Hungry for More
Francesca Dodaro
The smell of onions, no shallots. They could serve as the base in so many dishes, yet perfection in such a vegetable can rarely be found. What shall they serve me, a delectable soup, maybe a casserole, or even linguine covered in a flavorful sauce? Or will I experience another disappointment? It makes my job easier, as writing sharp critiques always bodes well. Never has one my criticisms gone unnoticed.
Criticism. Every person faces this word on a daily basis, from parents, teachers, siblings, bosses–the list goes on. While many face criticism, rarely do people get to give true criticism such as I do.
“More wine, Sir?” A waiter approaches my table.
“No thank you.” My reply gives him little to think about.
I glance down at my watch as the waiter circles my table once more, pacing back and forth as if I will bite.
Piattino, another restaurant with hot price tags and less-than-decent food. The only reason I’m rating such a place is because of all the recent press claiming this venue has climbed the ranks in Italian cuisine.
“Enjoy your food, Sir.”
“Thank you.”
The plate of pasta sits in front of me topped with sloppy spaghetti covered in an oily sauce. A side of charred brussel sprouts adds to my nausea with its undercooked stalks still attached. The dish smells like onions with outdated cheesy notes. I wrinkle my nose.
After another sip of my Cabernet Sauvignon, I swirl the spaghetti with my fork and spoon and swallow the first bite. I’m met with an overwhelming amount of garlic-tasting pasta and an unfortunate amount of Parmigiano Reggiano, drowning the delicate taste of the shallots in salty despair. Usually, such an expensive cheese could only enhance a pasta dish, but this is an utter stringy disappointment.
“Waiter!”
The waiter circles back as I push the dish toward the end of the table.
“Take it back and tell the chef he can read my review in three days’ time.”
“Sir, if you could just…”
I leave quite a stack of cash, which is more than enough to pay for such a travesty, grab my coat, and walk out of the restaurant without a care in the world. I wave my hand to hail a cab to take me to my New York City flat in the Upper East Side.
Piattino to Close Its Doors in the Next Month After Renowned Critic Harold Wurnsteld’s Review Hits the Press.
I close the magazine after reading about that pitiful restaurant I put out of its misery. I remember a time when Piattino used to be one of my favorite restaurants to frequent, back when I was a new critic trying to get with the big players in the cooking world. After the new management hired young chefs and service staff, the quality dropped exponentially, but magazines kept giving it praise out of fear of taking down Chef Bianchi’s legacy.
Anyways, time to pick another one off my list.
Hmm…Maybe I’ll go for something that’ll impress me. There’s that local tapas place that I’ve been hearing about. No. Maybe that French restaurant, La Vigne. Too easy, and I don’t want to close another restaurant down. You know what, let’s just walk down the street and see if there’s anything new in the mix.
As I descend the stairs, I realize my taste buds have been longing for a warm hug from my old friend, cozy noodles paired with a fragrant broth. Only one dish can melt what some readers call my icy heart, ramen. Maybe it’s time to find something new.
I smell candied peanuts mixed with the sweet aroma of rain from this morning, and after venturing a couple of blocks down the street and passing numerous fine-dining restaurants, I settle on a quaint ramen restaurant I haven’t seen on my recent walks down the East Side.
After walking through the door, I’m instantly greeted by hearty scents of meaty broth, cooked bok choy, roasted pork belly, and so much more. My stomach grumbles as I take a seat at the counter in the small restaurant.
The waitress places a menu on my table, and I glance at the name. Nagashi Somen. Flowing Noodles. What an interesting name for a ramen spot since flowing noodles is a completely different style of dish. That’s one strike against this place. Hopefully, the food isn’t as disappointing as the name.
I scan the menu and notice your classics: shoyu, shio, miso, tonkatsu, tsukemen, and hitashi chuka. Interesting, I usually don’t see a chilled version of hiyashi chuka.
“Are you ready to order, Sir?” A waitress approaches the table.
“Another minute please, but if you have a cup of Marebito, that would be divine.”
“Sir, sake of that quality is quite expens…”
“Nevermind, the bottle will have to do with my meal.” There’s no room for argument in my statement.
“Right away, Sir.”
The waitress could be a bit nicer, but I’ll let that slide. Now, what to order?
A few moments later, a delicate cup of sake is placed at my side with the bottle in tow. I ready my order as the waitress pulls out her pen and pad.
“I’ll have a bowl of pork shoyu ramen, a chicken miso ramen, and the chilled hiyashi chuka with a side of takoyaki and a bowl of edamame with the beans separated from the pod.”
“Sir, we can’t separate the beans from the pods.”
“And why is that? It might take a bit of time, but I’m willing to wait.”
“No, you don’t understand, it’s the job of the customer to peel the beans from the pods, or else you can order something different.”
“I’m not sure you understand. The customer is always right, correct.”
“Yes, but…”
“Then this should be a simple matter.”
“Right away, Sir.” She hurries to the back of the restaurant, explaining my demand to the sous chef.
Hmm, never has a restaurant actually complied with my demands for such a trivial request. Even the fanciest restaurants always think they’re right and refuse.
I look around the restaurant and see all types of people as I take in the floral and earthy notes with every sip of sake. A man in a trench coat drinks his water as he looks longingly at the street. Probably in some sort of government work, or even better, another corporate idiot. Then I see a couple arguing as the bowls on their table lose their steam. The chili oil, at a surrounding table, gets knocked over as a man hurriedly takes his coat and rushes out with another man in hot pursuit. Lovers’ quarrel, if only they didn’t spoil meals with their arguing. Next, I see a family with a young son. A birthday hat adorns the child’s head, and his parents pull him in close. Maybe ramen is his favorite. A place like this shouldn’t disappoint such a young mind. Seeing so many people from different walks of life reminds me of when I was young and in culinary school, and once blogged about food for enjoyment.
It was my final year of culinary school, and I was most interested in wine and tea pairings for each of the dishes we learned in previous semesters. I was finally able to understand what the restaurants were trying to achieve with each pairing, and I understood when a pairing went awry. Sommelier after sommelier coupled wines to each dish, yet only some of them truly reinforced the subtle notes on the plates.
This was the year I began blogging about the various restaurants I visited and started rating them on my own. I didn’t think anyone would actually read my output, but it was nice to voice my opinion on the various dishes I had learned to cook so far. I recently tried this phở from a little local Vietnamese stand, and I couldn’t have been more delighted. It’s rare I relish in the combination of cardamom, coriander, and beef, but it seems as though my heart was captured. If only my blog could bolster The Balut Egg’s reputation. I glance over the “For Sale” sign signaling the lack of success this little hole-in-wall has experienced. One day I can only hope to support small and flavorful restaurants like this one.
Pulling me away from my thoughts, I see two steaming bowls and a chilled bowl placed in front of me with small plates of takoyaki and edamame beans at the sides.
“Enjoy,” says the waitress.
“Thank you very much,” I reply.
Smells comforting enough. I pick up my chopsticks and spoon and dig into the pork shoyu ramen. The savory broth dances on my tongue, and the noodles are the perfect thickness, which adds to the complexity of the mouthfeel. The saltiness of the soy sauce compliments the tender pork in my second bite. The third comes with a bit of sweet tea egg and crunchy seaweed.
Pushing the bowl to the side, I immediately start on the chicken miso ramen. The first spoonful is filled with a rich broth flavored with sharp soybean paste. The umami notes are heavenly, and the scallions brighten up the richness of the chicken and the warm broth. The second bite comes with stiff noodles that I can tell are a bit tougher because of overworked dough. I take edamame beans in between the bites so as to not overwhelm my pallet with heavy flavors.
The takoyaki is a bit too fishy for my liking, but the plating is acceptable, and it’s a pleasant change going from soup to soup. What is most intriguing is the chilled hiyashi chuka, since it’s a Chinese-inspired ramen-type that has no broth. The chilled noodles are delectable in each bite with the sesame-based sauce dancing on my tastebuds. This change to ramen is one I actually enjoy, and Nagashi Somen seems to have done something right here. I’m not sure if it’s quite at the standard to warrant a full review, but maybe I can throw them a bone.
“The check, please,” I call out to the waitress.
“Right away, Sir.”
I glance behind the counter towards the kitchen and I notice a young chef hard at work. Promising that one. I’ll have to return in the future when he refines his skills. He does seem to have raw talent though. I’ll give him that for satisfying my appetite.
Nagashi Somen Receives Praise from Hard-to-Please, Harold Wurnsteld Who’s Hungry for More
Francesca Dodaro is in the class of 2024, double majoring in English and finance. Aside from going on adventures, she is fond of food blogging. When she’s not partaking in life’s ventures and tasty cuisine, you will find her burrowed between covers wrapped up in a story.