Orinoco Flows

When dining out with friends, I try to not be too pushy about choosing a restaurant. Naturally, I always have a running hit list of places that I want to try, but you never want to be the person who puts up a big stink about where to go. However, when I made plans for a weeknight dinner with my oldest friend, I insisted that we go to Orinoco. First off, I figured that she's (mostly happily) put up with me through twenty years of friendship and that she would forgive me for my one-time foot stomping over where we needed to eat. Secondly, she speaks fluent Spanish and has lived in South America, so, if I needed any guidance navigating the Venezuelan menu at Orinoco, she was my girl.

Orinoco, like Gaslight, is located in the South End. Unlike Gaslight, it doesn't have the unique luxury of a parking lot. So it required three trips around the block to find a spot near the Shawmut Avenue address. Even once I squeezed my car into a tiny spot, I was still not certain that it was a legal space - at that point, I could have cared less. Needless to say, I was a little frazzled by the time I got there. As it turns out, that was not a problem. It seemed that every aspect of Orinoco is geared to put you at ease.

We arrived just as the restaurant was opening at six in the evening and we were given our choice of tables by a very affable young host. The restaurant was tiny and dark, lit only by the red votives dotting the tables and the diffused street lights coming in through the windows. We chose a snug table by the bar and, before I even sat down, I excused myself to go to the ladies room. This offered me a chance to walk through the entire restaurant and spy on the funky art work and distressed antiques that added to the decor, making for a cozy, but hip atmosphere.

As soon as I get back to the table we were greeted by our lovely waitress, who had a thick Spanish accent. She asked if we were ready to order drinks and I knew that I was going to have a glass of wine so I decided to choose quickly. I selected a glass of Torrontes, which is an Argentinian white that you don't often see on menus. The waitress tells me that it's light like pinot gris, which I actually know since I've had it before, but I appreciated that she helped give some orientation on the South American aspects of the menu - this guidance continued when she went through the specials, which is terrific. There is nothing worse than struggling through a menu of unfamiliar cuisine and feeling embarrassed about your ignorance. The staff at Orinoco know that eating Venezuelan is not an every day experience for most Americans and they seem happy to answer questions and encourage experimentation.

My friend and I decided to share both our appetizers and our entrees for the maximum tasting experience. For our first course, we went with the Palmito Ensalada and the Tequenos. The salad included several layers of flavors, including mixed greens, hearts of palm, endive, red onions, and bleu cheese in a tasty vinaigrette. Also dotting the plate are three dates wrapped in bacon, stuffed with a marcona almond - a perfect mouthful of sweet/salty and crunchy/smooth. The only culinary low light of the night was the Tequenos - guayanes cheese wrapped in dough and deep fried served with chipotle ketchup. I know what you are thinking - "fried cheese with spicy sauce, how could that go wrong?" That's pretty much the exact thought process that led me to ordering it, but it was a letdown all the same. The cheese was sort of lost in the bready coating and the ketchup, which I expected to have a homemade, chunky consistency with visual evidence of the peppers, tasted and looked like a cup of Heinz 57 with a dash of hot sauce.

Based on the advice of our waitress, we selected two of the specials for our main course. We decided to share each by eating half way through and then switching, so when they arrived, I randomly chose to start with the beef tenderloin. The meat is tender and well-prepared, but it was not the star of the dish - that honor goes to the crab picadillo. Fresh, creamy, smoky, and spicy... I could have eaten an entire plate of just that. This was served with several giant spears of asparagus - I prefer the small ones, but all the same they were prepared to a perfect degree of tender crispness. This dish was so delicious that I was a little sorry when it came time to switch. That's because I didn't know what I was missing. The other entree was lamb chops crusted in pistachios with a mixed salad. The salad was somewhat similar to the Palmito, so it was a bit overkill at that point, but it did not matter one speck. The lamb, served with a bright green herb sauce, was sensational - earthy, nutty, and unbelievably garlicky. It was so good, I thought about it all the next day.

We finished up by sharing (of course) an order of quesillo, which is traditional Venezuelan flan. I really like flan and this was as tasty as I've had - a little denser and more custard-like than a smooth, creamy Spanish flan, but still excellent. By the time we were scraping the last little smears of flan from our plate, the restaurant had literally filled to the rafters, with diners spilling out the door. Clearly, Orinoco had become a hot spot. Just as I was noticing how many people had poured in, the owner swung by our table to check in and see how we enjoyed our meal. We gushed about what we'd eaten and told him we'd be back. He mentioned that they'd become so popular, that they were opening a second location in Brookline Village. My first thought? Better parking.

I'd give Orinoco at 477 Shawmut Avenue in the South End an A-. Show up early and let your server guide your selections - you'll leave fantasizing about heading out on the next flight to Caracas.

Pretty Narcissus

Blogging is a funny thing.

Right around the same time that I started this blog, we had our annual company summer party and, as the director of marketing, I'd hired a photographer to capture the event for our website. The photographer ended up with a number of pictures that included a friend of mine from the office. I asked if he wanted copies and he replied, "what me, narcissistic? Yes, please." I laughed at the time because I thought he was being kind of vain (if he's reading this now, he's going to be a little mad, but he'll recover...). But looking back at that incident, I realize that we're all narcissistic at times, it just manifests itself in different ways. I'd rather pour lemon juice into an open wound than look at photos of myself, but if someone compliments this blog? I'll preen for days.

It's been fun to get the kudos and even more fun to learn who's reading, especially when it's complete strangers. It makes me feel weirdly connected to the rest of the world. I have one friend who swears that her whole office is addicted to it. My uncle reports that a colleague of his (in California!) is most fond of my posts that refer to the Sox. My mom claims that she has all of her neighbors reading it. (But she's my mom, she has to say that.) Oh, and who can forget the incident when I learned that the actual chef I'd blogged about had read my entry when he e-mailed me. It makes you feel a bit like a celebrity and it's sickly thrilling.

Blogging can be viral - that's sort of the point, I guess - and when it is, it can be exciting, overwhelming, and even a little scary. As a self-labeled type-A, one thing I love to do is to check my blog's stats. I do this through Google Analytics, which is absurdly easy to use and offers more information than any weekend-blogger could ever possibly need. Late last week, I hopped on and checked out where my blog stood. I pulled up the main graph (which shows visits to the site) and I immediately thought that something was off. The graph was all out of whack. It had this giant spike on Friday. I played with the settings a bit, but I just couldn't figure out why the graph was all screwy. Then, I realized... it wasn't wrong. I'd gotten nearly two hundred hits that day. Now, in case you are thinking at this point, "why, Foodie, your blog is so compelling... you must get hundreds of site visits every day," let me assure you that, no, I don't. On an average day, I'll get between five and fifteen hits... and that seems like a lot to me!

After a little digging, I figured out that my post on Gaslight had been referenced on a site called Universal Hub and it directed a ton of traffic my way... at least for that day. I have no idea how the editors stumbled onto my blog or why they felt that my entry on Gaslight was worth reposting on their site (when, in fact, I feel like it's one of the weaker ones I've written...). This is what I do know... on Universal Hub, readers can comment on the content and comment they did - about me, about my blog, about my opinions. Gulp. Some were complimentary of my writing and agreed with my assessment of the restaurant (preen, preen, preen). Some disagreed and were even slightly insulting (jerks! meanies! dumba**es!). Whichever way they felt, it was clear that I was out there. Saying what I had to say and opening myself up peer review. And... all under my real name.

When I started this blog, I debated the name issue a bit. Should I include it? Was it wise to give out (even the most innocuous) details about my life - where I live, where I eat, what I do for a living - with my name attached? Isn't this exactly what all of those identity theft commercials warn you about?! I have a good friend who blogs about her family and her daily life and she uses code names for her husband and her daughter. The names are pretty cute - including one that she calls Cook. I'm dying to ask her the secret meaning behind them. It makes me wonder, if I'd gone that route, what names I would have given me and Paul? In my house, I guess I'd be Cook. Paul would be Sous-Chef. That's what I call him when we cook together. It's totally demeaning and it irritates him, which is, naturally, all of the incentive I need to keep doing it.

At any rate, obviously I didn't go that direction. I went ahead and used my name... I figure I'm out there on LinkedIn and Facebook, why not Blogger? I have a sort of informal rule, however, of only using my name and Paul's name (from whom I got explicit permission) - never any of the friends with whom we dine. I figure, knowing that I'll be reviewing the very food we're enjoying (or not) is pressure enough for one meal, much less feeling like they might be inadvertently thrust in the limelight (otherwise known as Universal Hub).

This is the six month anniversary of the blog and it's been an interesting ride. Despite all of the feedback (mostly good!), I really do still write it as much for myself as for anyone else. Though, I'd be remiss if I didn't admit that it's the anyone elses that make my heart skip a quick beat each time I click "publish post." It's true, I am pretty narcissitic about the blog. And what do I hope to see when I look at my reflection in the pool of water? Someone who is decent writer. Someone who can make others laugh. Someone who loves food so much that she tries to do the nearly impossible with it - put it to words and make it a story. A good one. I hope that, when you read the blog, you see a little of that too.

Thanks.

Light My Fire

I knew that this list thing was a good idea. After a few failed attempts to find a night that we were all free, my two girlfriends and I finally settled on last Thursday night for a dinner of catching up, gossip, and, hopefully, some tasty food. Having been featured in an early blog entry in which I mercilessly mocked suburban chain restaurants, the girls very kindly offered to let me pick a place in the city! Using my list as a guide, I chose Gaslight - a fair bit of variety on the menu, mid-priced, and an up-and-coming location. And, above all, it had free parking. You did not read that wrong. A restaurant in the South End with free parking. How many times have you gone to dinner in the South End and nearly quit before you got to the restaurant because you were on your fifteenth trip around the block, looking for a place to stick your car? For us three ladies, all of whom would be driving to the restaurant, this perk sealed the deal.

Gaslight is partially subterranean and huge; much bigger and less intimate than I expected. On a Thursday night, it was packed to the gills with a noise level to match the two hundred or so diners in the restaurant. Happily, we had a reservation and were seated right away. The decor was all that is was promised to be - burnished mirrors, brass accents, black & white tile floor, antique Ricard bottles lined up on the molding. It would have felt authentic, if it wasn't so perfect. I'd give Gaslight a few more years of operation, allowing some dust and grime to build up, to really emulate a Parisian brasserie.

Our waitress greeted us soon after we sat and I immediately noticed how pretty she was. Not in an over the top sort of way, but more of a girl next door sort of way. As the night went on, it became painfully clear how much she needed her looks. Things were bad from nearly the first moment. She took our drink orders and returned with them fairly quickly. Great right? It would have been if one of them hadn't been dumped all over the table from a tray tipped so precariously, I actually saw the drink slide right off. Like any good girl next door, she was mortified and truly apologetic. These things happen and we were fully willing to move on without complaint. Well, everyone expect my girlfriend who's drink had been sacrificed to the table gods. We had to remind the waitress that she needed to replace the beer.

Things didn't improve from there. I am reasonably sure that she brought us the wrong dish, though we ordered one of two very similar dishes on the menu, so I can't be certain. We were asked twice if we were done with our half-eaten appetizers, though our plates were full and it was pretty evident that we were still eating. We needed to ask for refills on the coffee, even though we lingered at the table chatting long enough that it was clear that we were looking for an excuse to draw the night out a bit (I know what you're thinking, maybe they were trying to turn the table over... they weren't, the restaurant had substantially cleared by then). Sadly, despite all this, the worst infraction came in our very last interaction with her. Two of us put in cash for our portion of the bill and my second friend asked to put her portion on a card, clearly indicating the amount to the waitress. The credit card slip came back with the full amount of the bill, with the cash already pocketed. We had to have her correct the error and left the restaurant laughing about how my friend would need to check her statement to be sure she wasn't charged twice.

Ok, here I am more than halfway through this post and I haven't mentioned a word about the food. Does that tell you something? Maybe not what you think... the food was good, some of it was even excellent. The service was so bad it colored the whole experience. Unfortunately, just another reminder of how restaurants really need to have all wheels on the track, or the train is never getting out of the station, no matter how shiny the engine.

And Gaslight's engine was awfully shiny. We shared two appetizers, including the Gaslight Salade, which featured haricots verts, roasted pearl onions, and lardons, on a bed of frisee with a light lemony vinaigrette. Overall, the combination of flavors worked nicely, though the haricots verts and the lardons both could have been a little crisper. We also ordered (I thought) the fondue piemontaise, but were served the fromage blanc. Luckily, this dish was subperb! It was essentially a flat crock of melty cheese, dotted with thyme and coarse salt, served with big hunks of toasted baguette. Bread and cheese. What more could you want?

For my entree, I ordered the duck confit - hey, when you're going to go French, go French. The confit was spectacular - it practically came to the table still crackling from it's bath of boiling fat. Oh yeah... confit is not for the light of heart - literally or figuratively. The rich duck meat was served of a bed of shredded chard and orange sections, both of which (the spicy bite of the chard and the tang of the citrus) made for a great balance. The course was also served with roasted new potatoes which were unremarkable, but were a requisite starch, I suppose. The dish's only failing was a heavy hand with the berry sauce served with the confit. While a classic pairing for duck, it was cloyingly sweet and competed too much with the citrus.

We finished the meal with an order of the chocolate beignets to share. The little fritters were almost more like mini molten chocolate cakes and were served with a thimble of creme anglaise to cut the intensity of the chocolate. While the flavor of the dessert was relatively standard, the presentation was creative and it was a tasty enough way to close out the night.

I'd give Gaslight, at 560 Harrison Avenue in the South End, a B+. If you want a city dining experience without a city parking experience, it's a great choice. One word of warning? If your waitress looks like a girl that you wished your brother married, ask for a new table.