I could not have been more disappointed by the latest report from the Wall Street Journal. While I love a good steak, I live for hotdogs! Hey, when you munch a dog, you knowingly accept the risks. I think I might just go and have a hotdog from Crif for lunch.
I used to stop at this joint just about every day when I lived and worked in Boston. I’d catch the commuter train into North Station, pick up a few slices at Half-Time and then catch the Orange line to the office. This is the best morning pizza out there.
I don’t know about you, but I never saw the parallels between mozzarella cheese and handrolled cigars. Fortunately, I was able spend a few minutes with Anthony Fauci of Obika, who filled me in on the details. This interview was conducted shortly before the most recent De La Concha cigar dinner that Obika catered.
As you know if you read this blog, I’m a hot dog fanatic. I could live on that wonderful (almost) food. So, I was psyched to meet Montreal food insider Katerine Rollet for dogs in both Manhattan and Montreal. I’ll be writing more about this for Gadling, but here’s a look at the video she put together.
If you’re planning a trip up to Montreal (which I highly recommend), follow Katerine on Twitter.
When I go to Alice’s Teacup for breakfast with my wife, I have an excuse. She’s the reason I’m there. One of my friends described the place as “girlie,” and she’s probably right. I don’t care. I like it. With my wife out of town this weekend, I had to summon all the courage I have in my masculinity to go there alone; somehow, I was able to do it. I was rewarded for my efforts with small, tea-type sandwiches, warm scones, and a tea with the name “African Dew.” I liked it. Every bit of it.
What really blows me away about Alice’s Teacup is the waitstaff. The waitresses not only wear fairy wings while doing their jobs (and doing them well), they seem comfortable dressed that way. You get the sense that the young lady bringing you your roasted cumin carrot sandwich dreamed of wearing fairy wings to work as a little girl and is now living the dream. They seem happy, and I’m happy for that. I want to wear a cape to work and just can’t get away with it. Sure, their chosen (or required) attire seems a bit odd to me, but they are happy. That’s what matters.
I’m sitting on my stoop, writing and smoking a cigar. I do this most evenings. Some lady walked over from Bistro Cassis, a restaurant a few doors down that has outside dining. I was nervous. Whenever someone approaches a cigar-smoker esecially from a restaurant, the outcome is rarely pleasant. Well, she commented on the “wonderful aroma” and mentioned how it is nice to smell smoke while dining on a French meal. I agree; it makes the experience more authentic (at least until recently, as Paris passed a smoking ban). She asked where I got the cigar, because she wants to pick some up for her son. Occasionally, surprises are nice.
I am very happy to be back in New York. I’ve already been to Pomodoro for dinner (had three glasses of cabernet) and spoken to my “little brother.” The weirdest bet? I’ts 11pm and dark outside! I’ve missed that so much.
I was told that this restaurant has the best lobster soup in the world. When it opened, according to my sources, the Icelandic government tried to shut the place down. The proprietors, it seems, did not have the right permits. Then, the NY Times sent someone up here to check out the restaurant. An article was written, and the rest, as they say, is history. For some, it may be history with a clear left-wing bias, but let’s leave politics out of good lobster soup.
I had to find out if the soup was up to the hype. Fortunately, Seabaron was on my way home from the puffin boat. Needing nourishment after such an arduous one-hour journey (I had visions of a storm, and given my hat, I’d be Gilligan. It was scary, so I wanted to eat.), I convinced my wife to try this place.
Everything in the guestbook was a rave, which probably means that assholes don’t eat at the Seabaron. Also, not all of it was in English, so somebody could have written a warning, and I wouldn’t know the difference. The first taste of lobster soup, though, put me at ease. In all honesty, it was the best lobster soup I had ever eaten, so score one for the rumor mill!
The unique aspect of my dinner was not the soup. I tried whale. If I were a member of Greenpeace, I’d quit now. I understand why most species of whale are endangered: they are incredibly tasty. Force out any visions you have of fish. Whale is the other red meat. It looks and tastes like steak. There is a slight hint of a fishy taste, but you have to hunt for it.
For my last meal in Reykjavik (not counting the hotel-provided breakfast at 4:30 tomorrow morning), I can’t think of a better one. The hotdogs were good, but whale won me over.
I never thought I’d write about this outside the United States. Aside from my hitch in South Korea in 1997-8, I’ve never thought about hotdogs outside my native land– not even in Canada! Yet, I stood in a short line (considered long by local standards) for the best hotdog in reykjavik. I was assured that it’s the best in the country. But, in a nation of 300,000 inhabitants, that’s hardly a major score. With my first day in Iceland behind me, it’s time to play “taste test” from memory.
I don’t know what the name of the place is, but I hope the attached photo somehow contains it. Fortunately, the people who work there do speak English, so I didn’t have to raise my voice (which somehow makes non-English speakers fluent … it’s an American thing). I ordered two hotdogs with mustard and crossed my fingers.
I was not pleased with what I saw. I was given two boiled hotdogs (or steamed, whatever) in untoasted, unbuttered hotdog rolls. The rolls would not normally be a problem, but the dogs have to be pretty amazing if you’re not going to dress it up like that. With boiled hotdogs, you’re not likely to get the best taste. So, the combination of unadorned role and boiled dog had me concerned. But, I kept an open mind.
My first bite surprised me. The hotdog itself was good. I’d put it ahead of the average dirty-water stand in Manhattan, but it does not keep pace with the likes of Gray’s Papaya. The hotdog tasted like the many Oscar Mayer’s I had eaten as a kid.
The mustard? That was a different story. Amazing. It is hard to describe what exactly decorated my dog, but I assure you, I entered a new dog dining dimension. Somehow, there was a slight taste of cheese, and it had to come from the mustard. Specifically, it tasted like the cheese that one would find artificially squeezed into an Oscar Mayer cheesedog. Well, it was like that but tasted much better. The entire dynamic worked. I checked the middle of the hotdog, and it was not infused with cheese. Clearly, it wasn’t coming out of the roll. So, the mustard had to be responsible. Wherever the hell it came from, I was pretty happy. I may return to this spot before I leave Iceland.
While this hotdog was a pleasant surprise and could be the best in the country, it does not compare to the expertly prepared hotdogs I have eaten elsewhere. Popo’s of Swamscott, MA remains the best I’ve ever had– without any serious competition from the rest of the world. After Popo’s, I’d give a nod to Gray’s Papaya (on W 72nd St). I have fond memories of the pushcart that used to park in front of the Gaslight restaurant in Portsmouth, NH, but I don’t know if it even exists any longer. Also, “Ajumma’s Slaw Dogs”– at least, that’s what we called it– was great on many a beer-stained night when I was stationed in Korea. But, that was a decade ago, and I was loaded (likewise in Portsmouth). So, I really have no idea how good they were.