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It's finally gotten chilly enough for me to look through pictures of summer meals with legitimate nostalgia. Here's to wistful sobbing for a meal I had at Smith's about a month ago.
Smith's (not to be confused with The Smith) is the first restaurant from Danny Abrams post-divorce from his Beanstalk group partner Jimmy Bradley. Anyone who's been to the Mermaid Inn, Red Cat, or my personal favorite of the three -- the Harrison -- will immediately recognize the vibe and sensibility. Apparently Smith's is supposed to look like a saloon car, but since I was born in the age of the aeroplane, I'm unable to confirm this for you. In any case, the space is certainly small, narrow, and glossily attractive without being slick (Nobu 57, anyone?).
Sunday Grilled Cheese Night is the Smith's riff on homey Sunday night meals being offered at a handful of newer restaurants around the city. Some clever local restauranteurs realized that deep in our jaded, smoggy hearts, most city dwellers nurture a craving for simple meals that bring comfort food to the table without making a big Chelsea scene about it (ahem, Cookshop).
Now, it's fair to say that a huge grilled cheese hog may not be in a position to offer a well-considered opinion on how delicious a grilled cheese sandwich is. But I defy anyone to look at that stunning specimen of edibleness above and tell me I should reconsider. Stuffed with soppresata, grilled red onion, summer tomatoes, and ossau iraty, on thinly-sliced, perfectly grilled sourdough bread, sprinkled with grated parmesan, and accompanied by a pailful of crunchy shoestring fries, this thing was GOOD.
Ossau-iraty is a firm sheep's milk cheese from the Pays Basque, a region in southwestern France. It's nutty, intense without being sharp, tastes distinctly of rind in the best way possible, and gifts you with a very lip-smacking, satisfying, creamy aftertaste. This was the first time I'd ever had it "cooked", and it was fantastic - an expensive upgrade from Cheddar, and more novel than Manchego.
There are a number of reasons why this meal is a taste of summer I'll have to wait another year for. Fresh summer corn, grilled and mixed generously with heaps of tender little chanterelle mushrooms, chives (erroneously called "green onion" on the menu) and bits of red onion made for a salad I'll be waiting for. It smelled strongly of butter and onions, which has always been a wordy way of saying "ravishingly delicious" (go ahead and OED it... I dare you). The other reason is this little buddy to our left, a bourbon-based 'lemonade' the very color of sunshine itself, not to mention the enchanting glee of the devil. Muddled mint, good bourbon, and freshly squeezed lemon juice with a bit of simple syrup made for a pleasing drink or four.
Smith's
79 Macdougal Street (near Bleecker)
New York, NY
212.260.0100
Having grown up in Southern California, I have no intuitive sense of when things are in season, since most things are somehow available there year-round, regardless of whether it's January or June. It's sad, but one of the steps I've taken to rectify this native ignorance is by visiting greenmarkets for seasonal goodies and asking too many questions of vendors. Cooler weather inspires a craving for rich brown flavors, whether from frying, roasting, caramelizing or braising, and an instinctive desire to fill my belly full of hearty ingredients. And when the stomach speaks, I listen. Isn't that what it means to 'follow your gut'?
Saturday at the Union Square farmer's market is always a bit frustrating due to the sheer number of people who mill around without the intention to buy anything, not unlike cows at pasture. But it's also when the most vendors come out, making the weekly trip down to Manhattan. One of these weekly stands is Quattro's Game Farm, a poultry farm up in Dutchess County; a quick stop and I walked away with 1/4 of baby chicken. 
Ginormous wild oyster mushrooms, which sprout abundantly on tree trunks starting the early autumn, were everywhere, and screamed for a saute with butter and salt (and maybe a bit of liquified chicken fat, too, if for some reason you happen to have it sitting in front of you).
It was dinner for one, so I decided on an easy, one-pot dish. I cooked the chicken with olive oil, pimenton (apparently Mark Bittman's favorite spice, and maybe yours as well if chorizo is your favorite sausage), salt, and pepper. The meat was shiny with bird juices, and the dusting of pimenton lent beautiful color and a smoky sweetness. Farm-raised chicken is firmer, chewier, and yet more tender than its industrial counterpart, with the felicitous side benefit that the skin also crisps up better (I'll have to ask why on my next visit), and was so crunchy I was reminded of chicharron (deep-fried pork rind), my favorite 'chip'.
Dump the chicken into hot olive oil, sear thoroughly on all sides (tip: if the skin sticks, it's not crispy enough) till a nice crust forms, half cover the pot with slightly lowered heat, and less than 20 minutes later, a filling start to hibernation mode.
Ah, the aromatic lychee: honeyed, floral, and inextricably imbued with a silken exoticism from its roots in southern China, increasingly incorporated into Western-style desserts, and still primarily purchased in cans. Perhaps because it remains within the confines of ethnic grocery stores (or Chinatown fruit carts), many who count themselves as ardent fans are hesitant to enjoy it at its best: from May to late summer, straight out of its nubby little wrapper.
Don't be afraid! Though it may resemble a flora armadillo, the skin of the lychee is actually very thin, and when fresh, flexible enough to allow for fast peeling with greedy fingers alone. The texture of fresh lychee is closest to that of a large, juicy grape, and is best eaten in one full chomp. The mahogony stone is oblong, smooth, and easy to spit out, kind of like a cherry's.
Ripe fruit have vivid pink or red skin, and are slightly squishy to the touch. Brownish skin indicates a lack of freshness (though they are still edible), and the appearance of dried-out fruit has led to the misnomer 'lychee nut'. Buy by the pound and enjoy while you can, but take care: the Chinese say that eating too many of them will overstimulate your ch'i (life force).
Below is a picture taken last week in Chinatown. Lychees above were eaten in California about a month ago.
I like Marco Cancora even though he took his chocolate doughnuts off the menu at Hearth, and didn't respond to any of my emails begging him to bring them back. And even though I didn't enjoy Insieme, his stuffy midtown eatery in a stuffy midtown hotel, I decided to give his wine bar, Terroir, a shot. Despite its pretentiously evocative name, Terroir is a shoebox located right behind Hearth on 12th Street in the East Village, with a decidedly neighborhood treehouse atmosphere. Other than the bar, the only place to sit is a long communal table squashed up against the wall, leaving people to squash against each other to get to that undesirable seat in the middle of the table. Get cool with this closeness, quick, cause you're going to end up sitting nearly as close anyway.
Warm fuzzy feelings dissipated quickly when I opened the wine list. It's a wine bar with fun graphic design screaming "Summer of the Riesling", so someone, please explain to me how the proprietors decided THIS is okay. Yeah, that's right. It looks like an abstract for an academic conference. And this was only one page of many: every type of wine on the list came with its own verbose disclaimer. This particular page wasn't even about a wine, it's a mini-biography of Alvaro Palacios, a superstar in the Spanish wine world. I understand that it's a wine bar where patrons may wish to be informed about what they decide to drink, but how are we to decide what to drink when we can't even finish reading about the first two grapes? Keeping the language cheeky and personal doesn't prevent the actual exercise from being pedantic - or overwhelming.
BUT the wine list was interesting, the staff was very knowledgeable, and they offered half-glasses at no premium, allowing patrons to sample a wide variety at reasonable prices. It's a great place for a self-selected tasting, with a small menu of snacks to keep you company. The food is unequivocally delicious, but did I mention that the chef (whose name I didn't catch) had the smallest workstation I've ever seen? It was a tiny counter about 2 feet long, with with a hot plate. Seriously; this somehow makes the food taste phenomenal. Major kudos to her for managing to keep other people out of her way long enough to send out perfectly toasted LARDO! bruschetta - this is a picture of the second one I ordered. To photograph the first would've required an X-ray within 20 seconds. Below is the roasted tomato and egg bruschetta.
In addition to bruschetta, there's a small selection of charcuterie, salads and panini, many of which I remember seeing at Craftbar, though I bet even those favorites taste better here, coming as they do from that hot plate. I also sampled the wild boar sausage at our server's recommendation - it was better than I expected, with a rich, chewy texture and hunger-creating gaminess. Am I a hunting outdoorsman in my heart? Cause you know, I'd learn to shoot a gun if it meant I'd have a lifetime supply of that boar sausage. Sorry, no picture as it too would've required an x-ray.
Terroir
413 East 12th Street (between 1st/A Ave)
New York, NY
646.602.1300
It's finally gotten chilly enough for me to look through pictures of summer meals with legitimate nostalgia. Here's to wistful sobbing for a meal I had at Smith's about a month ago. 
Smith's (not to be confused with The Smith) is the first restaurant from Danny Abrams post-divorce from his Beanstalk group partner Jimmy Bradley. Anyone who's been to the Mermaid Inn, Red Cat, or my personal favorite of the three -- the Harrison -- will immediately recognize the vibe and sensibility. Apparently Smith's is supposed to look like a saloon car, but since I was born in the age of the aeroplane, I'm unable to confirm this for you. In any case, the space is certainly small, narrow, and glossily attractive without being slick (Nobu 57, anyone?). 
Ossau-iraty is a firm sheep's milk cheese from the Pays Basque, a region in southwestern France. It's nutty, intense without being sharp, tastes distinctly of rind in the best way possible, and gifts you with a very lip-smacking, satisfying, creamy aftertaste. This was the first time I'd ever had it "cooked", and it was fantastic - an expensive upgrade from Cheddar, and more novel than Manchego. 
There are a number of reasons why this meal is a taste of summer I'll have to wait another year for. Fresh summer corn, grilled and mixed generously with heaps of tender little chanterelle mushrooms, chives (erroneously called "green onion" on the menu) and bits of red onion made for a salad I'll be waiting for. It smelled strongly of butter and onions, which has always been a wordy way of saying "ravishingly delicious" (go ahead and OED it... I dare you). The other reason is this little buddy to our left, a bourbon-based 'lemonade' the very color of sunshine itself, not to mention the enchanting glee of the devil. Muddled mint, good bourbon, and freshly squeezed lemon juice with a bit of simple syrup made for a pleasing drink or four.
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