CFE Hits the Big Time; Vol. II

I just noticed that Eater NY used one of the photos from our Osteria Morini post.

Here it is again, in all its glory:

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Eating Our Way Through the Ace Hotel, Pt. II: The Breslin Burger

The burger pantheon now includes two: Father’s Office and the Breslin Burger. That’s all that needs to be said here. That and the fact that we ate a combined total of five of these in three days.

Okay, I’ll say a little more. Having eaten several of these, I’m amazed at how consistently awesome they are. It’s kind of like with a McDonald’s hamburger: you know exactly what you’re going to get. Except instead of feeling shame, you get the urge to start writing love letters.

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The Perfect Winter Meal: DBGB, New York

A lot of people who write blogs apologize to their audience when they aren’t able to post as frequently. But I figure I get more enjoyment out of this thing than anyone else, so when I blog less often, I feel the need to apologize to myself. Of course, given the size of this blog’s audience, perhaps there’e not much of a distinction there. At any rate, I haven’t been blogging much lately. And now that I’m writing about my most recent stint in New York, I realize that I neglected to write about a highlight of our trip there over Christmas: DBGB.

Now that it’s in the eighties most days in Austin, it’s becoming hard to recall how cold it was in New York at this time. But what I can clearly recall is that this was one of the most satisfying meals we’ve had in some time.

Country style pâté.

Rabbit rillette.

Sausage with lentils. I wish I remember exactly which sausage this was.

Eliza had the burger, which (in another example of my experience with fancy burgers) didn’t actually knock our socks off. But, the fries… Oh, the fries.

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Eating Our Way Through the Ace Hotel, Pt. I: The John Dory

My job has had me travelling to the New York area a lot lately, so on a recent weekend, Eliza flew up to meet me for a weekend in the city. In our continuing effort to be like Jeff and Elizabeth, we decided to try out the Ace Hotel. I would imagine that anyone who stays there and owns a camera takes this exact shot.

The Ace itself was great. The shower alone is worth the cost of the room. Even better, the place is full of good food and coffee. We started every day at Stumptown Coffee Roasters. They’re based out of Portland, so they know a thing or two about coffee. In this photo Eliza’s expression is called “I’ve grown to tolerate, perhaps even enjoy, your constant photo taking.”

We don’t call ourselves “foodies.” For one, the term gives me the willies. More importantly, “foodies” tend to take the fun out of eating. For us, fun is the whole point. So we’re not the kind of people who know the names of chefs. A notable exception to that rule, though, is April Bloomfield, the mastermind behind the Spotted Pig. It helps that the New Yorker recently ran a profile of her. The occasion for that profile was the opening of Bloomfield’s latest venture, The John Dory Oyster Bar, conveniently attached to the Ace.

Naturally, we started off with oysters. This was a very happy meal for Eliza especially. Shellfish as far as the eye could see.

Next up were a couple of soft boiled eggs, served with sea salt and parsley-butter slathered crostini.

Here was some kind of oyster soup with uni crostini. That’s uni as in sea urchin. This little dish is the kind of thing that makes you search in vain for appropriate metaphors. Let’s just say my mouth is literally watering as I write this.

Here was some other kind of mussel or clam-based soup. I’m telling you: Eliza can’t get enough shellfish. But I wasn’t complaining. The weekend was off to a lovely start.

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Hipster Bloodsport

This week’s New Yorker features a profile of Spotted Pig chef April Bloomfield. One passage reminded me of our last visit there:

New Yorkers didn’t quite know what to make of it. Was it a bar with good food? A restaurant that was fun? In any case, it was an immediate hit, a seat at one of its cramped tables so coveted that Frank Bruni, in a mostly admiring review in the Times, deemed the place a “gastromelee.” Message boards abounded with proudly masochistic anecdotes about what one blogger called the “hipster bloodsport” of trying to get in.

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