Vincent’s Restaurant

Easy go – easy come.

OMG all of Vincent’s restaurants are dropping away, first Cucina di Milano in Morrisville and then Vincent’s on Creedmoor Road -- two of our favorite Italian restaurants.  Now gone. Gooooooooone.

After learning about the closing of Cucina, we went to Vincent Barresi’s flagship restaurant on Creedmoor, mostly to explore what it was like.  We loved it – but ours was a love heading headlong into regret, not because of the food, far from that – so delicious. Our regret came when our waitress told us that this was the restaurant’s very last night.  Tomorrow – no more.

After dinner, still feeling the savory warmth of that truly glorious, no frills Italian, just-like-grandma’s, cooking, I ventured over to ask Vincent, “What gives? Why the closings?”

True to his typical Italian courtesy, first he hugged and greeted us warmly, asked us about the food, and then proceeded to introduce his father, Dominick, who also worked the floor. Only then would he talk business.  People always come first.

With their lease coming to an end at that site, a decision had to be made.  Closing seemed the best option. 

But not to fear! 

A reincarnated Vincent’s is on its way in a new location, Glenwood South. The actual name is still under discussion, a so very Italian process where all the family participates, debates, argues, perhaps even shouts, but eventually confirms the final decision by the boss himself, a system of decision making I recognized from my own Italian in-laws. 

The new place will open before the beginning of April. What delightful news.

I’m so looking forward to seeing Vincent again, watching him as he oversees his new pride and joy.  And, let’s face it, I’m also looking forward to some of his old favorites like fettuccine Bolognese and shrimp scampi – so very good, and so comforting. The Creedmoor crowd will miss him greatly, but most had to get there by car anyway, now it’s just a bit further.

The new Vincent’s will feature many of the old favorite recipes – and perhaps even a few new dishes.  It will also feature a full bar – to my mind a change much to be appreciated. Vincent also assured us that easy parking will be right next door.

Look for the announcements for Vincent’s up-and coming-gotta-go-to place.

Gravy Italian-American Kitchen

Think “restaurant”, and one generally thinks hospitality and congeniality – along with the enjoyment of dining. Not so at Gravy.

A few weeks back, Vivian and I saw Romeo and Juliet at Burning Coal Theater.  A wonderful and ingenious interpretation that required great skill, energy and understanding from the actors.  After the play, we were eager to discuss our views over a fine evening meal.
Earlier that morning we had reminisced about good times at Gravy, back when our friend Ray was the bartender.  His martinis were fantastic; the food was always home-cooked good.  What better place to continue our discussion of such a fine, modern interpretation of Shakespeare.
We arrived around 4:30; Gravy would open at 5:00.  It was a brisk cold day, but we made use of the interval to walk around downtown Raleigh.  But enough was enough. My wife hates the cold; her fingers, even in the best of gloves, still go blue so we headed back; at least we could stand in the entryway to keep out of the wind.

Ten minutes before five, the tables were empty, the waiters stood ready, and the receptionist was at her desk.  I motioned to her -- she courteously unlocked the door.  “Could we come in just to wait, we are both very, very cold.”  She asked her manager; he replied,” NO.”

Just freeze while we fiddle with the forks.

That disdainful manager snuffed out our joy of being back at Gravy.  We left and had our grand discussion, fine drinks and dinner at another restaurant.

Preparing to write this blog, I checked Gravy’s website for its address and telephone number.  Though hard to believe, it wasn’t there.  Not on the homepage, nor on any of its tabs, including the “about” page.  After reading and re-reading everything and fifteen minutes later, I finally found the “contact us” page, and there it was.  Not only was common sense marketing ignored, so also was an obvious courtesy to its patrons. Why make it so hard to find the obvious?

No page mentioned any obligation or interest in their guests; the site only touted the quality of the food (and it is good, quite good in fact), the credentials of the chef, and opportunities for catering and private parties. Arrogance? More likely ignorance.

To be a guest at an Italian’s table is a deep honor, and deep pleasure.  The hosts express their welcome by cooking their best dishes.  Italian dining is primarily social, what is served is a reflection of the hosts’ hospitality, and a chance to honor those who are present.  My Italian father-in-law, though a very busy corporate executive, spent time each week bringing people to his Sunday table; only after the inviting would his wife and he discuss what to serve.  The food itself was just an expression of regard for their friends.  When Italians invite you to diner, it is you they want to see; your happiness is foremost. Even a generation later, I still find this universally true.

Oh sorry, not at Gravy. 

Located at 135 S. Wilmington St, Raleigh, NC.  919-896-8513.

 

Bloomsbury Bistro

OK my foodie friends, here’s one you need to try.

Bloomsbury Bistro is located within and serves the historic, well-heeled neighborhoods of old Raleigh, just off the Five Point intersection of Glenwood Avenue.  My college roommate twice recommended that we try Bloomsbury Bistro. I’d hesitated for almost a year, Five Points appeared far less interesting than downtown.  Bottom line however, he was right. Located in a small strip mall with plenty of easy parking, Bloomsbury’s plain, decades old, exterior belies the delights contained within. We’ve been twice, on our second trip with our good friends Gus and Liz from New York.
On both our visits, we were met warmly at the door by Charles, the sommelier, a fortunate delight for Gus, an active collector of premium California wines, who praised Bloomsbury’s wine list and enjoyed a long conversation with Charles. Our table with its starched white table cloth suggested European affluence.  No airs, no pomp, only solid integrity. 

When making a reservation, ask for Bill as your waiter.  We have had another who was not nearly as professional.  Bill’s quiet unseen hand made sure that the drinks and food arrived in a timely and unrushed manner.  I prefer chatting with waiters who I generally find very interesting; Bill obliged me as long as our “chatting” did not interrupt his service to us or to others.

Bar tenders have far more opportunity to be gregarious and Tony was no exception.  His warm, open face smiled his customers into a comfortable warmth.  On our second visit, a Monday evening, the bar seats were filled with couples of all ages. I attribute this to Tony; I’m guessing that many were regulars from the neighborhood. 

Now to my litmus test: the martini. This ought to be easy, a good gin with a twinkling of dry vermouth.  Not so. I’ve learned to explain at length what I want. Bill waited and then patiently replied, “Of Course.” And, he was right. Tony provided a superb martini. My off-hand remark that olives belong in the gin was remembered in my second drink. Yes I can be that persnickety. The olive, more than a dash of color, adds a musky whimsy to the gin.
Just before the drinks, Bloomsbury’s own herb infused bread arrived – hot.  What is better than freshly made hot bread?  And what better accompaniment is there to a splendid martini or a glass of red wine?

As for the food – delicious.  Despite having been there twice, we have yet to do justice to the appetizers despite how good they sound. Gus and Liz had Greek salads, and both claimed these were among the best they had ever tasted.  I ordered a scoop of the pimento-cheese grits, which accompanied one of the special entrees. Good choice on my part – delightful and so very Southern.  At most restaurants, even such a simple request would have arrived fully dressed with all kinds of frou-frou to pretty it up.  Not here. I received exactly what I asked for, a scoop of the grits.  Though Bloomsbury is a “fancy” restaurant, and the dishes did arrive beautifully plated, I liked it even more for this simple honesty.

Next time I just may have three appetizers and forego both the entrée and dessert.  So many great choices. Perhaps potato gnocchi carbonara with pancetta, then Damascus style spiced lamb confit “pie” in puff pastry; followed up with roasted butternut squash with candied Granny Smith apples. See what I mean about tasty delights.

On our first visit, we both had fish: my wife had the grilled Scottish salmon over Parmesan soft polenta. The Italian polenta, one of Vivian’s favorite, was the smoothest, lightest either of us had ever had; it balanced beautifully with the salmon. So delighted was Vivian that she ordered it again on our return visit. My lightly battered fish, atop its own mixture of vegetables also included Tuscan kale.  In fact, I ordered it for the kale. For over a year so many of the mouth-watering recipes in the Sunday New York Times had featured Tuscan kale, and now I know why. It’s slightly crunchy texture and subtle flavors enhance the other vegetables with which it is paired.

Gus enjoyed his grilled chicken from the specials list with the grilled asparagus and cherry wood smoked bacon. Liz’s homemade ricotta and black truffle tortelloni from the appetizer list came out large and plump, filled with tasty surprises.  I indulged myself with the bacon crusted calves liver. We were all thoroughly impressed, full but not stuffed, just happy and contented.

 On both occasions we all had the figgy pudding dessert, and both times for the same reason. It was greatly sought in the Christmas song. Bloomsbury’s presented a flan, flaked throughout with slivers of port infused figs which we shared and enjoyed together.

After the meal, as I personally thanked our bartender, Tony, we met a lady drinking a Left Bank. On our second visit, Tony devised for me a martini with a splash of St. Germain elderberry cordial, undiluted by a Left Bank’s chardonnay.  Now when I make our reservation, Tony has to be there. I go back for the food, but now especially for this truly, truly, special-best martini. 

My only hesitation in recommending Bloomsbury to you? I don’t know your preference in atmosphere.  Downtown’s high-profile restaurants attract the affluent, and sometimes loud, up-and-comers in their late twenties and early thirties. Bloomsbury Bistro seems almost like a private club: quieter, casual in a very sophisticated sort of way. My guess would be that Bloomsbury attracts the professional, political and business leaders of our community. One couple, whom we met from the table next to ours, held important positions with two of the larger RTP companies.

My roommate and old friend was right.  Great place, perhaps even a new home for us. Go! Then tell me what you think.

 

Located at 509 W. Whitaker Mill Road Suite 101, Raleigh, NC 27608.

                    919 834 9011    Bloomsburybistro.com

New Year’s Resolutions

Blog resolutions for 2015?  Let’s get started.

Resolution #1: post at least two times per month in 2015, except December which is way too busy.

 Resolution #2: maximum length, 1000 words.

 Resolution #3: aim to visit each restaurant at least twice before writing.

 Resolution #4: Expand Ramblings beyond restaurants, perhaps a post on martinis.

 Resolution #5: broaden my audience.

 Resolution #6: Never write an opinion that I would not say face-to-face with the owner.

 Resolution #7: take time to rest and reflect, enjoy friends, and nurture the joy of dining out.

 That's enough for 2015. Now for some news.

 Mo’s Diner has closed.  Horrors of all horrors – I love Mo’s.  Though I've not written about it yet I have been there several times in the past two years; it was even the site of my 70^th birthday party.  Great food, great staff, great times.  But don’t pull out the mourning crepe just yet.  Holly is not retiring; instead she is upgrading for a wider (including a younger) audience and changing the name from Mo’s Diner to Holly's on Hargett. The former name honored her late husband; I am glad she’s now stepping forward to receive her own well-deserved accolades.

RED MONKEY TAVERN

Luck was a lady that night.

Before retiring to Raleigh, we lived in NY/NJ and then DC, both areas rich in restaurants of all prices and ethnic varieties.  We enjoyed “regular” status in both areas, and even garnered good friends from waiters there, one whom my wife even invited to our daughter’s wedding.  Moving to Raleigh to be close to family meant we gave up a lesser benefit for the greater – and yet we yearned for the cozy, emotionally satisfying feeling of a restaurant we liked, whose management and waiters knew us, and to which we could escape as we needed. 

We accidentally fortuned onto Red Monkey. Impatient with the long line at Crabtree Mall’s Cheesecake Factory, we journeyed next door.  Though Red Monkey’s parking lot entrance gets eclipsed by the jazz of its neighbor, don’t pass it by.  If you’re in the Mall look for the spiffy red bi-wing plane that hangs over its mall entrance.

Inside, the club like atmosphere beckons one to enter a world of imagination and delight, where quality trumps excess quantity.  An incised red arabesque swirls across the ceiling, beckoning exploration. I love the large bronze monkeys, especially the one golfing and another geared up in a Paddington coat. Nooks hold various whimsies, including a toy British double decker holding candy.  Antique lights and crystal chandeliers shine on portraits and posters of by-gone Hollywood stars. Everything seems a bit off center, even a bit hokey, but in its own asymmetric style, it all fits. Though the room tingles with the warm hubbub of groups having fun, the well-stuffed burgundy crescent banquettes and the high backed, mad-hatter chairs frame individual eating nooks for cozy, and intimate conversation.

After our first experience at Red Monkey, I read the reviews; not so great.  Several complained of the recent changes. Though retaining the five TVs over the bar, the Monkey, under manager Guy Meacham’s guidance, had metamorphosed from sports bar to chic restaurant frequented by families and couples. Never has Guy not been there to greet us; has he a bed in the basement? With mixed feelings the other night, we noted his success, every chair occupied. I hope the owners truly appreciate Guy; it is so easy to take such talent and work ethic for granted.

Last Saturday, I called to reserve a banquette only to be told by Laura, in her truly gentle voice, that they did not take reservations. At my request, Guy came to the phone and said not to worry, there would be a table waiting for us.  When we got there, a hand-printed sign on the table read, “Reserved Headmaster.”  What a fleecy warm stroke to my ego.  I waved to Zack who tended bar; he waved a great smile back.  Young couples sat tête-à-tête; families gathered around the larger tables; and kids of all ages (even those sulky teen years) seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Patrick, our favorite waiter, was off that night; Daryl took his place.  He chatted with us and played a bit with Nicholas our three year old grandson, who had already informed me, “No cherries -- olives tonight.” Referencing the Manhattan I’d had a few nights back, he now staked claim to this night’s drink garnish.  As we all got settled, I took off with Nicholas to “interview” Zack.  Without slowing his pace, Zack managed to discuss the importance of Hemingway, bring another couple at the bar into our conversation, hand Nicholas a few more olives, and go on to recommend my reading Milan Kundera, a Czech now living in France and nominated several times for a Nobel Prize in literature.  What fun.  I so rarely get to talk about our literary world.  Red Monkey is quirkily confident enough to enjoy and keep a bartender so literate and engaging.  Guy hires great people, no mere tray holders or menu rattlers. Daryl, tonight’s waiter, presented well:  a warm, friendly smile accented by a short well-kept beard. Originally from the Princeton area of New Jersey, he and his wife have moved to Raleigh where he works in human relations with a large company.

Red Monkey’s menu strives for understated quality; the chef takes ordinary American dishes and amplifies them to high levels of excellence. My son, a food truck chef and owner, had the On the Border Burger ($12) which he raved about: great concept, great taste, juicy burger and fantastic fries.  His wife, a vegetarian, had the Rock Shrimp Bisque ($6) and the spinach and feta cheese South of the South Empanadas Haven ($10); three per plate, flaky dough, moist and savory.  My wife had the Lobster BLT ($18); my sister the Monkey Field Green Salad ($9).   Nicholas also had his usual, kid’s mac and cheese ($4.95), he loved them -- and so did the rest of us.  Tonight I decided against my very favorite, Harrys Carpaccio Rustic ($12), in order to try the Braised Beef Ribs ($22) with its rich mushroom and onion gravy. A real delight.

Our only mishap that evening came when Nicholas accidentally spilled a glass of water all over the table (and my wife).  We all jumped, startling him to tears; others at the table proffered napkins, which proved useless being the non-absorbent, no-iron variety.  Neither Guy, at the far end of the restaurant, nor Daryl, in the kitchen checking on an order, could come to our rescue.  This left only the nearby door receptionists, who produced an unopened package of bathroom hand towels.

This review has been difficult to write.  Witty and acidic come easily; praise not so much. Red Monkey is our go-to place, our Cheers. I hate malls and rarely shop there, we actually go there for the food and the company. To quote its website, “The red monkey has seen the world beneath the wings of his one man biplane. He comes back home to relax in this home away from home with family and friends!”

Red Monkey Tavern is located in Crabtree Mall. 919-896-7412.  http://redmonkeytavern.com

BOLT BISTRO & BAR

A kitchen that charms and confounds.

 

Strolling through downtown Raleigh, showing off our adopted city to my visiting sister, we chanced upon a bucolic cluster of chairs and tables. When a waiter appeared, we ordered sandwiches and beers. 

Bolt Bistro & Bar had found us. 

Later that summer, we returned to Bolt for diner.  My wife and sister chose their wine; I recited my martini recipe: straight up, filled to the top, Tanqueray gin, stirred with ice for ONLY a few seconds to avoid dilution.  Shocking both my table partners, I took a sip and promptly sent the drink back; it was half water.  William appeared quickly and introduced himself as manager; he listened patiently, and solved the problem by replacing the ill formed drink. He apologized for Bolt, laying no blame except to say that a waitperson, in order to expedite my order, had filled in while the regular bartender was busy

We proceeded to order when something happened, something very surreal, even magical.  I found myself ordering lobster bisque. How could this be? Why take the risk of being served the thick and lumpy paste that all too often passes for bisque. Somehow I intuited that this soup would be different. Bolt justified my gamble. The chef, rather than relying on cream and flour, built up levels of flavor: starting with a medium hued roux; adding a strained broth consisting of the New Orleans trinity (celery, peppers and onions) and his own herbs and condiments; then simmering very large chunks of lobster along with a final finish of sherry. Delicious. 

My wife ordered the scallops for her main course; my sister the shrimp and grits. I asked for fried oysters atop a Caesar salad. We were delighted with all our choices. The shrimp and the grits were cheesy yet not leaden.  The scallops were crisp edged and yet very tender. My salad dressing was house made and finely tuned.

 

At my wife’s urging because she had enjoyed the food so much, we returned again. The lure of the bisque beckoned.  This time it was she who fell prey to Bolt’s seductive spell; she ordered the short rib; she almost never orders beef.  The aroma from a neighboring table caught her fancy. What an excellent choice. Not only was it fork-tender but also extremely tasty.

 The joy in my martini and my wife’s quality wine, the snippets of pita and homemade bean humus, meeting William again, and the opportunity for more bisque promised a successful evening.  Our prospect dimmed a bit as we tried to read our menus. The single table votive proved insufficient for the small and faded print. Our helpful waitress brought over more candles. The menu amply described seven possible starters, five soups or salads, and fourteen entrées.

 The lobster bisque was as wonderful as I remembered.  My wife’s short rib had been slow cooked to perfection, making her knife superfluous.  My entrée fell short of what I had come to expect from Bolt.  AD’s Stuffed Chicken, named after David Sadeghi’s Maryland partner, lacked any taste of chicken, the meat did little more than provide a stringy texture to the congealed cheese.  Perhaps the new corporate chef, Jeff Williams, brought in only a few weeks before from Los Angeles, will have among his recipes a tastier replacement.

 Of the three restaurants owned by David Sadeghi, Bolt is considered the most upscale. Its downtown prime location, fronting both on a treed corridor-park and busy Fayetteville Street, its slightly uneven but enticing menu, its relatively easy parking (a city parking deck is only a block away), along with its affordable prices give ample expectation that Bolt will establish itself among Raleigh’s several fine restaurants. To do so, I’d recommend attention to a few inexpensive basics: the owners need to be clear on how this restaurant defines its “upscale” claim in all its aspects: hiring, training, menu, service, bar and kitchen; and though this generation may find some of the old, seemingly quirky rituals, out of fashion, upscale elegance requires hints of old world charm, such as not rolling the silverware, putting down a clean napkin before the cocktail is introduced, and periodically changing what is brought to the table initially. The bean humus is adequate for one visit, but not forever.

 Would I go back for yet another visit?  A definite yes.  My wife enjoys Bolt’s range of taste options; William brings personality (and a good martini); and there are several gastronomic delights yet to be explored.

Bolt Bistro & Bar is located at 219 Fayetteville Street, Raleigh, NC.  918 821 0011.  www.boltbistro.com.

SWAD INDIAN CUISINE

A great meal, but at what price?

After putting my grandson down for his nap, I scurried out for a haircut, where I met a charming, athletic, young man also waiting his turn. I’m always envious of the young, with their full heads of glorious hair.  Neil turned out to be a former football player from Campbell University, who had emigrated from India with his family at age five.  Currently he was studying to become a physical therapist.  Such manners, such poise.  Such a haircut!  When we talked Indian cuisine, he told me about this great restaurant, Swad Indian Cuisine, which was owned by his friend.

The small storefront restaurant, though comfortably furnished, seemed disconnected from its ethnic cuisine. We learned later that the décor was unchanged from the previous owner, right down to the pictures on the wall, landscape photographs more reminiscent of Lawrence’s Arabia than the Jewel of the British Crown. 

A smiling gentlemen greeted us warmly at the door and helped us select a table.  At my request, so that I could share Neil’s praise and recommendation, the owner promptly appeared.  His dark complexion and heavily accented commanding presence, underscored Neil’s claim of Swad’s authenticity.

We ordered our drinks: a malbec for my wife and a gin and bitters for me. The waiter’s blank face uttered, “What is bitters?” So much for the allure of those old British Raj movies.  So on to my usual: a gin martini, straight up. Doubting my ability to express through our limited shared lexicon the intricacies of my ice ritual, I settled on a drink, but with no ice.  Half a glass of martini arrived; Raleigh bar customs, capitalizing on juice flavored “-tinis”, re-defined one drink as two ounces of liquor. Sprung across the top were three olives; with the reservoir so low, however, they dangled helplessly mid-air, unable to embrace the gin and bestow the final olive kiss. My martini lacked the proper classic and passionate pas-de-deux.

Minutes after receiving our menus, well before we could read their entirety, the owner returned.  “You must let me make you something special. You like shrimp?  Lobster? Cheese?  What do you like? I make it special just for you as a friend of Neil.”  We were helpless to say no. Who doesn’t accept a personal gift from the kitchen?  We split the appetizer which turned out to be four jumbo breaded shrimp, bathed in a wonderfully balanced Indian sauce, laced liberally with sautéed diced vegetables.  So good; so very good.

The fawning owner returned to take our entrée, ”How did you like our shrimp? It was special, just for you.”  I selected goat off the menu – nothing made-to-order.  My wife paused to glance at her menu; into the gap gushed the owner beguilingly, even flirting with her taste buds. Again he paraded a panoply of possibilities “cooked special” for her. She settled on more shrimp, no cream, no batter, scant oil.  Both orders arrived almost immediately, accompanied by basmati rice and naan bread.

The meal was excellent.  The service was prompt and congenial.  The waiter was friendly, even giving us his email listing.  We delighted in our savorings.  The timing of the service was, however, strangely awkward.  The traditional Indian restaurant of cracker-bread and dipping sauces arrived immediately – our drinks took much longer to arrive. The first sense that something was wrong came with this reversal of the accustomed order: cocktails first then the nibbles.

Generally a long lull in service, if only to allow time for cooking, allows patrons the opportunity to linger over drinks and glide gracefully from first taste into relaxed, mellow conversation. The wine or cocktail is its own course; water is the beverage.  Some would argue with this reasoning; they only go to eat, not to experience. Though I managed to quick-sip through three mini martinis, we were finished in slightly more than an hour.  We did not feel particularly rushed, but we did feel robbed of the delight of lingering, the enjoyable leisure time between courses. Per our request, the meal came “medium” spiced. It was aromatic, gentle to the palette and so well balanced that I could feel and savor each spice’s contribution to the whole.

Our waiter, a short, young, fine looking man, uniformed in a wide, happy smile, appeared bowing at our table so often, chatting, commenting, and asking after us, that we felt luxuriously singled out.  Could we be his only customer?  Not so.  Two waiters and the owner worked the dining room.  We later met the chef. Both he and our waiter enjoyed warm, full smiles despite being far away husbands and fathers, here to make some money for their families back in India.

Our happy evening amidst smiles, decadently fine aromas and really tasteful food ended with the bill.

The final accounting, always the least pleasant aspect of an evening, rarely comes as a surprise.  This bill for two, however, shocked us; with tip it fell just shy of $150 dollars.  The martinis alone came to $42, that’s fourteen dollars each, seven dollars an ounce.  Both of the made-for-you-because-you-know-Neil were $20 each. Goat, one of priciest items on the menu, cost only $18.

The owner did indeed get our goat. The old adage about no such thing as a free meal hit our pocket hard. Neil’s esteem for the food was justly deserved.  But beware, his “special-just-for-you” comes at a great cost, stick to the menu.  When I complained about the price of the drinks, the owner assured me that “next time” they would cost much less. 

Next time?  Yeah right!

 

 

Swad Indian Cuisine is located at 9650 Strickland Road #145, Raleigh, NC.
www.swadindiannc.com