REVIEW: The Oyster Bar

On a Tuesday night jaunt into NYC, Rickey decided to stop off for a bite to eat at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station. Be warned: those who are squeamish about eating raw shellfish should avert their eyes at this point. Indeed, it takes a special kind of person to enjoy the sensation of oyster brine trickling down your chin (or man-beard in Rickey’s case). Now Rickey knows very little about the various classifications of raw oysters, but armed with a vocabulary consisting primarily of words such as “awesome” and “scrumtulescent” we think we’ll get the job done just fine.

The Oyster bar features sit down tables, but half the fun of eating there is sitting at the bar and watching the shellfish get shucked right in front of you. So Rickey sidled up to the bar and ordered himself a financially unsound amount of raw shellfish as well as a pint of the local lager. Now, some people might try and tell you that white wine, not beer is a better accompaniment to raw oysters. These people are jackasses, pay them no mind. Rickey sampled a bunch of oysters bearing titles like “Blue Point,” “Wellfleet,” and other names we can’t recall at the moment, and found the Wellfleets to be far and away the best. They’re briny, meaty and sweet—everything that Rickey had hoped for (they’d goddamn well better be at $2.85 a piece). A quick Wiki search on these wondrous mollusks informed Rickey that the salt marshes of Wellfleet, Cape Cod are the perfect environment for raising oysters due to the fact that they are fed by springs. Okey-dokey then. Rickey finished slurping his oysters and took a peek at the entrees.

The main course selections really aren’t the Oyster Bar’s forte, but Rickey figured he’d sample a few things anyway. Ignoring the fact that he wasn’t dining in New England, Rickey thought he’d give the Ipswich fried clams a shot. Predictably, these were not the luscious, plump-bellied beauties you might remember from your Nantucket Red clad yachting expeditions to the Vineyard. Rickey paused while eating these sad little diner fried clams to shed a tear for his suddenly all too distant childhood. The fried oysters on the other hand, were a goddamned revelation, because well, this is the Oyster Bar after all. Crispy, large and juicy, these magnificent fried bastards wiped the preceding travesty from Rickey’s mind. Rickey finished up his meal by feasting upon a dish of oysters rockefeller, which were also exceptional. Reeling from a severe overdose of fried seafood, and badly in need of an antacid, Rickey paused briefly to admire his surroundings.

The decor of the Oyster Bar perfectly matches the rest of Grand Central Station’s majesty. The lighting and mood at the Oyster bar are warm and cozy, yet simultaneously grandiose. For the record, it’s a damn shame no one creates buildings like Grand Central Station anymore. Examining the colorful cloth napkins, Rickey could swear that they were identical to the ones his family used when he was a child—a suspicion that was later corroborated by his mother, who admitted to pilfering the Oyster Bar’s napkins on a regular basis. Lovely.

In summation, for all you seafood perverts out there, Rickey strongly recommends a pit stop at the Oyster Bar while passing through Grand Central. While quite pricey, it’s a worthwhile (albeit waspy) experience for those in search of the freshest shellfish available on the market.

SCORE: Out of a possible five ribs:
4.5

Wild Boar Redux

Hello Eaters! I’m back from a long weekend with the family in Vermont, ready with tales of lightning storms and faked pregnancy and farm stands (oh my!). I love farm stands and Dutton’s is a jewel – if you’re ever near Manchester Center, VT stop in.

But let’s address that second item -- you've all seen the now ubiquitous style of loose, flowing women’s shirts with empire waists, which suggest a certain “with childness,” yes? Well, they’re everywhere and I own one, to my sainted mum’s great chagrin. I guess she doesn’t want anybody thinking she could be a grandma yet, fake or otherwise. So, of course I wore one out to dinner on Friday night to Ye Olde Tavern, and was having a really lovely time rubbing my belly with one hand while I gestured with my cocktail in the other, remarking on how much “Baby enjoys a nice martini.” Cue our waitress appearing as if from nowhere. At least when I go to hell I know I won’t go alone because my relatives have never laughed so hard.

Hijinks aside, I had a wonderful dinner of wild boar chops (Ricky – I knew you wouldn’t steer me wrong!). I think wild boar tastes more like lamb than pork, but in any case it was awesome.

Now then, lightning storms. Southern Vermont saw a doozey on Saturday night, and while the weak-hearted hid under their covers (Aunt Kathy I’m talking to you!) the rest of us watched one hell of a light show over the Green Mountains, drinking and idly wondering what would happen if the cabin was struck.

But then I’m ahead of myself. Earlier that evening we began to see some ominous clouds roll in – not good since we had just built a fire to grill steaks. And that lead to some high-heat, crazy grilling that should only be attempted if there’s just no other way. While the rest of us ran around like loons trying to get everything done before dinner, at least one of us could not be bothered.

Amazingly, the steaks came out of their trial-by-fire quite nicely, and we had a stormy dinner of steak, goat cheese stuffed tomatoes, fresh baked bread and salad, topped off with a local organic beer. Nothing brings a family together like inappropriate humor, Mother Nature’s rage, and fine food and booze. Can’t wait for next year!

REVIEW: Yvonne's

This past weekend Rickey, Ms. Henderson, and Rickey’s folks took a drive up to the Catskill Mountains (aka, the Jewish Alps) looking for just precisely where the gnomes from “Rip Van Winkle” go candlepin bowling. Sadly the gnome hunt proved fruitless, but they did visit a fantastic restaurant which we’d like to share with you. Located roughly 25 miles west of Kingston, NY on the bank of the Esopus river lies Yvonne’s, a small red shack which houses some of the finest French cuisine you’ll ever sample this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Once upon a time, the Catskills were awash in French restaurants run by expatriate NYC chefs. Now? Not so much, and the only remaining joint is Yvonne’s. (The Mapquest inclined can click on the link for directions).

This little haunt is owned and operated by a French octogenarian with a creepy penchant for stuffed dolls (seriously, there are freaking dolls everywhere) and the ceiling is covered in quilts. For lack of better words, we’d call the décor “French Country Style, a la Mickey Mouse.” But once you get past the fact that you’re sitting in a total dive, the food proves exemplary. Yvonne still does all the cooking herself and it shows. The food offerings range from your normal run of the mill French cuisine such as escarole soup and escargots, to your more exotic fare such as rabbit, and brie soup. For an appetizer, Rickey had the duck liver pate which was too good to be described by mere words. Other crowd pleasers included a creamy nectarine soup, the rillette, various pates, and the escarole soup.

For an entrée Rickey feasted upon wild roast boar covered in a lemon garlic sauce. Having never tasted wild boar before, Rickey can definitely recommend it to you folks. Imagine a meat that’s port pork, part chicken, and part unabashed awesomeness and you’re on the right track. It was amazingly tender too. Also highly recommended are the crispy duck confit, and a beef bourguignon stew that was wonderfully tender and flavorful. And to wrap things up, Yvonne’s crème brulee for desert is a must have. Eating the food, we guarantee that you’ll completely forget that you’re situated in the Borscht Belt, in the very un-French-sounding village of Shandaken.

Be warned however, the prices are steep and a dinner for two easily tops $100. And we guarantee that you’ve never spent this much money while dining in a room surrounded by stuffed dolls. A table for four is a cramped affair which is odd considering the fact that on a good night, this restaurant serves no more than 15 people. Also, Yvonne seems to have been effected by the Vichy regime and strictly enforces rules such as ONE TRIP ONLY to the salad bar, an additional charge for French butter (which we imagine is like regular butter, but smarmier), as well as an exorbitant corking fee (the joint is BYOB). Rickey would’ve taken pictures, but that might have resulted in screams of “verboten!” and his camera being confiscated. Indeed, dining at Yvonne’s is essentially a “sit down, shut up, and eat your excellent French cuisine” kind of affair. But trust us, the food redeems everything.

The best part of the experience? Walking out to the parking lot and seeing a large black bear strolling casually into the woods. You better believe he’ll be on the menu next weekend. Yup, welcome to The Catskills. Rickey highly recommends stopping off at Yvonne’s after a day of fishing, hiking, camping, or tubing in the Catskills. This review has been brought to you by the Catskill Mountains Chamber of Commerce.

SCORE: Out of a possible five ribs:
4.7

REVIEW: Ribs on the Run

The wheel. Sliced bread. The Internet. These are all miracles of invention, things that have changed our lives inexorably. Well, I think it is reasonable to add barbecue to that list. The genius of smoked meats is something I will never take for granted. Nor will I ever tire of its flavor. With that in mind, what better way to kick off this food blog than to do a review of my favorite local barbecue joint, Ribs on the Run. Located in Yonkers, NY, this take-out restaurant is (unfortunately) one of the best-kept secrets in the area. I have spent many an occasion introducing newbies to this place. "Good BBQ in Westchester?" people say with skepticism. Ah, the joy of disproving people's doubts!

Tonight, I ventured to Ribs on the Run with Haley and Rickey Henderson, both of whom are contributors to this blog. I wisely dragged Haley to this place years ago, amounting to a "barbecue mitzvah" on my part. But this was, excitingly enough, Rickey's first time-- and while I'll let him speak for himself, I think he enjoyed the food quite a bit.

As I said above, Ribs on the Run is a take-out restaurant. This means that while there are tables inside, it is by no means a legit sit-down restaurant. This is a place where you get your food and either go home and eat it, or eat it at a table off of a plastic tray and out of Styrofoam boxes. What, you got a problem with that?

So, let's get down to the food. If you're going to a place called "Ribs on the Run," you are legally obligated to order their house specialty-- the barbecue ribs. Something magical happens in whatever rib-smoking/cooking contraption these guys have back in the kitchen, because since I've started eating there (going back to early 1990s), the ribs have been nothing less than excellent. We're talking tender pork ribs that fall off the bone-- juicy and meaty all the way through. And the sauce? Not too sweet, not too bitter, but balanced and a perfect companion to the ridiculously tasty ribs.

What else do they serve at Ribs on the Run? Well, if you must veer away from the ribs, they do offer a full menu of deep-fried goodness (fried mozzarella, fried zucchini, fried ravioli, fried clam strips, fried corn fritters, etc.). No, I don't believe they offer salads. But they do offer rib combo platters (pair these succulent ribs with some fried shrimp, BBQ chicken or whatever the heck else you feel like). And the dinner platters come with a generous supply of French fries, cornbread and cole slaw (the slaw is nothing short of awesome as well). But really, the main attraction is in the restaurant's name-- just go there and eat the ribs. You will not be disappointed.

SCORE: Out of a possible five ribs:
4.5

P.S. If you're ordering for a large group (four or more) do yourself a favor and go with the Party Pack-- you get two racks of ribs, several large pieces of BBQ chicken, cole slaw, fries, macaroni salad, potato salad and a nice-sized cut of cornbread. And if you have leftovers, consider yourself lucky. The fries are nice re-heated in the frying pan with some scrambled eggs the next morning.