Pampano August 10, 2008

On a recent trip to the city with my sister and our mom and dad, we dined at Pampano, an upscale Mexican restaurant.  The chef, Richard Sandoval, owns multiple restaurants of Mexican flavor, including Maya, which has locations in New York City, Los Angeles, and Dubai.  The chef may have a vast empire, and his food is decent.  However, my visit prompted me to think that his reign would be a little more successful if he cut back his borders. 

Once inside the restaurant, I was impressed with the design.  The lower floor is classy, as well as the upstairs, which evokes a Tommy Bahama photoshoot vibe.  The decor gave a beachy feel to the restaurant, and with some Tiki torches and an ocean, I could have been at a nice beach party on the gulf.  I suppose the frigid arctic blast also reminded me that I was certainly not in Mexico, but the accomodating staff did turn the fans down upon request. 

As far as the food, which to most people including myself is the most important aspect of a meal, I was not utterly distraught.  On the other hand, I was not inspired or completely satisfied.  A table portion of guacamole was a nice way to start the meal.  However, the large portion would lead one to believe, as far as I am concerned, that the following appetizer portions would at least match the quantity of guacamole divided up per person.  The concept of having a large “snack” before a meager first course is a smelly rat, because if you ask me, it is an easy and conspicuous way of cutting costs. 

My family and I were not excedingly hungry, so none of us ordered entrees.  While this is arguably the reason for our disappointment, a good restaurant should offer appetizers that are of equal caliber to the entrees.  We all shared a tasting of ceviches.  The portions were meager, but since it is something that the menu offers for a single diner, I’ll let that one slide.  However, the flavor sensations were less than perfect.  The mahi mahi ceviche was tender, but the curing liquid was reminiscent of inadequately flavored tomato juice, which was just salvaged by some fresh orange juice.  The tuna ceviche was nothing ground-breaking, and the halibut one was not balanced enough; the mango’s sweetness was not counteracted by enough savory flavor.  Overall, these dishes were pretty, but any Iron Chef freak knows that points for plating cannot salvage a dish that fails in flavor and ingenuity. 

After that, our appetizers were the lobster tacos; the blue cornmeal crusted oysters; the ensalada de espinaca; the tamale; the shrimp empeñadas; and the red snapper quesadillas.  As I mentioned previously, the portions were pretty small.  My dad’s tacos were miniscule, and the finely diced lobster stole all of the textural integrity from that ill-fated crustacean.  The salad was rather disappointing.  Its components were baby spinach, spicy pumpkin seeds, grapefruit segments, and some sad looking shaved jicama, carrots, and red onion.  I firmly believe that Chef Sandoval added this dim feature to the menu to show the world that he knew how to make grapefruit supremes.  The red snapper quesadillas were okay, but nothing awe-inspiring.

Fortunately, a few dishes saved face for the restaurant.  The tamale, although a little dry on the outside, was accompanied by a creamy sauce that melded well with the spicier salsa component on the plate.  The goat cheese interior was quite delicious as well.  Perhaps my favorite dish was the blue cornmeal crusted oysters, which carried the sea with them.  The brininess of the bivalve was excellent with the goat cheese and the crispy exterior. 

For dessert, we had the natilla de cajeta, which was not bad but nothing special.  I would liken its spot on the menu to putting a mediocre standardized test score on a college application.  Maybe it won’t throw you into a bad light, but if you have little else going for you, it certainly won’t help. 

The small plates did not leave us empty, but the aforementioned guacamole had a prime role in our satiation, no doubt.  Perhaps the blow of an under-par meal could be softened by their above average and quite potent margaritas.  I wouldn’t know.  The designated driver is the wisest diner.

Home From Hungary: Cutting My Umbilical Cord, Kicking and Screaming August 10, 2008

 I have just returned to my kingdom from the hero journey that was my trip to Hungary.  With a bag of sajtost in hand and about seven pounds in smuggled culinary goods in my large duffel, I walked into JFK airport a week ago.  It was not a bad plane ride, considering that I had ample time during my Swiss layover to buy chocolate in addition to the fact that I ran into Mario Bitali.  Cool guy.  Nice clogs. 

  Anyway, its been a rough toss-back into the USA.  After being accustomed to so many Hungarian culinary traditions, I am no less than a freak at my family dinner table.  The first morning I woke up, I was craving my Hungarian Anya’s beigli, a rolled up pastry with jam inside.  Luckily, I had no trouble finding a recipe very similar to hers in my new viennese cookbook. 

When the beigli came out of the oven a few hours later, I was right back in my small Magyar village.  One filled with ground walnuts and raisins and the others with jam, the pastries beckoned me to try each of them.  Even though we never made the nut version when I was in Hungary, it was delicious. 

The following day, I woke up at four in the morning, ready for my Hungarian “szandwics,” which is the omnipresent snack and breakfast in my dear Eastern-European land.  However, my unfortunate trip to the bread drawer left me writhing in disgust at the floppy American paradox called “low carb bread,” which would not be worthy of kissing my boots if it had a mouth, let alone the privelage  of making the trip down my digestive track. 

But man invented the internet!  And someone had posted a recipe for Hungarian country white bread.  So I grabbed what yeast was left in my house, yanked a bag of flour from my pantry, and set to work, kneading dough like my life depended on it.  Around eight thirty, my beautiful oval loaf, about a kilogram in weight, emerged from the oven, brown and crisp.  When it was cool, I sliced it into the massive slabs to which I had become so accustomed.  The szandwics was perfect.  But unfortunately, I had no bacon for an afternoon snack. 

“Bacon?” my mother replied in inquiry.  She said that she could find some at the grocery store. 

No.  She could not.  Not my Hungarian bacon.

I called my butcher, who prompted me to visit the owner of a deli about a half hour from my house.  Did he have the smoked pork fat that I knew, loved, and missed terribly?  Even he, a Polish-Hungarian purveyor strange, cured meats, did not.  I have not found my so-called bacon yet.  I don’t know what I will do to find it, short of hiring a professional team, but sometimes life calls for these drastic measures. 

As for my pariah status earned by exhibiting strange diet habits, I have not redeemed myself yet.  Upon entering my friend’s recent party, I emptied the contents of my bag, in which I had brought some snacks.  Okay, they were typical of Hungary, but that is what I was used to.  The strange stares I received when I pulled out a half loaf of my bread, tomatoes, peppers, fatty bacon, and sausage were both foreign and priceless. 

In America, they point the finger at the food one eats to explain the person’s size.  Not the amount.  Therefore, if a rotund teenager eats a foot long Subway sandwich instead of a small piece of bread with butter, fat, tomatoes, and peppers, he or she made the right choice!  Even if it is twice as many calories…

I know that my friends wanted to sink their teeth into that glorious looking sandwich.  The American culture said no.  Fortunately for me, I had no problem consuming the delicious, openfaced palate of small-scale sin.  But hey, why not?