It's Time to Give JoeDoe a Go...No?

After a week long journey through Barcelona and a somewhat impromptu business trip to London, June is shaping up to be my busiest, most hectic, and certainly most international month so far this year as the Ubereater. Equipped with oodles of information and new experiences, and now stateside indefinitely, I can focus on a tale originally meant for posting prior to my departure for Espana weeks ago:

"The Ubereater has to go!"

"We absolutely loved it."

"Amazing!"

When I first caught wind of East Village newcomer JoeDoe, it was by way of rave review from family and friends, who, with rather bumptious zeal, implored Meghan and me relentelessly to check out this downtown newcomer at our earliest convenience.

In fairness, and justifiably so, I often consume recommendations with deliberate focus and self-awareness. Experience has taught me that discrediting a recommendation, solicited or otherwise, is presumptuous; experience has also taught me that crediting a recommendation unwittingly is indiscriminate.

So with open minds and clear heads, Meghan and I headed East - it was time to give JoeDoe a go - no?

If you're anything like me, then you will immediately find JoeDoe's look and feel to be quite warm and cozy. The space is longer than it is wide, but allows for the full bar on one side and the row of tables on the other to share the space swimmingly. There is a decidedly earnest early 20th century vintage charm to the dining room, clad with a beautiful mahogany bar and a tastefully decorated brick wall. From the small kitcheonette in the back, Ming Tsai disciple Chef/Owner Joe Dobias, a tall, cap-hatted, line-backer of a guy, steers the ship with unwavering focus, while partner in business and life, Jill, manages the commotion on the Bow. Together, on its maiden voyage through some of Manhattan's murkiest, most unpredictable culinary waters, JoeDoe forges ahead - full-bore and with a purpose.

As I understand it (especially having now eaten there twice), the menu follows not one particular theme or cuisine, but is more a gallimaufry of gastronomy that showcases Chef Dobias' ability to create interesting and flavorful dishes using strictly locally sourced produce and meat that varies in availability from week to week. To that end then, the menu at JoeDoe is constantly changing, reshaped more often than not to reflect the bounty provided by surrounding purveyors and organic farms from Upstate and beyond, making for an eating experience that is entirely ephemeral and for me, quite exciting.

Apart from its self-evolving nature, or perhaps because of it, the menu is limited, but remains viable at the same time. Each assigned poetic names, a handful of appetizers and entrees employ a basket of ingredients familiar to the American table, in a variety of ways that range from quasi-traditional to unabashedly intriguing. We started off on the right foot with the Fresh Greens with Beet Dust, Flatbread, and Garlic Cream Cheese. This was an adventure for all the senses, starting with right-out-of-the-ground, al dente farm-fresh greens showered with nuggets of dried beet, partially canopying a expressionistic shmear of dastardly delicious home-made garlic cream cheese. Though delightful on its own, the garlic cream cheese was exploited to the fullest when given a swipe with a handle of the accompanying warm, crispy flatbread, seasoned liberally with salt and pepper. This was an outstanding start to our meal, if not a clear representation of what JoeDoe food is all about. Simple, fresh, and stimulating.


Though Meghan's food fetters made devouring her flatbread nearly impossible, I was soon distracted by the second appetizer, which I think, in hindsight, captured most effectively the Zeitgeist of pure JoeDoe. A first for me, my Corazon (below) arrived as large cubes of beef heart resting comfortably in a pungent tomatillo-based sauce of sorts, and topped with a bundle of tart spears of pickled rhubarb. Though historically my relationship with organ meat (known as the "fifth quarter" in culinary parlance) has been non-existent, something about this dish drew me in. The husky, dark, almost sanguineous chunks of "corazon", tasted unlike any protein I've had yet. Neither familiarly beefy, nor gamey, nor ferric as many often describe these functioning parts, instead, these morsels of myocardium were pleasingly crispy on the outside while surprisingly nimble and tender on the inside; apt to tear apart in a way that is reminiscent of properly cooked brisket. Of course the comparison to any sort of traditional beef product ends here. Much more commanding than "beef" of any cut or persuasion, this flesh, was dense, bold, and reassuringly resilient - and why shouldn't it be? This is the flesh that gives life! The novelty of this dish fell victim to its honesty as something totally different and completely delicious - and for that reason, among many others, I thoroughly enjoyed it.


For the main course, our hangar steak (below) was a tender one, cooked medium rare to perfection, sliced on the bias, and joined by a smattering of house-made sauce concocted from raisins among other things, to mimic, better yet, emulate, a classic homemade steak sauce. A sky scraping heap of fresh greens stoutly guards a trio of Chef Joe's Pastelicos (2nd below), salaciously sumptuous balls of creamy herbed mashed potatoes christened with a crisp-fried exterior. These were delicious and as equally welcoming of that homemade steak sauce to which we had taken such a liking. This was a plate bursting with bovinity and screaming of freshness, giving credence to every major food group the way we all envision but don't usually experience in reality. This, was a wonderful dish indeed.

Making my way up the food group pyramid at this point, and determined to finish things off properly, we hewed to the special request of family, and made it a point to check out the Wildflower Honey Custard Dessert. This unique offering paired slightly solidified custard with another, less buxom flatbread that wore a laquer of salty peanut crumbs and powdered sugar. The custard, an incredibly light, almost weightless cream, quite canorously coincided with its flatbread sidekick, which packed a rice-cake-like snap when broken down to be slathered with the lovely custard. As satisfying as it had described to us, we couldn't have thought of a better way to finish this stellar eating experience.

Having enjoyed this particular meal so much, we decided to come back with friends a couple weeks later to get a better feel for the rest of the menu, which was we expected, and much to my pleasure, had changed. The table selections that night ran the gamut, from Salmon to Duck to Sausage - all of which was prepared with the attention to detail and insight we had expected based on our first experience a couple weeks earlier. Good times and good food were had by all!

Unequivocally, I am a firm supporter of JoeDoe and the work of its eponymous founder and his family. I have tried, during my still short tenure as the Ubereater, to maintain an M.O. that revolves around highlighting and exposing New York City eateries and the people behind them. That is, those people who succeed in serving quality food with dogmatic consistency. As haute critics and nincompoops alike exercise their rights to cavil and complain as they always will, myself being one of them at times, I similarly retain my right to remain steadfast in my stance that JoeDoe is a restaurant whose good looks and even better food are overshadowed only by its potential to completely bust up the quiet block on which it sits. It is my hope that the hearts and minds behind JoeDoe remember that only the roars of disagreeability can drown out the harkening voice of its wonderful food, and amiable aesthetic, which does, and always will, speak for itself.

In the meantime, I'll continue to heed the call of JoeDoe.

JoeDoe (map it)
45 E 1st St
(212) 780-0262

Food: A
Service: A
Ambiance: A
In a thought: "An impressive meal that is visibly and palatably thoughtful."

Ruby's Burgers are the Gem of NoLita

As far as burgers go in the city, the landscape has more or less been mapped in its entirety thanks to a dogmatic (and often painfully unforgiving) blogosphere that proudly perpetuates New York City's obsession with the almighty hamburger. From the cult craze of the Shake Shack, to the unrefined charm of J.G. Melon, and everything in between, you would think it's more than fair to say that this city has addressed, reviewed, hyped, dismissed, scoffed, overanalyzed, and dastardly decried every burger there is to be had between the Hudson and East Rivers, from Inwood to Battery Park City.

Who isn't sick of reading about Pat LaFrieda and his famed "Black Label" brand? How many more Minetta Tavern reviews can we possibly stomach?

In essence, at this stage of the game, this brazen bastion of burger freaks has made it a point to let no bun go unflipped - if you will - leading itself to believe that the best, the tastiest, the most enjoyable patties have already been exposed, and thoroughly at that. The frontier hath been conquered so to speak, pilfered of any remaining value, and worse, mystery. Or hath it?

You would think anyway, but when my recent culinary crusades led me to a small, cozy little bodega of burgerdom in Nolita known as Ruby's Cafe, I knew I had struck gold.

Quietly pitched on a semi-hipster strip of Mulberry Street North of the Little Italy madness, Ruby's shares a rather docile block with higher end boutiques and soigne shoe stores. Around the corner from Lombardi's on one end, and a stones throw away from the tepid cesspool of superficiality anchored firmly at the corner of Lafayette and Prince at the other, Ruby's keeps a low profile on a notably untarnished portion of Mulberry Street.


Beyond its entrance-way and double-door windows that open up to the sidewalk, 5 picnic benches occupy 90% of the space, maximizing every last square inch available, and making for a snug fit for those bigs guys like me. A small, kitchenette in the back is where the magic happens, while the white-washed brick wall, and high-ceiling add character to an already personable space that is anything but small in the simplest sense of the word.

First and foremost, Ruby's is undoubtedly Aussie-run, something you'll learn right away from the accent of your server (which are all extremely friendly by the way.) The menu offers a limited selection of starters, pasta dishes and salads, all of which sounds good, but never enough to pull me away from the burger. That is why I come to Ruby's...for the burger.

The menu features 5 different burgers of varying moxy whose catchy nicknames smack loudly of Aussie charm and sensibility. Consistent among all 5 choices, and one of the greatest aspects to Ruby's burger, is the light and crispy grill-kissed ciabatta bread employed to coddle this wonderful creation The Bronte (below), which is Meghan's favorite (and mine too before I had the Whaleys), manifests itself as an oblong meat patty, topped with two slices of cheese, lettuce, tomato, and Ruby's signature sweet chili sauce, a vastly popular accoutrement in the Land Down Under that I can't seem to get enough of here in the State. All nestled neatly together on a delicious ciabatta roll, this is one of the best bites in all of Manhattan, no questions asked.


Though by no means the biggest burger I've ever had (far from it in fact), it is quite possibly the most intriguing and exciting on the palate. The ground beef, flecked heavily with bits of onion and parsley and herbs, is almost like meatloaf in texture and appearance, remaining sturdy and unified while remarkably tender. This, in tandem with fresh ciabatta that falls apart in your mouth and a heavy-handed dose of sweet chilli, makes for one of the best burgers I've had in the city.

Even more adventurous, and unequivocally pure Australian, is the Whaleys (not pictured), which boasts a pleasantly perplexing combination of beet, pineapple, lettuce and tomato, that is so regally topped off with a fried egg for good measure. Odd but awesome, and addicting from the beginning.

These are the types of burgers cravings are made of.

Without any question at all, Ruby's makes one of the best burgers in the city. And while I can almost guarantee purists near and far will go out of their way to reprimand me for making such a claim, I really couldn't care less. Puritanical guidelines and fusty rules are for the weak-minded, the nettlesome nebbishes of the hamburger world that spend their days debating ideal fat percentages and bun to burger ratios instead of venerating a burger like Ruby's for its ability to charm us with its wanton authenticity. You'd think such a heady crowd would embrace one of philosophy's oldest, and simplest adages, "It is what it is."

And what it is - is outstanding.

Furthermore, as an out and out burger fanatic and full-fledged carnivore, I am increasingly more inclined to celebrate the new and the unique as opposed to redundantly reveling in the old and revered. Ruby's burgers represent a path froward the meritocracy of a rickety hamburger hierarchy stabilized by tradition, and instead, toward a new day where flavor, format, and frivolity rule the realm.

Grab a burger at Ruby's and see if you don't agree mate.

Ruby's Cafe (map it)
219 Mulberry St
New York, NY 10012
(212) 925-5755

Captain Tim's Low-Country Boil: The South at Its Best

Two weeks ago, I ventured south of the Mason Dixon line to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina's feisty, ever-expanding resort town that over the years, has become somewhat of hot-spot for all walks of life. Whether it be a cavalcade of Harley Davidson bikers looking to re-energize over a cold one, young families hankering for some precious beach time with their little ones, or querulous bachelors desperate to shed their hyperactive city lives for the torpor of the South Carolinian heat, Myrtle Beach manages to offer something for everybody.

And of course, it goes without saying, that in this "something for everybody", inheres a sprawling landscape of eateries that strive to satisfy every culinary craving under the sun. That's the good news. The bad news is that the majority of the eating options in Myrtle Beach exists in the form of national and regional restaurant chains that are anything but local. Obviously as the Ubereater this deeply saddens me mainly because as a true fanatic for the cuisine of the American South (I dream about biscuits weekly), it pains me to see this sort of mass commercialization in region of the country so famously proud of its roots.

I say this not as a gauche gastronomic gadfly looking to belittle the eating habits of this area, but more pointedly as an avid eater and true culinarian perplexed by the irony at play here. In fairness, I do realize this sort of development is not without purpose, and was most certainly a function of the local demand. There was a need - and the community met that need. I'm not out to vilify the Landry's and the Pizzeria Uno's of the world - these are legitimate establishments that are quite popular throughout the country - but it is extremely difficult for me to justify eating at these sorts of places when I travel to a part of the country that is otherwise teeming with timeless food treasures.

All this said, after some thorough investigation, it became clear that the if I were truly determined to get my hands on some classic southern grub, I would have to leave the flashing neon lights of Myrtle , and head to one of its less crowded neighboring communities - North Myrtle Beach to the north, or Murrell's Inlet to the south.

Having resigned myself to knowing that an authentic culinary tradition of the South was all but beyond my reach at this point, and realizing this trip was supposed to be about celebrating my friend's dangerously dwindling Bachelordom and not my quest for the perfect shrimp and grits, I accepted our less than ideal situation and moved on.

Little did I know that one of the best southern food experiences of my life would take place on a sail boat docked in a South Carolina coastal channel less than a mile from the Atlantic Ocean.

It was the idea of our group's ring lead to charter a boat for the day to enjoy the open water and if nothing else, simply get away from it all. We enlisted Myrtle Beach Sailing Charters, owned and operated by Captain Tim Hamilton, to navigate the complex network of narrow winding waterways that form the Carolinas' extensive channel system which slowly segues into the mighty Atlantic.

Included in our 6 hour tour, along with knocking back a few beers, basking in the sub-tropical sun, and listening to the feel-good rhythms of Bob Marley and Jimmy Buffet, was a hearty lunch to be prepared by our trusty skipper, who, as I would later learn, is as much as a chef as he is a captain.

After hopping overboard for 45 minutes or so, Captain Tim summoned us back to the boat. Our lunch, evidently, was ready. After finagling our way back on to the vessel, grateful I didn't break anything along the way, (it's always more difficult that it looks), we were greeted by a set table that contained no indication of what was being served.

Hungry, wet, sun-drunk, and still detoxing from the night before, I literally squealed like a pig when our jolly skipper announced that for lunch we would be enjoying his Low-Country Boil, a central pillar of the pantheon of the Southern table that has come to represent what I love so much about the food traditions of this part of the country. Much like Chili in the Southwest and Chowder in New England, Low-Country Boil is more art than science - a method more than a recipe if you will, that involves boiling in seasoned water and in proper sequence, potatoes, corn, sausage and either craw fish or shrimp, until amply cooked. The key here is the timing of the cooking, since each warrants vastly different cooking times.

This steaming pot of goodness is then drained and served family style, accompanied by drawn butter and hot sauce. It is a messy, dirty orgy of consumption that can be draining, but always satisfying. For an Ubereater, it is an out-of-body experience.

Captain Tim's version arrived on a gargantuan plate as a steaming hot mountain of low-country love, built with perfectly boiled, silky starchy new potatoes, ultra-sweet cobs of corn, massive hunks of juicy savory sausage, falling-off-the-bone chicken legs, and of course oodles and oodles of giant shrimp pulled from local waters. Serve with drawn butter, hot sauce (Texas Pete!), and some old bay seasoning, I was in my glory.

We attacked this heaping mound of deliciousness with reckless abandon, leaving no morsel unmolested and essentially clearing the plate in minutes. Like a pack of rabid dogs, we fought, albeit passive-aggressively over the last few tidbits of love on the plate ("You sure you don't want it?")
In the end, covered in butter and hot sauce, and self-dusted with old bay, we successfully devoured more than 3 pounds of shrimp, among all the other goodies camping out on the plate.

This was not only the best meal of the weekend, but one of the best meals I've had this year. As I told Captain Tim, and the rest of the guys that day, there could not have been a better meal awaiting our return from the water. Absolutely and utterly delicious, and entirely fulfilling in terms of both mind and body.

I want to thank Captain Tim for the wonderful time we had that day. As a skipper alone, his hospitality and genuine interest in making sure we were enjoying ourselves was quite appreciated. As a South Jersey-native, I like him even better, but more important, as a chef, his ability to make an already exceptional trip, even better with authentic, local, made-from-the-heart food, embodies the kind of experience I had hoped, and finally did, get, while in South Carolina. This is a true testament to the South's pride in their food, best exemplifed by Captain Tim's poigant mantra towards the culinary arts:

"Just get great ingredients, and don't f$%# it up!"

Can't argue with you there.

Thankfully, and as is usually the case, my culinary adventure to Myrtle was not all for naught, once again proving that beneath the veil of modernity, there will always rest a rich layer of culinary bedrock that will forever thrive on tradition, love, and an honest devotion to lovely food.

Myrtle Beach Sailing Charters