What is Salmaland? It’s a place where you can, quickly and painlessly, find answers to the eternal question, “Where should I eat?” To the left, you’ll find my current short-lists of where to eat in NYC; click on a neighborhood, or use the search tool to the right to look up a cuisine or restaurant [...]]]> What is Salmaland? It’s a place where you can, quickly and painlessly, find answers to the eternal question, “Where should I eat?” To the left, you’ll find my current short-lists of where to eat in NYC; click on a neighborhood, or use the search tool to the right to look up a cuisine or restaurant name. Below, you’ll find weekly reports on my latest eating adventures. For more details about Salmaland, click on “read more” just below. Thanks for visiting!

The lists on the left are broken down by neighborhood—with more boroughs (including many more Brooklyn options) and neighborhoods, and cities, on the way. You’ll also find a variety of cuisines, environments, and price points.

How Salmaland Works:

The restaurant recommendations to the left are by no means comprehensive; they’re not meant to be. If they’re doing their job, they should be quick, easy-to-use, and headache-free. And I’ll be keeping them fresh by rotating in new material on a regular basis, so keep checking back. And down the middle of the page, you’ll find my notes on recent food adventures. I’ll be posting these at least a couple of times a week, to let you know about delicious discoveries that are worth your time (or hot new restaurants that aren’t).

In the restaurant listings, I’m using the following letters as shorthand for restaurants that are:

• CHP: Cheap/Casual
• MOD: Moderate (or can go either way)
• UPSC: Pricey/Upscale
• VGT: Vegetarian-friendly (and/or seafood-centric)
• DRNK: Drink destination
• GRP: Good for groups

To search by cuisine or restaurant name or  abbreviation (like CHP or DRNK; see above), or to search by just about any word you can think of, type your term into the search-engine box (with the little magnifying glass above it) in the upper-right corner.

Please note: I’m mostly avoiding listing the generally exceptional, duly-noted restaurants that you probably already know about (the Le Bernardins, the Daniels, the Babbos, the Gramercy Taverns, etc.). I might include them occasionally, if I have some compelling reason to bring them up. Otherwise, let’s skip ahead to the places you may not know but definitely should, or may have forgotten, or can’t really live without knowing about.

Please also note: These lists represent my honest opinions; that’s all. There is no paid-for content on Salmaland. If any ads ever show up, they will be very, very clearly indicated as such—and will in no way influence editorial opinion.

Oh, and one last thing: What exactly is 1623 (the number at the top of this page) all about? I could say: “It’s the year when everyone else got a website, and here I am four centuries later.” But that wouldn’t be true—only vaguely true. And it wouldn’t be all that funny either. The strange truth is: It’s the number on a street sign that my friend Pableaux Johnson—New Orleans-based food writer and guru of all things gastronomically glorious and debauched—photographed somewhere in his hometown. I just like the way it looks. Pableaux also designed this website (actually, he encouraged me to create it in the first place).

I hope you’ll come back often, and thanks for reading.

Photo by Dwight Eschliman for The New York Times

Right about now, smack in sweltering late-July, I don’t so much want to eat ice cream as wear it, bathe in it, BE it. But I also want to eat it, lots of it—hence the five pints currently jammed into my freezer. And just in time, [...]]]>

Photo by Dwight Eschliman for The New York Times

Right about now, smack in sweltering late-July, I don’t so much want to eat ice cream as wear it, bathe in it, BE it. But I also want to eat it, lots of it—hence the five pints currently jammed into my freezer. And just in time, along comes my friend Anna Sussman’s new blog, the ice-cream-lust-inducing, fearlessly titled Lick Me Everywhere.

The blog just launched this week, but I’ve already learned three new things:

1) Must try yakult, a bottled yogurty frozen thing that’s ubiquitous in Japan, China, Brazil, and elsewhere, but so far I haven’t come across it in NYC. Now, naturally, I’m going on a hunt.

2) Candy Kitchen in Bridgehampton: Meh.

3) There’s such a thing as tabbouleh sorbet. Not surprising, perhaps, since there’s now an everything flavor of everything. Tabbouleh sorbet, amazingly, isn’t served at San Francisco’s Humphry Slocombe, and it may actually be the only flavor they don’t have. Yet. Find it instead in the Ethnic Paris Cookbook — if you must.

The blog’s author, Anna Sussman, just moved back to NYC after living for a while in Beirut, where I’ll be headed myself at the end of August. One of the first things I’ll be eating as soon as I land in Beirut: Lebanese ice cream, unusual and fabulous and bewitching thanks to its stretchy texture, which comes from sahlab, i.e. ground orchid root. I always had a crush on that wild elastic ice cream when my family lived in Beirut; then when we moved to the States (I was in fourth grade), suddenly there was no more of it in my life. Until now…

In NYC, Ilili is doing a fantastic homemade version of Lebanese ice cream, in chocolate, pistachio, apricot, and milk (yes, milk) flavors. Suddenly I’m daydreaming about grabbing a seat at the bar, a couple of scoops, a shot of Turkish coffee… then a luscious summer siesta. See ya.

Salumé is one of those ultra-boxy, shiny, clean-lined spaces that look suspiciously sleek at first—too sleek to be turning out soulful Italian sandwiches, not to mention sandwiches you’ll want to pay double-digits for. What finally got me inside, a few weeks after the place opened on West Broadway near Grand Street earlier this summer, was the [...]]]> Salumé is one of those ultra-boxy, shiny, clean-lined spaces that look suspiciously sleek at first—too sleek to be turning out soulful Italian sandwiches, not to mention sandwiches you’ll want to pay double-digits for. What finally got me inside, a few weeks after the place opened on West Broadway near Grand Street earlier this summer, was the owners’ mission to redefine panini for an audience trained to believe “panini” means “pressed sandwich,” as opposed to “sandwich.” So they don’t press the sandwiches here, because as owner Michele Colombo (his wife Alessandra designed the space) says on the website: “Pressing panini dries out—and sometimes burns—the ingredients, which compromises their uniquely delicate flavor, texture and taste.” True that.

Salume’s menu lists about 25 sandwiches. Racked with indecision, I tried to order the combo of four mini-sandwiches, “for an Italian tasting journey,” which turns out they don’t do anymore. Too bad. Finally settled on the Courmayeur ($11.50) : prosciutto cotto, fontina, arugula, tartar sauce on slightly toasted ciabatta. On first glance: too small a sandwich, too high a price. On first bite: Exceptional ingredients, especially the fresh arugula and tangy tartar sauce and supple prosciutto (bonus is that the “cotto,” i.e. cooked, prosciutto is less stringy and presents fewer stuck-in-teeth issues than the “crudo” kind). There’s even too much prosciutto in the sandwich. Salume aims for a 2:1 topping-to-bread ratio, which is admirable but potentially in need of a tweak. And speaking of ratios, the bread has a deeply satisfying play of moistness-to-crunch —and frankly the whole sandwich, minus maybe a smidge of ham, was highly tasty (“very good,” to use a favorite Sifton-ism). Trouble is the price.

A sandwich, generally speaking, oughtn’t climb over $10, unless it’s the second coming—and I don’t think anyone is coming back as a sandwich. Don’t know if anyone else will remember this, but there was once an exquisite little sandwich shop called Bread & Butter on Elizabeth Street, not far from where yours truly lives, and my friends and I thought the $9 price tag on their BLT was a bit too nosebleed at the time. That price would still seem high for a BLT. But what a BLT that was, made with ciabatta from Sullivan Street (a novelty at the time), and with arugula instead of lettuce, and piled with celestial layers of bacon and butter. But it’s long gone now. And I digress.

I want to go back to Salume and try a few other sandwiches, like the San Daniele, made with the prosciutto of the same name and Parmigiano-Reggiano. The menu also lists “gin” as an ingredient in the San Daniele sandwich. I asked about that. No gin in the sandwich, turns out; damn. “Just a typo,” said the slightly harried counter clerk. Salume was busy at lunch today, but dead in the early eve last night when I walked by (they close at 8pm). Wishing them success, and a future filled with poetic and preposterous typos. And lower prices.

To digress once more: On my walk back from Salume, I stopped in at the Crocs shop on Spring and Wooster. Until recently, I’ve been horrified by those dumb-looking, balloon-like resin shoes, and I’ve wanted to issue citizen’s arrest warrants for people who wear them out in public, Crocs poster-boy chefs like Mario Batali included. I get that they’re comfortable, especially if you’re on your feet in a slippery kitchen all day, but that lumpy cartoonish design? NO. Now they’re making the shoes in a bunch of different styles, and earlier this summer I picked up a strappy open-toed, sandal-like pair—just for the beach and such. And what happened? Now I wear them almost every single day. The blasted things make my feet feel lighter and happier than they’ve ever been, ever, with the exception of the occasional foot massage. I’d say this Crocs change-of-heart is my dirty little secret—except here I am going public with it. Still, I refuse to buy any of those head-scratching new Crocs styles with high heels, because if I’m going to wear serious shoes—sexy, if not exactly comfy, shoes with slinky heels or wedges—they’re not going to be made of resin. I’ll turn to the various shoes in my closet that I’ve paid ungodly, ill-advised amounts of money for. Er, mark my words. But I’m terrified that I’ll start wanting to wear some version of  a Croc every day now, forever. This cannot happen. Please stop me. Thank you.

Too fried from the August-in-June heat to figure out what you want to do this weekend? Hit the NYC Food Film Festival, where all you have to do is show up, lounge around, watch short films about food, then eat the stuff on screen. I went to one of the events last night, Brad Farmerie’s [...]]]> Too fried from the August-in-June heat to figure out what you want to do this weekend? Hit the NYC Food Film Festival, where all you have to do is show up, lounge around, watch short films about food, then eat the stuff on screen. I went to one of the events last night, Brad Farmerie’s Southeast Asian Street Food Market at Astor Center, where chefs from Double Crown (Farmerie and his staff), Betel, and Kampuchea served up things like beef tendon balls, dessert burritos (filled with cantaloupe ice cream), and squid chips, inspired by the food in various short films that were screening at the same time. Apparently pig’s blood popsicles were also in attendance but I got there too late (dammit). There were also loads of snacks that didn’t make cameos in the films, like a fantastic Thai beef salad and a mini banh mi.

I couldn’t help wondering if a couple of the less-impressive short films were cooked up specifically for this festival — so that local NYC chefs could then recreate what’s on screen—but whatever. I was too busy eating and craning my neck to see the screen to get much quality time with all the films themselves (I did like one I did see, called “Night Market Taipei”). Taller guys standing in front of me were laughing throughout a bunch of the films, so I have a feeling I missed out. But I kept busy scurrying around, drinking Tiger Beer and Riesling, and making sure I tried all the luscious snacks —before, er, dinner at Kenmare.

Tonight and tomorrow’s events are sold out, but the ones on Sunday aren’t: On Sunday at noon at the Tobacco Warehouse in Brooklyn, there’s “It’s Grits,” a short 1978 film about grits by director Stan Woodward, followed by a grits cookoff by 30 NYC chefs—and more grits than you’d possibly ever want to eat. Sunday night at 6pm, same place, it’s the Brooklyn Burger and Beer Party, with a screening of a film called “Beer Wars” with an all-you-can-eat burger and beer scenario…

Ed Mitchell's pulled pork sandwich

There’s something to be said for massive rainstorms that crash down on a jammed outdoor event. I decided to show up at the weekend-long Big Apple BBQ Block Party in Madison Square Park yesterday (Sunday) rather than Saturday, and it turned out to be totally the wrong day weatherwise. But [...]]]>

Ed Mitchell's pulled pork sandwich

There’s something to be said for massive rainstorms that crash down on a jammed outdoor event. I decided to show up at the weekend-long Big Apple BBQ Block Party in Madison Square Park yesterday (Sunday) rather than Saturday, and it turned out to be totally the wrong day weatherwise. But in crowd-control terms, I scored big-time. In the past I’ve said I’d never return to the Big Apple BBQ fest ever again—the giant mass of humanity shoving through the small park tends to turn a potentially joyous meat-fest into a pain-in-the-ass mosh pit. But Sunday, as sky-to-earth waterfalls crashed down in the late afternoon, most of that mob scurried off, leaving a manageably medium-sized crowd standing in line at the stands, run by cult pitmasters and barbecue joints from all over the U.S. (well, from the barbecue zip codes that count), from Ed Mitchell in North Carolina to Pappy’s in St. Louis.

It’s pretty dicey eating pulled pork sandwiches in the rain—a friend and I took turns holding the umbrella over our plates to keep the soft yellow potato buns from dissolving— but it’s much less maddening than fighting hordes in the blazing heat. Even despite the rain and the much-diminished crowds, the beef-brisket stand run by Austin’s Salt Lick BBQ sold out well before the 6pm closing bell, so I missed out this time. But Ed Mitchell’s vinegary North Carolina-style whole hog didn’t disappoint. The man pit-roasts a hog like no one else. My friend and I got a little overzealous with the vinegar sauce (a North Carolina signature), but a few watermelon mojitos at nearby Tabla washed away the excessive tartness assault (completely our fault), put us in a sweet daze, and lubricated the whole afternoon even more beautifully than the rainstorm.

You should probably be doing something else right now, shouldn’t you? But here you are, browsing through Salmaland (for which I thank you), looking for new food thrills to chase down. Might you suffer from a disorder — say, Restaurant A.D.D.? Until the condition makes it into the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, [...]]]> You should probably be doing something else right now, shouldn’t you? But here you are, browsing through Salmaland (for which I thank you), looking for new food thrills to chase down. Might you suffer from a disorder — say, Restaurant A.D.D.? Until the condition makes it into the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, we won’t know for sure. But my essay in the July issue of Food & Wine, on “The Rise of Restaurant A.D.D.” makes a stab at a diagnosis. As diseases go, this is not a bad one to have. A little expensive, a little time-consuming, sure. Could even get you fired if you’re not careful. (A woman who showed up at NYC’s short-lived Cookie Bar pop-up store, mentioned in my story, had to tell her boss she was running to Duane Reade for a minute— but I left her out of the essay lest her boss stumble into it.) My essay is mostly about pop-up restaurants, and limited-edition menu items, and the kinds of ephemeral, vanishing, get-it-while-you-can food experiences that seem to be everywhere right now. But if you need a new restaurant to try every time you go out, you’re probably one of the disease’s silent victims too. Stay tuned for treatment solutions. In the meantime, the doctor is in: Salmaland is always here for you.

Todd English

Foodwise, there aren’t too many things NYC doesn’t have. Sounds arrogant, but it’s true. One thing our food-tastic city didn’t really have until now: a glorious food hall like the ones in Tokyo—a gigantic gleaming space outfitted with all manner of shiny stations selling everything from gorgeous cheeses to freshly shucked oysters to [...]]]>

Todd English

Foodwise, there aren’t too many things NYC doesn’t have. Sounds arrogant, but it’s true. One thing our food-tastic city didn’t really have until now: a glorious food hall like the ones in Tokyo—a gigantic gleaming space outfitted with all manner of shiny stations selling everything from gorgeous cheeses to freshly shucked oysters to made-to-order sushi and grilled meats and noodle bowls and hallucinatory pastries. Unless you count the Cellar at Macy’s, which I don’t. Or the Grand Central Market, which is pretty solid but ultimately too railroady, in both design and location, to be as wondrous as food halls like KaDeWe in Berlin, or Harrod’s in London, or the dozen depachikas (food floors) like Isetan in Tokyo.

Enter the Plaza Food Hall by Todd English, a strange subterranean U-shaped space at the Plaza Hotel that nonetheless comes the closest NYC has to the sort of carnivalesque food fantasyland I’m talking about. It officially opens on Friday, June 4. At the media preview the other night, I had a juicy mini prime rib sandwich at one station, glistening yellowtail sashimi at another, gingery pork dumplings and a sesame-oil-slicked soba noodle salad at another, thin-crust pizza at another. Todd English was roaming around, with that cartoon-like presence he always seems to bring to a room: the oversized tanned head, the permanently smoldering eyes, the goodtoseeya smile, that misfit glamour of outsize celebrity. I’m not entirely clear on his involvement in all the food stations here. Doesn’t matter. Whatever he is or isn’t doing, the food on offer is highly appealing so far.

I’m rarely kicking around near the Plaza Hotel—the economy being what it is, and my self-inflicted freelance status being heavenly but not conducive to a massively bloated bank account, my Bergdorf’s habit is on hold for now, dahling. But that part of Midtown is always hurting for good lunch options, and this will add one. Plus, the Plaza butts right up against the south entrance to Central Park, so I’ll likely be hitting up the Food Hall for last minute lunch-on-the-lawn or Summerstage purposes—if I can get it together to make the St. Vincent and Public Enemy shows, say.

Btw, things not to do: Smuggle cookies in tissue paper in your purse on a sweltering night. I put two chocolate cookies from the media preview dessert table in my bag and sped out to Union Pool in Williamsburg, where my friend Dave Smith and his must-see band Smoota were playing that night. I made it just in time. The cookies? Melted all over my bag. Obviously. At least I didn’t try to smuggle back soba noodles.