Denveater

Suck It Up for Oyster Week at Jax Fish House, 3/8–3/14

Now *this* is my kind of Restaurant Week. Hooray for Jax Fish House, which is donating a portion of the proceeds to the Emergency Family Assistance Association & The Gathering Place, i.e. the sorts of helping-hand community organizations I loll around promising myself I'll volunteer at someday in my spare time. Then I go make a drink & watch some boxing match I've already seen. 

Anyway, as acts of almsgiving go, overdosing on oysters is right up my alley (although, ew, that's one walkway I'd advise you to skirt). Hell, I may even do more than my share, attending the Oyster Week at the Boulder branch from 3/1 to 3/7 before hitting the Lodo location the following week. In short I'll be there with shells on.

 

How I Gobbled & Guzzled My Way Through NYC, or, How I Hope to Be Dining & Drinking in Denver a Year Hence, Part 2: Il Punto, Stecchino, Grand Central Oyster Bar

***It's a long & winding ride! Hold tight!***

As I admitted in Part 1, my genuine belief in the ever-restless, ever-curious Chowhound ethos notwithstanding, the Director & I tend to like to be where we are while on vacation. So long as we're comfortable, if somewhere else is better, bully for it, we don't really care.

Since our hotel was at W. 39th & 9th, where we often were in Manhattan was Hell's Kitchen. And since we had such a charming experience at the 1st place we stopped, not an hour after we'd arrived in town & all of half a block from our lodgings, for a drink & a couple of appetizers (1 of which, the crudo di seppie, became last week's Dish of the Week), we decided to return that same night for digestivi & a couple of nights later for the works.

Apparently known until recently as Osteria Gelsi, Il Punto occupies a welcoming if not particularly assuming storefront on 9th Ave.—snug space, dark woods, white tablecloths, the usual. And while the bar was no more unusual with its decorative scattering of magnums of Rosso di Montalcino & half-bottles of Amarone & such, the large assortment of liquori & amari behind the bar is precisely the sort of hallmark of East Coast Italian dining that I hope to encounter more often here in Denver, sooner rather than later. 

Bellying up upon arrival, we couldn't help but make the too-easy comparison between our ponytailed, thick-accented waiter & Furio from The Sopranos. Should've gotten his name—quick to smile & banter (though not to interrupt), he was a pleasure throughout our 2 rounds of drinks & the aforementioned appetizers, the other of which was the equally simple, almost as good pulpo su bruschetta,

literally "octopus on bruschetta" but obviously more like a salad with tenderly meaty coins of grilled tentacle, frisée, black olivers, capers & caperberries, red onion & tomato, ringed by a few crostini. If the presentation wasn't exactly polished & the toasts a bit too hard on the teeth, the octopus mixture itself was bright & lively, drizzled in lemon juice cut with just a few drops of moistening olive oil.

Settling up to explore a bit more before dinner, I couldn't figure out quite what was wrong with the bill until we hit the street—Furio had only charged us for 1 round of drinks. Mistake? Gracious gesture? It was partly to find out that we headed back for a nightcap—only to have him pour us, explicitly this time, yet another round on the house. 

And 48 hours later, when our waitress was taking our drink order, he waved to our table & smiled, pointing to the bottle of Oban the Director favored as if to say, "I've got you covered." Oh, that Furio. He sure was, for lack of the Italian equivalent, a real mensch.

As, for lack of a female equivalent, was the waitress—though it was she who asked me if I understood, when I ordered the piselle con seppie for an appetizer, that seppie was baby squid, throwing me all off track; as I explained in the aforelinked Dish of the Week post, I actually understand it to be cuttlefish.

What it definitely was was delicious, so dilemma solved—unless, that is, you consider the disturbing fact that a baby cuttlefish appears to be the cutest freaking thing on earth.

 

Good thing they didn't look like that in my bowl of pea soup. Actually, my bowl of pea soup didn't look like a bowl of pea soup, at least not the creamy split standard:

Instead, every spoonful of the wonderful broth was redolent with the greenness of fresh peas & herbs, perfectly light on the notes of chicken, salt & pepper. It was one of those rare dishes that exudes such wholesomeness you feel as though you should be eating it in the sunny kitchen nook of a rustic farmhouse amid rolling hills a century ago, with a glass of buttermilk. 

Which made it the ideal yin to the yang that followed.

The timballo (yeah, yeah, like Big Night) is the house specialty—& with obvious reason. If the crust of the drum-shaped (hence the name) dish looked a little dark to me, it proved just right, its toasty crunch a striking contrast to the melting interior—5 or 6 alternating layers of ribbon pasta, besciamella (did you know the Italians, not the French, invented béchamel? True story) & meat ragù (I'd guess a typical mix of beef, pork & veal) as well as parmesan. 

My own educated feeling is that timballi constitute the rare occasion in which all expectations for al dente pasta are misplaced. Here, the noodles naturally become one with their sauces, to the most comforting, chewy-slurpy effect imaginable. But to say they become one with the rest is not to say they disappear into it; on the contrary, the beauty of Il Punto's version was that neither the rich white nor the perfectly balanced red sauce—in which the meat enhanced rather than dominated the tomato—took up more than their share of mouthspace relative to the pasta. 

By unfortunate contrast, the dipping sauce with the Director's calamari fritti was too thin to properly coat the breading; with any staying power, its nice little red pepper kick might have overcome the deficiencies of the bland, overdone squid rings.

 

He had somewhat better luck with the strozzapreti al sugo di cinghiale.

Strozzapreti means "priest strangler," & while Wikipedia cites a few apocryphal explanations for the name, I could swear I learned in cooking school that it derived from the pasta's resemblance to a clerical collar (from the hole end, you can kinda see it). In any case, classic wild boar ragù often has an agrodolce (sweet & sour—although the literal translation is "soursweet") savor, & this one was no exception; nice as it was, too bad the ratio of pasta to sauce wasn't ideal. It's true that Italians, unlike Americans, don't positively deluge their pasta, but this seemed a bit stingy. 

Overall, though, Il Punto's a lovely little place "where the Kitchen Aromas swirl into the dinning room like an Italian culunary tale," to quote the misspelling-riddled website, that probably suffers from comparisons to famed Esca nearby, though it's 10 times more accessible.

***
The same goes for Stecchino, another mostly likeable Italian eatery in Hell's Kitchen. In fact, its menu was so appealing I could overlook my thorough contempt for its wishful billing as "An Italian Speakeasy." First of all, the whole trend toward speakeasies annoys me in the same way the gastropub trend annoyed the Westword's much-missed Jason Sheehan. Technically, a speakeasy is a place where alcohol is illegally sold, so if you're calling your joint a speakeasy, you'd better be able to literally transport me back to the Prohibition era the moment I walk in, or I ain't buying it. But second, even by the extended contemporary definition that includes bars like PDT whose entrances are supposedly secret, Stecchino, with a perfectly well-marked & accessible storefront on a major avenue, doesn't qualify in the least. If it's a speakeasy, so is every other alcohol vendor on the block. The word becomes meaningless in that context.

But as a bar & restaurant, Stecchino (which means "toothpick") has a number of things going for it, from rather rococo craft cocktails to a repertoire I'd have liked to sample more thoroughly: chicken liver & wild mushroom crostini, calamari with squid ink–chili butter, pork braciola—a new-to-me variant on the usual beef—etc. As it was, a trio of pastas went down nicely.

 

A ramekin of green peppercorn crème fraîche distinguished this appetizer of 3 pan-fried mezzalune stuffed with lamb shank; not only did the combo of lamb & sour dairy offer some Near Eastern flair, but it turned what would otherwise be eaten with a fork into a fun finger food. (Granted, I can turn anything into a fun finger food given enough wine, but still.) 

Had I been in a less laidback mood, the fact that it arrived simultaneously with our main courses would have rankled, but that was the only glitch in the otherwise smooth service. Mostly smooth, too, were the entrees themselves. Though the inclusion of soppressata in the rabbit & black olive ragù that topped the Director's fresh pappardelle was what intrigued me most about the dish on paper, it strangely didn't really register on the palate; still, with herbed ricotta smeared in, the dish as a whole had enough rustic heartiness to go around.

By contrast, it was the use of prosciutto butter as a sauce for my Swiss chard, crescenza & walnut ravioli that got me all excited, but in fact rendered the whole a little too salty. Were the chef to ease up on any extra salt in the recipe, he/she would have a truly stellar dish; the earthy, nutty & creamy combo, enhanced by the perfectly textured pasta, was otherwise bold. 

 

Much appreciated were the little touches too—a dark crusted sourdough, a hot buttered rum made for me by special request, though it wasn't on the drink list.

  

In world's most competitive market, Stecchino may not have that something special, that brio, that je ne sais quoi it needs to survive. But it'll be pleasant enough while it lasts.

   

***
Not having been there since I was a but a tot, I got this bug in my ear to drag the Director to the world-famous Grand Central Oyster Bar. Pal Ben warned me it was a tourist mill—& it is, but that doesn't mean it isn't a kick, from its celebrated vaulted ceiling on down.

Actually, there's much on the enormous, daily-changing menu to admire; scattered among the usual raw bar, fresh catch & deep-fried suspects are some surprisingly funky offerings—pan-fried bay scallops with raisin–blue cheese butter & pecans, for instance, or 

 
broiled Pipe's Cove oysters with candied ginger butter (even if it tasted more like herb butter).

In fact we ordered up a storm, the best of it being the marinated Dutch herring with mustard-dill dressing.

If "marinated" here was a bit of a euphemism for "pickled," it was a fair one, in so far as these wonderfully oily fish were only lightly sweet & sour; the mustard-dill sauce, too, was on the mildly sweet side, & while I'm all for cheek-slapping pungency, the gentle treatment made for a memorable departure from the norm.

The Idaho brook trout with horseradish cream was likewise smoked softly enough to maintain its freshwater character & remain about as delicate as smoked fish can be. And hey, how 'bout these presentations, eh? Curly parsley garnish, lettuce leaf, 

 

tumbler full of horseradish with a plastic spoon,

  
 
paper cups for the cocktail sauce & mignonette, lemon wedges willy nilly. Classic. To be fair, raw sea urchin in the shell truly is a sight to behold (wacked-out close-up here), & a treat to poke around in, like your own little edible tidepool. It's something I'm still learning to appreciate with my mouth, with its tonguelike texture & musty taste, but I am learning, and my eyes can never get enough of that handsome space devil.

Our luck ran out in Round 2, though, as I asked the waiter whether he recommended the fried whole clams or the fried scallops, knowing that he'd vote for the twice-as-expensive latter. He did, & they were a total drag, barely a cut above freezer fare (& the fries weren't even that much).

   

Still, it wouldn't have been a complete experience without at least one ripoff. Here's to ya, old joint. 

The Exception That Proves the Rule: Oceanaire

Like all serious eaters, I avoid most chains on principle. Even the high-end ones, the ones that actually have kitchens instead of just freezers full of factory-made product & bank after bank of deep fryers to thaw it all in, share that ethos of consistency, i.e. sameness, i.e. predictability, that goes against everything I love about dining out: a sense of place, the passing of moments that couldn't be replicated anywhere else, an intimate understanding of the chef's worldview as manifested in his or her cooking. The words "local" and "organic" don't just apply to ingredients—they apply to experiences too.

But Oceanaire, as I've noted before, is a breath of guess what amid the stench of corporate branding. If its 1950s supper club-meets-cruise ship swankiness smacks just a touch of the boardroom brainstorm, the space is no less genuinely cool for that; if you squint you can pretend the crowd is all decked out in flannel suits & wingtips, cocktail shifts & pincurls. And amazingly, nothing else smacks thus. 

The service, for one thing, is impeccable, exhibiting the perfect balance between professionalism & personality. In fact, it was Colonel Hector Bravado's rave about one bartender in particular during our recent interview that reminded me it had been too long since my last splurge at the downtown seafooder, especially since I was pretty sure I knew whom he meant: a tall blonde whose name I got this time while doing the obligatory round of oysters at the bar—Kara, who praised the Director's request for Laphroaig with a grin, "That's my favorite too—so smoky & stinky & peaty." 

Meanwhile, I kept it simple with bubbly, not wanting to risk losing the flavors of the oysters on our platter, which were all new to me: gentle, clean Rappahannocks & Barcats from Maryland, plus British Columbian Fanny Bays—on whose cucumbery relish I'll second Rowan Jacobsen.

Then, for the first time ever, we repaired to an actual table, the way nice, normal diners do, where the evidence of the extent to which Oceanaire's charm stems from little amenities just piled up. For instance, it's just so darn cute that the table setting includes a box of Old Bay & a little notepad! What sweet nothings might have been scribbled here? We made Top 10 lists.

Then there are the little premeal goodies—a sourdough boule that's excellent from chewy crust to loose crumb & a relish tray of crudités, olives, cherry peppers & a highly unexpected (the 1st time) but much welcomed (always) ramekin of pickled herring.

And on this particular night, perhaps a perk of table dining as we've never received one before, our young but super-smooth server Justin brought us an amuse bouche—a bit of gingered salmon & cucumber on a housemade potato chip. Nothing groundbreaking; nice nonetheless.

An app of Fresno shrimp was likewise no novelty—but then, novelty really isn't the name of Oceanaire's game. Though the large menu is hardly devoid of innovative touches, its overall appeal, like that of the decor, inheres in the retro: shrimp de Jonghe, cioppino, scampi, escargots, creamed corn, superb Green Goddess dressing & warm chocolate chip cookies with milk (the latter two as per my earlier, above-linked post). And actually, contrary to contemporary standards, it's the starters that hew more to the classic here, the entrees that skew more unusual.

Anyway, this is your typical heap of deep fried shrimp, a little too heavily breaded, but well seasoned enough to keep us plowing through it until somewhat past the ideal stopping point. Above all, as is often the case, it was a condiment I fell for: while the malt aioli didn't distinguish itself beyond richness, the housemade hot sauce was terrific, thin & vinegary. Like fresh-squeezed Tabasco, basically.

My belly already nearing capacity à la the ship's cabin in A Night at the Opera, I went for broke via the rainbow trout stuffed with crab, shrimp & Brie in a white wine beurre blanc. Served whole with the head & tail on, its skin crackling, that fish offered a fine exterior indeed; the flesh was milder than expected, but those few chunks that were moistened by the sauce alone shone. As for the stuffing that otherwise overwhelmed it a bit—all by itself, ahh: chunky, melting, funky & sea-sweet.  

Lacking my gastrostamina, the Director stuck with a Caesar, which caused in me a twinge of ennui until I tasted it, with its just-right dressing, a little tangy, a little creamy, a little musty. 

Oceanaire's salads are all giant flavorcraft carriers, from the crab & bay shrimp chopped salad to the BLT salad with buttermilk-bacon dressing. But it's the sides that are like the tugboats for the fleet of a full meal here: however almost comically starchy & fattening, you have to have at least one to pull the whole thing together. The slab of so-called bacon steak is rightly given widespread due, & the coleslaw has a wonderful old-fashioned roughness of character, but the Director loves his potatoes au gratin.

And what's not to love? Soft cubed potatoes, thick velvety cheddar.  Impressive to behold, but fairly simple in the end as far as the comfort it offers—& thus emblematic of Oceanaire itself. 

   

Dispatch from Bacchus Knows Where, OK: McGeHee Catfish Restaurant

The Toy & Action Figure Museum (whose logo tee the Director's rocking as we speak) isn't the only detour Wampus took me on during my trip back home for the Okie Noodling Tournament. On the eve thereof, he & Suzy—his expectant wife, co-gourmet cheesemonger & rare comic equal—drove me all the way to the OK-TX border to do mouth-based research at a legendary catfish palace called McGeHee.

Housed way, way off any main road in an Americana-bedecked cabin overlooking the Red River, the place evokes a clubhouse for ballcapped, grizzled good old boys to sit around in guzzling beer, cheating at cards & spinning fish tales. But when we met a couple of Wampus & Suzy's friends there around 8 on a Friday night, it was virtually empty—8 being nearly closing time in the middle of nowhere. 

I'm not sure there's anything on the menu besides catfish fried or grilled (but who doesn't get fried? no one, that's who), served AYCE family-style with all manner of sides; certainly the ordering process amounted to a smiling confirmation that that's what we'd be having.

In no time, the waitress returned with a trayful of this & that & this—not only a dish of raw onion slices, peperoncini & lemon wedges but also

sweet pickled green tomatoes, hypercreamy coleslaw

& crunchy-tender free-form hush puppies,

which we had just the right amount of time to plow through before the presentation of the beaucoup pièces de résistance.

The cornmeal-fried catfish was expertly done—greaseless, moist & flaky—but I gotta say it was the snappy, salt-dusted, mahogany-hued, skin-on fries that enthralled me most, not least for being the 2nd absolutely spectacular batch of spud sticks I'd had in as many days.

Had we been anywhere Bacchus actually knew—McGeHee is dry—no telling how many I'd have polished off in inebriated bliss, hid in my pockets & otherwise hoarded. So many I'd still be eating 'em now, that I can t ell you.

Lee's nuggets, Bob's riblets & Darth Vader's Potato Head: The 10th Annual Okie Noodling Tournament Pt. 3!

***Subpart 1 of the 3rd & last part in my extra-special miniseries on the Okie Noodling Tournament in Pauls Valley, OK; see Parts 1 & 2 here & here.***

With a name like Wampus, you just have to be the host of the first-ever catfish cookoff at the 10th annual Okie Noodling Tournament.

You may also have to own the best gourmet shop for miles & miles around, as does my old pal Steve "Wampus" Reynolds, along with his ultralovable wife (& former Martha Stewart payrollee!) Suzy Thompson—namely Norman's (& soon to be OKC's) Forward Foods. You definitely have to wear a T-shirt depicting legendary OU Sooners football coach—& bootlegger's boy!—Barry Switzer that reads "Hang half-a-hundred on it."

But above all, you really have to launch that Okie Noodling Tournament catfish cookoff—an event that's sure to get inked in on the smudged & spattered kitchen calendars of aspiring chefs forevermore.

With a name like Denveater, meanwhile, you have to be terribly restless & afeared to miss a noodlin' thing—to the point that, instead of waiting for Wampus ("He said Saturday [pause]. I think") to close his store for the afternoon, you force your poor mom to chauffeur you 45 min. to the fairgrounds, i.e. the half-block radius around Bob's Pig Shop, just in time for the official weigh-in to begin.

Luckily mom is a trooper.

Such a trooper, in fact, that this JewBu who bore me uprighted her vegetarian leanings (never mind risked her kosher cred) just long enough to join me in a luscious, luscious lunch of Bob's ribs.

Served on plates when the place isn't getting slammed by more orders than Pauls Valley has residents, the rib platter includes beans that I'd swear were baked, not quite the same (but no less tangy) than the spiced pintos that came with my pig sandwich on Friday (see above link); extra-creamy coleslaw & potato salad; house-baked, toasted white bread; &, oh my, the ribs themselves.

I'm no BBQ expert, but I know a thing or 3: 1) That's a serious smoke ring right there. 2) The meat slid—not collapsed, not yanked, but slid horizontally, easily yet precisely—off the bone. 3) The bark was addictive—deep, dark & peppery.

Here's what I didn't know til my nominee for world's truest gentleman (too bad, old dad; them's the breaks, Director, love of my life) showed me—tuckered out as he must've been at the end of a 100-plus-degree day spent overseeing a famous fishing tournament, running a beloved BBQ joint & babysitting his blur of a 2-year-old granddaughter: that those ribs get an ungodly-early start every morning in the brick pit that's as old as the Pig Shop itself—76 years & counting.

(That Bob's Pig Shop is full of such treasures I showed you here—but I saved the best for last. Check this out—it's dated April 15, 1865:

 .)

Here's what else I didn't know til Wampus whisked me away around 3, at the height of the heat hence the lull of the goings-on: Pauls Valley's home to 1 wacked-out showcase of a Toy & Action Figure Museum—

—which you'll get a full load of when I resume this post ASAP.

*****

To pick up where I left off, Wampus & I dodged the dusty scorcher for a spell by ducking into the above, also in little old (pop. jut over 6,000) Pauls Valley. Enthusiast or no, you gotta love it.

First of all, look what's across the street.

Second of all, scattered here & there amid all the expected WWII battle scenes—both the European & the Asian Pacific front, right down to the SS helmets & the samurai swords!—

& the gamut of all knickknacks superhero, evil nemesis, Stars Trek & Wars

were my kind of action figures:

Blue Meanies (+ Spidey making, as Wampus pointed out, like

 

Dio); Ash, Jason,

Pinhead, Alien aka The Xenomorph, & Terminator; 

&, if eyes don't deceive, Fat Bastard!

Third of all, check out the 7th-grade-bedroom installation!

KISS dolls & GI Joes, He-Men & Wonder Women, Godzillas, Transformers, aliens, spaceships, racecars, a TV tuned into cartoons—& to top it all off a box of oatmeal creme pies on the nightstand.

But having gotten our fill, it was time to head back to the festival & get our fill of even cooler playthings—entries in the 1st-ever tournament catfish cookoff, which Wampus (center) organized & cojudged along with Phil (left) & Mark Amspacher (right), longtime fixture on the Norman, OK, food scene & celebrated owner of The Diner.

The fact that I was just there to observe didn't stop me from swiping some leftovers—

from catfish nuggets over Okie caviar with molasses–Maker's mark sauce to catfish tacos,

grilled catfish with jalapeno-tomatillo sauce, the winning zesty catfish salad sandwich,

& Lee McFarlin's own fried catfish with original seasoning, which the judges found a bit salty but I loved—granting that the word "seasoning" is itself too bland for this stuff.

By then it was evening, & we were dirty, sweaty, sun-drunk & ready to head back to Norman—after, that is, refreshing ourselves, joined by Phil's kickass daughter Heidi, with some booze in Bob's walk-in cooler.

'Til next year.

McCormick's: "Not one of the city's best restaurants."— Not The New York Times Travel Section

Lukewarm-ick's. Has a nice—by which I mean "mean"—ring, no? But "nice" by which I mean "mean" doesn't mean "entirely true." The truth is McCormick's runs the gamut from all-out eww to eh to full-on aah! & back again. So I resisted the temptation to title this post thuswise (if not to use the word "thuswise." Such a logobimbo). After all, McCormick's own site gave me all the opportunity for snark I ever seek by quoting some glowing review that appeared in the New York Times Travel Section...when? When was McCormick's ever "one of the city's best restaurants"? Thirty years ago when Lodo was a war zone? The best restaurant in a war zone is a non-bombed-out restaurant. "Best" in that wise just means "open." 

Mind you, I don't actually know how long McCormick's has been in Denver (feel free to fill me in). I only know that as early as the mid-1970s, McCormick merged with Schmick out in Portland, OR, to forge the links in today's coast-to-coast chain known by both names; hence the assumption that the one-name outlets must be older. I also know, as a former Bostonian, how much flak said chain aptly took for moving in on Legal Sea Foods' turf when it opened back east. Sure, Legal's a franchise too, but you gotta hand it to any fishhouse that opens a branch within spitting distance of an aquarium. That takes whale balls.**)

So I've long held a grudge against McCormick, with or without Schmick. 

Nevertheless, since I had no choice but to hit it recently for reasons that shall be made clear over at Denver Six Shooter come June 16, I figured I might as well give it its fair full-body shake—starting, natch, with the raw bar. 

Which brings us to lukewarmth.

Here's how the so-so seesaws: on the upside, a daily roster of 9 or 10 ain't bad. It ain't as good as Oceanaire's, but it ain't bad. Even better is that Gigamotos were among them.

 

New to me when I ordered them (perhaps because they're West Coasters, from Belfair, WA), these little guys promptly shot all the way up in my esteem to the level of Wellfleets & Tatmagouches. Not only do they sound like robot parts, & not only are their shells (like those of most oysters, granted) way sci-fi,

but their flavor is among the most purely sealike any creature ever captured. And I don't mean briny & I do mean sealike—blue-green & clean.

The quick, simple downside: they weren't fully shucked; the adductor muscle was still attached to the shell. Hey, line guy, if I have to do half the work myself, I want my cut. Pony up. 

Though they weren't especially strong, & though I wasn't holding my breath that the mix was housemade, a couple of spicy bloodies nonetheless took the edge off of my annoyance. 

So did the especially attentive, blond-ponytailed slip of a server who brought them, a pro beyond her years. Wish I'd gotten her name. (UPDATE: Just saw it on the receipt—Jamie.) Above all, she accommodated us in the transition between breakfast & lunch service, as the Director ordered the former & I the latter.

His Southwest skillet was the high point, a not-too-greasy spillage of chorizo & cheddar, spuds & jack, & peppers & onions alongside pico de gallo, a thoughtful wedge of lime, & griddled tortillas—all topped with the over-easy...oval? ovate? ovoid? oviparous?...eggy ideal. 

 Sausages on the side were fat & happy, juicy with joy.

But the oyster stew, after the first blush, was sad & blue.

Looks delish, eh? Especially when you dip in your spoon to dredge up a humdinger of a Hama Hama. 

But it wasn't delish by a long shot. The chef's intentions were clearly good insofar as the broth was very simple—just milk (I doubt there was more than a drop, if that, of cream), butter, parsley &, presumably, oyster liquor. The chef's execution was noticeably bad insofar as the broth was very simple—Hama Hamas are mild, their liquor virtually undetectable in the context of other ingredients without sufficient S&P to bring it out. I was pretty much slurping up diluted milk until I seasoned it myself.

Oh, & also until the bile started seeping in.  

In my nearly 40 years I've downed 100s upon 100s of oysters—& never, ever, had I seen the likes of this. I didn't even know oysters had livers. 

Googling "oyster liver" later, I found this in a passage from a shucking primer at Oysters.us: 

"Extra care must be taken not to damage the tender meat. The oyster's liver is located just ahead of the hinge (located right at the opposite end of the little pointer). It is particularly vulnerable and will end up looking like a big greenish-brown spot if its mantle layer is damaged by the knife....Although such damage has no effect at all on the taste of the oyster meat, it just looks bad. I've heard novices ask 'Eeeew. Is that oyster poop?' when they see that spot. If you are serving lots of oysters with damaged livers to connoisseurs, they may not comment on it, but will certainly notice."

I noticed. Not 1 but 2 of the 3 oysters in my bowl were thuswise mangled. 

In the end, then, Denveater's gotta give McCormick's, at least when it comes to their supposed specialty, the thumbs down...& hence The Gray Lady the smackdown. 

Which actually, for a writer filled herself with bitter, bitter bile, feels pretty sweet.

**Search here for the word "testes" and prepare to stagger.

Alinearity: Jax Fish House wine-paired-10-courser-slash-private-label-launch!

So I guess Jax & the other Jax are debuting a pinot noir the chefs have created with Oregonian wine producer Sineann in the context of a lavish wine dinner like so (look, it's so OTT it's spilling out the side of the post):

Coolio. Something about the syntactical brevity of the menu makes me think someone in the kitchen's well-versed in Alineaish—not that there's anything wrong with that in the least. I mean, Tabasco pearls & steelhead roe? Sign me up. Not literally, I can't afford it right now. But, you know, with your finger in the air.

Big Apple/Beantown Dispatch 2: Neptune Oyster in a class, in a post, in my heart by itself

Straight from Boston's South Station to Haymarket & on into me olde stomping grounds, the North End, the Director & I, luggage in tow, reached the Neptune Oyster entrance at 11:30 am sharp, just as owner Jeff Nace was opening the door. He gave me a hug. The staff proffered hearty hellos. Our server welcomed us back 

at the bar

with flutes of prosecco. We were home.

And home was better than ever. 

Last summer, upon our very first return to my all-time favorite restaurant since both I had left for Denver & the original chef, David Nevins, had left for Norwalk & Osetra Sono, I felt the oh-so-slightest of letdowns—if the magic wasn't gone with new chef Nate Nagy, it would never again, I feared, be quite so blinding, grinding, hot-spellbinding.

I feared wrong. Following closely in Nevins' madcap footsteps, Nagy has nonetheless clearly hit his own stride. The proof, first & foremost, was in the pudding of pan-roasted Island Creek oysters,

a gorgeous glimpse of which got me so spasmodically jazzed I accidentally dipped my sleeve in the center shell before taking this pic. Then I deliberately dipped my face in the plate & shook it, you know, like a bachelor bashgoer at a stripper's bosom.

Per Rowan Jacobsen's handy-dandy Oyster Guide, Island Creeks are "salty as all get-out," as well as firm, clean & buttery. Hear, hear to the latter trio, although these particular babies didn't strike me as the former—& all the better for that, given that they sat atop dollops of house-deviled ham, which could have been overkill. Instead the combo was electrifying & soothing by turns as the flavor of what was called cucumber crème fraîche, but seemed to be paprika-spiked crème fraîche with squirts of cuke smoothie all round, percolated through. Truly a dish for the ages, along with Neptune's other forever-&-a-day-worthy contributions to the canon: pickled beef tongue & fried oysters piled high with gruyère, sauerkraut & Russian dressing; short rib carpaccio piled higher with fried onion on a bed of garlic mayo–drizzled mâche; braised baby octopus over black polenta with slow-roasted tomatoes...

You see, for me, this tiny place inheres in reverie—sometimes, granted, as romantic as it is culinary (as an old Chowhound thread still embarrassingly reveals); the Director & I have spent countless hours there doing just what we did on this visit—reveling in each other's boozy company & marveling at most every bite. Something about the misty aura—the etched glass & chalked-on mirrors, the marble & subway tiles, the embossed tin & ice-covered raw bar—invites rapt contemplation as much as the scattering of little gems like this yellowtail tartare with a salad of baby greens & sunchoke chips as well as daubs of ginger-pear vinaigrette—lovely accompaniments all, but then that hamachi could have come covered in mud & still sparkled through.

Would you believe this open-faced sardine sandwich was light?

Well, okay, me neither. Not quite. But Nagy & crew (of 1 or 2 at most) certainly handled it more elegantly than most kitchens would or could, frying a fresh, hence just this side of mild, filet to a delicate gold, layering it along with a mound of frisée & a sunny-side-up egg onto a toasted slice of brioche & spooning round a maple-bacon vinaigrette that actually was a subtly flavored dressing, not a viscous mix of syrup & drippings.

Of course, we couldn't leave before we'd sopped up Neptune's superb, pickle-heavy tartar sauce with a few fried clams. 

Of course, we could hardly leave, period. Wistful backwards glance, bittersweet belly rub.

The Salad Series: The Oceanaire's bay shrimp & crab chopped salad with Green Goddess

Hey, I like the feel of an Art Deco–era supper club in Miami Beach as much as the next guy snapping his fingers in pinstripes and wingtips. Ergo I swing by the bar at The Oceanaire now & again, a chain whose links seem to obtain their high polish from sentient beings, not lobotomized corporate lackeys—for better &/or worse, which really could be worse. The Lodo branch, for 1, resembles an independent operation more than a franchise in both its strengths & its weaknesses—the latter including above all human inconsistency, which I'll take over robotic consistency any evening.  

What’s both consistent & human here are the bartenders—always young yet seasoned, both warm & sharp. What's consistent & molluscan are the oysters: with 7 or 8, Pacific & Atlantic, on ice at any given time, the raw bar here's got the best selection that I know of by far. (McCormick & Schmick's shmcmormick & schmick's. When a West Coast operation opens 2 branches in an East Coast city—especially 1 as bursting with local pride as Boston—it's asking to get smacked. But then, its owners appear to be born that way, eh?

 

to be played by Louis Anderson & Dennis Hopper at his most self-parodic 

Point is I still won't set foot in there. The Oceanaire got its start in Minneapolis, which is so dumb as to be endearing.) Shucking skills are fair—occasionally I hit a bit of grit, occasionally pine for an extra sip of liquor—but the regular opportunity to try new-to-me varieties like Wildcat Cove is reason enough to belly up.

Even before I started looking like a seahorse with flatulence (not that they're not absolutely charming, by the by; I've seen them in tanks at the New England Aquarium's exhibition hospital, & they just keep floating up), I often opted for salads here—the BLT salad, boasting thick slabs of beefsteak tomato (a name whose connotations of a sexy hermaphrodite I always did relish) & buttermilk dressing crumbled with yet more bacon, & the crab louis, a total crustacean overload, being particular faves. Most recently I ordered the chopped salad with crab & bay shrimp,

a carb-counter's blessing if ever there was one, especially the dressing; it comes with a fine Greek vinaigrette, but I also asked for Green Goddess

 

& was so pleased by the pungency of both—the 1 full of lemon & even hinting at actual oregano, the other terribly sure of its anchovy self—that I barely noticed how I barely noticed the cheese til I saw the photo. It looks like feta; it tasted like cottage cheese—cottage cheese played by Milton in Office Space:

Topping the roster: Neptune Oyster (Boston)

Melancholy descended before we did. Though Denver is not yet my home, one glimpse of the skyline from the plane window confirmed that Boston no longer can be. 

Not that melancholy isn't its own form of joy. Especially under the spectacular circumstances: the Director & I shot straight from Logan into Chinatown & The Best Little Restaurant, where we caught the tail end of a raucous party of dear old friends from chowhound.com, who plied us with leftovers—unbelieveable fried squab (is a pigeon just 1 big liver? Something of that rich iron savor seems to suffuse every inch of its flesh), eaten with squeezes of lemon & sprinkles of salt & pepper from a finger bowl; braised duck; deep-fried garlic spare ribs—& whom we plied in turn with booze until the movements of at least 1 of us began to resemble those of some sort of cross between a squid & a corpse. & I'm relieved to say for once it wasn't me. As far as I recall. 

From there we hit the poshest sack I ever did hit: the apartment of 1 said hound, whose terrace affords (definitely the right word for it) a nonpareil view of much of Boston proper & its landmarks—the Pru & the Citgo sign beyond the Common to the west, the capitol dome & the brownstones of Beacon Hill to the north—

while the couch afforded an even more stunning view of Sam, landmark of his own domain, totally as wide as he is tall:

Next morning, after coffee on his freakin' great yacht, moored at Commercial Wharf on the harbor, the same hound showed us his lobster traps

 

which were however filled with crabs, apparently too small for good eating, so he stabs them with a nail & makes bait of them. This one made a break for it to no avail. Hypocrite that I am as an insatiable carnivore, I couldn't watch but I think the Director couldn't not.

& then it was time to meet yumyum for lunch at the eatery that I will forever hold dear above all others: Neptune Oyster. 

The moment I crossed the threshold of Jeff Nace's wee seafooder in the North End 3 years ago, all of a block & a half from my then-apartment, I knew it would be my place—clean & well-lighted indeed, from the pressed-tin ceilings & the subway tiles to the etched glass & the mirrors lettered with the names of the oysters of the day—

which are also listed, complete with the most charmingly precise tasting notes (Katama Bay, MA: "briny, buttered popcorn finish"; Kumamoto, WA: "plump, creamy, hints of cucumber") on the slips of paper on which they record your order—& the Director & I record our memories of each visit:

What I didn't yet know is that my place, low-key & laidback as it appeared, would introduce to me a chef whose culinary style was so startlingly bold & intelligent as well as just plain fun as to be, I dare say, absolutely original in a field where most so-called creations are really just reactions, variations. David Nevins has made many of the best dishes I've had in my life: a salad of salt cod & crispy lamb with parsnip puree; smoked salmon mousse with roe, kiwano melon & horseradish croutons; above all those unforgettable fried oysters with pickled beef tongue, gruyère, sauerkraut & Russian dressing—which, for me, truly expanded the horizon of a single plate—& on & on.

4 of the last 5 meals I had before moving to Denver were at Neptune; so genuinely broken up was I about saying goodbye that it wasn't until I heard Nevins had left to open his own place—Osetra in Norwalk, CT—that I could genuinely say I'd done the right thing by moving halfway across the country to be with the love of my life. Sure, the Director's my soulmate, but Nevins was my soulchef.

I trusted, however, Nace's savvy, & imagined he'd hire someone who'd follow in Nevins' footsteps—however wildly, wonderfully all over the place they may be.

& so he has, though I can't say from 1 meal this Nate Nagy fellow is quite Nevins' equal.

On the flavor spectrum, the Director's pan-seared bass with succotash & a mussel vinaigrette (they were out of the razor clams they usually use) ranged from bright to brighter.

Octopus salad with fennel, green apple & citrus sparkled too; still, I couldn't help but dream of how Nevins' version might have looked (especially given that the menu at his new place boasts a braise of octopus with chicken, of all things. Another dish combines caviar & bone marrow. The mind boggles). 

Cornmeal-crusted fried trout & crab hush puppies with blueberry brown butter & parsnip puree was the most like it, veering from sweet to salty & back again.

As always, we were treated with tender care by servers highly seasoned for their youth; complimentary welcome-back glasses of brachetto d'acqui ended the meal, & we knew they wouldn't be the last. Neptune will always be my first Boston stop, if never again my home away from home.