e a t e r y R O W

TRIBECA TACO TRUCK

Broadway, between Spring and Prince

Since time immemorial, New Yorkers have loved street food. It's in our blood. From the Sabrett hot dog carts on every museum mile corner to the sweet roasted-honey smell of the Nuts 4 Nuts stand wafting down the block to the Halal guys drenching your lamb lunch in a soup of "white" sauce and colon burning hot sauce, if the food's being hawked on the sidewalk, we assume that it has to be good. And it's a pretty good bet that we're not wrong. In the last few years, street meat's gone upscale with the food truck. Every week it seems that the Times is talking about a truck festival or Time Out is doing a comparison of the top 20 rolling menus. Some of these trucks have been so successful that they were able to expand into brick-and-mortar storefronts (see: Schnitzels & Things). But then it sort of removes the fun and, dare I say it, romance of eating truck food.

Every taco came with cilantro and onion. There were a variety of taco fillings to choose from, a variety of sauces to pour on top, and a choice of soft or crunchy. I'll always choose a hard taco over a soft one and I stuck to my guns this time, too. As for the fillings: soy mango, chipotle crema, avocado crema, pineapple barbecue, salsa verde and picante rojo. The first four are, I'm certain, very tasty. But it seemed to me that they would probably overpower the fillings with sweetness. So I stuck with a traditional picante rojo.

I ordered four (the limit you were allowed to order), all different, like a variety pack. First, Cactus. Cactus was one of Tribeca's two vegetarian options, the other being chipotle tofu. It wasn't a bad taco, but it wasn't a good one either. Cactus is a relatively tasteless plant and tastes pretty much like okra without the slime factor. Next time I want to skip the meat I'll go with tofu. Up next I bit into the namesake Tribeca, chorizo and spicy pork. Not bad, but not as good as number three, the Al Pastor spicy pork and pineapple. Ah, now we're getting somewhere. Sweet in all the right places with the spicy tang of the pork. But I have to say, my favorite of all was the plain old, simple as can be Ground Beef. Not greasy, not bland. If I ever find myself getting a taco in Corona, it's my go to taco, and I think it will be here in SoHo, too. Perhaps that's boring of me, but I've always seen tacos as comfort food. It's already perfect, so why fix what ain't broken.

Though that said, I bet a s'mores taco would be pretty neat.

GRAVY

32 East 21st Street

New York, NY 10010

(212) 600-2105

There was a time, not long ago, when eating "Southern" food meant trying to find a halfway decent barbecue joint or driving halfway to New Haven to sup at a Cracker Barrel. But, in the last few years, chefs have been traveling north and settling into the deep blue confines of the Big Apple. Hell, Madison Square Park now hosts an annual barbecueathon pulling famous joints in from across the country for a weekend of seriously non-kosher, thoroughly un-vegan delight. One of the latest of these southerners is Gravy in the Flatiron district. And, while Gravy is good and fun, it's certainly priced to cover the rent.

If most other southern restaurants try to play up a cliched hokey, country music lovin', pickup truck from 1975 drivin', I drink shit beer in a can, mamma didna raise no sissies, whachoo lookin' at boy, I'll take some pecan pie, thank you very much ma'am boni-fidees, then Gravy seeks to undo all that with virtually no Mason-Dixon Line references outside of the kitchen. Everything here is clean and modern and upscale and pricey. The food ain't cheap and the drinks are even less so. There's a sexiness in the air that can only really be understood when you sit in the lounge at the entrance. It was like being in a hotel lounge and, while waiting for a table, we were handed the cocktail menu. We felt cheap just waiting, but I wasn't about to pay $14.

The meal was started as we stared at our menus, deciding our fates. "I hope we get cornbread," said Speeds. "It's not a southern meal without cornbread." Honey Rosemary Bread appeared in front of us instead. And before you besmirch the honey rosemary bread, it was insane. It was beyond good. It made cornbread look like a joke southerners play on everyone else while they stick with the good stuff. So the next time someone hands you a plate of cornbread, you just send it right on back.

Mr. Dogz opted out of the appetizers, but mine was the Louisiana Crawfish Gumbo Fritters, with a tomato aioli for dipping. It was okay. Not very crawfishy. The dish was made with the aioli. Without it, you'd have been eating deep fried lobsterish balls. Emphasis on "ish". Speeds got the Fried Green Tomatoes with shaved fennel and goat cheese and thought they were pretty good. I never got a chance to steal a bite, and at one point even asked her where her fried green tomatoes were. "I finished them" she said. "You mean that salad?" Yep.

Foregoing an entree in favor of a large side dish, Speeds followed up her Fried Green tomatoes with the Crispy Mac and Cheese, a casserole macaroni and cheese dish with a breadcrumb top. This time we all got to try it. Not bad, we all noted, but we also all had better. I suppose that everyone has their own favorite macaroni and cheese recipe, usually made by some relative or other, and who can really compare to that? My entree was the Black Garlic Braised Pork Butt with marinated arugula under honey grit cake with toasted corn relish. Mr. Dogz argued that this was the best dish of the night. I was less impressed. I was expecting a big filet mignon sized chunk of pork with a half inch of crusted fat across the top. Instead I got a sloppy joe without the bun. So, I mean it wasn't "bad", but it wasn't really what I thought it would be. Just call it "Fancy Sloppy Joe" and then maybe I won't feel so bad dropping $20+ on it. My vote for best dish of the night went to Dogz's Corn Flake Crusted Chicken. A ball of chicken stuffed with andouille and cheddar, braised collards and kale, and barbecue beans. It was like a down home countrified chicken cordon bleu. But less healthy.

In conclusion, Gravy is cool and fun. The crowd is young and trendy in a Flatiron District sort of way. But it isn't really worth the price when you could get better, or at least the same, for less elsewhere. I can see myself returning, but I can't see making myself a regular here.

NINTH WARD

180 Second Avenue

New York, NY 10003

(212) 979-9273

One fine sweltering summer day you may be like me, longing for some food, dying for a spiked drink, and wondering "where, Lord, can I go escape this heat and grab some liquid sin?" Around the corner I foundeth mine answer. Ninth Ward right between 11th and 12th street. I walked in and the place had was drowning in the smell of oak and whiskey and sugar and with a hint of charred beef. A hundred degrees in the shade outside, it was cool inside and pitch black, lit only by the open door and the candles.

I returned later in the week, after a movie, with a few friends (Gloron, Mr. Dogz, Emma, and a few others who don't as yet have names). We were led out into the rear patio area and seated near their fountain. The humidity was a killer that night and if Ninth Ward has a flaw, that flaw was our waitress. I like Ninth Ward - a lot - but with the humidity and the heat, they should have had pitchers of ice water rearing to go by the dozen. Instead, no such luck. We asked and waited and re-asked and re-waited. One pitcher arrived and was instantly emptied. Our drinks were on the way, we were told. Gloron, no slouch when it comes to lending an un-asked-for hand, got up, walked over to our waitress (who spent an inordinate amount of time inside where it was cooler) and said "Hey, would you like help carrying stuff, like waters, around?" She declined.

Eventually, our drinks did come, soon followed by the food. And before you begin to feel that this one person, in tandem with our sweaty and irritable selves, ruined my opinion, I did in fact return with more friends (Seth and a friend of ours from L.A.) just the other night. And the service then was problem free.

My first meal was the Pulled Pork Sandwich, a big honkin' 'wich with potato chips, pickles (that you should totally put in the sandwich) and some slaw. It was spicy and messy and sweet and after I ate it, it sat in my stomach like a brick the way a pound of barbecue sauce coated pork should. Emma, choosing to avoid becoming quite the fat slob I'm turning into ordered only appetizers (and then shared them?!?), the Dirt Fries which were very good spicy french fries, and the Slap Ya Mamma Buffalo Wings, which were pretty average wings. I usually expect more bite from my macho misogyny-themed foodstuffs, but alas. Mr. Dogz and later on, Seth, picked up the Debris Dip, a french-dip type sandwich with shredded beef and au jus and they both thought it was fantastic. Gloron ordered the Gumbo, a chicken, sausage and shrimp stew, and though it was just okay. My friend from L.A. ordered the St. Charles Chicken Sandwich, chicken, herbed mayo and melted provolone cheese on a ciabatta roll and thought it was far better than just okay. Our table also ordered an appetizer of Fried Pickles because, once you see that on a menu, how do you not get them? They were loved by all. Upon my return, I ordered a starter of Shrimp & Andouille Skewers, grilled shrimp and andouille sausage, which was super good. I mean, it's shrimp and sausage. What's not to love.  That was followed up with the Bleu Bayou Burger, a hamburger topped with bleu cheese and chocolate covered bacon. This was heaven on a plate. 

The U.S. Open Food Tasting Preview

The US Open attracts more than just the hard-bodied sex symbols of professional tennis and their legions of fans from across the globe. It most importantly attracts their sponsors. And sponsors, like all of the rest of us, need to eat. And because these individuals need to eat well, the US Open also attracts designer menus, this year whipped up by guest chefs Masaharu Morimoto (of Food Network fame and head honcho at Morimoto) and Tony Mantuano (of Bravo's Top Chef and grand poobah at Spiaggia).

I sent my intrepid photographer Emma to go and check out the scene because A) she's a far more attractive public face for this humble little blog, but also B) because my flight from Belgium had been canceled, forcing me to subsist on a meager diet of crepes, mussels steamed in white wine, and Trappist ale. My thanks goes out to Emma for taking the time to eat for me and for you, so that we might both know what the box-seat hob-nobbers get to indulge in after the matches.

For the record, Emma's favorite dish was the Serrano ham on bread and the crab cake, and her favorite drink was the Honey Deuce, the US Open's signature cocktail: Grey Goose, lemonade, raspberry liqueur, and honeydew melon "tennis balls".