Damn, I wish I had time to start a whole new blog, just so I could name it Binge Bingo.
Anyway, neither of these mini-reports really capture full-fledged binges (& you better believe I should know). More like Tidbit Bingo, but that doesn’t possess the same ring.
Last Saturday, the Director & I hit Ghost Plate & Tap for an early sup. The place was ghostly indeed upon entrance—shrouded in the dull glow of its still-dinerly décor & near-empty—but I’m relieved to say business was brisker by the time we left. Meanwhile, chef Christopher Cina has the chops to liven things up considerably. For instance, while the killer-flatbread competition is weirdly fierce in this town—Coohills, Amira Bakery, twelve & Encore on Colfax all come to mind as contenders—Cina’s giving it a real go with this sunny, robust thin-cruster. Roast chicken, fingerlings & tomatoes, caramelized onions, gorgonzola, & fresh rosemary all pull their weight in due proportion.
Billed as a salad, the seared Scottish salmon could as easily pass as an entree; either way, it’s done to a T: the fish buttery enough to eat with a spoon & offset by the tang of caper aioli on the one hand, herb vinaigrette on the other, which respectively grace a fluffy potato cake & a tangle of watercress.
Debates over what constitutes the perfect French dip have surely been swirling since the sandwich was invented at the turn of the 20th century, but my own criteria are as follows: 1) the roast beef should maintain a tinge of pink, however slight; it should be shaved paper-thin & piled high. 2) Horseradish, grated or creamed. Slathered. Period. Beyond that I don’t care what is or isn’t involved—Swiss cheese, onions, pickles—nor whether it’s served wet or dry. (Okay, I also care about the quality of the bread/roll, but that goes for any sandwich; it’s not the mark of a French dip per se.) YMMV, as they say, but Cina’s version met my standards.
That we had to skedaddle afterwards seemed a shame of anyeuristic proportions once I caught a glimpse of the triple-chocolate-chip cookie plate on the table opposite us (& then of the dessert menu as a whole, including jalapeño crème brulée). Better scheduling next time.
Speaking of chagrin, I hadn’t set foot in Table 6 in forever, & upon meeting French Press Memos’ Andra there for happy hour on Monday I’ll be damned if I know why I’m not there, like, right now. Life’s too short to not be eating báhn mì sliders & scallop-shrimp sausage coins over blini & remoulade-esque aioli.