The Ubereater Cooks: Grilled Veggie and Mozzarella Panino on Garlic Ciabatta

“Do you like to cook?”

Who hasn’t been asked this rather benign question at one point or another, and who hasn’t responded “yes” wholeheartedly as well. But what exactly does it mean to cook? Those who answer in the affirmative can run the gamet in terms of scope, skill, and experience. Someone who makes grilled cheese for dinner every night might “like to cook”. Another self-proclaimed “cook” may take great pride in whipping up a bowl of overboiled, steaming-hot “pasta-mush” doused with a jar of blood-red Prego. And yet another may spend 3 hours making Coq Au Vin with Parmesan crusted lemon-pepper asparagus and horseradish mashed potatoes, and be quite willing to assert his love for “cooking”. None of these examples is more right than the other. To cook is to create, and we all know there is nothing more subjective than creativity.

The point is, cooking represents something different to everyone, and in today’s food-centric society, the meaning of the word has become rather vague. Case in point: Rachel Ray “cooks”, but so does Daniel Boulud. And what does Gordon Ramsay do? To contend this assertion would undoubtedly imply that there are various degrees of “cooking” – which is something we all already knew and proves my point exactly. To avoid some of this confusion, these days I tend to cling to the more user-friendly, skill-blind phrase, “prepare my own food”. It’s straightforward, it’s simple, it inheres no presumption, and leaves no room for misinterpretation.

That said, as the newly resurrected Ubereater, I’ve morphed into a creature that is fully and completely engaged by, and enamored with preparing my own food. So while my growth spurt into an epicurean endeavorist owes its thanks to an initially undying need “to restaurant”, my post-adoloscent relationship with food is much more grounded, meaningful and intimate.

What I make is limited to nothing and defined by anybody. I cringe at the sight of a cookbook and recipes are about as useful to me as the Obama administration. I think about what I like to eat, and then make it. It doesn’t get any simpler than that.

In her constant search for light and delicious meals we can make during the week at night, Meghan recently threw out to me the idea of a grilled veggie sandwich with mozzarella cheese on “some good bread.” I obliged and we went from there.

What I ultimately created was Grilled Vegetable Panino that included alternatingly stacked layers of grilled red and yellow bell peppers, zucchini, and slices of vine-ripened tomato, draped with blankets of semi-sour mozzarella cheese. All this, on a beautiful piece of garlic and olive oil ciabatta from Trader Joe's.

What do you like to "cook"?

At Big Wong, It's All About Speed Not Size

Earlier in the month I finally made my way back to my OTHER favorite Chinese restaurant in New York City. It is a charming little establishment on Mott Street known as Big Wong that’s been around more than 3 decades and continues to feed the masses with uncanny efficiency.

My first encounter with this Chinatown gem was a lunch excursion with old coworkers almost 2 years ago that left me full and satisfied and singing the praises of these cheap and delicious lunch dishes.

Who knows why it’s taken me until now to get back there, maybe it’s my inability to keep up, or my capricious relationship with chinese food, or simply the fact that my future wife, and defacto dining partner, still can’t seem to grasp the concept that Pineapple Fried Rice is not quintessential Chinese fare.

Whatever the reason, a couple weeks back, after watching the rather innane New York, I Love You, I get up off the couch and in a very Obama-esque manner (minus the professoral condescension) proclaimed, “This Friday we’re going to Big Wong.” I received no objection from my lady which makes me wonder if assertiveness may actually work.

Regardless, Das Ubereater has spoken.

5 days later, there we stood on a balmy Friday night, beneath Big Wong’s iconic, carnival-like yellow and red sign, half-way down Mott Street just south of Canal St, on what is arguably one of the filthiest, grimiest patches of urbana in all of the 5 boroughs. And we were in awe. At least I was, Meghan had already gone inside.

Big Wong’s interior is as breathtakingly mundane as its exquisitely Chinatown-ish exterior, profusely oozing nostalgia from every crack and crevass in its form, a condition that clearly stems from a blatant disregard for any sort of renovation or cosmetic upkeep. The aesthetics are only enhanced by the duo of wild men with cleavers chopping and dicing various meats at lose-a-finger speed behind an eye-level curtain of burnt-orange ducks that are thankfully protected by a glass window. This is all to your left as you enter the room. Dinner – as they say – is served.

As soon as you’re in Big Wong, you’re sitting. This restaurant is nothing short of a well-oiled machine that in its 30 year-history, has perfected the art of getting patrons in and out the door, give or a take a few unintelligible utterances in Mandarin or Cantonese. Two rows of tables line each side of the wood-paneled dining room that harks back to the olden days of Chinese food when Shrimp Toast ruled and Pu Pu Platters were the talk of the town. Down the middle of the narrow room runs the the open aisle that is the main thoroughfare used by a visibly disgruntled clan of servers in order to scurry between the front and back of the house, filling orders and delivering food all while barking at one another in various Chinese tongues. Whether they’re plotting to devalue the US Dollar through a mass debt dump, or asking for more water pitchers, either way it’s frightening – and exciting at the same time.

The atmosphere is pretty hectic, even when it’s not busy, as within seconds of stepping through the door, you’re (barely) greeted, promptly seated, and presented with all pertinent menus necessary for ordering – a process after which your server anxiously stands over you as you plan your meal. There’s an inherent expectation that you know what you want before you come to Big Wong, which might be unsettling for some, yet seems to make sense in some ways. When you think about it, why shouldn’t you?

We stuck to the program and ordered what I had come for – Pork over Rice (bottom left), and Duck over Rice (bottom right). Both the Pork and Duck preparations are served room temperature and as you would expect - over rice. Nothing wild here - the pork consists of boneless glazed encrusted slivers of tender pork atop a lukewarm pile of white rice. Again, not extravagant, but satisfying and filling through straightforward simplicity. The duck, though less plentiful and a bit more difficult to eat because of bones, is definitely more succulent and rich. Fans of traditional peking duck will probably prefer the pork at Big Wong, but for less than $6 bucks each, either plate is a win-win situation on my end.

Mixing things up a bit, the Shrimp and Pork Dumplings (Bottom left) were perfectly cooked, and slapped with a sweet oyster sauce that was incredible. My only complaint here is that there wasn't enough of it. But the vegetables (Bottom right), oh the vegetables, are really what turned me on to Big Wong. For a few bucks, you can order a side of "vegetables", though they say it could be anything, I've only ever gotten crunchy, crispy leafy greens doused in more of that sweet oyster sauce that would make a construction boot taste good. I'm ashamed to say I'm not sure exactly what type of greens they are, but next time I'll ask, I know they'll be dying to explain it to me.

Seeing that all of this food wasn't enough, I was feeling good and figured why not toss in a nice big burly bowl of Pork Dumpling Congee. This classic Chinese savory porridge is something I've come to really enjoy, and Big Wong's hits the spot. Large globes of boiled balls of ground pork wade stealthily in a vast pond of thin, soupy, opaque porridge. I was full by the time I got to the congee, but I made sure I left no "pork ball" unturned.

This trip to Big Wong was a memorable one, not so much for the look of painful indifference on Meghan's face, but instead for the simple, cheap, comforting food that hits your table in less than 3 minutes piping hot and begging to be eaten. As much I enjoy the opulence of a fine meal at Peking Duck House, the essence of Chinatown is best encapsulated by those eateries that are swift, efficient, and pointedly accurate at every stage of the meal, and do so with minimal communication aside from the occasional head nod or two.

I implore you to hit Big Wong if you haven't already. Sit down, take it all in, and of course ,enjoy the food.

If you do it fast enough you may just get a "thank you" from your server - but I wouldn't count on it.

Big Wong

Surfer Sundays at Ditch Plains is a Great Way to get (Lobster) Baked

It's almost been a year since my maiden voyage into the world of the almighty Low Country Boil and I'm saddened to say I 've not had it since. That's not to say I haven't thought about it, and even pined for it, yet this is the unfortunate truth. Partly to blame is this mad mad city of ours where access to this mode of cooking seems hard to come by - until now!

Along my usual daily patrol of the food blogging universe, I came across an exciting tidbit of information. As it turns out, Ditch Plains, nearby West Village NY-style fish shack (and sister resto to Tribeca's Landmarc), has started offering a traditional Lobster Bake on Sunday's after 4 PM, deemed Surfer Sundays. For $30, you get a 1 1/2 lb lobster, corn, andouille sausage, and a potato, cooked as one entity obliviously reveling in its own juices.

I realize that technically this doesn't qualify as a Low Country Shrimp boil, but like your second-cousin Ruby from Boone County, WV, it's closer in relation than you may think. Come to think of it, isn't the bake the Yankee cousin to the boil? It would appear that way.

Be it a boil or a bake, the premise is the same - carefully use low, constant heat to cook quintessential summer goods to arrive at a delicious, butter-soaked, bib-warranting meal.

And so being the eager eaters that we are, we made our way to Ditch Plains on the inaugural Surfer Sunday at 4 PM to get our "bake" on.

In less time than that I had anticipated, our meal had begun, each of us ordering our own pot with the expectation, or really the fear, that one for the two of us would not be enough. First came the accoutrement, specifically the timelessly luxurious drawn butter and the more grounded house-made old-bay aoli.



Shortly thereafter, arrived our beloved Lobster Bakes. Two identical portraits of crustaceous beauty lay before us. The blood-red lobsters staring up at us as if to say "why me?", flanked on all sides by a girthy, fresh, canary yellow ear of corn, a similarly portly link of andouille sauage, and two baseball-sized potatoes, one above and the other below. Surely a sight to be seen, but more important, a presentation to be eaten.

Fully bibbed and claw cracker in hand, we wasted no time digging in. The lobster was cooked perfectly, and thanks to some help from the chef for pre-cracking the knuckles and claws, relatively easy to eat. Soft, succulent, sweet lobster meat is unlike anything else and when it's cooked the way it's supposed to be, resides in a culinary league of its own. Generous, check that, outright vicious dunks into the golden well of drawn butter were abound and plentiful, and even a bit messy. Good thing we had the bib.

The success in the bake here is that everything was left untouched. Corn as simple as it is sweet (at this time of year?), salty smokey sausage that snaps open, and potatoes sogged in the buttery, lemony residual pot juice. The old bay aoli was particularly addictive, offering up a nice tangy zing that was reminiscent of Tartar sauce. I've never liked tartar sauce and I usually use discretion with aolis, but this one was addicting and great for slathering on everything that was in front of me (including the fork by its lonesome).

This was a true ode to a classic - no extras, no twists, no interpretations. It's a bake, and a damn good one.

Though I'm no sure this guy shared my sentiments. At $30, the price is at the very least fair, and really in my opinoin a pretty good bargain. The quantity of food is just right, and you'll leave feeling not only full, but overtaken by a general sense of satisfaction.

A belly of butter and lobster will do that to you.

Ditch Plains (Map it)

Surfer Sundays: Every Sunday after 4PM

Torrisi's Italian Specialties: Come for the Turkey and Stay for the Eggplant Parm

This past Saturday I celebrated my 29th birthday the only way I know how - eating. It was a day I'd been planning ever since Easter Weekend, when a post Hudson River run-lunch found me sweaty, soaked, sore and finally salivating over a roast turkey sub that far exceeded my wildest expectations and rather bluntly changed my life. So it was on Easter Sunday, as I walked home through Soho, amidst a school of smelly Spaniards, that I called my parents and said, "I know where I'm taking you next time you come to the city."

Fast-forward 3 weeks, and there we were, myself, my father, my mother, and my lovely wife-to-be, nestled snugly into a corner table at Torrisi's, mere minutes after its doors open to the public on a beautiful late April morn. Just footsteps from the sacred walls of Old St. Pat's on nearby Prince Street, like a dedicated priest bearing good tidings to his aging congregation, I was mentally prepping my culinary disciples for an experience that would be somewhat of an exorcism of everything that they once believed to be true.

Torrisi's Italian Specialties, in no more words than necessary, is what I've always been looking for and just didn't know it until now. A small, 18-seat parlor on the northern fringe of Little Italy dedicated to serving tried and true Italian American fare using the best American ingredients. If you don't believe them, take close note of the walls bedizened in packaged Progresso Bread Crumbs, and rows upon rows of unopened jars of New Jersey's own B&G peppers - here is your clue that you're into something good here.


Having arrived a few minutes after my parents, I already knew what to expect. Knowing my father, who, when it comes to food and waiting for it, has less self-control than Barney Frank at a Chuck E. Cheese's, I was expecting to arrive to find something already sitting on the table. Worse yet, I feared my father would be half-way into a sub and I'd miss all his juicy commentary.

Luckily this was not the case, sort of - I did arrive to my father having ordered, but was fortunate to have gotten there moments after our first masterpiece hit the table. What greeted me was a sight to be seen, an hommage to all things Italian American and a sparkling shrine to a realm of food that all but completely defined my culinary childood. It was indeed what we titled The Italian Sub, and it looked like this:


What we have here is what I venture to say is (half of) the best pure sub I've ever had. We bear witness to a same-day fresh Hero bread from neighborhood favorite Parisi's bakery cradling a mass of various salty ham and salami, draped delicately with a thin layer of provolone. What does it for me particulary at this stage in the game is the not-too-heavy portion of super-finely-shredded lettuce, paper-thin tomato and a smattering of sliced vinegary cherry peppers that finish off this work of art. I have always loved italian sandwiches, but often shunned the traditional "subs" that boasted shredded lettuce, tomato, oil and vinegar, and (gasp!) mayo mainly becuase too many Deli's in too many parts of the country have managed to ruin this ancient artform. But at Torrisi's, I've found salvation and am once again, a true believer.


The bread, the meat, the lettuce, the tomato, and the "deli spread" lathered on both top and bottom of the bread make this the best sub I've ever eaten. I'm not sure I can say anything else about it.

Had the meal ended here, I would've been more than satisified albeit still hungry. These days I sometimes still contemplate the true meaning of being an Ubereater, until times like this when I realize my amuse bouche is half of a 5-inch tall sub.

Next it was on to what I had been talking about all along: The Roast Turkey. You can get any sandwich you please at Torrisi's on either a round roll or a hero. I opted for the hero, and added roasted peppers to my mix. What I got, was what I had been dreaming about for weeks since my last visit. A beautiful heap of moist, 3/4 inch thick hunks of herb-blasted, house-made, falling- apart-on-itself turkey, shouldering thankfully a layer of roasted peppers, and more of that surgically sliced bouquet of lettuce and tomato. Oh and a tons of deli paste of course. This was dastardly delicious - juicy, crunchy, smooth, crispy - it has it all. It just has it all.

The turkey is unlike anything you've ever had. How could these sumptuous slabs of grainy, white-meat wonderfullness come from the same creature my family so readily banished from the Thanksgiving dinner table years ago. It's a question that needs no answer. And this is a sandwich that need not be spoken for any further.

Though caught up in the tumultuous turbulence of my toppling Turkey treat, I kept my whits about me enough to remember to order a nice heaping block of the eggplant parm, which has been taunting me from behind the glass-shielded countertop for way too long. It was my birthday and I'm freaking ordering it. Having mentally devoured this busty beaut from the moment I laid eyes on it, I could only hope it was half as satisfying as my beloved Turkey and the like. There was, as they say, only one way find out.

My order manifested itself in the form of this:

Like admiring the vast easterly view of the New York City skyline on that storied final approach into Newark Airport, this eggplant parm was simply breathtaking and easily the best I've ever had. Easily. Traditional to the nth degree, layer upon layer of thin, lightly-breaded slices of eggplant, interspersed with sweet red gravy spiked with fresh basil and a rogue piece of fresh mozzy, wears proudly the aftermath of gentle anoiting of grated Parmigiano. This is the eggplant parm we all dreamed of but never could actually attain. What do they do to the eggplant? God only knows.

It should go without saying then, that we couldn't stop eating it, which is why we ordered another piece. Though it doesn't surprise me knowing what I know now, this is another perfect example of how impeccably fresh ingredients treated properly make a classic favorite indefatiguably delicious.

For good measure, I also went ahead and splurged on a 1/2 lb of the house-made mozzy. I don't care who you are, or where you've been, or who you voted for, homemade mozzarella cheese is unlike anything you'll put in your mouth. Torrisi's is served as such, sliced into thirds and beached in a mixture of its own whey and a healthy dousing of extra virgin olive oil.

A succulent end to an overall spectacular birthday.

While it may be true that 2010 has been the most conservative for the Ubereater, it is also shaping up to be possibly the most fruitful and enlightening yet and I have Torrisi's to thank for that.

I think Mark, my main man behind the counter with whom I've gotten to know a bit after a few trips, sums it up best.

"Everything is good. These guys really know what they're doing."

He ain't kidding. And neither am I.

Torrisi's Italian Specialties- map it here