Ill-Timed Roadtrips: New Haven, Connecticut

Occasionally, despite overwhelming outward confidence, I can be a little too bold for the sake of a good meal. For a week we had planned a short day trip to New Haven, but the forecast incomprehensibly predicted snow. "Snow?" I scoffed. If Hurricane Irene was overrated, then certainly this snowfall would, at most, consist of a few flurries falling on overeager weathermen.

Not so. Amidst the pouring rain, we picked up our rental car, which was armed with suspiciously weak headlights, for what was supposed to be a fairly short drive. I'll avoid describing our first stop, Cannelle Patisserie, for the sake of narrative consistency. Suffice to say, everything I tried out of the $30 worth of pastries Melissa and Emily purchased was pretty damn good.

By this time, the freezing rain had turned into heavy snow as we headed north on I 95. As the self-designated driver, I was determined to show off my hardcore driving skills, but before we reached New Haven, I had to pee. Also, we needed gas.

Luckily, Colony Grill in Stamford was only an exit away. Stepping out of the car, I sunk to my ankles in slush. We scattered and ran inside, sliding into a long booth, hoping in vain to dry off. The bar style pizzas here are only $8.50, plus $1.50 a topping. Resolved to pace ourselves, we ordered one pie with hot oil, which is the draw.

True to its reputation, the hot oil had a slow burn, but the ripper did not. It had a quick, intense burn. The thin crust was nice, but not better than Star Tavern, the gold standard in bar pizza. Good pizza, but I'd probably hyped it up a bit too much in my mind. Slightly disappointed, we trudged out of the bar and sprinted to the car, continuing our journey.

Colony Grill
172 Myrtle Avenue
Stamford, CT 06902
(203) 359-2184

Staten Island Style: Rubirosa and Pier 76

Just over a year ago, a Staten Island specialty (complete with one of its most famous namesakes) was ferried to Manhattan in the form of Rubirosa. Setting up shop in Nolita, across the street from Torrisi Italian Specialties, together they've established a bastion of neo-classic Italian cuisine along the edge of the less-than-classics of Little Italy, just a block away.

Despite high expectations (especially for the pizza), I've yet to be disappointed with anything I've eaten on numerous lunchtime visits. 

A Long Weekend of Excess

Maybe it won't compare to Steve's weekend of similar excess in Chicago, but while we're measuring I'll line up my Memorial Day weekend with anyone. I'm sure everyone has eagerly anticipated hearing about it...

It started on Thursday morning. I was in court in Staten Island, a much easier, and far more relaxing environment than my usual spot in the hellhole of Kings court. I finished before 11 AM, grabbing an early beer and slice with a colleague at Pier 76 on Bay Street, only a five minute walk from the courthouse in Richmond Terrace.

Although Pier 76 was opened by the progeny of Joe & Pat's, the pizza was disappointing. I got two of the freshest slices from the first pizzas of the day: pepperoni and a Sicilian. Both slices were heavy on the cheese, with a thin, chunky tomato sauce. The crust was fine, but could barely hold the torrents of grease from the cheese and sauce. I'm glad to have tried it, but I'm doing a Staten Island Pizza tour this weekend and am preparing to have my mind blown. The best part of the meal was hearing the bartenders share their Fleet Week stories.

Pier 76
76 Bay Street
Staten Island, NY 10301
(718) 447-7434

Celebrating Spring and Steve's Birthday with an Epic Roberta's Tasting Menu

So we thought we'd try something a little different for this post. Rather than a traditional write-up, Steve and I instead decided to have an in-depth conversation about our recent epic 15 course tasting menu to celebrate Steve's birthday at Roberta's with Chef Carlo Mirarchi cooking the meal.

Chef Carlo Mirarchi & Duck.

For Steve and I this might have been our most anticipated meal of the year. Our idiosyncratic (but mostly harmonious) opinions after the jump...

Riding Along on Annie's New Jersey Pizza Tour

When Jeff of "Jeffrey Tastes" asked if I wanted to join a pizza tour curated by his friend Annie, for what he rightly calls "Annie's New Jersey Pizza Tours" it was impossible to say no. Not only have I been wanting to go on one of Jeff's pizza tours forever, but I'd read so much about NJ pizza lately that passing up this opportunity was unimaginable.

So on a sunny Sunday morning we met at Columbus Circle, splitting up into groups for the drive to our first stop, the legendary bar pizza at Star Tavern in Orange, New Jersey.

Star Tavern is essentially a sports bar, and despite it being empty at such an earlier hour, it was hard not to feel like we weren't somehow invading a neighborhood hangout. This was exacerbated once it became clear that our waitress was completely confused by us, and our pleas for recommendations and an opinion on local favorites were met with the rote, disappointing "I dunno, it's all good." (But with a much thicker NJ accent.)

Thanks for the help lady. We'll just get a large cheese pie... for now.

All pictures are Jeff's. Used with his gracious permission.

Exquisite. This is about as elemental a pizza craving as it gets for me. While the crust wasn't as crisp as I'd imagined, it still held up to the heavy coating of cheese. Of course I ate it too fast, searing the roof of my mouth, leaving me with a pizza brand and a dangling piece of charred gum that would last the rest of the day. Occupational hazard.

Things I'm Addicted To: Best Pizza

It takes a lot for me (or anyone) to willingly ride the G train. But wait, the G train does take me directly to one awesome place: Best Pizza. I wrote about it after my first visit, but that feels like ancient history after going many (many many) more times in the past few months.

My internal monologue typically involves a death match over what to eat for dinner and how far to travel. Yet when it comes to Best Pizza, I seemingly can rationalize the trip in an instant. Gotta take the G from Long Island City back to Brooklyn? I might as well stop at Best Pizza! Or, I'm in Williamsburg running errands, it would be a crime not to grab lunch/dinner/afternoon snack at Best Pizza! I'm in the East Village? I could take the L and cut back down...

I also rationalize visits by taking people who've never been, like my friends John and Tom this weekend and Steve a few weeks before that (these pictures are Steve's from that visit).

Roberta's: Under the Radar

Roberta's has always been far more than a meager pizza joint (albeit a very good pizza joint). Those of us willing to brave the industrial wilderness that is Bushwick are rewarded with some of the freshest and most inspired food in all of the city. Having long been a fan, MW and I had always opted for the restaurant's relatively calm brunch or lunch scene instead of their busier dinner service. Dinner was long overdue, and we were excited to see what Chef Carlo Mirarchi could do when not limited to cooking eggs or frying up excellent chicken. But despite being nominated by Food and Wine as one of the country's "Best New Chefs," Chef Mirarchi still remains mostly obscure in the public's eye (most certainly attributable to Roberta's remote location).

After recently reading about ChuckEats epic meal at Roberta's (with some equally impressive pictures from Roboppy), I couldn't help but resist from immediately making a return visit myself.  Chef Mirarchi guided us on a culinary tour de force, quite unlike anything in Manhattan, and considerably better.

Brunch Bets: Motorino Pizza (Williamsburg)

Heralded pizzaolo, Mathieu Palombino's Motorino is a favorite of mine (and many others) for his irresistible Neapolitan-style pies crafted with a sauce made from San Marzano tomatoes, creamy fior di latte and charred, chewy crusts. But pizza for brunch? I say, why not? In fact, pizza may be one item that has managed to seamlessly infiltrate its way into breakfast, lunch and dinner. Hell, I've even seen dessert pizza. So a few weeks ago, after waking with a fierce craving for pizza mixed with a desire not to stray too far, I decided to hit up the original Motorino located on Graham Avenue in Williamsburg.

Di Fara Pizza, Paulie Gee's and The Cult of Personality

How do I even approach a post on Di Fara Pizza?

Invariably, it's discussed from one of two perspectives: the virgin and the veteran. These tropes are as stale as it gets (just look on Yelp).

The virgins write as if entering a sacred (likely Catholic) shrine for the first time (I think they picture themselves in an Indiana Jones movie). Photographs are a constant, but everyone still seems to show an incongruous reverence normally reserved for a pope, head of state or Lady Gaga. After an already eternal wait, they meekly place their order, waiting in line for their baptism in pizza grease and holy extra virgin olive oil. Finally, once the pizza itself has become a mere formality, they depart slightly heavier, but spiritually reborn (or something like that).

The Man. The Myth. The Legend.

Veterans, on the other hand, burnish their credibility by claiming to have been among the first to try Di Fara. (While Midwood locals reminisce at how Di Fara used to be before the crowds.) They worship at the alter of Pope Dom DeMarco, and write about Di Fara in tones of a wise man leading a rapturous flock to a holy Midwood pilgrimage, spreading salvation to those poor souls who's heathen lips have never touched the most holy blessed pizza in existence.

If my comments show anything, it's that I'm sorely lacking in whimsy or the ability to accept anything with more than jaded cynicism (being only 26, this deeply disturbs me). More importantly, I've overused the Catholic imagery and relied too much on sarcasm. No one wants to sound like this guy (which I probably did after my first draft).

Still, I'm also compelled to admit that, until recently, I too was a Di Fara virgin.

Better Pizza

After reading about Best Pizza in the former Brooklyn Star space (it's being "backed" by Joaquin Baca and Roberta's) on Chowhound for the past few weeks, I was determined to try a slice on my next trip to Williamsburg. Bold assertions aside, I wanted more information, yet Google searches for "Best Pizza" proved fruitless (no, I've already been to Best Pizza on First).

Then, earlier this week, Adam Kuban weighed in (very positively) on Slice, complete with a full background (mentioned above). This, coupled with the concurrent realization that the courts were closed for Election Day meant a trip to Williamsburg (on what felt like the first day of Winter) was inevitable.

New Haven Pizza Rivalry: Sally's vs. Pepe's

When asked where to find the best pizza, most New Yorkers don't bother looking past Manhattan, let alone, the other boroughs, which are superior in my opinion. Pose the same question to the usually mild mannered mid-westerner and they'll surprise you with how passionately they defend Chicago deep dish. Whereas L.A. is home to the grilled pizza, made famous by Wolfgang Puck and further north in San Francisco, newcomer, Flour and Water, has received critical acclaim. But those in the know turn to New Haven, Connecticut as home to some of the very best pizza in all of America.

Unfamiliar with New Haven pizza? I forgive you, but also implore you to try this regional specialty that has earned a James Beard Award. While the world is more familiar with the thin-crusted New York style of pizza, as Italian immigrants settled in the Wooster Square neighborhood of New Haven they brought with them their culture as well as their food. Opened in 1925, Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napolentana or "Pepe's," as the locals call it is the birthplace of this style of pizza that's characteristically oblong in shape and cooked in coal ovens bestowing a uniquely charred and chewy thin crust. Having sampled Pepe's multiple times whenever I visited my older sister when she worked in New Haven, I was long overdue for a return trip and was accompanied by MW, YW and JC for a taste of this specialty treat.

Fat Bastard Saturday at Grimaldi's

It's always a good thing when a post I'm working on suddenly has added relevancy (more page views for us...I'm selfish). However, I wish it didn't have to come at the expense of Grimaldi's, which, for as long as the lines are, really should be able to pay their little old lady landlord in Florida.

My now former roommate, The Quaker and his (now) fiancee (he proposed the same day he moved in with her, so I congratulated him on getting all of the big moments in life out of the way in one day) invited me to check out Grimaldi's this past Saturday. To add a gloss of physical activity (and to be as cliche as possible), we included a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. This was the first time I've ever walked the bridge, and my impression is that this is pretty much the epicenter of an Israeli/Palestinian-like conflict currently brewing between bikers and pedestrians in NYC. Whatever you do, don't stray into a bike lane or you may spark a powder keg and end up starting World War III.

Anyway, after weaving our way across the bridge, we ended up missing the first turn and walking too far. We arrived at the memorial to Brooklyn soldiers who fought in World War II, which was actually very classy and understated (unlike many recent monuments), before continuing on our way. Finally, we reached the typically massive line at Grimaldi's shortly after noon and prepared for the wait.

New York Neapolitan at Kesté Pizza & Vino

With the possible exception of the hamburger, there may not be a more sacred food to Americans than pizza. Although originating in Naples, this dish has entrenched itself into the very fabric of American culture and our stomachs along the way. As diverse as our country is, so too are the countless regional varieties, styles and types of pizza. Pizza lovers are a passionate bunch, and being such, pull no punches with who they feel makes the best pie. "Best" is a dangerous word, often sparking regional debate over which which variation is superior. But this post isn't about who makes the "best" pizza; that topic will have to tabled for a future post. Instead, this is a recap of a recent lunch The Chief and I had at Kesté Pizza & Vino.

My Bushwick: Roberta's

Summer in Bushwick while working full-time and studying for the NY Bar Exam may have been the Worst.Summer.Ever. Yet I knew what I was getting into when I found a cheap apartment above a grocery store far out in the middle of nowhere, where I planned to hole up and study for 3 months. I picked Bushwick because I knew that if I lived in the city, the temptation would get to me. After a day-long housing search, I opted for the place in Bushwick over a tiny apartment in the middle of Soho.

Whenever studying wills and trusts or property law from 15th century England threatened a complete shut down of all brain functions, potentially rendering me a drooling mess, I would leave my apartment and wander the neighborhood in search of food. My neighborhood was filled with Dominican and Puerto Rican cuchifrito joints serving everything from mofongo to mondongo (I'm not being sarcastic). While many people think of the neighborhood as foreboding, it seemed as if every weekend families living on the block would grill out, drink and listen to music (while I tried to study, stewing at my fate).

However, I quickly learned that one can only eat so much mofongo a week, so the relatively new pizzeria/restaurant Roberta's became my comfort food whenever I sought a completely different atmosphere from the spartan and drab mass of cuchifrito joints. The pizzas were blistered and perfect, and their calzones were unparalleled.

People say the ambiance at Roberta's is a microcosm of the Bushwick scene, but it's really just the epicenter of the "Bushwick White People Scene. Walk into any cuchifritos joint on any corner... that's the Real Bushwick Scene. I lived in that scene, although it was advertised as the amorphous neighborhood in Brooklyn known as "East Williamsburg" (but no one would mistake Flushing and Broadway for Williamsburg). It was a mix of adventurous hipsters and other people on the coattails of the Williamsburg scene; a bohemian collection of beards and skinny jeans in the industrial wilds of Brooklyn.

Cash Only

When I first moved in, my parents joined me on a trip to Roberta's. I suggested we walk. Four of us wandered through the neighborhood as the sun set, with my parents constantly wondering aloud about the possibility of us all getting murdered, as the crowds on Broadway gave way to factories, junk car lots and Chinese food manufacturers. They weren't looking hard enough, though. Enormous lofts filled with young outcasts lined the streets, they were blind to what was happening all around them.

Giving Into the Hype: Lunch at Pulino's

For the past year, Eater, the Fox News of the New York City restaurant scene, has breathlessly reported every insignificant addition to Pulino's Bar & Pizzeria on Bowery and Houston. From the installation of the signage to the type of tile used in the bathrooms, no development was too small for Eater. OMG! LOOK AT THOSE AIR VENTS!!!

Their hype-boner is especially stiff since this is the New York debut of chef Nate Appleman, recently of San Francisco and A16 fame (and Next Iron Chef). Also restaurant heavyweight Keith McNally (of Minetta Tavern fame) is involved.  Yes, the folks at Eater have just ejaculated all over themselves and will require a very large towel and possibly a cold shower. Reservations for dinner, which started this week, will most likely be impossible unless you're "special" enough to not eat at 5:30 or 11:30. Which I'm not.

Regardless, Steve and I made our way downtown for lunch on Friday to see whether there is some substance behind this scene.

Indecisive in Atlanta: Pizza and Pupusas

This is Part 2 of The Great Roadtrip Series. Read Part 1 here.

Thursday night, we are starving after (just) eating Chick-fil-a at dusk. We pull into my friend James’ house around 9, but still need to eat dinner, buy beer and meet up with the rest of our former law school posse.  After too much debate, a decision is made to eat in-- or maybe pick up-- from a tacqueria along Buford Highway, but pulling into the parking lot, indecisiveness again overtakes us (due to earlier activities) and we freeze, panicked. Worry washes over me, should we wait to pick up? Don’t I want to see my friends ASAP? Will this place be any good? What if it takes forever? The waiters seemingly pleaded desperately to us from inside, mouthing “please... taste our tacos…" We are the only car in the parking lot, and the employees stare at us dejectedly as we drive off into the night.