A Faraway Foodie Schools Us on What She Misses Most About the Bean's Cuisine
You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone, as everyone
from Joni Mitchell to Cinderella has sung — and as a former Bostonian, I can
add a blue note or two to their chorus. In 2007, after 10 years as a food
writer in Beantown, I moved to Denver for love. But you can’t eat love. And so
it is that sometimes, as I’m barreling through yet another bowl of addictive
pork green chile, I find myself shedding a tear right into it at the sudden
thought of clam chowder; even while I’m wolfing down a fat, sizzling buffalo
brat, the image of a lobster roll looms large and luminous.
You bet I return when I can. Take last summer, when I weathered a
whirlwind binge on all that was shiny and brand-spanking-new in Boston’s dining
scene for a STUFF piece I called “Crash Courses.” But this
year, I’m marooned in the Mile-High City with nothing to do but keep a running
tally of all the oldies-but-goodies I miss so dearly and daily. May it serve as
both a memo of what you townies must never take for granted and a cheat sheet
of key terms for you newbies as you learn the local specialties — the culinary
Cliffs Notes, let’s call it, in keeping with last year’s theme. Study it well.
Karentika at Baraka Café
Strewn with the bright hues and baubles of the North African
seacoast, the enduring surprise off Central Square known as Baraka
Café (80½ Pearl Street, Cambridge, 617.868.3951) sets a sleepy,
breezy, sunny mood — one punctuated by the showers of sparks the remarkable
food sends forth. But it’s the cumin-infused chickpea custard ($3.50), by turns
shocked with harissa and soothed by its own airy texture, that I pine for most
profoundly. Along with the juicy merguez. And the special-occasion bastilla
(squab pie). And, oh, that lemonade swirling with rose petals...
Sliced spicy dry fried salted boneless eel at Peach Farm
I learned more about food from hanging out with a bunch of
the Boston Chowhounds than I ever learned in cooking school. Or at least the
lessons made for fonder memories. Take the time I’d barely sat down with the
gang at Peach Farm (4 Tyler Street, Boston, 617.482.3332)
before our waiter appeared with a bucket wherein an eel wriggled for dear life
— which wasn’t, apparently, hard enough. Next we saw him, he was on a plate,
sliced, deep-fried, and revelatory: salty, peppery, with that funky tang you
get desperately hooked on in what must be some small form of poetic justice for
the eel.
Peking duck at New King Fung Garden
Served in the most ramshackle of surroundings at New
King Fung Garden (74 Kneeland Street, Boston, 617.357.5262), the
most royal dish that is this Mandarin masterpiece ($37.95) has to be ordered a
day in advance, then savored forever afterward, both as an unforgettable edible
and an exemplar of incongruity. Arriving in three courses — a soulful stir fry,
a refreshing soup, and a frenzied free-for-all of fried rind accompanied by
pancakes and hoisin — it’s a glistening gem in the Chinatown rough of cheap
wood panel and vinyl. (Since a change in KFG’s ownership, however, it may be
worth comparing to Peach Farm’s version. Let me know who wins the taste test!)
Calamari meatballs at The Daily Catch
You’d practically have to be a cephalopod to really feel
comfy at
The Daily Catch (323 Hanover Street, Boston,
617.523.8567), so tight is the squeeze for us bonebags. Of course, then you’d
also have to be your own dinner. It’s on squid, after all, that this tiny North
Ender has made its household name — and though it’s particularly famous fried,
it was in the garlic-and-herb-flecked form of polpetti di calamari ($6) that
I’d eat so much of the stuff I’d nearly turn the place upside-down trying to
maneuver my belly out the door.
Ejotes al mojo de ajo at the Forest Café
Of all the things I never thought I’d miss upon moving from
Boston to Denver, Mexican food’s got to be numero uno. The Forest
Café (1682 Mass Ave, Cambridge, 617.661.7810), however, avoids the
gaffes to which most yanqui stabs at cocina mexicana amount to
pull off pleasures like these veritable green-bean French fries ($6), charred
and punchy with garlic and lime. (Still, I won’t actually be packing my return
bags until the day a Bostonian pulls off a batch of green chile.)
Haw moak at Khao Sarn
The very name smacks of faraway adventure, evoking a
sun-soaked, thatch-fringed Chiang Mai alley crisscrossed by the steaming carts
of hawkers. And since the dish lives up to it, don’t let the iffy English
description — steamed salmon or chicken custard ($14.95) — on the menu at Khao
Sarn (250 Harvard Street, Brookline, 617.566.7200)
give you pause. It’s essentially a subtle, lightly set
curry, more redolent of kaffir lime, basil, and the banana leaf it’s wrapped in
than it is especially spicy. (Throw in an order of the dried-shrimp-and-spinach
roll-ups called miang kum to further prove you’ve long since
passed Pad Thai 101.)
Kaddo at the Helmand
Of all the no-brainers on my list, this may be duh number
one. The ever-popular pièce de résistance ($7.50) at the Helmand
(143 1st Street, Cambridge, 617.492.4646) turns a baby pumpkin into a
near-pudding of caramelization, topped with dollops of tomato-tinged beef and
garlicky yogurt sauces. Rich and hearty to the chunky core, this Afghani
specialty serves above all as proof that, geopolitics schmeopolitics, we should
all just get along for good eating’s sake.
The cheese cart at Troquet
In the post–Formaggio Kitchen era (ca. 1996 F.K., when the
legendary store’s aging caves were built), cheese plates are a given. But the
great ones remain few and far between.
Troquet (140 Boylston
Street, Boston, 617.695.9463) was one of the first places in town to do it
right. Owner Chris Campbell and his well-versed crew present an ever-changing
array of more than a dozen varieties (three cheeses for $13 or six for $24)
with panache, so you can discover and rediscover such goodies as gooey,
two-milk Piedmontese Rosso di Lago and sprightly goat’s-milk Selles sur Cher,
accompanied by sugared nuts, fruit, brioche, raisin bread, and a satisfying
sense of your own superior, Troquet-shaped taste in cheese.
Brasserie Jo in the rain
To enter Brasserie Jo (120 Huntington
Avenue, Boston, 617.425.3240) on a rainy afternoon is not simply to enter
Brasserie Jo on a rainy afternoon — it’s to walk out of the mists of 1930s
Paris into the glow emanating from the backlit Art Deco bar, as a smooth
operator in vest and tie fetches you a spot of Sancerre, perhaps, and a proper
croque monsieur. It’s to be transported to the jazz age in all its mellow
elegance. You’ll heave a sigh when the sun comes out.
Cake from Bova’s between 2 and 6 a.m.
Cake’s the very pith of celebration. But no cake quite like
that served at
Bova’s (134 Salem Street, Boston, 617.523.5601)
befits the most special occasion of all: solitary, predawn drunken stupors.
Therein would I stumble from my fourth-floor North End apartment down to the
24/7 bakery whence the dreamy aroma wafted through my windows — only to return
with a half-a-foot cube of chocolate or white cake ($2.75), two solid inches of
which were icing, and gorge until I conked out, face smeared with crumbs and a
smile.
Mint coffee at Algiers Coffee House
Tallest of ivory towers? Harvard’s a pit of philistinism
compared to the café at its center, Algiers Coffee House (40
Brattle Street, Cambridge, 617.492.1557). In the quiet amid the Moorish
flourishes of this two-story sanctuary, a cup of mint coffee topped with
whipped cream ($3.25) goes down like some divine elixir. (And unlike most
drinks consumed in a collegiate setting, it stays down, too.)
Filet de thon saisi aux deux coulis pimentés at The Elephant
Walk
Show me a place that’s been around for 20 years, and I’ll
show you a place with at least one cherished signature dish (quickly, before I
eat it). In the case of French-Cambodian fixture The Elephant Walk
(900 Beacon Street, Boston, 617.247.1500), the candidates are myriad, but my
nominee defies categorization and even common culinary sense: pan-seared,
breadcrumb-dusted, sliced tuna loin over crispy pear-scallion ravioli with a
duo of red and green chili cream sauces ($19.95). Sounds fussy, tastes simply
heady.
An after-dinner round (or two) at Stanza dei Sigari
As a Prohibition-era speakeasy marked by a stogie-shaped
sign, this subterranean cigar bar in the North End could easily have
surrendered to expectations for Sopranos-inflected kitsch.
Instead, Stanza dei Sigari (292 Hanover Street, Boston, 617.227.0295) is la
cosa vera — part humidor, part eye-opening showcase of
smoking-related memorabilia, and part connoisseur’s leather-trimmed perch, what
with a smart selection of single malts and cordials alike (as well as
everything in between). So cool it with the Paulie Walnuts impressions when
you’re here, capisce?
Steamers at Durgin-Park
To an eight-year-old visiting from Oklahoma, Durgin-Park
(340 Faneuil Hall Marketplace, Boston, 617.227.2038) seemed a veritable
Disneyland of New England quaintness. Those creaky stairs! Those long,
red-checkered cafeteria tables! Those quacking accents! And above all — those
heaping bowls of seashells only the adults got to play with! Durgin-Park became
my own private beacon, and when I finally reached it again 20 years later,
those steamers (market price) were everything I imagined: a sea spray of melted
butter, lemon squeezes, and clam juice that tasted of the city I knew I
belonged in.
The Cubano at City Bar
Chez Henri’s take on the Cuban-style ham and cheese may be
much —and justly — ballyhooed, but its counterpart ($11) at
City Bar (61 Exeter Street, Boston, 617.933.4800) occupies the top
spot in my heart precisely for the greater secrecy that surrounds it. Strictly
from the standpoint of sandwich construction, it’s every bit as classically
good — but take the trappings into account, and you’ve got yourself a winner,
from the luxe dim-lit setting to signature infused cocktails like the
tropically tinged tequila julep.
The bar at Sel de la Terre Long Wharf
If you find yourself at the Sel de La Terre
flagship on Long Wharf (255 State Street, Boston, 617.720.1300), why not try
turning left instead of right at the entrance? To the latter lies the perfectly
lovely dining room — but to the former is one of the waterfront’s coziest
hideouts. There are fat leather armchairs and a loveseat in the alcove. There
are cocktails touched with such aromatic stuff as lavender and orgeat, and
cognac served over an open flame. There is, in short, a simultaneous sense of
urbanity and intimacy the Back Bay branch just can’t quite muster.
St. Anthony’s pizza at Pizzeria Regina
A confession from a red-blooded American chauvinist slob in
a female Italophile’s body: I can eat a whole large pizza by myself in one
sitting. The only qualification is that the sitting has to occur in my
erstwhile North End apartment over a pie ($18.99) from the 80-year-old oven of Pizzeria
Regina (11½ Thacher Street, Boston, 617.227.0765) down the block, a
pie covered with both mozz and parm, two kinds of sausage, roasted onions and
peppers, and the legendary garlic oil that lingers on in both mind and mouth for
just about ever. Note to newbies: arm yourself with Altoids.
The Palmyra at No. 9 Park
Everyone — at least everyone with a yen for the hooch —
knows that No. 9 Park (9 Park Street, Boston, 617.742.9991)
was one of the epicenters of Boston’s craft-cocktail scenequake. But not
everyone knows just how long and hard the bar’s been shaking. You can pinpoint
it down to a single drink: the Palmyra ($13). Created by opening bar manager
Tom Mastricola, it combines Rain vodka, lime juice, and mint simple syrup to
make for a streamlined mojito that still keeps the Brahmin barflies abuzz.
