Red Mango

The first of a promised horde of invading outlets from the Korea-based chain, the new Red Mango on Bleecker Street is not only now serving first-rate frozen yogurt—as good, or better, than its obvious (and copycatting?) rival Pinkberry—but is doing so in a surprisingly comfortable, unsurprising designy setting, with a definite coffee-house, lounge-all-you-like atmosphere.

The place was pretty empty when I stopped in yesterday, but it was mid-afternoon on a weekday, so maybe it gets as unpleasantly hectic as Pinkberry can during peak hours. Either way, this is a large, well-considered space—a fair number of seating options, plus plenty of standing room while you order, plus an alluring-come-spring outdoor patio in the back—that seems suited to handle a crowd.

Most important, Red Mango's fro-yo is terrific, with that deep tang we've come to demand since Pinkberry came to town last year. I sampled the Green Tea, and it was good, but ordered a small Original with two toppings, chewy, sour dried cranberries and intense Ghirardelli dark chocolate mini-chips. I could have gone for the Bear Naked granola, or the fresh raspberries, blackberries, or blueberries, or even the Captain Crunch, or graham crackers, but I didn't. I admit that, as I watched my exceptionally (but not irritatingly) friendly server construct my treat, I was thinking she was a tad stingy with the toppings, but I needn't have worried: every bite had plenty of everything, and I gleefully devoured my dessert in about 90 seconds. Next time I'm trying a Blender: yogurt plus toppings in a smoothie format.

Red Mango is located on Bleecker Street between MacDougal and Sullivan. Coming soon, supposedly: 14th Street and Sixth Avenue; Eighth Avenue and 45th Street.

Hakata Tonton

Full disclosure: I've now eaten more pig's feet these past few weeks than I've ever had in my life. I mean, I love swine, and offal of all sorts, but clearly I'm no afeetcianado. That said, if ever there was place to get a quick education on the subject, it's the new Hakata Tonton, where nearly every one the 40 or so dishes features piggie peds.

Wait... is this an even remotely viable idea for a restaurant? Well, I've been twice, and though it was early, this small, dreary space (the only nod to any sort of decor is a plastic-encased prosciutto lying flat in the windowsill) was surprisingly full. Even more striking: most tables were taken by groups of young women. This still puzzles me. Not that women aren't as adventurous eaters as men, but the fe/male ratio here was probably 3:1. I mean, seriously... girls night out at the pig's feet place? Could it be the free packages of pantyhose (in three different shades!) offered in the bathroom? The free Q-tips? The fact that pig's feet are, apparently, extremely high in collagen, and some claim that if you eat just a half a pound of feet meat a day, you'll look younger in no time (then why so many already-young women?)?

Anyway, the menu is pretty much all under-$10 small plates, although for those more fancy occasions you can indulge in one of two tasting menu options. Yes, they take their pig's feet—Tonsoku, in Japanese—very, very seriously here. I tried six dishes in two visits, with decidedly mixed results. A good introduction to the genre for me was the Tonsoku "simply grilled with salt," a hacked-up foot's worth of the gelatinous, sticky, sweet, sumptuous meat, all given a nice flavor boost by some wonderful yuzu paste—intense, acidic, spicy, salty—served on the side. If you're looking for something a little less visibly porcine, Himi's Tonsoku Gyoza is excellent: six fat dumplings fried to a crisp on the outside, rich and meaty on the inside, and also served with that terrific yuzu.

Decent, too, was my bowl of sliced up Tonsoku marinated in Ponzu, the citrusy sauce pairing nicely with the fatty meat, although I thought there were far too many too-raw onions tossed in to bulk up the serving. One of the very few feetless options here is Oreilles du Cochon, or pig's ears, swimming in a vinegar soy sauce. It's also the only item on the menu listed in French, but that's neither here nor there. And no matter how you say it, this is not a dish for the timid: the mouthfeel score on these babies is about a negative-4, all crunchy cartilage and mushy meat.

If you're in a hurry, stay away from the Tonsoku Japanese Style Paella, which arrives without warning in an elaborate stove-like apparatus, to be cooked at the table. My server forbids me from opening the lid before the sterno burns itself out, "about 5 to 10 minutes." Twenty-five minutes later I still have no paella on my plate... and when the flame finally does go out, I'm greeted by a disappointing, bland stew of rice and mushrooms with maybe a couple of tiny slivers of pork. Also not worth the effort is the Deep Fried Tonksoku "Kara Age", which is sadly without flavor, though most certainly not without bone.

Hakata Tonton is located on Grove Street, just west of 7th Avenue. Both (week)nights I went the hostess/server looked concerned that I didn't have a reservation, even though it was before 6:30 and there were several empty tables. Both nights, however, the place was almost full by the time I felt. Clearly there's something slightly culty going on here.

Ditch Plains

Oh. Sorry.... Wrong slide.

Let's start over.

Ditch Plains

That's better. As you can see, Ditch Plains, Montauk, and Ditch Plains, Bedford Street, are... umm.... remarkably similar? And I wish I had taken some shots of the faux industrial interior, which really made me feel as if I were sitting at that picnic table near Lily's cart, eating one of her burritos....

Anyway, I was much closer to Ditch, the restaurant, than Ditch, the beach, on Sunday evening, so I popped in for an early dinner prior to a movie at the Film Forum. Like I said, the interior is cold, industrial, almost bunker-like, with a long gun-slit (?) peeking into the kitchen. The only nod the place's namesake is a flat screen playing surf videos... and, I guess, the fish-heavy menu.

I started with a bowl of New England Clam Chowder. The broth was excellent—briny and deep—the potatoes firm, the fatty ham a welcome addition, and the clams, of which there were many, were unbelievably, unswallowable-y rubbery. You know how sometimes you're chewing something and it's just not getting any smaller, and all the flavor's gone, so you can either swallow it "whole", or discreetly expel it into your napkin? Like that, these clams were. All of them.

Next up: fish tacos. Now, this is my fault, because I should have asked, but I was dismayed that my fish arrived fried, heavy on the batter. Even more dismayed that it was nearly flavorless, the dish saved only by the salsa. And the radishes. And the lime, too, was pretty good.

The only dessert available was S'mores for two. Being one, I passed.

Ditch Plains, the restaurant, is located on the corner of Bedford and Downing Streets.

BarFry

One of the most pleasant, most satisfying dining experiences of the summer? Unexpectedly, my meal last night at BarFry, the spanking-new, Asian-influenced spot in the West Village devoted to all things battered and fried, deep or otherwise. Seriously. The room is good-looking, lively and comfortable. The staff is young, attractive, hip, and warm and friendly and totally professional. Most important, the food showed thought, creativity, and care from the kitchen, and ranged overall from pretty good to nearly excellent.

I jumped around the menu a bit—the emphasis here is on small salad-y plates, hefty po' boys, and a la carte tempura'd everything, from veggies to meats to fishes—and came up mostly winners. Take my Shrimp Po' Boy, an eight-inch roll overflowing with crispy crustaceans, spicy cole slaw and topped with a delicious yuzu-infused paste. This was juicy, explosive, fresh, a meal in itself. Totally hit the spot.

I wasted my "Bar Side" pick on some pointless Wasabi and Olive Oil Pickles, but my Tempura selections were mostly dead-on delicious, especially the two veggies—Pumpkin and String Beans—and an amazing Skookum Oyster, which was huge and briney and cooked just long enough to hold itself together, without losing that deep oceanic ooze. The uninspired chicken-fried Hanger Steak was the least successful selection here, but even that was enjoyable enough when slathered with my quartet of dipping sauces, including Jalapeno Soy and Wasabi Remoulade.

BarFry is located on Carmine Street between Bleecker and Bedford. I went early—around 6:00—and so, of course, easily scored a table, but the place seems to have crowd-pleaser written all over it. As of last night they did not have a liquor license, though there's plenty of booze on the menu, just waiting to be unleashed.

Centro Vinoteca

Yes, I understand that Labor Day evening is not the ideal time to check out a new restaurant. For one thing, it's a pretty sure bet that the executive chef—in this case Anne Burrell, hired by Gusto owner Sasha Muniak to run this weeks-old spot after Jody Williams jumped ship for Morandi—is nowhere near the place. For another, with the city so dead, it must feel like a "sort-of" night off, even if you're working (ahem, waitstaff). That said, and despite a couple of off-notes over five courses (which might have still been there come Tuesday, but felt more like the result of an inattentive kitchen), I still very much enjoyed my meal at Centro Vinoteca, and look forward to returning for much more of an ambitious menu that's packed with terrific-sounding dishes.

There's a lot to get excited about here, starting with the piccolini, or small plates. I sampled two: the Chicken Liver Pate with Balsamic Onions, which was deeply rich and funky, remarkably creamy, and beautifully punctuated by the sweet and crunchy onions; and Truffled Deviled Eggs, which are exactly as amazing as they sound. And the portions felt exceptionally generous—about double what I was expecting—for dishes in this four- and five-dollar price range.

Then it was on to the antipasti, and the toughest choice of night. I opted for the Grilled Sea Scallops, four of the fat mollusks perfectly cooked and teamed with, among other things, sweet pickled watermelon and bitter dandelion greens. This was potentially a brilliant dish, marred by a heavy-handed marinade.

I was totally full at this point... and then out came my primo, a special Tagliatelle with heirloom cherry tomatoes, chantarelle mushrooms, wilted arugula, and roasted corn. I was picturing a bright, summery dish when I ordered it (and, in fact, my server made a similar comment), but this was anything but light, slathered as it was in a too-thick, too-salty sauce that overwhelmed the plate. Nice idea, though. And, yes, I was more than happy to to eat every bite.

Dolci was another near-sensation: Sweet Taralluci (crispy, airy, fried-dough-like cookies) with Salty Caramel. Now, it may seem unfair to gripe about saltiness when you order a dessert featuring "Salty Caramel", but I think just a few sprinkled crystals would have done the trick just fine, instead of the handful that someone tossed into my dipping bowl.

Centro Vinoteca is located on Seventh Avenue South, just below Barrow Street. The two-story restaurant is pretty and comfortable, both in the bar area downstairs (where I sat), and in the more intimate dining room above. I had no problem getting a table by the window at 6:00 in the evening, but again, it was Labor Day, and I hear that the place is usually packed.

L'Arte Del Gelato

Watch your back, Grom.

Although L'Arte Del Gelato isn't new—they've been dispensing delicious desserts near the back of Chelsea Market for three years now—a few weeks ago they opened a more readily accessible place in the heart of the West Village. It's a small, efficiently-run parlor which, given the general amazingness of this stuff, should instantly become the go-to spot for downtown sweet-treat seekers.

I've already been a couple of times, and, with the help of Bo and Co, have tried at least a dozen different varieties, including Chocolate and Pear, Dulce de Leche, Raspberry, Mint Chocolate, Lemon, Dark Chocolate, Coconut, Tiramisu (which tasted unbelievably like egg nog, which I love), Strachiatelli, Panna Cotta, Cappuccino... and each one was a total winner. The texture is rich and creamy, without a hint of greasiness. The flavors are deep and fresh and explosive and complex. This is, without question, a destination ice cream parlor.

L'Arte Del Gelato is located on the corner of Seventh Avenue South and Bleecker Street. A two-flavor small cup (which, as you can see from above, is not small at all) costs about $4.

Soto

Unbelievably sad over a no-longer anniversary (on July 3) and sensing that I should nonetheless celebrate a still-active one (on July 4... call it my own personal Independence Day), it seemed like I had two perfect excuses for treating myself to Soto last night. And so treat myself I did.

In case you don't know the backstory: Soto is run by sushi chef Sotohiro Kosugi (his wife Maho is in charge of the kitchen), who has made a name for himself in raw-fish circles both for his prickly demeanor and for his pristine, flown-in-from-Japan creations, served for eleven years out of an Atlanta strip mall. This spring he brought his show up to the big city, and though his new address—a particularly unlovely stretch of lower Sixth Avenue—isn't much of an aesthetic upgrade, there's no question that Soto has become an instant contender for best sushi in town.

First, let me say that there was no evidence of Kosugi's legendary grumpiness last night. Really, he couldn't have been more smiley and helpful throughout my entire 90-minute meal, which I spent seated right in front of him at the sushi bar. Second, don't let Soto's dreary location discourage you, either. This is a very pretty restaurant inside, all light wood and dark slate; simple, cleanly lit, and designed by Hiro Tsuruta, who also did Momofuku and ChikaLicious.

Anyway, the food. I started with two from the kitchen, beginning with a sort of mini gazebo's-worth of the tastiest tempura I've had in years. The generous sampling was lively and light, wonderfully crispy and full-flavored, and included a pair of perfectly-cooked white shrimp (superb when splashed with lemon and dipped in sea salt) as well as pieces of kabocha (a Japanese squash, similar to butternut), asparagus, renkon (those wagon-wheel-looking lotus roots), a shiso leaf, and a fat shitake mushroom. This was excellent. Then came the Chawan Mushi, which was a cup of rich egg custard studded with bits of shitake, chicken, an unfortunately bland shrimp, and two delightful ginko nuts. Although I've never had this "traditional" dish before, I feel like it shouldn't have been as oily as mine was toward the bottom... as if the mixture had separated. But the firmer top half was unusual and delicious.


Then Kosugi unleashed his sushi deluge upon me. I ordered the 12-piece Sushi Nigiri Omakase, wound up getting 14 pieces in all, delivered one- or two-at-a-time, and each was a singular slice of raw fish heaven. You don't get any soy sauce or wasabi at Soto, as each piece arrives seasoned as the chef would have you eat it. And believe me, he knows what he's doing. My feast included incredible slices of a buttery Toro; an explosive Madai, or Japanese Sea Bream; a sweet raw Shiro Ebi; a brilliant Sake Yakishime, or scotch salmon, seared exactly right; an orgasmic Uni; a nicely-gamey Aji (horse mackerel); a melty Hamachi and a firm Mirugai (live giant clam); and a spectacular Hotate, or Japanese scallop. Every bite made me want to close my eyes and enjoy a small moment of private ecstasy.


Soto is located on Sixth Avenue between West 4th and Washington Place. I made a same-day reservation for 6:00, and when I left at 7:30 there were plenty of empty tables and seats at the bar, but by then the whole city had pretty much cleared out for the holiday.

Dirty Bird To Go (Revisit)

Scoboco got a big bag of takeout from Dirty Bird To Go a little over a year ago, maybe a week after it first opened, and we were completely underwhelmed: by the service, by the selection, and, especially, by the food, which we thought at the time to be "stunningly bland."

But given the pedigree of the owners (Southern folk late of Jake's Luxury Oyster Bar), the nagging feeling that I went too soon, and am now missing out (the place couldn't have survived this long if it were still serving food as poor as we experienced that day, right?), and, most important, the fact that fried chicken happens to be one of my favorite things in the world, I knew I needed to give these birds another chance. Which happened last Friday evening on my way to play with Pablo. And man am I glad I did.

I ordered the two piece Buttermilk Dipped Free-range Fried Chicken, requesting dark meat. The pieces were smaller than I would have liked (there was a moment of real sadness when I opened the carton in Williamsburg and saw my slim pickings), but they tasted terrific: juicy, crispy, full-flavored, fresh, and genuine. A truly top-notch fried thigh and leg. And my Macaroni and Cheese side dish was equally excellent, though again perhaps a little stingy in the size: the pasta had some bite; the cheese was nice and, um, cheesy; the whole thing a savory, creamy delight. The one mistake here was the Unleavened Shallot Cornbread, which was dry, sullen, and overwhelmed with onion.

Dirty Bird To Go is located on 14th Street just west of Seventh Avenue. Though primarly a take-out place, there are few stools inside and a bench out front, making it a definite Quick Bite consideration if you're passing through the neighborhood.

P*ong

I was rolling solo around dinnertime last night, so when I saw that there was a bar seat to be had at P*ong, I seized the opportunity to get a taste of what all the Pichet Ong fuss was about. Four beautifully creative samplings later I saw that it's about this: the one-time pastry chef at Spice Market at 66 clearly has a knack for concocting the unusual, artfully conceived, deliciously constructed dish.

The short but appealing menu is divided into three sections: Savory, Sweet and Savory, and Sweet. My first item from the Savory side was a super-creamy—almost wilted, in a good way—Escarole "Green Goddess" Salad, the mild dressing a nice contrast to the bitter greens, the whole thing completed by two crunchy croutons layered with avocado and melt-in-your-mouth white anchovy slices. This was outstanding. Next was Bluefin Tuna Tartar, a brilliant idea—a pile of finely chopped fish mixed with intense dried black olive and cucumber, side of seaweed, all on a slather of custardy meyer lemon sabayon—marred by a slight though definitely unwelcome bitterness (gaminess?) to the fish.


Sweet and Savory was next, and the most simple but possibly the best dish of my meal: three or four fresh and gooey Medjool Dates, sliced in half, drizzled with Aleppo honey and then hidden beneath a generous pile of hard, sharp, aged Spanish mahon cheese. Excellent stuff. Then it was P*ong's raison d'etre, dessert. All seven selections sounded tempting (I resisted ordering the three- or five-course dessert tasting special), but in the end settled on an amazing Coconut Creme Caramel—dense, sweet, creamy—surrounded by floes of tart and unbelievably refreshing rhubarb ice, sprinkled with fresh basil and pink salt. This was kind of like getting a double scoop cup of ice cream and sorbet (which I've always been afraid of), but it somehow worked perfectly together.

P*ong's decor is stylish and cool without seeming too forced, the staff thoroughly professional, the chef Ong working right there behind the bar. Most dishes (all would qualify as small plates) cost between $10 and $14. The restaurant is located under some scaffolding on West 10th Street, at Waverly Place.

The Inn LW12

Last night Bo had a dinner gathering with some friends, so Co suggested that she and I hit the Meatpacking District and get us some poutine! Yeah, not really. The poutine was actually my idea... but once Co figured out what the heck I was talking about, she was more than game. And so to the spanking-new Inn LW12 we went, enjoying a consistently satisfying and tasty meal amidst the earliest of the MePa hordes.

In case you haven't heard, poutine is classic French-Canadian comfort food, and in its purest form consists of
1. french fries;
2. brown gravy;
3. melted curd cheese.

It's not a subtle dish... which fit right in with everything else about our meal, starting with the atmosphere in the bar area, which was loud and desperate, even at 7:30. Apparently there were no tables in the supposedly more sedate "canoe room" upstairs, though Co ran some recon and expressed her enthusiasm for the decor, including the Native American garb pinned to the wall.

Anyway, the food. We started with the succulent Crispy Pig's Trotter (read: feet), which was breaded and pressed and fried and served with dabs of dijon mustard, frisse and a peppery pile of French lentils. This was an excellent dish, especially the intense, prosciutto-like shavings of smoky pig scattered about the plate.

Then it was on to the main course, for which we split a Grilled Lamb Burger with chickpea fries. Heeding Restaurant Girl's disappointing experience with a too-dry patty, we ordered ours medium rare, and it arrived plenty juicy, plenty fatty, plenty rich. Fearing too much heat, I asked for the harissa mayonnaise on the side, but I needn't have worried, as the condiment was, if anything, too tame for the dish. But no matter, as Co and I were by now far too distracted by our just-arrived plate of poutine. We opted for the Classic—it's also served vegetarian style, or with spicy pork belly, or with braised beef and stilton—and it was large, crunchy, chewy, saucy, salty, totally addicting, totally delicious. Really? If this was all we had ordered for dinner, we would have walked away happy and full.

We were now thoroughly stuffed, but there was Sticky Toffee Pudding on the dessert menu, and we were helpless. Though not quite as good as the version at Schiller's (and not even close to the one Debbie and I had at Andrew Edmonds in central London), this is still a highly respectable entry into the genre: dense, gooey, more molasses-y than most, unbelievably sweet.

The Inn LW12 is in the townhouse on the southeast corner of Little West 12th Street and Ninth Avenue. In what I presume to be an attempt to heighten the anonymous-hence-coolness quotient, the signage outside still says Rio Mar, the building's previous tenant.

Birdbath

New from City Bakery magnate Maury Rubin comes this second "sustainable, renewable, biodegradable, recycled, recyclable" baked goods shop. The first branch, on First Avenue right below 14th Street, now seems to be officially called Build a Green Bakery, though for a time it was known as Birdbath; this new outpost, on 7th Avenue South at Charles Street, has no sign outside, but also appears to be starting life as "Birdbath," though I've also heard it referred to as "Sparrow." Sort of annoying, no?

Anyway, here you'll find servers in hemp uniforms working behind a counter made from "Paperstone" (100% recycled paper; solid as a rock), supported by the packing crates in which were shipped the wall display, which is partially composed of banana-tree fiber and is hanging from a wall made from wheatboard which is made from, yes, wheat. This is all totally admirable—who can complain about someone trying to do the right thing?—but there's also a bit of a self-congratulatory atmosphere about the whole enterprise, especially when Rubin is standing up front giving his spiel, which he was on the day Debbie and I walked in to buy some...

...seriously delicious goodies. Sorry, I almost forgot about the food part of our visit. Because no matter what you think of Rubin the man, he and his bakers definitely know how to crank out some of the city's best treats, starting, of course, with those big, gooey, crunchy Chocolate Chip and Oatmeal Raisin Cookies, the same ones that made City Bakery famous (with me). Also excellent at Birdbath, though definitely a bit grainy/birdseedy, is the Sesame Banana Cake with Agave—a sweet, dense and intensely flavored muffin-sized cylinder that I put in my bag and picked at all day—and the rich, buttery "Carbon Footprint" shortbread cookies. Less exciting was the "Green Energy" cookie, which you can see has candied jalapeños embedded into the top, as advertised, but neither Debbie nor I could taste anything of the sort. The one real sour note was the iced coffee, unbearably burnt and bitter, but when I went back to return it Rubin was holding court with some big tour group and I didn't have the heart to interrupt. Maybe the organic teas are more the thing to get here...