It’s been a while since I’ve been here. But I’ve been traveling a lot. And eating a lot. Mostly in restaurants.
Somehow I never got around to writing about it until now. I have no excuse. Is indolence an excuse? It’s probably a state of mind, merely.
May I say that since last July, when I posted something about somewhere interesting, I have probably eaten in 100 restaurants. So at least I can claim that what is to come might be statistically significant.
Of course, I haven’t eaten in every restaurant in America, so I cannot be statistically perfect. But who has? So this is, as usual, merely one man’s opinion on one night in one city in one restaurant on one particular day of the week.
Please let me start with the best.
Part of eating good food lies, I think, in the surprise. It’s like love. If it strikes you when you least expect it, you value it so much more.
So, one night, I wandered into a place called Sra. Martinez in Miami’s Design District. Miami’s Design District is like a designer loft. Pretty enough, but largely empty.
And here is this restaurant that looks like it was stuffed into an old Post Office. The decor isn’t glamorous. The greeter wasn’t even particularly welcoming.
But then the food arrived. Perhaps this food might be all too simple for you. For me, it was like bathing in mud with a naked Selma Blair. Yes, that sounds so rudimentary. But from the pan con tomate with boquerones, to the egg carpaccio to the wine, this was something that I want to experience regularly. And yet can’t.
My paramour and I went more than once, mind. This chef, whose name, I discovered, is Berenice DeAraujo, is so modest, so unassuming. And yet she could make chocolate from dirt. She could make ice cream from floodwater. She could pluck an old tire from the side of the road and turn it into squid or eel. I am sure that she picked up a few twigs and turned them into that egg carpaccio. Just for the fun of it.
I’m probably not selling her food very well.
Part of me doesn’t want to. It’s almost as if I don’t want anyone else (save for those I love) to experience what I experienced in this place. I went back a second time. Eleven courses later, I walked out believing that things could be simple, beautiful and memorable. I can still taste the food now. I want to go back now.
I don’t really have time to say more. I just wanted to share my enthusiasm. As I do for the other four restaurants over the last nine months that have moved me to paroxysms rivaling both sex and sport.
First, there is Aziza in San Francisco, but I have written about that already. It is still wonderful, still serene, still joyous. Even if it may soon move to a new and portentous home that has housed more failed restaurants than New Jersey.
Then there’s Ad Hoc in Napa. Again, perhaps I should have chosen somewhere more pretentious. Although, at least this is Thomas Keller. But last week, I had the most perfect pork rack, the most sublime asparagus and poached egg salad, some delightful French cheese and an orange cake that I would slip into a coffin for.
Yes, this isn’t writing from the snooty Bon Appetit school. But, coupled with several coupoles full of Molnar Pinot Noir, I felt entirely at one with the world, even if the world might have felt that I seemed a little blurry.
I know that some restaurants in New York should be in the Top Five. Well, I tried David Chang’s Ma Peche. It was very sweet, in a New York way. But it hasn’t pestered the memory. Strangely, Morimoto New York actually did.
This, despite it seeming like the designers of Studio 54 wanted one last chance to re-create the atmosphere before one last snort of coke sent them to their collective graves. The food, you see, was just so beautifully done. From the tuna pizza to the kobe beef to the extraordinarily dextrous service from someone who wasn’t actually an actress or a dancer.
Yes, she was a singer. No, wait, perhaps she was a dancer. But a really good one.
Finally, to make my top five as pan-American as my travels have allowed, might I add one more Bay Area offering? This place is called Marlowe. And it serves really rather simple food.
But the taste of this food is so deep and, well, motherly, that it’s as if your imagination was taken to a time when the only thing you feared was that a girl in a short gym skirt and long white socks preferred Sidney the Sideburned Dork to you.
It really is quite lovely. From the salad that is meticulously prepared and as fresh as your last advances on a teenager, to dessert that’s served in a jar and contains the kind of evil that might best be described as good.
Oh, can I throw in a sixth? Jose Andres’ China Poblano in Las Vegas. The wine was as desperate as the food was sublime. It was as if the very best of real cooking had been transported to the city of prostitution, in order to offer it a soupcon of virtue.
While I still savor the good, might I mention the totally awful? Just for a brief moment? And in reverse order?
So Citizen Cake, San Francisco. Um, why? Your service came from the Soviet Union. The food was so cold it was as if it was shipped from there too.
Gitanes, San Francisco. There really wasn’t any service to speak of. The food was mediocre. Which was a shame, as the room itself made you want to take your clothes off and have sex with everyone there.
Prospect, San Francisco. The naked king wants his new clothes back. He’s cold.
Flour and Water, San Francisco. I am sorry. I know they are very nice there. But I had a salad there that was as undressed as the King with new clothes above. It wasn’t underwhelming. There was simply no whelm at all.
And, finally, my number one and undisputed worst meal of the last nine months. Please stand and heckle the Murray Circle Restaurant at Cavallo Point.
This was not like taking a beautiful woman home from a bar in Singapore and discovering she is a man.
This was far, far worse. For a restaurant that has a Michelin star to deliver this level of sheer and complete tastelessness, you might have wondered if somehow Courtney Love had taken over in the kitchen for the night.
Here was food that was beautifully presented and tasted like paper. You know, the kind of paper you get in bulk at Best Buy.
It takes a lot for my paramour to get upset about food. She has so much sympathy with those who work in kitchens that she wants to go in there and personally tip them all.
But even she could not hold herself in any longer and asked the server for some salt. And pepper.
I can only assume that the people who prepared this food were on drugs of such a strong nature that their noses were disabled and their tongues were numb.
This was food that, if it had been served as the last meal for a condemned man, would have left him desperate to enter the next life, so as never to endure something so awful again.
Perhaps I sound harsh. But when you’re spending around $500 for three people, you hope that you might be able to tell the difference between fish and meat, between vegetable and protein.
Singularly, the most painful restaurant experience since I dated a waitress who tried to lock me in a freezer because, she claimed, I cast lascivious eyes upon one of the chefs.
And there we have it. A Side of Pretentious has returned. Who knows for how long?