28th
Iron Chefing
I may have fetishized the whole conceit of “Iron Chef” a little since I watch it the same way others watch the playoffs. Here are the facts: Iron Chef in Japan is supposedly based on the folklore of a high ranking nobleman who commissioned various famous chefs in his village to cook in a competition. This is probably something ingenious that the Japanese made up to sell their television show. Iron Chef America is a group of well-picked Food Network stars who compete against challenging chefs like Cantu from Moto and (my boyfriend swears) the current Top Chef darling, Richard Blaise. But the chairman in the Iron Chef American version is just some random actor picked out of forgotten kungfu pictures. This all leads to my palpating excitement at going to Chef Masaharu Morimoto’s eponymous restaurant in the meat packing district of New York. I was making the quick right turn onto 9th Avenue when I heard the distinctive thumping of New York rats stumbling about—needless to say, I broke into a sprint.
Egads! Morimoto’s partner, Stephen Starr has a flair for decadent interiors.
I wish my toilet area was covered in infinity mirrors and flowers.
I’m not sure if the bidet controls speaks to the quality of food at Morimoto. I hope not.
Beef carpaccio with hot oil. I guess purist would say that this wasn’t a “true” carpaccio since the hot oil lightly cooked the outside; but it was delicious.
BLOW UP
I’ve read mixed reviews on the Tuna Pizza; some have referred to it has “high end fast food.” These are not the people who have ever have tasted fast food because this pizza was light, creamy, and generally lacking in any 25cent menu quality.
Spider Rolls, the Coach bag of sushi, always reliably good and a bit awkward to put in your mouth.
While everyone else oo’d and ahh’d over the black-soy cod, I was adamantly set on duck since I’ve never met an air-borne fowl I didn’t like. The slightly rare duck breast was wrapped in the softest, flakiest croissant with slices of cucumber to break up the fat, rendering the BKing idea of croissanwich to pieces! I was only disappointed in the sauces, which tasted like they came straight out of can. The middle sauce is a poached duck egg, which was well cooked, but also bland.
Maybe its just the dramatic interiors at Starr’s restaurants, but the clientele seemed to be primarily May-December romances. While fun for gawking, it turns a little more uncomfortable at the sight of gnarled fingers clawing at soft young shoulders. Eech. I will return for the duck, and hide myself away in a corner somewhere.
