Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack

This blog entry is a front. I might as well just admit that right now. I know that the "Foodie's Guide" is supposed to be about food (duh) and because I am a purist, I'll write about food - towards the end. But for the moment, there are more pressing matters.

Those that know me, know that I am truly passionate about - maybe - three or four things. Clearly, food is one of those things. But, if there is anything in this world that gives food a run for its money for a place in my heart, it's the Red Sox. My beloved boys won their division for the first time in twelve years. I am just thrilled because, above all, they deserved it.

I am a typical, totally-over-emotional, crazed Sox fan and I can not say that there was not a night in late August when I might have screamed out loud at my television set, "Teams that get swept by the [expletive] Yankees don't deserve to play in October!" But I was wrong. There, I said it. They fought hard all season long and they played some outstanding ball.

One of my favorite things this season was how a bunch of the youngest players and some of the most unsuspecting guys became stars. Think about the season that Dustin Pedroia's had or how invaluable Mike Lowell has been, or about the "kids" who didn't even know if they'd see major league play, including the incredible Jacoby Ellsbury (seriously, did you know he hit .353?) and the insta-star Clay Buchholz (look at his face, it's like apple pie in the human form).

Even most of those burdened with big expectations lived up. Our ace, Josh Beckett (or, as he's know in my house, "my boyfriend Josh"), got his twenty games and David Ortiz, despite having a more mortal number of home runs, had one of the best offensive seasons in the American League. And, just in the spirit of gloating, I have to tell you that around late May, I said to my husband Paul, "I have a feeling that Lugo is really going to come alive after the All-Star break." Thank you, Julio.

A critical component of my Sox mania is Fenway Park. Is there a more beautiful place on earth? Even the Today Show gave it its due (take that Yankee Stadium). I love the whole experience: that first cool night in April when you walk up the ramp from the concession area and see that impossibly green grass for the first time in a year; knowing which pitcher is coming to the mound by what ridiculous nineties song is thumping out of the sound system; the fact that you are with tens of thousands of other people that are living, eating, breathing each pitch, each swing.

I went to my last regular season game this afternoon. It was a game that "meant nothing"- every uncertainty about the post-season had been decided the night before. Even knowing that, when the Sox managed to load the bases at the bottom of the ninth for a run they desperately needed, every one of those 35,000 fans were on their feet chanting, cheering, and pounding their fists. That is love. And I love being part of it.

Ok, enough blathering. I could seriously go on and on about them. But I did promise that I'd talk about food! I guess when you are discussing food at Fenway Park, you're really talking about Aramark. Aramark handles all of the concessions at Fenway, including the guys that lug goodies around the stands (quick marketing comment, because I can't help myself, whoever thought of putting those guys in bright gold uniforms was genius. In a sea of red and navy, you can see them across the entire stadium).

Now, when you're going to the park, it is essential that you get the Fenway Frank. It never fails to delight. It is vital that you get your dog from a vendor in the stands. The ones that come from the concession area just are not the same. As far as hot dogs go, these are perfect - steamed, with a doughy, 1970s Wonder Bread-esque bun. I like mine with a whole package of Gulden's mustard.

Other delicious snacks available at Fenway include "hot, salty nuts" (how could you not want to eat them?!), steamed pretzels, spicy fries and chicken fingers, grilled sausages, soft serve in a mini plastic helmet, and Legal Sea Foods clam chowder. [Sidebar: The chowder is only served in the better areas of the park. I usually sit with the steerage class in the bleachers, but today a friend had gotten us great corporate seats by third base and I found out that they even deliver it to the seats over there ("getcha hot soop, heah!"). I'm outraged. Aramark is so getting a letter.] The options that I usually find to be unsatisfying are the popcorn, cotton candy, pizza, hamburgers, and their version of "Dippin' Dots" (the little frozen ice cream pellets).

I'd give the Aramark concessions at Fenway Park a B. Top off a dog and some fries with a chocolate-vanilla twist and enjoy watching some big, drunk dude get tossed out by security. More importantly, don't kick over your Bud Light when you leap from your seat to see Manny hit one over the Green Monster.

It's October, people. Time to get your "I Believe" pants on.

Grilled Steak + X = Excellence

I was always a pretty good student. With that said, in my entire academic career, I only ever received one A+ on my report card (it was in Algebra... is that too nerdy, or what?). Sure, I probably got a half dozen A+s on tests or papers over the years, but only once on the overall grade.

When I started this blog a few weeks ago, my choice of evaluation method for restaurants was totally random. I walked out of B&G Oysters feeling like it was basically a B+ experience, so I used that rating in my first posting and I've basically just stuck with it. However, I now find myself in a dilemma. What defines an A+ restaurant? Could there be such an establishment? Can you make that assessment in one visit? How do you measure completely abstract aspects of a restaurant experience, such as food, selection, service, atmosphere? This is no 2X + 4 = 8, solve for X. This is much tougher, much more subjective, much more art than science.

Even as I write this, I remain uncertain of how to score Grill 23 & Bar. I had the enormous pleasure of dining there on Friday night and it will not be a meal that I soon forget. Grill 23 was definitely on my "wish list." It is consistently rated the best steakhouse in Boston, so it seemed like the perfect choice for my husband's birthday. This man is a slave to his grill. He likes a good piece of charred meat. So I knew he would love it, however, I certainly didn't expect to be so overwhelmed. I was. It was incredible.

When we arrive, I am surprised by the size of the place - it's huge. The first floor must have nearly 100 tables. Paul notices too, though his feedback is, "it's loud." I agree, but it doesn't bother me; I love a place with a bit of a bustle and Grill 23 definitely has it. It also has the dark wood, black & white tile floor decor of a true, traditional steakhouse, which is just what you what it to look like. Due to a happy accident of having a late reservation (seriously, who can make it to dinner at seven on a Friday?! I've barely left work by then.), we are escorted to a room on the second floor with a clubby, bookish feel. It's much quieter and Paul is pleased. Good; it's his birthday after all.

The servers are quick to the table and knowledgeable, but not pushy. Just what I am looking for in a good waiter or waitress. I feel a little sorry for them having to wear those ridiculous ivory-colored wait "coats" that look like straitjackets. Oh well, I guess it's all part of the tradition. I also need to take a second to acknowledge that they asked for permission before removing anything from the table, from my nearly-finished gin and tonic to the bread basket. Also a huge plus for me. Who hasn't had the last nibble of their meal scooped up by an overly aggressive waiter, leaving you with your mouth hanging open and fork poised mid-air. Oh, how I hate that!

The menu is simple, but absolutely full of things I would like to eat! I am usually fairly decisive when I see the menu selection, but choosing at Grill 23 takes me a bit of consideration. I finally settle on a fois gras appetizer and the dry-aged New York strip steak, with a side of buttered asparagus. Paul goes for traditional (read: boring) shrimp cocktail, filet mignon, and mashed potatoes. While we wait for our meals, we nibble on the bread, which is a standout, as far as bread can be a standout. The foccacia, baked with Tuscan veggies like sun-dried tomatoes and slices of portabello mushroom, as well as the cracker-like flatbread, dotted with red pepper flakes, are especially good.

Our appetizers arrive relatively quickly and the are nothing short of beautiful. The shrimp are jumbo and plated artfully on a bed of crushed ice. The fois gras is pure art. Now, before you get all PETA on me, let me just say, I KNOW. Fois gras is so cruel it is actually outlawed in some countries. But it is just so delicious, you must eat it at least once in your life. It's an experience. Mine is seared to caramelized perfection and served stacked on two small herbed crepes stuffed with a sweet-spicy onion chutney with a drizzle of demi-glace on the plate. It is one of the finest courses I've ever eaten.

With our apps, we've moved on to a bottle of Lazy River Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley just outside of Portland, Oregon. It's a wine that Paul and I tasted at the vineyard about two years ago when we toured the region. The Pinot Noir from that area is spectacular and ours was a great pairing with the fois gras, as well as the steaks. The wine list at Grill 23, as you might expect, is an absolute tome. The priciest bottle that I see is $3,200. Holy Crap. Paul will have to wait till next year for that one.

When the steaks arrive, I can see and smell that they are perfect before even tasting them. And they are. Seared just enough on the outside to give them a tasty, crunchy crust, while still pink and tender on the interior. They are topped with a butter sauce that is outstanding, but totally indecipherable. My foodie curiosity has been raised! What is that mystical combination? The waitress later reveals that it includes Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce, garlic salt, amongst "other" ingredients. I would have never sorted that out on my own. The thin asparagus has a simple drizzle of butter with some Parmesan shavings and cracked black pepper. I am astounded at how they have prepared it with just the right tender-crisp consistency - I can barely achieve that at home when cooking for just me and Paul, much less thousands of diners a night. Sadly, Paul's mashed potatoes are a total disappointment. They've formed a gummy film from sitting out too long and lack any punch of flavor.

We polish the meal off with a chocolate mousse cake, per Mr. Chocoholic's choice. Again, his birthday. The cake is delicious and comes in a huge portion. The cake layers are moist (something all restaurants struggle with) and the mousse is dense, all covered with a rich, dark ganache. What especially impresses me is the quality of this finish. Many, many places serve fine food only fail short on the dessert course. It seems to me that they invest so much in a chef de cuisine, the pastry chef just plays second fiddle. This is not the case at Grill 23.

Before I wrap up this post and get to that grade (I'm not procrastinating, I swear!), I feel that I need to cover price. This was an incredible meal. It was also the second most expensive that we've ever had in Boston. The Boston Globe Magazine just wrote a fascinating article about the increasing cost of high-end meals in Boston. The article focuses much of its critique on the "$40 steak" and the marketing propaganda that restaurants serve up around terms like "dry-aged" and "hand-picked," both of which are used on the Grill 23 menu. I'm not sure where I stand on this debate, though I am certainly a believer that all good meals start with quality ingredients. However, I didn't have a single issue with what we paid at Grill 23, though it had nothing to do with the provenance of the meat. The execution of the meal was exquisite and, ultimately, made it one of the best I've ever had.

But was it an A+? I'd have to say no. When you are gauging a meal like this, frankly, every detail matters. Which ones didn't quite get it the "+"? The potatoes. Really, steak and potatoes are a classic combination - who doesn't order the mashed potatoes? They needed to kick a** to match the steaks. They didn't. Also, I booked this reservation through OpenTable. In my booking, I sent a note to the maitre'd that it was Paul's birthday. Despite this, there was no special fanfare for him during dinner, leaving me to believe he wasn't really paying attention to the information provided by the site. Lastly, the next day, I received an e-mail from OpenTable noting that I seemed to have "missed my reservation" because I didn't check in and, therefore, risked losing my "points." I have no idea what OpenTable points are and I could care less about losing them, but I was a little ticked all of the same. Was I now somehow blackmarked on the site? If Grill 23 is going to allow you to book through OpenTable, they need to close the loop with them. Otherwise, the service seems lacking.

I'd give Grill 23 & Bar at 161 Berkeley Street in Boston an A. Just do it. Empty your checking account and GO.

Have the collahed greens, y’all ain’t in Bawston no moah.

A girl doesn’t start a blog called the “Foodie’s Guide to the Hub” without a reasonable amount of confidence in her local restaurant knowledge. If I haven’t eaten somewhere, I at least know a little about the chef’s bio, or I’ve read the review, or – bare minimum – I’ve heard of it. Right? Wrong. Recently, Paul and I made dinner plans with our foodie friend and her husband (“friend of foodie”) and she asked, “should I pick a place?” Sure, yes, great, always up for a new adventure (secretly certain she would pick a place off of my “wish list”). Next thing I know, to my inbox arrives an invitation from OpenTable (a great website, by the way) for dinner for four at… Bob’s Southern Bistro. I’m sorry, where? There’s a Southern Bistro? In Boston (the South End no less!)? And who is this mysterious Bob, anyways? A place I’d never even heard of… well, now we had to give it a try. Besides, when a girl from Alabama tells you where to get good southern soul food in the city, you go.

The first thing that tells me that Bob’s is going to be a different kind of joint is it’s sign. It’s huge. And neon. The restaurant ends up being kind of long and skinny in shape, so the giant, block-long sign belies how cozy the place is once you get in. The second thing I notice is the eclectic crowd in the restaurant – definitely a bunch that look like they have been coming to Bob’s for a very long time. Turns out, Bob “the Chef” has been turning out southern cuisine in Boston for nearly 50 years. The décor is funky and the walls are crammed with original art, including large oils of famous jazz musicians done in all gray tones and these outstanding folk art collages by Ekua Homes. Up front is a tiny stage, filled to the limit with instruments. The affect of this cumulative atmosphere transports you right out of Boston to a nondescript side street in the French Quarter. I love it already.

The place is pretty full even at 6:30 and they are short staffed – the barman is running late, so the host is tending drinks. So getting a glass of wine and a table takes a few extra minutes. I am so enamored of checking out all of the art, I don’t even care. When the bartender finally does arrive, his white shirt is open and his bow tie is slung around his neck, but not tied. I immediately think of him as just finishing up playing a gig somewhere and racing off to his night job. It’s so New Orleans-esque, I wonder if the unkempt look was intentional.

When we finally do sit, the band is just getting started. It’s very loud, which makes it a challenge to catch up with our friends. On the plus side, the music is excellent – upbeat and authentic. The lead is a rail-thin lady in her fifties who plays the hell out of the sax. It was very cool to see a woman playing, since jazz is usually dominated by men. Our tiny waitress is friendly and helpful with the menu, though I had to ask her to come over and stand right next to me so I could hear her. We order a huge pile of food while simultaneous wolfing down the delicious corn muffins that the host has brought over.

Abandoning all care of my arteries, I order – yup, I am a little sheepish to even admit it – fried chicken, with sides of mac & cheese and collard greens. My cohorts order more of the same, as well as ribs, mashed potatoes, rice & beans, and… “Chicken & Waffle.” I am assured that this is a true Southern tradition. “Friend of foodie” tells me it comes from the days of the jazz musicians heading home from the clubs at dawn and stopping for a meal – it was sort of dinner and sort of breakfast, so chicken & waffle was born. I love this, not only because we’re ordering the weirdest thing on the menu, but also because I am a total tramp for useless trivia. I am a ringer in Trivial Pursuit. This is so going into the mind vault.

Our dinners come quickly and the portions are generous. Now, I am about to give you my thoughts on the meal, but I first need to say, I am far from an expert on this type of cuisine. There are those in the food world that have spent dozens of years perfecting the right fry batter and coating for the chicken, as well as technique for getting just the right crispiness and color in the fryolater. I make boring, health-concious, baked faux-fried chicken at home, so basically any true fried chicken is good to me. And Bob’s is. They call it “glorifried” – cute, right? The fried coating was thick and super crunchy and just a touch spicy, with a healthy dose of black pepper. The meat itself was a little dry. The sides are also quite yummy. The mac & cheese is good, with a nice baked top and visible curds of cheese, and the collard greens are excellent, spicy (red pepper?) and flavored with onions and, perhaps, chicken broth. Bites of Paul’s dinner also showed off really tasty mashed potatoes as well as ribs with a nice smokey-sweet sauce, though again, the meat was a little on the dry side. The only true disappointment of the meal was dessert. Having seen sweet potato pie on the menu, I was hankering for that. Sadly they were out of the sweet potato and I ordered the pecan pie, which the waitress proclaimed, “pretty good.” She was generous. It was pretty bad. While not a great ending, the overall meal was terrific – though probably just a once a year treat. I am still full the next day!

I’d give Bob’s Southern Bistro at 604 Columbus Avenue in the South End a B. Be sure to have an extra side! Oh, and skip dessert and order another cold Red Stripe. The latter will be way more satisfying and still gives you squatter’s rights to a table, so that you can linger over another jam or two from the band.

Second Chances

I am a big believer in second chances. This applies to my life overall – we won’t go into that right now - but definitely to restaurants as well. Every place can have a bad night. Every place has at least one dish that is less than stellar. So, I generally don’t write a place off after a single visit. However, once a place has disappointed me twice, it is dead to me. This is not baseball, people (thank god, if restaurants were as undependable as the Sox, you’d have to commit me!), there aren’t three strikes!

Alas, a potentially-talented hopeful got its second chance last night – and failed – again. When I’d heard a few months ago that the folks from the Washington Square Tavern were opening a second outpost a little further down Beacon, I was thrilled. Washington Square Tavern is one of my favorite spots in the city. It’s small and dark inside and the décor is minimal, but elegant in a way you would not expect from the local pub. They serve great wine and consistently great food. I love it there.

Sadly, I can not say the same for the Beacon Street Tavern. Its one major advantage, no question, is a fantastic patio out front. Al fresco dining is a rarity in Brookline and the people watching, especially on a game night, is outstanding. From there, it kind of slides downhill. The bar area is large, but it is framed on one side by these two weird, giant velvet couch-banquets where people are dining. The bar inevitably gets busy and you’re bumping into the tables, annoying the diners and dodging the waitresses. The main dining area attempts to recreate the cool, sedate, upscale look of WST, but it’s just too big to carry it off. The room feels empty, not cozy – plus there’s this odd secondary bar in the back. I just don’t know what the point of that is?

But at the end of the day, who cares, right? Isn’t all about the food? If only the food could save the Beacon Street Tavern. The first time I went, my food was entirely passable. Given that was a few weeks back, I don’t remember the details of it perfectly, but I do know that I ordered a salad and the fish tacos. The salad was good, if standard fare, the tacos themselves were tasty enough – spicy, with well-cooked white fish. However, the sides seemed to have some right out of a box of Old El Paso. At the end of the meal, I chastised myself a bit for ordering a somewhat weird dish. The WST had never failed me with upscale, bistro dishes like pan-seared fish and grilled pork chops. I left feeling that it was me, the menu-item-picker, who had failed.

Ok, so not a great start. But I was willing to give it another go. Last night, we had a guest in from out of town who was hoping to grab a quick dinner with us, as well as some other friends and family that live in Cambridge. With Brookline being a good spot in the middle, we opted to try the Beacon Street Tavern again. First off, parking was a nightmare. This was no fault of the Tavern, but was certainly not a plus for the location. After three full loops around Beacon, we found a spot and made it to the restaurant. It was relatively empty and we got a table right away.

Our table was serviced quickly with bread and water and drink orders. The bread was coated with toasted sesame seeds and came with a nice garlicky hummus, which was a great sesame-tahini flavor combo. From there on in, service ground to a halt. Our waitress was very sweet and pleasant, but didn’t seem to be communicating well with the kitchen, which ended up in a screwed up order of oysters not once, but twice (a funny menu item for this place to begin with). Both times they corrected the order, but it left you wondering what would happen on a busy night. Then came the waiting for the dinner. And the waiting. Waiting. It must have been a good 25 minutes before we were served our entrees. Those reading the blog with rapt attention will remember that I said the place was all but deserted. I am ninety percent sure the kitchen staff was all watching the ball game (it was the Yankees, after all). There was also the biggest crash of plates and silverware I’ve ever seen in a restaurant. A good twenty pieces must have hit the floor.

Finally, the waitress emerged and my dinner was before me; the BST’s second chance awaited. I gave the place my best possible effort by ordering the pan-seared bass with haricots verts and a hash brown patty. A dish that I KNEW would have kicked ass at the WST. At the BST, it more or less just kicked the bucket. The fish itself was good – well-cooked and moist – but it was served in what was described on the menu as a tomato coulis – a substance that ended up being an overly-sweet, almost marinara-like sauce, just without the tasty Italian spices. The fish was layered on a mound of thin green beans that were drenched in butter and another huge flat surface that I, at first, took to be another piece of fish – it ended up being the hash brown, so overcooked that it was the same blackish color of the bass’ skin. I ate about two bites. My fellow diner ordered a side of sweet potato fries, which were outstanding.

So, I won’t be giving the Beacon Street Tavern another chance. It has had its two and there are plenty of other places out there that serve terrific food - I just hope one of them is still the Washington Street Tavern. I’ve not been back there since my two visits to the BST and I can’t help but wonder, does the BST fall short because it is the neglected second child? Or have both establishments withered while attention is now being split between the two? I hope the latter is not true.

I’d give the Beacon Street Tavern, at 1032 Beacon Street in Brookline, a C. Skip it and pay its lovely sister a visit, just up the road.

Garlicophiles Unite!

Man, this blogging thing is tough. Six days have flown by without a single note from me! Ok, back at it.

I know that I mentioned that I was in marketing, but I don't think that I have fully admitted yet that I am a total marketing geek. It doesn't help that my husband is also in marketing and we've actually had this conversation over dinner: "Hey, I got, like, a 4% response on my direct mail campaign this week!" "Really? That's awesome! What's the lead conversion looking like so far?" Could it get any hotter?

One of my favorite marketing-geek games is figuring out how I get on certain mailing lists. What magazine subscription do I have or website did I sign up for that happily sold my data to someone else looking to market useless junk to my demographic? Today was an especially fun day for this game... I received a newsletter/announcement for the Friends of Garlic (FOG) Annual Virginia Garlic Festival!

Garlic has friends! They host a festival for their buddy garlic! In Virginia! They know who I am and where I live! And they want me to come to their special party! Holy crap.

Now, when I say newsletter, I mean it... eight full pages dedicated to news about the organization, vendor profiles, a schedule for the event , an appeal for applications for Junior Garlic Queen (ah, the glory), and more. I thought I liked garlic a lot. (I have a mini panic attack when there's none in my fridge - how is one supposed to cook anything without a nice fresh bulb of garlic? And no, I do not use the jarred stuff. It feels like cheating.) I would have even said I love garlic. I was WRONG. These people love garlic.

I am in no way mocking FOG (I'm so dropping that acronym left and right when I am in ole V-A). I totally, completely get this kind of senseless dedication to food.

Food is incredible. I don't mean in the metabolic sense, though that's certainly amazing. I love that food can come together with a little or a lot of manipulation and be nothing short of art. I love that food represents culture and history and yet is constantly evolving. I love that food is almost always present when we are happiest. I love that food is fleeting in nature and sometimes reminds us to savor our time and not just blindly plow through life. I think that the FOGs get this and, for that, I admire them.

I probably won't make it to the actual festival, but I am thrilled to be an honorary FOG! (My marketing-geek radar says that now that I am on the mailing list, I will forever more receive this newsletter.) Oh, and speaking of marketing-geekiness, I finally did sort through how they got my name. As a foodie, I've (no surprise) taken more than one vacation to wine regions around the country. My last one? Central Virginia. If you go, try the sweeter whites like Gewurztraminer and Reisling - delish. Just don't sign up for more information!