The cursed restaurant

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There is a small restaurant right across the street from my office building. When we first got there thirteen years ago, it was a luncheon counter / bar, and it got pretty regular business, and you could buy lottery tickets there. It was grimy-looking inside and out, and gave the impression that it had been there for years.

 

 

And suddenly, after a few years, it closed.

 

 

The building stood empty for a couple of years. Then two young entrepreneurs bought it and turned it into a club (upstairs) and restaurant (downstairs). The club did very well, and is still going strong (I find lots of broken glass and car keys and discarded compacts and cigarette wrappers in our parking lot on Monday mornings).

 

 

The downstairs restaurant flailed around for a few years and finally closed.

 

 

Then it redecorated, and put out new signs. It was now a cute little Italian restaurant! Partner and I ate there once, and it was excellent. We made a resolution to eat there again, but before we knew it, it was gone.

 

 

Then it became a “Latin grill.” The few people who ate there said it was pretty good. Then I spoke to someone who said he’d eaten there the week before and it was pretty bad. Then, a few days after that, they closed.

 

 

Now I see it’s Jamaican/Caribbean.

 

 

How long do you think this incarnation will last?

 

 

Some people think that there are buildings that have curses on them. Remember Babu’s Pakistani restaurant on “Seinfeld”? Babu didn’t succeed, and neither did anyone else in that venue.

 

 

It’s a curse, I tell you.

 

 

(So: do you feel like Jamaican food? If so, act quickly! In a few weeks, it’ll be Korean!)

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Greggs: the Rhode Island place to have Gentile food

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Rhode Island, as I’ve said before, is a good place to put on the feedbag. We have tons of places to eat, and a surprising number of them are good: in Providence alone, we have Hemenway’s, and Red Stripe, and Cassarino’s. We have our share of chains like Shula’s and Fleming’s, and they are very good also (Partner and I are very partial to Fleming’s).

 

 

But sometimes you don’t want to spent $100+ for a meal.

 

 

And, for those evenings, there is always Greggs.

 

 

Greggs is only found in Rhode Island. There are four locations: Providence, East Providence, North Kingstown, and Warwick. (I’ve never eaten at the Warwick location. Maybe someday.)

 

 

They serve Gentile food.

 

 

They have sandwiches, and pasta dishes, and salads. They have wraps. They have liver and onions, to which I am partial.

 

 

Most significantly of all, they have huge delectable-looking cakes, which rotate inside big glass enclosures. You can always see them out of the corner of your eye while you’re dining.

 

 

Usually we skip the cake. Sometimes, however – especially if we go on Monday or Tuesday, when they’re having a special – we are forced to have cake, because it’s part of the meal, and we’ve already paid for it. We take it home with us, and it’s always wonderful.

 

 

The clientele is funny: lots of older people, lots of big families. It’s not expensive. It’s comfortable, and the waiters get to know you after a while. One of the waiters at the North Main Street location (who has a wrap named after him) still knows me after all these years, and still brings me a martini without asking. I mean, really!

 

 

Rhode Island is a great place for food. But you can’t always eat steak or lobster. Sometimes you want something simple and comfortable.

 

 

It is for this that Greggs exists.

 

 

So let’s go to Greggs. I’ll have the liver and onions, and you can have whatever you want.

 

 

And afterward, maybe a piece of cake.

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Restaurant review: Le Bouchon du Vaugueux

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Food in France is wonderful and plentiful, but it is generally not cheap. Even lunch at a corner bistro will set you back maybe thirty or forty euro. We lunched one day at McDonald’s (well, you need to touch home base once in a while), and even that was nearly twenty euro for the two of us.

 

 

 

As a result, we ended up eating prepared sandwiches and pastries a lot. This was not a problem, really; these are very inexpensive, and easy to find, and really pretty good most of the time.

 

 

 

But Partner and I agreed that we needed a few really good meals, just to complete our France experience.

 

 

 

Before our departure, Partner did a lot of web-surfing, and found a small restaurant in Caen called Le Bouchon du Vaugueux. The pictures were charming, and the menu was tempting. Here’s the current prix-fixe menu (a few items have changed since our visit):

 

MENU A 20 EUROS

Persillé de jambon et palette de porc aux lentilles  ou
Velouté de potiron toast au fromage de chèvre  ou
Salade de joue de porc et saucisson de volaille, vinaigrette de châtaigne.
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Carré de porc épais et moelleux , laqué à la moutarde douce et cornichons ou
Pavé de colin à la plancha beurre blanc poivre rose et ciboulette ou
Lapin braisé aux raisins et confit d'oignons.
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Assiette de 3 fromages Normand ou  
Crème chocolat-café et nage de poires à l'anis ou 
Mousse ivoire aux litchis pulpe de framboises  ou
Pudding façon pain perdu au rhum.

 

 

 

(I do not translate, on purpose. I want you to get the full flavor of the place.)

 

 

 

Partner corresponded with the manager, Mme. Poussier, and she confirmed our reservation well before we left.

 

 

 

We ate there on the evening of Friday the fifth of October.

 

 

 

I will remember that meal for a long time.

 

 

Mme. Poussier welcomed us warmly. “I know, I know!” she said when we arrived. “From the Internet!”

 

 

 

We both started with the celery soup, garnished with sesame seeds and served with toasted bread and cheese. Does that sound too simple? It was very simple. It was also wonderful. (I know we should have had two different appetizers, but we’re stupid tourists, and we both thought that the soup sounded too good to pass up. It was.)

 

 

 

For a main course, Partner chose the “carre de porc epais et moelleux” (thick juicy pork steak), with sweet mustard and French-style pickles as a garnish.

 

 

 

I had the rabbit.

 

 

 

Yes, I know.

 

 

 

(My mother long ago told me that, when she was growing up, her mother would serve rabbit from time to time, and tell the kids it was chicken. Grandma’s father, who lived with them, would wait until Grandma’s back was turned and then make little hippety-hop motions with his hands. And the kids would refuse to eat it, and Grandma was invariably furious, and never did figure out how the kids knew.)

 

 

 

Rabbit, if you’ve never had it, is delicious. You can certainly make believe that it’s chicken, but it’s really like nothing else. The rabbit I ate at the Bouchon – served in a sauce flavored with onions and raisins – was heavenly.

 

 

 

Dessert? I went with the cheese plate. Partner had the grilled pineapple with chocolate sauce. Both of us were very happy.

 

 

 

When we arrived at seven-thirty, the place (which is not large) was almost empty. By eight-thirty, it was packed: a few tourists like us, and lots of very contented-looking locals.

 

 

 

The service was immaculate. Mme. Poussier had the dining room running like a Swiss watch: I saw her more than once give instructions to a waiter with a nod of her head or a glance.

 

 

 

And all of the above, with the addition of a few beers and mineral waters and two cups of coffee, ran to sixty-five euro, which is approximately twice the price of two burger-and-fries combos at a Paris bistro.

 

 

 

I am also pleased to tell you that Le Bouchon has earned a Bib Gourmand citation from the Michelin guide, which means they provide “excellence on a budget.”

 

 

 

I know, dear reader, you’re probably not planning a trip to Caen in the near future.  

 

 

 

But if you are: please go to Le Bouchon du Vaugueux, and treat yourself to a wonderful meal.

 

 

 

And, when you’re there, please let Mme. Poussier know that we think of her daily.

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“And such small portions!”

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An old joke, retold by Woody Allen in “Annie Hall”:

 

 

 

“The food is terrible here!” one woman says at a Catskills resort.

 

 

“Yes!” the other woman says. “And such small portions!”

 

 

 

We’re unreasonable creatures, aren’t we? We want it all. We want everything, and we want it cheap. In the words of a Simpsons character, speaking to a bagboy in a supermarket: “I want all my groceries in one bag, and I want it to be light.”

 

 

 

 

But there are also reasonable expectations.

 

 

 

 

Partner and I ate recently at a new place in the University neighborhood. It’s very glitzy, and all of the servers were trendy: most of the men had ponytails and tattoos, and one of the girls was wearing an outfit made out of men’s underwear, I swear to god.

 

 

 

 

This place serves “tapas.” I have lived overseas, and I have had real tapas. Tapas are the little plates of food they give you at the bar, so long as you keep drinking. They’re different all the time, and usually very interesting. Most of all, they’re free. They’re the incentive to keep drinking.

 

 

 

 

Tapas restaurants in the United States are a whole different thing. You pay for each little plate.

 

 

 

 

So we order one of the “tapas,” a zucchini fritter. It arrives shortly, and it is absolutely delicious, but it is about three bites each for each of us.

 

 

 

 

We then order “personal pizzas.” They arrive. They are about ten inches by four inches, with a very thin delicate crust. Mine was delicious (as was the fritter): more zucchini, tomato, sautéed onions. I destroyed mine in about three minutes.

 

 

 

 

We were both still hungry, but there was no way we were going to keep ordering food in this place. We’ve run up a $35 bill, and we both feel like we haven’t even begun the meal yet.

 

 

 

 

So we go home and have sandwiches.

 

 

 

A few days later, we went to Hemenway’s, a local high-end seafood place, both because we were both in the mood for seafood, and because I had a gift card. Partner had surf and turf, and I had paella. We both had appetizers. Everything was wonderful, and the portions were very ample. The total bill was over $100, but you know what? We were both stuffed, and we both took food home with us.

 

 

 

 

There’s been a spate of criticism over the last few years about the restaurants that serve huge portions of food – more than people can eat, more than people need!

 

 

 

 

But smart diners take food home from those places. Partner and I certainly do. We ate at a nice old-fashioned Chinese place in Attleboro, Shanghai Gardens, a few weeks ago, and we both took home food, and it was very nice.

 

 

 

Don’t get me wrong: the food at the aforementioned “tapas” place was excellent. It was just too meager.

 

 

 

This is a trick and a disgrace. This is using the “tapas” label as an excuse to bring out small portions of food and pretend that the restaurant (and you, the diner) are sophisticated.

 

 

 

Don’t believe it.

 

 

 

Expensive places – all places, really – should have good food, and lots of it. And you should never leave feeling hungry.

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Hurricane Irene: the aftermath, part two!

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After our recent hurricane, you generally greeted people with something like: “How was your hurricane?” Usually you got a few words: wry, sad, a fallen branch here, no power there.

 

 

There's a big older guy who delivers the campus mail to my building. “How was your hurricane?” I asked him a few days after Irene swept through, expecting the usual light-hearted reply; he's normally very cheerful.

 

 

Thunk! went the bucket of mail. “I lost five hundred dollars worth of meat!” he wailed. “Freezer was out of power for fifty-five hours! I opened it and I was sick to my stomach! Not literally, I mean. It hasn't rotted yet. But the waste! I called Narragansett Electric, and they -”

 

 

Some people, when they tell you a story like this, turn it into a performance piece. He was one of those people. He was leaping into the air and shaking his finger in my face, and for the first time I was beginning to notice how big he was, and I was desperately hoping he wasn't going to turn green and bust out of his clothes. “There's one connection – one! - that runs under Bristol County. And if it goes out, Barrington goes out! And Warren! And Bristol! And National Grid knows it! We've told them time and time again! I told them, I'm gonna bring it up at a town meeting, and we're gonna get signatures together, and we're gonna make them -”

 

 

“You know what I heard?” I said feebly, in an effort to distract him. “It's the restaurants you have to watch out for. They're sorting through their food, and they don't want to throw stuff away – and now there aren't enough food inspectors - “

 

 

“Tell me about it!” he brayed. “My neighbor, he works for [redacted nearby Italian restaurant], and, well you know they've been closed -”

 

 

“What?” I croaked. “We just ate there – we liked it -”

 

 

“It's been closed for seven or eight days now!” he boomed. “Flies! Flies in the walls! They're everywhere! Somebody working there turned them in - “

 

 

I am thinking now of the very nice meal Partner and I had at that restaurant only a few weeks ago, and am trying to remember if I saw any flies, and I have talked myself into believing that I did.

 

 

I used to work for a food distributor; several of the salesmen told me that, once you see the average restaurant kitchen, you will never eat there again.

 

 

On the other hand: a few years ago, Partner and I were in Manhattan and ate at a really lovely Brazilian restaurant called Plataforma. It was Restaurant Week, and we got a special deal: special meal, free gifts, and a personal tour of the kitchen. Kids, you have never seen such a beautiful kitchen. Brazilian restaurants are all about meat, and there was a huge multi-rotisserie with at least ten cuts of meat rotating on it; it looked like something on the space shuttle. The staff looked like they laundered their uniforms every ten minutes. Even the salads they were tossing looked like they were meant to appear in a movie about salads.

 

 

So not all restaurants are filthy.

 

I don't care. I'm gonna eat at that Italian place again. We had a very nice meal there.

 

 

(I'd better not see any flies.)

 

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Shula's 347 Grill, Providence, Rhode Island

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For a long time, Providence had only one steakhouse: the Capital Grille. It was expensive and very deluxe; I've only ever had dinner there once, for a colleague's farewell party, and I felt like an orphan foundling at a Presidential dinner. The service was immaculate, the food excellent, the ambiance old-school: lots of wood paneling and wine bottles and waiters who shimmered up out of nowhere.

 

 

Now high-end steakhouses have popped up everywhere. Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. Fred & Steve's Steakhouse, up at Twin River. Fleming's, which Partner and I visit every few months, and which has given us some really tremendous meals.

 

 

And we finally hit Shula's 347 Grill on Independence Day.

 

 

We felt like trying something new, and I happened to have a gift certificate, and we had nothing else to do. We got there around 2:00 p.m., and there was – literally – no one else in the place. We had a server named Milton, who was perfect in that old-fashioned steakhouse way: very attentive without overdoing it and without intruding. We had appetizers and burgers, so we can't speak to the high-end steak menu, but I can tell you that we had an excellent meal.

 

 

Partner's big problem with the place, of course, had to do with the founder. “So,” I said, “Shula was a football player.”

 

 

Partner grimaced. “Coach,” he said. “Miami Dolphins. He won a couple of Super Bowls in the 1970s. Big deal.” (Partner is a New England Patriots fan.)

 

 

I pointed over to the entryway, where two huge metallic football-shaped trophies stood. “I assume those are Super Bowl trophies?”

 

 

He glanced over disdainfully. “Replicas.”

 

 

“Maybe, when you win the Super Bowl, they give you as many trophies as you want,” I said.

 

 

Partner grunted. “Bill Belichick won three Super Bowl trophies.”

 

 

“Well, he should open a nice restaurant too,” I said. “All the waiters could wear hoodies. And when you compliment the waitstaff, they can say: 'I can't take credit. It was a team effort.'”

 

 

Partner grunted again.

 

 

Well, it was an excellent meal, despite the fact that we were surrounded by photos of Don Shula shaking hands with celebrities I didn't recognize.

 

 

As we were leaving, I spotted one last photo on the wall: Shula shaking the hand of Bill Belichick. I called Partner over to see it. Belichick had signed it, and written a long note to Shula on the photo.

 

 

And he signed it: Bill Belichick, SB 36 / 38 / 39 champions.

 

 

One more Super Bowl than Shula won, see?

 

 

Bill Belichick is a shady bitch!

 

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