The race to find the next cult burger shows no sign of stopping, but I’m getting weary of ground beef done every which way in a soggy bun. And while enthusiasts kvell over the fresh beef (“Nothing Frozen!”) in a Five Guys burger ($4.79 for a “little burger”), the “Famous Fries” are much more noteworthy than the beef in this spic-and-span franchise, which now boasts 625 outlets nationwide.

No match for the Shake Shack’s juicy, fatty burgers, the leathery patties could also do with a dose of the Shack’s special sauce. But focus, instead, on those fries in the wire baskets, sizzling in peanut oil. Unlike ones that look like they were cut from some generic starch product, these boast their potato provenance in taste and texture: thick cut, golden and dappled with crinkly brown skins. If only they were a wee bit crisper, but why complain when you get so many? A regular portion ($3.29) of feisty red-peppered Cajun or plain fries comes in a tall paper cup, and they’ll throw the equivalent of another order in the seemingly bottomless brown paper bag. An upbeat vibe, free salty roasted peanuts in the shell and endless drink refills make Five Guys the place to get your fries fix.

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By Josh Perilo

There was a rep for a particular distributor that our wine store bought quite a bit of product from that really got under my skin. She came in monthly to do tastings for the customers. Every time she did, we had some kind of exchange that varied anywhere from snippy to downright mean.

Near the end of one of her tastings, a young man asked me if we carried any Sherry, and if so, what different types we stocked. I showed him two drier and lighter Sherries. One was a Fino, and the other a Manzanilla.

“Both of these are very, very dry,” I explained, “but the Manzanilla is going to be just a touch lighter and crisper.”

“Actually,” an authoritative voice behind me boomed, “the Fino will be the lighter of the two. Also the drier.”

I whipped around. There she stood, hovering.

“Hmm,” I said, cocking my head to one side, “I think that’s the other way around, actually.”

“Nope,” she quipped, patting my arm like a puppy dog. “I know my Sherry. And Fino’s drier than Manzanilla.”

My face was hot and my hands shook for the rest of the night. I knew she was wrong. Later that evening when I closed up shop, I pulled out the Oxford Companion to Wine and Karen MacNeil’s Wine Bible and looked for my evidence… and found it immediately.

I was right! She was wrong! I told the general manager first thing the next day, using the rep’s gauche snafu as fodder for a request I had been relishing to submit:

“I don’t want her back in this store again. Ever.”

And with that, I had this woman removed from our store’s account.

She didn’t lose her job, of course. And she had too much seniority with her company for it to make a real difference in her career, but I felt like I won. For a while anyway.

Then other feelings set in. Had I stooped to her level to get what I wanted? Why did I let something as trivial as “which wine is more delicate” become the lynchpin in a passive-aggressive battle of the wine dorks? I wasn’t a mean person. Why did I act so childishly?

Unfortunately, what I did and how we both acted is de rigueur in the wine industry. The childish one-upmanship of wine professionals, in retail, wholesale and literature, borders on kindergarten-behavior at times, and misplaced egos can have detrimental consequences on people’s hard-earned wages and professions.

I bring this up because of a recent article in the September 30, 2010, issue of Wine Spectator. Regular columnist Matt Kramer wrote a piece entitled “Let’s Make it Simple,” wherein he condemns the philosophy of “making wine simple.” While I personally disagree with his philosophy, there’s certainly nothing wrong with voicing one’s opinion about your own ideas on what makes good wine good and bad wine bad.

But Kramer goes farther. An Australian company, Grateful Palate International Pty Ltd, which imported many wines that Kramer puts in his category of “simple,” recently fell into some difficult financial trouble that may effectively end their distribution in the U.S. indefinitely.

To this news, Kramer writes: “I, for one, am glad they went belly up.” He then describes two of the wines they distributed by saying, “Hell, it isn’t even wine—not real wine, anyway.”

Kramer’s infantile attitude is the last thing that this industry needs. It’s one thing to give a wine you dislike a thumbs down. It’s very different to throw a party at a funeral and tap dance on a company’s grave.

At the same time, I understand where he’s coming from. We all want our team to win. We want the stuff we like to be held in highest regard. But we shouldn’t sacrifice our dignity by celebrating when the other team loses. Kramer should be thankful that there are wines out there he doesn’t like. They’re his bread and butter. If it weren’t for them, he wouldn’t have anything to complain about.

On second thought, I have a feeling he’d probably find something.

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By Josh Perilo

Recently, I talked a little about an obsession I’ve had: Comparing different wine varietals to different genres of popular music. Any critic loves making lists and metaphors, and, even better, lists of metaphors. I started by laying out my thoughts on why I think Merlot could be compared to Pop Rock. This week, I present my second thesis: Cabernet Sauvignon is Hard Rock, or in classic terms, good old-fashioned, straightforward rock ‘n’ roll.

Cabernet Sauvignon stands tall as the cornerstone of red wine grapes today. Its big, meaty tannins are fuzzed-out guitar licks, squealing from feedback. The oak barrels they age in are distortion pedals, bending the notes of flavor. The dark berry fruit blasts forth like an overcranked Marshall stack, blasting into an audience of thousands at Red Rocks.

These are rock star wines. And I’m not talking about the lead singer of Maroon 5 or Nickelback, either. This is the rock star that played Altamont and Woodstock. The first one. This is Jimi-frigging-Hendrix.

This is Cabernet Sauvignon.

The left bank Bordeaux producers make wines that are, by law, at least 51 percent Cabernet Sauvignon. Many of them are made up of almost all Cabernet Sauvignon. These are our old-school grandfathers of rock. Muddy Waters and Chuck Berry are the big, bad boys of the Haute Medoc. Elvis Pressley’s “That’s Alright, Mama” is the great Chateau Latour. These are the architects of the style that was to come and the style that created what a Cab was “supposed to taste like,” just as Chuck Berry created the idea of what a guitar lick in a rock song was supposed to sound like.

If you listen to the first jangly riffs to The Kingsmen’s version of “Louis, Louis,” you are hearing the first serious vintners in Napa Valley in the early 1970s tasting their brand-new Cabernet Sauvignon. It was modeled after the classics in Bordeaux, just as the Kingsmen’s noisy garage band classic was modeled after the blues riffs that came before them. There was a new take, though. Something that’s more forward and more accessible. Maybe simpler and messier, but something that the world would sit up and take notice of immediately.

As the Napa Cabs evolved and became more complex, carving out an identity of their own, they moved from the “garage rock” versions of their early incarnations and into more sophisticated takes on what became known as rock ‘n’ roll. The California “Cult Cabs,” as they became known, were the next step in the evolution of Classic Rock. The fruit got bigger, the structure more refined, and a masterpiece like Diamond Creek’s “Gravelly Meadow” becomes the Sticky Fingers of Napa Cabs. Ultimate wines that tend to define the grape varietal are common among these cult wines. Take the ultra expensive and untouchable Screaming Eagle. Quite simply, the liquid version of Houses of the Holy.

As Cabernet moved across the West Coast, it lightened its step and took itself a little less seriously. By the time it reached Santa Barbara and Santa Ynez Valley, the grapes were riper and higher in alcohol, and the fruit was juicier and simpler, if not more fun to enjoy. These Cabs rollick along your palate like a scratchy LP of “Sweet Home Alabama.” Just enough twang to remind you it isn’t Napa, but the classic roots-rock structure of the Cab is still there to hold everything together.

In the ’80s, the winemakers of Tuscany, Italy, began experimenting with Cabernet. It was against the law to call these wines anything other than “red table wine,” so they were unofficially labeled “Super Tuscans.” This unorthodox take on Cab was a redux on the classic format of the Cabs from the past. The first Super Tuscan was Tignanello. Those first squealing notes blared out again from an overpumped amp, just like they did when The Kingsmen reinvented rock music. Only this time it wasn’t Napa, and it wasn’t the Kingsmen either. It was The White Stripes’ “Dead Leaves on the Dirty Ground.” The volume knob was up to 11, and the wine world would never be the same.

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By Shani R. Friedman

A few years ago, I was at this exact same spot when it was Jeffrey Chodorow’s Wild Salmon, the last of his multiple attempts to make the location successful. I had a great meal in a beautiful space, but it folded.

Now it’s chef Richard Sandoval’s turn. Perhaps the impresario behind 14 other restaurants around the world will have the Midas touch with his Asian and Latin fusion cuisine. Partner Placido Domingo, a friend of Sandoval’s, opened Zengo weeks after surgery, so things may already be looking up.

Zengo is invading midtown with scrumptious Asian Fusion cuisine and three levels of seating, a basement tequila bar and sake lounge.

When we arrived on a recent August night, my friend noted how enormous the restaurant is. There are 170 seats and three levels (the main floor, with the dark mood lighting, suspended wood beams, and wrought-iron screens, plus a basement tequila bar and sake lounge upstairs). The staff was accommodating as we tried out a table and two different booths before we found one that was just right. The two of us perused our menus at length since we had decided to forego large plates for some of the tantalizing smaller plates that showcase the different culinary cultures.

I finally decided on the ceviche tasting ($16) and the Peking duck-daikon tacos ($12). The two ceviches were the rainbow (with tuna, salmon and fluke) and the corvina, a fish I was unfamiliar with. Much to my surprise, the medley was not my favourite. The corvina, on the other hand, a simple preparation of onions, cucumbers and apples and shiso (Japanese basil), had the perfect balance of flavors between the fish, the citrus and the rest of the ingredients. My other dish was a fun, play-with-your-food experience because you have to put the mini tacos together yourself. The tartness and crispness of the curried apples was a good contrast to the duck confit.

My friend had a United Nations-style dinner and sampled the steamed buns al pastor ($12), the Thai chicken empanadas ($10), the vegetarian rolls ($10) and the yucca fries ($5). He didn’t love the buns, which lacked the expected release of steam and were more like stuffed pancakes, but the combination of Oaxaca cheese, mango-curry salsa and chile poblano in the empanadas really grabbed him. We both dug into the fries, which were thick, a little sweet—but less so than a plantain—and a bit salty.

Since there’s always room for dessert, I ordered the Mexican chocolate tart ($8) and he picked the lemon yuzu cake ($8), both of which looked like petite works of art. The cake was accompanied by ginger ice cream and Chinese five spice custard sauce. My tablemate said he could definitely taste the myriad spices in the sauce. My tart was adorned with cocoa nibs, cinnamon whip and chili ancho anglaise. It may be the best thing I’ve eaten all summer! I spooned it in tiny bites so that I could savour it for as long as possible.

I could have lingered in the comfortable booth for hours and let the very solicitous waitress keep refilling my water glass, but it was past my friend’s bedtime. Although it was a sleepy Sunday evening with just a few diners, people continued to come in as the hours passed. That’s a good sign for the restaurant having legs, which means I will get to go back and hopefully find the tequila snow cones still on the menu. To the staff I say, buenas suerte!

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By Josh Perilo

In 1965, writers Milton Glaser and Jerome Snyder set out on a mission. They began scouring Manhattan to find great meals, in every neighborhood, that could be had for no more than $2. Granted, at the time, that was an easier feat, but $2 was still a relative bargain for an entire meal.

The two ate and wrote and wrote and ate, and finally published, in 1966, the first edition of The Underground Gourmet. And last weekend I found a copy of the 1967 second edition in a thrift shop, and haven’t put it down since.

Being obsessed with the food and history of New York (particularly Manhattan), this was like finding a culinary time capsule. I immediately dove in. What I found was shocking, both in the similarities between then and now, and in the differences.

The most obvious change was the immense amount of restaurants that no longer existed. These were not landmarked establishments, by and large. Most of them were hole-in-the wall luncheonettes, inexpensive Chinese restaurants and greasy spoons. But the sheer number of losses was stunning. Of the 101 restaurants profiled, only six survive today: Katz’s Delicatessen, Manganaro’s, Yonah Schimmel’s Knishes Bakery, The Puglia and La Taza de Oro. About half of the establishments were housed in buildings that no longer exist, especially in the Midtown area. The proliferation of “lunch counters” also illustrated the evolution of this city’s eating habits. For every kosher “dairy lunch” joint that went down, it seems as though a Jamba Juice or Pink Berry has taken its place.

Even more shocking was how similar the city’s variety of cheap eats was. There are numerous listings for Japanese restaurants, all of which served sushi (which the author describes to the uninitiated as tasting “not unlike that of the very best smoked sturgeon”). There were a number of Middle Eastern restaurants as well, ranging from Syrian to Lebanese. There was even a new-age vegetarian hangout for “East Village cultists” called Paradox that could have easily been the forefather of today’s Zen Palate or Gobo.

The book itself is an interesting artifact. The restaurants are all given two to three pages, starting with a breakdown of the facts. Telephone number (some restaurants using the two letter prefixes, some using all numbers… and some without a telephone), days of business, air-conditioning and hygiene were all listed and rated, if applicable. The writing was half prosaic and anecdotal, half plain-Jane restaurant review, but always interesting. True to form, none of the entrées or meals bought and eaten by the authors cost more than $2. They even included two short sections in the middle of the book with an illustration of ethnic food-stuffs that the reader might not be familiar with. Some of the drawings are so abstract that it may have confused the reader more than it helped.

After reading the book in its entirety, I was overcome with mixed emotions; one-part longing, one-part invigoration. The Underground Gourmet couldn’t have been written at a more mercurial time in the 20th century. It was almost as though the food being eaten reflected the vast social and political change surrounding it. Mired in the cheap eats that had been carrying its working class forward for decades, there was clearly a change brewing. New foods and new ideas were taking root that would grow and forever change the culinary landscape. This was a snapshot of a city in transition.

I won’t pretend that I can truly understand a period of time that I was never able to experience firsthand, but I feel lucky to have been able to walk the streets of 1960s Manhattan in my mind with the help of The Underground Gourmet. I can only imagine how delicious the revolution must have been.
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josh@penniessepicure.com

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After an inexplicable hiatus, the Dosa cart is back in Morningside Heights, but in a new incarnation. The bigger, spiffier cart touts a tantalizing list of vegetarian Southern Indian staples—from varieties of dosa and uttapam to flavored rice, aloo tikki, samosas and exotic drinks like tamarind and guava.

Photo by Daniel S. Burnstein

The jaunty owner and I have a little game going. I ask him for the enticing lemon or coconut rice dishes, and he laughs and says, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow.” An Indian Columbia graduate spoke to the owner in Tamil and confided to me that the cart was so like ones in India, in which the “whole universe” is advertised and yet only some dishes are really available at any one time.

However, uttapam are available—with onion, cheese, masala potatoes and spices, or vegetables ($5).  Uttapam is a bright white pancake made with urad dal and fermented rice, the latter giving it a light, bubbly texture. Ingredients are cooked into it, not layered on top—except the fluffy, spicy turmeric-yellow potatoes of the masala version. Then the owner cuts it into four pizza slices, perfect for sharing on a hot summer evening. So far from Flushing or Curry Village in the East 20s, it’s wonderful to have access, again, to healthy, Southern Indian street food.
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Vegenation
Vegetarian Indian Food Cart
Broadway (Betw. West 114th & 115th Sts.)
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By Josh Perilo

“If you had to describe a Merlot to someone who had never had it before,” my friend Bryan challenged, “how would you do it?”

This was the statement that started me thinking about the metaphor that I eventually obsessed over: wine and music. These were, after all, my two greatest loves (after my beautiful wife, of course). The thought went round and round in my head, and I started coming up with some entertaining comparisons. The first and most obvious to me, however, was this:

Merlot is Pop Rock.

Merlot, a grape that is low in tannin and acid, almost coats the tongue. It is the dulcet tones of a four-four beat at a moderate tempo with hand-claps in the background. The rhythmic G major, D major, E major chord progression that goes down smooth and fruity. It’s a lead singer that is a “nice boy” but still sexy (albeit “safe sexy”).

Ah, Merlot.

The classics are the classics, and with Merlot the great oldies reside in Bordeaux. Layer upon layer of intricate, intertwining harmonies and melodies, five tracks devoted entirely to backing vocals, horns and timpani, and a Theremin. The classic example of Right Bank Bordeaux brilliance is Chateau Petrus, and its brilliant, complex and easily digestible audio equivalent (and perhaps the most beautiful pop song ever written) is “God Only Knows” by The Beach Boys.

When Merlot grabbed its foothold on the West Coast of America, its lush, fruit flavors softened even more. The amazing Duckhorn Merlot creeps in, finger-picking its guitar, rambling “I am just a poor boy though my story’s seldom told…” The verse builds with a simple harmony as the plum fruit on the front of the palate becomes dates and spice. Then pepper and vanilla. Then the guitar is joined by a thump and a mouth harp. And the flavors race around and the story evolves and the palate expands and you realize this isn’t just a wine. And this isn’t just a song. Until the finish, when you swallow and are overcome with…

“Lie-la-lie! Lie-la-lie-lie, Lie-la-lie!”

When Merlot moved to the Pacific Northwest it grew bigger and riper. In Washington State, especially from the Walla Walla area, the Merlots are monsters with their Peavey amps turned up way louder than they should be. The grapes get riper, so the alcohol level gets higher, which in turn gives the fruit and structure further amplification. It sounds like too much, but somehow the combination of the weather, soil and sunlight works. One sip of this over-amped juice and Big Star’s “September Gurls” mows down your taste buds with chewy riffs and addictive hooks. This is Power Pop… or power Merlot. The three-chord structure is turned up and taken to the edge with the exaggerated fruit flavors of “Go All the Way” by Raspberries, “Just What I Needed” by The Cars, and later “Girlfriend” by Matthew Sweet.

Merlots from Australia became popular later in the game, offering lighter bodied, almost syrupy, overripe strawberry flavors. It’s so sticky sweet, you almost feel guilty about indulging in it. “Paparazzi” by Lady Gaga and “TiK ToK” by Ke$ha pound through your head as you swallow the fruity extract, trying to remind yourself that you’re actually drinking wine, and not unfermented juice.

Merlot has tended to have mass appeal in this country for the last several decades, but many “connoisseurs” will dismiss them for their lack of complexity. One could argue that even though “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies is a classic, it doesn’t have much depth. That doesn’t matter, though, to people who just want a catchy tune that’s easy to snap your fingers to.

The wine snobs of the world can huff and puff all they want, but it won‘t change the fact that Merlot will always go down easy.

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The long-awaited Upper East Side Shake Shack opened Wednesday, Aug. 4. Now, customers just have to wait on that long line.

The new Upper East Side Shake Shack was in operation two days before its official Aug. 6 opening.

The popular burger chain restaurant unveiled its new location on East 86th Street between Lexington and Third Avenues two days earlier than planned; the official opening is Aug. 6.

Like Shake Shacks around the city, the line stretched onto the sidewalk.

“It’s worth the wait,” said a customer at the end of the line.

Upper East Side resident Lisa Liberatore has frequented the Upper West Side Shake Shack for years.

“This is better than another bank,” Liberatore said.

As for the lines?

“I’m used to it,” she said.

The indoor restaurant seats sixty-five, with room for another seventy in the adjacent outdoor seating area. This is Shake Shack’s fifth location in the city and its seventh nation-wide. The restaurant occupies a space formerly used by a silk shop and a skateboard shop.

Another Upper East Side resident, Lisa Spector, was a first-time customer.

“I think it’s exciting,” she said of the new Shake Shack in her neighborhood. “I hear people rave about it.”

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Would getting a Philly cheesesteak in New York City be like getting a New York bagel in Philly—inauthentic and ultimately unfulfilling? Well, my Philly cheesesteak was not only filling, but it was fulfilling in an “I really need some red meat in a bun” kind of way. Nothing like watching be-suited businesspeople stalking along Park Avenue to make you feel like tucking into some steak. I had thought a real Philly cheesesteak used some special cheese, not the slabs of American that were slapped onto the foot-long crusty bun holding ample amounts of frizzled steak and grilled onions ($3.99). Later, I asked my mom, whose late boyfriend was a Philly cheesesteak aficionado. She told me the real deal is topped with Cheez Whiz. Ew!

Just yesterday I had attended a beer and cheese tasting at Stinky’s in Brooklyn. Could the same person who oohed and aahed over Taleggio and Zamorano be relishing steak blanketed by the rough equivalent of Cheez Whiz?  The answer is an emphatic, “Yes! Nothing artisanal on my cheesteak, please.” But do drizzle with NYC Halal cart white sauce, however un-Philly. And for $2 extra you can get waffle fries, which steak truck fans say are wonderfully crisp.

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Steak Truck
East 47th Street and Park Avenue (NE corner)

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By Josh Perilo

When my friend Shirley returned from her trip to Spain and Portugal, she couldn’t stop talking about it. I was completely intrigued.

“It’s called green wine!” She kept saying, “And they have it everywhere!”

“What’s it like?”

“So light. So refreshing. It’s like mineral water with a kick!”

I looked everywhere. Granted, I was going to school in North Carolina at the time and the area I was in had very few wine stores with extensive Portuguese sections. But I was sure that I would find it somewhere.

I ended college never having found the legendary green wine and subsequently forgot about it for several years until I started working at a wine store. As I was preparing the tasting table one summer afternoon, setting out several bottles of our delicious light summer wines we would pour later, it suddenly hit me like a bolt.

I was an idiot.

One of my absolute favorite wines in the store was a Vinho Verde, a light, slightly fizzy white wine from Portugal. And, of course, Vinho Verde means “green wine” in Portuguese. I felt like Magellan finding his namesake strait, only a bit stupider. I couldn’t believe I had missed it that whole time! Now, however, it all made sense. Shirley had been raving about a wine that I, too, had begun singing the praises of.

While Portugal’s best known export, Port, comes from the south, Vinho Verde comes from the very different landscape of the north. It is referred to as Green Wine not because it is green in color, but because it is meant to be drunk very, very young. So young, in fact, that a lot of producers don’t even give their Vinho Verde a vintage. It is the most popular wine in Portugal, so it’s safe to assume that if you’re drinking a bottle of it, it’s going to be from the most recent vintage.

Vinho Verde can be made from any of 25 different Portuguese varietals, but the most common are Loureiro, Trajadura and Pederna. There are some made from the slightly more prestigious Alvarinho grape, but the quantity is small and the chance of finding those in the U.S. is much more difficult.

There are, actually, some red Vinho Verdes as well, although they are nearly impossible to find in the U.S. They are light, bracing red wines that are high in acidity and have the same signature slight fizz. Almost like a Portuguese answer to Lambrusco, they’re great just slightly chilled.

The white kind, however, has become increasingly easier to find in the states, especially in the summer. It is not only light and fizzy, but lower in alcohol, so sipping a glass of wine in the sun on a hot summer day doesn’t necessarily have to lead to a headache and a hangover.

There are a couple producers whose products are available virtually everywhere. One of the more popular brands is the Gazela Vinho Verde ($6.99 at 67 Wine and Spirits, 179 Columbus Ave. at W. 68th St., 212-724-6767). It is a basic, entry level Vinho Verde that will give you everything you’re looking for in a simple and refreshing summer beverage. Crisp with a lot of minerality and only a hint of citrus peel, this is a wine you serve ice cold in the middle of a heat wave.

For a Vinho that’s just a touch more complex, try the Aveleda ‘Fonte’ Vinho Verde ($8.99 at Beacon Wines and Spirits, 2120 Broadway at W. 74th St., 212-877-0028). Still light, fizzy and fun, this wine has a touch more fruit to it. Hints of white peach and orange zest make this a Vinho Verde you could definitely serve with a seafood salad.

So make sure you “go green” this summer with some of Portugal’s tastiest and most underrated fizzy white wines!

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