(Meat)Ballin'

It was a Monday night, and I decided to venture outside of my East Midtown locale. Living two blocks away from where you work is convenient, but the idea of having my entire life within an eighth-mile radius can be stifling, not to mention that 47th street east of Park Avenue is not the liveliest of neighborhoods after 9:00 PM. I went straight from work to a friend's apartment on the Lower East Side, which has grown to be one of my favorite areas of the city. Last winter, I spent a few nights at The Hotel on Rivington, and since then it's been like a long-distance relationship; I love the area but rarely have the time or patience to travel to that neck of the woods. This past Monday was an exception, though, as I had worked until 11:30 PM and was ready for a change of scenery.

After relaxing with some friends, new and old, at this LES apartment, I remembered that I hadn't eaten dinner that evening. Mind you, it was now 1:00 AM on a Monday night, and there weren't many options that satisfy my increasingly high dining standards. My friends and I did, however, stumble upon a gem called Meatball Shop.

Meatball Shop is a new concept restaurant that allows you to mix and match meatballs (not just beef; they also have chicken, vegetable, and veal) with a variety of sauces and presentations. For example, you can have your meatballs plain, as a slider, on a brioche bun, etc., etc. In the middle of the restaurant there is a long, communal table, which encourages the nouveau-hipster atmosphere that is almost as pungent as the meatballs themselves. The menus are laminated and rewriteable, dry-erase markers included. Of course, the menu sparked much conversation, and we soon realized that there are an endless amount of puns to be made about the restaurant. The bottom part of the menu is cut off to conceal the obscene pictures I drew, which seemed all too fitting for a place like this. Statements like, "How do you like your balls?" and, "Three balls? That's weird," were thrown around liberally, and our tattoo-sleeved waitress didn't mind joining in with us. She recommended the tastiest balls, the best sauce for our balls, and explained that she, too, was a lover of balls of all sorts.

After marking up the menu, my friends and I received our meatballs. First to be delected were four beef meatballs in a spicy meat sauce with parmesan cheese and focaccia bread. The balls literally melted in my mouth.

If I hadn't devoured the bread, I would have used some to scoop up the cheesy remains of my meatball aftermath. Below was my second serving of ball(s), a chicken ball with mushroom sauce.

This doesn't look as appetizing as the first, and to be frank, it wasn't. On a scale of 1-10, I'd give it a 7.5, compared to my first course, which I'd give a 9.5. I think I learned my lesson - meatballs are meatballs for a reason...Although I would like to sample the vegetable or veal balls (coincidentally, I had feasted upon veal meatballs at ABC Kitchen the night before).

New York City has an increasingly popular market for niche restaurants with limited menus. You've got Meatball Shop, Krums (and every other unnecessary cupcake shop - although I won't pretend to be averse to the tasty little treats), and that rice pudding place in SoHo (although I think that made most of its revenue from an underground drug ring, but I digress...). I wonder how long it will take before we begin to see trendy Spam (you know - it's "ham in a can") bars sprout up throughout the city. It seems that entrepreneurs can make any concept turn to gold with the right chef behind their idea, and as far as niche establishments go, Meatball Shop is exemplary of that theory. In fact, several hours earlier, the wait was about an hour and a half, and the restaurant is open until 4:oo AM on the weekends. People must really love these balls. I know I do...

Dine at Meatball Shop:

84 Stanton Street

New York, NY 10002

(212) 982-8895

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UPDATE: After discussing this article with a friend, Guest Star (remember him?), I have been informed that there was a Spam-themed restaurant in Manhattan. Apparently, though, this place closed, but not before Anthony Bourdain had the chance to visit. What is this world coming to?

The Bruncheon

Boy, it feels good to be food blogging, a joy that is seldom in summer twenty-ten, one that has been replaced by less interesting verbs like "excel-ing" (not to be confused with doing well), "business casual-ing," and "Seamless Web-ing." As we speak, I'm at my Park Avenue office with just a moment to breathe (and blog). Many of you know that the three loves of my life are food, fashion, and finance, but admittedly this summer, the former two have taken the backseat (save for a few minutes of Shopbop perusal in the morning).

Last weekend my parents visited with another couple. You can imagine my excitement, as most of my meals as of late have come from a styrofoam container -- it was the perfect excuse to ball out with my tongue out (doesn't rhyme but I might adopt that as my new saying -- perhaps dine out with my nine out would be wittier, but that doesn't exactly apply to me). I was entrusted, as usual, to choose restaurants for our two meals together, dinner on Saturday and brunch on Sunday. I wish I had taken pictures of Saturday at Scalini Fedeli, but you'll just have to take my word for it -- it was one of the top ten dinners of my life. The menu was a prix fixe, which can be off-putting for some, but I assure you I was only put on. In light of my regretful lack of blogging from that meal, I set my sights on Sunday brunch at Telepan, another prix-fixe -- this was not clearly a weekend of skimping.
The restaurant is a quiet UWS hideaway (mind you it was not lacking style) with a largely 45+ crowd. This didn't deter me, though, as in my opinion, age is generally a sign of continually refined taste, at least at fine dining establishments. I arrived before the majority of my party with my summer roommate; an old friend who I love dearly but who has a palate that's impossible to please. He spent the first five or so minutes after we were seated explaining to our waitress his dietary restrictions -- dairy allergy, fish aversion (not a clinical diagnosis, only my desctiption), etc. She was quite accommodating, though, and I suppose it was the perfect complement to my eating habits, because I'll try just about anything (which usually leads to my affinity for such items and, eventually, will contribute to my obesity as an adult). Finally, our party arrived, and order we did.

My first course was verbana creme crepes with strawberries & strawberry sauce.


These small treats melted in my mouth. Not too sweet, and also reminiscent of France! Quite fitting, because a close friend with whom I'd traveled abroad was to my right, and she, too, is a Francophile. She ate the crepes, as well. I like to mix salty with sweet, so I followed my crepes with a mushroom, herbs, and cheddar cheese eggwhite omelet that was served with superb, bite-sized hash browns and a mixed green salad. It was just as delicious.

I prefer my omelets fluffy to runny, and while I'm not a picky eater, I almost exclusively order my eggs scrambled. One time, however, I did adventurously order eggs benedict at Norma's, which I enjoyed but found a bit heavy.

My family and friends applauded me for a meal well chosen. And while I have been on point lately, that doesn't mean much when you're stuck in the office at all hours. As we speak, I'm wrapping up this article on a Saturday at the office, after having worked from about 1 o'clock til 7. With nothing to hold me over until dinner except peanuts from the 19th floor vending machine, I can only dream of Telepan as a distant memory. That is, until tonight at Hudson Hall...

Dine at Telepan:

72 West 69th St.

New York, NY 10023

(212) 580-4300

A Tale of Two Cheesesteaks

Admittedly, I have been anticipating this entry for quite a while. From the second my plane landed on American soil in December, I looked forward to the day when my comparative cheesesteak article would come to fruition. And now, at long last, that day has arrived.

I had just returned home from the completion of my junior year at Emory (and awaiting my status as an indentured servant--er--summer investment banking analyst), when I felt a hankering for a cheesesteak that I couldn't ignore. All too coincidentally, I had an out-of-town visitor who also wanted an authentic Philly cheesesteak, so the two of us followed our cravings to a street corner on Henry Avenue. On any other normal afternoon, I would have been forced to make a critical choice: Chubby's or Dalessandro's? But this was no normal afternoon...

I have eaten at each of these down-and-dirty cheesesteak joints on separate occasions, but have never had the opportunity to compare the two and declare my preference (something that by now you must realize is essential to the way I operate). My ambivalence was put to rest, however, on this one fateful Wednesday.

Chubby's and Dalessandro's are situated across the street from one another on a busy intersection in a borough of Philadelphia. They are two of the lesser-known, hidden gems of the city. Most tourists (and even a few ignorant Philadelphians) cite Jim's, Pat's, or Geno's as their "favorite" spot for cheesesteaks. Just to give you a bit of background, there are two ways a cheesesteak is prepared - with shaved meat and melted cheese, or with slabs of meat and Whiz. I prefer the former, as Whiz gives a cheesesteak a slightly synthetic touch. Thus, by my standards, we can eliminate Pat's from the running. Jim's is good, but they tend to skimp you on the meat, and I've never eaten at Geno's (shhh), so I can't judge just yet. But let it be known, you don't have to travel to the infamous South Street to get a good cheesesteak.



It is for obvious locational reasons that Chubby's and Dalessandro's withhold a traditional rivalry. And so I had to be strategic about my game plan. If I were to eat both cheesesteaks at once, that meant that I could only be in one restaurant. After some debate, I decided to park at Chubby's and get a cheesesteak to go, then make my way over to Dalessandro's, where I could sample both at the same time. I was discreet about my mission, however, as I recognized it was somewhat of a foodie faux-pas. These establishments are no-nonsense, so you can imagine the kind of glances I would get if I were caught smuggling an outsider into either one. And the waitress at Dalessandro's was neither inviting nor polished, when she bid farewell to some regulars by saying, "See yas later" (probably not the best place to sport my Burberry raincoat). Thus, I proceeded with caution.



My friend and I went halfsies, which is probably my favorite way to eat any type of food. My first bite came from the Chubby's cheesesteak.



Parts of the meat were slightly overcooked, and the onions and peppers could have been more thoroughly intertwined with the meat, but it was solid overall. Definitely better than your average cheesesteak. Come to think of it, when my post-prom fell through in May 2007, our party bus changed course to Chubby's. An authentic Philadelphian after-prom, indeed.

I have to give Chubby's some credit, because the steak had been sitting out for about ten minutes before I had the opportunity to sink my teeth into it, as I had been waiting patiently at Dalessandro's. However, my second bite, which came from the Dalessandro's steak, beat Chubby's ten-to-one. This one had more meat, an even spread of cheese and onions, and the restaurant had containers of do-it-yourself shredded assorted peppers that I probably could have eaten plain. And I couldn't help but notice all of the "Zagat-rated" signs on the wall...I was in primal heaven.



I suppose it was beneficial, after all, to have been in Dalessandro's for my moment of truth, otherwise I may have upset some very seriously overweight employees (welcome to Philadelphia). My guest and I both agreed that Dalessandro's had the superior steak.

As most of you are aware, Manhattan is one of my favorite places on earth, and where I'll be spending my summer, but the one thing it lacks is a decent cheesesteak. Sorry, but that bullshit 99 Miles to Philly doesn't quite cut it. New York City will be perfect when Dalessandro's allows me to pioneer its franchise, but even I wouldn't trust myself to uphold its strict standard of abrasiveness and poor grammar/dental hygiene (just picture some of the mouths in Dalessandro's). Until its expansion, however, I'll just have to remain content with venturing to Roxborough. Because after all, who doesn't love a good piece of meat?

Dine at Dalessandro's:
600 Wendover Street
Philadelphia, PA 19128
(215) 482 - 5407

And, if you're up for my cheesesteak challenge,

Dine at Chubby's:
5826 Henry Avenue
Philadelphia, PA 19128
(215) 487 - 2575

NOT The Krusty Krab

It was spring break, and instead of traveling to my original destination of Acapulco, I diverted my plans to sunny Miami for a more relaxing vacation. And so my six days were what I considered to be nearly perfect -- I exercised (I know, right?!), basked in the sun, and of course, ate well, all in the company of some of my best friends and two wonderfully hospitable Floridian families. I raved about each of the restaurants we visited, but one in particular comes to mind -- Joe's Stone Crab.

Anyone who's ever been to Miami knows that Joe's is a staple in any Jewish family's diet. One of my closest friends and host for the majority of my stay in Miami has an "in" at Joe's -- her parents have formed relationships with the elitist maître d's who allow them to skip the often hours-long wait for a table ready in fifteen minutes or less. Whenever my friend travels home for a break or for the summer, she likes to sample flavors from many restaurants (you can see why we're friends), but Joe's is always on her list. It isn't trendy -- there is no DJ and the decor is minimal -- but it's been around forever and is always, always, always worth it. Even the couple waiting for an hour and a half who were seated after our party of seven would tell you the same.

The menu is relatively standard for a seafood restaurant, save for several notable exceptions: first, the stone crabs, as you might imagine, are distinctively delicious. Second, the chicken breast on the menu is priced at $5.95. Keep in mind, Joe's isn't cheap, which goes to show how few people actually go there and order chicken. If you're reading this and you ate the chicken that night (you know who you are), shame on you.

I began my dinner at Joe's with "Stuffy's," a house special that consists of baked Quahog clams (Peter Griffin?), Parmesan cheese, bacon, celery, and onion. My oh my.

I didn't use the side of melted butter because the clams were fried, and I'm trying to watch my figure (as you can tell by the food blog). Next time I'm at Joe's, I'll order these to share, as they were much too filling as an appetizer. A bit greasy, as well, but I do love shellfish.

Next came the crème de la crème of seafood - the stone crabs. My mahoff friend and I split a large order and ate fiercely as the rest of our friends marveled at the crabs in all of their glory. "Can I try?" became the most frequently used phrase of the evening, and after a while, just like they tell you in D.A.R.E., I said no.

Next to the crabs you can see a bit of hashed brown potatoes, our starch of the evening and a wonderful complement to the cold, rubbery goodness of the shellfish. We also chose spinach as our vegetable, a frequent Flavoriser favorite, even though it sometimes gets stuck between my teeth.

I've used this word before to describe food and I'll use it again to elucidate just how fabulous our apple pie really was -- dank. I swore when we ordered dessert that I wouldn't touch it (because of my aforementioned "diet"), but what do you know, I ate almost the entire thing. Sorry guys.

I don't know about you, but I prefer my apple pie at least 60% gooey (clearly this is something I've thought about). This dessert fulfilled my target ratio and then some (sorry, the finance jokes sometimes force themselves in). It looks almost as good as it tasted.

My meal crescendoed just before my stomach was about to implode. As I write this article, I'm currently in Boca Raton and, after having eaten stone crabs this weekend from another seafood restaurant, I can confidently say that Joe's trumps the rest.

My friends and family know that wherever I go, whatever I do, food is always at the forefront of my thoughts. My tastes are varied and my cravings are many, but when in Miami, Joe's will be my "drug" of choice.

Dine at Joe's Stone Crab:

11 Washington Avenue

Miami Beach, FL 33139

(305) 673 - 0365

Flipped Out

Atlanta hasn't yet seen much of La Flavoriser, so tonight will be the debut. Since my return to school, I've dined at several noteworthy restaurants and taken pictures with the anticipation to blog. However, after committing to sell my soul to the devil and trying to secure an internship on Wall Street, my window of time has grown increasingly narrow. Somehow, between chapters 5 and 6 in the Vault Guide, and before midterm studying had gone into full swing, I found the time to drive the thirty minutes in unfamiliar territory to Flip Burger. As many of you know, cheeseburgers are among my favorite foods. Last year, my roommate and I kept a picture of a cheeseburger on our refrigerator -- there were no other pictures. My interest in writing about food has actually stemmed directly from the cheeseburger itself. If I could have any other last name, it would be Cheeseberg (to keep it in the tribe). Ok, I don't know if that's true...

My first trip to Flip Burger was not an adventurous one for me in terms of food - I stuck with the basics to assess the true quality of the restaurant. Only after eating the restaurant's standard burger could I get a real grip on what this place was all about. The burger was above-average, and after mistakenly leaving my credit card at the restaurant, the manager ran it outside to me in the rain. Overall, it was a good night.

This visit was different. I sat at a table, not the bar, albeit the thirty-minute wait. Flip Burger, from my understanding, is usually "squad deep," which is surprising considering its inconvenient location, but realistic given the unbelievable variety and taste of the burgers they serve. Their menu is divided into two sections -- Burgers and Flip Burgers. "Burgers" were every item substantiated by red meat, and "Flip Burgers" were sandwiches of many varieties made to look like burgers. Once we were (finally) seated, the service was extremely attentive. My drink was refilled without being asked. After spending so much time in France, I can't begin to describe how thankful I felt. As much as I loved Europe, I missed the ass-kissing that is the United States service industry.

There were three of us at dinner, and we easily ate a meal for five. We first split the smoked caesar salad, which was infused with some sort of bacon, giving it the "kick" that most caesar salads lack.

Next came my burger -- The Butcher's Cut; a burger cooked medium-rare (always) with caramelized onions, blue cheese, and red wine jam. Caramelized onions are my absolute favorite. Finally, a place other than California Pizza Kitchen has them on the menu. I could have used some more jam to even out the taste, because the burger was a bit salty. Still, I devoured it.

My friends and I had attempted to order the sweetbread nuggets to share, only to find out that the last of them had just been consumed, probably by the people seated directly before us. My group and I decided that we needed to order something just as adventurous (for them at least -- I had already tried most of the foods on the menu). We went with the venison burger with gooseberry relish, brie cheese, toasted pecans, sprout tops, and mushroom jam. This was my favorite part of the meal. The venison was not at all game-y and the combination of cheese, mushrooms, and sweet relish would have turned any vegetarian into a believer.

At this point in the meal, I was just about keeling over. If ever I were to become a hypochondriac, I'm certain that "food coma" would be my most frequent self-diagnosis. And so the food continued with the "Coffee and Donuts" milkshake. The milkshake had chocolate-covered coffee beans, whipped cream, coffee ice cream, and bits of Krispy Kreme donuts inside. Imagine how unreal that sounds... It was better.

Flip Burger is still booming after being open for about a year in the Atlanta area. It's a trendy "burger boutique" -- or so it calls itself -- with hip music and shockingly inexpensive prices. A 5.5 oz burger will run you about eight bucks, creativity included. Their menu is probably the most inventive I've seen with "Flip Burgers" ranging from poboys to tuna tartare. I recommend this restaurant to just about any carnivore, and I look forward to dining here again in the very near future. Until then, I'll be dreaming of burgers...

Dine at Flip Burger:

1587 Howell Mill Road Northwest

Atlanta, GA 30318

(404) 343 - 1609

Back from the Crypt

Hello to each of my fabulous foodie friends. It's been quite a while since I've updated La Flavoriser, but don't fret - my hiatus was only temporary. I've been back in the United States for slightly over a week and I must say, my European days seem unfortunately more distant as time passes. I'm back, however, and ready for some R, R, &R; Rest, relaxation, and restaurants. While I would love to feast upon French fare and bask in the nostalgia that would logically follow, I know that any French restaurant in the Philadelphia Metropolitan area would only be a let-down. I'll have to settle for something that is actually damn good, even off of route 76 West; Bluefin.

Bluefin is a shopping center BYOB sushi joint. From the outside, it doesn't look like much. Even from the inside, it still doesn't look like much. And then the food arrives - flavorgasm. But there's still so much more to Bluefin that makes it one of my favorite local spots. First, it's a definite hierarchy. The "regulars," (my parents included) get treated like royalty. My family walked into the restaurant and was greeted with a friendly, "Hoyyyy," which was all too familiar. At one point in our meal our table was visited by an Asian woman who is apparently the head chef/owner's sister. I didn't know her name, social security number, or credit score, but I did know she was glad but not surprised to see my family on a Wednesday evening. And yes, like most other days at Bluefin, we secured our reservation well in advance. The most frequent visitors have the opportunity to name their own maki rolls -- an ultimate status symbol for the greater Main Line area. I won't blow up anyone's spot, but if you dine at Bluefin, you'll begin to know these families by both name and fish. Everyone within 20 miles of Philadelphia's city center has heard of Bluefin - it's practically legendary among Jews and Gentiles alike.

In Paris, sushi was an extremity. I either ordered below-mediocre sushi delivery, or was forced to pay outrageous prices for poissons frais. In lieu of this harsh reality, it has been almost five months since I've eaten great sushi. Surely you realize, as I do, that this is nothing short of a cuisine crime. There are few things in life I enjoy more than the consistency of raw fish against my taste buds.

I wasn't starving (crazy, I know), so I decided upon an appetizer and a maki roll. I began with an order of shrimp shumai. Call me "safe" and "boring," but I was reminded of what I'd been missing the minute my teeth sunk into the piping shrimp dumpling. This was the start of something good, don't you agree?

Following the shrimp shumai came the Marlee Roll, probably named after some elitist Philadelphia family who's spent an overwhelming proportion of its disposable income on sushi. The Marlee Roll was comprised of tuna on top of a crunchy spicy yellowtail roll with roe. I ordered the roll without "crunchies," as my mother has been pressuring me to eat healthier. I'm sure this made quite the difference. The fish was indescribably fresh, and the roll came with enough spicy mayo and wasabi (I'm a spice fiend) to keep my tongue tingling. The roe was red and green (Merry Christmas?). You really must dine at Bluefin to understand; out of the myriad of sushi restaurants I've frequented in NYC and other reputable locations, Bluefin keeps me coming back.

I'm still unaware of the status of Bluefin's dessert menu, or if there's even one at all, but at the conclusion of each of my Bluefin meals I've been presented with a plate of fried banana with honey, orange slices, and honeydew. The honeydew I could have done without, the orange was secondary, but the banana was the icing on the sushi cake. That sounds foul, but try and picture the metaphor instead of the literal translation. And it worked out perfectly - my mother was sitting across from me, and, as you may recall from earlier posts, she's not usually inclined to eat. This left me with more banana than usual - a situation I was pleased to embrace.

After my exquisite sushi dinner and a few glasses of my mother's 2008 Cakebread Chardonnay, ("very expensive," she claims), I was floating above the clouds. I recommend Bluefin to anyone even remotely close to the Philadelphia area looking for quality sushi in a relaxed setting. The décor isn't spectacular, nor is the service (unless you dine there weekly), but it's consistently delicious and serves the freshest fish in town. No doubt I'll be dining here several more times before my much anticipated return to Atlanta, and, if I'm lucky, I'll earn the rights to a Flavoriser Roll. Contact me with any creative maki suggestions. Happy New Year!

Dine at Bluefin:

1017 East Germantown Pike

Plymouth Meeting, PA 19462

(610) 277 - 3917

Hasta La Gnocchi Siempre

It was a Thursday night, and like most Thursdays, I was hungry. My friends Caroline, Kelly, and I (they've been waiting for this moment) decided to do something a bit different. Although I know I'll regret feeling this way in about a week when I return home, I couldn't have eaten one more onion soup, order of escargots, or steak frites. I needed to diversify my portfolio, but I knew that if I were to branch out, it would have to be authentic and delicious, the first being an obvious prerequisite to the second. After hours of deliberation, and only after I had checked just about every food guide I'd ever heard of, the three of us came to a consensus.

We decided upon l'Osteria - a hole-in-the-wall Italian bistro in the Marais that is known for its alleged "best gnocchi in Paris." The restaurant had no sign or street number - just a small stand outside with a menu reading its name in fine print. If I hadn't searched for a picture of the storefront online before arriving, it's likely I wouldn't have been able to find it. This place was absolutely adorable and très romantic -- a tiny restaurant with about 8 simple wooden tables, paintings of seafood on one wall and antique photographs of Italy on the other. The menu was printed first in Italian, then in French, and the one Italian waiter also happened to own the place. My friends and I were the only Americans in the restaurant, indicating that l'Osteria is still a well-kept secret.

J'avais faim. Beaucoup de faim. And the menu was making my stomach growl by the second - everything sounded fit for a queen. Kelly and I wanted to split the black truffle gnocchi and the mushroom risotto for our entrées; much to our initial dismay, the risotto was only prepared for two. What was a foodie to do in this situation? The answer was clear -- split the gnocchi to start, and order our own risotto after. Too much food? No such thing.

What you're looking at was quite possibly the most heavenly dish to ever grace my tongue. Sometimes with gnocchi, it takes a few seconds to get past the outer pasta before reaching the potato inside. After this meal, I realized that technique is amateur. The "outer pasta," if there was any, practically melted in my mouth, allowing the potato to collide with the black truffle chips and truffle sauce into gnocchi goodness. I am literally overcome with emotion when I think about this dish. Needless to say, these lovely lumps were gone in sixty seconds.

After eating the gnocchi, I knew my entrée couldn't come close. And I was right -- the mushroom risotto was very good, but it would've had to have received a 20 out of 10 to beat what preceded it. I must say, I preferred the risotto to the mushrooms themselves - they were a bit flavorless and drowned in the risotto cream, which you'll notice is quite heavy in the picture. It certainly would have been more climactic to start with the risotto, but we live and we learn.

At this point in the meal, I was stuffed, but I wasn't about to let that stop me from asking for a dessert menu. Turns out, there was no formal menu, but the chef, who had stepped in at the end of the meal because the owner had left (we basically closed the place), recited the four desserts that were offered. We decided on the panna cotta, an Italian dish consisting of a mixture of cream, milk, sugar, and gelatin. Believe me, it tasted better than it sounds, especially with the raspberry and butterscotch reduction. Crème brulée is really the only dessert I can think of that even slightly resembles panna cotta, albeit only the creaminess aspect (for those of you having trouble imagining how the dessert would taste). Come to think of it, this was a rather creamy meal altogether. Remind me to come back here for another fabulous evening when I'm old and losing my teeth.

The next dessert was on the house, complements of our Egyptian/Italian chef (Egyptian ethnicity, Italian cuisine). We were served tiramisu, but not like I've ever had it before. The fluffiness of tiramisu is usually consistent throughout, but at l'Osteria, the tiramisu had more of a tart or jelly consistency with a thick powder on top. I remember Caroline making me laugh while eating it, and I coughed up the powder, which made quite the mess. Although it was extremely rich, I found the contrast between dry and damp refreshing.

Our meal would have been perfect, if not for a slight altercation toward the end. During several moments of our dinner, a noticeably inebriated Lebanese man found it appropriate to sit at our table and ask us penetrating questions. We brushed it off until we were leaving the restaurant, when I was asked by the man if he could "give me his card," in hopes that our one-ended conversation would turn into something more. When I politely replied that I had a boyfriend, he answered that he didn't care, and then pointed out to me his wife, who had been sitting at the table with him the entire night. She smiled and waved, as if somehow this was at all socially acceptable.

I will never forget my evening at l'Osteria, the Lebanese polygamist, the Egyptian chef to whom I gave my blog address (I hope he's reading this right now), or the "dank" black truffle gnocchi, to borrow a term. Our meal was quite satisfying (the best gnocchi in Paris, indeed), and I'm confident I will return to l'Osteria upon my next visit to Paris. You should, too, especially if you're looking for some Lebanese loving...

Dine at l'Osteria:

10 Rue de Sévigné

75004 Paris

+33 1 42 71 37 08