Corn fungus...it's what's for dinner

At least it should be if you find yourself in Adams Morgan, near Super Tacos and Bakery, née Pepito's II. Black and slimy generally goes on my "do not eat" list, but huitlacoche is an exception, an earthy, savory Mexican delicacy. The name's Aztec for "raven's excrement," but don't let that deter you; near as I can tell, it refers to the shit-eating grin you'll have as you savor each bite. It's packed into Super's quesadilla Mexicana along with sweet corn, oozing queso fresco, onions, cilantro, and a tangy green salsa. The masa wrapper is a little too tough, but this is a minor annoyance compared to the luscious mess within.


Also good: carnitas taco and free delivery!

Central's happy meal, Washington, DC

There's a rash of burgers in DC right now, and I'm only too willing to scratch. Ray's Hell-Burger and Westend Bistro are itching fiercely; the first for its meat cred and challenging cheese selection, the second for its promise of balance and perfection. But with so much loving press, Central Michel Richard's burger came first.


Central's menu may be a catch-all of pan-Western bistro favorites, but its concept is about more than perfect execution of comfort food. Most preparations introduce a quirk or a twist. Not so much bringing the dish to a new place as taking it home by the scenic route. The fried chicken, for example, gets its crispiness from a bread crumb jacket, lined with a mousse of the fat and skin for savor. The burger finds its own path too: in place of ketchup, a tomato slice confit, prepared with plenty of aromatics; instead of pickles or lettuce for crunch, a layer of crispy potato tuiles; soy-ginger mayo for some sweetness and heat; and a perfectly cooked and seasoned patty. Cheese and bacon optional.


All this adds up to one unusually subtle and delicious burger. With flawless fries and a fresh strawberry soda, this feels like the quintessential happy meal.

Good Stuff, bad burgers, Washington DC

I can't say Capitol Hill's newly opened Good Stuff Eatery is poorly named. They do have some good stuff, like the Sriracha mayo; the soft, nicely buttered, and toasted buns; and most of all the marketing, which is bringing in the crowds despite its unbearably smug tone. They just don't have good burgers. Mine was a Big Stuff Bacon Meltdown, which I think means "bacon double cheeseburger." Both patties were thin, dry, cooked past caring, and seasoned past saving.

A good reference point for this kind of burger, for the entire restaurant, is the Shake Shack in NYC. They share the road-stand burger done right concept, down to the accompanying shakes and vegetarian option: a breaded, cheese-stuffed, deep fried portobello cap. The Shake Shack actually does do it right, serving thickish, juicy burgers that simply taste good. Good Stuff is a bit more expensive, a lot more precious, and totally unable to execute a decent burger, no matter how many tasty toppings they put on it.

Good tomatoes, Santorini, Greece

It doesn't matter how much I read about the ubiquity of fresh, tree-sweetened figs in Sardinia; mangoes that grow like weeds through the Caribbean; or tomatoes bred for the table instead of the truck in Greece. Off I go on vacation to taste for myself, and no matter how many locals I challenge to take me to their finest fig grove, I come away empty-handed. Notch it up to travel folklore, or too tenuous channels from farm to tourist, but good local ingredients are hard to find anywhere.

That's why a simple salad of cherry tomatoes on a beach in Santorini became one of those small, trip-defining moments to be carried in memory long after the broader impressions have faded. The tomatoes were sweet and ripe, foiled by tangy caper berries and leaves. The caper leaves were a nice addition, milder than the berries, with a firm, fleshy texture. For once, the flavor told us more clearly than the foodie literature that each ingredient was a local product and part of a local cuisine.


I caught the name and number of the ouzeri which served this in the photo below. Our host at Aris Caves in Oia transliterated for us: Avlh.

Christine Ferber jams, Niedermorschwihr

Jam's not usually something to get excited about. It's nice to look at, and has a tarty sort of promise, but I don't often want to take it home to meet my breakfast table. However, Christine Ferber makes jams that are truly special. Some are simple one-fruit-wonders; others incorporate wines, spices, and fresh herbs. All taste pure and vibrant, as if you're picking from the vine instead of scooping from the jar. Try quetsches with pinot noir, or Confiture de l'An Neuf, a blend with fresh and dried figs, orange rind, and Gewürztraminer.


For the best selection, go to the source: Au Relais des Trois Epis is a small country shop in Niedermorschwihr, incongruously filled with flying elbows and Tokyo fashions. You can also find it at the grocery arm of Le Bon Marché in Paris, double-branded and double-priced at Pierre Hermé, and riding shotgun on the cheese cart at Le Louis XV (where an Alsatian morello cherry spread complements an aged comté). The only source I know of in the States is the fourteen-jar treasure hoard in my pantry.

Schwa, Chicago

TimeOut Chicago reviews the re-opening of Schwa after nearly a half year hiatus. This is happy news, and in hopes that it will get the renewed surge of buzz it deserves, here is my recollection of a meal at Schwa one year ago:

I'm in Chicago for a long weekend with nothing but nostalgia for my college days to keep me company. Back then, I might atone for splurging on a combo meal at Burger King by cruising campus events all week for free leftovers. Now, it's the city of the moment for innovative, high end cuisine, and I'm already skipping breakfasts to stretch my dollar around a dinner at top-of-the-pack Alinea. But like Chicago, Alinea just isn't very hospitable in January. It's closed for a few weeks, so I consider alternatives. It hasn't gotten as much national press, but Schwa is a dark horse, surging through the Chicago food scene with a reputation for surprising, sophisticated flavors. With an eight course tasting menu, but no wine list and chefs who double as service staff, it's an anomaly I can't pass up.

As soon as I open the door, I can tell Schwa's laid back reputation is deserved. They're known for rocking some Atmosphere now and then, but I can't tell if that's on play tonight, or some other indie/hip-hop crossover. Soon enough, a stodgier clientele stars rolling in, and after asking what the noise is, one old soul exclaims without irony, "Oh, you mean it's 'music?'" Soon something safer is playing, but I miss the counter-culture edge. It suits the bold food and the overall feeling that I'm getting a personalized lesson in taste. There's no pretense or preachiness, just a strong viewpoint that's flawlessly executed.

My amuse is a shot of beet juice, layered with white chocolate foam and rimmed with bacon fat. I knock it back with a generous lick of the bacon grease. It's sweet and rich and irrevocably blurs the line between vegetables and candy that I established as a picky child. Quail egg ravioli come a few courses later. Two of them canoodle in a bath of brown butter with Parmigiano-Reggiano, buffalo ricotta, and white truffle shavings. The dish is sumptuous, earthy, overwhelming, and perfect.

Strong flavors, carefully matched, characterize all of the plates at Schwa. The harmony is the thing, but individual notes also stand out. A baby eggplant is slow-poached in olive oil. The chef who serves it explains that it's been cooked for more hours than I spend awake in a day. By some magic, it retains a tender-firm texture rather than going soft and mushy like most cooked eggplant. The subtle taste of olive oil permeates the flesh to the core. The technique sounds simple, but it's used to exquisite effect.

Dessert is another mix of sweet and savory: soft pretzel "spoons," still hot from the oven; dabs of mustard and caramel; a quenelle of turmeric ice cream; and two dates studded with crunchy pretzel crumbs, one stuffed with caramel, the other with mustard seed. It sounds crazy, but it works. It's my all-time favorite dessert, and traditional flavor pairings seem a shade paler by comparison.

Schwa was meal-of-my-life caliber. Quirky and utterly food centric, it's miles away in character from the Le Louis XV experience, but the two are playing in the same league. At Le Louis XV, I felt like a sultan; at Schwa, I felt like a lucky guest at a house party thrown by the sultan's chef. It's good to hear that the party's back on.

Locanda dell'Isola Comacina, Lago di Como

Locanda simply means "inn," and this is the only inn on Comacina Island. It's the only anything on Comacina, a private island on the lake of Como, which is something like a miniature Riviera, but more stately and sedate, hidden away in the mountains of Italy's northern reach. Restaurants definitely aren't the regional draw, and on a nice day, picnicking is a good way to go. Taking lunch at the Locanda feels like going on a very exclusive picnic.


The china is pleasantly outdated, and probably inspired some bon appétit cover shots in the 60's. The food itself is simple, satisfying, and timeless: antipasti, fried chicken, grilled trout, and an endless rain of olive oil, squeezed lemon, and salt. A bottle of passable wine, a hunk of Reggiano, and a fruity take on affogato are included. The chicken is moist and crispy-battered, the fish fresh and flavorful. I lose count of the different vegetables served up grilled or dressed to various tasty effect. Only the dessert falls short, but I've read elsewhere that when the local oranges are in season, it's a different story entirely.

If you finish early, you have to wait, or miss the after-lunch theater. Repeated servings of ice cream are supposed to keep you from getting restless until everyone's ready for coffee. Finally, the owner rings a bell and tells a half-hearted ghost story about the history of the island, all while brewing some truly wretched coffee. It's spiked with brandy and sugar, but that doesn't help the flavor any. For reasons unexplained, he wears a funny hat throughout.

Even the coffee ritual has some cheesy charm if you're in a positive frame of mind. Frankly, I don't see how you couldn't be after that meal on this island on a sunny day in May.

Socca, Antibes

When reading up on Le Louis XV, I learned that head chef Frank Cerutti sources ingredients at the produce market in Nice. Perhaps I visited the tourists' market, and there's a superior, clandestine location where the super-chefs go, but I was disappointed with row upon row of fruit confit and other candies. One stall for these would be enough if the rest could be traded in for more fresh edibles and some street food. Any street food at all in Nice seems like a tough sell. I'm sure Cerutti has plenty closer hook-ups for top notch stuff, but I found the market in the Antibes old town much nicer for the food friendly tourist.

The market is laid out in three long rows of stalls with two walkways in between. Vendors are friendly, but savvy, and if you can run the gauntlet and emerge empty-handed, then hats off to your frugality, but shame on your appetite. Hundreds of intimidating cheeses, unfamiliar citrus fruits, obscenely chubby asparagus spears, and grisly game carcasses line the path. At the end waits the best quick bite in the Côte d'Azur: socca.


Chickpea flour, water, olive oil, and salt form the batter. A thin layer is poured into something like a family size pizza pan, and it's slipped into the mouth of a portable (!) wood-burning oven for a shy minute or so. It comes out bubbling hot, browned and crispy on top, still moist below. You can have it liberally peppered and salted or plain, but the choice seems clear. It's so simple and surprisingly good that it sticks in your mind long after it's gone from your ribs. No guarantees it's not more common in Nice, but for socca alone I dream of Antibes.

Le Louis XV, Monte Carlo

Alain Ducasse's flagship restaurant is a vision made real. Called Le Louis XV after the French king and the decorative style cultivated by his court, the restaurant's banner baldly proclaims Galle Empire. Aside from quibbles about Louis XV actually preceding the French Empire, the vision is clear: aristocratic opulence at its dizziest height.


Overlooking Monte Carlo's Place du Casino, with rows of palm trees and Bentleys receding into the distance and money-weary Italianate gentlemen strolling by, Le Louis XV could have no better location. Inside, the room is a rococo fantasy of mirrored panels and sinuous ornamentation. Two set piece grandfather clocks are intentionally stopped, and the door blends seamlessly into the fretwork of the wall, sealing you off from any sense of real world context you still have since entering Monaco. The flowers are copious and exquisite, the utensils gilded, and the Laguiole steak knives even more like my father's old pocket-knife than usual. After eying the cutlery at a succession of fine restaurants, this is the best gauge of quality I can find outside of a price tag.


Guiding you through this pocket universe is a fleet of faultlessly courteous waiters. Their attention to detail is rigorous. Every trip to the door finds a helpful hand already opening it; every walk back to the table is preceded by a runner whose mission is to pull out your chair. Sometime in between, your napkin's been swapped for a clean replacement. We're noticed taking a few furtive notes about the meal, and asked if we'd like to take a copy of the menu with us. We're almost unnerved at the thought of being so closely watched, but it's not intrusive or even apparent. Sure enough, waiting at the reception desk as we leave is a crisp envelope housing a fully bound menu plus the day's specials and wine card.

It turns out to be unnecessary. The power of this food is in its simplicity. We have no trouble remembering the featherweight perfection of a side of gnocchi, the exact and uniform cooking of simple potato slices, or the caramel richness of the butter which keeps us eating bread right up to the dessert course. The bread itself is phenomenal, in quality and variety. We choose tiny loaves from a cart bearing semolina, country, baguette, fig & walnut, seasonal chestnut, some local specialties and more. The baba au rhum signature dessert also spoils for choice with a half dozen boutique Caribbean rums, any of which can be drizzled table-side. The deluge of perfect local ingredients, simple preparations, and immaculate table-side presentations is overwhelming.




Alan Richman writes in a recent GQ that to him, "Le Louis XV is the greatest restaurant in the world, when food, service, and ambience are taken into consideration. It is flawless." As a long time food columnist with an expense account that reaches to the French Riviera, I figure he should know. Still, it's an awesome feat of consistency that I feel the same after a single visit. It's clear that this restaurant isn't only about preparing the best meal, setting the best table, giving the best service, or even delivering the best experience. It's about redefining the experience entirely. Le Louis XV isn't just a place to dine; it's a way to be king for a day.

L'Astrance, Paris

It's hard not to get excited by Michelin stars as an American transplant to Europe, and never harder than when visiting Paris. Despite urban America's recent food revolution, France's storied eating temples and rising super-chefs alike occupy an almost inaccessible niche in our cultural mythology. Food writing has never helped to part the clouds over Michelin's dining Olympus; one blog seems dedicated to a personal reconstruction of the star ratings into grades A through F with all the pluses and minuses in between. Even an obvious powerhouse like Tokyo gained a new Western gastronomic legitimacy when recently contextualized by Michelin. So no matter how many hype-worthy meals I've had elsewhere, my first visit to a Parisian three star is an exercise in impossibly high hopes.

That three star is L'Astrance. Any food obsessed traveler with a web browser will tell you that it's high on the list for innovation and quality in Paris right now. Also known for well orchestrated service more congenial than cool, it's an inviting entry point into the world of destination dining. This is almost a mythic journey for me, so I had better gird well. Tip number one for the wary neophyte: dress to kill. Or at least to spy. The more you look like a not-so-secret agent, the more naturally you'll field French menus, elitist neighbors, and appetite-killing prices.

I come cuffed and collared, but L'Astrance makes it easy. Other patrons run the range from casual cool to just casual, and most are speaking some flavor of accented, citizen-of-the-world English. The staff are more friendly than fierce, and clearly enjoy playing "guess the wine" with the customers. (Is this some kind of French fad? I like a blind tasting as much as the next guy, but after two separate occasions I'm wondering if this is de rigueur when ordering by the course instead of the bottle.) Some have secret agent skills of their own; the timing and coordination are so good that often items appear and disappear without my slightest notice.


What I can't fail to notice is the food. I take the modest option that's sold as a three course surprise menu. It's actually more like eight if amuse, flanking desserts, and all the incidentals are tallied separately. The chef must be some kind of savant at sourcing since every piece of meat, fowl, fish, and fruit, every distinct ingredient, is incredibly fresh and flavorful. The seafood in particular is the best I've ever had. Lightly poached cockles actually taste, no joke, like an ocean breeze. Dishes are composed artfully, but not fussily, with an eye for color. A scallop with spring vegetables in a foamy Thai broth is spare and beautiful. Muscat grapes are served as part of an unassuming but hard-hitting fruit course, and they're a revelation. Maybe all muscat are created equal, but these are the first I've tried and I instantly dust off my mental picture book of Roman film heroes being fed grape clusters by appreciative love interests.


Not everything is perfect, and at this level the misses suffer by comparison. A few courses need salt, including my main: beautifully cooked pieces of lamb served with a jarring paste of anise, coffee, and about seventeen mystery ingredients. It tastes like plum sauce on acid, but without the rich sweetness needed to harmonize with the lean and mild lamb.

L'Astrance isn't perfection, and maybe I'm a fool for hoping it would be. It does offer some incredible flavors and a level of decadence which represent significant additional value beyond less consummate restaurants close to its price range. And these are certainly lurking around (I'm talking about you, Senderens). I'd like to believe in the Michelin myth, that if not perfection, at least I'll find an impassioned grasping after it when I see the three star stamp. L'Astrance doesn't disillusion me; can there really be any better praise?

Auberge St-Martin, Kintzheim, Alsace

Emperor of flame-cakes, defender of fresh cream, and wielder of the sacred flour power. I'm not making (all of) this up; one of those is an entirely accurate translation of this restaurant's favored nom de guerre. With castles dotting the nearby hills and Eagle Aviary, Monkey Mountain, and Stork Central all a short drive away, the fanciful marketing begins to make a skewed sort of sense. Make your way inside, and the sense of dislocation is complete. Cartoonishly French waiter, tri-lingual menus, and neckerchiefed dogs nosing around the tableware? Is this real or have we stumbled onto a Tintin set at Euro Disney?


We're starting to worry that we've horribly mis-calculated, and Miss Crotchety is already making confident and dire predictions about the future of our lunch. I came armored for such an attack, however, citing Google Translate's conviction that dozens of French blog comments are all vaguely positive in nature ("it falls well" and "the service...not terrible"). We soldier past our doubts and order aperitifs, one of nearly every tarte flambée on the menu, and salads. I'm tempted by the baeckoffe, an Alsation dish consisting of meat, meat, and meat, but the tarte flambée is emperor here and even the salads were a grudging concession to Miss Crotchety.


It turns out, everything is delicious. We each have a glass of Crémant d'Alsace mixed with griotte liqueur—kind of a local Kir Royale, flavored with sour cherry instead of blackcurrant. The salad is fresh, tasty, and loaded with bacon. But the real draw is the flammekueche (really, how often do you prefer the Swiss German word to the French?), which traditionally consists of crust, crème fraîche or fromage blanc, onions, and lardons. It sounds like a formula that can't miss, but we're used to eating them across the border in Switzerland, where the crusts run the continuum from cardboard to dry cardboard. At St-Martin they're infinitely better, layered and pastry-like within, crispy without. The toppings too are top quality, and there's even a combo with smoked ham and Tomme des Prés du Ried, which is kind of like getting your pizza with buffalo mozarella and spicy sausage.


Auberge St-Martin instantly rockets to the top of our list of lunch spots in the greater Basel region. We're renting a car for a day just to go back. If you look up the intended interpretation of Michelin ratings (I did), that makes it a three star in my book. And guess what? It won't cost you hundreds of dollars.

Yauatcha, London

A Michelin starred dim sum house and tea room whose design screams: Serenity! Full length, pearly, cerulean wall paneling says you're going for a ride in Aquarium Land with all the thrill and subtlety of an amusement park marquee. It's the school of waitresses with their impersonal grace and cool efficiency that completes the illusion. With identical white uniforms, only their hind-hugging half-belts provide the occasional flash of color, like the flick of koi darting into motion, as they sweep between tables. This is the kind of unobtrusive spectacle that actually delivers the sense of peace so loudly advertised.


Dim sum are ordered from a menu, not a cart, relieving you from the mercenary stress of hunting down your favorites. They're still available in a heady variety, but finished to order, delivered when ready, and uniformly delicious. Delicate flavors are more prevalent here than you may expect from past dim sum experience, but take care to mix it up: texture is still an overwhelming component of many dishes, and you'll want an even representation from different categories. Shiitake duck rolls are quintessentially silky and unctuous, and jasmine smoked ribs tender, meaty, and sweet, with a floral overtone. Scallop dumplings with kumquat are fresh and clean with a gentle citrus kick. Drinks include plenty of straight up teas and a selection of well balanced cocktails, smoothies, and other tea-blended concoctions. Fresh juice and crushed fruit make for tasty mixes, if the striking colors and flowery garnishes edge toward tiki tackiness.

The food is fantastic, but at these prices you're buying an experience. What makes it a successful one is the wealth of understated detail which frames the more obvious set pieces. Yauatcha actually lives up to its own hype.