Babbo Baby, Babbo!

Back in the beginning of the year, I had compiled a list of eateries I pledged to visit in 2008. 10 months, and two trips later, and I am finally prepared to discuss my larger-than-life experiences at Mario Batali’s epic Babbo.

I am compelled to recant the story of this West Village legend’s extraordinary knack for offering a an unforgettably pointed meal – easily one of the best eating experiences yet as the Ubereater. As memorable for its pomp as it was its circumstance, Babbo, on our first occasion was the backdrop to the “closing ceremonies” to Meghan’s multi-mooned, never-ending birthday celebration, while the second go-round was a surprise visit concocted by yours truly. Either way, both meals were entirely and undoubtedly exquisite.

That said, just a stone’s throw beyond the shady sights and silly sounds of MacDougal St, this exceptionally elusive eatery has for a decade, remained an oasis of acuity thriving in surroundings coveted historically for their obscurity. A trip through nearby Washington Square Park will certainly prove that point.

Let it be known that before you can enjoy the toothsome treasures of Babbo, you actually have to get in to Babbo – and that requires a reservation, which in case you weren’t aware, is nearly impossible to come by. As one of the most coveted tables in the City, booking a table at this bastion of Batali brawn requires determination, a dose of luck, and what has to be some sort of divine intervention. If you can break through the ever-busy reservation line (which took 20 minutes of constant redialing to accomplish on both occasions) while remembering the well-documented 30-day policy, you will emerge victorious, exhausted, and most of all, hungry. But I can tell you, it’s well worth it.

Along a picturesque sliver of Waverly place, half-way between the sempiternal honking and hollering of 6^th avenue and the sneaky skulduggery of Washington Square Park, sits Mario Batali’s baby…Babbo. A yellow pastel facade tattooed in bold, oversized black and red lettering make its dramatic and vibrant exterior a far cry from the humble signage and muted colors that adorn nearby siblings Lupa and OTTO.

Inside, rich crème-colored walls, a svelte mahogany bar, and a vaulted ceiling, together, govern the front of the house which is part wine bar, part waiting area that becomes cramped rather quickly as the 6 o’clock hour approaches. A confident, grown-up feel should be your first clue to this fine establishment’s historic role as the self-made eldest child in the ever-growing family of bustling Batali establishments. Clearly, it is this certain air of free-spirited sensibility that attracts moonstruck couples, established professionals, and devout foodies alike. Still, dim lighting mixed with loud rock music takes a back seat to even louder conversation, conjuring, quite perfectly, that classic “Batali” ambiance, which at Babbo, remains a healthful reminder that just because you’re mature and have a few bucks in your pocket, doesn’t mean you’re enslaved to stuffy dining rooms, table-side violinists, and a uniformed servers. At Babbo, only the food is livelier than the people.

The semi-cluttered front graduates to a more open set arrangement in a back room anchored by a regal staircase that splits the room into two levels, the downstairs being a bit more casual than the second floor.

But on to food.

Our meal could not commence quickly enough as a tasty sampling of chickpeas marinated in red pepper-flake-flecked olive oil was a welcoming treat.

Starting things off, I opted for the Cotechino, a seasonal italian delicacy, often served in the winter - especially New Year's Eve, rests on a bed of lentils heavily dressed in sweet and syrupy well-aged balsamic vinegar from Modena. Made from pork, fat back, and a number of pungent spices, including cinnamon and clove, this savory, succulent meat product is sliced into thick discs that rest neatly on a pile of al dente lentils. Admittedly, with its strong odor and major mouthfeel, Cotechino is somewhat of an acquired taste that is probably more difficult to accept in terms of its gritty, corrugated texture than the sweet and savory flavor combination that nowadays, most of us have come to enjoy.

Cotechino fully consumed (and rather quickly at that), the Tortelloni with Dried orange and wild fennel pollen (below), arrives as assembly of delicate, butter-soft packages of tongue-puckering goat cheese every so slightly infused with a hint of citrus orange and a dusting of super subtle fennel pollen. The acidity from the orange and the tang of the cheese eliminate every last memory of what you thought tortelloni, their little siblings, tortellini, should be, or ever will be again in your eyes.

Even more exciting, the Spaghettini with Lobster and Budding chives (below), is definitely one of the top 5 pasta dishes to be had in the City. A heaping portion of thin tubular spaghettini come ensconced in a sanguineous fire red zesty tomato sauce, blessed with large, plump hunks of tender lobster to form a devilishly handsome portrait of pasta spiked with roughly chopped spicy chives that more than finish the job. There is something about all the pasta preparations at not only Babbo, but Lupa and Otto as well, that set these seemingly simple combinations apart from anything else. There is a certain element to Batali’s food, and especially at Babbo, that so effortlessly finds a way to use simple means to achieve an exquisite end and the spaghettini at Babbo could not any more perfect an example.

Reeling from the Primi, the Secondi waste no time making their entrance. The Grilled Guinea Hen (below) is a high rising compilation of the game bird’s juicy, succulent dark meat set atop a bed of sweet stringy spaghetti squash. A crispy well-grilled skin, and an abundance of black truffle vinaigrette round out yet another one of Babbo’s peculiarly perfect plates.

But it gets even better. Lucky for me, Babbo offers one of my all time favorite meals – a double-cut, insanely thick Pork Chop, accompanied by cherry peppers and cipollini. Hewing to my preference that this perfect piece of pig is cooked medium rare, this pork chop embodied everything I love about this classic dish. Tender, silky pork embraces the tart, hot, vinegary red cherry peppers joined by lighly sauteed bell peppers and greens, that altogether, form one of the greatest culinary symphonies ever. I couldn’t have been more pleased with my chop, and for that reason, found myself taking my time to eat it.

That never happens.

An artfully pan seared Sea Bass, veal ragu pasta, and a mind-blowing veal cutlet only further affirm what I’m pretty sure I already knew. Babbo doesn’t miss a beat. And probably never will.

This certainly isn’t the first time someone lauded the subtle yet inescapably enjoyable nuances of the food at Babbo, and yet I still, in some ways, I feel as though many strive to eat here for all the wrong reasons. I suppose there will always be a contingency of poseurs and non-believers whose efforts to assimilate with the who’s who overtly trump their interest in what on the plate in front of them. So be it.

At the same time, I take solace in knowing there are just as many (probably more) out there who appreciate Babbo’s truly remarkable ability to, after a decade, continue to so handily please the palettes of anyone and everyone who’s ever eaten there. The restaurant’s resilience and uncanny ability to remain among the most sought after of meals in Manhattan is almost as noteworthy as the down-to-earth precision of the food itself.

I recently caught up with Mario on my street early in the morning, while on my way to work. Stopped at the corner of MacDougal and Eest 3^rd, there I found myself standing next to the man whose restaurants I so dearly enjoyed – whose work and passion I so profusely appreciated. Can it be? Realizing the uniqueness of the moment, I introduced myself as a “huge fan of his work” (the "Ubereater" would've been a bit much). His response, a surprisingly soft-spoken, perhaps indifferent, “Thank You” didn’t deter me from asserting that the Biscotti and Sweet Wine dessert at Lupa is my favorite in all the city. “Thank you” he quietly uttered once again as he made his way across the street, and further from my direction.

"Was it something I said?"

Fine then. Next time, I’ll have to tell him about the pork chop.

Babbo

110 Waverly Place (Between 6th Ave & MacDougal)

Food: A (if ever there were a restaurant that deserved an A, it's this one)

Service: A (like a well-oiled machine, they keep the meal moving, the food coming, and offer enough interaction to heighten the meal, as opposed to hastening it)

Ambiance: A (casual, but self-respecting as we all should be)

Brown Cafe in Black and White

In the wild and crazy brunch scene that fearlessly devours the better part of Saturday and Sunday in this city, it is probably true that at one time or another you've caught yourself waiting in line for a $15 omelet to be washed down with a $6 glass of orange juice - all the while asking yourself why, and better yet how, you exactly managed to get yourself into such a predicament. Mind you this omelet is probably made with imported Pancetta, locally produced cheese, and organic "yes we can" eggs - but is it really worth it?

The answer most of the time to this question is a fervent "no". In fact, if there is anything about eating in the New York that truly bothers me, it's brunch. It is an entirely illegitimate pseudo-meal that is more or less breakfast parading around in its mother's sexy lingerie half-hoping to be outed. Like Rupaul circa 1993, Brunch is the transsexual of the culinary world - once breakfast, almost lunch - nobody knows what the hell it is, and even more telling, nobody seems to care to find out. I've always felt as though brunch is the emasculated version of breakfast. If, as in the romance languages, English nouns carried gender, brunch would most certainly be a feminine word, while breakfast would be its masculine counterpart. More clearly - if breakfast is Robert DeNiro, then Brunch is Richard Simmons.

And when was the last time a guy connected with his inner manhood upon uttering the words, "What time are we doing brunch fellas??"

Like everything else in our greedy little world today, we have managed to compromise the valor, honesty, and purity of a working man's meal through unfettered infatuation with hedonistic refinement.

And with all that said, rather ironically, I have come to actually enjoy brunch. Not for its epicene disposition, or its dainty displays, but for its exquisite exhibition of flavor and surprising ability to join civilly (not marry), savory with sweet. This brings me to my recent morning meal at Brown Cafe on the Lower East Side, where humble surroundings encase noble culinary excellence.

A short walk from the F train's Essex/Delancey stop, this truly tiny cafe rests on the gritty corner of Ludlow and Hester in a section of the Lower East Side that couldn't be any more Lower East Side. Right at home among the weather-beaten sidewalks, excoriated metal storefronts, and countless crop of sign-less bodegas, Brown's windows and mute white facade are probably the most tame for the block.


Outfitted with a small (albeit quite sleek) coffee bar on one side, a birch-colored wooden bench lines the other to provide seating for 5 or 6 tables. Immaculate, simple, and open all at once, Brown Cafe is as fit and trim an establishment as I've ever seen in this bottomless pit of shoebox shops we call New York City. And thankfully, so is the food.


Seemingly more and more popular along the brunch (-er breakfast) circuit these days, I was utterly and thoroughly impressed with my baked eggs, which was the menu item that originally compelled me want to check this place out. Re-evaluating my menu choices as I often do, I can't help but refer back to the centuries-old Knight's epic statement at the end of Indiana Jones the Last Crusade..."You have chosen...wisely."

Indeed I did.

Within minutes I was happy to find sitting before me, a piping hot mini-skillet home to a comely culinary cacophony of food groups. Together, tall, bulbous sunny-side up egg yolks butt heads with brawny chunks of sausage amidst a semi-firm cloud-white sea of perfectly cooked egg-whites and melted mozzy - specked carefully with bitter leeks and slightly sweet roasted peppers. Flanked by a proportionately-sized mixed green salad, two hearty slices of Bastone, and a small bowl of roasted potatoes, this treacherously tasty triad of protein, carbohydrates, and fiber is more than worthy of the svelte cutting board on which they are served. To be served on a plate would be outlandish.

Here, the presentation is outdone only by the undeniable freshness of the ingredients - which for me goes a long way. When it comes to something like baked eggs, less is more, and Brown's version celebrates the eggs, with the help of the added ingredients, not in spite of them.

A strong cup of coffee, and laid back yet attentive service made this one of the more relaxing morning meal's I've had in the city. Absent from the long lines of androgynous Euro-couples with matching hair-styles, snooty over-pierced hipster hostesses with harsh bangs, deafening dining room noise, and of course, requisite egregious price-gouging, the concept of brunch - or breakfast at an hour when everyone else seems to wake up around here - isn't so bad after all.

Brown Cafe is as impressive a presentation for brunch as I've yet to see in Manhattan. This cozy shop's simple, earthy approach to its food has brought to light, quite aptly, the possibility that brunch, sans the ear drum busting bells and whistles of campy culinary cache', can actually be had in peace, and at reasonable prices.

So, while its grandiose reputation of caste and class will always precede itself, a new iteration of our old conceptions of brunch has risen to the forefront, availing hungry, down-to-earth New Yorkers the opportunity to gorge themselves on honestly prepared, hearty foods that embrace their high-quality ingredients instead of exploiting them.

Take that Richard Simmons.


Brown Cafe (map it)

Food: A (simple, smart, and honest)
Service: A (polite, interested, and natural)
Ambiance: A (relaxing, humble, and sleek)
In a thought: "Redefining brunch, and making me a believer along the way."

Bite of the Day - 10/29/2008 - Homemade Meatballs at Adrienne's Pizza Bar

It's been too long since I've last checked in, which, somehow, someway, has been over two weeks ago. I have the combination of long days at work, and extended weekends outside the city to thank for my injunction of involuntary incommunicado.

Yet, like any storm, the vortex of confusion, mental consumption, and work-related angst has dissipated as quickly as it formed, leaving me, the Ubereater, as eager, and hungry as ever.

So what better way to return from this harrowing hiatus than with a quick, and poignant bite of the day about an edible treat that, as one of the most enticing, most fulfilling, most familiar foods of our existence, remains painfully under appreciated, dare I say it, overlooked, among the concentric culinary circles that tell the story of eating in our great city. I speak of the almighty Meatball, and more specifically, the homemade meatballs at Adrienne's Pizza Bar in the Financial District.

You are already aware of my deep love for the square pie at Adrienne's made abundantly clear in one of my very first posts as the Ubereater. But what you may not know is that the meatballs at this Stone Street dynamo are some of the best you'll ever have. In fact, they will rekindle your innate love for the simple, but oh so sexy meatball.

Having made their way on to the menu no more than year ago, these perfectly formed globes of gastronomic glory wade leisurely in a moat of hearty, almost-ragu-like red gravy. Slightly bigger than a golf-ball, and tender on the outside, each specimen is packed to just the right consistency, so as to make sure to give way to a firm use of the fork without crumbling into a zillion pieces.



The velvety red gravy is as deserving of recognition as the meatballs themselves, bringing a tart, slow-cooked acidity to the meat, walking the fine line between a thick ragu, and a thin, more liquid marinara. There is no question this gravy may very well be the perfect dressing for these meatballs. Neither thick, nor watery, these beauts are almost buoyant in Adrienne's curiously tangy red gravy.



Without question my relationship with meatballs had all but completely disappeared over the past few years as these age-old treats fell hard from the graces of tradition as attention to detail gave way to fast-food mass production. Still, after a childhood marked by a true appreciation for the homemade meatball, I had all but given on a food my grandmother was able to make so perfectly.

And then came Adrienne's, where on a stage lit vibrantly by a a backdrop of near-perfect, mind-blowing Square Pies, world-shakingly wonderful meatballs do more than hold their own.

Try the meatballs at Adrienne's, and you too can become a believer.

Bite of the Day - 10/14/2008 - Meatball Sub at Crosby Connection

Those familiar with my views on the sandwich situation in the city (which I began to touch upon when discussing Alidoro a few months back), already know that I seem to struggle to find quality sub sandwiches in Manhattan.

Since then I have had better luck in the sandwich department, be it with Alidoro's crazy tender rolls, and Sullivan Street Bakery's insanely perfect caprese, (more to come on that later), there is a little garage of a place, literally, in Greenwich Village known as the Crosby Connection that serves up quite a mean selectin of hot and cold sandwiches. This time around, I'd like to highlight CC's Meatball Sub.

Though these days, I don't find myself eating many meatball sandwiches, Crosby's definitely the best I've had in a while. Big, giant meatballs, loosely packed and well-seasoned, do a great job of filling out the soft, pliable roll that handles a not-too-heavy-handed helping of red gravy and chards of mozzarella. This puppy is a thing of beauty and a truly admirable exemplar of the classic Meatball Sub, which too many times shows itself as an over-nuked mess of mushy bread, cheese, and gravy that falls apart when you pick it up.

Crosby's stays together without fail, until it reaches your mouth of course.

Go out and get yourself one.

Crosby Connection
(212) 677-8444

Not So Nice Green Bo Restaurant

At the request of a very close friend of mine, who seems to be convinced that I only write positive reviews, I want to highlight a recent experience at long-standing Chinatown haunt, Green Bo Restaurant.

It was at this crawlspace of a joint, steps off of manic-depressive Mott Street that I encountered my first rather disappointing Chinese meal in the city.

Given that I've raved about The Grand Sichuan on 7th Ave South, and I continue to support Suzie's on Bleecker, it is only fair that I bring to light the rather disappointing dishes offered at this quite popular Chinatown favorite.

Based on some thorough pre-prandial research, Green Bo is supposedly considered one of the best spots for Chinese in the city, offering a wide variety of classic meals, with a particular focus on traditional Shanghai cuisine.

Not unlike most restaurants in Chinatown, Green Bo is somewhat hard to find, if not completely miss-able unless you had some sort of reason to be walking west on dingy Bayard Street. Still, at this stage of the Ubereating game, I should know better than to judge a book by its cover - or to even bother with books altogether.

As it pertains to Green Bo, this isn't such a tall task, in that the 70's era faded aquamarine shoe-box dining room is par for the course when it comes mid-range, no-frills Chinatown eats. Still, I've never been one to get hung up on ambiance, so much as long as the food more than compensates for the lackluster surroundings.
Unfortunately, at Green Bo, which actually is called Nice Green Bo, this wasn't the case.

First of all, the service here can be best described as bi-polar. One second we were greeted with smiles and menus predicated upon an genuine interest in our business, and the next second the pack of waitstaff huddled around the table next to us couldn't care less that my tea was getting cold. And it was getting cold you know.

This was not a good start.

When we were finally able to corral someone to come by and take our order, we wasted no time trying our hand at a handful of typical, yet often satisfying starters that dominate the American Chinese table.

Without fail, I will always order the Hot and Sour soup whenever I am out for Chinese. Why? Because I strongly believe the quality, depth, and mere temperature of this ominously opaque elixir is an excellent barometer for predicting the overall nature of the meal. Green Bo's version was surprisingly thick, viscous, and teeming with all the usual veggies that add crunch to this ageless classic. Judging by its Hot and Sour soup, I was almost sure the food would, at the very least, be served piping hot, and in great abundance.


Actually, as it turns out, this soup would be one of the highlights of the meal. The ensuing starters were all over the map. Eager to corroborate the abyss of claims that the soup dumplings were a must have, we were rather miffed to learn that Green Bo's pekid, gummy interpretation of a classic Chinatown staple, was rather tasteless. Light years ahead in flavor, texture, and overall enjoyability were the steaming gander of pork and leek dumplings (bottom left), and the pungent pile of pleasantly picant pickled cabbage (bottom right), which nobody else in this world seems to eat these days. Am I the only person that likes pickled cabbage at Chinese restaurants? Is there anyone out there that shares my love for the crunchy, salty, spicy glory that is to be had in a simple plate of cabbage?














As enjoyable, if not more so than the pork and leek dumplings, were the scallion pancakes (below), which were so good, a second order for the table was a must. A crusty, crispy-fried outside gives way to warm, moist, flaky inside, flecked heavily with diced scallion making this "pancake" quite reminiscent of a lighter, doughier version of a traditional potato Latke. Warm to the touch and quite loving of the accompanying vinegar sauce, the scallion pancakes were by far the table's favorite.


Strangely, the worst dish on the table was also probably simplest in form, that being the Beef Chow Fun. (Below) This rather well-known preparation that commingles wide flat noodles with wok-seared beef is found on every Chinese take-out menu from Melville to Malibu. Done correctly, this dish is more than capable of quelling any unexpected Chinese-food craving, but terribly mishandled, this seemingly benign concoction becomes a mushy, slimy melange of metastasized chunks of protein and fork-evading ribbons of chewy starch. I won't go as far as to say that Green Bo's take was disgusting, but it was way too oily, and lacked any redeeming quality of taste making this greasy go-at-it on par with anything you'd get at your neighborhood take-out joint. And if this is supposed to be one of the best restaurants in Chinatown, then that, quite frankly, is unacceptable.

At the end of the day Nice Green Bo restaurant is, at its worst, another run-of-the-mill Chinatown shop that slings extremely affordable food to the masses, and at its best, a restaurant that has, as I would imagine, enjoyed a reputation that not only precedes itself, but deceives itself to boot.

Truly, I cannot understand why so many rank Green Bo as one of the best restaurants in Chinatown, yet like any general consensus related to food in this city, logic and reason often lose out to inexplicable public preference steeped in a stinking pot of unfounded popularity.

Be that as it may, this doesn't mean I have to like it. And I don't - which is why I won't be going back.

Not so NICE is it.

Food: C (Solid Scallion Pancakes, and above average Hot and Sour Soup)
Ambiance: D (Comforting for those who like when the cooks mingle at the table next to you)
Service: C (at its best, inattentive, at its worst, damn near non-existent)
Experience in a thought: Why didn't I just go to Peking Duck house around the corner?

Jersey Shore Chronicles - Part III: Max's Famous Hot Dogs in Long Branch

Much like its sandy swaths of beautifully weathered beaches, the Jersey Shore’s rich culinary tradition has endured, if not survived over the years, a tsunami of vigorous commercial and residential development that has begun to compromise the future of the many cherished eateries that inspired me to write the Jersey Shore Chronicles in the first place. Albeit less conspicuously today, the classic food of the Jersey Shore and the stories behind them, ardently live on in the many faithful families that both serve this food as well as eat it.

That said, there is no truer symbol of toothsome tradition – no heartier a harbinger of honor – than my favorite Jersey Shore eating institution of all time – Max’s Hot Dogs.

Stationed proudly at the southern end of Ocean Avenue in the Monmouth County beach community of Long Branch, this timeless shore spot and hallowed hot dog heaven has been serving mind-blowing foot-long hot dogs for more than 80 years.

I’ve been a devout Max’s follower for 20 of those 80 years, dating back to the days when my parents would take me as a young child. I will be the first to point out that in all that time, this one-of-a-kind eatery has remained exactly the same, and thus true to itself. And although over the years, as I've gotten bigger, the chairs may have gotten smaller and the stools a bit stouter, the hot dogs haven't changed a bit. They're still the best you'll ever have.

I can’t begin to describe the excitement associated with seeing that trusty white sign from a distance, that as you approach more clearly, succinctly reads, "MAX's Famous Hot Dogs". This towering totem of history treacherously teeters over Ocean Avenue acting as a landmark for all things delicious.

Upon getting out of the car, strong gusts of crisp salt air mixed with the aroma of thick-skinned dogs charring gracefully on a giant griddle makes the walk to the door that much more unbearable. After 60 minutes in the car thinking about how badly I want these dogs, I always inevitably come to the realization that at this point, I actually need them.

Inside, amidst an even more mesmerizing waft of griddled goodness, I am always immediately put at ease when I find that my precious Max's, in another year's time, has remained exactly as it was the year before. I am also reminded once again, that I'm not the only guy who happens to like this place.

Long before I was a galumphing teenage oaf shoving down multiple condiment-crushed dogs in an obstreperous exhibition of all things uncouth, everyone from former Presidents, to celebrities, to ex-Governors, to Jersey Rock Legends have savored these wonderful dogs. In fact, almost as impressive as the hot dogs, the neverending roll of famous names who eat them make for a clientele that is documented rather thoroughly in a enthralling mosaic of autographed pictures dating back more than 30 years.

Bon Jovi...Springsteen...Bill Clinton (pre-Lewinsky I believe), are just a few of the long list of big names that have ponied up to the counter to tackle these legendary Jersey hot dogs. Surprisingly, the Ubereater, is not one of them. Yet anyway.

Of course, If I don't get held up by the "wall" (despite having been here a zillion times), I quickly remember that I am in need of some dogs stat. I usually make my way to the long u-shaped counter that separates the massive griddle operation from a checkered tile floor dining area that smacks of old school Jersey Shore.

But what about those hot dogs?

In all the times I've been to Max's, I can't say I've ever ordered off a menu, nor have I ever really seen the menu. In fact at Max's, the back wall IS the menu, plastered top to bottom with colorful, flag-sized handwritten posters advertising the dizzying array of offerings to be had beyond the hot dogs. But I've always come here the dogs and that's not going to change.

Before I enjoy enough time to amply agitate the twin tins of relish that so reliably sit before me on the counter, it's time to order: 1 corn on the cob and 2 dogs. That's right - corn on the cob. If I can vouch for anything at Max's besides the dogs, it's the Corn on the Cob. Within seconds, a girthy cob of sweet yellow corn arrives slathered in melted butter, which is so kind as to form a reservoir on the plate which makes for great dipping. A quick twist in the butter and you're off to enjoy an astoundingly fresh cob of corn.

Over the years, it has become somewhat standard for me to kick off a Max's trip with the Corn, as I've realized this to be the perfect preface to my dogs. What I haven't learned is how to avoid getting the kernels stuck in my teeth. Any suggestions would be most welcome.

But what about those hot dogs?

Dental dilemma's aside, I never have too much time to savor the corn as the hot dogs are up within minutes. These foot-long freaks of nature arrive as searing-hot torpedoes of taste that span the entire diameter of the plate, dwarfing (almost embarrassing) the sub-prime-mortgage-sized bun they each call home.

But the last thing these dogs need is a bailout plan. They need to be eaten.

These handsome fellows are unlike any other dog you'll have - charred thoroughly on the outside, sporting a crunchy, better yet, crispy, crust that varies from one end of the dog to the other. This makes each bite unique unto its own, and oh yeah, really damn good.

But as good as they are "naked", they are even better "dressed". In fact, one of the best aspects to Max's dogs is that their bold, almost tangy flavor and exterior crust makes them perfectly fit to handle a barrage of condiments. I prefer to dress my dogs dirty...in sauerkraut, a touch of green relish, gobs of hot pepper relish, and of course, a thick, slithering ribbon of spicy brown mustard. All together, this is a true masterpiece. A work of art to be seen and admired throughout the culinary world. Now you can kiss goodbye any previous notions you may have about what a hot dog is, or wants to be. After a bite of this baby, you will never be the same.

Between the heat and sweet of the red and green relishes respectively, the puckering effects of the mustard, and the salty, tangy punch of the hot dog itself, each bite is a sensory-overloading experience that produces a resounding snap as you chomp through the crusty, griddled exterior on your way to the more tender core. I can't describe this sensation any more accurately than to emphasize that there is nothing else like it, anywhere.

Obviously,beyond the shadow of a doubt, I will forever revere this thriving, long Branch fixture as THE undisputed king of the classic Jersey Shore eats serving what is, and always will be, my favorite hot dog of all time.

Yet the honest, undeniable integrity of Max's hot dogs is trumped only by that of the family that runs it. Owned and operated by Milford and Celia Maybaum over the course of three generations, Max's is the quintessential family business.

Today, Celia, known for quite some time now as Mrs. Max, continues to watch over this Jersey gem with her son and granddaughter, ensuring that everything here is the way its should be, and the way people remember it. As the "Queen of Hot Dogs", Mrs. Max has not only maintained her role as the magnanimous matriarch of this historic hot dog empire, but to this day, quite effortlessly embodies the hospitality and wholesome values that ARE what eating at the Jersey Shore is all about. Having been coming to Max's for as long as I have, I always make it a point to say hello to the Queen of Hot Dogs as I pay on my way out. I don't always want to bother her, but I can't help but feel the need to express to her how Max's has played such an important role in my development as an eater, and generally, a young man. The truth of the matter is, no trip to Max's is complete without a quick chat and much needed photo op with Mrs. Max. Her quick wit, innocent charm, and willingness to humor me, is an exhilarating reminder that behind great food, stands even greater people, and yet in those people, lives the food.

I want to thank Mrs. Max and her granddaughter Jennifer for their ongoing hospitality towards me, the Ubereater. And of course, for those amazing dogs.

See you next summer!

Max's Hot Dogs

Me & Mrs. Max after some killer dogs - August 23, 2008

BITE OF THE DAY - 9/22/2008 - Piping Hot Zeppole

To celebrate the conclusion of this year's San Gennaro Feast, as well as welcome the beginning of the Fall season, I thought I'd bid one last farewell to the foods of the summertime by extolling the virtues of a particular street food that remains in a class by itself when it comes to sumptuously satisfyingly guilt-inducing goodies. They're hot - they're crispy - and yet they're soft all at the same time. They're a bit weird looking, insanely delicious, and easy to overeat. I'm talking about the wonderful balls of doughy deliciousness known as Zeppole.

That's pronounced "ZAY-puhls" to us Italians, but over the years I've come to terms with the fact that there are those who will always say "ZEHP-oleez" (and "Man-uh-CODDY", and worst of all - "Guh-NOCKI"). But we'll deal with those people another time.















Thankfully, unlike these perplexing phonetics, zeppole are really quite simple. These baseball-sized globes of gastronomic greatness are created when gobs of sticky, wet dough are dropped in hot oil and rotated constantly until equally golden brown on all sides. (above) Once out of the oil, they're either left to cool for later consumption, or for those who know what they're doing and share my zeppole zeal, are swiftly escorted to a traditional brown paper bag and clobbered with a heaping scoop of powdered sugar. From here, I then proceed to shake the bag vigorously for about 15 seconds to make sure everybody gets an even share of sweetness.

And then, of course. I EAT THEM.

From rudimentary chunk of yeasty dough, to a cluster of sweet, golden-browned perfection, no more than 3 minutes pass before you're sinking your teeth into one of these dastardly doughy debutantes. In the blink of an eye you're eagerly tearing open this piping hot paper bag to unveil an evenly adorned cluster of crusty blobs of sweetness that are crunchy on the outside, and buttery soft on the inside. (below)

So next time you find yourself staring into a hot-to-the touch brown bag of these golden nuggets of Naples, standing on the sidewalk, hunched over a garbage, covered in powdered sugar, I am confident your first tongue-burning bite will cause you not to cringe, nor gasp, but instead, cry out a big whelping, "Zeppole!"

It hasn't failed me yet.

BITE OF THE DAY - 9/17/2008 - The Sausage Sandwich at Lucy's Palace at the Feast of San Gennaro

For someone like me, whose life spirals uncontrollably on an axis of food, September is a month of deep mourning. As schools resume, daylight becomes more scarce, and bathing suits are reluctantly packed away for another 9 months, most of us battle the impending depression that comes with cold weather, the flu, and commuting in the dark. As the Ubereater however, the coming and going of Labor Day brings about much bigger issues: the end of Sausage Sandwich Season. And so in a final act of desperation, as an ultimate attempt at reconciliation, the month of September is so kind as to offer us encased meat enthusiasts one last shot at sausage salvation.

This brings us to today's Bite of the Day; The Sausage & Peppers Sandwich from Lucy's Palace at the Feast of San Gennaro.

Now in its 81st year of operation, Little Italy's annual street fair dedicated to honoring the Patron Saint of Naples, a waxy looking fellow by the name of Gennaro, is one of New York's oldest, most popular events.

More than a 1 million people descend upon Mulberry Street each year for 10 days in September to pay respect to San Gennaro, and of course eat. I bet you already knew I'm one of them.

I've tried every interpretation you can get your hands on at the Feast, and hands downs, Lucy's Palace at the south end of Mulberry, blows everything else away. (below)

This sandwich is so good, eating it is way beyond enjoyable, it's nerve wracking. Why? Because this is true perfection on all fronts. Unlike most impish attempts at a sausage and peppers, Lucy's is unusually (and pleasingly) massive, almost heavy. The sausage, which comes from Frank & Sal's in Brooklyn, is the best I've ever tasted.

Packed loosely and specked liberally with chunky bits of pork fat and fennel seeds, these links are divinely devourable, cooked medium-rare (at my request), and toppled with a zesty mix of griddled onions and peppers. It just doesn't get any better than this...until you talk about the bread. I'm not sure from whom, or what paranormal being, Lucy's gets their bread, but it is the best italian roll I've ever sunk my teeth into. Textured and coarse on the oustide, yet supple and baby's-bottom soft on the inside, this dynamic roll brings this $6 cradle of culinary greatness full circle.

Man does that make me nervous.

The Feast of San Gennaro Official Website

NOTE: I will be returning to the Feast 2 more times this weekend. Should anyone like to join me in pounding some of this pork-packed perfection, let me know!

BITE OF THE DAY - 9/16/2008 - DOUGHNUT PLANT ( LES)

Today's BITE is the epic DONUT AT DOUGHNUT PLANT. In fact "epic" is the exact word my friend Eric uses to describe this circular confection perfection.

In today's low-carb, organic-obsessed food culture, the art of the donut has all but vanished entirely from the daily conversation. 15 years ago, everyone loved donuts - they were fun, light-hearted, unpretentious fare that were usually enjoyed with your 5th grade classmates during homeroom as an ice breaker while celebrating the ADD kid in the corner's birthday. Sure we didn't understand his rage-filled outbursts, but that didn't mean I couldn't revel in stuffing my face with a couple chocolate glazed anyway. Today, donuts have assumed an underground air about them, evolving into a sort of confectionery contraband. We all still love to abuse them, but god forbid we come forward and admit it.

Well today is a self-imposed intervention then because I love donuts, and especially the airy, puffy, floating circles of sweetness at the Doughnut Plant on the Lower East Side. Below is the DP's famous Yeast Donut. This is a smarter, cleaner version of the classic glazed donut, made without any trans fat or preservatives. Light as a feather, this donut is sinfully sticky, yet manages to disintegrate in your mouth rather quickly. You don't really eat this donut, you experience it. Neither heavy, nor oily, nor doughy, nor sickeningly sweet. this yeasty beast is, as my friend Eric puts it, "epic".

Doughnut Plant

BITE OF THE DAY - 9/15/2008 - The Lower East Side Pickle

What better way to kick off my brand new Bite of the Day series than with one of my favorite bites of all time...PICKLES.

Yesterday, I made it down to the city's annual Pickle Festival on Orchard Street on the Lower East Side. Though the face of this once bustling Jewish neighborhood has undoubtedly changed over the years, its rich cultural history lives on, if nowhere else, than in its perfectly prepared pickles.

This being my first time at this pre-meditated pickle party, I was amazed at how many people had come out to savor the salty simplicity of good old-fashioned, barrel-borne pickle. Then again, isn't that what I was doing?

The tents comprised an impressive selection of pickled good from vendors hailing from as far as Detroit and as near as Brooklyn. Of course, home town favorites Guss' and the Pickle Guys' stands enjoyed the biggest pull, there were certainly great products to be had at every tent. I sampled everything I could get my hands on, even some pickled grapes which were curiously difficult to stop eating.

At this pickle premier, Best in Show goes to the Kosher Dill variety from the Horman's Pickle Stand (Below). Sold right from the barrel on the street and shoved swiftly on a stick for easy consumption, this was probably THE BEST pickle I've ever had (and the first one I've ever eaten off of a stick).

This brined behemoth was crunchy and taught on the outside while bursting with juicy tenderness on the inside. This pickle was perfect.


Pining for more, we avoided the line at its festival stand, and instead walked a block east to the Pickle Guys on Essex St where for another $2, we picked up their half sour, 3/4 sour, and full-sour versions (below): The half-sour (upper right), the youngest of the bunch, and also the crunchiest, was obviously the least pickle-tasting, clinging dearly to its cucumber roots, snapping loudly as you bite into it.

The 3/4 sour (upper left), having spent marginally more time in the brine, was al dente in the bite, and just beginning to soften in the middle.

Finally the full-sour (middle bottom) represented the quintessential pickle as we know it; moss green, bumpy on the outside, and soft and almost translucent in the middle. This was my favorite of the three. Functions like the Pickle Festival are yet another reason why I love living and eating in New York. Food isn't only part of life here, it is IS life. It certainly is for me..

I encourage everyone to get out and eat more pickles, and although you'll have to wait another year to check out the LES' Pickle Festival, I implore you make the trip to Guss' and The Pickle Guys to reacquaint yourself with one of the most refreshing, most satsifying food there is.

Isn't it better to eat a pickle than to be in one?

The Little Owl: Umbrages of The Ubereater

With my 1st Birthday as the Ubereater fast approaching, I wanted to post a 1-year-old review of West Village American cuisine juggernaut The Little Owl, which I composed for my Company's Quarterly Newsletter. I will be returning to the 'Owl this fall for a second time, and will definitely write an updated review. I thought it was interesting to read, and good reminder that there was a time when I actually went out to eat and didn't take pictures of the food. Thoughts?...

Anchored on a notoriously quiet West Village corner, it would be easy to saunter past the simple and sleek exterior of this small gastronomic gem on Bedford St. Seating no more than 30, the Little Owl’s single dining room is cozy, coordinated, and downright comfortable wearing not much else but a thin coat of white paint on its walls. In a city where 8 pm reservations are “early” and late afternoon walk-ins are the proletariat of restaurant-going society, we were glad to have been welcome at the six o’clock hour, having waited only a minute or two for our table to be prepared. The menu at the Little Owl is clear, concise, and excitingly pure, offering various dishes that lie at what I would consider the midpoint of today’s continuum of culinary quirkiness. Offerings such as bibb lettuce with beets and parmesan and broiled halibut with peas and pesto shine against the mesclun salads, and pan-seared tuna that dominate the hackneyed menus of today.

It is with that generalization in mind, and only after devouring just enough bread dipped in extra virgin olive oil to ensure post-meal pain, that we ordered. We opted for the Gravy Meatball Sliders and the Ricotta Cavatelli in Brodo. Served