Posted by Anita on 11.06.06 6:03 PM
I hadn’t planned it this way, but we ended up eating at small-plates restaurants both Friday and Saturday nights of our L.A. trip. I’d made reservations at the wildly popular AOC a couple of months ago, and — without thinking — added Violet to the mix as I searched for a restaurant that would serve good food relatively late, and wouldn’t take us too far off the path between LAX and our Brentwood hotel.
When I realized what I’d done, we toyed with canceling our reservation, but we’d also pulled the ripcord on AOC on our last trip. So, we decided to stick with the plan, as it’s a relatively difficult place to get into on weekends and we didn’t know when we’d be back in El Lay.
We arrived in the neighborhood 20 minutes or so ahead of time, so we circled the area in search of street parking. Coming up empty, we turned our (very un-upscale) rental car over to the valet, and made our way inside. Or, at least as far inside as we could manage. At least three other couples were wedged into the foyer, and another pair perched on barstools around the corner. After a 10-minute wait for an audience with the hostess, we announced our name and reservation time. Searching, searching… no luck.
“When did you make the reservation?” she asked.
“Oh, probably five or six weeks ago,” I replied, consulting my Treo’s calendar. Yep, there it was: 8pm, Saturday, November 4. Just to be sure, I dialed up Open Table on the browser, as the hostess looked through her phone logs and people stacked up out the door.
“Here it is,” I said, turning the screen to show her, “8pm, November 4 on Open Table.”
“But we don’t have Open Table.”
…Silence…
“Um, this is AOC?” Yes.
“Is there another AOC?” No.
“Well,” she finally admits, “We did have Open Table for about a week, but we hated them and took it out.”
“OK, but here I have a confirmed reservation that neither you nor Open Table has canceled. How was I to know this?” I wondered aloud.
She asked us to wait a few more minutes, and assured me she would work something out. And, in fairness, she did: Ten minutes later, we were escorted through the dining room, past the charcuterie cooler, and upstairs to the enclosed rooftop patio, a spot that easily could have felt like being banished to Siberia, but actually resonated with cozy and intimate warmth, the white tent-like walls glowing with diffused light and the sky peeking through shades.
Our waitress appeared, offered us bottled water, and instructed us that two or three dishes per person would be “a good amount.” The menu’s a slightly longer list of dishes than at Violet — half a dozen salumi platters, salad-y choices, fish, meat, and a section of items from the wood oven — supplemented by a full page of artisan cheeses (AOC is, technically, a wine bar).
After nibbling on delicious marinated black olives and a tapenade spiced with smoked paprika and a hint of citrus, we started with a plate of Fra’mani salumi. I was particularly taken with the Nostrano and Cameron loved the Gentile, but all of them were quite tasty and well presented. Next up was a lovely and deceptively simple salad of crisp apples, walnuts, bitter greens, aged goat cheese and little slivers of red onion that you hardly noticed, but kept all the flavors dancing together.
Cameron pounced on the three fried oysters that followed the salad, but pronounced them a good news/bad news story: crispy, juicy and fresh, but blobbed with a dollop of cayenne aioli that flirted with greasiness. On the side, a lovely remoulade paired julienned celery root with a mustardy mayonnaise. The fourth dish, an open-faced riff on a croque monsieur, put the frisee that’s usually found on the side in between a slice of brioche and the top layers of egg, gruyere, and prosciutto. Again, delicious… but a bit overdressed, making the bread soggy and sour.
I paired the initial courses with a deeply-colored but otherwise unremarkable French rosé, while Cameron enjoyed a three-glass flight of sauvignon blanc from the Loire valley. For the last two plates — braised beef cheeks and fingerling potatoes crushed with gallons of butter and gilded with crème fraîche — we shifted gears to sterner stuff. I chose a glass of Flowers pinot noir/syrah (which was as good as I remembered), and Cameron opted for a cabernet from Napa’s 75 Wine Co. The beef cheeks were tender and very good, but the potatoes were positively orgasmic, brimming with fresh, potato-y flavor and skins that went snap.
Would that the service had been anywhere near as good as anything that we ate. Our waitress (one could hardly call her anything else) could have taught finishing school at a truck stop. Loud and ungraceful, she paired inattentive service with inappropriate comments — including “Wow, you guys wolfed that down!” screeched loud enough that other diners turned to gawk, at one point.
We also suspect that she botched the table numbers on our orders, as well as those of others near us, as we spent the night fending off dishes that we hadn’t ordered, waving at our plates as they headed for other nonplussed diners, and twiddling our thumbs between courses. By the end of the meal we were so fed up that we didn’t even glance at dessert, which is completely out of character for us. No matter how stuffed we are, we’ll always at least look at the menu.
But while we were done with AOC, AOC was not done with us. Cameron handed the ticket to the valet, who brought the car around, handed us the key, and bundled us in. But as we were about to take off, the valet rapped on the window, which Cameron rolled down, only to be asked if he had paid the as-yet-unmentioned $4.50 parking charge. Thoroughly exasperated, we pushed a five-dollar bill at the man (who we’d already tipped generously), punched the rental into “D”, and putt-putted into the night.
AOC
8022 W. Third Street (near Fairfax)
Los Angeles, CA 90048
323.653.6359
restaurants, SoCal
3 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 11.06.06 7:54 AM
Thanks to Cameron’s luck getting onto an earlier flight, we walked in to Violet a good 20 minutes before our reservation time. Greeted by a casually dressed but stylishly coiffed (and inked) host, we were seated almost immediately, and began perusing a list of seasonally inspired dishes, and a pleasantly extensive list of wines by the glass.
Our busboy appeared — bottles in hand — to ask if we preferred sparkling or still water. (I’m still of two minds about whether I found this annoyingly presumptuous or thoughtfully clever… I’m on the side of the latter, but I can’t put my finger on why.) Our waiter followed close on his heels, asking if we’d been to Violet before, and suggesting 5 to 6 dishes would be a good amount for the two of us.
We didn’t need to spend much time debating our choices — we easily found six dishes that appealed to both of us… a lucky thing, since the noise level (even at 9pm) precluded involved negotiations. Still, we enjoyed taking in our surroundings, a cozily-lit space with a modern palette.
Our first wine choices from the eclectic list turned out to be clear winners: A steely French rosé from Bieler, and an Alois Lageder pinot grigio with a flavor profile that seemed much more Gallic than Italian. A salad of grill-kissed Little Gem romaine combined bacony avocado and shreds of an unbilled Parmesan-like cheese to create a subtle Caesar-like effect, with an autumnal richness. Next up, a dish of ahi tuna tartare lacked flavor despite being overdressed with a ponzu dressing, and some of the fish was far too fishy to be enjoyed in the raw.
Our second set of dishes included a gorgeously indulgent take on macaroni and cheese, liberally dosed with gruyere and a smattering of Serrano ham bits. A pair of lightly breaded pork scaloppini served in a rich pan sauce rounded out the savory tastes. We enjoyed another couple of obscure, delightful wines with these dishes: A hearty and funky Gran Feudo crianza, and a hotly alcoholic but rather drinkable Velonosi rosso piceno.
None of the desserts screamed out for attention — will someone please tell chefs that crème brulee and molten chocolate cliché need to be left alone to die? — but we settled on a Key lime tartlet, which came with a dollop of unsweetened whipped cream to set of its lime-curd-like filling. Cameron chose an unremarkable (but always pleasant) Taylor tawny port; I enjoyed a stem of the Nivole — a floral-nosed bubbly that reminded us both of a lightly sparkling Muscat de Rivesault — suggested by our waiter.
Throughout the meal, our server Trevor kept a close eye on us, pacing the meal perfectly, and always appearing just when we’d thought of something we needed. After tax but before tip, the cost for this little pearl of a meal: $109 (more than half of which was the bar tab).
Violet
3221 Pico Blvd. (near 32nd Street)
Santa Monica, CA 90405
310.453.9113
restaurants, SoCal, travel
1 Comment »
Posted by Anita on 11.06.06 7:26 AM
Thais revere the lotus as a symbol of Buddhism: It’s a beautiful, symmetrical flower that thrives in the dankest, most polluted cesspools. So perhaps it’s apt to find Lotus of Siam — one of the most celebrated Thai restaurants outside of Thailand — in a sketchy area on the edge of downtown Las Vegas. Specifically, it’s smack in the middle of a dimly lit, semi-derelict shopping center with the Stratosphere tower looming in the distance. This outdoor mall full of businesses with an illegitimate air features a parking lot that looks quite like a great place to get mugged. That said, it also looks like a great place for ethnic food finds, with a Jalisco-style diner that serves only birria — try saying “birriraria” right on the first try — sporting a goat-head logo, plus a Korean bar-cafe and a plenty of other places lacking any sort of English signage.
Once inside the door, it’s hard to miss the wall covered with accolades, but the parking-lot experience prepares you for the rest of what you see: A slightly run-down but brightly lit space without a smidgen of pretense. A large buffet steam table takes up the center of the room (it’s used at lunchtime, weekdays only) and Formica-topped tables are set with paper placemats and restaurant-supply cutlery. This isn’t a bad thing, in my opinion… in fact, it probably served to raise my expectations. If so many foodies think this place is amazing, I figured, they’re obviously not being misled by any fancy-pants décor.
If you’ve come looking for pad thai or green chicken curry, you won’t be disappointed — all the familiar favorites are present and accounted for. There’s also a selection of what could charitably be called oddball dishes, things like shrimp tempura, fried wontons and chop suey that left me a bit worried that I’d mistakenly stumbled into one of those terrible Seattle “Thai” restaurants — the ones where they bring you chopsticks and ask “how many stars?” to gauge your chile tolerance. My nervousness was put to rest by the middle section of the menu — a collection of specialties from Isaan province, and another page of Thai dishes that I have rarely, if ever, seen on American Thai menus… things like sour sausage, crispy catfish salad, and choo-chee freshwater prawns.
Mom’s not as much of a fire-eater as I am, so I picked through the likely suspects, looking for dishes that would give us a good sample of styles without blowing our heads off. We started with a pair of stuffed chicken wings, a classic appetizer where deboned wings are restuffed with pork, mushroom shreds, and plenty of spices, then rolled in panko and deep-fried. Ours turned out to be mysteriously dry despite plenty of stuffing, but the accompanying sweet-sour sauce helped a bit.
Next up, a generous portion of chicken larb, served with a few slices of cucumber and a wedge of white cabbage. The sparseness of the presentation belied the execution: A perfect balance of sour-salty-hot.
Last, we split a bowl of kao soi, a northern curry-noodle dish I’d first enjoyed — and fallen in love with — during our January Thailand trip with Kasma. Although I’ve made kao soi at home a couple of times since then, I haven’t managed to salve my cravings. Luckily, Vegas is closer than Chiang Mai… and Lotus of Siam’s drier version of kao soi — garnished with fried noodles, pickled vegetable, red shallots, and lime wedges — may be the favorite of any I’ve tried. The noodles were firm but supple, the sauce perfectly balanced between sweet and hot, the tender beef pieces adding a salty-meaty contrast every few bites.
If you’ve spent any time at all reading online food boards, you’ve almost certainly stumbled across someone (or some-twenty) raving about Lotus of Siam in Las Vegas. They throw out phrases like “the best Thai restaurant in the country” and “there’s simply nothing else like it anywhere”, and wax rhapsodic about the stunning flavors.
But this collection of over-the-top raves is really doing the place a disservice. It’s a creditable Thai restaurant, and they certainly serve some of the best Thai food I’ve had since San Francisco’s Thep Phanom took its nosedive into mediocrity. Every dish we tried was tasty and properly balanced, the service was attentive and welcoming, and the menu’s impressive in its diversity. And, of course, there’s an undeniable pleasure of finding such a gem amid the underbelly of Old Vegas seediness.
But unless you’ve spent your life eating ketchup-y pad thai, Lotus of Siam is not going to change the way you think about Thai food. But that’s not the point, nor should it be. If you go expecting a palate-altering experience at a trek-worthy temple of gastronomy, you’ll certainly come away disappointed. Go, instead, hungry for a well-made, casual dinner in an atmosphere that couldn’t be less “Vegas” if it tried.
Lotus of Siam
953 E. Sahara Avenue
Las Vegas, NV 89104
702.735.3033
restaurants, Thai, travel, Vegas
3 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 10.30.06 7:17 AM
Dad had a craving for Chinese food last night, so on our way back from visiting friends, Mom and I stopped by the local outpost of Pei Wei, a quick-service spinoff of the P.F. Chang’s megachain.
We slid into one of the parking spaces Pei Wei reserves right by the side door for folks who want to run in and get their grub. Once inside, we perused the menu and settled on three hard-to-fumble options: a Thai-style green chicken curry, orange-peel beef, and Pei Wei spicy chicken — their approximation of General Tso’s — plus a side of edamame. Each entree came with a choice of white or brown rice.
As we waited for our food, I remarked that the decor seemed unexpectedly pleasant, maybe even nice enough for a casual date. Whether you eat in or take out, you order at the counter, pay for your food and drinks up front, and bring a number-tag to your table. It’s the kind of place you can imagine popping into while shopping, a little more upscale than the food court, but not a ‘for-real’ restaurant.
After a short wait, the food came out, all boxed up in plastic clamshell containers that kept the food nice and hot during the quick drive home. We popped everything open, and — since we were planning to eat family style — were a little taken aback to find all the rice in the same containers as the entrees. Easily enough solved by putting scoops of rice on plates, I suppose, but not very conducive to sharing.
The edamame were served warmish, and tasted just like they do everywhere else. The Pei Wei chicken turned out to be everyone’s favorite, although I definitely wouldn’t call it spicy (even though the menu does). Mom and I enjoyed the green curry’s flavor, although the chicken turned out more like meat-jelly, probably the result of over-marinating. The beef was the disappointment of the bunch, a sitcky-sweet mess of strangely chewy meat garnished with with huge slices of carrot… huh? The accompanying white rice was fine, but the brown rice was seriously undercooked: It rattled like gravel when stirred.
I’ve only been to P.F. Chang’s once, with a big group of co-workers, and I remember thinking that the food there was fine, in a suburban-mall sort of way… like an Asian version of Chevy’s (before Chevy’s went downhill). But even though Pei Wei nails the sexy interior design and appealing assortment of pan-Asian entrees you’d want in this sort of place, the execution — at least at the local branch we tried — leaves a lot to be desired. For my money, I think I’ll keep waiting for Big Bowl to move west.
Pei Wei Asian Diner
10575 S. Eastern Avenue
Henderson, NV 89052
702.837.0861
family, restaurants, Vegas
4 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 10.29.06 5:00 PM
Those of you who visit (or live in) Los Angeles have probably driven past one of the three Clearman’s North Woods Inn restaurants. They’re pretty hard to miss, looking for all the world like a giant log cabin, complete with “snow” on the roof and “icicles” hanging from the eaves. Inside, the rustique effect continues with stained-glass lamps, taxidermy specimens, and bordello-style “art” on the walls.
Once upon a time — in fact, until quite recently — the cocktail waitresses even dressed up in skimpy frontier barmaid costumes, complete with red-plaid shrugs and miniskirts short enough to show off their frilly underpants. The waiters still wear lumberjack outfits right out of Monty Python, with red-plaid vests, black pants, and arm garters. (No hats with ear flaps, alas.)
My mom and dad have been going to Clearman’s for more than 40 years, since before they were married. When we sisters were kids, it was one of the first nice-ish restaurants we ever went to. As you might expect from the decor, the menu runs the gamut from steak to steak, with a few minor detours into fried chicken and kabobs. Before your main course arrives, you always get a pair of salads — a red cabbage slaw and iceberg with blue cheese dressing — and artery-clogging cheesetoast, all served family style. And, of course, every steak comes with a baked potato as big as your head, groaning with fixin’s.
My middle sister’s the only family member who lives in Southern California these days, so our visits to Clearman’s are growing fewer and farther between. Truth be told, I don’t think the food’s as good as it once was. But we keep going, mostly because it’s a sentimental favorite… and probably also because you’ve got to love a place with signs in the bar insisting that you throw your peanut shells on the floor. We’re obviously not the only family that maintains a soft spot for the place, given that they sell their cheesetoast spread in almost every supermarket south of Santa Barbara.
Dad mentioned last week that he wanted us to make Clearman’s-inspired red-cabbage slaw for dinner over the weekend, and we happily obliged. We went whole hog (or is that cow?) by adding — you guessed it — steaks, potatoes, and iceberg lettuce with bleu cheese dressing to the menu. We hunted the local markets for the cheese spread, but came up empty.
When we told Dad about our fruitless search, it took him about 10 seconds to find a recipe for the stuff online. (You now know where I inherited my strong Google-fu from.) I whipped up a quarter-batch, Mom slathered it on some sliced sourdough bread, and we popped it under the broiler. The end result wasn’t bad — in fact, made with butter instead of the standard margarine, I think I like it even better than the original.
The red-cabbage slaw recipe comes from the L.A. Times, and we’ve made it regularly over the years. It’s perfectly fine on its own, but it’s even better mixed up with iceberg and blue-cheese salad.
“Just Like North Woods Inn’s” Red Cabbage Slaw
1/2 head red cabbage
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup + 1T red wine vinegar
3T sugar
4 tsp. salt
1 tsp. seasoned salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1/4 tsp. onion powder
Shred cabbage irregularly, with some coarse and some fine shreds. Combine other ingredients in a bowl (or shake together in a jar or bottle) and pour over the cabbage. Mix well and let stand, refrigerated, for at least a few hours, or over night.
Makes 6-8 servings.
family, meat, recipes, restaurants, SoCal
10 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 10.02.06 6:54 AM
At Union the other night, Rocky overheard us talking about our Portland jaunt and immediately said “You have to go to Pambiche. It’s the most awesome Cuban food.” And then he reminded us again the next morning over breakfast. When the Rock tells you something’s this good, twice, I advise you to listen.
With all the wedding goings-on, we weren’t really sure if we’d be able to fit Pambiche into the agenda. Luckily, we timed it right: On our way out of the hotel, we checked the map and — sure enough — Pambiche is even en route to PDX. Sweet. They’re also open from lunch straight through to late night. (There’s a joke here about having your medianoche at medianoche, but I am too tired to pull off a bilingual pun.)
As we drive up Glisan, it’s not difficult to find Pambiche. Even from blocks away, we spot the brightly-colored building and row of umbrellas covering the patio tables. Inside, the colorful chaos continues, with art and artifacts verging on kitsch covering nearly every surface. (Here’s a link to the photos.) It smells impossibly good in here, and already I’m verging on sensory overload. We’ve been blessed with remarkably sunny weather all weekend, so I can only imagine what a wonderful touch of the tropics Pambiche would be during the depths of a Portland winter.
We scan the menu and find many familiar tastes: Ropa vieja, various plantains, beans of many colors. We need a little coaching through ordering a sampler appetizer plate called the Primera Vuelta — neither the menu nor our server does a very good job explaining how we choose which aperitivos and in what quantity.
In the end, we settle on the empanada de picadillo (spicy meat-hash turnover). and two each of the croquetas de papa y bacalao (potato and salt cod croquettes) and frituras de malanga (garlicky taro-root shreds formed into cakes and fried). They’re attractively presented, served with remolacha (beet and watercress in sour-orange dressing) and ensalada caribiena (citrus cabbage slaw). Everything on the plate is delicious, although we both agree the empanada is the standout item, with the earthy beet salad a close runner-up. We dab on a bit of a house-made smoky chile sauce, brought to the table in a plastic squeeze bottle.
It’s not even 5pm yet, and the place is filling up, with guests putting their names on a sign-in sheet and retreating to a set of benches along the sidewalk. While we wait for the rest of our food, we sip a pair of Limonadas de Guarapo, a cool concoction of fresh-squeeed lime and sugar-cane juices, served with a chunk of the cane to nibble. it’s an acquired taste — Cameron likens the sour-sweet flavor to pickle juice — but it grows on you… and works well with the food.
Our entrees arrive hot on the heels of the appetizers, but we’re not bothered. My Cuban Sandwich looks amazing: Pressed between a perfectly crunchy-soft roll, there’s plenty of ham, roast pork and Swiss cheese, slathered with a mustardy spread and a tart pickle. It’s served with a pile of tostones, a barely-sweet version of banana chips. Cameron’s Plato Cubano features roast pork, white rice, and a cup of the best vegetarian black beans I’ve ever tasted. How do they get them so flavorful without meat? Man. Seeing an order of red beans go by on their way to another table, Cameron flags down our waitress and asks if he can have a cup of them, too. She’s initially confused — “didn’t you order black?” — but we set her straight, and the red beans arrive within minutes. And what a grand idea! They’re even more amazing than the black ones, redolent with herbs, bacon, and other porky bits. After my first taste, I’m not even asking Cameron for another bite before grabbing the spoon. The beans alone are worth a trip.
We’ve been ogling an impressive display of traditional Cuban cakes and pastries all through our meal, but we haven’t saved room. Their descriptions take up two whole pages of the menu, and they’re glorious to behold but United waits for no man, Ah, next time… and there will be a next time.
Pambiche Cocina y Repostreria Cubana
2811 NE Glisan Avenue
Portland, OR 97232
530.233.0495
Portland, restaurants
4 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 10.01.06 11:28 PM
We’re staying overnight at the 5th Avenue Suites, one of two Kimpton hotels in Portland. And as much as we love Kimpton — and recognize that their restaurants can sometimes be better than merely decent — we’re pretty clear on the fact that you’re not going to a hotel restaurant in search of culinary excellence. You’re usually pretty safe with American standards like burgers, club sandwiches, Cobb salads and the like, but expecting anything memorable is a recipe for disappointment. This, we know well.
So why in the name of all that is foodie did we take the elevator downstairs to the Red Star Tavern & Roast House, rather than seeking out a truly worthy place to brunch? Well, kids, today’s the Portland Marathon, and the whole city — most especially the area around our hotel — is jammed with people. And, on a more personal note, it’s also the morning after a very late night spent celebrating the marriage of two long-time friends, Karen & Nelson, out at Edgefield, the McMenamin’s brewery’s rustic resort on the edge of town. Let me say that again: Brewery. Wedding reception. Nelson’s crew. You get the picture…
Now, we didn’t know this ahead of time, but it turns out that Red Star has a D.I.Y. bloody mary bar on the weekends. You choose one of ten decent vodkas, and they bring you a very healthy glug in a salt-rimmed pint glass, and point you to the bar. Along said bar you’ll find a wide assortment of bloody mary mixes, plus straight tomato juice, celery salt, hot sauces, horseradish, and what must be the city’s best-stuffed array of olives. No Worcestershire sauce, Tony Cachere’s, or celery stalks… but I suppose pickled asparagus will do in a pinch.
And, you know, the drink’s pretty average. It’s not a stunning beverage, but I’ve got no one to blame but my own sweet hung-over self. (Mental note: This is why we generally leave brunch to the experts.) Cam wisely sticks with coffee and water in the beverage department, and busies himself with the Sunday NY Times. I never did trust a newspaper that’s too uptight for comics, but that’s probably best left to another post…
In a strange departure from our usual preferences, Cameron opts for fish & chips — a lunchy brunch option! — and I choose the biscuits and gravy. The service is polite, prompt, and cheerful, and we’re all happy. Until the food comes, that is.
My biscuits are fine, but the gravy looks and tastes rather prefab. And I don’t understand why a fancy hotel like this can’t afford a slotted spoon for the kitchen: my poached eggs come in a bowlful of water… a pet peeve of mine, admittedly. On a more serious note, Cameron’s fish is coated in a delectable-looking batter, but what’s inside is clearly wa-a-ay past its prime, reeking of ammonia. He calls over our server, who apologizes profusely and whisks the plate back to the kitchen. Almost as quickly, she brings it right back to the table, explaining that although she’d be happy to replace it with another dish, “the cooks say it’s catfish and that’s just how it smells.” Uh, yeah. No.
Ultimately, French toast with real Vermont maple syrup turns out to be a wiser choice.
I vaguely remembered having eaten at Red Star on our last swing through Portland — what is it about this city that brings out the food-slackers in us? — and being unimpressed, but I suppose the bright spot in the whole debacle is that I certainly will remember this round… even I won’t make the same mistake three times.
Red Star Tavern & Roast House
503 SW Alder Street (at Fifth Avenue)
Portland, OR 97204
503.222.0555
breakfast, drinks, Portland, restaurants, travel
Comments Off on No gold star for Red Star
Posted by Anita on 10.01.06 6:22 PM
It’s almost a law: You can’t drive down Interstate 5 without stopping for a burger and fries. Back home in California, of course, it’s In-N-Out that’s everyone’s favorite I-5 stopover. In the Northwest, no sooner will the phrase “road trip” cross your lips than someone will mention Burgerville.
Burgerville — at least the location in Centralia where we stopped yesterday — looks and feels much like any major fast-food outlet. Unlike other specialty burger spots, there’s nothing retro, chic or upscale about it. But when you take a closer look at the menu, you notice some telling differences: Tilllamook cheddar cheese, seasonal fresh berry shakes, Diestel Farms’ free-range turkey, and Oregon Country natural beef — just like at Palace Kitchen.
Holy cats! It even says “fresh, local, sustainable” right there on the brightly-colored menu board, in huge letters… and yet, everyone eating (and working) here looks like normal semi-rural folks, just like you’d probably see in the McBurgBox down the road. Nobody’s a hippie, nobody looks like Alice Waters. It’s downright tear-jerking to see so many of My Fellow Americans choosing to vote with their wallets and feed themselves something other than crap.
The fries are pretty good, with a nice potato-y taste; the so-called ketchup we’re dipping them in is ghastly, worse than you’d find at a cheap diner. The burgers are merely serviceable: They may be made from happy cows, but they’re typical machine-made smashpatties, cooked to within an inch of their lives. They’re saved from snackbar status by fluffy sesame-seed buns, leafy lettuce, truly ripe tomatoes, and tasty cheese. And Cam’s Mocha Perk milkshake — made with real ice cream — sports little flecks of espresso.
As much of a sustainable-food geek as I am, I’m not sure I could give up In-N-Out for Burgerville; the food’s just not as tasty. But it’s a damn sight better than McD’s or any other mainstream greasepit, and a worthy stop when hunger strikes on your next Northwest road trip.
Cameron says: I’m not in love with B-ville — certainly not enough to give up In-N-Out. But Anita pegged how I feel about the place as we were pulling out of the parking lot: “I don’t feel like I just ate a vat of chemicals.” A poignant note, particularly with the memory of a desperate, nasty, late-night trip to Jack-In-The-Crack in Seattle still fresh in my mind.
Burgerville
818 Harrison Avenue
Centralia, WA 98531
360.736.5212
(and 38 other locations in Oregon and SW Washington)
locavore, Portland, restaurants, travel
3 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 10.01.06 3:23 PM
it’s our last night in Seattle, and where better to wrap things up than Palace Kitchen, the casual-dining jewel in the Tom Douglas empire’s crown. Palace quickly became one of our Seattle haunts when we were locals, and somehow they always managed to have “our” usual table ready and waiting just as we walked through the door — no mean feat, given that they don’t take reservations.
Years before ‘small plates’ became a thing that every decent chef dabbled with, diners at Palace were already constructing delicious meals from just the left side of the menu, where you’ll find favorites like plin (ravioli-like Piemontese dumplings), mind-bogglingly good oysters with shave-ice mignonette, and a rotating selection of five artisanal cheeses.
After extensive research — and 18 months of the foodiest folks in town trying hard to dethrone the resident Royale — pretty much everyone I know agrees that Palace is home to Seattle’s best hamburger. (It’s also home to the world’s coolest ladies’ room stall: the size of my first apartment and just as funkily furnished.)
Palace also is one of just a handful of locations where you can buy a slice of Tom’s justly famous Triple Coconut Cream Pie. (He also sells it at touristy Etta’s near the Market and the upscale Dahlia Lounge, plus Dahlia Bakery.) If you don’t have room for dessert, they’ll box it up for you to eat later… and throw in some napkins and plastic cutlery, too. Or come late, just for dessert: Palace serves their whole menu until 1am — pretty much last call for food in sleepy Seattle — and a special breakfast-style entree just from 10pm through closing time.
Palace Kitchen
2030 Fifth Avenue
Seattle, WA 98121
206.448.2001
(reservations for parties of 6+ only)
restaurants, Seattle
1 Comment »
Posted by Anita on 10.01.06 3:07 PM
A recurring theme at our house is the sad downward slide into mediocrity that many of our former restaurant favorites have taken. I’m sure we’ve got more than a handful of friends who are thoroughly sick of hearing me crab about how Thep Phanom has languished, for just one example. So we were sad to hear of the departure of the chef (and most of the staff) of our old Seattle haunt, Seven Stars Pepper. Apparently they’re still cranking out decent food, but nothing compared to the mind- (and mouth-) numbingly amazing treats of yore.
Thank the eight immortals that Szechuan Chef is essentially the reincarnation of Seven Stars Pepper. Instead of a dingy Asian mini-mall at 12th and Jackson on the fringe of the International District, you’ll now find yourself at a thoroughly generic strip-mall in the ass-end of Bellevue, which once housed a really skeevy Kmart. (One interesting side note: The drive may be a haul, but the parking lot is a lot less reminiscent of a place where the hero gets jumped in a video game.) And Szechuan Chef has slightly higher pretensions than ol’ Seven Star: better decor, better uniforms, nicer dishes and menus — although the prices remain insanely reasonable. Six of us ordered a thoroughly sufficient amount of food — check out the photos if you don’t believe me — and spent exactly $20 each, including tax and a 20% tip.
Best of all, it seems that much of the kitchen staff and most of the waitresses have followed the chef to his new location, including Ming, the amiable woman who we’ve always called Szechuan Auntie. As we walked through the door Friday, she stopped cold in her tracks and blinked, then walked toward us with outstretched arms and a huge grin.
“I can’t believe it’s you!” she said, cracking a huge grin. Man, we knew we missed her, but we had no idea she missed us, too. She must have come over three times in the next 10 minutes just to explain how surprised / happy / amazed she was to see us. And then she quipped: “I’ll tell them to start your Chong Qin chicken right now!” Wowsa… this doesn’t happen at San Tung.
Never one to tamper with a successful formula, we started out with a pair of old favorites: the green onion pancake and an order of hand-shaven dandan noodles with pork. Both were served promptly and piping hot… and tasted just as good as ever. We waited for one our party to arrive, and enjoyed an array of beverages, including a trio of house-made (but adorably packaged) fruit slushies. And then the food onslaught began. Chong Qin chicken, just as crispy and glorious as in the old days, smoky flash-cooked water spinach (aka ong choy), and many other faves. Even a couple of mis-steps — they were out of shell-on prawns so our salt-and-pepper shrimp came white-people style, and the whole Szechuan fish we thought we were ordering turned out to be chunks — couldn’t dampen our enthusiasm.
It’s good to be missed, but it’s even better to find an old favorite doing even better than you remembered.
Szechuan Chef
15015 Main Street
Bellevue, WA 98007
425.746.9008
restaurants, Seattle
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