eater's digest: tacombi

Photos by Lauren DeFilippo

"What's your favorite New York taco?" Any self-respecting food writer should have had one, if not a few taco suggestions. Yet just six months ago, I embarrassingly realized I had never so much as eaten in a single Mexican NYC restaurant.

Like all foodie subjects on which I am lacking sufficient authority, I accepted, then attacked this challenge with gusto. From Mexicue on the Lower East Side to Toloache on 82nd Street, I ate at easily a dozen taco-wielding establishments.

Some were excellent, others so-so, but there was none that truly stole my heart...that is, until Tacombi.

Admittedly, I'm not just talking about the food - though Tacombi's al pastor de puerco is reason enough to rave. Rather, it was the garage-turned-block-party vibe of the indoor/outdoor space that truly won me over.

Ideal for a chilled-out Saturday brunch, an inventive first date or a rowdy round of afterwork cervezas, this is high-concept, low-fi feeding at its best.

We started off with crunchy homemade totopos and avocado-rich guacamole, balanced with smoky chili powder and salty cotija cheese. From there we shared a large serving of esquites, a exquisite, creamy cup of toasted corn comfort food.

Admittedly, there was a bit of a lunch rush, and our taco order got lost in the fray. Digesting from our appetizers, we sipped on the house Lupita sodas - the orange was excellent, but the pineapple far too sweet. It took a bit of inquiring after the demure, day-dreaming bus girl, but eventually arrived the grand finale.

Meaty - almost gamy - and rich with slow-cooked sauce, the al pastor de puerco was truly a taco lover's delight. The lighter, seared fish featured almost Italian flavors - capers and tomato versus the fruity salsa I anticipated - but it was cooked impeccably, so no complaint could be filed.

Perhaps that's the grand appeal of Tacombi. It's a dive (that's not really a dive) which leaves you smiling even when the service screws up or your taco comes topped with a strange assembly of ingredients. In short, exactly what your favorite little taco shop should be.

eater's digest: the publican

Photos by Lauren DeFilippo It was Easter morning, and early.  After a full weekend of eating at the hippest restaurants in town, the last thing my family needed to pack in before our 11 a.m. flight was a hearty brunch.  And yet, here we were, twenty minutes outside of the Loop, face-to-face with portraits of overstuffed swine, and feeling a bit pot-bellied ourselves.

Yet any sense of gluttonous remorse vanished during this almost-religious brunch experience.  The ambiance might be described as Amish-alternative, appropriate for only the hippest of post-prayer gatherings.  Boxed-in booths hid behind hinged, church pew-style doors, while a central U of sturdy, stylized banquet tables filled the core of the high-ceilinged space.  Tall-backed, numbered, wooden chairs with convenient sub-seat shelves only underscored the quirky-meets-functional vibe, as did the table's condiment-toting lazy susan.

This impressive, yet homey attention to dining-room decor was happily equaled - if not surpassed - in the kitchen.  From finger-lickin’-good pecan sticky buns (I should’ve ordered a batch to-go!) to rich red-wine poached eggs, the portions were perfect and the flavors on-point.  Not to mention that our food was beautifully lit by the soft morning light, streaming through curtains that looked like they were stolen from an elder's country home.  The all-around favorite, however, was the ridiculously addictive french fries with (what I can only assume was home-made) mayonnaise.  Normally a fair-weather fan of potatoes, I found myself stealing more than my share of my sister’s side of fries.

It could’ve been our lovely waitress, the quaint Sunday-best of our neighboring diners, or the sentimental sense that this was our last Chicago meal – but I’ve a feeling that I could’ve eaten that food blind-folded in a basement and still savored every bite.  The Publican is namely perfectly – relaxed and accommodating, with just a touch of posh perfectionism.  And if I were lucky enough to be heading back to Chicago this Easter weekend, it's exactly the place I'd choose for my final, pre-flight bite.

The Publican 837 West Fulton Market Chicago 60607 (312) 733-9555

eater's digest: sorella

New York City isn’t lacking for good Italian cuisine.  Millions of Italians passed through Ellis Island, leaving behind a cultural and culinary trail of delights.  And while Little Italy may no longer be the tight community it once was, new champions of regional cuisines have taken up the mantle, pushing back against the Italian-American classics of spaghetti and meatballs, pizza, and fill-in-the-blank parmesan. That said, there’s more to the experience of Italian food than what’s on the table.  There are plenty of restaurants that will fulfill your Italian Mafioso fantasies - white table-clothed joints with tile floors and plates overflowing with red sauce.  But an intimate, cozy Italian cucina – one that evokes Slow Food moreso than the Sopranos – that, is a rare find indeed.

It was, appropriately, my sister who introduced me to Sorella, just east of Little Italy’s traditional borders.  She couldn’t stop talking about broccoli – not broccoli rabe but plain ol’ broccoli – which didn’t sound particularly Italian to me, but off we went.

The instant delight of Sorella is that it is completely unassuming.  Low-key customers mingle around wine and cheese in the front hall, while those lucky enough to grab a reservation will be led back to the back dining room – a sort of living room-meets-greenhouse space that seats maybe 20 people.  It is a refreshingly elegant, but simple space, with a slanted glass ceiling and soft, dangling lights.

The menu hails from Piedmont, a region known for its red wine, white truffles and rich traditional cooking, yet home to one of the most innovative culinary scenes in Italy.  Sorella follows suit, utilizing traditional ingredients, but updating them with a creative twist.

The first sign that Sorella is not your average Italian restaurant is the quality of the cocktails.  In fact, some regulars will tell you to head straight for the caramel-rimmed “honey pot” and forego the red wine.  But for the traditionalists among us, I can attest that my Valpolicella was excellent.

At this point, my sister’s raving about the broccoli fritto had reached a frenzied pitch.  So we ordered two broccoli fritto for our party of four – the bare minimum really, because we scarfed those surreal, crunchy, morsels of delicious so fast that we probably could have each eaten our own serving.  I’m a big fan of anchovies, so we also ordered the acciughe al verde, a lovely mild and nutty take on the notoriously briny fish.

For dinner, it was pasta all around.  Beef short rib agnolotti - tiny fresh pasta pockets of robust, savory meat.  Porcini & pancetta pici - absolutely heavenly (salty umami) but I'd struggle to eat a whole plate alone.  The special, venison and chestnut stracci with hen of the woods mushroom & brussel sprout leaves - a hearty dish, ideal for anyone coming in from the bitter cold.  And the pièce de resistance, impossibly fluffy pearls of gnocchi tossed with bright, sweet pears in nutty brown butter.

To have lived through two such gorgeous, surprising, and savory courses should be enough to make any diner content – but I couldn’t leave without trying the dessert.  Sorella makes gelato in-house, and the coppa di gelati does the restaurant proud.  My favorite scoop contained chocolate covered pretzels, a non-traditional but irresistible take on the creamy treat.  We also chose to share the ‘bicerin’, a light chocolate pudding topped with rich espresso fudge (and accompanied by homemade whipped cream).  As an adult who still fantasizes about the Jello chocolate pudding of my youth, this was a revelation – an elevation of simple childhood indulgence.

To say I am fond of Sorella is an understatement.  (In fact, I selfishly toyed with the idea of not writing about the restaurant, in hopes that there will always be an open table left for me.)  But as with all good things, Sorella should be shared – eagerly and often.  Except for the grissini (hand rolled breadsticks) that is.  You can get your own cornetto.