Off the Map: Waitress, I Think My Drink Is on Fire

Sakura Smoked Hamachi Sashimi -- Oishii, Boston, MA
Oishii

We have determined that Chef Ting San of Oishii Boston must have been a pyromaniac as a child.  How else do you explain that of the three things we ordered at his restaurant, two of them were on fire?

We Didn't Start the Fire

True to form, Vodka and her friend have arrived at Oishii after traipsing through slightly disarming South Boston and have asked to forego their reservation in order to sit at the sushi bar.  When the waitress arrives seconds later to help us, we confront her with "Do you have the smoked hamachi tonight?" as we are seemingly incapable of reading the menu ourselves.

Hooked on Phonics Doesn't Work for Boozers

She assures us that they do, and we place our order for one, along with two cocktails (unfortunately, based on Ginger's absence, there is no one around to order the "Ginger Manhattan," which would be the most aptly-named drink ever, if only it included the word "Tipsy" as well).

Also, The Entirety of This Pickled Ginger Would Have Been Consumed By Now

Before we can so much as get ourselves situated, our complimentary appetizer of shot glasses of edamame mousse arrive.  Now, Vodka is not the greatest fan of edamame, especially in pureed form, so one taste of the stuff with her miniature wooden spoon leaves her grimacing in horror ("No wonder it's complimentary," her friend remarks).

Not the Kind of Shot We're Used To

We decide that when we do eat edamame, it is for two things: the salt and the texture, so when both of those components are taken away and replaced with a pudding, the results are not all that successful.

Though If Anyone Would Like to Replace This With Vanilla Pudding, Who Would We Be to Object?

Even before our drinks arrive, a busboy presents us with a scarily tall wine glass, covered on top with a glass coaster.  Before Vodka can manage to snap a picture of the proceedings, the busboy whips off the coaster, and smoke billows out of the glass, three-alarm-fire style.  It seems Ming Tsai wasn't kidding when he chose this as his favorite SMOKY dish on Best Thing I Ever Ate.

Most Disproportionate Glassware Ever

Picking up our first piece of sashimi with our chopsticks, we take small bites and discover that the fish does indeed have a slight hint of charcoal from the redwood chips scattered in the glass.

I Don't Know About You, But I Always Eat My Sushi with a Side of Ashes

Thick and meaty, especially in terms of typical fish served at a sushi bar, the hamachi itself is savory, but the accompanying sauce in the glass is so sweet that Vodka feels the need to smother her pieces in actual soy sauce in order to combat it.

Luckily, We Have Been Provided With Ample Amounts of Soy Sauce

"Are we supposed to eat the coffee beans?" my friend asks as we reach the bottom of the precariously thin-stemmed wine glass.  There are, in fact, enough coffee beans in the bottom of the glass to last a local Starbucks at least two minutes of brewing time, though we decide they are not meant to be edible.  Overall, while the flavor of the smoke is rather interesting, we find that it doesn't linger for long, and while we would like to come back to Oishii to try other things, we would not necessarily need a repeat performance of this particular dish.

It's Also $20. Just Throwin' That Out There....

And then, there is the subject of our cocktails.  By the time they arrive, we are all but finished with our barbeque-in-a-wine-glass, only to find another witch's brew-like concoction being placed in front of Vodka's friend.

The Better to Drink You With, My Dear

The color and taste equivalent of adult fruit punch, it emits an unending stream of liquid nitrogen smoke which lasts even longer than the smoked sashimi had, and we are amused, and slightly drunk, at the ridiculousness of it all.

Pink Drinks Built for Tweens

Plunking down our credit cards for our highly agreeable waitress (who, to her credit, does not laugh mockingly at our kids'-first-fireworks reaction to the fiery dishes), we retreat to the bathrooms, which are just about the nicest we have ever experienced at a sushi place (Morimoto and their full service toilets aside).  As we make our way out to the chilly streets of Boston, it seems only fitting that our breath forms clouds of moisture in front of us as we walk, providing us with our very own smokescreen as we leave the Oishii experience.

Oishii Sushi's Sakura Smoked Hamachi Sashimi: 3 stars

Off the Map: Over the River and Through the Woods to Not-Harvard We Go

Azuki Cream Croissant -- Japonaise Bakery and Cafe, Cambridge, MA
Japonaise Bakery and Cafe

In the past, Vodka has come to Boston primarily for one of the following two reasons: Nancy Kerrigan and Harvard.  While the previous reason may be the one to come with the more absurd stories, the Harvard connection is significant only due to the fact that Vodka had believed up until this point that Harvard is the ONLY thing in Cambridge, MA.  (Well, she knew MIT is there, too, but did not care).

This misbelief is the reason that Vodka asks her friend no less than a dozen times during our two-mile trek from Oleana to Japonaise Bakery and Cafe, "But where's Harvard?!"

And Also, "Why Do People With Such High IQs Not Know How to Light a Christmas Tree?!"

It seems Cambridge is actually quite large and contains areas that do not directly border Harvard Square.  Vodka continues to find this point unfathomable as we make our way towards our first taste of the Azuki cream croissant, which was chosen by Ming Tsai on the FRENCH FAVORITES episode of Best Thing I Ever Ate.

So Apparently, This Was NOT Made in the Harvard Dining Hall

Adding insult to Vodka's Cambridge confusion injury, it begins pouring rain in the middle of our journey, and by the time we arrive at our destination, we are soaked and vaguely hostile, and Vodka has still not been given a clear idea as to where Harvard is in relation to this place.

Wandering around the equivalent of the world's tiniest shopping mall, we eventually stumble upon the Cambridge outpost of Japonaise Bakery and Cafe and order one Azuki cream croissant.  Taking up residence on the closest wooden bench, we open our paper bag and prepare to dive in.

Classy Dining Arrangement

And at first glance, the "cream" in this cream croissant appears to be completely missing.

Hello 911?  Our Croissant's Cream Has Been Kidnapped

A thin pastry shell envelops the center in which we imagine the cream once stood proudly.  Now, it is little more than a withered teardrop within a mound of dough, a haphazard sprinkling of sugar having soaked into almost every part of this dessert.

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

Taking the first bite, my friend remarks that, despite the cream's withering nature, it is impossible to eat this creation without getting some on one's nose.  We also discover that at the bottom of the croissant, there is a dark, chocolate-looking filling that, unfortunately, tastes very little like chocolate.

"I think it's bean.  Red bean.  It tastes like bean," my friend determines.  "Can I say 'bean' one more time?"

And despite how many times her friend says it, Vodka cannot figure out why bean has any place in a cream croissant dessert in the first place.

Croissant By Way of France, By Way of Japan, By Way of... Mexico?

Overall, the whole thing is on the bland side.  The cream has dissolved to such a degree that it barely leaves an impression, and considering it looks like it's supposed to be the dessert's focal point, this is far from ideal.  The pastry is not particularly crumbly like a typical croissant, and it is more chewy than melt-in-your-mouth.  We decide that if the additional filling had been actual chocolate rather than this bean substance, the whole situation could have been much improved.  As it stands (or not, in the case of the cream), we are not overly impressed, as Vodka is certain that she has had more authentically French desserts at the France pavilion at Epcot.

But Let's Be Real - What's Better Than Epcot?

Whipping out our increasingly disintegrating itinerary, which is now more than a little damp, we begin to prepare for our next stop when my friend remarks what a great bench this is for people-watching.  As if one cue, the sound of carolers can be heard entering through the the front door of the "mall," revealing a family of three breaking out into a full belt of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."  Along with our continued amusement at a pizza delivery guy who, for the entire time we have been sitting on this bench, has been unable to locate his pizza recipient, we decide that all is not lost in Cambridge.

Except, that is, Harvard.

Japonaise Bakery and Cafe's Azuki Cream Croissant: 3 stars

Off the Map: We're Already "Those People"

Misty Knoll Flattened Lemon Chicken -- Oleana, Cambridge, MA
Oleana

There is nothing like walking in on a staff meeting to kick off your reputation as "those people" at any establishment.

Now, "those people," granted, is a subjective term.  We can't quite define what kind of people we're talking about, other than the ones that are in some way inflicting annoyance and/or confusion on those who surround them.

Vodka and Ginger fear that we are "those people" quite frequently, especially when we, oh, sit at bars by ourselves in the middle of the day, or bring unsanctioned pickles or egg nog into restaurants, or show up three hours early for our reservation.  Just for instance.

Anyway, after nearly burning her face off at Gourmet Dumpling House, Vodka and her friend make their way to Cambridge for their 5:30pm reservation at Oleana.

Let's Hope This Doesn't Scorch Off the Remainder of Vodka's Mouth

When we arrive at exactly 5:25pm, we walk into the middle of a restaurant staff meeting.  Rather than sending us to the bar, or even back outside, for our five minute wait, the manager not-so-patiently shoos us into a dark corner of the restaurant.  Mildly perplexed by our position, we field various busboys, waiters, and the manager himself for the next ten minutes as they try to scoot past us in our obviously inconvenient location.  In fact, when the manager comes by for the second time, we ask if we're supposed to be following him.  "No," he states, as if we are not here under legitimate, now five-minutes-late-reservation, circumstances.

Finally, after my friend takes the opportunity to hang her coat on the provided rack in our corner, the manager fetches us and looks only mildly bewildered when we announce that we would just like to sit at the bar.  After checking Vodka's first and last names against the reservation list (despite the fact that there are a grand total of zero additional guests trying to check in at 5:30pm), the manager shows us to the bar.

Where, Thankfully, Bread Baskets Are Still Provided

"I assume you're drinking," Vodka says to her friend, temporarily forgetting that Ginger is not the one present.

"I may hold off on this round," the friend proclaims, forcing Vodka into a bout of solo boozing.

Least. Acceptable. Answer. Ever.

"Do you have flavored vodka?" Vodka asks the already looking-at-us-like-we're-lunatics bartender (oh, just you wait, buddy).

"We're too close to a church to serve hard liquor," he answers.

"Huh?!"

"It's an old Cambridge rule," he explains.  "Only wine and beer."  Talk about your unfortunate town policy, and this coming from a girl who lives in a city where you can't get a drink before noon on Sunday.  Blasphemy!

Settling for a glass of chardonnay, this great display of scripture absurdity has apparently awakened my friend's thirst for alcohol, as she orders herself a glass of sangria (and offers, inexplicably, for the bartender to put it in the same glass as her now empty Diet Coke in order to "cut down on the dishwashing"). 

"They have sangria?!  Excuse me," Vodka calls across the bar to the vodka-less bartender.  "EXCUSE ME."  Slowly he turns.

"I need to change my drink order to sangria," Vodka states, catching him just as the first drop of chardonnay is about to hit the bottom of the wine glass.  He nods solemnly, and we burst into immature giggles at our assured revelation: We are definitely "those people."

And Now, Let's Turn to the Purpose of Our Visit

Prying apart our magnetic menus, we order one Misty Knoll flattened lemon chicken with za'atar and a Turkish cheese pancake to share.  The dish, which was chosen by Gabriella Gershenson on the BIRD IS THE WORD episode of Best Thing I Ever Ate, arrives minutes later, just in time for the bartender to hear by friend proclaim "I go to the bank for breakfast" (it seems they serve bagels), thus nailing the coffin shut on our reputation at the place.

Considering This is the Phone Said Friend Still Uses, The Bank Breakfasts Should Not Be Surprising

The chicken dish itself is pretty enough: a plump chicken breast coated in a black sesame seed-laden sauce, resting atop greens and a cheesy pancake.

Okay, It Looked Slightly Prettier in Person

The first taste reveals that Oleana wasn't kidding on the "lemon" description, as the lemon taste is so strong that it is overpowered only by the slightly burnt flavor of the top coating (which we assume is the "za'atar").

Sour Patch Chicken

The chicken itself is moist enough, though not overly so, and the "pancake" is more of a sweet-cheese-wrapped-in-phyllo-dough affair than the thick, more potatoey pancake which we were expecting.

This Chicken Is Looking More and More Unappealing as the Pictures Progress

Overall, the dish is good, if vaguely odd, and not something that we finish (and as our college dorm room flatware could attest, we are both members of the Clean Plate Club).

Poor Showing, Team

As we are getting ready to leave, our dear friend, the manager, stops by again to ask us to move bar stools in order to accommodate another party.  Vodka, who really doesn't feel like being bothered with such helpfulness, says that if we can just get our check, we'll be out of their hair in a matter of seconds.  We pay and free up the sought-after bar stools, only to go out with a bang on our position of being "those people."

As you might recall, Vodka's friend's coat is hanging on a corner rack in Oleana, the corner where the entire waitstaff, plus early reservation arrivers, seem to like to hang out.  As we make our way back to said corner, we discover that, though the restaurant is now full, my friend's coat remains the ONLY one present on the reject rack.

It Seems No One in Cambridge Uses Outerwear

Whipping out her camera, Vodka tries to explain to the four hovering busboys, "I need to take a picture of her coat because it looks sad."  As I'm about the snap the photo, one of them asks, "Do you know her?" 

"Yes," Vodka answers, unsure where the confusion at the situation lies, and she skedaddles off to the bathroom.

Her friend, who has been left standing in the corner in utter coatless awkwardness, finally states, "I'm going to get my coat now" and maneuvers her way through the busboys.

"That's your coat?!" the same busboy asks incredulously.

"Yes," my friend states.  "It's all starting to make sense now, isn't it?"

Though we have a sneaking suspicious that, like so much of Ginger's and my previous behavior that has been recounted on this blog, the whole thing still didn't make much sense at all.

Oleana's Misty Knoll Flattened Lemon Chicken: 3 stars

Off the Map: This Isn't Fear Factor, You Know

Sliced Fish Szechuan Style -- Gourmet Dumpling House, Boston, MA
Gourmet Dumpling House

Overeater who is originally from the Boston area: Ginger.

Overeater who has now consumed all ten Best Thing I Ever Ate Boston-area dishes: Vodka.

Sometimes blogs, as in life, do not make sense.

Vodka ventured to Boston recently under the guise of "college roommate visitation."  In truth, she had ambushed said former roommate weeks earlier with the mission of cramming all ten Best Thing I Ever Ate Boston locations into a less-than-48-hour itinerary.

"The Whack-Job Is Coming! The Whack-Job Is Coming!"

Because Vodka's friends are apparently just as anal-retentive as she is, said roommate had pulled together a full spreadsheet of tour stops within a matter of days, and so Vodka makes her way to Boston with an empty stomach in tow.  Trotting from the bus station directly to Chinatown, Vodka finds the first stop on her self-imposed New England Best Thing I Ever Ate tour, the Gourmet Dumpling House, featuring Ming Tsai's favorite BETTER THAN MINE dish, the sliced fish Szechuan style.

Taking an Inconspicuous Chinatown Arch Picture = Impossible

Walking in through the bodega-like storefront, Vodka is confronted with a crowd of diners, significant because it is both 3:30 in the afternoon on a Thursday (doesn't anyone work anymore?!) and because Vodka appears to be just about Gourmet Dumpling House's only customer of European descent.

At least, I suppose, we can chalk this place up as being "authentic."

Although for Unknown Reasons, the Host Insists on Seating Everyone at the BACK of the Restaurant

Securing my place as a foreigner in this locale, I cannot get it through my thick head that my desired dish is called "sliced fish" rather than "sliced shrimp," as I refer to it by the latter term at least eighteen times.  Additionally, I have no knowledge of the fact that "Szechuan style" translates roughly to "burn your mouth off in fire-breathing, throat-scorching agony."

I Need an English-to-Food-Network Translator

In retrospect, I should have known better.  After all, I had a vague recollection of the BETTER THAN MINE episode in which Ming Tsai slowly sweats to death while consuming a scalding bowl of soup, but I figured it could not have been any worse than the dish of pure peppers which we had eaten at Devi months before.

For the record, the sliced fish Szechuan style makes the mirchi ka salan taste like a cupcake.

And All the Tea in the Universe Can't Do Much to Combat It

First of all, the size of the dish itself is ridiculous, enough for at least four excessive eaters like us.  As I am supposed to meet my friend in an hour, I send her a picture of the overflowing bowl with the only this caption: 

"I May Be A While"

Second of all, the smell of spice is so strong that it would be enough to take down three bottles of smelling salts, let alone to clear my sinuses.

Oh No - Not the Red Pepper Flakes... ANYTHING But the Red Pepper Flakes

And third of all, the temperature of the soup appears to be "just short of boiling," at least that is what my recently unclogged pores tell me.

Chinatown's Most Prestigious Spa

Taking one glance at the overload of red pepper flakes covering the top of the soup, I ask for an additional glass of water before I even begin.  The waiter, to his credit, does not openly mock either my choice of a dish or my hydration pre-game, though considering I can't understand much of what the workers are saying amongst themselves, I can only assume that at least part of their conversation consists of, "Let's watch this loser die right in front of us, Szechuan style."

Cause of Death: Stupidity

Unable to stall any longer, I scoop up my first tentative spoonful, blow on it with hurricane strength winds, and taste.

And this, the first taste of the 492 it would take to reach the bottom of this bowl, is more pleasing than one would think.  The white fish itself is nicely cooked, smooth and buttery to the point that it hardly requires chewing.  At first, both the temperature and spiciness is so high that it is hard to tell from where the burning comes, but I assume that my mouth is simply reaching the required level of numbness that will be necessary for the rest of the dish's completion.

And then I take a second bite.  And I am convinced that death is imminent.

As Her Inheritance, Ginger Will Gain Only the Remainder of My Boston Itinerary

Recalling that when the contestants on Chefs versus City have to eat spicy things, they won't drink water until they are finished, I try to do the same.  Unfortunately, I can barely swallow a second spoonful of the soup before diving directly for my water glass.  Those blasted red pepper flakes, which I am convinced are, along with parsley, my personal nemesis, are not only slowly killing me, but most likely also ruining my palate for the rest of the day's eating adventures.  Though there is also a proliferation of cumin in the bowl, the taste of pure, evil pepper is so overwhelming that all other flavors take a backseat.

After a grand total of six spoonfuls, my throat burns to such a high degree that I am convinced that I am going to keel over and die in the streets of Chinatown Boston without even Ginger to save me.  Scrambling to find the Wheat Thins I have hidden in my bag, I try to suppress the fire in my mouth with reduced-fat crackers and small cups of tea.  In the midst of this recovery, another customer stops by my table to ask what I'm eating, a question which the waiter is forced to answer when I can only manage to mumble "Very spicy" with my heat-laden tongue.

I Should've Hired the Ducklings As My Interpreters

I ask for the waiter to pack up a small carton of the soup to bring to my friend to try, if only to confirm that it is the dish itself, and not my weak spice palate, that is causing all of this damage (and as we confirm in Starbucks an hour later, the soup is slightly more agreeable when lukewarm, but still deathly spicy).

In the end, I've decided that I cannot in good conscience give this dish any more than 2 stars, even if the sliced fish itself was rather pleasing.  After all, if I cannot physically take more than ten bites, let alone finish the thing, it just can't rank very high.  This isn't Fear Factor -- it's a self-inflicted Food Network eating tour.  And if either of us feel as though we have reached the last of our days by anything other than indigestion, we are torturing ourselves in all of the wrong ways.

Gourmet Dumpling House's Sliced Fish Szechuan Style: 2 stars

Off the Map: A Half Pig a Day Keeps Jose Garces Away

Roast Suckling Pig (Cochinillo Asado) -- Amada, Philadelphia, PA
Amada

If Vodka excels at one ridiculous skill in life, it is the ability to meet "niche" celebrities.  Never one to be interested in the true A-listers, she tends to only come face-to-face with those that are very famous, but to a specific population of people

Want to meet Bernadette Peters, Regis Philbin, Nancy Kerrigan, Constantine Maroulis, Paula Deen, or Roger Bart?  Vodka will figure out a way, and she will do so without the threat of a restraining order.  Her methods have never failed her.

Until now.

As previously mentioned, Vodka's mother is nothing short of in love with Jose Garces.  A frequenter of his many Philadelphia restaurants, along with the one in Chicago, she has been known to say that she feels like she is "cheating" on Jose when she enjoys the culinary delights of, say, Marc Vetri.

Yet despite all of these hours and dollars spent at Jose's many institutions, their paths have never crossed.  Nevertheless, my mother, as soon as she walks in the front door of any Garces restaurant, accosts the waitstaff with "Is Jose Garces here tonight?!"  He never has been.

So Vodka, never finding a celebrity challenge she couldn't conquer, began her pursuit to get her mother a meeting with Jose Garces three whole months before the fateful December night when my family would be celebrating my mom's birthday at Amada.  Emailing the Garces Restaurant Group, I had explained the situation and said that we would show up at any restaurant if Jose were guaranteed to be there.

And no such guarantee should be made.

Instead, the Garces Restaurant Group (who were, it should be mentioned, quite pleasant in the face of my stalker-like pursuit) recommended that we make the dinner special by pre-ordering a roast suckling pig and a birthday cake.

It's not quite Jose Garces, but I suppose it will have to do.

Charlotte Web Lovers, Stop Reading Now

My Mother Was Still Hoping Jose Would Pop Out of This Cake

In the days leading up the dinner, I remind the staff of Amada of my mother's birthday wish, and they assure me that if Jose is present, he will come meet her.  But, once again, the insist that he will probably not be in town.

Never in my life have my groupie ambitions fallen so flat.

My parents and I arrive at Amada for the consolation prize pig dinner, which had to be ordered days in advance.

We Suppose It Takes That Long to Trim All the Hairs on Their Chinny-Chin-Chins

Still believing that her culinary crush, Jose, might appear before her at any moment, my mom orders a bottle of wine for my parents to share, while I stick to the aptly named "Broken Hugs" cocktail, featuring tequila, grapefruit, and agave.

Because That's Just What Jose's Absence is Providing: A Broken Hug

Despite the fact that we have a plethora of food heading our way, we have been to Amada enough times to our know favorite dishes, and we cannot bear leaving without having had the lamb chops and the costilla de ternera (Spanish flatbread with beef shortribs, horseradish, parmasan, bacon).

Plus, the Chef Sends Out This Appetizer, Which Tastes Like Upscale Tuna Fish

The lamb chops are, with no exaggeration, the stuff I dream about at night, and I am not usually one to be taken by on-the-bone hunks of meat.

Lamb Chops Which Thankfully Do Not Sing "This Is the Song That Never Ends"

Thick, succulent, and just fatty enough on the inside, the meat features a crisp, slightly spicy and very salty outer layer, and it is truly so delectable that each member of my family can be found sucking on the bone like a certifiable caveman once the lamb meat itself has disappeared.

Apt to Cause Fred Flintstone Dining Habits

The shortrib flatbread is just about my parents' favorite dish of all time, and it is easy to see why when it features bread, beef, cheese, and bacon stacked on top of one another.

Well, "Flat"-Bread May Be an Exaggeration

Savory with just a hint of sweetness from the shortribs themselves, this flatbread always proves to be the best among a choice of four almost-as-delicious varieties.

We'll Take Eight More to Go, Please

And then comes the "I'm sorry Jose Garces refuses to meet you" dish, the half suckling pig, which is presented tableside with its very own Garces sous chef carver.

If the Sous Chef Had Only Worn a Garces Mask, We Think We Could Have Fooled Her

When Adam Gertler spoke of the pig on The Best Thing I Ever Ate's MEAT-FEST episode, he mentioned just how grand a feast the dish is, but at the time, I didn't realize that it came with its very own built-in side dishes.

Because Clearly, THIS Won't Be Enough for Three People to Eat...

Indeed, as the pork gets taken apart piece by piece, five additional items appear on the table before us.  The most recognizable among them is the herb-roasted fingerling potatoes, a dish of garlicky starch that compliments perfectly the meat that is about to hit our palates.

You Say Potato, We Say Delicious

Along with the potatoes, there are three versions of bean dishes: garbanzos with espinacas, rosemary white beans, and warm fava and lima bean salad.  The garbanzos and white beans, while both enjoyable, taste almost interchangeable to us.

And I Am Posting Them in Succession Because I Don't Know Which is Which

There Are Just So Many "White Beans" to Choose From

The fava and lime bean salad, however, is a revelation: not usually one for pea-like large beans, these are cooked to such perfection that they outshine the other side dishes by far.

"I Let Him Go, I Didn't Know He'd Stolen My Beans!"

The grilled green onions, which come with a side of hummus-like spread, are a tad stringy for my tastes - onions by way of dental floss - but in this hearty meal, one misstep can be forgiven.

Unlike Buddakan, Amada Serves a Plethora of Scallions

Moving onto the pig itself, it is just about the best pork any of us have ever had.  Managing to be moist and flavorful in each and every piece, it is especially impressive considering that it was cooked whole, so the spices have managed to permeate down into the center of the animal.

This Little Piggy Went to Amada

The skin is sodium-rich and tough - a jerky version of the best crispy bacon - but it is the meat of the pig which really shines here.

The Pig Should've Used Better Moisturizer

Stuffed full like the pig itself by the time the red velvet birthday cake arrives, we shovel the slices into our mouths with less gusto, due more to the sense of imminent explosion than to the taste (though I admittedly find all fondant to taste like plastic pastry, though my mother swears Amada's version is one of the best).

Red Velvet Meets Mood-Lighting

In truth, the roast suckling pig is not my favorite thing I've ever had from the Amada menu, or even in the Top 10.  So considering how scrumptious it is, this goes to show just how scrumptious the rest of the menu items are.

For Instance, This Would Be Number One on the List

Though of course, I'm sure all of the dishes would taste more delicious in the presence of the seemingly enigmatic Jose Garces.  Which is why my mother will never stop flocking to his restaurants until she comes face-to-face with her chosen culinary mastermind.

I just hope when the time comes, she's not the one to break our family's lack-of-restraining-order streak.

Because A Lifelong Ban from Amada Would Be Nothing Short of Disastrous

 Amada's Roast Suckling Pig: 5 stars*

*Certifiable Best Thing We Ever Ate