WTF with Phil Roberts

Recently the New York Times as well as Vogue magazine featured a piece about the iconic, old-school French restaurant, LE VEAU d’OR (golden calf), which opened in 1937 in New York City, remained in business for 54 years prior to closing during the pandemic, and in 2024 reopened under new ownership.

At its height of popularity, Le Veau d’Or was the celebrity hang-out for New York’s glitterati…think Jackie O, Marlene Dietrich, Ernest Hemingway, Oleg Cassini, Truman Capote, Orson Wells (who owned the building and lived upstairs), Grace Kelly, and Audrey Hepburn as well as other A-listers. I could go on, but you get the idea.

The beloved, 54-seat bistro was adorned with all things calf, including paintings of baby cows, calf plant holders on every table, calf matchbooks. The specialty of the house? Veal dishes ranging from roasted veal breast and blanquette de veau (veal stew with cream-laced egg-yolk), to veal liver and Veal Francaise, bathed in lemon butter. This was the place to indulge your taste for supremely tender calf flesh. 

Earlier this year, chefs Lee Hanson and Riad Nasr (the duo behind the ultra-hot brarsseries FRENCHETTE and LE ROCK) purchased the spot from its longtime owners, the Tréboux family, and lovingly restored the place, ushering in a new era with a $125 prix fixe menu that I assume varies from day to day or week to week.

The reborn Veau d’Or is reverential to the old classic French offerings, while giving the menu a gentle kick forward. Everything old is new again.

Along with dishes like rognon de veau (kidneys), veal osso buco, veau ravigot (head, cheeks, brains and tongue), veal sweetbreads (thymus glands), vol au vent (veal or chicken-filled crispy pastry shells), you’ll find dishes like duck breast with cherries, steak au poivre, slow-roasted chicken with morel mushrooms, and poached lobster Macedoine (a kind of salad),

But now…We need to talk about veal. No one likes to talk about the process between farm and fork.

The fact is that consumption of veal began during the ancient Roman Empire. As Rome conquered what is now France, veal became a delicacy there as well…a food for rich people.

Here in the states, it’s only become favored in the last few hundred years due to immigration…perhaps by mainly the Italians who tended to settle in metropolitan areas in the northeast…New York, Boston and Philly.

Over time, the consumption of veal has dwindled dramatically, and I mean DRAMATICALLY. Americans today consume only about 15% as much as we did just a quarter century ago. Why is that?

Well, I’m not smart enough to know the answer, but perhaps it’s generational. Perhaps people recoil at the idea of eating a baby animal, particularly cute ones. Moreover, the bigger the animal, the more sympathy we have. Nobody thinks twice about swatting a fly or setting a mousetrap, but calves are huggable and adorable.

Then again, we see lamb on restaurant menus (full grown, it’s called mutton)…and suckling pig…and chickens that are slaughtered at only 5 weeks old.

So why has veal become the poster child for animal cruelty in America? In the past, weren’t all veal calves raised humanely in the U.S.? The answer is NO.

Until about 10 years ago, newborn male dairy cows were frequently tethered to “crates” causing confinement, allowing little movement until “harvest” at about 20-24 weeks old. Back in the day, when we had PRONTO RISTORANTE, we used to sell the hell out of milk-fed Provimi veal. The formula the calves were fed, along with restricted muscle movement, kept the meat from getting darker as it grew older. Yikes.

But that was then, this is now.

Today the vast preponderance of veal – any veal that you would find in a restaurant or grocery store – is certified and highly regulated by the VEAL QUALITY ASSURANCE COUNCIL and the AMA, AMERICAN VEAL ASSOCIATION. Whole Foods is one of the biggest purchasers.

These organizations work to ensure that all crates are banned, that the calves roam free in a “buddy system” or in groups, and that they are free from discomfort, disease and distress.

So, if you are not a vegetarian or a vegan, enjoy your osso buco, your Viennese wienerschnitzel, your Italian cotoletta or your veal roast.

And if you are in the mood, have dinner at MANNY’S and order the VEAL CHOPS – I like mine Sicilian style, cooked medium rare – along with a bottle (or two) of Chianti Classico Reserva. 

LIFE IS GOOD!

W.T.F.

PHIL

A few years ago, Joanne and I came upon a new restaurant concept in London.

It was called BURGER & LOBSTER.  The quirky premise was that you could order a burger…or lobster. That was it.

I like the idea of doing a few things well…and they did. The LOBSTERS were around $30 and sweet tasting…being steamed first, then finished on the grill and served with lemon-spiked drawn butter.

The BURGERS were a whopping 10oz. with tons of umami (achieved in part by incorporating a dash of fish sauce in the patty).  The cushy brioche buns were glossy and made from scratch.

This wasn’t Burger King or McDonald’s. The restaurant had a smart polished casual attitude, with a pronounced “high-low” vibe – an understated friction that matched its juxtaposition of high-end, pricey lobster with low-end, people-pleasing burgers.

They must be doing very well because, as Joanne and I noticed when we were in London recently, they now have nine locations.

A similar line of thinking can be seen at LE COQ RICO on a little street near Montmartre in Paris. It’s there that celebrated chef Antoine Westermann operates his chicken-only restaurant. It’s definitely not a KFC or Popeye’s.

Some people will say, “I never eat chicken in a restaurant. I can make chicken at home.” I disagree with that. I’m of the opinion that the chef may know something about poultry that I don’t. Moreover, elevating the mundane presents the chef with a real test of his or her skills. Lobster is almost guaranteed to impress; it takes skill to create a knockout chicken dish.

And Westermann does.

First and foremost, he only uses LANDES CHICKENS from Gascony region in southwest France (more about them later), and he roasts them low and slow. Yes, they are expensive…but Landes chickens are flavor champions.  I don’t have the skills to describe just how good his chicken is. You’re just going to have to trust me.

So, as Joanne and I visited London a few weeks ago, I was intrigued to learn that the person behind the iconic BOB BOB RICARD in Soho had birthed a new and clever restaurant a mere skip across the street.

It’s called BÉBÉ BOB and the menu says loud and clear….”YOU MAY ORDER ANYTHING, AS LONG AS IT’S CHICKEN OR CHICKEN”.  

That’s just the first rule, by the way. There’s also this: “NO PARTIES LARGER THAN FOUR. LARGER GROUPS WILL NOT BE ACCOMMODATED.”  And this: “YOU MAY HAVE YOUR TABLE FOR NO MORE THAN ONE HOUR AND FORTY-FIVEMINUTES.” (You know how I feel about that last one).

It’s pretty cheeky and supremely confident for a restaurateur to state that. It’s also a bit arrogant. And I sure don’t think it represents hospitality.

However, in a world where we’re too often saturated with options, it’s weirdly refreshing to be presented with a menu that does away with them altogether.  Sometimes freedom FROM choice is as liberating as freedom OF choice.

I told the waiter, “I’ll have the chicken.”  Joanne chimed in, “Me too”.

The dining room is at once contemporary, smart and Art Deco-y, with black marble tables, plush, cherry-red carpets, and velvet chairs. (As Grace Dent of the Guardian wrote, “It gives off ‘chicest dining option on a swanky 1960s cruise ship, complete with a swarm of seagulls chasing you from Civitavecchia to Cartagena’ vibes; it also zings with ‘restaurant adjacent to a Monte Carlo poker table where James Bond might woo Honey Ryder.’”) If you go, ask to be seated in the crimson, elevated rear section of the restaurant, and request one of the corner tables – #32 or #33. They’re the cat-bird seats where you’ll have a vista of the entire dining room and all the action that makes Bebe Bob as fun as it is delicious.

As with Burger & Lobster, there is a dichotomy at play. Here you are, sitting in this SNAZZY DINING ROOM EATING HUMBLE CHICKEN and at the same time downing flutes of CHAMPAGNE while spreading OSETRA CAVIAR and crème fraîche on tiny delicate warm blini pancakes with a mother-of pearl baby spoon. It’s COMFORT FOOD WRAPPED IN GLAMOUR.

There is no such thing as moderation at BEBE BOB.

Earlier I mentioned LANDES CHICKEN. Order Bébé’s signature Chicken for Two and that’s what you’ll get. This pampered poultry from Gascony roams freely in the open air. The birds are milk-fed and finished with local grain the last two weeks before “harvesting.” This creates a juicy layer of savory fat under the skin while providing a firmer under-the fork texture and deeper flavor. This is the same chicken that Helene Darroze serves at her Michelin three-star restaurant at the Connaught in London.

Joanne and I began with an amuse bouche of caviar, followed by a pair of deep fried CHICKEN SCHNUGGETS (chicken schnitzel), one with black caviar, the other with golden trout roe.

Someone let the pig out because I had to have the ANCHOVY EGG MAYONNAISE with Cantábrian anchovies in addition to a LEMON CREAM DONUT topped with caviar.

SHRIMP COCKTAILS were next. Bébé Bob’s version features king prawns blanketed with a pink sauce of mayo, a little bit of ketchup, lemon juice, Worcestershire and VSOP Cognac. It’s called “Mary Rose Sauce.” Oh yes…a few mini-type McNuggets are added.

We didn’t have order the manhole-size crispy CHICKEN SCHNITZELS, made from the “breast of slow-grown Cotswold white chicken,” but plenty of other diners did. They come with a simple lemon wedge on top but can be upgraded with a scoop of caviar.

Instead, Joanne and I opted for the Landes rotisserie chicken. It was supremely juicy, golden-skinned and artfully plated in a sort of yin-yang geometry and came with a small vessel of creamy chicken jus for topping.

Sides were rich and remarkable. We ordered the chicken fat-roasted potatoes with thyme, rosemary and garlic, and “Truffled Cauliflower Cheese,” which featured delicate cauliflower cooked in Mornay sauce with truffle, parmesan and cheddar. Each side runs about $9.

For dessert, we shared a CLASSIC TARTE TATIN with Calvados ice cream and an order of wonderfully decadent PROFITEROLES, filled with whipped Guernsey Cream and served with Valrhona dark chocolate sauce.

So, to me, it looks like specializing in just one item and doing it exceedingly well sounds like a crowd-pleasing formula these days.

What on Earth could be next?

Could it be what the famed radio duo Bob and Ray predicted some years ago? HOUSE OF TOAST?

Of course you’d have several choices…lightly toasted…medium…or almost black.  And one could choose white bread…whole wheat…rye…maybe even pumpernickel. A broad selection of spreads would also be on offer. Think peanut butter…strawberry jam…grape jelly.

And for us Minnesotans: white bread toast and butter.

WTF

PHIL

Frequently, on Saturday afternoons, my Mom could be found hovering over the kitchen stove, crafting a simmering pot of “Eye-talian spaghetti sauce.” I marveled at the exoticness of it, especially since the smells coming from our kitchen were the same as those that wafted from the house of the mysterious and mystical Matroni family from Naples, Italy that lived down the street from us. They lived along my paper route, and when I dropped off the Chicago Sun-Times on Sundays, I often smelled the sauce simmering in their kitchen.

What I didn’t realize at that time was that Italian spaghetti (Creamette’s, from the A&P) was my mother’s way of stretching our sparse food budget in order to put dinner on the table for our extended household family of seven – two grandmas, an aunt and uncle, my mom and dad, and little me.

When we all sat down for supper at five o’clock, all eyes focused on the center of the table, where my mother placed the big honkin’ platter of spaghetti, smothered with the magical, mystical tomato sauce. The sight took my breath away.

What was also dead center at the table: a bright green cardboard can of KRAFT PARMESAN CHEESE – ”the classic flavor enhancer.” At first, we were all a little timid about what to do with this curious, new-fangled product, so we only sprinkled a few granular bits on top of our spaghetti. But we soon discovered that we really liked Kraft Parmesan Cheese, and later the spaghetti-laden supper table was set with two cardboard cans. When you said the word “Parmesan” in our house, you thought of Kraft.

Over the next several years, I discovered more upscale versions of grated Parmesan cheese – the tastiest being SARTORI from Wisconsin. American Parmesan needs to be aged 10 months, and that was a Sartori selling point. 

Sometime later, when I came across un-grated Parmesan, I also learned not to grate it ahead of time. It gets flat, nasty and tasteless real quick.

Now let’s fast-forward a few decades to Bologna, Italy, where I attended Marcella Hazan’s cooking school.

WOW!…BAM!…POW!…KAZOWIE!   That’s when I discovered PARMIGIANO REGGIANO CHEESE!!!

First, let me explain.

Parmigiano Reggiano is made using a centuries-old process that is extremely tightly regulated. For a cheese to bear that name, it must come from the Emilia Romagna region in northern Italy and contain only three ingredients: unpasteurized milk from certain breeds of grass-fed cows, salt, and rennet (a potent liquid derived from a young milk-fed calf’s stomach).

The Designation of Origin (DOP) that guarantees authenticity is strictly enforced and protected by the Italian government. Furthermore, the cheese must be aged a minimum of one year (and up to four years) and pass a rigorous inspection from the DOC. The government authorizes only 300 makers and, by law, each is allowed to produce only 26 wheels per day.   

The cheese-making process begins early in the morning with the milk being delivered to an approved facility no later than 8:00 AM. The milk is poured into heated copper vats, rennet is added, and soon curds begin to form. They’re broken up until the milk begins to coagulate into a single mass.

Now the cheese is lifted out and drained, leaving behind the whey (remember Little Miss Muffet?) which is formed and placed into molds to set. That’s when the dotted inscription that circles the entire wheel is impregnated into the rind. Then the wheels are transferred to a salt bath for twenty days in order to harden the rind. Afterward, the producers deliver the 72 lb. wheels to massive, humidity and temperature-controlled aging consortiums where they reside up to four years.

The result? 

Over the months, an aroma, texture and flavor will evolve that is at once complex, earthy, salty, nutty, and moderately sharp, with notes of umami. The cheese also assumes an almost crunchy texture.

BUT STOP!!!!

Here’s a little sidebar that I’ll bet you didn’t know.

Parmigiano Reggiano isn’t the only food that Emilia Romagna is known for worldwide. BALSAMIC VINEGAR is another (I’ll save that for a future posting).

And then there’s PROSCIUTTO DE PARMA, which comes from pigs that consume the vast amount of whey left over each day in the Parmigiano copper vats from throughout the region.

The nutritional properties of the potent, high-quality protein in whey provide a jump-start for fattening up the young Prosciutto piglets and getting them started on the path toward the finest air-dried hams on the planet.

In some respects, the production of Prosciutto is not dissimilar to that of Parmigiano Reggiano. It’s highly, highly protected by strict standards, with only certain breeds of pigs authorized to become Prosciutto. They must be born and raised in Emilia Romagna and their flesh air-aged in a huge consortium (CONSORZIO DEL PROSCUITTO). The final product is carefully inspected by official regulators who alone are authorized to give it the Designation of Origin.

So there.

Now back to Parmigiano.

Chunks pried right off the wheel are wonderful all by themselves as a snack. Restaurants frequently put on a show and toss pasta directly in the big wheel tableside (sometimes even flaming it).

In cooking school, we frequently ended our meal with fresh chunks of Parmigiano and drops of 25-year-old Balsamic vinegar, and occasionally we prepared grilled cheese sandwiches filled with melty dark chocolate and Parmigiano Yeah, yeah, I know. But try it, you’ll like it.

You’ll also love cheesy-roasted cauliflower laced with Parmigiano and heavy cream. And don’t throw away the rind! Add it to soups and stocks.  For your next party, surprise your guests with Parmigiano chunks dipped in chocolate sauce that is no less than 70% cocoa. And give yourself permission to splurge a little on movie night at home by dusting your buttery popcorn generously with freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano. Don’t skimp.

So, here’s the rub: it’s pretty expensive – about $20 a pound. However, COSTCO sells the real thing – a two-year-old Parmigiano Reggiano – for about $12 a pound. Domestic Parmesan runs about $3 – $6 for 8 ounces.

I have a confession (HUSH! HUSH!): I don’t always use the real thing on my pasta. Perhaps it’s a childhood thing, or maybe pure convenience. But on rare occasions, I’ve been known to pop open a lid of pasta sauce and a bright green container of “you-know-what.” It’s my ultimate comfort food.

And as a local restaurateur, I just don’t want to be caught at Lunds-Byerlys with that bright green container in my cart. I’m still recovering from being discovered a couple of years ago with a jar of CHEEZ-WHIZ at the checkout.

W.T.F.

PHIL

WIENERSCHNITZEL…what an inelegant-sounding German word, right up there with “ausfahrt” (off-ramp or exit).

Yet despite its ugly moniker, wienerschnitzel is such a beautiful dish. In fact, it’s so delicious that, in one form or another, practically every country on the planet has a version.

The word “schnitzel” roughly means cutlet – a thin slice of meat, pounded ‘til tender, then breaded and fried. The word “wiener” doesn’t mean hot dog or weenie. It means “of Vienna,” as in Austria.

Together the words represent the national dish of Austria, where wienerschnitzel is actually protected by law. The meat MUST BE VEAL and it must be prepared and served in the traditional way – fried in lard and accompanied by fresh lemon wedges.

FIGLMUELLER RESTAURANT, founded in Vienna in 1905, is thought by many to be the first restaurant to serve wienerschnitzel. There it comes in several iterations, including “jagerschnitzel” (smothered in mushrooms) and “à la Holstein” (with anchovies, capers and a fried egg on top).

BUT…HOLD ON. The origins are complex and even today are subject to debate.

See, Vienna takes credit for giving us the dish. It is said that wienerschnitzel was introduced to the masses by Austrian Field Marshall Radetsky, who discovered it while traveling in Italy early in the 19^th century and returned to Vienna with the recipe.

Ask the Italians, however, and they’ll tell you that it was well established by that time – that, in fact, wienerschnitzel was first offered in Italy on a menu dating from 1134 for the Abbots of the Cannons of St. Ambroglio. It was called “cotoletta.”

I’ve been privileged to enjoy delicious cotoletta à la Milanese, pan fried in clarified butter (not olive oil) at SOLFERINO RISTORANTE in the elegant and artsy district of Milan.

But, then again, does anybody really give a shit as to who invented it?

Paris has a version – a “skinny” one – called “paillard de poulet” (we serve a version of this pounded chicken cutlet at Salut).

The epicenter of the Paris iteration is on Avenue Montaigne, the world-famous fashion avenue and home to the collections of Gianni Versace, Christian Dior, and Salvatore Ferragamo as well as other world-renowned designers.

And that’s perhaps why the fashionista restaurant L’ AVENUE prepares its chicken version of the schnitzel without flour, breadcrumbs, clarified butter, or – for that matter – flavor. Is it because of all the fashion models that work in the area? 

In Copenhagen, Denmark, the waterfront restaurant BURR specializes in free-range pork schnitzel, served three distinct ways. The first is wonderfully plain. All you taste is pork, butter and lemon. The second version sees the schnitzel buried under a load of chanterelle mushrooms sauteed in Danish Lurpak clarified butter. And the third iteration is topped with a mixture they call “boy” – a weird name for an intense garnish of lemon, capers, horseradish and brined anchovies.

As recently as the 20^th century, the Ashkenazi Jews of Eastern Europe brought schnitzel to Israel.  And since veal was not popular in the Eastern Bloc, chicken schnitzel was introduced, not so much as a main course but as a popular hand-held street food snack. When served as an entree, the chicken was breaded in challah breadcrumbs (sounds good). But at Passover time, Matzo cracker crumbs were swapped for challah (doesn’t sound so good, but I’d still dig in).

Speaking of “not so good,” Russia has also gotten into the act – except they grind up the chicken…parts (innards? Feet? Beeks? Damned if I know) and call it “Pozharsky.” Never tried it.

A surprise to me was that Japan and parts of Southeast Asia have their own take on the dish. It’s called “Tonkatsu” – “Katsu,” for short – and has absolutely conquered my tastebuds. A flattened chicken breast, it’s always dredged in Japanese panko bread crumbs for that extra crunch and is typically accompanied by a Kombu seaweed salad. The other topping of choice is wonderfully immoral: It is called “Katsu sauce” and involves, among other things, brown sugar and ketchup. I love it.

Great Britian also has a version of schnitzel that, to me, seems reflective of its inability to shake off its post-World War II “make-do” culinary history. Called “parmo,” it’s a humble chicken cutlet inartfully smothered in bechamel sauce and crowned with cheddar cheese (what else?). It’s gooey and melty – a real “tummy-stuffer.” You’re most apt to find it in northern England.

So what’s the point? Well, MANNY’S is going to tip their toe into the “SCHNITZEL WATERS” this month with an exclusive interpretation of Chicken Milanese,” available for a limited time. It’s two flattened (but not too flat) fresh, hormone-free chicken breasts, seasoned, dusted with flour, dipped in…….well, the rest is secret.  It’s topped with a tiny  salad of arugula, cherry tomatoes and a misting of extra virgin olive oil.

What is not a secret is that the plump chicken breasts come from a hen that has been specifically bred for her rather large breasts, the kind that may cause Playboy Playmates to wince.

WTF

PHIL

It seems to me that people eat out for two main reasons.

One: They’re hungry, require restoration, and need to fuel up. They have to eat.  

Two: They wish to dine. People aren’t dining to stave off vitamin D deficiency.

John Bennett, editor and writer for the New Yorker magazine, once said, “While people would doubtless go to a restaurant because they are hungry, the experience is more complicated than hunger alone.”

He’s correct. Jay Rayner of the London Guardian said it best: “I’m going to get out of my house, be around people I like, and have a good time.” For those folks, restaurants are a magnet of pleasure. They sell a total experience. The restaurant is a retreat, an oasis, a destination.

Things change the moment you step inside when someone smiles at you. It’s like a vacation from yourself. There’s a rhythm to the evening.

But I’ve seen a disturbing trend the last few years…post Covid-19.

And that’s DINING AGAINST THE CLOCK.  

“You and your guest, sir, have 90 minutes allotted to eat. Then we will need your table.”

Okay, I get it.  Quick service and casual restaurants, having a lower check average, need to turn their tables as frequently as the can. And for higher-end places, profitability typically hinges on getting two turns a night – early and late.

Again, as Jay Rayner states, “Time limits are not my idea of a relaxing night out.” A 90-minute time limit (or whatever) for three courses, elbows on the table, wine, coffee and a good chat? And then being told to leave if, God forbid, you make the mistake of ordering a second cup of coffee? THAT’S not pleasant.

And what if your longer-than-expected meal owes not to your poor time-management skills but matters beyond your control? If it takes 20 minutes for your server to approach your table, will they add minutes to the clock? If the kitchen is backed up and ticket times are horrible, does that eat into my allotment as well?

Remember, I get it. The less time spent at a table, the more times your tables turn, the more profit you make. So many restaurants these days are struggling just to stay open. With the economics of everything – food, labor, utilities and government rules and regulations – it’s tough (really tough) to navigate the brutal tension between HOSPITALITY and PROFIT.

I first encountered the time-limit practice a few years ago in London at a fine restaurant called ROAST in Borough Market. We were a party of eight, on a PARASOLE dining trip. Hoping to learn as much as possible, we ordered half the menu; I have no doubt that our party exceeded their guest check average by a hefty margin. Nevertheless, after two hours, the manager approached our table and told us it was time to leave. Waiters were glowering and hovering around our table so that they could re-set it. Our dessert was half eaten and the wine bottles still half full. But, no matter. Our dining time had expired.

What a joyless end to the evening.

On the way out, I said to the manager, “You spoiled our experience. I thought you were in the HOSPITALITY BUSINESS.  You’re NOT. You are in the GROSS PROFIT business.”

Haven’t been back to ROAST. Don’t intend to.

Unfortunately, our experience was a harbinger of things to come. In recent times, local restaurants – good ones, too – have been infected with the time-limit disease. A few weeks ago, Joanne and I made reservations online at one of our favorite spots, and there it was on the screen in black and white: For a party of two…90 minutes. For three or four guests…1 hour 45 minutes. Party of six? You get 2 hours.

That, my friends, IS NOT HOSPITALITY. And as you can tell, I’m NOT a fan of time limited dining.

At all PARASOLE restaurants – MANNY’S…PITTSBURGH BLUE…SALUT…and GOOD EARTH – tare NO TIME LIMITS. No “BUM’S RUSH.” Our managers feel that for every guest that stays long, another leaves early. It all balances out. But even if it didn’t, you are free to stay for as long as you like. It’s your table for the evening. Our hospitality is human and heartfelt. Dining is for PLEASURE.

And we want to you to leave happier than you were when you came in.

W.T.F.

PHIL

Hard to believe it now, but Joanne and I visited Bangkok 25 years ago.

It was a glorious trip – with wonderful people, amazing sights, and zesty, zippy, frisky, memorable food.

But, wow: the heat.

It was beastly…sweltering…sticky, steamy, muggy hot. I remember asking Joanne, “Do you have to sweat so much?”   She said, “I don’t sweat, I perspire” !

We’d leave the comfort of our air-conditioned hotel in the morning and by the time we had walked 10 minutes, our clothes were wringing wet. No wonder our room rate included laundry service.

But it turns out that the scorching temperatures were serendipitous. Because of the daytime heat and humidity, the residents of the city by and large didn’t surface for air until after the sunset when the temperature dropped. And surface they did – in droves and throngs – onto the nighttime streets.

You see, over hundreds of years the tradition developed that food vendors would set up humble little stalls on both sides of the street, offering bright, adventuresome, fiery, flavorful Thai comfort food ranging from pig jowls to duck eggs and everything in between. Grilled cuttlefish…snake (tasted like chicken)…stinky-fresh durian.

These agglomerations became known as NIGHT MARKETS. They were both a dining venue and a social gathering place. And now they thrive not only in Bangkok, but in cities throughout Thailand such as Chang Mai and resort destinations like Phuket.

Each night Joanne and I would roam Sukhumvit Road, wandering from stall to stall, sampling everything from scalding hot unknown chicken parts to octopus and innards. The small offerings were served up on paper plates, paper cones and sometimes in a plastic baggy and were not expensive at all…maybe 2 or 3 bucks each, if that.

It was about then that I said to Joanne, “We could create a restaurant around this idea of exotic small plates in Minneapolis.”

She replied, ”Are you nuts? Are you really friggin’ nuts this time? There’s way too much Lutheran DNA in Minneapolis for folks to ever try this kind of food!”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, “but the small plates are the key.”

After all, folks could try a small sampling of something exotic like octopus (unheard of in Minnesota at the time) and if they didn’t like it, well, they could just pitch it in the trash. After all, it wasn’t as if they had bet the farm on a $25 plate of cephalopod. And if they did like it, think of the bragging rights they would have in front of their colleagues at the water cooler the next morning. “Oh yeah, I’m cool. I had octopus last night.”

Well, on the way home from Bangkok, I wrote a draft menu on the plane.

A few short months later, CHINO LATINO – offering “Street Food From the Hot Zones” – was birthed in Uptown.

What fun it was! Char-grilled lemongrass lamb lollipops…fire-roasted hot chili shrimp…BBQ Pork belly bao buns…Lamma Island salty squid…and multi-colored, multi-flavored steamed dumplings.

Then, after 20 years, CHINO LATINO’s run came to an end. I’m sad that it closed (but glad that it happened).

But a few weeks ago now – a quarter-century later – we were in New York on a Parasole dining trip and tried a new place with a glowing red neon sign that read, BANGKOK SUPPER CLUB.

Located on Hudson Street in the West Village, it’s the creation of chef/owner Matt Wittawat, a restaurateur whose menu of refined Thai street food and family recipes reveals an an eye for artistry and a true grasp of culinary yin-yang: color and contrast…soft and crunchy…high and low…hot and mild…sweet and sour…all curated for a young urban New York audience.

You can imagine how thrilled I was. It was like seeing an old friend.

So…let’s go…

The place radiates low-grade chic.  Even at 6PM, it was crowded, alive and buzzy. There were 9 of us, but we had reservations and were seated in two cozy horseshoe shaped booths (#12 and #13) in the dead center of the action.

Cocktails were beautiful, bold and generous.

We began our culinary adventure with a couple dozen two-bite tartlets packed with blue swimmer crab, lemongrass and coconut relish…all capped with a small dollop of caviar.

What followed?

Hokkaido Scallops Ceviche buried beneath a watermelon granita with a flicker of red chiles.

Char-grilled Tiger Prawn Satay with cilantro and red chiles over curry-cashew butter…$23

Fried Duck Egg with cherry tomatoes, celery root, grated egg yolk and trout roe.

Rounding out our starts was a Grilled Mushroom Salad, featuring little gem lettuce, oyster mushrooms, chrysanthemum shoots, Thai basil, toasted coconut chips and cilantro-coconut dressing.

Next came Beef Cheek Massaman Curry, slow cooked for 12 hours with roasted shallots and topped with crushed cashews…$37.

Pan-Seared Wild-Caught Chilean Sea Bass Chakram Curry was redolent of Thai basil leaf, sea beans and red chili flakes.

Whole Branzino, dry aged with crispy skin, came with nam jin sauce on the side…$45

Ba Jang Lobster was brown-butter poached and served over powerfully flavored aromatic black pepper sticky rice with oyster mushrooms, nasturtium leaves and toasted garlic chips.

Deep-Fried Pork Jowl with savory garlic baked rice and pork cracklings won applause all around…$35

“Crying Tiger” was a 32oz., bone-in, beautifully marbled Rib Eye steak with fresh Thai herbed salad, char-roasted tomato mash and garlic chips.

Gai Yang Chicken was grilled Thai-style with lemongrass, fish sauce, garlic and honey…$38

Then came dessert:

Coconut-sweet potato ice cream over pound cake with wavy toasted coconut ribbons…sweet, but spicy too.

Pandan Coconut cake arrived nestled inside a young coconut with crushed pandan leaf ice cream custard. (Hint: Be sure to scrape the tender coconut meat from inside the shell).

So, there you have it. It would be a shame if you traveled to New York and didn’t dine at Bangkok Supper Club. It has a coveted Michelin Star. And if you do decide to go, be certain to make a reservation well in advance.

And of course, if you happen to vacation in Thailand, do not deny yourself the many culinary pleasures of the NIGHT MARKETS, whether you’re in Bangkok, Chang Mai or Phuket.

Just be sure that you pronounce PHUKET correctly.

W.T.F.

PHIL

I don’t think I’ve ever addressed two more pompous and expensive topics.

Last week I posted a lengthy piece on the luxury of Caviar. And here I am this week taking a deep dive into FOIE GRAS.

They’re worth exploring because each epitomizes FRENCH GASTRONOMICAL EXCELLENCE. Each rewards the eater with a deep, sensual taste that elicits sighs of ecstasy.

But with both products – especially with FOIE GRAS – there is a DARK SIDE. It’s not pretty. Let’s just leave it at that. For now.

FOIE GRAS is fatted duck or goose liver. You may be surprised to learn that culinarians have been perfecting foie gras not just for centuries, but millennia. As far back as 2,500 BC, Egyptians were harvesting liver from wild hyenas…yes, those ravenous creatures that are all teeth and jaw.

Ancient frescos and hieroglyphics show us that they also prized ducks and geese as vehicles for foie gras.

….Which brings us to the now controversial practice of FORCE-FEEDING (or “gavage”).

The birds have a flexible tube inserted down their throat and a slurry of grains is forced into their bodies during the last couple of weeks of their lives, causing their livers to swell. The fattened liver can weigh up to a pound when “harvested.”

France continues the practice today and it has become deeply embedded in the country’s culinary identity. As a matter of fact, the French Parliament declared “gavage” a part of French cultural heritage and enshrined it in French law to ensure that the birds are not harmed (any more than necessary) during feeding.

It should come as no surprise that PETA and other animal rights groups are outraged with the practice of force-feeding. “Ducks and geese have feelings, families and fall in love.”

BUT WAIT. There is more to this story.

In France there are a number of producers who claim that force-feeding is not at all cruel. While human beings gag when force-fed, these producers contend that ducks and geese have no gag reflex. Their physiology allows the throat to stretch (think swallowing whole fish several times the size of their neck). They claim also that the geese queue up with a swagger to be force-fed at feeding time.

Then there is a third group of foie gras producers who do not force-feed at all. They note that because ducks and geese are seasonal migrating birds, they naturally gorge themselves and store as much fat as they can before their 2,000-mile journeys in the spring and fall. Instead of force-feeding the birds, they simply allow them to eat their fill when they’re driven to devour. The livers in these birds are slightly smaller than those of their force-fed counterparts, and thus make the end-product more expensive and less competitive in the marketplace.

Speaking on this topic, the late chef and author Anthony Bourdain said, “PETA has chosen an easy target. A distressed, unhappy animal is bad food. If a human enters a barn and all the ducks waddle toward you, that indicates that their experience with humans is not awful.”  

Others say that PETA protesters would do well to focus on Colonel Sanders and grocery store factory-farmed chickens. Those poor caged and confined birds have never had a chance to spread their wings before being hooked and dragged to their death.

Now, the French claim to have the most respected and prestigious cuisine in the world and FOIE GRAS has come to symbolize the notion of French gastronomical superiority.  French chefs don’t seem to give much thought to the likes of PETA and the protesters. Perhaps if there were a ban or a movement against VEAL and LOBSTER they might get their GALLIC UNDIES in a knot.

But France has powered through the debate.

The best foie gras comes from Gascony in the southwest of France and is centered near the village of Perigord, where foie gras festivals abound. Local restaurants celebrate the legacy with multiple iterations of foie gras.  

Among the attributes that all versions of this almost indescribably indulgent delicacy have in common are a buttery, smooth, delicate sweetness…silky, a little bit meaty, savory…melty in your mouth…creamy and rich.

Popular preparations include:

• 1. The butter-seared fatty LOBE itself.

• 2. As a TERRINE molded into a squarish shape

• 3. Mixed with other meats in a pastry crust (PATE EN CROUTE)

• 4. As a MOUSSE for easy spreading

• 5. A TORCHON….fashioned into a cylinder and sliced.

• 6. And almost always paired with fresh fruit, jam or chutney….and BRIOCHE BUTTEREY TOAST.

There are many more possibilities – and restaurants with Michelin stars invariably feature creative presentations. YOUR TONGUE WILL THANK YOU.

And so the FOIE GRAS WARS continue on.   Except now, we leave the hyenas out of it.

W.T.F.

PHIL

During my food travels over the last couple of years since Covid, I’ve sensed a trend among higher-end, polished-casual restaurants toward luxurious offerings…e.g. FOIE GRAS and CAVIAR. I don’t know if they’re capitalizing on “revenge spending” by customers who are making up for lost after the COVID-related dining and travel shutdown. Maybe it’s what happens when the Dow reaches 40,000.

Whatever. It’s out there now and happening across the United States as well as Europe.

Caviar and foie gras have never held a particularly high visibility on my radar screen. I guess I thought they were a little hoity-toity for us – more the province of “tweezer” restaurants in the major metropolitan markets of Paris, New York, Moscow and the like.

History tells us that human consumption of fish eggs began as far back as 2,500 – 3,000 years ago, when our ancestors began catching the pre-historic looking sturgeon that swam the waters of the Caspian and Black Seas. Earliest records indicate that the name “caviar” came from the Persian word, “khav-yar.”

Russia is most often associated with caviar since it shares a border with both sturgeon-populated seas, and also since Russians have a love for VODKA…and lots of it.

But around 1500, caviar started to penetrate European society – particularly Parisian high society – as a luxurious treat for royals (who preferred to pair it with Champagne rather than some potato-based swill).

A word or two about caviar…

First, while all fish eggs are called ROE, only the eggs from sturgeon can be called CAVIAR.

Second, it ain’t cheap and can be hard to find. That’s because the population of sturgeon has declined dramatically due to over-fishing and habitat destruction.

Third, always serve it at room temperature. And don’t eat caviar with a metal spoon. Plastic or Mother of Pearl is best.

It’s also worth noting that caviar is seldom cooked.

Today, China has become the world’s preeminent source of caviar – producing 40 tons annually.

Worldwide, there is a sort of hierarchy to the prevalent types of caviar.

• BELUGA STURGEON is, by far, the biggest member of the sturgeon family at over 1500 pounds. The eggs are rich and buttery, and it has a very nuanced, mild fish flavor that tastes of MONEY. It’s frequently sold in exquisite packaging as if it were a gold, diamond-bezeled Rolex. A pound can cost more than a car. Beluga is not sold in the United States at this time due to the reasons cited above.

• The SEVRUGA is next in weight and has the most robust-tasting eggs – saltier and brinier than Beluga. It costs about $150/ounce.  

• OSETRA STURGEON CAVIAR comes from the smallest fish, which typically weigh between 50-90 pounds. The eggs – nutty, creamy and firm – pop in your mouth. Expect to pay about $100/ounce.

While sturgeon roe has traditionally been marketed to the One Percent, certain kinds of caviar have recently become more affordable. Among them are WHITE STURGEON CAVIAR, which is farmed in northern California, and WILD WHITE STURGEON, which still swim in the Sacramento River.

And from the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers, as well as Wisconsin lakes, there’s caviar produced by SHOVELNOSE STURGEON and PADDLEFISH. The shovelnose gives us HACKLEBACK CAVIAR, which is slightly sweet, mild, buttery and nutty…and quite good. Paddlefish, on the other hand, produce eggs that look exactly like caviar eggs, but as they’re not actually sturgeon, the roe cannot be classified as caviar. Still, it’s tasty, with an herbal, earthy quality. I’d say that paddlefish roe would be ideal for large parties on a buffet table.

Finally, there are salmon eggs, which for some reason can be legally called “salmon caviar.” I like ‘em. They’re a little saltier than sturgeon eggs (not to mention a whole lot cheaper). When paired with tiny blini Russian pancakes and a dollop of tangy crème fraiche, I have to wonder: Would a $ 100 portion of OSETRA make me that much happier than a $15 serving of SALMON CAVIAR ?

Maybe if someone else picked up the tab.

Oh, I should also mention IKURA JAPANESE SALMON CAVIAR, which is highly prized in Japan due to its rich umami flavor.

So, what’s the best way to enjoy caviar? It’s found in a wide variety of dishes, some definitely better than others. Typically, chefs just throw a spoonful of caviar on top of something simply to elevate the dish or give their restaurant a halo of fanciness. Does that seem LAZY or FORMULAIC to you? It does to me.

So let’s run down the list of caviar dishes (which is by no means comprehensive. I’ve certainly not had them all).

I already mentioned the delicate saltiness of caviar served on an airy blini with some funkalicious crème fraiche. There’s a reason this preparation has become a classic

At breakfast once, I had loosely scrambled eggs nestled atop thinly sliced smoked salmon and crowned with a scoop of caviar. Yum.

I’m not a fan of soft-boiled eggs in the shell, but with a bit of caviar on top? HuMMM…

What I AM a fan of – though not often – is caviar on pasta.

Caviar as an accompaniment to fresh oysters? I guess so.

The list goes on:

How about a FLIGHT OF 4 CAVIARS with blinis? And for a table: a TOWER OF CAVIAR TREATS.

Each can be paired with a VODKA MARTINI WITH CAVIAR resting on a slice of cucumber.

I’ve also seen caviar sliders on Parker House Rolls, baked potatoes topped with crème fraiche and caviar, and miniature cone appetizers of caviar (think Thomas Keller).

Would caviar be good on a FRIED CHICKEN LEG WITH CRÈME FRAICHE? I love fried chicken. I’ll have to try it sometime. Same with CAVIAR TACOS. Never had ‘em. I CAN tells you that caviar sprinkled on a smoked salmon pizza is delicious.

What doesn’t sound good is a “mile-high,” stacked-with-everything HAMBURGER LAYERED WITH CAVIAR. To me, that’s an example of culinary laziness – just dumping it on top to make it sound fancy and expensive.

At the end of the day, some of these iterations sound good. Some…not so hot.

I tend to lean toward dishes that treat caviar as a “pure play” – using a relatively small amount in a preparation that doesn’t have too many other ingredients to overshadow it. Restraint is the watchword here…although Oscar Wilde once said, “Everything in moderation, including moderation.”

Which brings me to…THE CAVIAR BUMP: a decadent, rather sexy and slightly naughty ritual of LICKING or SUCKING a DOLLOP of CAVIAR off the back of one’s hand – or, better yet, off your partner’s hand, with one swipe of the tongue.

And I don’t know if Marilyn Monroe, the most famous sex symbol of the 20^th century,  was talking about caviar bumps or not when she said, “Fame is like caviar, you know. It’s good to have caviar, but not when you have it at every meal.”

W.T.F.

PHIL

I don’t know about you, but I’ve never given much thought to Russian food. Never thought of it as good or bad….just never gave it much consideration.

I suppose that if pressed to talk about it, among the words I might have used in the past would include: peasant food… heavy… filling… fattening… robust… substantial… potatoes… cabbage… beets… and rural.

And yet, in my travels I’ve found otherwise. Because I may have been fortunate enough to have had some of the best of what Russia has to offer…right here in the U.S. of A. (..if it was actually Russian food).

To wit…several times Joanne and I have dined at THE RUSSIAN TEA ROOM, a block south of Central Park on W. 57^th Street in New York. The red and green dining room with bright gold theatrical accents, is rich, vivid and warm. Joanne and I were so young back then and had never tasted real caviar. But we couldn’t ever afford any of the finest glistening black choices like Beluga, Osetra and Sevruga. However, we came close (well, sort of), because the restaurant also had a pink-orange salmon roe at less than half the price of the expensive real stuff. Both were served atop blinis (tiny pancakes) with wads of delicious crème fraiche. Woody Allen, who once sat in a booth next to Joanne and me along the wall, no doubt thought that we were a part of the moneyed glitterati just like him. If only he knew.

After the fake caviar, Joanne and I would most always order the CHICKEN KIEV, oozing with hot melted garlic butter and parsley, or the BEEF STROGANOFF, laced with mushrooms and sour cream over handmade noodles. Once in a while, we would break the pattern and share an order of PELMENI…but more about that later.

As usual, I was star struck by celebrity sightings. In addition to Woody Allen, we also saw Mary Tyler Moore and her co-star Georgette (played by Georgia Engel) lunching in the coveted “lady-slipper” booth – smack-dab in the center of the dining room. 

And then the movie Tootsie came out, and there, in the film, in a red leather booth, sat Dustin Hoffman.

Another spot, opened early on in 1996 and well hidden in a basement on Lafayette Street in lower Manhattan, was PRAVDA, a vodka bar created by Keith McNally – the wizard of New York restaurateurs. Think BALTHAZAR, PASTIS and MINETTA TAVERN. The basement seemed warm, cozy and secretive with low vaulted ceilings, cigarette-stained ocher walls and patinated buttery leather furniture.

Pravda was Soviet-chic, sporting 70 different kinds of iced-down vodkas as well as a plethora of house-infused vodkas. They also were big on caviar, including a do-it-yourself sampling of three iterations. While Joanne and I couldn’t swing the real caviar sampler, we did dig deep enough to share a Smoked Salmon Pizza with dollops of industrial caviar. Soft cheese-filled blintzes with black cherries and sour cream put a nice veneer on our evening of pizza with caviar and big-boy vodka indulgence.

Now Vegas is Vegas, so I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I discovered the over-the-top RED SQUARE bar and restaurant in the Mandalay Bay Hotel. It was everything you could have imagined about the USSR, from the emblematic architectural Stalinist style of the 1930s to the soaring 30-foot-high ceilings, as well as a beheaded bronze oversized statue of Vladimir Lenin (whom Stalin deeply distrusted). Most notable about Red Square was its bar, the length of which was ice, cooled from beneath and illuminated. This was the first time I’d seen such a thing. We didn’t eat there – just sat at the glacial bar with dropped jaws, sipping and sipping ice-cold vodkas.

WRITER’S NOTE: Sadly, both PRAVDA and RED SQUARE have closed recently. THE RUSSIAN TEA ROOM lives on.

I should note another restaurant that closed some time ago. This one was local: ST. PETERSBURG RESTAURANT & VODKA BAR, located above Robbinsdale’s American Legion post, near Hwy 100 at 36^th Street & N. France Avenue, in a building that has since been replaced by apartments. This place was FUN – especially if you booked a table on a Saturday night, when there was live entertainment. Invariably, large groups would be celebrating birthdays or anniversaries – maybe even a wedding. The main dining room was a large rectangular space with a stage on one end. Adjacent to it was an intimate vodka bar. We went back again and again.

Perhaps that’s why it took me until recently to make my first visit to MOSCOW ON THE HILL, which opened in 1994 in St. Paul on Selby Avenue, near the St. Paul Cathedral.

It was worth the wait.

To my knowledge, Moscow on the Hill is family owned and operated by the Liberman family, Marina and Naum, who emigrated from Russia not long after the collapse of the Soviet Empire in 1991. In honor of their homeland, the menu seems to be fundamentally RUSSIAN, UKRAINIAN and EASTERN EUROPEAN comfort food.

Yes, vodka plays a central role. But the food was what draw us to Moscow on the Hill. It’s clearly a neighborhood spot with a few curious interlopers like ourselves. Hosts, servers, food runners, managers and even bussers warmly greeted and chatted with what appeared to be locals. I’ll bet they even know their guests’ kids’ names.

A few tables appeared to start by sharing the impressive six-shot flight of house-infused vodkas ($25).  Our group? White wine, Dewar’s on the rocks, and one Shirley Temple.

A nice homey touch was a wandering accordion player, playing what I assume were familiar old-world Ukrainian and Russian tunes. The music selection seemed to fit hand-in-glove with the genuine home-spun vibe of the place. It was not loud or intrusive…just nice.

THE FOOD….

We started with a melty, cheesy and gooey bread boat called KHACHAPURI…….nicely chewy and warm…$11.50.

Crispy potato pancakes called DELUNY were topped with a slightly sweet caramelized onion relish and a dollop of sour cream. I love potato pancakes.

The assortment of appetizers looked so unfamiliar and yet had such appetite appeal, that we just kept exploring.  

ESCARGOT A LA RUSSE…snails bathed with a garlicky white wine butter sauce married with Asiago cheese followed.

PELMENI…stuffed boiled dumplings are apparently foundational to much of Russian cuisine, as they are at Moscow on the Hill, where they appear in several different iterations. We tried ‘em all.

First SIBERIAN PELMENI, which are beef and pork-filled dumplings lavishly buttered and served with a gob of sour cream and vinegar. For an extra kick, order them with the chili-garlic vinegar. It will clear your sinuses.

Then there is PEASANT PELMENI, a step up the delicious calorie ladder. It consists of dumplings also stuffed with beef and pork and mixed with mushroom sauce and cheese, then broiled ($16.95).

DEEP-FRIED PELMENI? Of course! Filled with beef and pork and served with fruit preserve, sour cream, cilantro and freshly grated horseradish. YUM. Another vodka, please.

And finally…VARENIKI, which are of Ukrainian origin and filled with potato and sauteed onions and garnished with sour cream. They’re slightly tangy and soft with Asiago and fresh-cut herbs.  $16.95.

THE MAINS:

Believe it or not, while most all these dishes were a brand-new adventure to me, there is actually one Russian dish that I grew up with in our uber-Swedish household on Central Blvd. in Kewanee, Illinois. I don’t know how that happened, but we had it rather often and I loved it. What was it? BEEF STROGANOFF. But the difference between my beloved childhood rendition was that we used hamburger. Moscow on the Hill uses filet mignon strips…$26.95.

BABUSHKA STEW…braised pork and root vegetables with rice pilaf. This never adorned my childhood dinner table, but I wish it had. Our guest pronounced it, ”hearty and satisfying.”

Actually, another dish of Eastern European origin also graced my pre pubescent dinner table from time to time – stuffed cabbage, filled (as I vaguely recall) with rice. Consequently, I just had to try GRANDAMA’S GOLUBTSY: cabbage rolls jam-packed with pork, beef and wild rice braised in a rich tomato sauce. Were they better than the stuffed cabbage my mother made? I can’t recall. But they were damn good and very affordable at $20.95.

Remember VARENIKI, the Ukrainian dumplings stuffed with potatoes and caramelized onions and Asiago cheese in sour cream? Well, Joanne had them topped with a grilled salmon filet. The Italians say NEVER have seafood with cheese. Joanne snorted, ”What do Italians know…this is delicious!”

Among our sides, we ordered MOSCOW FRIES, seasoned with garlic and fresh dill; OLIVIER, a traditional Russian potato salad with chopped vegetables; and UKRAINIAN BEET SALAD with chevre, walnuts and prunes. All were family sized, all about 10 bucks.

For dessert, we ordered ZAPEKANKA, Russian-style cheesecake with cranberries; PUSHKIN TORTE, traditional Russian cake with alternating chocolate and honey layers…$8.95. SWEET BLINTZES, filled with lemon-vanilla mascarpone cheese, candied pecans and whipped cream, drizzled with cranberry port wine, also offered, there’s a WHITE RUSSIAN TIRAMISU, featuring lady fingers soaked in espresso and Kamora coffee liqueur in whipped mascarpone cream.

I would guess that really good, really authentic Russian food can be found in several major metropolitan areas around the country if you search hard enough.

But is it really necessary to seek it out when we’ve got MOSCOW ON THE HILL right here in the Twin Cities?

My answer….

NYET!

W.T.F.

PHIL

It wasn’t exactly Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, but as a high school junior from Central Illinois, I felt plenty bold heading up to Chicago on the Burlington Zephyr, with four buddies to see Bill Haley and the Comets perform “Rock Around the Clock” on a hot, humid summer morning at the Chicago Theater, then catching an afternoon Cubs game at Wrigley Field.

We were so innocent, and such good boys.

I also remember the Gothic Revival castellated Chicago Water Tower – completed in 1869 – and wondering, What the hell does that thing do?

Later I learned that the Water Tower was a key part of a solution that brought clean water to Chicago at a time when the waters near the shore had become too polluted to drink. Engineers built a pipeline that extended far into the lake, where the water remained pristine, and the pumping station that drew the water cityward was located at 805 Michigan Avenue. The Water Tower enclosed the tall machinery of the pump.

Maybe not so coincidently, it opened around the same time as the Chicago Stock Yards. 

I recall my mother talking about a childhood visit to the Stock Yards with her aunt Edie, and how she cried and cried at the sight of it.

As Chicago grew, so did the stockyards – their expansion fueled in part by the proliferation of the newly invented REFRIGERATED RAIL CAR. It opened up markets for fresh beef all over the United States. Suddenly saloons and taverns from coast to coast began serving fresh steaks and chops. No bells and whistles. Just beef on a plate.

With thousands of cattle arriving each day, it’s no surprise that Chicago would soon become America’s steakhouse capital.

One of the greats was – and remains – GENE & GEORGETTI, which still thrives after 84 years in its original downtown location on Franklin Street in the heart of River North. There’s a lot to love about this never-ever-changing steak institution. First of all, it’s family owned and operated by Tony Durpetti and his wife, Marion. Old-school waiters who really know their stuff serve heavy, dark-crusted, prime-aged steaks from a white-hot 1100°F broiler. What stories the servers could tell – if ONLY they would. My guess is that regulars Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Jack Lemon, Lucille Ball, Bob Hope and Mayor Richard Daley might be involved.

Gene & Georgetti offers best-of-class renditions of all the steakhouse side dish classics – shrimp cocktails, cottage fried potatoes, onion rings, broccoli with cheesy, nutmeggy cream, etc. – along with a number of items (Clams Casino, spaghetti with clams) that reflect the restaurant’s Italian heritage.

The beef? It’s PRIME. The portions? ENORMOUS. The cocktails? STIFF. And the atmosphere? More masculine than a RUGBY SCRUM. Then there’s the dining room. It’s “Air Conditioned for Your Comfort.”

Everything about Gene & Georgetti expresses Tony’s philosophy: “Stay just as good as we are, and people will continue to come over and over.”

In my opinion, that is the equivalent of A FIRM HANDSHAKE.

But there is a NEW CHICAGO today – different from 1941. While Gene & Georgetti refuses to change, now carnivores can choose from a wide range of newer, more modern steakhouses – a few serving dairy cow steaks, some serving bison, some with newfangled iPad wine lists. Some, God help us, even have DJ booths. 

Among the best and highly respected of the newer breed are GT Prime Steakhouse, Bavette’s Steakhouse & Bar, Mastro’s Steakhouse, Maple & Ash, and RPM Steak.

A week ago, I and a group of PARASOLE colleagues dined at RPM STEAK on W. Kenzie Street in downtown Chicago. I chose RPM because Richard Melman is involved. And I think he is a genius.

RPM tends to have a more modern feel – smart, sleek and more elegant – and its steak offerings embrace the latest trends. PRIME DRY-AGED CORN FED…WET AGED FILETS…PURE JAPANESE WAGYU (at $28 to $55 per ounce!)…CROSS-BRED AMERICAN and AUSTRALIAN WAGYU…various GRASSFED OPTIONS (don’t bother)…they’re all on offer.

A word about WAGYU. “Wa” means Japanese. “Gyu” means cow.” As near as I can tell, the Japanese purebred WAGYU BLACK COW has, over the centuries, become the dominant and most desirable breed for Wagyu steaks.

The pampered cows, born and raised entirely in Japan, are highly controlled and were  not exported until a very limited few were allowed to leave between 1975 and 1997. Most went to the United States and Australia, where they were cross-bred to various degrees with BLACK ANGUS breeds, thus spawning the American and Australian Wagyu brands.

PURE JAPANESE WAGYU spends no time at all grass feeding. It’s lovingly nurtured by grain and beer, and is so heavily marbled that the meat is almost white. The American cross-breeds, while also heavily marbled, don’t go that far. I’ve tried them all and can report that each is loaded to the brim with fat and flavor. All are delicious. Unless I could try them all in a side-by-side taste test, I’m not certain which is best. I suspect that any distinction is without much of a difference.

Compared to classic American, dry-aged, corn-fed, perfectly marbled beef, Wagyu steaks have their own flavor profile and a totally different chew. The intense marbling and rich fat make for a steak that practically melts on your tongue and involves little chewing. Choose Wagyu for a luxurious and decadent eating experience. If you prefer a longer-lasting, nuttier umami and chew, then the dry-aged American Angus is for you.

As noted above, RPM offers steaks of every variety, each with a different “mouth feel,” texture and flavor. But the differences between RPM and an old-school steakhouse like Gene & Georgetti don’t stop with the steaks.

While RPM offers a traditional Caesar Salad and expected sides like steamed broccoli, the fun begins right from the start with a basket of FRESHLY MADE POPOVERS ($11) – which, by the way, are made from the exact same dough as British YORKSHIRE PUDDING, but are baked in muffin tins. When they rise high above the rim, they POP OVER.

Caviar service is offered at market price.

Risotto with rare White Truffles was special, as was Risotto with Morel Mushrooms. Neither is frequently seen at a steakhouse. Both are expensive.

Dover Sole, prepared tableside, is a show stopper…prepared with butter, butter, and more butter.

The “Millionaire’s Baker Potato” with fontina cheese and black truffles?  Oh, no! Not that again!  ($21)

For dessert, our table ordered the icy-hot Baked Alaska ($21), flamed tableside with maximum pizzazz.

And then, out of the blue…came COTTON CANDY. 

No, RPM Steak is not your father’s steakhouse. Gene & Georgetti is.  

One is not better than the other. RPM is a Corvette. Gene & Georgetti is a Mercedes. After all, a great steak is just a GREAT STEAK.

WTF

PHIL