Amy fed Jackson this past Sunday afternoon at a church luncheon, so that she and I could decide on a place to eat lunch for ourselves without having to take into consideration whether or not chicken fingers would be on the menu; and then she suggested Mimi Blue Meatballs, a new meatball restaurant that opened last week in the 800 block of Mass Ave, a block that used to sit somewhat apart from the rest of the avenue, with its mixed bag of utilitarian city buildings, a smattering of art galleries, and, all the way at the end, just before it curves away to 10th Street, the R Bistro restaurant. All of those things are still there, but they have been joined by Black Market, Indy Reads Books, The Best Chocolate in Town, Homespun, Natural Born Juicers, and a relocated Yats, among other places of business that have emerged in recent years.
Thanks to the Cultural Trail, this block of Mass Ave is no longer a dead end, but rather both a destination and a throughway: the Cultural Trail connects with the Monon Trail if you follow that curve around to 10th Street. From there you can take the Monon Trail all the way up to Carmel, if you’re that adventurous. (It becomes the Monon Greenway once you cross into Hamilton County. Those folks take pretension to a whole new level.) R Bistro and Black Market are widely regarded as two of the finest restaurants in the city, and Indy Reads Books might be the city’s best bookstore. And holy computer coincidences, Batman! Indianapolis Monthly posted an article about that end of Mass Ave on their website last week.
And now we have a meatball restaurant. Just how much can you do with meatballs? you might well be inclined to ask. They make a heck of a sandwich, or an add-on to a pasta dish—but we’ve got sub shops and Italian restuarants seemingly every fifty yards around here. I suppose the first thing to do would be to set the tone, so the only place on the menu where you see the word meatballs is in the restaurant’s name at the top. The rest of the time, their signature foodstuff is referred to as—wait for it—balls. Sometimes they’re served with a loaf, which would just be called bread at someplace less elegant and refined.
Don’t get me (entirely) wrong. I like some good toilet humor as much as the next juvenile, but I feel like they’re not even winking at you here. You use a marker on the menu to indicate which balls you want to put in your mouth (sorry—see what I mean?), but then they plop the whole thing down in a room that’s supposed to look fancy (reportedly 1940s-era New York City) and hit you with cloth napkins and two differently sized forks. Oh, and there’s a television mounted in the corner, so you don’t miss any of the game.
Now for some of the disclaimers. We don’t usually get to restaurants this soon after they have opened, and even though I’m not in the biz, I know enough about the biz to know that new restaurants are rarely firing on all cylinders right out of the gate. I’ve read more than one review that attempts to evaluate a new eatery based on the potential demonstrated by what is on offer during the first few weeks it’s open. (I don’t know if there is a term for it in the restaurant industry—in theatre, they call it previews. It doesn’t work exactly the same way with restaurants as it does with stage productions, but the idea is similar.)
We were told that the entire menu would be available eventually, but for now, the 4-Baller was not, due to the kitchen had to get used to the basic menu first. That seemed odd. The menu consists of four things. 1) Balls - This is three of the same meatball served with one sauce, with bread on the side; 2) 4-Baller - This is your choice of four meatballs with your choice of sauces, with bread on the side; 3) Sliders - This is one meatball, one sauce, one Brioche bun; and 4) Sandwiches - This is three of the same meatball, with one sauce, served inside the bread that was on the side in numbers 1 and 2 above. Also, they put cheese on it.
The same five meatballs are available for each item, along with the same five sauces. It's not like they had to learn new meatballs for the 4-Baller or anything—and it's not like this is rocket science to begin with. They're dealing in meatballs and bread, with a few sides. You know they're making big batches of each sauce during prep each day; and even if they're hand-rolling each meatball during service (from meat mixtures made during prep), a four-meatball combination should not be so complicated that they can't serve it until the kitchen gets the hang of everything else.
Mimi Blue Meatballs has a neighbor just a few doors down, the aforementioned R Bistro, that serves a brand-new menu every week. There are other restuarants around the city, including Recess, Bluebeard, and Late Harvest Kitchen, that come up with a new menu Every. Single. Day. But you know what the odd thing is? I liked Mimi Blue Meatballs way more than it sounds like I did from what I have written here. I told myself I was going to try to be nice, that I was going to give them the benefit of the doubt for having just opened all of five days before we visited; but the more I work on this, the more it settles in that they punted on fully 25% of their menu.
But enough about that. Let’s see if I can focus on the 75% of the menu that was available long enough to give you some idea of what I thought of what I actually got to eat. We each started with the Market Greens salad from the Sides menu, and it’s exactly what it sounds like— mixed greens with a few slices of grape tomato and some crumbles of mild blue cheese, and your choice of sweet or balsamic vinaigrette. This was an excellent beginning—fresh, earthy greens that tasted like they might well have come out of the ground that morning; sweet, flavorful grape tomatoes; and just enough herb-y vinaigrette to dress the salad without drowning it.
The only downside—I guess you must have seen this coming, right?—was that it was all over way too quickly, a fairly skimpy portion for the $5 à la carte price. The sliders, too, were perhaps a tad gaunt for the $3 cover charge. I went for a Classic meatball slider with garlic cream sauce, and a Vegetarian meatball slider with mushroom gravy. Each meatball is about the size of a billiard ball, and they are perched so precariously inside the brioche buns that a toothpick is required to keep the thing together; and each had both too much and too little sauce. There was too much sauce to pick the thing up and eat it like a sandwich, and too little to get much of an idea of the sauce’s flavor.
The meatballs, on the other hand, were something on the order of flavor bombs. The Classic tasted, well…like a classic meatball—a mixture of meats and seasonings so perfectly balanced that it just tastes…like a meatball. The vegetarian was not much like a meatball, except in shape—but didn’t disappoint. I have to go back to that Star article for a description of its contents, however, since the menu is as short on descriptions as it is possible to be: peas, carrots, corn, ginger, garlic, cumin, cayenne, lemon, mashed potatoes, and hash browns—and then deep fried, rather than pan fried. Those flavors all blended together too, though the cumin stood out and there was just a bit of heat from the cayenne. The texture was a little bit gummy, like a dense hush puppy; but overall, it was an interesting taste sensation—and the kitchen should be commended for at least attempting to throw vegetarians a bone. Here’s hoping that they eventually come up with something to do with tofu and seitan.
870 Massachusetts Avenue
737-2625
mimibluemeatballs.com
Showing posts with label Mass Ave. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mass Ave. Show all posts
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Thursday, September 04, 2014
Black Market
Last Wednesday night we completed the Ed Rudisell trifecta and finally got around to trying Black Market. Amy was pretty well seduced by the Devour Downtown menu that included a no-bake chocolate oatmeal cookie for dessert, and even though we didn’t do the planning very well, we pretty much had our pick of seats in the place when we arrived at almost half past seven. I didn’t ask what the building all the way at the far north end of Mass Ave used to be, but Mr. Rudisell and company did well to retain the brick walls and hardwood floors when they built it out into a restaurant.
On another night, we might not have been able to choose our seats, but that night we got to pick between individual seating on the edges of the room, bar seating, and a communal space in the middle that brought to mind eating around the long tables in the conference room, back in the ol’ Clearwater days. They’ve done as much as they can with a small space, as they have also done with Siam Square and Rook—though there is something charming about Black Market that I’ve never felt at Siam Square, and did not feel the one time we tried Rook. I’m not sure what that something charming is…but it’s there.
But enough of that preliminary crap…we need to move directly to the food, because this was one of the best out-to-dinner meals I have eaten in a long time. When we picked Jackson up at my parents’ house after we ate, they asked us where we had gone, and then what kind of place it was; and I had a hard time describing exactly what they’re aiming for at Black Market. It’s not like the other Rudisell joints, which serve specifically Asian food. The phrase I used to describe it to my parents was “contemporary American.” It’s one of those places where the menu changes regularly to take advantage of both local ingredients and foods that are in season, and it’s widely regarded as one of the best restaurants in the city.
After some hemming and hawing, Amy selected the Devour Downtown menu, three courses for $30, which started with a salad of Israeli couscous, blueberry, and melon, with sweet basil vinaigrette and goat cheese. She liked the goat cheese—no surprise there—but seemed indifferent to the rest of it. I ordered from the regular menu and started with a salad of Chioggia beets, cucumber, and feta, with lemon vinaigrette ($9). I managed to overlook the green beans and mint that were also listed on the menu, so those were a nice surprise when the salad came, as was a foundation of hardy chopped romaine. I had never experienced Chioggia beets before, so I looked them up after we got home, and discovered that it’s an Italian beet with red and white stripes on the inside. I don’t recall the thick slices in my salad being striped—which maybe means they were overcooked a bit, but they were still sweet and delicious, a nice counterpoint to the tart vinaigrette and loud, creamy feta cheese.
Amy was less pleased with her second course, described on the menu as Garden Lemongrass-Chicken Broth and Confit with Sweet Corn and Carrots, but which in actuality was more along the lines of glorified chicken soup. I went for the pulled pork sandwich, on a brioche bun from Amelia’s, with mustard-vinegar sauce and two sides ($14). The cornbread with serrano butter was a no-brainer for one of the sides, but I was torn between cole slaw and three-cheese macaroni for the other. In the end, the mac and cheese fiend in me won out, and I was rewarded with a creamy helping of surprisingly well-cooked macaroni and cheese (at least one of the three was goat cheese, but that was the only one I could identify). The cornbread was crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, topped with a wee dab of serrano butter that was intensely pepper-flavored, but not aggressively spicy. It reminded me of the Rico’s Hot and Easy cheese we used to sling on the nachos, back in the GC Eastgate days.
Does the sandwich all by itself deserve its own paragraph? I think it just might, and yet I don’t even know where to begin. The airy, perfectly grilled brioche bun? The giant mound of pulled pork, already sauced, yet not so much that it obscured the smokiest smoke flavor I think I’ve ever encountered? The way it was served halfway open-faced, like they knew even before you did that to attempt to pick it up with your hands and eat it like a sandwich was simply out of the question? That mustard-vinegar sauce, which was just as briny as its appellation would lead you to believe, yet also sweet and a little bit smoky itself? The excellent bread, which had grill marks, but wasn’t burnt, and which retained a chewy breadiness even after being sat upon by a giant pile of barbecued pork? I suspect that from this day forward, any barbecued pulled pork that I ever eat will be held up against this sandwich—and probably found wanting.
There was no third course for me, but Amy got the aforementioned chocolate oatmeal no-bake cookie with peanut butter mousse and raspberry sauce. It looked more like two lumps of brown granola to me, but she seemed to like them; and the peanut butter mousse was admirably peanut buttery.
I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m not sure there’s anything left to say—although maybe it’s worth going back to what I said near the beginning, that Black Market has had the reputation, pretty much since the day it opened, of being one of the best restaurants in the city. It’s definitely the best meal I’ve had in a restaurant since we ate at Bluebeard a couple of years ago. Is it better than Bluebeard? I’m not sure I’d go that far—but I’m not sure I wouldn’t, either. They’re really close. I still haven’t tried R Bistro or Recess, or a couple of the newer big deals, like Cerulean and Late Harvest Kitchen. The best restaurant in the city is probably one of the six—and Bluebeard and Black Market set the bar very, very high.
922 Massachusetts Avenue
822-6757
blackmarketindy.net
On another night, we might not have been able to choose our seats, but that night we got to pick between individual seating on the edges of the room, bar seating, and a communal space in the middle that brought to mind eating around the long tables in the conference room, back in the ol’ Clearwater days. They’ve done as much as they can with a small space, as they have also done with Siam Square and Rook—though there is something charming about Black Market that I’ve never felt at Siam Square, and did not feel the one time we tried Rook. I’m not sure what that something charming is…but it’s there.
But enough of that preliminary crap…we need to move directly to the food, because this was one of the best out-to-dinner meals I have eaten in a long time. When we picked Jackson up at my parents’ house after we ate, they asked us where we had gone, and then what kind of place it was; and I had a hard time describing exactly what they’re aiming for at Black Market. It’s not like the other Rudisell joints, which serve specifically Asian food. The phrase I used to describe it to my parents was “contemporary American.” It’s one of those places where the menu changes regularly to take advantage of both local ingredients and foods that are in season, and it’s widely regarded as one of the best restaurants in the city.
After some hemming and hawing, Amy selected the Devour Downtown menu, three courses for $30, which started with a salad of Israeli couscous, blueberry, and melon, with sweet basil vinaigrette and goat cheese. She liked the goat cheese—no surprise there—but seemed indifferent to the rest of it. I ordered from the regular menu and started with a salad of Chioggia beets, cucumber, and feta, with lemon vinaigrette ($9). I managed to overlook the green beans and mint that were also listed on the menu, so those were a nice surprise when the salad came, as was a foundation of hardy chopped romaine. I had never experienced Chioggia beets before, so I looked them up after we got home, and discovered that it’s an Italian beet with red and white stripes on the inside. I don’t recall the thick slices in my salad being striped—which maybe means they were overcooked a bit, but they were still sweet and delicious, a nice counterpoint to the tart vinaigrette and loud, creamy feta cheese.
Amy was less pleased with her second course, described on the menu as Garden Lemongrass-Chicken Broth and Confit with Sweet Corn and Carrots, but which in actuality was more along the lines of glorified chicken soup. I went for the pulled pork sandwich, on a brioche bun from Amelia’s, with mustard-vinegar sauce and two sides ($14). The cornbread with serrano butter was a no-brainer for one of the sides, but I was torn between cole slaw and three-cheese macaroni for the other. In the end, the mac and cheese fiend in me won out, and I was rewarded with a creamy helping of surprisingly well-cooked macaroni and cheese (at least one of the three was goat cheese, but that was the only one I could identify). The cornbread was crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, topped with a wee dab of serrano butter that was intensely pepper-flavored, but not aggressively spicy. It reminded me of the Rico’s Hot and Easy cheese we used to sling on the nachos, back in the GC Eastgate days.
Does the sandwich all by itself deserve its own paragraph? I think it just might, and yet I don’t even know where to begin. The airy, perfectly grilled brioche bun? The giant mound of pulled pork, already sauced, yet not so much that it obscured the smokiest smoke flavor I think I’ve ever encountered? The way it was served halfway open-faced, like they knew even before you did that to attempt to pick it up with your hands and eat it like a sandwich was simply out of the question? That mustard-vinegar sauce, which was just as briny as its appellation would lead you to believe, yet also sweet and a little bit smoky itself? The excellent bread, which had grill marks, but wasn’t burnt, and which retained a chewy breadiness even after being sat upon by a giant pile of barbecued pork? I suspect that from this day forward, any barbecued pulled pork that I ever eat will be held up against this sandwich—and probably found wanting.
There was no third course for me, but Amy got the aforementioned chocolate oatmeal no-bake cookie with peanut butter mousse and raspberry sauce. It looked more like two lumps of brown granola to me, but she seemed to like them; and the peanut butter mousse was admirably peanut buttery.
I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m not sure there’s anything left to say—although maybe it’s worth going back to what I said near the beginning, that Black Market has had the reputation, pretty much since the day it opened, of being one of the best restaurants in the city. It’s definitely the best meal I’ve had in a restaurant since we ate at Bluebeard a couple of years ago. Is it better than Bluebeard? I’m not sure I’d go that far—but I’m not sure I wouldn’t, either. They’re really close. I still haven’t tried R Bistro or Recess, or a couple of the newer big deals, like Cerulean and Late Harvest Kitchen. The best restaurant in the city is probably one of the six—and Bluebeard and Black Market set the bar very, very high.
922 Massachusetts Avenue
822-6757
blackmarketindy.net
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Ralston's Drafthouse
It is perhaps inauspicious when you elect to dine al fresco and then have a bird deposit the remnants of its own dinner on your head just before your put-upon-looking server brings out the silverware wrapped in a paper napkin. Things are not getting better when, several minutes after taking your order, said put-upon-looking server comes back out and says, “I’m sorry, I forgot what you guys ordered.” To her credit, however, she remembered the second time, and the food was correct when it came out. I also got to experience northern-style German potato salad—I think. I wasn’t even aware that there was such a thing. I had to go home and Google potato salad and its German variants in order to determine that what they brought out to me was not, in fact, a mistake.
I’m not sure I even had high hopes for Ralston’s Drafthouse, the new, uh...I’m not even sure what you call it. I guess the answer would be brewpub. The new brewpub on Mass Ave, in the space that formerly housed Agio, before the recession forced Chef to pull up stakes and move on. We never ate at Agio, but after it closed, it seemed to remain frozen in time for quite awhile. I’d walk by, and I could see the tables set for dinner, with folded napkins and polished silverware, like they had fully expected to open for business the next day—only they never did. I’m not sure Ralston’s Drafthouse is an improvement over the spooky image of a restaurant all set for a service that would never happen.
The menu is heavy on flatbreads and salads, with a few run of the mill appetizers and a few appetizers that are, admittedly, not to be found on most other menus—a fried brie stick, fried pumpkin ravioli, and masala bean dip, with garbanzo beans, ginger, cilantro, and masala curry mix. In retrospect, I should maybe have gone for one or two of the appetizers. When I scanned the beer list, I told Amy that I wanted to come back sometime to try the Sun King Popcorn Pilsner, a brew that I thought they had prepared exclusively for sale at Indianapolis Indians games. I was unable to sample one on Tuesday when we had lunch, because I had to show up at the old juke joint later on. I have heard that there are places where you can drink while you’re at work, but an ultra-corporate fake art house is not one of those places.
I had the Perfect Personal Pepperoni and Peppadew Pizza. I don't remember the exact name, and it’s not on the menu they currently have posted online. There was definitely some P alliteration, though. It consisted of “old world” pepperoni, peppadew peppers, and fresh mozzarella cheese, except that what was actually on it was plain-old part-skim mozzarella—again, I think. There wasn’t much of it, so I had a hard time telling exactly what it was. As far I could tell, the only thing that made the pepperoni “old world” was that it wasn’t cut into that perfectly spherical, ultra-thin shape that’s usually associated with pepperoni. The peppadews more closely resembled sweet bell peppers than their spicier cousins.
Amy had the Ralston’s Recession Burger, which was little more than a regular hamburger with shredded potatoes mixed into the patty—supposedly. I tried one bite, and would not have guessed that it contained anything resembling a potato if I had not read the menu. As burgers go, though, it tasted pretty good. Each meal at Ralston’s comes with one side. Amy had the Lemon Champagne Cucumber Slaw, which you probably could not have paid me to try. I opted for the Fried Rosemary Potatoes, except that they were out of them. I wound up with the German potato salad instead, and was surprised when it came out cold and creamy, rather than warm and vinegary, like every other German potato salad I had ever had. Cold and creamy is apparently how they do it in northern Germany, as opposed to the southerners, who like warm and vinegar.
Ralston’s Drathouse managed to underwhelm even low expectations—so unless Sun King starts distributing the Popcorn Pilsner in cans to local liquor stores, it looks like I’ll have to make it back to Victory Field sometime to try one.
ralstonsdrafthouse.com
634 Massachusetts Avenue
493-1143
I’m not sure I even had high hopes for Ralston’s Drafthouse, the new, uh...I’m not even sure what you call it. I guess the answer would be brewpub. The new brewpub on Mass Ave, in the space that formerly housed Agio, before the recession forced Chef to pull up stakes and move on. We never ate at Agio, but after it closed, it seemed to remain frozen in time for quite awhile. I’d walk by, and I could see the tables set for dinner, with folded napkins and polished silverware, like they had fully expected to open for business the next day—only they never did. I’m not sure Ralston’s Drafthouse is an improvement over the spooky image of a restaurant all set for a service that would never happen.
The menu is heavy on flatbreads and salads, with a few run of the mill appetizers and a few appetizers that are, admittedly, not to be found on most other menus—a fried brie stick, fried pumpkin ravioli, and masala bean dip, with garbanzo beans, ginger, cilantro, and masala curry mix. In retrospect, I should maybe have gone for one or two of the appetizers. When I scanned the beer list, I told Amy that I wanted to come back sometime to try the Sun King Popcorn Pilsner, a brew that I thought they had prepared exclusively for sale at Indianapolis Indians games. I was unable to sample one on Tuesday when we had lunch, because I had to show up at the old juke joint later on. I have heard that there are places where you can drink while you’re at work, but an ultra-corporate fake art house is not one of those places.
I had the Perfect Personal Pepperoni and Peppadew Pizza. I don't remember the exact name, and it’s not on the menu they currently have posted online. There was definitely some P alliteration, though. It consisted of “old world” pepperoni, peppadew peppers, and fresh mozzarella cheese, except that what was actually on it was plain-old part-skim mozzarella—again, I think. There wasn’t much of it, so I had a hard time telling exactly what it was. As far I could tell, the only thing that made the pepperoni “old world” was that it wasn’t cut into that perfectly spherical, ultra-thin shape that’s usually associated with pepperoni. The peppadews more closely resembled sweet bell peppers than their spicier cousins.
Amy had the Ralston’s Recession Burger, which was little more than a regular hamburger with shredded potatoes mixed into the patty—supposedly. I tried one bite, and would not have guessed that it contained anything resembling a potato if I had not read the menu. As burgers go, though, it tasted pretty good. Each meal at Ralston’s comes with one side. Amy had the Lemon Champagne Cucumber Slaw, which you probably could not have paid me to try. I opted for the Fried Rosemary Potatoes, except that they were out of them. I wound up with the German potato salad instead, and was surprised when it came out cold and creamy, rather than warm and vinegary, like every other German potato salad I had ever had. Cold and creamy is apparently how they do it in northern Germany, as opposed to the southerners, who like warm and vinegar.
Ralston’s Drathouse managed to underwhelm even low expectations—so unless Sun King starts distributing the Popcorn Pilsner in cans to local liquor stores, it looks like I’ll have to make it back to Victory Field sometime to try one.
ralstonsdrafthouse.com
634 Massachusetts Avenue
493-1143
Thursday, June 06, 2013
Bakersfield Mass Ave
Open just a few months in the Mass Ave space formerly occupied by Bazbeaux Pizza, Bakersfield does not do a whole lot of things; but what it does, it does reasonably well, claiming inspiration from the Bakersfield, California, music scene of the 50s and 60s, and presenting a take on Mexican street food that goes heavy on the trendy fusion tacos that have popped up in food trucks all over the country. The menu consists of eight varieties of tacos, two salads, two sandwiches, and a handful of appetizers. The drinks menu doesn’t overshadow the food here quite as much as it does at The Ball & Biscuit or The Libertine, but Bakersfield has clearly taken a cue from those popular establishments, with probably a healthy dash of Fountain Square’s Revolucion thrown into the mix for good measure.
They start you out with two squirt bottles of salsa—one green tomatillo with a bit of avocado, the other roasted tomatillo with what I think must have been a hint of chipotle or habanero, though without much in the way of the spicy punch you might expect from those peppers. We sampled the chips and guacamole, and used the salsas liberally with the appetizer. Both were delicious, though just a bit too thick for a squirt bottles (the roasted tomatillo one especially). The guacamole was very thick and very heavy on the avocado, mixed up with just a bit of onion and lime juice, along with an herb that I think might have been Mexican oregano—an unusual but not unappealing addition that helps to distinguish this otherwise pedestrian guacamole from others of its ilk.
Amy and I each ordered two tacos, and they came out on a communal plate, served open faced with wedges of lime—the better to show off the handsome presentation of their innards. Amy had the Pastor and the Molé, and I had the Huitlacoche and the Rajas. Even though our server had described the four-inch corn tortillas the tacos are served in, I was still surprised by how small they were when they came to the table. They can easily go down in two bites, and I would imagine that there are some hardy, hungry souls out there who could take one out in just one bite. The first one I tried was the Rajas, with poblano, fresno, and bell peppers, ejotes (green beans, and yes, I had to Google it to figure that out), chihuahua and fresco cheeses, and cilantro. If you think that sounds like a lot to have going on in something you can make disappear in two bites, you’re right. The Huitlacoche consisted of corn truffles, roasted poblano, corn, onion, cotija cheese, and cilantro.
What I ate certainly tasted good, but most of the individual flavors got lost in the shuffle. At $3 or $4 per taco, sans the beans and/or rice you are probably used to getting at other taco places, there’s a reasonable likelihood of going away hungry here—or of dropping twenty bucks on lunch. Maybe they hope that you’ll fail to notice if you drink enough of the $2 PBR drafts. I’m not sure what my answer to the all-important “would you go back?” question would be. I would probably need to try the aforementioned Revolucion and an Asian-inspired taco joint in Broad Ripple called La Chinita Poblana before I could say for sure; but even if Bakersfield were the best of the three, I can’t really imagine wanting to spend that much money on so little food a second time.
www.bakersfieldmassave.com
334 Massachusetts Avenue
635-6962
They start you out with two squirt bottles of salsa—one green tomatillo with a bit of avocado, the other roasted tomatillo with what I think must have been a hint of chipotle or habanero, though without much in the way of the spicy punch you might expect from those peppers. We sampled the chips and guacamole, and used the salsas liberally with the appetizer. Both were delicious, though just a bit too thick for a squirt bottles (the roasted tomatillo one especially). The guacamole was very thick and very heavy on the avocado, mixed up with just a bit of onion and lime juice, along with an herb that I think might have been Mexican oregano—an unusual but not unappealing addition that helps to distinguish this otherwise pedestrian guacamole from others of its ilk.
Amy and I each ordered two tacos, and they came out on a communal plate, served open faced with wedges of lime—the better to show off the handsome presentation of their innards. Amy had the Pastor and the Molé, and I had the Huitlacoche and the Rajas. Even though our server had described the four-inch corn tortillas the tacos are served in, I was still surprised by how small they were when they came to the table. They can easily go down in two bites, and I would imagine that there are some hardy, hungry souls out there who could take one out in just one bite. The first one I tried was the Rajas, with poblano, fresno, and bell peppers, ejotes (green beans, and yes, I had to Google it to figure that out), chihuahua and fresco cheeses, and cilantro. If you think that sounds like a lot to have going on in something you can make disappear in two bites, you’re right. The Huitlacoche consisted of corn truffles, roasted poblano, corn, onion, cotija cheese, and cilantro.
What I ate certainly tasted good, but most of the individual flavors got lost in the shuffle. At $3 or $4 per taco, sans the beans and/or rice you are probably used to getting at other taco places, there’s a reasonable likelihood of going away hungry here—or of dropping twenty bucks on lunch. Maybe they hope that you’ll fail to notice if you drink enough of the $2 PBR drafts. I’m not sure what my answer to the all-important “would you go back?” question would be. I would probably need to try the aforementioned Revolucion and an Asian-inspired taco joint in Broad Ripple called La Chinita Poblana before I could say for sure; but even if Bakersfield were the best of the three, I can’t really imagine wanting to spend that much money on so little food a second time.
www.bakersfieldmassave.com
334 Massachusetts Avenue
635-6962
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Forty Five˚
This past Wednesday night was Amy’s turn for a birthday dinner, and I was a little bit surprised to find a note on our message board that morning when I woke up that said, “45˚ for dinner.” She had been looking at some of the same places I had considered a couple of weeks ago, except that she substituted R Bistro for Bluebeard. I had a feeling that she was leaning toward Mass Ave, because she also wanted to pop in at Global Gifts to do some Christmas shopping for her mom. I mentioned Forty Five˚ mostly as a lark, because they feature sushi prominently on their menu—but they also have other things on the menu, including the ever-popular small plates and entrée salads. I got Amy to try sushi one time, from Oishi Sushi, and she didn’t care for it.
Forty Five˚ is on the southwest corner of Mass and College, in the space that was, once upon a time, occupied by the first incarnation of the Abbey Coffeehouse. They work their theme of angles to an almost dizzying degree inside, and the contoured white plastic chairs and black leather booths are strategically placed throughout on multiple levels—making the place feel sort of like it was designed by someone who had spent a lot of time at that burger shop from Saved by the Bell; and then the soft electronica music coming from the sound system gave me the impression that they were trying to appeal to the people who like going to the new version of Nicky Blaine’s, in the basement of the Guaranty building (and a far cry from the swanky coolness of its original location, across the street in the basement of the King Cole building).
Even with a Pacers game starting within a couple of hours, there was almost no one else in the restaurant when we arrived. Our server did not precisely rush us to put in our orders, but I got the feeling that we were taking too long to make up our minds. (And it surely must have disappointed him that all we ordered to drink, apart from water, was one glass of wine.) When Amy asked if he had any recommendations, he parroted the company line about everything being great. The first thing he recommended—and which he called “phenomenal”—was the fliet mignon. Would you believe that the filet mignon is the most expensive item on the menu? Yeah, I know. Shocking that the first thing he recommended was the most expensive thing we could have ordered.
I was set on a sushi roll, and Amy decided that she wanted crab cakes, which live on the “small plates” menu. Actual small plates are different than appetizers, but Forty Five˚ has not gotten that memo. Amy’s 45˚ salad came out first—and surprised her, since the menu did not indicate anything about her meal including a salad. Oddly, though, this surprise item was one of the highlights of the meal. It was a fairly simple affair of field greens, feta cheese, toasted almonds, dried cranberries, Mandarin oranges, and balsamic dressing. The balsamic dressing was extremely bright and fruity, and worked very well with the earthy field greens and tangy feta cheese. The toasted almonds were an especially nice touch, in terms of both texture and flavor—though I’m a sucker for almonds, and this would perhaps not appeal to everyone.
And then it was a strangely long time between Amy’s small salad and the arrival of the crab cakes and my spicy scallop sushi roll. The sushi was also a highlight—for me, anyway—with more fish in the middle of the roll than just about any other place I’ve tried. I had the choice of regular or reduced-sodium soy sauce at the table, and that was a nice touch, since soy sauce, while a necessary part of the sushi-eating experience, can also overpower the other flavors if you’re not careful. The reduced-sodium variety did not have that problem. The crab cakes were more problematic—almost all filler, practically no flavor, and served atop, surrounded by, and under various sauces. I thought that there was something vaguely familiar about the flavor, but it was four or five bites before I placed it—the crab cakes tasted the way garbage trucks smell. (That sounds more repulsive than it actually was.)
Our entrées came out almost on top of the crab cakes and sushi. That, combined with the long wait between salad and appetizers, indicated some timing issues in the kitchen—which is concerning, given the relative dearth of diners. Amy had vacillated over Tiger Shrimp Stiry-Fry, with coconut-curry sauce, fried rice noodles, and stir-fried vegetables; and Pesto Pasta, with sun-dried tomato pesto crème, fresh basil, asparagus, and feta cheese. It being her birthday and all, I offered to get the one she didn’t pick, and then to let her trade if they came out and she wound up liking mine better. Turned out, though, that the joke was on us—neither entrée was very good at all. They sounded like interesting combinations, but this gives me a chance to remind myself, once again, to never order pasta at a non-Italian restaurant.
It was hard to tell based on the texture of the noodles in Amy’s dish whether they had been made from fried rice or whether they were rice noodles that had been fried. Either way, they were gummy and overcooked, which is, I’m sorry to say, how you often find rice noodles around here. The coconut and the curry in the sauce seemed to be engaged in some kind of contest to see which could be less obtrusive—with the end result being that I could barely taste either of them, particularly the curry. I suspect the kitchen feels compelled to cater to the unimaginative and bland palates of Ordinary Americans. The ingredients in my Pesto Pasta were similarly flavorless, and by the time I got around to digging into it—I had to finish the sushi and my share of the crab cakes first—the sauce had congealed into a separated, goopy substance that might have been suitable for masonry work.
Except for the sushi, I can’t really recommend Forty Five˚ for anything. For a place that’s clearly going for that hip, ultralounge vibe, they’ve picked an odd place to set up shop. Maybe the rent on Meridian Street, between the Circle and the railroad tracks, where these ultralounge places seem to thrive, was too steep? Oh, and don’t go in your Pacers or Colts gear. They have a policy on “attire,” to ensure an “atmosphere that is agreeable to all our clients.”
765 Massachusettts Avenue
634-4545
fortyfiveindy.com
Forty Five˚ is on the southwest corner of Mass and College, in the space that was, once upon a time, occupied by the first incarnation of the Abbey Coffeehouse. They work their theme of angles to an almost dizzying degree inside, and the contoured white plastic chairs and black leather booths are strategically placed throughout on multiple levels—making the place feel sort of like it was designed by someone who had spent a lot of time at that burger shop from Saved by the Bell; and then the soft electronica music coming from the sound system gave me the impression that they were trying to appeal to the people who like going to the new version of Nicky Blaine’s, in the basement of the Guaranty building (and a far cry from the swanky coolness of its original location, across the street in the basement of the King Cole building).
Even with a Pacers game starting within a couple of hours, there was almost no one else in the restaurant when we arrived. Our server did not precisely rush us to put in our orders, but I got the feeling that we were taking too long to make up our minds. (And it surely must have disappointed him that all we ordered to drink, apart from water, was one glass of wine.) When Amy asked if he had any recommendations, he parroted the company line about everything being great. The first thing he recommended—and which he called “phenomenal”—was the fliet mignon. Would you believe that the filet mignon is the most expensive item on the menu? Yeah, I know. Shocking that the first thing he recommended was the most expensive thing we could have ordered.
I was set on a sushi roll, and Amy decided that she wanted crab cakes, which live on the “small plates” menu. Actual small plates are different than appetizers, but Forty Five˚ has not gotten that memo. Amy’s 45˚ salad came out first—and surprised her, since the menu did not indicate anything about her meal including a salad. Oddly, though, this surprise item was one of the highlights of the meal. It was a fairly simple affair of field greens, feta cheese, toasted almonds, dried cranberries, Mandarin oranges, and balsamic dressing. The balsamic dressing was extremely bright and fruity, and worked very well with the earthy field greens and tangy feta cheese. The toasted almonds were an especially nice touch, in terms of both texture and flavor—though I’m a sucker for almonds, and this would perhaps not appeal to everyone.
And then it was a strangely long time between Amy’s small salad and the arrival of the crab cakes and my spicy scallop sushi roll. The sushi was also a highlight—for me, anyway—with more fish in the middle of the roll than just about any other place I’ve tried. I had the choice of regular or reduced-sodium soy sauce at the table, and that was a nice touch, since soy sauce, while a necessary part of the sushi-eating experience, can also overpower the other flavors if you’re not careful. The reduced-sodium variety did not have that problem. The crab cakes were more problematic—almost all filler, practically no flavor, and served atop, surrounded by, and under various sauces. I thought that there was something vaguely familiar about the flavor, but it was four or five bites before I placed it—the crab cakes tasted the way garbage trucks smell. (That sounds more repulsive than it actually was.)
Our entrées came out almost on top of the crab cakes and sushi. That, combined with the long wait between salad and appetizers, indicated some timing issues in the kitchen—which is concerning, given the relative dearth of diners. Amy had vacillated over Tiger Shrimp Stiry-Fry, with coconut-curry sauce, fried rice noodles, and stir-fried vegetables; and Pesto Pasta, with sun-dried tomato pesto crème, fresh basil, asparagus, and feta cheese. It being her birthday and all, I offered to get the one she didn’t pick, and then to let her trade if they came out and she wound up liking mine better. Turned out, though, that the joke was on us—neither entrée was very good at all. They sounded like interesting combinations, but this gives me a chance to remind myself, once again, to never order pasta at a non-Italian restaurant.
It was hard to tell based on the texture of the noodles in Amy’s dish whether they had been made from fried rice or whether they were rice noodles that had been fried. Either way, they were gummy and overcooked, which is, I’m sorry to say, how you often find rice noodles around here. The coconut and the curry in the sauce seemed to be engaged in some kind of contest to see which could be less obtrusive—with the end result being that I could barely taste either of them, particularly the curry. I suspect the kitchen feels compelled to cater to the unimaginative and bland palates of Ordinary Americans. The ingredients in my Pesto Pasta were similarly flavorless, and by the time I got around to digging into it—I had to finish the sushi and my share of the crab cakes first—the sauce had congealed into a separated, goopy substance that might have been suitable for masonry work.
Except for the sushi, I can’t really recommend Forty Five˚ for anything. For a place that’s clearly going for that hip, ultralounge vibe, they’ve picked an odd place to set up shop. Maybe the rent on Meridian Street, between the Circle and the railroad tracks, where these ultralounge places seem to thrive, was too steep? Oh, and don’t go in your Pacers or Colts gear. They have a policy on “attire,” to ensure an “atmosphere that is agreeable to all our clients.”
765 Massachusettts Avenue
634-4545
fortyfiveindy.com
Friday, March 30, 2012
Mesh on Mass
It’s possible that all of the great reviews got me a little more excited to eat at this hip new(-ish) spot at the northeast end of Mass Ave than was perhaps warranted; it’s also possible that I wanted to believe that whatever took the place of Scholar’s Inn would be worthy of occupying the space; but whatever the reason, this place and Greg Hardesty’s Recess—located in the even hipper SoBro—have been at the top of my list of restaurants to try the next time an “occasion” afforded us the opportunity to go out to dinner as grown-ups. Since our wedding anniversary was coming up, such an occasion was at hand. Part two was to see if Grandma was free to babysit, which she was—and Amy even thought to mention Mesh on Mass a day or two beforehand, so it was on my mind.
(Despite the fact that I love to try new restaurants, I often find, or try to find, excuses not to go to the fancy places when we have the chance to go out to dinner. I never learned how to eat dinner at a fancy restaurant like a fancy person, and I also know damn good and well that people employed in the restaurant/hospitality industry expect their customers to know their shit. I’m totally okay with that. I expect to be walking into semi-hostile territory when we pick a fancy place for dinner. I have no shame in admitting that I’m a little intimidated when I go into places like that, because I don’t do it often enough to know my shit all that well. I also don’t like to dress up. Nor do I need my meal to be plated so elaborately. Probably some people like that, but really—very little of the food that occurs in nature is vertical. I don’t really see why it needs to be vertical on the plate. But anyway, the point is—let the food speak for itself.)
By now, of course, you’re locked in and ready for me to write that Mesh on Mass was disappointing and that I did not like it nearly as much as I had hoped I would. Both of those things are true, so if you don’t want to read any further, you’re off the hook. I had the Grilled Tofu ($14), Amy had the Applewood Chicken salad ($13), and we split a small Cheese Board ($12), with Traders Point Herb Fromage, Griddled Taleggio, and Goat Cheese Fritter. Amy also had a glass of wine, and we got out of there for $60. So long!
Mesh on Mass was one of those places where we kept getting the look from our server every time we declined something that she wanted to try to sell us—even though we did go for an appetizer and Amy had a glass of wine. We both ordered relatively inexpensive entrées, declined soup (and in my case, salad) to go with them, and declined dessert. Amy declined a second glass of wine, and I declined to have a beer when the best they could do for Sun King was Sunlight on tap and Osiris in the can. There’s a liquor store not far from my house where I can get a four-pack of Osiris in cans. I know these folks are trying to make a living, but when I’m dropping that much money on dinner, you need to offer me something that I can’t get at home. I can’t get Sunlight on tap at home, but that same liquor store also carries Sunlight in cans. I’m sure it would have been better in draft form, but I was hoping that Mesh would have at least one of the other kinds of Sun King, something that they only put into kegs and that you can only get when you go out.
Having said all of that, however, the food was actually pretty good. The Cheese Board was advertised as being served with cornichon, pear chutney, local honey, and grilled baguette. I must have missed the honey part, but the pear chutney was kind of amazing, very sweet, but heavily spiced with a mild curry that delivered a great combination of sweet and savory flavors. The cornichon (which I had to Google), were tiny little sour pickles, and were also quite good. Of the three cheeses we tried, the Goat Cheese Fritter was clearly the best. The Traders Point Herb Fromage was a spread that might have been a little heavy on the herb part. The Griddled Taleggio was a brie-like soft cheese with a mild, earthy flavor. (To see the Cheese Board choices on the website, you have to click the link for the menu at the top of the page. For reasons passing understanding, they have two versions of their dinner menu posted on their website. The one about halfway down on the left side is not current.)
Amy enjoyed her Applewood Chicken salad, though she also remarked that it was probably something she could make for herself at home with little trouble. It featured spring greens, bacon, bleu cheese, spiced pecans, and cranberry poppyseed dressing. If she felt like she could make it at home without much trouble, I don’t imagine that many of the things in the salad tasted all that special in and of themselves. I do not imagine that I could re-create my Grilled Tofu at home. There were three slabs of soft (but not silken) tofu, adorned with a wild mushroom strudel (served vertically), asparagus and (heavily) buttered greens, grilled portabella, onion straws, tomato buerre blanc, and balsamic reduction—all of which were so good that just writing out the list of them makes me want to tuck into the plate a second time. The strudel and the grilled portabella were especially good, and will probably steer me toward other dishes with mushrooms if we should ever make a return visit.
That’s usually one of Amy’s first questions after we have tried a new place—would you go back? For me, Mesh on Mass is a definite maybe. The food was good enough to make up for the pretension, but only just. The menu is long on dishes with mushrooms, which were quite good in my dish this time; and for a fancy place, the prices are not at all unreasonable (we dropped about $100 when we ate the location’s previous incarnation, the Scholar’s Inn); but the air of pretension about the place, much more suited to Meridian Street than Mass Ave, might be the dealbreaker. Mesh on Mass is neither good enough to recommend wholeheartedly, nor bad enough to dismiss entirely.
725 Massachusetts Avenue
955-9600
meshonmass.com
725 Massachusetts Avenue
955-9600
meshonmass.com
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