The Big Country

Peppadew be Mine

Bar food: what’s not to love? Yes, it’s there to help soak up alcohol or enable a total lack of self-control after four beers. From a diner’s point of view, there’s more experimentation in these snacks than in many entrees in New York these days. To whit: Peppadew lollipops at Company Bar.

Company Bar is wholly unremarkable in the universe of East Village watering holes, though, strangely, it has a kitchen. Chef Rob Ziser, himself an alum of a few fancy New York kitchens, rented the kitchen from the bar and sends out a tasty selection of bar food, all coming in at under ten bucks. It’s bigger news than the bar’s high-tech, low-quality jukebox (low-quality unless you’ve been searching endlessly for a jukebox with Rush’s brand-new album) and eclectic sampling of patrons (drunks and preppies, on a recent Monday night). 

The Peppadews are stuffed with cream cheese and garlic before they get put on a stick. On the outside, Peppadews look like tiny Macintosh apples, and indeed, they are classified as a fruit and not a vegetable. The flavor of the Peppadew, a South African pepper, is both sweet and spicy, perfectly complemented by the addition of the cream cheese. Sure beats salted peanuts or the constantly recycled Chex mixes you find elsewhere. The lollipops encapsulate Ziser's philosophy at Company, gently tweaking foods that you know and love.

Peppadews are said to be the first new fruit on the market since the kiwi, itself introduced two decades ago. According to the literature on the official Peppadew website, Peppadews have a 24-month shelf life. Maybe they’re like maraschino cherries, and naturally belong in the bar, but let’s hope they don’t sit in your stomach for the whole two years.

Emily Post's Beatdown

One of my fondest memories of school days is from a visit to a school that I wasn’t actually attending at the time. And fond is not really the word… terrifyingest is. True, there was only a brief moment of terror, and terrifyingest may not be a word, but it did turn into a fond memory. I swear.

As a young teenager in the mid-90s, my family visited my grandmother’s hometown in the Czech Republic, Rychnov nad Kneznou. For reasons I don’t quite remember, the whole family ended up on a tour of the local elementary and middle school, which was to culminate with lunch at the school cafeteria.

You can bet I was excited about that last bit. I was limiting my diet on this trip to schnitzel and potatoes, with the occasional pizza thrown in for good measure. And pizza was way more adventurous at the time than it sounds now. Czech pizza was routinely topped with canned corn and other surprising hey-don’t-put-that-on-there-oh-God-no foodstuffs, depending on where you went in those days. Whoever said that there was no such thing as bad pizza had clearly never been east of the Rhine.

Before we could partake in that thrilling meal, we toured the grounds of the school with the principal. Ever the lazy teenager, I lagged at the back of our little group, listening to my Dad translate about the fascinating pedagogical techniques employed in this little corner of Bohemia. I couldn’t believe I was missing school so that I could learn about school. At that moment, that very thought, a hand on my collar unceremoniously yanked me backwards.

One of the teachers grabbed me and was berating me in Czech. I didn’t speak it but it didn’t take a translator to tell he was not pleased. As my parents receded into the distance, a vision of my new life flashed before me. I would live in the utilities closet at the school and mop the floors to earn my keep. I would grow thin with rage and malnourishment from the cafeteria food and socks with sandals would seem like a reasonable sartorial choice to me. I could do it!

Whatever my transgression, the teacher released me, and I hurried to catch up with my parents. I wouldn’t have to start over in a foreign country after all. Phew.

I later realized that in my haste to stick with the group, I failed to allow two young Czech girls go through the door before I did, leading the teacher to give me a brief, loud lesson in proper manners via the scruff of my neck. I learned about teaching techniques in Czech Republic whether I wanted to or not that day.

Even now, I still let everyone pass through the door before me. You never know when you might feel a hand on your collar.

Hum Dinger

Congratulations to World Hum on their acquisition by the Travel Channel! Mo' money, mo' bettah, is what I say. Besides, now they get their checks from the same people that bankroll Tony Bourdain (in part). How bad can that be?

Branson Over Missouri

Virgin America got the OK to start flying last week. Bully for them! Soon you’ll be able to enjoy Richard Branson’s signature combination of press-savvy entrepreneurialism and facial hair on a flight between SFO and JFK, instead of being forced to rough it on JetBlue, or, God forbid, Delta. Lost in the shuffle of the VX’s nervy rollout is Virgin’s track record running an LCC.

The predecessor to Virgin America is Virgin Express, not Virgin Atlantic. Thus far, that airline's performance has been lackluster. Seriously, do you remember hearing Virgin Express, a European LCC, mentioned in the same breath as Easyjet or SkyEurope? Heck, it’s hardly mentioned in the same breath as Hooters Air because Virgin Express is based solely out of Brussels and unlike JetBlue, there are no Mormons to be found anywhere on the board.

In other words, don’t get your hopes up just yet, Bransonophiles, not until Sir Richard challenges Ryanair’s Michael O’Leary to a round-the-world balloon race for slots at LaGuardia. Then the fun can begin.

The Muscles of Brussels

I got the chance to visit Resto on Park Avenue the other week. This was before the New York Magazine four star bonanza; presumably I’ll never be able to get a table ever again, if Resto inspires the same kind of devotion as Momofuku does. You know, it used to be that the people milling outside a restaurant at noon on a Tuesday here in the East Village were homeless or drug addicts, but now all they want are pork buns and ramen. I suppose they all want spoons one way or the other.

Nonetheless, Resto is an excellent Belgian restaurant, a dying breed here in New York.  Markt was downsized after being pushed out by the Apple store, of all things; Bruxelles is hardly a cozy place to eat, and Petit Abeille is good for what it is, namely a Belgian version of Ruby Tuesdays. And who remembers the days of Belgo? Maybe Burp Castle bought their surplus robes on the cheap.

It’s surprising that the Belgian restaurants didn’t remain popular; as a restaurateur, there’s so much potential for markup, from nine and ten dollar plus beers to plenty of stews (cough cheap meats cough) and “stoemp”, called mashed potatoes anywhere else.

I guess this makes me a Belgian food snob, and while Resto isn’t “authentic” Belgian, that’s probably a good thing. It’s what I’d call rock n’ roll Belgian instead. Just look at the amazing deviled egg: Served atop “pork baguette”, the chef actually takes guanciale, minces it with bread crumbs and sticks it in the fryer, turning it into a “baguette” on which the egg is served. It’s pork sex on toast. I was also impressed with the carbonnade, which was refashioned with beef cheeks and stewed with all sorts of delicious things (in fact, it read like a tale of Saturday night and Sunday morning, as it’s made with coffee, beer, and whisky) and is far superior to any of the sad strips of beef that typically comprise carbonnade.

The niggles come when they stray from Belgian strengths: the fries are wimpy and the chocolates, while creatively served like a cheese plate, are not from the Low Countries. But best of all: there wasn’t a single picture of Tin Tin to be found inside the whole joint.

My Reputation Precedes Me

GoDaddy.com, how dare you suggest such a thing? Wait 'till the sorority sisters hear about this one!

Chinese Czechers

Excellent article in this week’s NY Times Travel section on German beers by Guy Grain himself, Evan Rail. His description of Berliner weisse reminds me of drinking straight lambic in Belgium, a flavor I’d describe as fermented Cream of Wheat.

While it’s always good to see that he’s moved on to more lucrative pastures, he is missed (by me) at the Prague Post. It feels like Dave Faries hasn’t given the thumbs up to a restaurant in Prague since he arrived, and I remember Evan as a bit more even handed. Context, people! Yes, Prague is a more expensive city than in years past, and expectations are much higher for the food, but it remains a tiny landlocked city in a country without much of a culinary tradition (just look at what’s happened to the higher end grocery stores there; even Carréfour couldn’t survive); is it ever much of surprise when the sushi makes you yen for the fake crab of your youth?

One problem is the ex-pat fever that sets in for Asian food over there after a month or so in town. Cravings develop, and the pickings are pretty slim—though it used to be far worse—for Asian foodstuffs. When I was there, Orange Moon was passably good, the quality improving the longer it had been since I had eaten real Thai food.

The real mystery is why the Vietnamese food isn’t the gold standard in Prague. There is a big Vietnamese population there, thanks to the last fifty years of Czech history, but there really isn’t a killer Vietnamese place in town. A restaurant as good as Saigon Grill in New York (well, without the labor troubles) would do wonders—Czechs could get a taste for the flavors, which are less spicy (they fear the Scoville scale, friends) and fresher than Korean or Thai, and ex-pats would have at least one go-to Asian restaurant. Prague Spring rolls, anyone?