Down-home Brooklyn.
The small room is faux-dive, bordering on the real thing. The air-conditioning doesn't really work, and neither does one of three pretty ceiling fans. Plates and utensils are disposable. Beer is two or three bucks. Salt and pepper are available only in paper packets. That's going too far, but at least there's a glass jar of honey on every table. The kitchen is half-open, so you can see that Biscuit's lapses don't extend to matters of hygiene. Kind servers are another big plus.
Then there's the food. The ribs alone explain the regulars. But what explains the ribs? There's so much meat between the bones of a half rack, you're liable to think they brought you a full one by mistake. The first chomp brings another surprise: That meat is as tender as milk-fed veal, somehow. Biscuit's deep-red rib sauce is smoky as all get-out, with some tang and just a pinch of molasses. Hundreds of pedestrians pass the restaurant nightly on their way from 7th Ave. Station to Park Slope or Prospect Heights. Those ribs come with two sides for only $8. So once experienced, a local would have to be kosher or something to avoid a habit.
A string of visits across a two-week period revealed some issues with the sides. One night the macaroni and cheese was young and delightfully creamy; another found it no richer than Kraft. Order collards only if you enjoy a brick of soggy old leaves. And don't expect Biscuit's red beans and rice to evoke New Orleans.
The biscuits themselves proved more reliable. Every time, the outer crust was inarguably perfect, the doughy interior sticky in the extreme. A honey bath makes that gooey buttermilk come alive. On the weekend with eggs, the biscuits make for the cheapest gourmet breakfast in the borough: $3.75 with meat, $2.75 without.
Sandwiches at Biscuit are $5.50-$6, including one side. The pulled pork is as tasty though not quite as impressive as the ribs. A sandwich called "Mr. Brown," made exclusively of shoulder meat, is a chunkier, smokier version. All the sandwiches are served on hamburger buns that get completely soaked by the dripping meat. Also, the chef tends to dollop cole slaw partway on the sandwich, instead of alongside. So if you're of the opinion that a sandwich isn't a sandwich if you can't pick it up, avoid Biscuit's.
The fried chicken is another dish worth traveling for. I recommend the whole double-dipped version for $13.50. Biscuit's isn't falling-off-the-bone fried chicken-there's density even in the golden brown, herb-and-spiced batter coating. Eat what you can in the warm restaurant and take the rest home. You'll find that the moderately juicy, firmly textured bird is spectacular after a night in the fridge.
Biscuit makes its own pastries, including peach cobbler and key lime pie. Another classic American pie, pecan, is perhaps most indicative of the lofty plateau-still a level below its potential-this youthful restaurant is operating at. The pie's top layer is an amazing sheet of pecans, practically a brittle, only moist. The bottom crust is no less pleasing, and the jelly in the middle would be too, except it's served ice-cold. Everyone knows pecan pie is optimal at room temperature. To bake it right and then quit caring-it just doesn't do.
Chelsea Greek restaurant Periyali was something of a secret back in the mid-90s, when it was tucked among rock clubs and upscale pool halls. Today it has even less in common with its surroundings, and it's even rarer to run into someone who visits the place. Doing so is at least as rewarding as ever.
Periyali is a foodie restaurant. The room isn't particularly impressive, and there's nothing fancy about the way the dishes are presented. We started with traditional cold Greek salads: aristocratic in their unassuming perfection. An entree of lightly fried monkfish medallions, in a lemon-caper sauce that activated a beautiful horta (dandelion and other bitter greens), came with boring-looking roasted potatoes that ended up knocking me on my ass. This was a Robb Report version of fish and chips. A wine our waiter chose was a suitable complement. The baklava and almond cookies that followed were godly.
Dinner for two was just over $100 with tip. Periyali was and is an ideal setting for a new couple's first "serious" date, or any occasion for which you want a sensual experience without a hint of ostentation. For us it was one of those reservation-less, what-the-hell-are-we-going-to-do-tonight Saturday nights, and it quickly became one to remember.
I'll recall my last visit to Soba-Ya less fondly. The East Village Japanese noodle house was also a star in the busy dot-com era, and it reaped benefits. For a long time, it was the only restaurant of its kind downtown (not counting pricey Honmura An). That was perfect as long as you were willing to wait for a table, as the soba, udon and soup broths were always deliciously on-point.
Not anymore. A recent encounter with Soba-Ya's formerly unbeatable shumai dumplings was a shattering disappointment. The shrimp filling inside the steamed sphere had gone dry and hard-these were yesterday's dumplings, or older.
The broth that floated my soba and fresh herring felt as clean and robust as ever. The noodles, however, were about 30 boiled seconds to the soggy side. And it wasn't just one erroneous batch-a companion's soba had also been cooked past their moment. This is unforgivable in the world of Japanese noodles. Soba-Ya's issues seem to be minor problems with quality control, but for restaurants between five and 10 years old, that's the slipperiest of slopes.