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June 6, 2007, Wednesday By MATT LEE and TED LEE Published: June 6, 2007 IF you’ve ever
suspected that meatballs were a dead end for a restaurant’s leftovers, you no longer have reason to fear. These days,
chefs are free associating with well-sourced ingredients, clever substitutions and dazzling techniques. Others are refining
more authentic variations that highlight the meatball’s global appeal (see also: kofte, nem nuong, frikadell, kottbuller,
albóndigas, keftedes, tsukune). Skip to next paragraph In New York, at the seafood
restaurant Esca, the fish specialist David Pasternack brings a classic Italian veal and pancetta meatball into his comfort
zone, substituting tuna for the veal. Joey Campanaro uses his grandmother’s recipe for meatballs in the sliders he serves
at the Little Owl, in Greenwich Village, but the crispy, yeasty-sweet garlic-and-pecorino buns are an innovation he spent
months perfecting. Certain chefs lavish as much
care and attention on meatballs as they do on foie gras. Some even combine the two. At 112 Eatery in Minneapolis, Isaac Becker
grinds top-quality chicken with foie gras, rolling the blend into little spheres that are poached and served by the dozen
over fresh tagliatelle. And at A Voce, Andrew Carmellini brushes duck and foie gras meatballs with a dried cherry mostarda,
rooting them to the plate with a slick of celery-root purée. Whether the interpretations
are classical or modernist, one thing is certain: there’s never been a better time to order meatballs in America. Perhaps
a meatball renaissance was inevitable, the natural next target in the procession of comfort foods (Exhibit A: pizza; Exhibit
B: hamburgers; Exhibit C: mac ’n’ cheese) that chefs have updated in recent years. The dawn of the meatball enlightenment
may have occurred five years ago, in 2002, when the diamond-merchant-turned-restaurateur John LaFemina, who was born in Canarsie,
Brooklyn, opened Ápizz on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. He took his mother’s recipe for veal, beef and pork meatballs,
and tweaked it heavily, tripling the meatball’s size to that of a softball, coring it like an apple and stuffing the
cavity with whipped ricotta and Parmigiano-Reggiano (leaving a beret of the mixture on top), and giving it a smoky finish
in a wood-fired oven. An immediate signature dish, it spawned a memoir, “A Man and His Meatballs” (Regan Books,
2006), but more important, Mr. LaFemina showed that simple, rustic food could be over-the-top decadent. And remember Mama? Rocco DiSpirito’s
mother, Nicolina DiSpirito, proved her tender, salty meatballs to be the only appealing player in the 2003 reality television
drama “The Restaurant” (and with a future on QVC no less). By about 2004, the dining public
was primed to gobble meatballs up, a fact that Nate Appleman, executive chef at the San Francisco restaurant A16, discovered
almost by accident. On a Monday shortly after opening his restaurant, which serves food inspired by the cuisine of Campania,
he had a bunch of scraps lying around and decided to make meatballs. “I thought, no one’s
going to buy these, they don’t even come with a pasta,” Mr. Appleman said. In fact, they sold out by 8 o’clock,
ushering in the tradition of Meatball Mondays. And though he has cycled through about 30 different meatball recipes at the
restaurant, Mr. Appleman has settled on a Monday night recipe: pork, ricotta and pancetta meatballs braised in San Marzano
tomatoes. But the name that trips off
the tongue in any meatball discussion among New York chefs is Marco Canora, who put on the bar menu at Craftbar a recipe inspired
by the chicken meatballs he learned to make while working in Florence for Fabio Picchi at the restaurant Cibrèo. “I changed my recipe
to veal and ricotta, and added a ton of grated Parmesan,” Mr. Canora said. “They’re delicate and super-light
with a subtle cheesiness.” He brought the recipe with
him when he opened his own place, Hearth, but he serves the dish only on Sundays because, he said: “Meatballs are too
trattoria. They don’t really fit in with the food at Hearth, which is more elevated. But Sunday’s a family night,
and if there was any night we could get away with it, it would be Sunday.” And although Mr. Canora adapted
Mr. Picchi’s recipe, he maintains that his own is deeply rooted in Italian tradition. “I don’t need to take
meatballs and turn them into some fancy-pants New York 2007 restaurant dish,” he said. Skip to next paragraph While no smart chef these days
would admit to fancy-pants aspirations, some do appear eager to indulge the kid-with-a-chemistry-set impulse that itself seems
part of the appeal of making meatballs. “Before we opened, we
decided we wanted to go beyond spaghetti and meatballs,” Mr. Carmellini of A Voce said. “And we started to have
some fun with it. We came up with a list — lobster, shrimp, tuna. Duck and cherry seemed like a natural combination.” But the duck and cherry pairing
was just the beginning. Through multiple tests, Mr. Carmellini found his formula: duck-leg meat, pork shoulder and fatback,
ground together and enriched with fresh foie gras that has been strained to a pasty consistency. Eggs and breadcrumbs —
both dry and fresh — provide the binding for the meatballs, which are baked, then brushed with a mostarda. Mr. Carmellini
makes this classic Italian condiment of fruit and mustard extract from dried cherries, grappa, red wine vinegar and Japanese
mustard paste. A creamy, aromatic purée of celery root fixes the meatballs in place on the plate and offers an herbal note,
a tonic respite from all that meaty matter. At 112 Eatery, Mr. Becker’s
foie gras meatball, slightly simpler than Mr. Carmellini’s, came about from a similar experiment. But at the testing
stage, he was somewhat apprehensive. “I had no idea whether the foie gras would melt into the poaching broth and become
mush or what,” he said. Not only did the meatballs
hold together, but the fat that liquefied into the poaching stock helped form an intense consommé that became the foundation
for the dish. “I just heat the meatballs up in that stock, add a little parsley and butter, and that’s it,”
he said. For some chefs, like Akhtar
Nawab at the E.U. in the East Village, developing a recipe was about finding an angle in a crowded market. “We wanted to make sure
that if we were going to do meatballs, we were going to do them differently,” Mr. Nawab said. Prior to assuming the
kitchen at the E.U. he had been Mr. Canora’s successor at Craftbar, serving Mr. Canora’s meatballs. At Mr. Nawab’s
new restaurant, short for European Union, he had the flexibility to draw from more than just Italian influences. “I did some research
into an Eastern European recipe, but it evolved into a more Greek recipe, with Moorish and North African influences,”
he said. The cumin-, fennel- and coriander-spiced
pork meatballs Mr. Nawab serves are roasted in butter and oil, and served on a skewer, drizzled with two sauces: a sweet-tart
slurry of shallot, mint and sherry vinegar, and a yogurt sauce made of thick Greek yogurt emulsified with olive oil and fired
up with toasted ground cumin. Mr. Nawab credits their tenderness mostly to his treatment of the protein and the fat. “I do a really fine grind
on the meat, and I use richer pork — 35 percent fat to 65 percent meat. That makes the meatballs a little more succulent,
and helps to caramelize them when they go into the fryer.” On the vital issue of meatball
texture, all the chefs we interviewed had good tips and pointers, most of which spoke to the same issue: water. For Mr. Campanaro,
the key is simple. “Just like in Italian sausage, the filling is very wet when it goes into the casing,” he said.
“So when it cooks, it’s juicy. That liquid that comes out when you cut it? That’s pork stock!” Moisture is paramount for Michael
Psilakis, the chef of the Greek restaurants Anthos in Midtown and Kefi on the Upper West Side, where he serves tsoutsoukakia,
a modified version of the keftedes his grandmother made in Crete. (While she was content to fry them and squeeze lemon over
them, Mr. Psilakis fries them, then braises them in a rich sauce of tomato and onions that is spiked with garlic confit, olives,
fresh dill, mint, parsley and pecorino). But in his meatballs, the liquid in the mixture comes from store-bought bread that
is soaked in milk. Mr. Psilakis recommends refrigerating the meatball mixture to make rolling the balls easier. “Most people are afraid
when it’s sticky,” Mr. Psilakis said. “They shouldn’t be. The mixture that’s going to get you
that light, airy texture is going to be a wet, tacky substance that’s not so easy to roll.” He recommends a light
dusting of flour on your hands, and just a gentle once or twice around in your palms — no kneading — as well as
frequent washing of hands and redusting with flour. Naturally, there are some voices
of dissent about meatball mania. Some chefs have found them to be sticky in more than one sense: once they add meatballs to
the menu they can’t take them off. And some diners bristle at the more creative high jinks of the cherries-and-foie-gras
set. Mr. Carmellini’s duck meatballs reportedly inspired one diner to exclaim, “This is not Italian cooking!” “You’re absolutely
right, it’s not,” he said he replied. “But they taste so good.” Where meatballs are concerned, results are
more important than authenticity. Kenny Tufo, the chef at Bocca Lupo in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, and a third-generation Sicilian-American,
said he was deeply influenced by Maremma, the Manhattan restaurant where he cooked for two years (and where the executive
chef, Cesare Casella, offers at least two and sometimes three varieties of meatballs). “There’s only a couple chefs in
the U.S. as authentically Tuscan as Cesare,” he said, “and I learned a lot from him about how to build flavors
the Italian way.” 1. Maremma 228 W. 10th St., nr. Bleecker St.; 212-645-0200 Inexplicably delicate lamb meatballs served as antipasti. 2. Frankies Spuntino 17 Clinton 17
Clinton St., nr. Stanton St.; 212-253-2303 The two Franks serve them two ways: in
a righteous pool of red sauce or as a toothsome sandwich on Sullivan Street Bakery pizza bianca. 3. A Voce 41 Madison Ave., entrance on 26th St.;
212-545-8555 Some know Andrew Carmellini as a James
Beard–awarded best chef; others know him for his duck meatballs. 4. Bocca Lupo 391 Henry St., at Warren St., Cobble
Hill, Brooklyn; 718-243-2522 Veal-and-porcini meatballs in tomato sauce ladled over a soft slice
of bread, like a neo-Italian-American take on that diner classic the hot open-faced sandwich. 5. ápizz 217
Eldridge St., nr. Stanton St.; 212-253-9199 Chef-owner John LaFemina wrote the book
on the subject, literally—it’s titled A Man & His Meatballs. By Robin Raisfeld & Rob Patronite There was a time, not so long ago, however, when the idea of
opening a restaurant—specifically, a quaint and presumably easy-to-manage panini parlor modeled along the lines of ’ino or Bar Veloce—did not seem so absurd to us. But then the market for quaint, presumably easy-to-manage
panini parlors quickly became as oversaturated as the market for supercolossal Japanese megarestaurants. And, as we became
aware after sampling far too many clumsy versions, seemingly cooked by George Foreman himself, the business of balancing bread
and filling, conceiving harmonious combinations, and concocting zesty condiments turns out to be more an intricate art than
a fanciful diversion. Jeff Lederman did not let that stop him. The Cobble Hill entrepreneur
already owned Nectar, a neighborhood juice bar and café, but squooshing blackberries and pulverizing cucumbers didn’t
sate his appetite for Italian food and wine, or his ambition to open a place that paid respectful homage to ’ino, the archetypical south-Village wine-and-panini bar and a favorite pre-Brooklyn hangout for
Lederman and his wife. So he took a space on the mostly residential Not that everything about Bocca Lupo is reminiscent of ’ino.
The space, for one, with its plate-glass windows and long bar, is larger and more expansive—much more ’inoteca than ’ino. The menu, too. Lederman has retained the estimable services of At its heart, Bocca Lupo stays true to the Italian-sandwich
tradition, starting with sourcing top-notch ingredients and assembling them with care. The menu comprises the holy trinity
of this type of establishment: pressed panini (most of them cut into quarters for easy sharing), tramezzini (those delicate
Venetian tea sandwiches, served here on crustless Blue Ribbon Bakery Pullman bread), and small, hors d’oeuvre–ish
bruschetta. Tufo’s kitchen resists the gluttonous all-American impulse to overstuff, a particular menace to the minimalist
art of Italian sandwich making. His are perfect finger food, sparingly filled with sharp complementary flavors like mortadella,
pickled onion, and pecorino, or brunch’s truffled egg salad. For the panini, airy ciabatta is grilled to an almost crisp,
melding tasty roasted chicken, tomato, and Asiago, say, or the more pungent sweet sausage, broccoli rabe, and Taleggio. The
“P.L.T.” (pancetta, arugula, roasted tomato, lemon aïoli) is a panino tweak on ’ino’s brilliant tramezzino
version, and a good one. But the beauty of Bocca Lupo is that it supplements the bread-based
backbone of the menu with enough salads, antipasti, small plates, and daily specials to make it possible to snack one’s
way tapas style through an eclectic and satisfying meal. Sure, you could park at the bar for a quick bite and a glass of wine,
but it’s just as appealing to linger over a bottle, sampling and sharing a wide variety of dishes. Superb veal-and-porcini
meatballs are ladled over a nice thick slice of soft bread, like a clever neo-Italian-American take on that old diner classic,
the hot open-face sandwich. Thinly sliced roast pork is dabbed with creamy tuna sauce in a low-budget riff on vitello tonnato.
The imported, Italian-oil-packed tuna dispersed with meaty olives in a green salad is so good you want to ask the chef where
he got it. After that, the “Insalata Bocca,” with its artichoke
hearts and diced tomatoes, is just a bit of a letdown, as is the bland “Baked Maccherone and Cheese,” which tasted
like it came straight off the kids’ menu. One night’s butternut-squash risotto special was tasty enough, but could
have been creamier, and the house garnish—an herb-marinated plum tomato that accompanies every panino and tramezzino—gets
a little monotonous after a while, especially when juxtaposed with the panzanella’s excellent heirlooms. But really, those are tiny nits to pick. Bocca Lupo handily
delivers what it promises: well-done, Italian-style bar food, simply presented and thoughtfully executed. The room, populated
by gurgling babies and peripatetic tots during the day and grateful night owls till an astonishing-for-the-neighborhood October 16, 2002, Wednesday LET'S begin with the peculiar name, industry(food). Here is the official explanation,
put forth by Alex A. Freij, the executive chef and an owner: ''It began as an idea to have a chef's club, where people of
the culinary industry could dine. The idea then evolved to serve people of every industry industry-quality food, a place where
chefs would choose to dine.'' With that, let's consign the name to its appropriate resting place, the heap(slag).
Now let's consider the restaurant. Industrious is a far more accurate term
than industry; these people have been working hard to improve the place. When industry(food) opened last spring, it appeared
to have little going for it beyond its striking interior design, a cross between woodsy alpine lodge and greenhouse. Service
was befuddled, and the food -- homey bistro dishes warped by hyperactivity -- was conceptually muddled. For any visiting chefs,
it was a case study in how not to open a restaurant. Since then, though, the owners have whipped things into shape. Chris Eddy,
Mr. Freij's partner at industry(food), has taken control of the front of the house, which seems perennially packed. From the
cheery greeting at the hostess's podium to bartenders who efficiently and courteously manage the sardine-crowded bar to waiters
who are prompt, solicitous and helpful, industry(food) has evolved into a well-run machine. And Mr. Freij, with the help of
a new chef de cuisine, Kenneth Tufo, has calmed down the kitchen, largely restoring its bistro mission and draining it of
the overbearing need to sweeten dishes with raisins. These days, another chef could eat here without embarrassment. Chefs might even eat here with great enthusiasm if they were to begin with
the lobster bruschetta, a simple and delicious variation on the lobster club, made with sweet, buttery brioche toast layered
with crisp pancetta, lettuce, ripe tomato and tender swatches of lobster. I could happily make a meal of one or two of those.
I'd also be happy with a special of beautifully textured roasted baby octopus, served with chunks of potato and a mustard
dressing that gave it a pleasingly unusual ryelike flavor. Creamy roasted-zucchini soup, with a floating island of shrimp
in the middle, is an appealing solution to the problem of what to do with all those end-of-the-season zucchini. As far as I'm concerned, seared peppered tuna has turned into this year's
-- maybe this decade's -- molten chocolate cake, the kind of dish that was once pleasing and is inherently harmless but through
sheer repetition has turned into an irritant. Is every contemporary restaurant required to offer this preparation? Or only
those that subscribe to focus groups? In any case, industry(food)'s version is correct, supplemented by a nice, mildly sweet
hijiki salad. The oddly named salmon toro, on the other hand, is a dish guaranteed not to catch on. The thin slices of salmon
had little flavor, and they were served with a piece of bitter fishy salmon skin that had the texture of a coaster. At their best, Mr. Freij and Mr. Tufo have a fine eye for gutsy pairings.
Roast chicken with tasso ham and black-eyed peas seems like such a smart combination that I wonder why I've never had it before.
The smoky flavor of the peas echoes the ham, and both enhance the chicken. Braised veal cheeks were almost as soft as their
partner, creamy celery root purיe; together they made a lovely stew. Pan-seared scallops, available as appetizer or
main course, were unexpectedly enhanced by a purיe of roasted pumpkin. As engaging as the waiters are, they occasionally betray their East Village
milieu. ''The texture on that is just awesome,'' gushed one, selling the day's special of duck confit with cranberries. In
fact, its skin was crisp, the meat earthy and delicious. It is still possible to be surprised at industry(food). One night a portion
of skate wing looked more like an airplane wing, it was so big. It was crisp around the edges and flavorful, surrounded by
leeks, potatoes and fennel -- good bistro cooking, in fact -- but the portion was monstrous. A wedge of Chatham cod was also
dauntingly huge, though with pretty good flavor. But a more civilized serving of salmon was marred by a fava bean purיe
spiked with basil that seemed completely at odds with the salmon. Much attention has been paid to industry(food)'s stylized rusticity, but the
restaurant is surprisingly comfortable as well. Between the crowds at the bar in front and in the downstairs lounge, which
also has a D.J., you can bet that industry(food) throbs with the noisiness that passes these days for liveliness. Nonetheless,
the design allows for quiet conversation against this noisy backdrop, quite an achievement. If only the same attention to
detail had been paid to the inclined walkway from bar to dining room, which makes each step an adventure. Desserts also require you to tread carefully. For each success, like a rich,
dense chocolate hazelnut torte, or a plain-but-honest blueberry Bundt cake, you may have to dodge an espresso crטme
brlיe, with its painfully bizarre topping of banana slices, or a selection of sorbets studded with ice. Even so, I am inclined to give industry(food) the benefit of
the doubt. Despite the grave pretensions of its name, despite the lapses of discipline in the kitchen, it is at base an unpretentious
likable neighborhood restaurant. It just seems not to want anybody to know it. The new restaurant Maremma lends new meaning to the phrase spaghetti western.
It fuses cannellini beans and cactuses; bridges Tuscany and Texas; finds an unheralded link between the culinary traditions
of Italy and the comfort food of the American Southwest. It puts braised oxtail
over toasted bread and calls it a "sloppy Giuseppe." It couples beef cheeks with creamed corn: "rodeo." Sometimes the semantics
make sense, sometimes not. The same can be said of the food. What an odd experiment
Maremma is, but what a fitting indication it provides of just how creative an Italian restaurant in New York City needs to
be these days if it wants to stand out in an ever-growing crowd. Over recent months and years Italian restaurants have increasingly identified
with specific and unplumbed regions of Italy, like Apulia in the case of Ama, or the Alto Adige in the case of Alto. Maremma
refers to a southern stretch of the Tuscan coastline that few foreign tourists visit.
This area of Tuscany was apparently a haven for Italian cowboys, or so this restaurant's owner and executive chef,
Cesare Casella, readily tells diners who look at the long horns in the center of the dining room and express befuddlement. Mr. Casella also owns and supervises the kitchen at Beppe, and Maremma is like
a more casual, less expensive spinoff of that successful restaurant near the Flatiron Building. He tugs his newest creation
past its point of geographic reference and into a realm of pure inspiration, or at least invention. Trattoria meets dude ranch.
Polenta knocks at the door of the Ponderosa. This odd mix of motifs happens more frequently away from the plate, in the decorative
flourishes and general ambience, than on it. The "pony express," which pairs spaghetti with tomatoes, tuna, mushrooms and
pancetta, could find a home in many Italian restaurants, none of which would call it what Maremma does. Ditto for the "wild
Bill Cody," which pairs pappardelle with a sauce that includes chocolate and wild boar.
On the flip side, there's nothing intrinsically or even tangentially Tuscan about the "rustler," meatloaf seasoned
with chipotle and served with a corn, okra and tomato succotash. Wrest the cannellini beans from the side of trout rubbed
down with chili peppers, and you've erased Italy from the equation. The "mess
kit" appetizer is essentially a straightforward coupling of sausage and onions. But the sausages are identified on the menu
as Tuscan and the onions as Texan, and so a feat of fusion is born. Of course
there are steaks, which the countries and cuisines in question have in common. There's fried chicken, too, with an especially
light, interesting batter. The Tuscan fries were thin, crunchy and delightful.
The pounded and fried pork chop, covered in melted Grana Padano cheese and uncooked slices of mushroom, was thin, and crunchy. The wine list emphasizes Tuscany over Texas, Arizona, New Mexico or Nevada -
a prudent decision. But the chianti in front of you will not distract you from the cross-cultural experiment afoot, because
you will sip it to the rhythms of American country-western music. If Willie Nelson went on a pasta binge, Maremma would be
the restaurant for him. Maremma, 228 West 10th Street, West Village, (212) 645-0200. Appetizers, $8 to $12; entrees, $17 to $28.
CRAIN'S BREAKING NEWS |
THIS WEEK'S ISSUE Monday, January 19, 2004 Restaurant Review A
funky ski lodge in the East Village gives diners a lift Industry
(food) performance breaks a leg By Bob Lape Published
on January 19, 2004 It has a bizarre name and a parking-challenged location, but Industry
(food) is producing a hospitality package that has taken the East Village by storm. That may be why you can't find parking
in the neighborhood, but the neighborhood has found Industry (food), and jams its funky ski lodge setting every night. Young people cluster three-deep at the street-level bar festooned with
amber tiger's eye cut glass, or in the atrium, where three live white birch trees rise through the copper-topped pinewood
bar. Industry (food) has a number of settings orchestrated by designer Paul Carroll of NV and Ohm renown. The Leather Room,
done up in leather and suede upholstery, accommodates private parties of up to 20 people. A DJ entertains in the downstairs lounge, and the beat throbs through
the main dining room above, with its wide, light pine panels and exposed bricks. Banquette seating is comfortable, and lighting,
notably brighter than downstairs, is excellent. Guests can fully appreciate the thoughtfully composed dishes arriving on plates
whose color and shape change with each item. The character of the 21-month-old restaurant is collaboration. The main
Industry-alist, Alex Freij, is a Chicago native who graduated from the California Culinary Academy and worked with Alain Ducasse
in Monaco, Jean-Louis Palladin in Las Vegas and Jean-Georges Vongerichten at Mercer Kitchen. Owner Freij describes himself
as "a coach who plays and is surrounded by solid players." His best draft pick was executive chef Kenneth
Tufo, from Boston who has worked throughout New York in kitchens such as Veritas and Virot. He aims for fun as
well as flavor and hits the mark. Appetizers ($7 to $16) are paced by the signature lobster bruschetta,
with smoky pancetta, sliced tomato and lettuce perched on toasted brioche spread with mayo and resting on pesto. Moving fast
toward signature status are seared diver scallops nestled on a pumpkin and mushroom base amid a foamy spicy lobster nage.
Crayfish and a corn beignet pump up corn soup, and prosciutto and a Parmesan crisp enliven an asparagus and potato salad.
Another cold salad--smoked trout with beets, frisee and red onions--tastes
fine, but the slivers of trout are almost microscopic. Entrees on the one-page menu are nicely balanced between main food groups.
Scottish salmon, "preferred medium rare," emerges with a crisp edge, and virtually disintegrates (which is perfectly OK) over
smoked salmon hash, poised in turn over potatoes and zucchini. Béarnaise sauce is the dressing. Bacon and olives lend oomph to a plump cod steak, packaged with artichoke
hearts and napped in barigoule sauce. Blue nose sea bass, a special from Australian waters, is pan-seared and served with
crispy Nantucket Bay scallops, with haricots verts jutting out from under the fish. Pig-out specialists will enjoy two sizable slices of roast pork loin,
permeated with the aroma of the prosciutto that was wrapped around them. I also like the crackle and zest of the house-made
duck confit. Braised lamb shank is offered in a lasagna format here, with eggplant and baby arugula unified by warm curried
yogurt. Hanger steak and roasted chicken round out the mains. Among the sides ($6), pureed potatoes have a few lumps but plenty of
dairy richness, and small, delicate Brussels sprouts are dandy nibbles. I thought I would never utter those words. It's easy to say desserts ($6 to $8) are over-the-top delights to see
and consume. Warm peach and huckleberry crisp is an all-American taste exemplar, even without anise ice cream. Chocolate and
hazelnut are combined in a praline-studded pleasure mounted on a vast white plate decorated with chocolate dots of diminishing
size, and the inevitable molten chocolate cake comes to the party with its frequent companion, pistachio ice cream. The Industry (food) waitstaff operates with enthusiasm, know-how and
confidence. There's plenty to drink--a roster of creative cocktails and a well-made global wine list by wine director Benji
Kirschner. Prices are more than fair and the service of sommelier Shanna Reade is helpful and skillful. Mariani's Virtual Gourmet I haven't a clue why anyone would call a restaurant industry (food), located at 509 E. 6th Street
(212-777-5920) especially in the East Village where places have names like Drinkland, Elvie's Turo-Turo, and Stingy
Lulu's. by John
Mariani
Alex Friej, the owner of the Manhattan restaurants industry(food) and Diner 24, and industry
(food) Executive Chef Kenneth Tufo, helped me out by whipping up some hors d'oeuvres. Fish and citrus being natural allies,
the smoked salmon in his crêpe roll-ups got along very well with the drinks, as did the smoked trout on endive leaf scoops.
My favorite Tufo contribution were the Parmesan-dusted meatballs; tiny and toothpick-ready, they reminded me of the Swedish
meatballs passed around at grown-up cocktail parties when I was a kid. Come to think of it, being shooed away from those soirees
made me view them as all the more glamorous, which may explain why I started throwing cocktail parties with such a vengeance
as soon as I was old enough to walk into a liquor store on my own. The guests at my party seemed to have a good time. But it was the host who enjoyed himself the
most. I'd gone still-crazy after all these years. This article originally appeared in June 2004. NEW YORK PRESS Eats & Drinks Best East Village Scallops Ski lift out of order, but the chef is in. Yes, the place looks like a members-only
ski lodge and yes, we immediately considered any number of Ted Knight/Caddyshack jokes to ease our anxiety at being
in such a place. Once we got past our fears of being asked for proof of membership and then asked to leave, we realized how
warm and cozy a pinewood vibe can be—even without a fireplace. The five or six green apple martinis (recommended by
helpful Abdel behind the bar) didn’t hurt either, and we soon found ourselves staring down at the biggest, most buttery
plate of seared scallops we’d ever seen. The little baby fists of meat were served with English peas and lemon honey
nage, and they damn near made our propeller hats spin ’til they whistled. Tender, sweet and fat like golf balls, these
were fresh monster mollusks done to perfection. |
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