Off the Map: Who Eats Calamari With a Fork?!

Calamari -- Purple Cafe and Wine Bar, Seattle, WA
Purple Cafe and Wine Bar

So after three days and seven prior restaurants, Vodka and Chianti have arrived at their final Seattle Best Thing I Ever Ate stop, still reeling from the intense amount of caffeine consumed during our morning's coffee tour and Vodka shielding her eyes from the ever-present Seattle sun (seriously, how does the girl who HATES the sun come to Seattle during the three most pleasant days in the town's existence?!  It's an injustice).

A Cloudless Ferris Wheel Ride = Unacceptable

We are at Purple Cafe to consume the favorite calamari APPETIZER of Melissa D'Arabian (who is not exactly batting a thousand on her Best Thing I Ever Ate choices...).  

No Pressure or Anything, Melissa

As Chianti mumbles about her desire to eat pho instead of calamari, we each order a glass of red, and Chianti manages to photo-bomb four pictures before Vodka succeeds in taking a somewhat acceptable shot of the glasses.

There Are 18 Other Similar Photos Featuring Snippets of Chianti's Big Head

Settling on the smoked salmon crostini (with preserved lemon, capers, and red onion) to go along with our calamari (which comes with moroccan tomato aioli), Vodka compliments Seattle's preponderance of ready-and-waiting bottled water on all of their restaurant tables.  

And Also, This Napkin Ring Is Nice. Trying to Be Generous Here....

Within moments, our salmon crostini arrive, and we are in heaven.  Thin slices of toast are topped by a solid dollop of smoked salmon, which we quickly spread into a thin layer across the bread.  

One Little, Two Little, Three Little Salmon Breads

A Smattering of Capers

In what has absolutely become the pattern of Seattle, were this the Best Thing I Ever Ate choice, it would without a doubt receive 5 stars.

Unfortunately, that title belongs to the calamari.

And Guess What? This Ain't Great

Now, calamari, Chianti and Vodka both agree, is not a dish that we tend to order.  Mostly because it is fine, if completely unremarkable, at most places.  Purple Cafe's version fits this description exactly, as the one and only distinction that this calamari has over all others is the shape.  Instead of thick rounds fried to a crispy, crumbly texture, these pieces are essentially the shape of microwavable onion rings.  Unfortunately for Purple Café, the batter is light and crisp, and we all know, based on various crab cake experiences, how Vodka feels when restaurants go light on the batter.

Here's a Hint: Such a Practice NEVER ENDS WELL

The accompanying dip is, in Chianti's words, an "experience."  Apparently, it tastes of the most intense curry imaginable, although Vodka is much less specific in discerning its flavorings than Chianti (ironic for the girl who's done nothing but eat across the country for two years).  Additionally, the whole serving size is on the sparse side (another running theme in Seattle); that or, once again, the size of the platter is just entirely too large for the calamari itself (here's a hint, Seattle dining establishments -- if you serve on small plates, your food looks bigger!).

It's Not Rocket Science!

As Chianti stabs the calamari rings with her fork (inciting a reign of judgment from Vodka as to her finger food eating practices), Vodka attempts to chew through one of the tentacle versions of the fish... and fifteen minutes later, she is still chewing.  This tooth-exhausting experience puts the nail in the coffin of Vodka's tolerance, and if anything, she finds this calamari even less exciting than the standard platter of most restaurants.  

Poor Showing, Purple

Slapping down our payment and forcing our exit through the heaviest front door this side of the Mississippi, Vodka prepares to leave Seattle and return to the land of jaywalkers, reservation confirmers, and properly-sized flatware.

And preferably, some clouds.

Purple Cafe and Wine Bar's Calamari: 3 stars

Off the Map: We're Just Here for the Snails

Burgundy Snails -- Charleston, Baltimore, MD
Charleston

The number of times Vodka has said some variation of "We just want the snails" in regards to Charleston restaurant's menu is more than anyone should say in a lifetime.

No, But Really, Guys -- WE'RE JUST HERE FOR THE SNAILS

The Charleston, according to Bloody Mary, is the fanciest restaurant in Baltimore, and the one that, she is convinced, we will be unable to infiltrate, at least if our sole goal is to eat only mollusks.  But Vodka does not give up on such things easily, so she has had no less than three phone calls over the past month with the (highly congenial) Charleston employees, and thus uttered the phrase, "We really only want to eat the snails" innumerable times.

Ways to Get Yourself Pegged As a Weirdo: Only Talk About Snails

Not to be outdone, when we arrive at Charleston after our oh-so-heartening crab cake "dinner" at Pierpoint Restaurant, Vodka informs the hostess almost immediately, "We're just here for the snails."  By this point, we are fairly certain that they have a page's worth of notes spelling out "These people are lunatics" next to our reservation, so Vodka figures that no further explanation will be necessary.

In the Meantime, If You'll Excuse Us, We Need to Start Photographing Bread Sticks

As we had wished, we meander into the lounge area and take seats at the bar, preparing ourselves for snail and cocktail consumption.  Unfortunately, it seems that no one has informed the bartender that he is dealing with the two most notorious whack-jobs in attendance tonight, as he is slow on the draw about just about everything: menus, drinks, and most importantly, snails.

It Is Hard to Out-Rank 'Cocktails' on Our List of Importance, But the Snails Have Done It

Eventually, we receive our martinis (which are good if unmemorable, being that Vodka doesn't have a clue as to what we actually ordered), and Bloody Mary makes a big show of pouring half of hers onto her dress.  It appears that our 12-hours of non-stop food consumption are starting to catch up to her, as she murmurs, "I just spilled my drink all over me.  It's as if I just poured it directly onto my lap" while dabbing herself with a napkin.

This Happenstance, Needless to Say, Makes Vodka Guffaw with Laughter

By this point, Vodka has asked the bartender for the snails not once but twice, and we have yet to even ascertain whether he has placed the order in the computer.  When she manages to flag him down yet again, Vodka inquires about our missing shelled creatures.

"Do you want them here or at your table?" the bartender asks, clearly not understanding that "We would like to order the snails" is not just our way of making conversation.

Listen, Buddy, I Don't Know What You Talk About in Baltimore, but 'Snails' Is Not a Topic of Small Talk in NYC

In response, Vodka merely taps the top of the bar, which causes Bloody Mary to pause in her martini-mop up to laugh uncontrollably.  "You just tapped the bar instead of answering him, Pretentious."  Vodka is unphased, as the bartender has convinced her that he is only capable of understanding visual cues. 

"And I think you're supposed to say, 'I'd like to order the escargot,'" Bloody Mary, suddenly the expert on etiquette, continues.

"The menu blatantly says 'snails,'" Vodka defends her vocabulary.  Indeed, Charleston describes Duff Goldman's Best Thing I Ever Ate APPETIZER as "Burgundy Snails with butter-poached garlic and bacon puff pastry tart."

Eventually, after our frenemy, the bartender, takes away Bloody Mary's cocktail EVEN BEFORE SHE FINISHES IT (unacceptable, mister), the snails arrive.  The first thing we notice is that the dish used to hold the snail-filled puff pastry is extremely inconvenient for eating.  Square-shaped with raised corners, we have to hold our forks at excessively bizarre angles in order to cut and then spoon the concoction into our mouths.

(In Nerd Alert news, Bloody Mary actually describes this problem as "Ergonomically, it's a poor dish choice").

Though This Is the Same Girl Who Would Use the Word 'Fat' to Describe This Pastry

When we manage to scoop in the first bites, we find a soft and buttery brioche cradling a small pile of snails.  The puff pastry resides in a pool of sauce, while a heaping amount of gravy is laden over the snails themselves.  As Vodka's first "escargot" (speaking of pretentious) experience, she finds the snails enjoyable enough.  They are thankfully not slimy, and their texture is almost the same as any well-cooked shrimp or lobster.

By this point, we are finally starting to feel full, so the snails are feeling less appealing than they might have otherwise (though considering they're still snails, we're not convinced of this fact).  In any case, we are certain that we have successfully branded ourselves as the Great Snail-Obsessed Weirdos of Baltimore in the city's most esteemed restaurant, and for that, we can't help but feel a bit of proud pretension.

Charleston's Burgundy Snails: 4 stars

I Had Win with Lunch

Popovers -- BLT Steak
BLT Steak

Confessions of an addict: We spent $150 at BLT Steak in order to procure their free appetizer.  Thank you, Best Thing I Ever Ate obsession.

It Takes a Lot of Cash to Get Something for Free in This Town

Earlier in the day, a textual battle of who could say the most nonsensical things in a row had ensued between us.  While Ginger related her all-day perusal of the BLT Steak cocktail menu ("There are not one but TWO ginger-containing cocktails!"), Vodka boasted that she had already begun drinking ("I had win with lunch"), a typo-clad hilarity that Ginger latched onto for the rest of the night.  Fail.

When we manage to arrive at BLT Steak (for our self-induced early-bird special, as we refuse to begin dinner post-6:00pm), Ginger is dolled up in a dress and heels that causes Vodka to inquire about her wardrobe choice.

"This is my steak outfit," she explains, evidently now theming her outfits based on our dining locale, a regular Sandra Lee.

Complete with a Steady Stash of Semi-Homemade Cocktails

We have reconciled to the fact that we will most likely have to consume steak tonight, though in truth, all we really want are the popovers which Tyler Florence flaunted on the APPETIZERS episode of Best Thing I Ever Ate.  Tellingly, they do not deliver said popovers to our table until we have ordered our dinner, seemingly withholding them from the truly cheap diners.

We are only mildly cheap.

And Mildly Ravenous

After all, we recently read a how-to tale from Gael Greene as to how to dine at BLT Steak like a cheapskate and not get kicked out, so we are not above doing the same.  We order a Caesar salad, hanger steak, and baked, fried, and sauteed potatoes to split between us, but we make up for our monetary withholding by drowning ourselves in cocktail expenses.

With the Cocktail List Staying Cuddled Up to Ginger for the Whole Meal

Vodka, who is sticking with wine after her lunch of "win," mocks Ginger's inability to find anything featuring ginger on the cocktail list.  It seems Ginger had been examining an outdated menu online all day, as all ginger products are now missing in action at BLT Steak's bar.  At one point, the busboy ostensibly calls Ginger an alcoholic, inquiring as to whether her water glass is filled with water or vodka (Hey Buddy - Vodka's across the table.  Get it together). 

Speaking of the busboy, Vodka has already had an uncomfortable interaction with him, as he had witnessed her complaining about the pillows that decorate BLT Steak's booths, which Vodka finds to be a nuisance.  "Do you need me to remove that for you?" the busboy asks after Vodka can be seen performing contortions in order to make the pillow useful.  If one's sanity can be judged by treatment of a throw pillow, Vodka is not on the winning end of crazy.

Anyway, as we sip our drinks, we receive a gelatin-laden pate-like appetizer with crunchy slices of bread.  We stare at the dish blankly, each thinking the same thing:

These Better Not Be the Popovers

Tasting this creation, Ginger finds the texture disconcerting, but Vodka mops it up, jelly coating and all.

When the popovers eventually arrive, we know on sight that we are in the presence of a 5-star food.  Gargantuan and warm, they are served with country butter and a gallon of salt to self-sprinkle.  Said salt becomes an issue when Vodka manages to consume most of the container ("The problem is I can't see it," she says, due to the camouflage nature of salt-on-white popover).

Vodka Trying to Create Her Own Personal Salt Lick

Ripping into the middle, the popover manages to be crunchy on the surface yet chewy on the underside of the thin layers, and the butter melts into its inner workings instantaneously.  Topped by the rapidly-disappearing salt, the popover is to die for, and it manages to outshine all of the food for which we actually pay.

The Grand Canyon of Popped Dough

Downright euphoric by the time the entrees arrive, we dig into the Caesar salad, which buries Smith and Wollensky's wilted monstrosity under the table.  Fresh and crunchy, coated in superb dressing and a healthy helping of Parmesan cheese, the salad is delectable, as are the two slices of cheesy bread that accompany it.  And though Gael Greene had lamented the lack of actual anchovies, we non-foodies do not miss the little creatures.

Non-A Little Mermaid Caesar Salad

The hanger steak is tasty enough, particularly with the addition of the bearnaise sauce which we order with it, but we decide we much prefer the filet cuts we had eaten at Smith and Wollensky. 

But Cheap Carnivores Can't Complain about Their Choices

Good Enough to Mask the Taste of Penny-Pinching Cuts of Meat

The baked, fried, and sauteed potatoes are slightly odd - coated with cheese and bacon, they seem like they should be the best idea ever.  Instead, they taste like diner hashbrowns, and the cheese on top is a strange consistency (not gooey and warm, but very thick, rubbery, and nearly impossible to break apart).  The potatoes seem to improve as they cool (and they are helped by a healthy dosing of Vodka's treasured salt), but for all of their tasty components, they should just be better.

Akin to the Thursday Special at Your High School Cafeteria

As we pay the bill, we are greeted by a free dessert sampler: miniature passion fruit marshmallows and espresso brownies, both of which are scrumptious.

Dessert Unfortunately Does Not Come with a Side of Popovers

As we leave our nursing home-timed dinner, just as most of the dining room is beginning to fill, Ginger relates that she recently had to tell a friend that she couldn't go out because she "didn't feel up to it.  I'm like old -- I don't feel up to things."  Meanwhile, Vodka is using every ounce of self-control to not steal popovers off of the tables that we pass on our way out.

Now Would Be the Time to Develop a Thievery Superpower

Though since she failed to stash her trusty pint of salt in her handbag, what would really be the point?

Talk Salty to Me

BLT Steak's Popovers: 5 stars*

*Certifiable Best Thing We Ever Ate

Our New Philosophy: It's Not Even Noon Somewhere

French Onion Soup Dumplings – Stanton Social Club
Stanton Social Club

Our next Best Thing I Ever Ate tour location is near and dear to our hearts.  Why?  It is the birthplace of our new life philosophy: It’s Not Even Noon Somewhere.

We had made brunch reservations at Stanton Social Club, a place that is entirely too cool for the likes of us, for 11:45am.  Unfortunately, we finished with our PB&J “sandwich” by 11:00am, leaving us 45 minutes to wander around the Lower East Side.

We’re not really one for the wander. We like to stick to itineraries.  The Lower East Side is also not the place to wander at 11am on Saturday morning.  The streets are deserted, and everything is closed: hangovers have laid up the entire population of the neighborhood.

So to pass the time and to quench our thirst, we sit ourselves in the coffee shop across from Stanton Social Club so that we have a clear view of when they raise the gates.  Ginger regales Vodka with summaries of her new favorite show, Extreme Couponing, while Vodka tries unsuccessfully to swallow sinus medication (and ends up chewing it like a toddler).  Needless to say, we believe people like of us are not usually allowed in such highbrow institutions as the Stanton Social Club.

Rest Stop

When the pearly gates of security eventually ascend, we stumble over snowbanks (dammit Bloomberg!) to cross the street.  We have decided, however, that in order to avoid another hate-filled waitress (we’re looking at you, Five Points) and/or stomach explosion, we would prefer to sit at the bar.  We tell the hostess this, and she looks at us skeptically before sending us upstairs.  We enter the bar area.

Incidentally, for someone unaccustomed with the Lower East Side, Ginger had found herself in this very bar the previous Friday night, fighting crowds for a drink, unable to hear or see a damn thing. What a difference broad daylight, silence and bar full of empty seats makes: we have ascended into the high heavens.

Crickets

We are alone.  Not one other person – bartenders, waiters, busboys, or renegades from last night’s festivities -- makes an appearance for at least 10 minutes.  We are highly entertained with ourselves.  The closest we have come to such feelings of exclusivity is Vodka’s forays into the VIP section at Live with Regis and Kelly and Ginger’s run-ins with greatness in the form of Bethenny Frankel’s fired intern, Max.

Finally, a bartender straggles in, and we are fairly certain that he thinks we are either a) still drunk from last night and/or b) certifiably insane.  We order our respective martinis and they are placed in front of us at exactly 11:55am.  So, as we toast day drinking, we say:

“It’s not even noon somewhere.”

Amen.

It's Not Even Noon Somewhere

With our martinis, we order Claire Robinson’s favorite APPETIZER: French Onion Soup Dumplings.  By the time they arrive before us, the vodka has washed away any lingering knoblewurst fullness, and we dive in.  Our eagerness discounts the fact that, like Chinatown Brasserie’s eggrolls, these dumplings are scalding hot.

Heaven in a Snail Dish

Served in what appears to be an escargot dish (though neither of us are much of snail eaters), there are six dumplings, each encasing the taste of French onion soup, and covered with a thick layer of assorted cheeses.  Picking up a toothpick with a hot dumpling, oodles of melted cheese, and a crunchy crouton, we bite.

The dumplings are delectable, mind-boggling in their ability to hold the full contents of a soup in such a small, unsoggy compartment.

The cheese, however, is what makes the dish.  Gooey in the center and crispy on the outside, it adds a perfect layer to the top, and it pulls away easily with each individual dumpling.

Bless you, Claire Robinson.

Perfection on a Toothpick

So word to the nerds: avoid the madness of the people who descend on Stanton Social Club after dark, and instead arrive as soon as they open.  Head to the bar, pull up a stool, and indulge.

And no one will be there to judge you when you get drunk before noon.

Stanton Social Club’s French Onion Soup dumplings: 5 stars*

*Certifiable Best Thing We Ever Ate