So far Salmaland covers only NYC restaurants—but I’ll soon be adding my picks for other cities here too. How do I define “soon”? Excellent question. But do stay tuned.

One of those cities will be Houston, where I spent years 9-18 and where my parents live. In the meantime, I’m linking to my New York Times story on Houston restaurants, which is online now and in print on Sunday, February 7.

Houston now has a pulsing, vital food scene—and every time I go there’s an increasingly long list of  spots I want to hit, from high-end to low-end to everything in between, including lots of outstanding ethnic restaurants: Vietnamese, Chinese, Thai, Mexican, and much more. A while back Frank Bruni did an excellent NYT story on Feast, one of my favorites. And this season brought some promising new openings to the city: Branch Water Tavern, Haven, and others. More and more, all I really want to do when I’m in Houston is eat—and drag my family and friends there on endless food missions.

Very quick early assessment of Carteles, the tiny, retro Cuban sandwich shop that just opened on East 6th Street: It’s not quite ready for prime time. Give it another couple of weeks. Overheard a loud argument going on between the front-of-house (such as it is) and the kitchen. Took about 30 minutes to get my Cubano Christo, a house spin on the Cubano—a pressed sandwich of roast pork, ham, cheese, and pickles on a crunchy loaf that, in this version, gets dipped in sweetened egg batter and deep-fried. It’s sort of like a classic media noche (a Cubano made with sweeter bread) but battered and fried Monte Cristo-style. Sounds ingenious, but read on.

I’m not usually one to quibble when a sandwich goes heavy on garlic or mustard—I have an unreasonable love for both, and for the Cubano in general—but something about the mustardy aioli in my Cubano Christo gave an off-note to the entire sandwich. And somehow the deep-fried bread, the ham, the roast pork, the Swiss and provolone cheese, and the pickle added up to less than the sum of the parts. Mysteriously, they added up to a muddled-tasting, soppy sandwich. The plaintain chips were deadly boring: dry, flavorless, and in desperate need of hot sauce, which wasn’t there for the taking. On the semi-upside: The counter guys were trying out some chamomile tea for the drinks menu, and having no idea I’m one of those dreaded stealth-bloggers, they poured me a big hot mug of it for free, just for road-testing it. Ok, not quite as cool a buy-back at a bar, but I wasn’t complaining.

I’ll go back to eat through more of the menu. But for now, frankly, I’ll still be getting my quick-service Cubanos at Margon.  Spotted Pig if I have time to wait and want a cheffed-up $17 version, and Cafe Habana only in a pinch—but Margon, no question, if I’m anywhere near midtown at lunchtime.

Still, Carteles gets serious style points: vintage comic strips on the walls, a counter that brings to mind a 50s soda shop or a spiffed-up Cuban cafe in Miami, and a sunny blue-and-yellow scheme that obliterates the winter blues.

East Side Social Club is the rare East 50s spot that would make me go out of my way—not just for the Italian-American comfort food, which is ably, if not 100% consistently, pulled off by chef Devon Gilroy (owner Billy Gilroy’s son and an alum of A Voce). But for the vibe too. Rollicking, Rat-Packy, and seemingly—emphasis on seemingly—unprecious. Definitely something the neighborhood needs more of. But, and here’s the rub, it’s a pain in the butt to get into. A friend who conveniently happened to be a regular at Raoul’s and Employees Only (the East Side Social Club group’s alma maters) made reservations for a table of five last night. That turned out to be crucial, since one of the guys in our group would’ve gotten bounced at the door without it. Not sure what’s up with the nightclub-bouncer-at-a-restaurant situation, and it’s not exactly a models/hipsters scene in there.  Nonetheless.

A pasta special of straccetti with lamb ragu, mint, and sheep’s milk ricotta was a fetching mix of meaty/minty/tangy, and a dish I’d definitely come back for. Cocktailwise, the fierce Snake Eyes (Flor de Cana extra-dry rum, ginger liqueur, lime juice, Campari) went down like a box of Sweet Tarts, and so seemed just right for a night of kicking back and watching: to see who was there (no celebs spotted last night) and to plot my gate-crashing strategy next time I’m up around East 51st.

A little while back I wrote about the manakeesh—hot, tangy, zaatar-topped pies—at Gazala Place in Hell’s Kitchen and at Bread and Olive in Midtown. Manakeesh are still a bit too hard to find in NYC, but signs of improvement are trickling in: Last night at the new East Village Lebanese restaurant Balade’s opening party, Beirut-born owners Roland Semaan and Joseph Said served small versions of the pies, fresh out of the oven and slathered in zaatar. (In all honesty, I thought the manakeesh last night were a little too crisp and crunchy when they should be moist and doughy, but for now I’d chalk that up to the mass quantities the kitchen had to churn out for the party.) What I loved most: the strips of chargrilled lamb and pinenuts served over a mound of buttery rice; and the laid-back, warmly lit, narrow brick-and-wood dining room.

I left with the best party favor in recent memory: a jar of Balade’s signature zaatar—made by blending sesame seeds with dried wild thyme and sumac. NB: To make easy at-home manakeesh, you can buy zaatar at places like Kalustyan’s and Sahadi’s; then drizzle some olive oil into a couple of tablespoons of the zaatar, until the mixture is thick but still runny; then smear it over the top of an English muffin half and toast it up. Better yet: Serve it with a dollop of labneh (strained yogurt) on top.

I’m looking forward to checking out Balade on a regular, non-party night; am very happy to finally see more Lebanese restaurants opening up in Manhattan.

On that note, Philippe Massoud, chef at the terrific three-year-old Ilili, is spearheading the Dine Out for Haiti campaign to get restaurants to contribute to the Haiti relief effort. On January 24 and 25, NYC restaurants including Ilili, Aldea, Bar Breton, Lupa, Fatty Crab, and about a dozen others will contribute at least 10 percent of their proceeds to Haiti relief organizations. A full list of participating restaurants, and more info, here.

There’s no denying the charm of the single digit. A dollar sign followed by just one number is a beautiful thing right about now. Especially when the dollar amount in question buys excitement, deliciousness, adventure, satiety, or all four. Single Digit Suppers may or may not become a recurring feature on Salmaland, but here’s the first installment:

1) Mikey’s Burger: A tiny new Ludlow Street diner from the suddenly megalomaniacal Michael “Bao” Huynh (of Baoguette, Bia Garden, and a fast-expanding slew of others). Given its minuscule size and relatively limited ambitions, it’s incredible how much buzz Mikey’s has gotten since it opened a couple of weeks ago. And frankly there are many better burgers in NYC. But if you’re in the area, $5.50-$6 gets you a small-ish but thick and filling burger topped with just cheese or ratcheted-up with Asian toppings like Chinese bacon, sausage, and kewpie mayo; the lamb burger comes with jalapeno, mint, and spicy peanut sauce. Drop another $3 for a classic egg cream made with Fox’s U-Bet chocolate syrup, or $5 for a milkshake (chocolate, vanilla, Vietnamese coffee, or flavors like avocado and black sesame for the adventurous). P.S.: For the burgered-out, $5 buys an exceptional Vietnamese banh mi sandwich at one of the Huynh-owned Baoguettes. In a year when everyone tried to cash in on the banh mi trend, a sandwich that’s supposed to cost $3 max shot up to $10 or more all over town. But Vietnamese-born Huynh nails the banh mi better than most (just the right balance of pork terrine, pate, herbs, and a fluffy-crisp baguette) and keeps prices closer to the sweet spot.

2) T Poutine. If you’ve spent any time in Quebec you know what poutine is—and you’ll either stop reading now or snap to attention. To bring the rest up to speed, poutine is a pile of fries slathered with cheese curds and gravy. The four-month-old Ludlow Street spot T Poutine, just down the street from Mikey’s Burger (above), is among the first in NYC to dedicate itself to this polarizing snack. (Is it disgusting? Is it heavenly? You decide.) read more Single Digit Suppers »

A relaxing, affordable, hit-the-spot restaurant in Midtown: much harder to find than it should be. But I’ve decided the holy grail, or at least one of them, is at Le Relais de Venise L’Entrecote. This cumbersomely named but brilliantly simple spot opened a few months ago as the belated NYC branch of a 50-year-old Paris bistro that also has branches in London and Barcelona. The concept is as streamlined as it gets: Walk in, sit down, and watch as the food starts arriving at your table. No menu hassles, and no waiters constantly interrupting your conversation to ask if you’ve made any decisions yet. You might have to wait a bit for a table, since the restaurant doesn’t take reservations. But other than that, zero headaches.

There are pretty much no decisions to make here. You start with a green salad with walnuts and a mustard-spiked vinaigrette (the only appetizer available here), and follow that with the restaurant’s signature—and only—main course: sirloin steak-frites, served sliced and coated in a luscious, buttery-herby “secret recipe sauce,” along with crispy thin fries piled high. The price for the two-course meal: $24. read more The Holy Grail? It’s in Midtown »

Oro Bar

Broome Street between Mott and Lafayette is that nowhere-zone where Nolita melts into whatever’s left of Little Italy. You wouldn’t go out of your way to come here—unless, like me, you’ve suddenly become addicted to the Basque snacks at the gorgeously well-curated Spanish food shop Despaña. Or to the handmade candies and lollipops at Papabubble. Or to the two drinks-for-one happy hour special at Oro Bakery and Bar across the street. Together they make a wicked trio of savory/sweet/liquor-ific joy, especially in the middle of frenzied last-minute xmas shopping. Plus they’re all within a block or two of each other.

As I sped around on the icy sidewalks today, trying not to break my neck during my last-minute tear of shopping around Nolita and at the Gifted market (the holidays-only Manhattan spinoff of the Brooklyn Flea), I stopped by for some Basque tapas from the takeout counter at Despaña, which now also has some tables in back if you can spare a few minutes to sit. My new favorite thing to eat here: the Flautas Castañas, read more Broome with a View »

The actual Marfa, Texas

After a long, arduous, and highly suspenseful search for a decent chicken-fried steak in NYC, I finally found the promised land. The adventure has gone on over the past three years in the joyous company of my friend and former Food & Wine colleague Ray Isle, who’s also a sometime Houstonian. I’m pretty sure we tried every single chicken-fried steak (CFS, as Texans call it) in the entire city. This week found us sitting at the bar at year-old East Village restaurant Marfa, eating a—holy cow—a real live Texas-style CFS.

We’d been hearing about the one at Marfa but kept putting it off, out of either disbelief or total loss of faith in New York’s skills in this department. But everything about Marfa’s CFS was exactly right: tender, thin steak (pounded to an inch of its life), deep-fried until the batter is crunchy and hot, and topped with rivers of cream gravy, as it’s called down south. That gravy, mercilessly botched by just about every NYC spot that tries to do a chicken-fried steak, was precisely what it needed to be: thick, creamy, and specked with bits of black pepper. That’s it: no silly frills. Just down-and-dirty lusciousness. A little bourbon on the side, and I couldn’t have asked for anything better on a winter night.

Another night this week, I ended up at Northern Spy Food Co., read more Eastern Eats »

Joseph Leonard pic courtesy of Curbed.com

Back in the saddle after a few days of post-Thanksgiving fasting (well, not really fasting—just not eating thrice my weight).

Managed to discover two new favorites in and around the West Village in two days. Mind you, these aren’t favorites because they’re flawless (is anything?) but because they’re places I’ll go back to again and again. Here’s where, and why:

1) Joseph Leonard. I was bracing for a long wait even at the early hour of 6:30pm, but when we got there we found plenty of tables open (JL doesn’t take reservations) plus some seats at the bar. Then slam: Half an hour later, the room is packed, almost as packed as owner Gabriel Stulman’s alma maters, the Little Owl and Market Table. I got semi-hostile treatment from the bartender when I accidentally ordered a drink from the barback instead of from her (I Tweeted about this), but things quickly looked up after that. The space is immediately likable: endearingly cluttered with antique mirrors and old wooden furniture; not an original aesthetic these days by any means, but one I’m not sick of yet. Loved the shrimp and grits with cheddar and read more Best Western »