NEW YORK: MAI HOUSE (AGAINST ALL THE ODDS)

Some places have everything stacked against them from the start and you are predisposed not to like them before you even set foot in the place.

Mai House was one of those, but, despite my preconceptions, I have to say that it offered up one of the more enjoyable meals in New York so far.

My friend, Cathy, who is “in the business” had made a reservation for me and told me that we would be well taken care of. I didn’t doubt her, she is a woman of her word.

However, I had my doubts about the place. The name for a start. Quite the most abominable name for a restaurant I can recall. Now, I love a pun as much as the next man unless the next man happens to one of the cast of “ I Am Sorry I Haven’t a Clue” but the name MAI HOUSE is just shameful.

Next was the room. When we walked in from the blustery, wet Fall evening, the welcome from the front of house may have been warm but the room left me stone cold. It is cavernous with no sense of intimacy at all looking more like a gallery space than a place where you would sit and break bread or, er crackers.

Finally, and this is more my prejudice than their fault, the chef in charge of this “Vietnamese” restaurant hails, not from Hanoi, but from Cleveland, Ohio.

Oh, this did not bode well apart from the potential of a coruscating review about “whitey not being able to sing the blues”

But, damn them, the meal turned out to be really rather good with said chef, Sean Scotese, showing a light clean touch and an understanding of flavours which, apparently came from spending six months in Vietnam prior to the opening of the restaurant.

It helped that, because of their fondness for Cathy, they sent out quite a few extra bits and pieces, but none of that would matter if the food was rubbish. It wasn’t

A complimentary starter saw a large, perfectly medium scallop on top of a layer of rice noodles in a broth made with just enough fish sauce to give it tang.

Mushroom spring rolls were crisp, dense and chewy (that’s a good thing by the way) and two salads both displayed interesting combinations of taste, texture and presentation. A raw artichoke salad was, perhaps less successful than rare beef with pineapple and pomelo and cuttlefish were cooked to an ideally tender consistency.

Given the extra courses that we were being treated too, they served the main dishes in two waves. First fish which included a large chunk of citrus infused black cod (a nod, I guess to their sister restaurant, NOBU) and, better in my opinion, lightly battered chunks of red snapper served pleasingly surrounded by the deep fried remains of the scaley creature involved.

Meat dishes, as so often is the case these days, were a weak point with a slightly overcooked duck breast sitting in a sauce of “duck hash” that showed no signs of the advertised kaffir lime leaves.

Side dishes of noodles and sticky rice, were however, both well worth the glycaemic spike their ingestion inevitably causes.

Considering that we were, by now, in full “bye bye belt’ territory, we had to engage the second stomach to cope with the array of desserts that appeared. All of which did exactly what they were supposed to. Sorbets were sharp and refreshing, a panna cotta, soft and yielding and two cakes ( one almond & banana, the other yucca) slightly too heavy to finish.

The bill, which in no way reflects the amount of food we ate, came to about $140 including tip, which was well deserved for attentive and efficient if not over effusive service.

Given the fact that my chum works for the restaurant involved and that the chef spent a good chunk of time chatting to us, I would probably have had to be nice about Mai House (did I mention what a fricking awful name that is?) anyway even if it had turned out to be execrable.

Fortunately, despite my initial reservations, I don’t have to be polite. I can genuinely say it is a good restaurant with a chef who knows what he is doing.

Who knew? Perhaps White men can play The Blues after all.

SPACCANAPOLI

Like a gangster
On the run
You will stagger homeward
To your precious one

Americans don’t half like to whinge when they’re bivouacked in London: we don’t have good Sushi, we don’t have Barbeque, our Coffee is swill (they’re right on that one) and don’t get me started on Mexican. I’ll admit when it comes to certain restaurant categories we have a bit of catching up to do. We just don’t ‘get’ Q (a visit to Lockhart TX is mandatory for meat lovers to see what it’s all about) and never will. But things aren’t that bad. We’re getting better at the Sushi and even new Mexican joints are garnering a few good reviews.

Anyway. I had a little carb craving and I wasn’t in the mood for F&C but it had been a long time since I had eaten a pizza (something else we’re not supposed to do very well). Pizza is very popular in the UK but we rarely do it properly (good = quality base + simple topping + very hot oven NOT deep frying it). If I’m going to shove carbs down my throat then I prefer them to be decent carbs. So I looked around for somewhere to get my fix. On the night I visited, pizzeria Spaccanapoli, situated in the heart of London’s Famous West End, was buzzing like crazy and much of the buzz sounded American and Italian. A good sign but was this pizza nirvana ?

My starter of octopus salad was fresh and tasty. Ollie came in nice meaty chunks with a bit of salad and some unnecessary olives although I prefer the Galician way: serving it on potatoes and sprinkled with pimenton and liberally doused in olive oil. Not bad though.

I’d ordered a Marinara which I thought was tomato, garlic, olive oil and sometimes basil. My pizza came with the addition of black olives, capers and anchovies which I thought was a Napoletana but not according to the menu and the chefs and owners are from Naples, so what do I know (sweet fa since you ask).

The pizza itself was a disappointment. I wanted to taste more of the bread but apart from the crust the rest of the pizza was a bit soggy. Too much tomato. The anchovies and capers had coalesced making some bites intensely salty. Maybe this how it was meant to be, but I didn’t like it.

To cheer myself up I had a Tiramisu, after ice cream one of my favourite desserts. The light mix of chocolate, coffee, cream and marscapone with a slight bite of sponge and an alcoholic finish is always a winner and this one was a pretty good example. One double espresso and grappa later and I was out of there.

A pleasant enough experience then. The atmosphere was lively and the service prompt. However, the pizza, their raison etre, was not a success. A pretty big failing. So perhaps the colonials have a point after all...

NEW YORK CITY: KATZ, YASUDA, ALI & CATHY

It is not going to be much of a surprise to you, given that I have quit my real life in pursuit of it, that good food is one of the things that makes me most happy.

Today in NYC was a day that made me very happy indeed with three experiences of eating in this amazing city that were as different from each other as it is possible to get but still tapped into that well of honest food that separates good dining experiences from the rip off to which we are all becoming far too accustomed.

First up a spot of breakfast at the famous Katz Deli. There is of course, a vast menu but, there is also, of course, only one thing to order, The Pastrami sandwich.

It comes thinly sliced in between slices of non descript white bread and I topped it off with a side order of pickles which comprised “half sour” and pickled.

I did not think, after last week’s visit to Texas BBQ land that any meat could ever taste that good again. But, I have to say that the pastrami at Katz comes pretty damn close. A mound of it, with a little sweet mustard and a bite of sour pickle in between chomps, was as good a taste as I have had on the trip. A trip, in the US at least, which seems to be all about the sandwich with BBQ, Po’ Boys, Cheese Steaks, Hoagies and today’s offering

Much has been written about Katz so, there is little I can add to it but to say, it is all true. If you come to NYC and you don’t go there, then I suspect it can be said that you have not really been to NYC.

Next door (more or less) to Katz is Russ & Daughters, famous and much lauded for its selection of smoked fish. I have to admit that, despite its reputation, this was the weak note of the day and I found it particularly underwhelming. The people were kind and let me try samples of some smoked whitefish and sturgeon, but I had, from people’s rapturous discussions about it, expected a lot more. The taste of the smoked fish merely reminded me of the oily, hot fabulosity of the smoked Omul and Sig I bought in the market on the shores of Lake Baikal, which, I am afraid, has spoiled me for other smoked fish.

I needed a walk after this, before my planned lunch at Sushi Yasuda, so pottered up from the Lower East Side to 2nd Ave and 43rd in time for my 1.30pm reservation.

I had specifically requested Yasuda’s station and they had been very definite in telling me to turn up on time as they would only hold the place for five minutes. I was, as ever bang on the dot and sat in front of Yasuda as he worked his, what I can only describe as, Magic.

Before I went to Japan, I thought Yasuda was the best sushi I had ever tasted. Despite the amazing food in Tokyo and Kyoto, I am not sure I need to change my mind.

It is one of those great experiences as Yasuda’s hands move at lightening pace as he prepares piece after piece for the five or so people at his station. You cannot help but marvel at his skill, at cutting, at rolling at wrapping and at holding five different conversations at the same time.

I particularly requested Uni (sea urchin) Unagi (fresh water eel) and Onargo (salt water eel) but was also presented with fatty tuna, scallop, salmon roe and numerous others. The mundane is often the way to test a good sushi chef and Yasuda has, to now, seldom been found failing.

The quality if the fish, it goes without saying in an establishment like this, is exemplary, but it is the house preparations which raise Yasuda from the great to the sublime. Salmon Roe, for example, is marinated in a blend of soy which leads to a mouthful of popping, mildly salty, fish eggs which is hard to describe.

A small spoonful of uni, piled on top of vinegared rice was so good I had to order another piece immediately. I would say it is better than sex but my memory is not that good.

It is a testament to his preparations that only a bite of pickled ginger is needed between mouthfuls to cleanse the palate with wasabi and further soy becoming redundant.

I racked up a small bill of around $60 before heading off into the afternoon sunlight for a good long walk to prepare for what I knew was going to be a major supper.

About six years ago a friend introduced me to The Kabab Café on Steinway St in Queens.

Despite its unpromising name, it and its owner, Ali, have become amongst my favourites in the whole city. He was recently the star of an episode of Anthony Bourdain’s “No reservations” and finally got the recognition he deserves.

In a kitchen the size of a small soap dish, Ali, with the help of one assistant, turns out innumerable dishes for his guests all the while given vent to his opinions and knowledge of food history.

He is particularly spectacular when it comes to the preparation of offal dishes and my good friend, Cathy had planned a supper for the two of us so Ali could show off his chops, or rather his spleen, liver, hearts and bollocks.

It had been a couple of years at least since I was last there, but he greeted me like a long lost pal with a hug and a cry of “come here Indian boy” and then handed me a piece of veal brain which he had just breaded. My kind of guy.

I had forgotten just how much I liked this place and as we drank the wine Cathy brought, Ali presented about 10 dishes including roasted aubergine, roasted beets with apple, veal brains, sweetbreads, hearts and livers pureed and cooked in caul fat, tripe soup, calf’s foot stew, dumplings of tongue and heart and, best of all, some unctuous marrow bone. The calf balls were good too.

To finish, we polished off slices of custard cake, honey cake and baklava that he had made that afternoon

It is hard to describe just how good Ali’s food tastes. Although limited in the styles of preparation by the space the food is not limited in flavours. He deserves all the recognition he gets and I was delighted to see that his small place was packed, as always, to the rafters.

Often, in New York, I accuse the locals of hyperbole. Restaurants are not just “good” or even “ the best in NYC” they are “The best X restaurant in the world” even if the diners have seldom been outside the five boroughs.

In the case of these three places, everything you hear about them or will hear about them is true and, if you don’t try at least one of them on your visit to NYC then, I would dare to argue that you will not have experienced what makes this town a very special place to eat indeed.

Oh, and my friend, Cathy, an almost lifetime resident of NYC, put us on the wrong train to Astoria so we had to front up for a Yellow Cab. But, she asked me not to mention it, so I won’t. I am that kind of guy.

PHILADELPHIA: SMITH & WOLLENSKY,PAT & GENO, STAN & LISA

It was as I drained the last of my second powerful Martini and scraped the last of the flesh from an decent T-bone that I first began to talk to Stan & Lisa

Regulars to the bar at Smith & Wollensky and just out for a quiet drink and a bite to eat, they began by asking me where I was from and what I was doing in Philadelphia.

The moment I told them about EAT MY GLOBE, their eyes lit up and they said “ well, you are going to have a Philly Cheese Steak aren’t you?”

Well, of course I was. It was the main reason I had come into town in the first place. I mean, they may be proud of The Hoagie in Philadelphia and soft pretzels may have a special place in their hearts, but they are hardly the first things that come into people’s minds when you ask them about Philly and food.

It is The Philly Cheese Steak, that heart frightening combination of bread, meat onions and melted cheese that really gets this city talking and arguning about which one of two legendary outfits in South Philly makes the best example

By the time they had treated me to my third worryingly strong Martini, Stan & Lisa had decided not only to give me instructions in how to order a Cheese steak but also to take me all the way down there themselves to make sure I did not screw it up.

So, I staggered to their waiting convertible and we set off through the streets of South Philadelphia to the intersection which houses the two rival factions fighting for turf in the Cheese Steak wars.

The original was created by Pat Oliveri in the 1930’s when, so the story goes, he made a lunch for himself from Italian bread filled with sliced rib eye, cheese and onions and then sold it to a passing cabby who then brought back his friends to try the delicious new creation.

In 1966, a new rival opened opposite and the rivalry between Geno’s and Pat’s began and continue to this day.

Stan was a relatively recent convert to Geno’s but now swears by them and , after parking the car, they had me stand in line at the “newcomer’s” place with strict instructions about how to order.

“two whiz with, one whiz with, handicapped”

Apparently, that means two sandwiches with Cheese whiz (the other less purist choices being Provolone or American) and another handicapped, or cut in half.

The sandwiches appeared in about three seconds and I moved to the next counter to pick up some cheese fries before helping myself to some mustard and Geno’s fiery hot sauce.

Unfortunately, the hot sauce almost blew my head off and knocked out my tastebuds so I could not really enjoy the first half of the sandwich, but by the time my eyes had stopped watering and my mouth settled down I was able to enjoy the second half and see what all the fuss is about.

It is a glorious mish mash mess of a meal and the individual ingredients may not promise much but combine to make an addictive whole that made me want to eat another one right there and right then.

As Stan explained, they may make these elsewhere in the country, but they never taste the same. The reason being, he suggested, that the bread made locally can never be recreated elsewhere.

I don’t know true this is, but sitting at a roadside table licking my fingers clean, I can understand why people from Philadelphia dream of these things

After my second meal of the evening, Stan & Lisa drove me all the way across town to my hotel in one of those overwhelming displays of hospitality that have become all too regular on this trip.

I stumbled into bed and fell asleep immediately. I am not ashamed to admit that I had a dream about eating another Philly Cheese steak.