. Later on, I confessed that I'd been won over here. I watched the second round just as avidly as the first and thought about blogging on it, but somehow never got around to it.

And I do think it's adorable--and gratifying--that Matt and Suzy from round two are dating. I just wish Matt hadn't cried quite so much on every single episode...

Continue reading