Moms at Momofuku

Dara writes:

As readers of our blog know, James and I love David Chang's Momofuku Noodle Bar, in downtown Manhattan. We love it so much we decided to venture there, with our parents, for James's recent birthday.

We were excited to share our fave kimchee-laced brussels sprouts and sinfully rich ramen with our folks, but I guess we were in a bit of a bubble and failed to realize our parents might not want to crowd onto tiny stools for grub that doesn't quite fit in their comfort zone.

Our market research told us that on a weekend night we best arrive early. 5:20pm found us waiting outside the door, the first people there. The waitress who had told us "the line starts at 5pm" was a tad off the mark. No matter. What did matter was that my father had to arrive late, and, Momofuku being one of those "no reservations, we can't seat you until all members of your party are here" establishments, it gave us a tussle about our table. We had to insist we'd order for my father. The manager said that we could save a seat for him but that if the place filled up he'd have to give away that seat.

Now, Momofuku has grown very big in stature (and bigger in size, since it recently moved to a bigger space), which is great for it, but in the process it's gotten an entirely new staff. Not everyone is as mellow and cool (host with the wacky '80's haircut, I'm referring to you) as the old staff. And indeed, talking to this new manager was like being on the phone with Delta Airlines. There was no reasoning with him and he spit out dictates that didn't make sense in the context: to wit, our potentially having to cede my father's chair midway through the meal although we would have set the space and ordered food for him.

We made it to the table, though (as did my dad, about 30 min. later), and our mothers had to sit on their coats and wiggle into their stools. When the food came, they thought it was weird, but couldn't deny the tastiness of the kimchee and charred mackerel. The runny egg on top of the ramen frightened some at the table.

I think all in all we realized that while the dorm-room, guerilla theater elements of the restaurant thrill us, to our folks, it's a little shady. They dine out for comfort and ease, not necessarily to be challenged. And by the way, at around 6:30pm, there were still plenty of seats, although when we left at 7pm there was the proverbial "line out the door."

Lunetta

Dara writes:

Last night we picked a new restaurant for my mother's birthday: Lunetta, on Broadway near the Flatiron Building. The restaurant already has a well-regarded outpost in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, so I suppose choosing it wasn't a total shot in the dark.

James and I are fortunate enough to live in a restaurant-rich neighborhood, but some new places, such as Bar Stuzzichini, underwhelm (though James likes it for after-work drinks). The evening at Lunetta did not start off auspiciously, as we sat right across from the kitchen doors. James thought he might vomit, looking at the line prep as he ate. I didn't care, because the kitchen seemed spotless. (If we'd been instead, let's say, at the Chinatown dive NY Noodletown, so my mother could enjoy the crispy duck, I would rather have eaten toenails than have looked into the kitchen). But the night only got better from there.

We ordered a well-priced Nebbiolo that we'd tried on our honeymoon in the Piedmont region of Northern Italy. I tucked into a "crisp greens" salads with a shaved parmesan and anchovy dressing. It was fabulous. The lettuce was fresh and buttery, absolutely the opposite of bagged lettuce--it had no gross salady aftertaste or wilted leaves slime. The dressing was just right, fishy and salty but neither overly so. James's beet salad was delish, as was my father's surprising brussels sprouts salad, which consisted of sprouts leaves and succulent red onion. My mother's fried artichokes were light and crunchy. The salad prep occurred behind a bar right next to us, in the back of the restaurant near the kitchen door. That salad guy knows his way around greens.

My snapper over stewed tomatoes, olives, and capers was really tasty. The tomatoes were pulpy and fresh, and the fish really delicate. James ordered pork chop (the pork having been purveyed, we were told on the menu, by the brother of one of James's colleagues) over black lentils. So flavorful--in contrast, of course, fish can only provide so much taste. My mother got the meatballs, a signature dish of the chef. They were so tasty, chewy and sweetish, with raisins. The only thing I didn't try was my father's octopus, an app that he ordered as a main. I have to say, it didn't look appetizing, though Dad said the taste was spot on. Our waiter was super-green (the restaurant itself has been open for less than two weeks!). But he didn't mangle putting a candle on my mother's dessert, a classic tartufo filled with hazelnut gelato.

Overall, I was very pleased with the experience. The diners were suitably hip that my mother felt like she was having fun for her birthday, but the food wasn't trendy, it was hearty and classic, kind of like what we enjoyed in the Piedmont and Lombardy regions of Italy. And that's a very high compliment.

Coconut Chicken and Lemonade Cream

Dara writes:

James and I set out last night to eat at Momofuku. But alas, the summer is over, the NYU students are back, and the wait at this loud and crowded shrine to pork was over 35 minutes long. We wandered back up First Avenue and ended up at Pistahan, a steam counter Filipino restaurant I'd read about in New York magazine's "Cheap Eats" issue.

$20 for two entrees, an app, and a drink certainly is cheap. Unfortunately, so are the ingredients. A sweet and savory crepe starter filled with "sauteed vegetables" was in fact filled with raw cabbage and bean sprouts so saturated in garlic we had to brush our teeth about eighteen times when we got home. My chicken marinated in coconut and vinegar had a nice spicy kick and tasted pretty good. But def the cheap parts of the chicken, and the sauce was gooey and cloying, kind of like sweet and sour in a Chinese restaurant. The rice was Uncle Ben's level. James's barbecue pork was fine. Since I'm not a fan of extreme garlic's masking not great ingredients, I won't be going back.

Luckily for us, City Bakery has opened an East Village outpost on the same block as Pistahan. So we washed down the extreme garlic with a cookie and what they call "Farmer's Lemonade," which is lemonade and a "touch of Ronnybrook cream." Sounds putrid but it is amazing; as the site I just linked to says, "it makes you kneel." It also clogs your sinuses like all get-out, but what a frosty, milky, tart kick.