Shirley Chow

Breakfast is like math class, it’s boring but important–and because it’s usually eaten in a rush, whether it’s a banana or a bowl of oatmeal, the quickest and most filling an option is usually chosen. Every once in a while I’ll get to eat a real breakfast, you know, with pancakes and waffles and the ubiquitous eggs benedict. But amongst the sea of oft-chosen options there lies the hearty and filling dark horse dish I love to choose: Corned beef hash.

My ideal plate of corned beef hash is beefy and well-seasoned, served with two sunny-side eggs whose yolks are runny and inevitably sopped up by two buttered slices of crispy toast. Oh, and dont forget the breakfast potatoes–devoured with a tangy and spicy mixture of Tabasco and ketchup. My mouth waters as I write this. I had the amazing task of eating breakfast for dinner at three different places in Manhattan to see which made the best plate of corned beef hash.

2nd Ave Deli
2nd ave deli is an homage to the good ol’ days of New York. The waitstaff could easily be mistaken for United Airlines flight attendants: Older, on pension, cranky–yet caring–with service provided with a raspy cigarette smile.

The plate of hash is visually stunning, a huge serving which would give a heartattack a heartattack. Biting into the big chunks of beefy goodness there’s an immediate punch of onion which then proved to be a constant note- not a big problem but certainly distracting.

Overall the whole plate is underseasoned, ultimately not delivering on its visual promise of goodness.

Northern Spy
Northern Spy caters to the “I don’t mind paying for high quality ingredients” crowd. It’s a nice quaint restaurant situated in one of my favorite areas in Alphabet City. It’s a beautiful little eatery and definitely attracts the better-heeled crowd.

Here the beef in the hash is chunky and nicely seasoned. However, I was disappointed that the meat was watery which made me wish there was more depth of flavor from a nicely browned patina. The poached eggs were delicious and cooked to perfection but had a hint of vinegar which made me question if it was conscious flavoring or a byproduct of technique (a little vinegar in boiling water will make the egg white congeal faster, leading to a better-formed poached egg.) Accompanying the hash were some potatoes which were naturally earthy and delicious on their own but still underseasoned. Like 2nd Ave Deli, I was underwhelemed by Northern Spy’s offering, but well-cooked underseasoned high-quality ingredients ultimately leads to some pretty good eats.

Stage Restaurant
Sitting at the long bar there’s not much room to move. You sit shoulder-to-shoulder with what seems to be an infographic of the East Village, a mixture of the old and the new. This seat affords a great view of the long and minuscule kitchen: the steaming soup pots holding borscht next to trays of meatloaf give a glimpse into the Polish-American roots of this establishment, served by the same family that runs the kitchen.

Here the hash is deliciously crisp on the outside and moist in the middle, with small chunks of potato peppering the hash. It’s well-seasoned, leaning on the saltier side, but after the first two establishments, I don’t mind. The eggs are joyfully runny, and the potatoes, scooped from a large plastic bucket (hey, whoever said I was looking for high-brow), sat and cooked until they were hot with a crispy exterior, just what I wanted.

The winner
Stage wins whole-heartedly in this gut-busting face-off, not only because of its delicious corned beef hash plate, but also interesting ambiance and family-run atmosphere.

Disclaimer: The following review is a dramatization based on a true story and was performed by trained, albeit lightweight, food tasters. Consumption of alcohol may lead to impaired judgment. Don’t try this at home.

Prologue
On one hand, I am an adult (well, legally at the very least). I can sit patiently for extended periods of time. I like listening to the news first thing in the morning. I eat vegetables every day. I enjoy a glass of wine with dinner.

On the other hand, I am a mess of a young person. I can’t keep my bedroom clean. I prefer to eat with my hands. I will borrow $20 from my parents any chance I get with no intention of repayment.

In between, there exist several fusions: adult kickball leagues, bars crowded with arcade games and skeeball, and the subject of the adventure that follows, alcoholic milkshakes.

Act 1, BLT Burger
In the West Village, three friends and I embark on an Oz-like mystical journey of what is sure to end in heartburn and possibly in vomiting: consume as many alcoholic milkshakes as possible in one evening.

We begin at BLT Burger, the homeliest of the many fiefs under the Kingdom BLT. Four of us, four ‘shakes on the menu. There is the Nightrider, with chocolate ice cream, Kahlua, chocolate liqueur, and Oreos. It’s frozen hot chocolate with a tame alcohol bite, excluding the crushed Oreos, which shoot up your straw like booze soaked Kamikaze pilots aiming for your tonsils.

Coffee ice cream, Jameson, and Baileys are pulsed together to create the Wake Up Call, perhaps what might occur if Dunkin Donuts Coolata-fied a perfectly creamy Irish coffee. There is also a kick in the stomach called Grandma’s Treat, made with vanilla ice cream, Makers Mark, and caramel. The strongest of the bunch, it has the flavor of overcooked caramel, but instead of the charcoal burn end note, there is only the burn of whiskey in your gullet. Finally, there is the dark horse, The Shocker. With vanilla ice cream, vanilla Stolichnaya, and Oreos, it’s only defining feature is that it tastes most like a milkshake from your childhood, which perhaps makes it the most dangerous.

Feeling pretty emboldened thanks to all those whiskeys, we kissed the moderately fancy burger joint goodbye, shouting over our shoulders, “I can tell your whipped cream comes out of a can!”

Act 2, Brooklyn Bowl
I don’t know. Maybe it’s that blend of booze and dairy, but somewhere on the L train, one of our comrades had to drop out. Look, if you’re lactose intolerant, perhaps your shouldn’t agree to drink all these goddamn milkshakes with me. Regardless, the rest of the gang made it to Williamsburg at the Brooklyn Bowl doorstep–the best combination bowling alley/music venue/dive bar/Blue Ribbon restaurant in all the land! I ordered the Bourbon Street, which unsurprisingly consists of bourbon, vanilla ice cream, and Nutella.

So like, wow, you’d think, after all that whiskey earlier in the evening, the alcohol sting would have worn off, but with the firs sip, the bourbon zips straight to the fingertips. And, you’d think, as the ‘shake goes on, your frazzled taste buds would get used to the flavor, but no. Each gulp gives the squisky pucker face that comes with one’s first shot of Bacardi Razz (don’t judge) junior year of high school. It creates a confusing blend of youthful associations—the innocence of a creamy childish dessert and the stupidity of mixing booze (i.e. bourbon, Bacardi Razz) with something too sweet (i.e. Nutella, Cherry Koolaid).

Act 3, VanDaag
The nausea has set in. Why did I leave Manhattan for Brooklyn only to take a vcoluntary trip back on the L? Let’s not rehashe the details. The point is VanDaag is mad classy, so naturally their Bergamot Ice Cream Float is upscale and real adult-like. It combines bergamot ice cream, genever, Cointreau, vanilla, and spa[rkling wine. What the hell is genever? Wikipedia sahys something like a juniper-based cousin of gin. I like gin.That’s cool. I think.

My diningpartner (oh, right–we lost one more on that return from Williamsburg) says, “That thing’s got balls.” Which, yes, but I also think it tatses rather feminine. It is a Creamcicle for grown-ups, herbal and citrusy. It is a consumable version of a hand lotion my mom might have bought from Bed Bath and byond. I mean the Bath Shop, or the Body Shoop or whatever.

At the end of the evening, we are two remaining on a journey to Oz. (Was that really my original metaphor? God.) I stire the contents of my dish into a dessert soup. “What was Oz, really?” sayts the Scarecrow. “Like ona metaphorical level?” I am reassured that I am not the only one intoxicated on a weekday (woops). Oh oh oh oh oh, rainbows and stuff. This was the goal right? Drunfk? Yes. I try not to think about the fact that an ice cream flaot isn’t technically a milkshake. I try not to think about the spinss. I try to think of home. There’s no place like it? We stumble out of the restaurant and a cab arrives at the corner. Click your heels, babe, let’s go let’s go let’s go

As a self-diagnosed sufferer of Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D., indeed), there are few things that ease my worries as I’m dragged kicking and screaming into the deep freeze chambers of autumn and winter. These include: tiny sweaters on dogs, the hibernation of subway station stenches, laughing at people fall on ice skating rinks, and soup. Ah, yes, soup–specifically, of the French onion variety. Is there a more perfect union of liquefied flavors? Salty, sweet caramelized onions sit in bath of beef broth and red wine (or sherry, or port, or who-cares?-there’s-alcohol-in-this-soup) and then finished with a soup-soaked crouton and melted white cheese in the broiler. Are you soup or are you the miniature hot tub of my dreams?

Our first stop on the French onion soup trail is Tartine, an adorable teacup of a restaurant in the brownstone-and-sex-shop labyrinth that is the West Village. Seriously, will someone explain the mathematical paradox of the intersection of West 4th and West 11th? Geometrically impossible! But I digress. Although the diners at Tartine are practically sitting on top of each other, the tangle of wooden chairs and motherly stress lines on the waitresses’ faces create a comfortable, familial air in the tiny space. Also, BYOB wine helps.

As for the soup, it arrives in the traditional striped crock, sealed in with a layer of Swiss cheese. The cheese is dotted with burnt spots and unmelted slivers, adding to the homey feeling of the restaurant and its food overall. It doesn’t look perfect, but no one cares. It will be delicious and it is. The broth’s star flavors stand out while balancing each other: the wine doesn’t disappear beneath the stock’s beefiness, the onions seep a lovely sweetness into the soup base. They’re so well caramelized they dissolve on your tongue. On the other hand, the soup’s cheese crouton hat could use some work. Swiss doesn’t add much excitement in terms of taste and the bread has more or less disintegrated by the time the bowl hits the table. It does however lend itself to passing what I consider an important French onion soup test: ensuring a bite of cheese toast with each soup slurp. Swiss cheese here is easily cut with just a spoon, thereby acing the cheese toast test and also avoiding the awkward stretch, stretch, stretch of stringy cheese that ultimately snaps itself into a cheese goatee on your chin. Tartine: for polite and tidy French onion soup eaters.


Next, we travel to the far and distant food wasteland of Midtown (hey, I didn’t say it first) to La Bonne Soup. A convenient retreat for post-theater tummy rumblings, I was surprised it wasn’t teeming with a more fanny-packed, laminated-subway-map-wielding crowd. The restaurant’s decor could have been transplanted in one piece from an airport Best Western: plastic sconces, gray vinyl booths, vases of dried hydrangeas, a mediocre attempt to be quaint. Not a place one might expect actual French waiters, yet there they are, suggesting the oignon soup special, complete with salad, dessert, and glass of house wine. (Why else would I have traveled so far north of 14th street?)



La Bonne Soup’s French onion has a very distinctly beef flavor, at first salty and not overpowering. The onions, like the broth, are dark brown, suggesting a long day slowly cooking down into an onion jam consistency. That sweet and fragrant onion taste is missing though, and as you eat on, it starts to feel like you’re sucking on a bouillon cube. Unfortunately it also fails the cheese toast test. In some genetic cheese anomaly (perhaps from the same mad scientists that brought you the corner of West 4th and West 11th), the melted cheese and crouton refuse to adhere to each other, despite the sturdiness of the soup-soaked bread. Its saving grace, the great white saturated fat hope, is the choice of melty topping–a sharp gruyere, perfectly bruleed to an even orange crust.

Finally we find ourselves at Balthazar, the Frenchiest of French bistros: soft chandelier lighting reflecting off mirrored walls and gold accents, beautiful high ceilings that echo wine glass clinks and dinnertime laughter, models splitting grapefruit halves, waiters tricking you into paying eight bucks for a bottle of Evian because you forgot in places like this still does not mean tap.

Then there’s their French onion soup. Can I call it soup? True, the broth was incredible, soft caramelized onions piled in a way that it felt creamy in the mouth, the hints of wine and rosemary and the delicate weight of the beef flavor melded seamlessly, tender slivers of garlic appearing like wonderful nuggets of bad breath gold. However. This amazing blend of French onion flavors was suffocating under a blanket of bread and gruyere, occupying two-thirds of the striped crock. The cheese stuck to everything, and most annoyingly to my spoon. Scraping the cheese off your spoon with your teeth is awkward enough, let alone in a fancy restaurant where your dining partner is daintily eating moules frites with a special mussel fork. I’d argue though that the ungainliness was worth it. Not only were the flavors perfectly matched, Balthazar’s French onion passed the cheese toast test with flying colors (albeit due to the wildly skewed cheese toast to soup ratio). And honestly, in my opinion, if there’s anything that makes me happier in the depths of sub-50 weather than wintertime soup or tiny dogs in sweaters, it’s eating a big bowl of melted cheese.

Before we begin, I’d like to outline a few life-lessons I’ve learned during my wiener investigation.

1. It is probably not safe to ingest any sort of wurst, schnitzel or what have you with less than a half-liter of beer (at least).

1a. I am willing to overlook the encyclopedic cultural and historical blunders of the German people throughout history due to the fact that any self-respecting German restaurant offers its beer in a half-liter, liter format.

1b. This is often a surprisingly difficult choice to make.

2. Either my parents were so blinded by love for me that they couldn’t resist shoving my fat 8-year dutch thighs into a pair of 50 year old lederhosen, or they hated me enough not to care about sending me to school like this.

3. Due to my own predominantly German heritage I can say whatever I want about my terrifying, terrifying countrymen.

3a. Frankly, they’re not so bad. I spent some time in Berlin and it was lovely. German’s very much enjoy art, modern architecture and do not even kind of employ or understand sarcasm. Think Williamsburg but 2,000 years in a sweet robot future, sans any sense of Irony.

3b. At the end of the day though, I will never think of Germans or Germany without thinking of this. Please someone go write a post-modern media critique of this fact, thanks.

4. It is literally impossible, as a heterosexual man, to write an entire article about (eating!) sausage without straying into vague homoeroticisms and questioning the very core of ones being. Thanks again, Project Chow. Readers: please bear with me. Anyone from Jezebel: stop judging, I’m trying here.

Wechslers, East Village, $6.00

Wechslers is basically like that tiny, eastern-european looking nerd kid who only starts getting respect in high school when everyone starts showering together. This is to say: small space, a ton of wiener for pretty good prices. No I am not sure how that last part fits into the metaphor. Lets move on. The point is this restaurant is tiny and is comprised of: brick walls, a grill, some taps, super limited seating, funny NYU-ish types who you order from and pay at the register etc. This place is literally the hourly-rate motel for beer and sausage: if you come here, you come here with a pretty well defined end goal that hopefully isn’t marred by fumbled apologies and a half-hearted offer to pick up the tab.

I ordered some currywurst and a half liter of the Ayinger dark (see wiener life-lesson #1) I sat down with my beer and awaited my food. Almost immediately my hair began to stand on end as I realized the fragments of conversation drifting over to me from the next table weren’t English but an avalanche guttural of ‘Gleepen-Gloppens’ from the world’s least pretty diabolical-clown language. Yea, German (see wiener life lesson #3)–Latvia, you got off lucky this time. The bottom line, score one for Wechslers for attracting an entire group of German tourists in the middle of the East Village with nothing but a fiery grill and your meats. Glückwünsche.

The currywurst itself comes in one of those cool little fry-boats, which seem to be a stable to this sort of food (except at Hallo Berlin, which we’ll get to). What you get is this: good, thick chunks of pork sausage (i.e. ‘wurst’) smothered in curry sauce and accompanied by some of the best damn fries I’ve had at any restaurant, and certainly out of any of the three venues in this review. To make a great thing better, they also ask if you’d like mayo for your fries. Obviously, yes. The dish is treated with a healthy sprinkle of curry powder for extra kick. Also you get a tiny little plastic fork for your chunks of barbarian pig flesh. Here’s the hint: this is late-night-drunk-guy-street-food, dummy. Considering this, the pricing weirded me out a little ($6 for a very small ‘small’ and $10 for a large).

So, the eating. The wurst itself is smooth and fatty with plenty of juice (#4, see?) and retains a delicious smokiness from the grill. A welcome side effect here is a slight taughtness to the casing that yields to the inside with a pleasant snap. Ironically, this sausage really will make you feel like a man. Once you bite down there is a little chew that almost fools you into thinking you are eating a whole dense cut of meat. As mentioned previously, the fries approach the golden-arched standard of excellence and are thin, perfectly salted, greasy (in the best way) and crunchy on the outside with a soft, buttery interior that is not even kind of mealy. I don’t know how they do this, but they do. Add mayo and you got yourself a deal. The dish falls a little short on the curry front. Though the dusting of curry powder is an awesome touch, it doesn’t make up for the fact that the sauce itself tastes a little like sweet ketchup with a vaguely Indian kick at the end. Its redeeming factors include a little bite and a nice textural thickness. It made me sweat through my shirt, which no one hassled me about. As I was leaving, my waiter asked if I had “enjoyed the Wurst, bro?” Indeed I did.

I give Wechslers 5.7 WWI era Pointy Helmets

Hallo Berlin, Theater District, $7.00

In contrast to the cultural etcetera’s Wechsler’s can pin on it’s tiny lapel, Hallo Berlin sits firmly in the bowels of midtown, across the street from a large and busy gas station and is patronized by the world’s new equivalent of third reich Germans: Bridge and tunnelers congregating for sexually tense and pheremonally dense after office hang out time. The crowd here is indeed strange. A man sitting at a table next to mine excused himself in order to go “wash his paws”. The decor is kitschy in a way that is refreshingly not self-aware or ironic. A sign proudly announces that their house wine is Jagermeister. In short, I think the average tight-jeans wearing unnecessarily mustachioed half-man from an outer burrough could only survive about 15 minutes here before asphyxiating, which for me is a plus.

After about thirty minutes of watching me while she drank her coffee an absurdly friendly Indian waitress came over to simultaneously give me a menu and take my order. She interrupted my halting explanation of the vagaries of temporal causality by pointing to the beer list (again filled the mandatory and absurd encyclopedia of unpronounceable brews in awesome sizes) and asked me if I ever bleach my hair. Touché. I ordered a cabbage and sauerkraut salad, which, in case you missed it consists of: cabbage, topped with more but slightly older cabbage. The Germans are not a subtle people. I also got some currywurst. It comes on a bun, which is essentially a slightly larger version of a sesame dinner roll in appearance and texture, which is a tactical mistake I’ll address in a minute. The whole thing is topped with curry sauce that mixes nicely into the wurst chunks as well as red and white shredded cabbage. The bun, while tasty, disappointed me for structural reasons. It couldn’t deal with the sogginess of the sauce/cabbage combo, nor could it accommodate the heft of the wurst. I am not a discerning diner and I like when stuff falls apart as I eat it–but this was a little sloppy. The curry sauce had a unique mustardy spice that melded excellently with the wurst and the vinegar in the cabbage. The bite lingered, despite being disguised by an initial sweetness, blooming later in the throat and even making me cough a little. I like this. The wurst itself, I noted drunkenly, was “just a good ol’ meat tube”, which in retrospect I take to mean that it had a nice butteriness without being overly salty. Frankly, the whole thing tasted like a thick, well cooked hotdog with plenty of juice.

I give Hallo 2/3 Iron Crosses.

Radegast, Williamsburg, $8.75

So, yes: wah, wah, wah Radegast is an over-hyped Williamsburg hot spot. I have never subscribed to the philosophy that being well liked makes an inherently good thing somehow worse. If the corollary were true I would be an incredible person. I am not. The thing is, Radegast is unabashedly cool, if a little bit pricey. What you pay for though is: unbelievable and professional service (often rendered by attractive young women in Oktoberfest uniforms—look up actual name), a really large space with great music that still beats the funkenshenfreude out of those places in Queens and really, really good food.

At night when general general drinkery prevails you can still get quality meats from the surly gentleman manning the grill at the back of the beer hall. Please take your time to peruse the vast and complimentary mustard selection, including a Radegast house blend and wonder why this is so rare in other German spots. There is also one variety of ketchup. This is because ketchup is the stupidest condiment ever. Anyway, in a departure from the theme of this article I ordered a weisswurst because 1)I am a suprising, dynamic man and 2)they didn’t have currywurst. Weisswurst is a living thesis as to why Germans are an incredible people. The sausage, which looks a little bit like the brain bug from starship troopers sans uncomfortable vagina-face, was originally made early in the morning to be eaten in case of hunger before noon. To be clear: this is a sausage that was made early in the day in anticipation of later snacking needs. The German’s perfected a specially designed snacking sausage. Sit with that for a bit. This thing came in a cool paper tray too, with fries. The fries themselves suck. Smaller versions of homefries, they are sort of mealy and thick on the inside. Whatever. The sausages came in a linked pair, with sweet grill marks and innards that can actually slip free of the casing. This is where things get interesting because the weisswurst is initially terrible. Imagine eating a giant white larva whose dense watery insides had the texture of wet-cardboard pulp. The thing is, with a little of perseverance and mustard, those dense water insides undergo a miraculous transformation, aided by a complex aftertaste that is slightly bitter, yet meaty, that becomes strangely addictive with each bite. Try it with the german mustard and some horseradish.

I give Radegast one entire funny mustache.

I love chicken wings. “I’ll just eat one,” I always tell myself. I’ve devoured what amounts to piles and piles of wings, bless the fallen chickens. The Japanese have taken chicken wing cooking to blissful levels, completely overshadowing the trite ways of buffalo wings. I’ll never return to the land of celery and blue cheese dressing accompaniments. Here are some I’ve tried.

Hakata Tonton
Hakata Tonton serves oddly shaped wings; it’s difficult to know if you’re eating the drummette or wing. Some poor prep cook undoubtedly has the task of dismembering each wing into individual pieces – the product of which creates what I would call “meat logs”. Described per menu as “sesame, sweet & spicy miso sauce” the wing’s coating lends a pasty texture, a departure from the crunchy exteriors I’m used to. The nutty and sweet flavor is strong and muffles most of the natural meatiness. A slight bit of spiciness gives a pleasant tingle as the sweet pasty texture lends an interesting contrast to the crispy deep fried skin of the wings. They’re different and take an open mind to enjoy, but worth the effort and the $7.

Kasadela
These are king sized wings, as if yanked from the body of a low-flying winged dinosaur. Somehow the cooks at Kasadela are able to create a supremely crispy, sweet exterior that’s simply delicious. They’re satisfying in their heartiness, a turkey-leg-at-the-county-fair kind of satisfaction. These hold a special place in my heart, for what precise reasons I cannot formulate. For $8.75 they’re certainly pricey for an appetizer, but the “bigger is better” factor eases any concern.

Tebaya
Served on a styrofoam plate, the immediate fragrance of pepper hits my nose as they invite me to dig in. Ten wings for $8 is quite a bargain, especially in the context of its peers. The wings are doused in a thin, dark, sticky-sweet teriyaki sauce – much more sweet than savory. There’s a generous sprinkling of sesame seeds that somehow get lost in the poos of sauce that floods the plate. As I bite into one it’s immediately evident that the man behind the deep fryer knows what he’s doing – perfectly crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside. The pepper wakes up my mouth, which now basks in a fire of overzealous use of capascin. I find that I drink a lot of water not only to quell the flame but also cut down on the now cloying sweetness of the sauce. In the end the wings are much like eating pancakes – you start strong but end in a “why did I just eat all of that” haze.

Rockmeisha
Those expecting an interesting take on flavors shouldn’t hold those expectations when trying the crispy chicken wings at Rockmeisha – but that’s not a bad thing. Instead of using a deep fryer to achieve textural bliss, Rockmeisha uses slow grilling to render the fat and crisp the skin of the (insert price here) chicken. The tastiest bit proves to be the by-product – the delicious char that can only be forged on the peaks of an open flame. Each of the seven wings is expertly seasoned with salt, just enough to bring out the delicious meatiness of the wings. There’s a notable absence of pepper – A small wedge of lime is all that accompanies it. Try these wings if you want the essence of what a chicken wing is – a careful study on simplicity.

Momofuku
Some leave the best for last but I am no sucker for these conventions. Like anybody, I’m a staunch supporter of delicious, inventive flavors. I’m always looking for the next-best-thing – and who else to bring it than Momofuku, the love child between fans of Sex In The City and GQ magazine? “Smoked chicken wings with pickled chili, garlic, and scallons” was what I was promised by the menu. It proved to be a deceptive ploy as I received wings with only a hint of smokiness with a huge lack of other flavors. It tasted like the wings were marinated in a watered-down mixture of soy sauce and liquid smoke. Highly not recommended.

Thumbing its nose at dieticians across the land, enter biscuits and gravy. Good God, buttery flaky crackly biscuits and oozing creamy gobs and gobs of gravy. And oh, my heavens, they eat this stuff for breakfast in the South. This waist-expanding concoction is not too complicated, traditionally coming in the form of biscuits (American-style, obvi) smothered in white gravy. For those of you Yankees unaccustomed to white gravy, it’s made from bacon or sausage drippings, milk, and flour. Or as Mama at the Silver Skillet—the sole waitress at the truck stop diner of my hometown—once explained: “It’s fat. A little flour, but mostly fat.”

And with that in mind, I put on my pregnancy sweat pants and visited the first restaurant on our list—Cowgirl Seahorse. Cowgirl Seahorse is conveniently located next to my apartment (and also the Brooklyn Bridge) and transports you to the beach bum fish taco stand of your endless summer dreams. Like at the other restaurants I tested, the biscuits and gravy here are only available at brunch. These can be ordered in full—two eggs, two biscuits, sausage gravy, and your choice of home fries or cheese grits—or in a half-serving, which, as any smarty might guess, comes with half the amount of food. My fearful arteries urged me toward the half, and I obliged.

Cowgirl Seahorse

The biscuit comes perfectly dressed in velvety fatty gravy, just enough to get you excited but not so much you forget there was a biscuit to begin with. The whole mess is dotted with crispy morsels of spicy sausage. I’m not usually partial to this fennel-heavy Italian-style of sausage, but it is well tamed by the mildness of the gravy and its homey hints of chicken stock. Beneath all this, the biscuit is buttery and has a good crunch when first forked. However, once forked, the insides are stiff, suggesting a microwave zap in its recent past. Be wary too of ill-executed sideshows—Cowgirl Seahorse is notorious (well, notorious in my book, at least) for overcooked eggs. If you’re looking for over easy, best ask for them raw.

Next up to bat was Egg, a chic sleeve of a restaurant nestled on a hip little Williamsburg block. Some great things have been said about this brunch haven, so wasn’t I surprised when my biscuits and gravy arrived in a shallow bowl masquerading as Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup. And I’m not kidding, this thing came with a spoon and a stack of extra napkins. After fishing around for a bit, I found two lumps that revealed themselves to be biscuits. Although a little difficult to cut into, there was a soft buttery melt-in-your-mouth interior that had been saved from the great gravy flood. The insides of these biscuits were hands down the best part of the meal, but unfortunately there was that tricky 4:1 gravy to biscuit ratio. And as for the gravy (which also comes in a mushroom option), it was crowded with red pepper flakes and bits of gummy sausage, like someone had spiked it with a couple pureed Bagel Bites.

Egg

Moving on to greener pastures. My last stop was Mama’s Food Shop in Alphabet City, easily the most authentic biscuit and gravy supplier on our travels. After ordering cafeteria-style in front of a tidy open kitchen, one takes a seat in a dining room that could’ve been transplanted from the bayou—linoleum floor creaking screen door and everything. Their spin on the dish included sweet potato biscuits, topped with sausage or mushroom gravy, topped with scrambled or poached eggs, all of this spooning your choice of sixteen sides. The sweet potato was a nice twist, the slight sweetness contrasting the heft of the gravy. It had a good crumble, shortbread-esque, when chewed; although oddly, they squeaked like cheese curds when cut into. The gravy was pleasant and diplomatic—no actual pieces of sausage but good sausage flavor, rich but not too thick, peppery but not too spicy, punches of fennel but not overpowering. For cardiac concerns, I went with a side of green beans, which were fresh and crisp but over-salted. Next time, I’m throwing health to the wind (isn’t that what you’re doing anyway, ordering biscuits and gravy for breakfast?) and getting the mac and cheese.

Mama’s Food Shop

All in all, I’d argue Mama’s comes out the reigning champ. She’s ain’t perfect but she’s gives us what we want when we’re looking to eat a solid Southern breakfast—a distended belly and that sickly satisfied grin after the first belch and before the food coma.

“Meat Ball”. These two humble words may represent one of the most economical uses of food-language in English. Compare the moniker to its cousin the hamburger (made neither from ham, nor…burg), or its constant companion spaghetti or the entire noodle family for that matter. What exactly is a noodle anyway? According to people smarter than I (ahem, http://wiki.name.com/en/Noodle) it is derived from the Latin ‘nodus’, meaning knot. Which is horseshit (ed note: the auto-correct in text edit automatically converts ‘horseshit’ to ‘horseshoe’, which I think, for the record, is adorable.) Who has ever eaten a knot? Why would you?

In contrast the meatball itself is as versatile as it is simple, in name and execution. It is a small sphere of meat. If I order a meatball, I will never, ever be surprised when I am served a ball made of meat. There are variations of course. One could, and Meat Ball Shop does, serve a vegetarian version, which ought to be called a veg-ball. It mostly is not. This ball can be composed of different sorts of meats or vegetables and as long as it retains its basic shape it is indeed a meat (or veg-) ball. In addition to the meat possibilities (which of course may be combined with various sorts of herbs, spices and cheeses) there is the sauce to consider. The classic marinara, the brothy-with-a-bite brownish red stuff that comes with albondigas to parmesan cream and beyond. Thus we have arrived at the crossroads of infinite permutations generated by the meatballverse.

For the purposes of this review I decided to limit the review to the three classic meatball types: Italian, Spanish and Swedish. Brief Aside: Please shut up everyone who lives somewhere in Queens and is currently writing to tell me about the Takijistani clam balls that they make in the back alley behind your apartment.

The Meatball Shop

The first question of course, is where to procure the goods. For a good Italian meatball the answer, for anyone with an internet connection and dangerous food-blog habit is of course The Meatball Shop. The saturday evening line was around the block, the service was phenomenal and yes the laminated menu system was cool. Not interested in gimmicks or supply-demand permutation generated hype, I proceeded directly to the meatballs. Some meatballs there were. My dining companion and I ordered the spicy pork meatballs served with a spicy meat sauce over mixed fresh market vegetables, i.e. ‘the kitchen sink’ ($8) as well as an order of both the pork and beef sliders ($3 each). The spicy meat sauce atop the spicy pork ball created a nuanced sort of heat that hit quickly then lingered and faded to reveal delicious notes of tomato and maddeningly familiar taste somewhat akin to a more buttery, earthy bolognese. The texture of all the balls (and to finish my endless list of why I love meatballs, we have the possibility of sentences beginning like the one before this parentheses) was damn near perfect and impressively similar despite the differences in type. The meatballs were smooth and coherent, moist–even juicy–all the way through. My dining companion did complain that the slider buns were too thin and allowed too much sauce to soak through after only a couple of bites. I gently informed her that she was a giant pussy. If I were to go back I wouldn’t pack any sort of fancy pants, I would man up and order a beef meatball hero smothered in parmesan cream sauce. A couple next to us split one and I almost ate it while they were in the bathroom. Rhetorical SNL song-reference question: is that bad?

IKEA

For the Swedish variety, I decided to venture across the river to a little known bistro in Redhook called the IKEA Food Court. Generously described by one anonymous internet reviewer as “the Costco food court but for yuppies and their children” I figured it might just be upscale enough to compete with The Meatball Shop. Furthermore, one can peruse aisle upon aisle of sensible yet design conscious lighting solutions. Suck it, LES. (Ed note: if you actually do end up going to IKEA in Redhook, be sure to check out the ball fields a few blocks away where one can sample the culinary riches of Central and South America via a number of mom and pop food stands). After waiting in a stupidly long line I managed to secure a plate of meatballs with lingonberry preserves and macaroni and cheese ($3.99) and a table overlooking lower Manhattan and the east river, at sunset. Heres the scoop on these balls: There is no reason for mass produced, vaguely rubbery meatballs to taste this good. Texturally, the meatballs are uniform, as if they were once molten-meatball slew that was poured into a mold and allowed to cool, or perhaps grown whole on the back of some unnameable animal deep within the Swedish tundra, assuming Swedes have a tundra. You get it. Also, they bounced. I picked up an IKEA meatball, dropped it and watched it bounce. Despite all this, biting into one was incredibly satisfying. While slightly gummy, the texture also had a satisfying yield. While I munched on one half, the other half of the meatball lay on the plate placidly waiting for its turn. They tasted slightly of beef and possessed an ethereal fatty taste that wasn’t matched at all in feel. I spent my water-taxi journey back to Manhattan pondering the miracles of modern science and the secret schemes being schemed in the bowels of a Swedish design giant.

La Nacional

The final chapter of our thrilling meatball trilogy occurs in the shadowy, (metaphorically) smoke ringed recesses of a dimly lit eatery and bar called La Nacional. Nestled underground at an unlikely spot on 14th St. and populated by a silent 4pm ex-pat crew slow sipping Estrellas and watching Spanish language futbol news, La Nacional drips a gritty kind of street cred (bolstered by its claim to be the oldest Spanish restaurant in NYC) that is entirely missing from the admittedly charming aesthetics of The Meatball Shop. Unlike at the other two locales, the meatballs here are tapas selections, not a main course unto themselves. The albondigas ($9) at La Nacional come simply: a few of them served on a plate with a sauce, preferably accompanied by a glass of red wine. They are buttery, juicy and slightly chewy (in the best way) golf-ball sized things. Sprinkled with parsley and accompanied by a red sauce that is mellow and beefy but ends with a peppery kick. The perfect sort of saltiness rounds out the intense meaty flavor nicely.

As a mere mortal I am no more capable of weighing out the linear virtues of the meatball than I am of weighing the wind or drinking down the seas. What I can do is tell you: the meatballs in this city are damn good and they can be gotten for less than $10. If you’re ever looking for me, I’ll be a pretty safe bet in the darkened Cantina of La Nacional chomping down $9 Albondigas and practicing my Spanish and smoking pretend cigarettes after a little too much Sangria.