I will say, though, that I had an initial hint of something ‘more’ hidden beneath the surface vacuity with the opening sequence of the statue of Jesus being flown in by hellicopter.  This scene was too strange, too particular to not have some deeper meaning.   And, lets face it, focusing the camera on a flying statue of Jesus could be something of a shortcut to metaphoric reference.  Nevertheless, it was not until later post-movie reflection that I started to understand this scene.  Though Jesus was leading the way through life, Marcello was too easily diverted from this ’straight and narrow’ course by the slightest glimpse of a woman.  An encapsulation of the lustful human condition?  Or is it the ‘Italian condition’?

It was not until further reading after the film that I realized that Fellini had thought out the sequence and setting of the movie quite extensively.  The scenes supposedly fit into the framework of seven ‘days’, evening and morning.  And the entire film is a study of the decay and moral devolution of modern culture.  Hmmm… did I miss something?  Evidently Fellini expended some substantial brain power on this one.  And obviously, it deserves another look from me.  From what I can discern in the ink spilled about La Dolce Vita, there is a lot of material that can be mined from within this film.  A welcome change from the vacuity of most films today.  But I will say this – I find the typical poster image for this film, of the blond bombshell Sylvia, to be misleading.  But… maybe that is the point.

The vibe I get from reading through Braeburn’s website is that it is a restaurant trying to bridge several genres at once.  A “casual, yet elegant fine dining restaurant,…”.  This, to me, signals a restaurant with an identity crisis.  Restaurants are pretty much either casual or elegant.  It is very hard to be both.  And ‘fine’ dining…?  We’ll see about that.  So what is Braeburn?

For starters, the restaurant space is nice enough.  From the street the interior is glimpsed through window display vitrines full of standing logs.  Birch maybe?  As if secretly peering into a hobbit party in the enchanted forest.  Upon entering one is greeted near the door and then ushered into the bar area. All fairly handsome in dark wood and stone.  So far so good.  But the dining room is just a step to the north, and this is where I see the first clues that there is a discrepancy between what Braeburn says and what Braeburn is. 

Braeburn’s name, taken from the apple variety originating in New Zealand, suggests mental images of warm sunlight on rolling hills patchworked with orchards and farms.  The dining room builds on this reference with reclaimed dark wood on the walls as well as wooden tables and chairs.  And the large painting of a bucolic farm setting on the back wall pushes the reference needle into ‘literal’ territory.  Too bad the painting fell into the ‘almost but not quite there’ category of artistic merit for me.  And also a shame that it is the unabashed focal point of the entire space.  Not a good sign.  But… overall the dining room has a nice ‘casual’ feel to it.  But ‘elegant’?  I don’t think so.  And it only took a glance upward to put the icing on my thinking ‘cake’.  Exposed interior air conditioning units do not exactly say ‘elegant’.  But really, regardless of the level of refinement that Braeburn has labeled itself with, the dining room is a pleasant environment to have a meal in.  Not to mention that we were thrilled to get a table for eleven.  And a spot for a stroller.  Pretty nice!

But in this food town it is food that is king, elegance or not.  And Brian Bistrong, chef and co-owner of Braeburn, has quite the resume.  Most notably his time as saucier at Restaurant Bouleyand chef de cuisine at Bouley Bakery.  The title of ‘executive chef’ is great and all… but heck, I am executive chef in my kitchen.  I think it is being given positions of responsibility by the big names in the business that carries the most weight.  So… eager to sample some of his food we happily dove into a study of the brunch menu.  I immediately zeroed in on the ‘Quail Dog’.  It seems to have gotten a lot of press which can be a good sign.  Also, it sounded inventive… if a bit curious, so I gave it a go.  The boss opted for the ‘Lobster Knuckle Sandwich’.  The friend sitting next to me ordered the burger and other people picked from all over the menu so we were ready for a show.

Unfortunately what showed up at our table was a bit less than what I had hoped for.  The boss’s ‘Lobster Knuckle Sandwich’ was essentially a smallish lobster roll with a pile of coleslaw nearby.  It all tasted fine but I guess that I was hoping for a lobster dish that might have had its roots in tradition, taken the typical lobster roll as it’s inspirational starting point, and then gone further with the dish and blown my mind with flavor.  This did not.  It seemed no marked improvement on other lobster rolls that she or I had had in the past.

Our friend’s burger was pretty straight-forward.  Served with cheddar cheese, lettuce and tomato along with a pile of fries    He said it was pretty good.  Hmmm… pretty good.  I am not sure, being only a block away from the Spotted Pig and its legendary burger, that ‘pretty good’ is going to cut it.  His and my fries, both nicely crisped and sprinkled with salt and chopped parsley were exceptionally done.  But still.

The biggest let-down, though, was reserved for my ‘Quail Dog’.  Unlike the version pictured above my ‘Quail Dog’ was served on a brioche roll with ’smoked’ mustard.  Also on the plate was a little dish of diced ‘fall apple relish’ as well as a metal vessel loaded with fries.  Oh and also a little ramekin of ketchup.  My first thought was ‘why did they prop up my fries in a bowl and put my friend’s fries directly on his plate?’  A bit inconsistent.  Upon further relfection I wasn’t sure I understood the restaurant’s plating concept.  Why so many vessels?  Why not put my apple relish directly on the dog in the roll?  Is putting separate elements of a dish in their own container Braeburn’s idea of ‘elegant’?  To me, if the plating of an element feels superfluous or forced, such as fries awkwardly propped in a metal bowl, then don’t do it.  Sometimes adding to the experience of a dish means to not clutter it.

But enough about plating, I had my Quail Dog to contemplate.  Now I am a big fan of sausage and all sorts of force-meat products.  But, as with my plating opinion, I think a preparation or process should be used only if it adds to the flavor and experience of an ingredient.  Having this quail in dog form did not do that for me.  The pieces of quail inside the dog casing were unfortunately a little dry.  And a little big for my liking.  Sausage works because it is typically fattier off-cuts of meat that have been ground into bits and loaded with seasonings.  Quail is not very fatty.  So biting into a larger piece of the bird within the dog gave me no juiciness.  And big pieces of meat leave little room for spices to uniformly flavor every bite.  I ended up feeling that I was eating an under seasoned de-boned quail packed into a tube on a bun.  Of course I ate every bite.  But in the end it seemed like a lot of effort put into a preparation that did not do much for the taste experience.  My ‘fall apple relish’, though, was very good.  Little minced cubes of apple, cornichons and shallot (maybe?) all mingled together with fresh dill.  A nice accompaniment to any ‘dog’. 

Overall our meal at Braeburn was good and we had a very nice time with our friends.  But I couldn’t help thinking that so much of what we ate was close but just missed the mark in one way or the other.  Whether it was the concept of the dish, its seasoning or plating, many of the elements that we tried were good but left me wishing that they would have been developed further.  Of course this was just brunch, of which a restaurant’s full breadth and depth cannot be judged.  I will have to return at some point to try Braeburn’s dinner menu.  But… it has been my experience that seeing how a restaurant executes the little things, even the afterthoughts that get put on a brunch menu, is a good indication of how it treats the big things on its roster.  A consistent eye towards concept, flavor and enhancement of ingredients is the mark of a great restaurant.  Regardless of its atmosphere.

 

restaurant where “we would feel comfortable dining at any day of the week”, and

Now, I will be the first to admit that I am a pizza addict.  A promiscuous pizza floozy.  If it was socially acceptable I would eat pizza every day.  Along with sushi every day.  Pizza and sushi every day.  While listening to the Smiths.  O.k… that’s a step too far.  But suffice to say that I love pizza.  Of course upon hearing this you might think that my pizza bar is set pretty low.  “He will eat any ol’ pizza and be happy with it,”  you’re thinking.  And this is pretty close to the truth.  BUT, just because I have a vast breadth of pizza experience does not mean that my pizza discernment lacks depth.  On the contrary.  I have a great love for pizza.  And because of that love I am an expert at knowing what constitutes a great pizza.

In terms of Sal & Carmine’s, they had me with the first slice.  And hundreds of slices since. 

Now let me just say that Sal & Carmine’s is a bit different than, say, Lombardi’s, Grimaldi’s or Patsy’s.  There is no 100 year old coal fired oven to lend its aged flinty smoke to the taste complexity of the crust.  Sure they have been in business for a long time, since 1959 if I am not mistaken, but there is nothing sacred or storied in their space or their equipment I don’t think.  Heck, they even moved a while back.  Maybe I am wrong.  But from what I can tell Sal & Carmine’s space seems pretty typical of New York’s many pizza joints.  It is small.  Only a few tables.  It sells whole pies but mainly slices.  It’s menu and its range are limited in that it has only a pizza oven, a counter and fridge to make and hold the dough and a cooler for drinks.  That’s pretty much it.

But the pizza that comes out of Sal & Carmine’s oven is quite frankly some of the best in New York city.  Easily within the top ten.  Possibly within the top five.  I am not sure what their secret is but Sal & Carmine’s crust has a character all its own that subtly sets it apart from other pizzas.  The dough of every pizza is multi-dimensional.  Thin and flexible in the center.  Then bubbling up into pillowy heaps toward the outer edge.  As if driving across the Great Plains the fields on either side of the road were covered in cheese with the Rocky Mountain foothills and muscular peaks of crust rising before it.  The crust itself, instead of charring to a hard dark outer shell, somehow maintains a light coloring of flour, slicked here and there with some of the cheesy oil that has found its way through a ‘mountain pass’.  When bitten into the crust has a slight bready give to it and then a satisfying toothsome chew.  With just enough salt in the dough to keep the taste buds dancing.  Thick in places, yet airy and pliable, a real pleasure to eat.  This is not crust that will get left behind by a picky pizza eater.

Sal & Carmine’s toppings are all fairly straight forward.  There is nothing fussy here like fresh basil or buffalo mozzarella.  But everything from the aged cheese to the pepperoni is good.  Really, though, it is the dough that takes all of the ingredients and toppings and elevates them to something very special.  I usually eat only the simple plain cheese slices so that I can savor the crust all the more clearly.  But whatever you order you can be certain that it will be good.  The one detail that Sal & Carmine’s does add to the diner’s experience is that they tie each pick-up order pizza box with a few wraps of red and white kitchen string.  Which I love.  I carefully untie the string and save each one I get.  Not only is it pretty but I have also then gone on to use it to tie the odd roast or bird. 

So what makes Sal & Carmine’s pizza so good?  The quality and taste of their pizza is simply astounding considering its humble home.  Pizza this good should be served to hundreds every day in a large restaurant.  But maybe that is the point.  Sal & Carmine’s is a family operation.  Brothers Sal and Carmine Malanga have been making pizza together for a long time.  Unfortunately Sal passed away last year.  But Carmine and grandson Luciano Gaudiosi (with the help of a couple other family members) continue to carry on Sal’s tradition and make the pizza every day.  So maybe it’s that family understanding, the familiarness of shared experience and values, that gives Sal & Carmine’s its outstanding flavor and character.  Its pizza dough mojo.  Sal & Carmine’s is run by a family that is not so concerned with growing the business, making lots of money or opening a second restaurant.  They just want to make seriously good pizza.  Which they do very well.

Butcher a whole chicken.  Cut up the meat and refrigerate.  Roast the bones with a mirepoix of vegetables.  Make a stock out of the roasted stuff.  The next day strain the stock, toss the bones, spent veg and any aromatics that you added but save and mince any good meaty bits you can pick out.  Add the meaty mince back to the stock since there is no need for it to be ‘Thomas-Keller-clear’.  Reheat the stock and poach the saved chicken meat and then in the same stock whatever cubed root vegetables you have on hand.  In this case a potato, a turnip, some butternut squash and some carrots.  Also saute some chopped onion, celery and minced garlic in a good bit of butter.  To that add enough flour to make a roux situation happen.  Once nutty brown, add back in three quarters of the stock and some half and half or light cream.  Wisk and simmer on low for a while to thicken.  Pour this into the chicken and cubed veg mixture.  Add chopped parsley, tarragon and thyme along with ground pepper and a little more salt than you think you will need.  Mix it all up and put it into a buttered pie tin.  Run to the store and buy more pie crusts when you realize the filling won’t all fit into one pie.  Artfully cover mixture with crust dough while poking reserved chicken wings out through the middle.  Just like St. John Restaurant pokes a marrow bone out from their meat pies.  Put in the oven at 400F (205C) for almost an hour.  Serve while fondly recounting stories of eating the little frozen pot pies your mom used to buy from the freezer section of the grocery store.

The sous chef had one of the cooks get me started on gutting, cleaning and filleting sardines.  A huge Styrofoam box of sardines.  One of the staples of the River Cafe menu at the time was a dish called a ‘Sardine Sandwich’, (the recipe is here) a layering of sardine fillets, toasted pine nuts, bread crumbs, parsley and lemon juice.  The guy showed me how to prep each fillet by lining them up in rows of three on olive oil brushed parchment paper.  After gutting and filleting about 100 sardines I had finished and moved on to something else.  But then a silver haired woman walked into the kitchen and started greeting the cooks, looking over what they were each up to.  Evidently this was Rose Gray.  I had never met her.  But for some reason I was immediately nervous.  I just kept my head down and my eyes to the task at hand, not wanting to call any undue attention to myself.  She walked by me.  Phew!  Crisis averted.  But wait!  She stopped at the sheet trays filled with my prepped sardines.  I tensed.  She stooped closer.  I pretended not to notice her scrutiny.  She poked a couple fillets.  I started to sweat.

“There are bones in these fillets!” she yelled.

Urp!!!  What?!  Bones?!  No one said anything about bones to me!  Aren’t sardine bones too small to matter?  The cook that showed me the ropes left bones in the fillet he did!  … I think.  What do I do now?

“Who did these?” she yelled again.

“Um, I did chef” I said.

“We can’t have bones in these fillets.  Customers could choke!” she said.  No introduction needed.

“Sorry chef.  I will recheck them all.” I said.

“Good.”  She walked away.  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the other cooks in the kitchen, all with heads down diligently at their morning’s tasks, cracking slight smiles on their faces.  Another trial-by-fire in the River Cafe kitchen.  Witnessed by everyone.  I couldn’t help but smile too.  Better stay on my toes.

The next time that I worked in the River Cafe kitchen and Rose was there she walked by, smiled and said hello.  Either forgetting our previous encounter or remembering but graciously ignoring my nervous sweatiness, I was not sure.  But I was grateful either way.

The thing I love about the River Cafe is its utter honesty.  A few ingredients prepared in a straightforward manner.  But how does it taste so good?!  I think the food at The River Cafe is like one of those paintings you see at MoMA that you look at and think “I could have painted that”.  But you stay standing there and can’t seem to look away.  Why?  Because regardless of how simple it looks, the fact remains that you didn’t paint that painting.  And you are kidding yourself if you think that you could.  The few components of it are so well chosen and so well technically executed that only an expert could pull it off.  And make it look so easy. 

And therein is The River Cafe’s trick.  Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers make very honest, very exacting, very delicious food.  And they make it look easy.  But that is only because they are experts at it.  And extremely passionate about it.  To the point of personally examining over one hundred sardine fillets.  The food at River Cafe is great because of the obsession held by these two women for seeking out the best ingredients and most transcendent preparation possible.  And their expertise shows. 

I only crossed her path a hadnful of times but I know that Rose Gray led a great kitchen.  And that she will be missed by many.

Well… as much as I love Bjork (and Matthew Barney)… I might have to rethink that rule.  Europa, a story about an American that takes a job as a train conductor in Post World War II Germany, is… shall we say ‘odd’.  The film is slow, pedestrian in dialogue and simple in plot.  Actually kind of ridiculous in plot.  A blackmail bomb plot juxtaposed with a promotion exam?  I get it – the notion of extremes of national identity, but it comes off as plodding and clumsy. 

Von Trier’s use of splitting foreground and background, and black and white and color, seems strained at best and arbitrary at worst.  I am left wondering why this story had to be told.  And why did it have to be told in this way?  I am sure there are lessons and insights to be mined in an exploration of a nation trying to find its footing again after a devastating war.  But I am not sure that ‘Europa’ succeeds in finding anything useful to say or saying it in a compelling way.