Author: sac-eats

I can’t figure out the Haines brothers. Matt and Fred continue to confound. Simultaneously they put out some of the best and worst food in the city, have some of the coziest and ugliest dining rooms, make me smile like a dolphin on E and feel like punching a baby seal.

Their new venture, Spin Burger Bar, is a perfect microcosm of the Haines Conundrum.: the food is good, the service lovely, the atmosphere ridiculous, and the vibe out of a cringeworthy junior high dance. The space, on 16th and K, formerly housed Bistro 33. And with a sagging economy and the whole 33 franchise a little long in the tooth, the thought must have been “Hey, Mahan is doing gangbusters with his bike themed pizza joint in East Sac, let’s do the same in Midtown…with BURGERS!” Continue reading “Sit and Spin: The Haines Brothers’ Newest Offering”

There are, when it comes to ramen, three types of people that I can cull from the general public. They are, in no particular order, 1) those whose only ramen experience has been to eat it from a plastic pouch when money was tight or time was short, 2) those who like a bowl of soup whether it be Japanese noodle or Chinese sizzling rice, and 3) those who travel the Earth questing for that perfect bowl of ethereal goodness, that unreachable pinnacle of noodley satisfaction, that extraterrestrial chalice of brothy harmony.

I’m in group 2. I’m neither a ramen freak nor a noodle geek. Give me a bowl of soup, any soup, and I’m pretty damned happy. Whether matzoth ball or minestrone, fagioli or pho, I’m a contented beast. I’m looking for a salty, spicy, steamy, stewy bowl that burns my tongue a bit on the first slurp, and bathes my face in a micro-film of sweat. I want to drain the dregs at the bottom of the bowl or sop them up with a crust of day-old bread. This is where I’m coming from. Continue reading “Use Your Noodle or The Great Ramen Debate of 2011”

Tucked away in a quiet corner of Sacramento’s Downtown, Bistro Michel doles out French-inspired yumminess and one heck of a happy hour. To call it a happy hour would actually be a misnomer as the allotted period of discounted drinks and affordable small plates runs the usual pre-dinner hours during the week and all day on Fridays.

Other than the reasonably priced martinis, beers, and wines that one can acquire, the real highlight of the extended happy hour is the small-plate menu. Start with duck confit cigars – phyllo-wrapped tubes of anatine goodness with a tart plum dipping sauce alongside. The dish combines some of my favorite things: duck, phyllo, and deep-frying. I nearly broke into song a la Julie Andrews the first time I tried them. Continue reading “Bistro Michel: The happiest of happy hours”

Plan B, still the most oddly named restaurant in Sacramento, continues to put out beautifully made French cuisine with elegantly casual service and, in my opinion, the best fall-weather atmosphere in town. And, as if that weren’t enough, the bread is now good.

 You see I had written a review of Plan B about a year ago singing its praises but deriding its mushy, off-putting bread. Maybe I made too big a deal out of it, maybe not. But look, if you’re going to serve some of the best mussels around, you need lovely crusty bread to sop up all the goodness left behind. It’s imperative. Continue reading “Plan B- now with improved bread”

Last week I had the distinct pleasure of dining at two Old Sacramento establishments, The Firehouse and Ten 22 (both restaurants owned by the same family if you didn’t know). The Firehouse dinner was a treat for Papa Eats and me, celebrating the old man’s 74th birthday. As a lifelong Sacramento guy, I figured Pops would enjoy the legendary fancy spot for a celebration. Instead, he perfectly encapsulated everything you need to know about The Firehouse in one sentence: “The food at this place is incredible, but it sure ain’t much fun.”

So true pops, so true. The Firehouse puts out some of the finest, most beautifully articulated plates of food in town. They also charge some of the highest prices in town for that food. And they do so in an atmosphere that’s stuffy at best, funereal at worst (and not new agey memorial service in a meadow kind of funereal, but Catholic-high-mass-suit-and-tie funereal). I guess there’s just something oppressive about the gentlemen’s social club decorations, army of suited waiters, and biblically long wine list.  My one quick suggestion: instead of giving every diner a wine list longer than the last Harry Potter book, how about you throw together a “top 100” list chosen by the sommelier, and only tote out the full wine hymnal if requested. It might prove a bit less intimidating for the majority of your diners who can’t drop a few grand on a bottle of burgundy.

Anyway, on to destination number 2, Ten 22 that is. I’ve liked Ten 22 in the past, especially their casual fare and casual atmosphere. Lunch there has often proved to be pretty darned good. But on this particular evening, I brought along two friends who, without lifting a finger, tore the place to the ground. By mere words alone they soured every sip, spoiled every bite, and turned what was a bright and cheery little dining spot into a scrofulous pit of culinary decay. Continue reading “Dissin’ Dinner or “Ten 22 Gets Deep 6’d””

I spent a lovely evening last night with about about five or six hundred of my food focused friends witnessing author and TV personality Anthony Bourdain speak at the beautiful Memorial Auditorium. I’m a big fan of Mr. Bourdain. I find his take-no-prisoners, worship-no-false-idols, non-nonsense approach to food and travel refreshing and invigorating. He was a brash, funny speaker, tearing into the low-hanging fruit of Food Network personalities like Guy Fieri and Sandra Lee, while fully admitting that he was wrong to rip on folks like Rachel Ray and Emeril because, after real-world interactions with them, he found them to be good people whom he really had no beef with.

It was an entertaining evening…with one uncomfortable caveat. The folks there seemed to regard Mr. Bourdain as some sort of revivalist preacher, or, even worse, a worship-worthy firgure whose words carried with them something more than wit and practical knowledge. A few folks sitting in our section shouted out things like “pork,” and “pho,” and “pig fat” as if they were religious incantations and recitational responses worthy of a pentecostal tent meeting. The Q&A session at the end of the talk was uncomfortable at best with people speaking of the author in messianic tones and declaring their life path had been inspired by him and, in another occurrence, that a certain couple’s “way of life” was dictated by his “teachings.” Continue reading “Hallelujah and Pass the Bacon”