The Cheap Eats Challenge, cont.

I am happy to report some success in my self-issued Cheap Eats Challenge and would like to take this opportunity to spread the wealth (pun intended) of my findings...

Baoguette

I have developed a not-so-guilty addiction to the Vietnamese bahn mi sandwiches at Baoguette in the West Village.  On the way from my train stop to my friend Aimee's apartment (my crash pad for these last few days in the City - thank you, Aimee, Andrew and Rich!), Baoguette is conveniently located, and with sandwiches bigger than my head for $6, both my belly and pocketbook leave full.

As you may have guessed from the name, the sandwich starts with a baguette roll - nice and crispy on the outside, but lacking the irregular air bubbles and delicate texture of a traditional French baguette's interior.  No matter, because the thing is stuffed with piles of spicy, juicy meat (I prefer the "sloppy" beef - think Vietnamese sloppy joe - or the traditional pate and pork), complimented by the bright crisp of cucumber, the sour tang of pickled diakon and carrots, and some fresh cilantro.  A little Sriracha, and I have a hard time putting it down - in gleefull ignorance of that bit about never eating something bigger than your head.

Mercadito

Recently I was reminded of an old favorite from my first years in the City - Mercadito, in Alphabet City.  While I have sampled Mercadito's tasty Mexican treats many times, this was my first time actually entering the restaurant.  When dining-in at Mercadito, it becomes quickly apparent that everything about Mercadito is small - small plates, small tables, small chairs, and small amounts of personal space.  But once you have a tangy tres cítricos margarita in hand (what you might expect, but with a sexy kick of habanero), you'll soon notice your foot inadvertantly tapping in time with the festive Mariachi beats.

The food at Mercadito is as good as ever.  My friends and I chose to dine tapas-style, sharing a variety of dishes - among our favorites:  the three guacamoles (traditional, mango-spiked, and tongue-tingling pineapple and habanero - happily, Mercadito rarely shies away heat), a variety of quesadillas, and carne tacos.

I have found Mercadito's guac to be inconsistent, but on that particular evening all three were excellent - especially when played off one another.  The traditional was predominantly salty, the mango sweet, and the pineapple-habanero full of tangy spice.  Perfect with freshly fried tortilla chips.

Next came the quesadillas.  Maybe it is because I hail from the Midwest, but when I think quesadilla, I think greasy, chewy cheese oozing from between heavy flour tortillas.  Not so at Mercadito.  Mercadito's quesadillas are dainty little treats - well-composed arrangements of oaxaca cheese and toppings on petite corn masa.  The textured corn pairs beautifully with everything from wild mushrooms to seafood.  All-in-all, these are immensely poppable.

Finally, the tacos.  In my mind, the true measures of a Mexican restaurant's quality.  Mercadito's are everything they should be - no more, no less.  We ordered the carne version (I would have preferred al pastor, but at times will make compromises for friends - you're welcome).  The meat was tender, redolent of rosemary, and the soft flour tortilla light.  I was already stuffed and still managed to polish off a couple of these.

I was torn regarding whether Mercadito fit squarely within the boundaries of my Cheap Eats Challenge, as the bill tends to add up pretty quickly once you are awash with tequila, but I decided to include it for two reasons:  (1) the cost of each dish is relatively low, and (2) someone else was paying (thanks, Jenny!).

My remaining tenure in New York is just three short weeks, but a girl has to eat (and this girl has to eat on the cheap), so stay tuned for more free morsels (you can't get cheaper than that!)...

Leaving NYC / The Cheap Eats Challenge

In a few short weeks, I will be leaving my food mecca for greener pastures (literally - I am moving to Maine).  As I will only be a full-time resident of NYC for a few more weeks, I want to make the  most of it.   However, I am also in the midst of a fit of financial responsibility (like the tide, it comes and goes).

Therefore, I am issuing myself a challenge:  gorge on as much delicious food as possible during my last days in New York for as cheap as possible - my own Cheap Eats Challenge.

Let's see how this goes!

Love for the Dough Baby

I don't like doing things I'm not good at.  Unfortunately, learning something new often involves just that.  Recently I decided that this dislike is impeding my ability to learn new things, so I committed myself to learning a couple of new things things, no matter how much I suck along the way.

That is how I found myself in the kitchen at Stella's, staring anxiously at a cup of milky white liquid.

I kept waiting for something to happen – I knew that something was supposed to happen but wasn't quite sure what.  I had painstakingly converted the measurements and carefully measured the ingredients.  I even remembered to proof the yeast in tap water (something I omitted in an earlier, failed attempt at breadmaking).  Why wasn't anything happening?

As embarrassing as it was to falter at this early stage, I decided to consult my Chef G, whose culinary school baking book was the foundation for this endeavor.  He informed me that cool tap water is not the recipe for happy yeast (as every baker apparently knows).  Chef G agitated the milky liquid with the deftness of a confident baker, added a little warm water and a dash of sugar, and moved the yeast cup over the stove.  Sure enough, within minutes tiny bursts of air began bubbling up to the surface.  (I believe these are akin to yeast belches?)

With the yeast in bloom, I combined the ingredients as directed in Stella's professional-grade mixer (I certainly wasn't lacking for appropriate equipment) and kneaded the dough on medium speed until it was "smooth and elastic."  And then began the waiting game – breadmaking certainly requires a lot of patience (not one of my virtues).

As we wait, please enjoy some snapshots of my efforts:

Bread flour:

Active dry yeast (annoyingly, my recipe used instant yeast, requiring yet another conversion):

The kneaded dough: 

After a bit of time to rise:

My dough baby, shaped and ready for the fire:

And once the taught little dough baby sprung back "slowly to the touch," it was time for it to meet Stella's beautiful, scorching hot, wood fire pizza oven.  Here is where I got really experimental, because this dough was designed to bake in an oven much cooler than this one.  But I failed to mention earlier that one of the objectives of this experiment was to determine whether delicious bread could be baked in the pizza oven, so this risk to the success of my experiment (and consequently, to my pride and self-esteem) was unavoidable.

Fortunately, I had the patient assistance of my Chef G.  He informed me that traditional breads such as French baguettes are cooked in steam injection ovens, so to simulate the steam injection effect, he threw in a few ice cubes during the initial scortch.

Here is a shot of Chef G watching over the dough baby:

Just out of the pizza oven:

We decided to finish the loaf in the cooler kitchen oven (so as not to totally blacken crust), and here is the finished product:

A relative success!!  (Pride and self-esteem intact, whew!)

The insides are more dense than I like, but the pizza oven did wonders for a crunchy, brown-black crust. The collective agreement of the kitchen at Stella's is to add more yeast, allow for a longer rise and cook the dough mostly, if not entirely, in the pizza oven. But all things considered, an excellent first try.

Perhaps learning new things isn't so bad after all.

A date with one of my favorite people

Last Saturday night, after two failed attempts at making plans with friends in the City, I decided to take myself out on a date.

After considering several options (the Philharmonic and Bar Boulud? the bar at Babbo or Casa Mono? some jazz or a hipster show on the LES?), I decided to see the Martha Graham Dance Company perform at the Joyce and to treat myself to a post-show dinner at Tia Pol.

The performance was inspired (if somewhat annoyingly political), but I found myself distracted by fantasies of creamy fava bean puree and beyos cheese on perfect little toasts.

When I arrived, I must admit, I ordered like a girl, albeit a girl obsessed with tasty food. First, a salad of frisée and arugula with white asparagus, fried artichokes and a creamy, lemony vinaigrette, paired with a glass of Spanish rosé cava. In this dish, the peppery arugula and slightly bitter frisée are mellowed by the tangy vinaigrette and slightly mushy bits of asparagus, and the whole thing is rounded out with the fried artichokes' crispy pop. The perfect mix of soft and crunchy; creamy, bitter and bright. All perfectly complimented by the bone dry, floral, bubbly wine.

A side note: I am convinced that the kitchen refuses to chop the oversized frisée so that the wait staff has something to snicker about as the diners attempt to maneuver the unwieldy fronds into their watering mouths. I felt ridiculous eating the massive things but was also too proud to chop my own salad into baby food.

Next came the much-imagined toasts, which did not fail to meet expectations. The fava bean purée is smooth as silk but retains enough texture to firm up on the crisp buttered toast, and the dusting of mild white beyos cheese adds salt and augments the creaminess of the dish. I could eat 2 or 12 of these just about every night and die a happy woman.

Sadly, as I was just one person, I had to stop after my final dish: a special salad of sweet peas with cured pork loin and a sunnyside up egg (Chef G calls me his egg slut – I couldn't pass this one up). My first move was to break the yolk, which oozed over the salad to make the world's most perfect dressing. The egg-soaked tender sweet peas were divine, well-balanced in both flavor and texture by crisp radishes and fresh croutons. If I were to complain about anything, it would be not enough piggy (I do love my piggy) – and this salad was equally awkward to eat, but on whole, it was totally worth the embarrassment. And equally well-complimented by a second glass of delicious rosé.

I briefly considered passing up on dessert (is it ridiculous to order dessert when taking yourself out on a date?), but the seduction of fried custard balls and a jammy dessert red proved too strong to resist. This dessert is covered with a crust like the outer layer of the very best donut you've ever had and is filled with an eggy yellow custard the consistency of melted brie. I am a great fan of flavor complexity in desserts (i.e., desserts that taste something in addition to sweet), so perhaps a sprinkle of sea salt would serve this dessert well, but the dried cherries with which it is served add some tartness to balance the super sweetness of the custard. As I took my last sip of the full-bodied, grapey red, I decided that I need to take myself out on dates more often.

Tasting Notes – Bowen's Island, Charleston, SC

One breezy Sunday afternoon we braved the traffic heading to Folly Beach in search of steamed oysters, fried shrimp and cold, delicious beer. After missing the turn-off twice, we found the pothole-ridden dirt path to Bowen's Island. We wound our way to the "parking lot", where customers haphazardly abandon their cars at amidst piles of oyster shells, and entered the compound of run-down, fire-damaged buildings that make up the restaurant.

Our first stop was the shack where a very kind Southern gent takes orders, runs the register, and chats up the customers (not all at once, mind you, serially and slowly – yet another reminder that I was in a land far, far away from New York City). Our menu selections had been made and we were eagerly eyeing the beer fridge when we realized that Bowen's Island is a cash only establishment. We had a little cash, but who wants to be limited by a pocketbook when faced with steaming heaps of dirt cheap oysters and an evening with nothing better to do? So 30 minutes, lots of beach traffic, and another missed turn later, we returned to Bowen's Island with cash, spent another eternity waiting to order, and sat down in the upstairs dining area with a six pack of Red Stripe and a huge, lunchroom tray of crusty mollusks.

Up to this point, most oysters I had eaten were raw and served atop polished half shells. Not at Bowen's Island. The oysters at Bowen's Island look funky. Really funky. And they are steamed by the bucketful (for which I am grateful – I'm not sure I would trust raw oysters that looked that funky). You get a dull knife, a towel, and a tray full of funkiness, and you go to town.

And we did, and it was excellent. The oysters were perfect – sweet, succulent, and bursting with briny juice. A little cocktail sauce, a lot of beer, and that tray was gone faster than it took us to get there.

And then we waited. And we waited. And we waited some more.

At some point, someone finally served us a tray of fried things, the only memorable parts of which were the tender, mid-sized shrimps and the awful, cement-heavy "hush puppies." But the beer was flowing freely as we enjoyed the sunset over the marsh, and we agreed that our trip to Bowen's Island was good.

Simple Pleasures

What could be better than thin shavings of salty parmesan and a crisp white wine on a Monday night?