Molyvos: Amazing salads

Dara writes:

Last night James and I were treated by his mother to a wonderful pre-Carnegie Hall meal at the Greek restaurant Molyvos on Seventh Avenue and 55th Street in Midtown Manhattan. I had always associated the establishment with the power luncheon crowd, as I would make reservations there for various bosses when I worked in various Midtown publishing ventures, including (the now defunct) Talk magazine and the publishing company Little, Brown. As we were dining last night pre-concert, I assumed I was headed for an obligatory, rather than revelatory meal.

In contrast, the romaine, dill, and scallion salad wowed me. I am a salad fanatic and this one stood up. I shared it with my mother-in-law, so the smaller portion arrived at table in a delightful white porcelain creche. The greens were chopped, which I love. To my mind, the point of a salad is getting all the fresh flavors in my mouth at once. The chopped salad facilitates this by making every morsel smaller and thus more able to fit on one forkful. In Molyvos's version, the greens--herbs and leaves--were remarkably fresh. But perhaps most importantly, the dressing was sublime. What was it? I dare say only olive oil, lemon, and sea salt. But what a bracing, briny blend. The bitter lemon balanced the sweet herbs in a tingly way.

I am going to try this simple dressing at home, armed with an oil recommended in the magazine of Christopher Kimball (an author with whom I worked at Little, Brown), Cooks Illustrated. The condiment can be purchased from Crate & Barrel (finally, this over-hyped store is good for something).

My main at Molyvos was actually just as winning. A Mediterranean sea bass atop baby lentils, parsnips, and brussels sprouts. The root vegetables were as flavorful as if the chef had just brought them from Union Square Market. The fish was sweet and lovely and the skin so crispy that actually a piece scratched my throat. In spite of that momentary abrasion, I loved the dish. I had been a little worried that it might be heavy when I saw legumes and brussels sprouts accompanying it. Brainwashed by one too many recent meals laden with Thanksgiving leftovers, I was expecting a plate bursting with the meat and then heaping side portions of veggies and starch. Instead, this fish perched on a sprightly mound of lentils just barely studded with a few caramelized root vegetables. Delightful! And not gouging on my stomach.

Perhaps next time this long-standing establishment will be the evening's main attraction.

Boqueria: I just don't like tapas

Dara writes:

There are certain restaurants in this city of ours in which it is pretty okay to hold a poetry workshop. Boqueria, the jolly new tapas joint on West 19th Street, is not one of them.

Aimee and I needed a moderately-priced place to eat that was not too far downtown and not too far east, where we could also exchange a few poems over dinner. Since I had recently read the review of Boqueria in New York magazine, I knew I would be sitting on a stool, probably at a communal table, in the midst of a lively bar atmosphere. But hey, poetry sometimes requires livening up. Plus, Aimee and I both appreciate good food, and we wanted to check the restaurant out.

Once our groping under the table finally yielded a lone hook on which we could hang our purses, we could relax into our stools (an oxymoron), and concentrate on wine and verse. We ordered two glasses of Spanish white, quail egg and chorizo on toast, squid, lamb, and, just to test the authenticity of the place, patatas bravas. A large and somewhat intrusive table of four parked themselves next to us at the communal table, and then a strange thing happened. They ordered after us and yet their first tapas plates came out before ours.

And then their last little plates came out before ours. And then their entree-sized plate appeared. Aimee and I hadn't seen each other in a bit, so we were absorbed in talk--but also, finally, hungry. Just then our waitress arrived to let us know there had been a mix-up, and the server had given all our dishes to the adjacent group!

One point of information: if I got four dishes I didn't order, I might not just eat them as though I had!

We got our dishes, and they tasted good, although the lamb was undercooked and sent back and then the server brought it back--to the adjacent group! I literally had to say, "excuse me, but isn't that the lamb we ordered?" Running interference with dishes does not enhance my dining experience.

As spicy as the aioli accompanying the potatoes was, as lemony and olive-slicked as the squid was, as meaty and sinful as the egg yolk-coated chorizo was, the pieces together did not win me over as a meal. Alas, they are not supposed to. Tapas are supposed to satisfy a light hunger before dinner, or soak up alcohol afterwards. Remind me only to use them for that purpose!

Aimee and I were able to exchange poems, by the way. But I did notice that the callow couple next to us who had annoyed me when they blatantly laughed in the waitress' face because they "had the giggles" vexed me exponentially more when they gaped at our para-literary interaction and burst out in hysterics.

Chide you will that I should have known better than to stage a mini-MFA in a tapas bar. Yet isn't the Spanish tradition the literary equivalent of poetry: compact and dense with meaning?

Great N.Y. Noodletown: Yummy, not Yucky

Dara writes:

If peering at a menu glued to the table beneath a greasy plastic tabletop, downing your bowl of soup wedged in among strangers at a communal table for eight, and blanching under flickering flourescent lights do not combine, for you, into a pleasurable dining experience, you might want to avoid Great N.Y. Noodletown, a Chinese restaurant on the Bowery in New York's Chinatown.

At least, I tried to avoid it, though James dragged me there a few times. Yes, the noodle soup was mighty tasty. The noodles a toothsome tangle, the shrimp dumplings fresh and tangy with chives, and the bits of juicy duck with crispy skin very hearty. Still, I found the establishment--there really is no other word for this--gross.

But friends, I have been converted. You see, about three weeks ago, when they were still in season, James and I ordered the soft shell crab. I admit I was intrigued to do so by a mention of the dish in Travel + Leisure. Indeed, the taste was delightful: crispy skin, touched by hot chilies, juicy, steaming meat. The dish was--there really is no other word for this--dainty. Delicate. And so my feelings about the restaurant that served it began to change. Any kitchen that could produce such lacey food couldn't be as lacking as I'd first judged.

Alas, the crabs were no more when James and I returned last night, but our waiter kindly recommended the salt-baked combo as a replacement. I like shrimp, but the consistency of scallops and squid--mushy and chewy, respectively--can get to me. Nevertheless, I capitulated. And dear reader, I cannot get the dish out of my mind. Again, so delicate! Salty, crispy, lightly fried exterieror, masking absolutely succulent fish, kissed by jalapenos. Heaven for a pittance!

Sure, the lights still flicker, and the service is nothing more than functional. But sometimes well-executed food, fast and cheap, is exactly what a city night requires.