Every once and a while, I feel inexplicably hungry. Not just I-haven’t-eaten-all-day hunger, but something more bizarre: it usually occurs right after I’ve eaten a regular-size meal for a normal-size person such as myself. And after completing said meal, rather than feeling sated, I’m rummaging around for more food.
People who have known for me for a long time, or have just had the misfortune of being in my presence when my stomach is demanding an unreasonable amount of food, know that I attribute this inexplicable hunger to my imaginary tapeworm, whom I affectionately call Buddy.
The idea of Buddy came to me in elementary school, when a classmate’s father, whom if I recall correctly, was a pharmacist, but he somehow had access to fun biological specimens such as real tapeworms. One day he brought one to class as a show-and-tell of sorts. I remember being grossed-out that it looked just like a very long piece of fettuccine—a pasta that I’ve always been fond of—but after seeing its resemblance to this form of pasta, to this day I’m still more like to order linguine.
Buddy’s pattern of reemergence eludes me. But it’s good to know that he does come back, and I’m always more than willing to increase the quantities of food I consume to accommodate him. In return, he makes sure that I never gain any more weight during his visit.
During a recent visit, I ate half of a Virginia ham sandwich with brie on pumpernickel, a slice of pecan pie, and a very large oatmeal cookie. But this weekend I’ve been especially good to him.
On Friday, Phone and I went to EN Japanese Brasserie on Hudson; a place I’ve been wanting to try since it opened–their house-made tofu being the main draw. Our waiter reminded me of a Japanese version of Ewan McGregor during his fat phase. Phone and I agreed to split our meals down the middle: I’d order off the Restaurant Week (RW) menu, and he’d order a la carte. Which turned out to be a good strategy.
Anyhow, the we started with two small amuse-bouche-style bites: a single roasted cherry tomato in a somewhat shrimpy broth, and a cucumber gazpacho shot. Both fine, but nothing special. But then the tofu came.
Soft enough that requires small ladles to spoon it into small bowls, it smelled just like the tofu I ate when I was a kid. Eating it was akin to getting a warm hug from grandma—it was warm, comforting, and simple in its perfection. Even Phone, whose aversion to mushy things is as confounding as it is legendary (he won’t eat fruit pies, for instance, because the notion of cooked fruit appalls him), enjoyed it. I could eat that every day. Wish I could. At the same time we were served their wheat cakes—small cubes that had a smooth, almost mochi-like texture–served in an enoki mushroom broth. Again, sublime.
A small plate of sashimi followed, which, again, was fine. Then came the RW entree–teriyaki kobe beef–which was overcooked and chewy. Phone’s entree, the miso-glazed cod, was delicately flaky and sweet: both good things in this context, but it doesn’t beat Nobu’s, which is either braised or roasted (it’s been a while since I’ve braved a wait for a table there), and therefore more moist than En’s grilled version.
We finished off with black sesame ice cream, which was a nice change from green tea ice cream or lychee sorbet. Overall, I’d definitely go back for some more tofu and wheat cakes. But steer clear of the RW menu. Clearly they’re not trying to showcase their best dishes with it to garner repeat customers. Had I gone alone or we had both ordered off the RW menu, I wouldn’t be writing about it.
On Saturday, Evil and I went to Tia Pol, which I’ve also been jonesing to try. After a 30 minute wait–we couldn’t have timed it worse, really: We rolled up at 7 PM on a Saturday—the stream of dishes commenced minutes after we sat down. Heirloom tomatoes with champagne vinegar and olive oil were amazing. Mushroom carpaccio was sprinkled with slices of marcona almonds, giving it a great juxtapositions in texture. Lamb meatballs were serviceable. Pork and blue cheese croquettes were devastating. Barbecued shrimp was fine: Evil enjoyed it more. He also liked the Serrano-ham-wrapped artichokes and manchego…a tad too salty for me, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had Serrano ham. I think I’m getting too used to its more pedestian cousins.
Sunday morning, DBF and I had bacon and eggs for breakfast. I had high hopes for this bacon: from Flying Pigs Farm, I guessed might be the same bacon that we had at Ici last weekend for brunch, which nearly sent DBF into paroxyms of delight. (The only reason I thought this was because Ici names the same farm on its menu for its pork loin, so I surmised FPF might be their sole purveyor of pig.) I was wrong. It was fine, but not nearly “bacon-y” enough (which is to say, not smoky enough). The never-ending quest for perfect bacon continues.
Buddy deserves nothing less.
I finally got my 
