Pure Thai Shophouse has changed its name at Chipotle’s behest, but superior cooking – not to mention a fiercer chili – continues unabated at what is one of New York’s best thai restaurants.

Pure Thai’s menu, especially its lunch menu, offers a variety of “snacks” that blend street food and home cooking under a chef’s meticulous hand. The results are so consistently flavorful that my favorite dish on a recent lunch visit was the Grilled Spicy Beef Salad ($7.50). A boldly flavored toss-up of romaine lettuce, watercress, cherry tomato, red onion and green apple, the salad is garnished with expertly grilled strips of beef, sprinkled with toasted rice and dried chilies, and dressed lightly in fish sauce and sweetened lime juice. The sharpness of each flavor, playing on contrast and riding the freshness of it all, is an astonishing encounter in a city of salad bars.

Pure Thai Cookhouse
(formerly Pure Thai Shophouse)
766 Ninth Ave.
New York NY 10019
212.581.0999

I moved from Los Angeles to San Diego, then to Los Angeles, then to San Francisco, and I drove into this city with a promise to myself: when it came to Mexican comida, I would keep an open mind. I would allow for the possibility that Mexican food in the Mission style is every bit as tasty a treat as SD’s and LA’s numerous flavor factories. I really did try. I swear. But over a year later, my mind is less open. I’ve begun ordering everything with extra sauce, adding more peppers, anything to add some flavor to tasteless meat that should have been cooked in the sauce to begin with, but wasn’t, because in the Bay Area, weak flavor seems to be some kind of preference. It’s a land of impotent stewed meats and over-steamed tortillas.

I overreact. The reality is that I don’t live close enough to the Mission district to consistently try enough local Mexican food. After so many misses I keep going back to one of the few hits, the Tacos San Buena truck at 16th and Folsom. Tacos San Buena is a fleet of trucks that fan out across the less peopled sectors of the Mission district and beyond, in places where bars are legally mandated to close by 10pm and liquor stores stop bothering to refrigerate.

San Buena trucks serve tacos in the Southern California style. They are simple Tijuana street tacos with stewed meats and paired sauces. The truth is, no, Tacos San Beuna trucks wouldn’t be destination drives in LA or SD, but in the Mission, sometimes it’s the closest I can get to the kind of Mexican food that I fell in love with once upon a time. Viva the little things!

Tacos San Buena
Shotwell and 16th St.
San Francisco, CA 94103

Indian food enthusiasts in Berkeley, Albany and El Cerrito have a new go-to in Hamro Aangan, a relatively new Indo-Nepalese restaurant separated from the U.C. campus by several miles of the actual city of Berkeley. A meal here is worth the trip, by bus or by car, for pretty much anyone interested in serious flavor. Aangan’s tikka masala, heavier on spice than cream, is easily my favorite in the city, and saffron-brushed biryani hits the table in epic portions.

Even better is “Sev Batata Puri” ($5.99 for seven), a fantastic but unassuming South Indian selection from the appetizer menu. Aangan’s rendition of dahi puri (by far the most memorable snack of my trip to Lucknow, India), the dish starts with sev puri – crisp, hollowed rounds of fry bread resembling paper-thin pastry puffs. The irregular rounds are stuffed with potato, chickpea and light ribbons of tamarind chutney. The entire plate of puri are then dressed in raita, garnished with fresh cilantro, dusted with ground spices and sprinkled with extremely light sev. Taken cold, these one-pop precursors to curries and flat breads simultaneously serve the roles of refreshment and kindling for any appetite.

Hamro Aangan Indo-Nepalese Cuisine
856 San Pablo Ave.
Albany, CA 94706
510.524.2220

Don’t be so modest, Tara. You can take that question mark off the sign.

Yak is the enlightened meat. It’s lean like buffalo but juicy like beef. It’s raised at high elevation in the Himalayas and in Colorado, this mystical creature that exists, in my experience, in exotic children’s books and adventure tales, up among the clouds, both divine and a bit awkward – like a god in a Miyazaki film, or the transferred spirit in a Murakami novel. It’s healthy, it’s tasty, and it’s definitely different.

The unexpected thing about Tara’s Yak Chili is an emphasis on the chili. The meat is tough, like jerky, but the texture is almost necessary – because it’s spicy. It’s really, really spicy, and the ensuing endorphins do nothing to subtract from the lightheaded, wondrous feeling of a yak-eating ritual that cannot feel anything but holy.

Tara’s Himalayan Cuisine
10855 Venice Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90034

Happy New Year!

It’s hard to believe that this blog has been alive for four years. It’s even harder to believe that in 2010 and 2009 I was able to bring on contributors from dining destinations are far-flung as Shanghai, Tokyo, Bonn, Majorca and even the American midwest.

2011 wasn’t quite as robust, since The Eaten Path was whittled down to an intermittent series of stories and reports from California and New York. Still, Zach and I are happy to continue the year-end tradition of recounting our favorite meals while avoiding the disposable terror that is the “best of” list. Let’s make 2012 one for John Cusack to remember.

Zach

The closest restaurant to my apartment changed its name a few months back. Sichuan restaurant Panda Country Kitchen hired a Manchurian-born chef (Chef Xue from Little Sichuan in San Mateo) and became Dong Bei Mama, one of few Northeastern Chinese restaurants in the city. The most experience I have with Northern Chinese cuisine comes in the form of Mongolian BBQ in malls, or “Chai-Na-Taoon” in Moscow’s A.C.T. I’m curious to expand my experience at Dong Bei Mama in 2012 with more adventures into Chinese sauerkraut and shredded potato. And I will, I promise.

But in 2011 something stopped me. When Dong Bei Mama replaced my favorite Sichuan restaurant, it didn’t change the classic Sichuan dishes, like Tea-Smoked Duck and Mapo Tofu, and it didn’t change my favorite order, Fish Fillet With Tofu in Spicy Sauce. Almost once a week I order in for the same dish, walk down the street in my slippers and pajama pants, and slurp rock cod and soft tofu smothered in chili sauce. It’s my favorite meal in S.F., and ordering something else off the menu will be my hardest New Years resolution yet.

James

As Serious Eats’ barbecue columnist, I’ve learned that there are two kinds of barbecue: technical and essential.

Technical barbecue is the kind of food befitting the 21st century of food conversation. The talk of technical barbecue reduces to an assembly of temperatures, techniques, and regional imprimaturs. This is the barbecue of competition finals, the barbecue of businesses with social media plans. It’s the barbecue with a board of investors. The investments may be made in dollars, in bureaucracy, or in the burning itch that can only be scratched with words like “authenticity” or “best of the best.”

The food itself at a technical barbecue may be fantastic. It may be inspired. But it will never be a styrofoam box of rib tips at Uncle John’s BBQ, where I learned firsthand this year that Chicago’s barbecue is truly essential.

Essential barbecue is the craft that’s so bred into the local hardware that it probably wouldn’t recognize the new place that food bloggers are flocking to uptown. It’s the barbecue that came up on patience and a lack of options. It’s the barbecue that is flavored by time — not hours in the smoker, but decades in the family. It’s what American food has to show for itself after a century of intensely local culinary adaptation. And it’s what American food stands to lose if the wonderful diversity of low-flying, casually preserved smoke joints is replaced by the next proven recipe for a perfectly cooked, award-winning brand.

I tend to avoid meals with something to prove. And while barbecue is often tasked with the burden of proof, the value of the craft lies in something much more weighty than authenticity. It lies in something that isn’t altogether apparent until the lady on the other side of the rotating, cash window whispers through plexiglass with a sideways grin, “Want that SPICY?”

It lies in the pool of thick, greasy barbecue sauce that’s draped over a heap of crunchy, meaty rib tips kicked into a shameless charcoal funk. Below the tips sits a bed of once crisp french fries, now sponges for the pooling red liquid, waiting to become an impromptu filling for two slices of white bread that have just been used as napkins. It’s something that can’t be reproduced without a South Side Chicago park, a pair of bleachers near the point of collapse, and a taste of the town that will change the way one feels about hunger.

I have never seen a Michoacan ice cream parlor off of Interstate 5. Now that I know of one that sits in the shadow of US-101, I see little reason to drive along the 5 again.

There are, of course, other reasons for choosing US-101 over I-5 if a trip calls for traversing the 400 miles between Los Angeles and the San Francisco Bay. While I have fond memories of blazing along the speedy yet desolate 5 during my college years – stopping for lunch at Kettleman City’s mirage-like In-N-Out and sealing every inch of the vehicle moments before breezing by the cattle concentration camp at Coalinga pass – I’ve since learned that a leisurely crawl along the 101 is undeniably more pleasurable.

Beyond bearing the advantages of traveling on a highway with more than two lanes and more to look at than absolutely nothing, US-101 is a wonderful route for the hungry. Just a couple of hours out of Los Angeles, a stop at La Super Rica is good enough to warrant its own trip. Closer to the Bay, the 101 passes through Gilroy, whose status as “garlic capital of the world” is assured by the confident scent that seeps into every car rolling on by. The banners of In-N-Out dot the highway from end to end. And in the central coast farming town of Santa Maria, Paleteria Neveria Linda Michoacan Numero Dos makes a compelling case for taking the long way as often as possible.

This roomy ice cream parlor in downtown Santa Maria, bearing the mark of Michoacán, was the highlight of my summer road trip to the central coast, where Boykji, Sir Mix-A-Lot, Zakhar and I were tearing through tri-tip, steak, scotch, and board games in the spirit of summer. We found our way to Paleteria Neveria Linda Michoacana No. 2 on a Chowhound tip from the indomitable Melanie Wong and were immediately dumbfounded by the variety of paletas stocked in just one of the palor’s freezer cases. After plenty of gawking, followed by the awkward shuffle between two dancers whose left feet are each other’s native tongues, Boykji and I chose eight paletas for the crew to sample.

We didn’t touch any of the hundred-plus other frosty confections available – not because we doubted a Michoacana’s skill with ice cream, but because a freezer full of paletas is enough to keep one’s palate enchanted for days. Whereas American popsicles tend to be little more than icy vessels for sugar and food coloring, their Mexican counterparts embody a rich variety of flavors and textures, turning every good paleta into a distinctly refreshing memory.

At Paleteria Neveria Linda Michoacana No. 2, fresa (strawberry) is entirely different from fresa y crema (strawberry ice cream), though both contain frozen chunks of ripe strawberry. A nuez (walnut) paleta is nothing like a pistachio paleta in flavor or in texture; the former has a deep, bourbon-like taste and a layer of grit, while the latter – in the classically unfortunate terms of pistachio ice cream – retains the artificial taste of a gumball dropped in salted nuts.

Rompopo con pasas (eggnog with raisins) is a different beast altogether: entirely unmitigated in its use of rum, studded with frozen, taffy-like raisins, and altogether heartier than any of the other flavors we sampled. Arroz resembles an iced rice pudding more than a frozen horchata, with a distinctly dense and and chewy texture. These two paletas struck me as mas lindas, transcribing hallmark concoctions into a treat more satisfying than its source material.

I still wonder how the mixed fruit paleta earned the name “tutti frutti.” Whether or not I find out, I’ve decided “tutti frutti” will be the name of my Mexican-ice-cream-themed ranchera band’s first record. Expect a debut tour along US-101.

Paleteria Neveria Linda Michoacana No. 2
917 N. Broadway
Santa Maria, CA 93454
805.928.8225

First tastes are special. But the first taste of a favorite food – the first taste of a dish that gets everything right, lighting up an appetite unknown until that bite – is irreplaceable. It’s like watching the first scene of The Wire. The experience will always be enjoyable, but the thrill of being thrown into another world is simply impossible to repeat.

This is how I feel about bo zai fan, a Cantonese clay pot rice dish that recently became one of my most treasured meals. I had a sense of the dish already, having enjoyed it a few times at Chinatown’s A-Wah. But negative reports from the same Chowhounds who had put it on the map, along with a strong tip from Kathryn, led me to Noodle Village, where the dish is listed inconspicuously as “hot pot rice.” While A-Wah’s take is no Snot Boogie, the clay pot rice at Noodle Village is a real eye-opener.

The concept behind bo zai fan is extremely simple: Cooking and serving rice in a clay pot allows the bowl to transform the grains closest to its edges into a layer of crunchy, semi-caramelized delight. Noodle Village’s rendition ($9.50) arrives steaming, sizzling and topped with your choice of minced pork, pork spare ribs (my favorite), Chinese sausage, chicken, beef, or frog.

This moment, however, is mere prelude. Before diving in, mix the contents at the center of the pot, drizzling the sweet, extra thick soy sauce that arrives with your pot more liberally than common sense dictates. Inhale the intoxicating aroma as you learn forward to scoop up your rice and begin eating. Add more soy sauce as needed, as well as the occasional drizzle of chili oil if you desire an extra kick. And when you’re halfway through, scrape the crunchy, chewy layer from the bottom of the pot to cap the meal with a bite even better than the first. It may be unremarkable compared to the real deal in Hong Kong, but as long as I live one stop away from Chinatown, I’ll be chasing that moment at every opportunity.

Noodle Village
13 Mott St.
New York, NY 10013
212.233.0788

After a recent trip to the Socrates sculpture garden, Girlfriend and I struck out for Arepas Cafe on the south side of Astoria. While we were there to enjoy the restaurant’s tasty Venezuelan arepas, Latin American drink menus are always eye-catching, and we couldn’t slip away without ordering cold glasses of chica and toddy ($4.75 each).

Toddy, which is not described on the menu as the product of milk and powder, is Pepsi’s Venezuelan parallel to Nestle Quik. For better or for worse, toddy doesn’t deviate from that formula at Arepas Cafe. Perhaps its a taste of childhood, but my childhood happened to call for several more heaping spoonfuls of artificial flavoring.

Chicha, a Venezuelan dessert preparation not at all resembling a strawberry-hued bender with Tony Bourdain or a kernel-spitting session at Dogfishhead Brewery, is a much better option. A hearty relative to horchata, chicha de arroz is full-bodied and viscous, with a simple, straightforward flavor.

Each sip pulls against the force of gravity and lingers on the tongue – almost more pudding-like than milky, and emboldened by more than a pinch of cinnamon. An ice-cold glass of the stuff is filling and refreshing, making the perfect dessert for two after a double header of sweet and savory arepas.

Arepas Cafe
33-07 36th Ave.
Queens, NY 11106
718.937.3835

This story is fourth in a series on Burmese food in San Francisco.

What is Burmese cuisine?

The question is problematic. I’ve been asking it for over a year, and I know as little about the topic now as I did when I first moved to San Francisco. Something as straight forward as “beef curry” is a saucy Thai-Indian dish at Larkin Express, but by the same name is Chinese stir-fry at the Mission’s Yamo. Meanwhile, the originating region of Myanmar might be even less homogenized, or different altogether, from what I’ve gleaned from the internet.

There’s an uncanny valley (or ocean) between any cuisine as portrayed on menus in America and the original food culture from whence the immigrants immigrated. There’s error in proportion, suggesting that people in Japan are always eating ramen and sushi. And there’s error in name; Pad Thai is rarely found in restaurants in Thailand, Fresh Mex is a California invention, and Caesar salad was first tossed together by a someone named Caesar in San Diego. Not only is the idea of Burmese cuisine inconsistent in San Francisco, it also probably wouldn’t be recognized by its extended family back in Myanmar.

If there is a standardized definition of American Burmese food in San Francisco, it would be Burma Café in Daly City. The double-dollar-sign restaurant opened seemingly overnight in 2010, a brightly painted building that stands out next door to a popular dim sum spot. The website cites its reason for existing as “…to serve a large demand for Burmese food in Daly City,” and for the most part, that’s the impression Burma Café instills in all first comers. This is a new Burmese restaurant. Burmese cuisine is hot right now. We are fulfilling a quota.

I don’t mean that the Burmese American owners are not earnest in their ploy to open and maintain a restaurant. However, on a superficial level, Burma Café gives off a pre-fab mantra. The interior is very clean, pleasant and comfortable. It’s stocked with easy-on-the-eyes, abstract decorations and interior design, as if the whole restaurant were purchased as a finished set, like a completed room in Ikea. In other words, it’s the farthest thing from Daly City’s other Burmese restaurant, Little Yangon, which is weathered by neighborhood history and personality. Whereas Little Yangon couldn’t exist anywhere else, Burma Café would look the same in a mall in Chicago as it does in a hilly Daly City shopping center.

The menu at Burma Café is the only Burmese restaurant menu that hasn’t left me frowning at pictures or asking a waitress what to expect. The menu itself is short and includes little else than the staples I’ve come to recognize across different restaurants in the Bay Area. It’s almost as if Burma Café takes items that are popular in other Burmese restaurants, simplifies a multifaceted cuisine and packages the food culture into an easily consumed product.

Standardized or not, Burma Café cooks up delicious food. The Chicken Briyani is a side that can double as a main dish, a Jumbalaya of Asian flavors. Rice is cooked in a clay pot with cashews, onions, raisins, cinnamon, cardamom and generous morsels of fatty, flavorful chicken. On its own the Briyani is a tad too salty, but mixed with sweet curry dishes the spices round out just right. One of those sweet spoon-able entrees is Kabocha Pork, a slow-cooked stew that is well-spiced with ginger and dominated by the taste of candied squash. It isn’t perfect; the pork is a little tough and the kabocha a little dry; but Burma Café isn’t trying to be the best Burmese restaurant in the Bay. It’s just filling a quota.

I have no idea how close Burma Café’s selections are to the native cuisine of Myanmar. In fact, I don’t know if the same ingredients would be found in Burmese restaurants outside of the Bay Area. I’m not sure what goes on in the minds of Burmese American restaurant owners when the menu is put together, how much of it is designed to meet expectations of local diners, and if it feels at all disloyal when they add lettuce to their Tea Leaf Salad.

The end result is a menu and a style of food that originates from the Myanmar region, but has been cultivated many times since. It’s been refracted by the palates of a different population of restaurant patrons, of non-Burmese, and even of the Burmese American immigrants whose cultural identity is ever changing, who themselves might not know much about Myanmar anymore.

The food has been simplified to make it easier to serve and to maximize profit. It’s been watered down and spiced back up and changed a little bit here and there, an evolution of culture and taste and culinary ritual. The cuisine’s journey has been longer than the original trip from Myanmar to California. Of course it has changed. It’s not inauthentic. It’s just another chapter in the story of a meal.

Burma Café
63 St. Francis Sq.
Daly City, CA 94015

The Eaten Path: Mission of Burma SF
June 22, 2011: Burmese Kitchen (Larkin Express)
July 7, 2011: Mandalay Restaurant
July 27, 2011: Little Yangon
November 11, 2011: Burma Café