Mistral Kitchen

Sometimes I worry that if I don't jot down my thoughts on a delicious experience soon enough that I wont remember what it made it so great later. That I'll forget why I fell silent for a few seconds after taking a bite or what it was about a certain dish that left me craving it hours after determining I'm full beyond belief.

I thought that might be the case with Mistral Kitchen given I went weeks ago. Not so.

I can still feel the little kusshi and Chelsea Gem oysters coming off the shell and into my mouth. I can still see the beautiful bed of fennel that the Hamachi Crudo came on, despite the fact I was too distracted (by the scene, the open kitchen and/or maybe even the waiter?) to snap a picture. The acidity from the lemon squeezed over a simple arugula salad with cremini mushrooms and Pecorino is still prickling my tongue, and I'm still awing over the mixture of textures that came with a dish of perfectly seared scallops with black quinoa, creamy puree and halved grapes. And the perfectly cooked veal chop--the one with the truffle mushroom relish and potatoes that might as well have been whipped butter--well, that still has me salivating.


I'll be back for a seat at the bar, a go with the prix-fixe menu and perhaps even a special occasion at the chef's table.

Feeling Fortunate....

I've mentioned before that I benefit from my boyfriend's culinary endeavors. I happily serve as a subject when he's recreating a recipe, deciding on a dish and figuring out the best way to please a group of people's palates. Countless random weeknight dinners have come from a test kitchen of sorts, and it's fun to later watch the people a menu was intended for enjoy, savor and thank him for whatever it is he's made.

Since moving in together a few months back, I've discovered it can be just as if not more fun to make semi-selfish meal requests for myself. Case in point. It's a wet Sunday night. I'm watching and trying to decide if Sunshine Cleaning is the most depressing or uplifting movie ever, and I say I'm craving something sweet. Instead of letting me grab a piece of chocolate, he tells me to stay put, heads into the kitchen and makes this:

Sauteed bananas with brown sugar, a chocolate marshmallow sauce and sea salt. He had a bite and I had the rest.

A few days later, I mentioned I was headed to the gym after work and half-jokingly asked if he was making me "a light, savory meal" (this term gets thrown around a lot, I think it makes us feel better about eating something that usually doesn't end up being all the light) for dinner. The answer was a nonchalant "sure," but when I came home to Whole Foods bags and his immersion blender on the counter I knew I was in for it. Half an hour later I had a plate of crusted halibut on top of a spicy pepper sauce and roasted carrots and parsnip in front of me.

Even better? He does the dishes too. Here's hoping my bi-weekly deep clean of our little apartment (ahem, both bathrooms?) reminds him I pull my weight around here.

Worth the Wait...

I've lived about three blocks from Paseo for the past two plus months and finally got my act together to go. No clue what I've been waiting for. I guess the epic lines were keeping me away. I've cruised by for about eight consecutive weekends now, wondering how good the food must be to have around twenty people patiently waiting, often in the rain, to edge their way into the tiny building with the aluminum (?) roof. Could those big, bountiful sandwiches be that good?

Most definitely.

Patience was put aside this past weekend, and the boy and I walked up the street and took our place in line. It was only sprinkling so I thought OK, not too bad (I'd also come prepared in my wellies). 15 minutes later and we were close to the front of line. Not too bad at all. And then we realized we'd forgotten to bring cash. Amateurs.

I kept our spot in line while the boy made a mad dash for an ATM. I ended up letting people in front of me when I got to the front. It was getting awkward, so I finally just went to the back of the line. Idiot. The boy was back about three minutes later with cash, a look of severe disappointment and questions about my decision making ability when he realized we now had another 15 to go. And then we found out the guy working the register was awesome and that I could have just ordered and paid when the boy got back. Insert more disappointed, questioning stares in my direction here.


But all was forgiven when we wrapped our hands around those sandwiches. We over-ordered, going with the Cuban Roast (amazing, marinated pork shoulder that lives up to the "succulent" description on the menu), Chicken Breast and an order of beans and rice. All of the sandwiches come on these big, toasty baguettes that are dripping with aioli, spilling over with caramelized onions and peppered with jalapenos. Oh, and don't forget the corn on the cob.

I left conflicted. Not because I couldn't decide if I liked it (loved it), but because I was so incredibly full but still wanted more. I dreamed about the Cuban Roast for the rest of the day and into the night. I might have gone back for Easter brunch if they were open on Sundays.

So worth the wait. Now we'll just have to see how long I'll be willing to wait for a second trip.