CAFE MUSE-1, MEZZA-0

Couple of things: First, I am annoyed about something. While this is hardly news, I never said it was, so shut up. Here’s what I’m annoyed about. Several months ago on one of our trips to the afore-maligned Café Muse, Stavros and I noticed a new storefront on Royal Oak’s Fifth Street. It looked like it was going to be a fancy restaurant, and because it was called Mezza, I assumed it would be Italian.

Well, guess what, food-eaters? It’s not. It’s middle-eastern. Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how frustrating it’s been trying to find falafel in the state that has the largest Arabic community outside Iraq.

And if this discovery were not crushing enough, let us move on to the menu. The day we noticed Mezza had finally opened, a very nice lady spotted us peering at the menu posted in the window and rushed out to give us one. It’s been in my car for a couple of weeks and I’ve been using it to blot my lipstick. Today I was stuck at a red light for longer than the five seconds that I can tolerate having nothing to do and so I picked it up and glanced over the fare.

We’re finally at the thing I’m annoyed about: Dead center on the menu I see the header “PASTA.” Already I’m pissed—why do they have pasta? It’s Lebanese food! Then I read the brief description underneath and it turns out it’s one of those things where you can “create your own.” In fact, I think it actually says those despicable words, “Create Your Own Pasta!” (Say this with a sing-songy sneer.) The pasta shape is linguini. You can choose either marinara or cream sauce and then scallops, shrimp, or chicken. FOR $15.99! You’re not even paying for the expertise of a chef who’s mastered or even invented a recipe! It’s just some red sauce from a jar on ONE KIND OF PASTA ONLY that costs probably 50 cents a pound and then they throw a handful of chicken slices or shrimp that are worth about $2 and they have the nuts to charge $15.99 for that shit! In a Lebanese place! BURN IN HELL, MEZZA!

All right, now one quick other thing. Maybe you noticed I mentioned we were on our way to Café Muse. Okay, so maybe they had a couple of hiccups when they moved to the larger location. But I gotta admit, Stavros and I go there every weekend and we love it although I am still mad that they don’t have pickles. Call them cornichons, yo.


A few weeks ago on a spectacularly chilly and rainy morning, we were chatted up by one of the owners, David, whom you may recall commented here once in defense of his restaurant. David talks to us all the time, as do the rest of the staff, rather more than previously, in fact, and Stavros and I have considered that this could be a new policy. At any rate, on this particular rainy Saturday, David was preparing the table next to us in a rush and told us that his brother and cousin were in from out of town and would we please say nice things about him.

The brother and the cousin finally arrived, sat down, and were served the special beverage of the past few weeks, raspberry lemonade (which I think is $3—at Mezza, the plain, non-rasberried lemonade is FOUR DOLLARS) and got settled in. Stavros and I smiled at them with the special smugness of people who know the identities of others while their own remains unknown.

At once the cousin presented David with a gift—a painting she’d made just for him to hang in the restaurant. He unwrapped it and I of course craned my neck to see it. What I saw was about on par with a relative-created project any of us has received: a horror. Orange background with Jackson Pollacky swirls of gold puffy paint.

“Ohhhh!” exclaimed David.

“Ohhhh!” exclaimed I, immediately thereafter, as it was obvious I was staring. David’s eyes slid over mine, stopping for a split second to say, “Yes, I see that this is ghastly but she is my cousin” before skidding to a halt on her proud and smiling face.

“I know you like orange!” she beamed.

Well, Stavros and I really felt like one of the family after that. We practically hugged them all before stepping back out into the rain. I considered writing about this episode then but I was afraid David would remember the interaction and figure out who I am. I hope enough time has passed, but if not, David, please do not let on that you know. It’s much more fun this way. XO!

STAVROS ON MAGARITA'S VIA ICHAT

STAVROS: I had some of the worst mexican food last night
EUNICE: where?
STAVROS: the place on wdwd in berkley
EUNICE: Margaritas's?
STAVROS: yeah, last night, after i left your house
EUNICE: oh...really, you went there? did you eat there? or get carry out
STAVROS: i got carry out
STAVROS: burritos
STAVROS: terrible
STAVROS: threw it out
EUNICE: what made you go there?
STAVROS: i wanted to go to Zumba
STAVROS: and they had *just closed
STAVROS: and so, i took 11 mile up to
STAVROS: worst mexican food ever
EUNICE: yes, i have never really seriously considered going there. it looks awful.
STAVROS: it was awful
STAVROS: had about 4 bites
STAVROS: man
STAVROS: threw it out
STAVROS: and i'll eat anything
STAVROS: the beef was grey
EUNICE: too bad you don't have a picture.
STAVROS: just take a picture of a trash can
STAVROS: surprised i'm not sick

TOWN TAVERN AGAIN--GUEST POST

Today's post is from my mother, Bonita Sigmundfreud. Please enjoy her delightful recounting of a grim experience.

Our family probably will stop having birthday dinners in restaurants for the rest of the year at least. So far, our luck has been bad. For my birthday last month, we had dinner at Hong Hua and were terribly disappointed; it certainly is not the splendid restaurant it was a few years ago (see my daughter’s review). Last night, for my husband’s annual 29^th birthday, we tried Town Tavern in Royal Oak.

The restaurant is attractive. There are a few patio tables, and, thanks to doors that run the width of the place and are left open in good weather, the tables in front present an illusion of being outside, too. The interior is clean and sleek, the only drawback being the inevitable television set over the bar. (Can we not lose the tv, folks? Please? It is SO ugly.)

We sat at one of the front tables and enjoyed the breeze while we waited for our server, who was wonderful: professional, thoughtful, and prompt with service. Drinks were lovely, wine was lovely. Our waiter brought a basket of hot bread slices dusted with a little parmesan. Delicious. And the chopped salad my daughter and I shared was very nice.

The whole trouble was the entrees. Drill Press’s (daughter’s) buttermilk fried chicken looked terrific, but she said that the breast meat tasted as though it had been thawed, frozen, and then thawed again. I didn’t try it, but it looked dry. She ate very little of it, and believe me she can pack it away.

The commander’s (husband’s) New York strip was medium, which would have been okay, except that he had ordered it medium rare. And it cost twenty-five bucks for eight ounces. The commander sort of picked at it and left it alone. Luckily the asparagus was all right—a little woody, but all right—and he’d had some bread.

My turkey enchiladas were lousy. I think that they must have taken some diced turkey breast from the refrigerator, rolled the meat up into flour tacos which were placed in a small casserole, spotted with a little tasteless salsa and unidentifiable cheese, and zapped in the microwave. Honestly, there was no flavor to the thing, and it was dry. Really dry.

Our waiter apologized, took the enchiladas off the bill, and asked that we come back and sit at one of his tables again so that he can try to make up for the experience. He was a doll. What is so distressing is that we ordered very simple dinners, and the restaurant couldn’t manage them. I will give the place credit for not serving entrees large enough for three normal people, a common problem today.

There is far much too emphasis on style over food in many of Royal Oak’s restaurants and a tiresome tendency to cater to unattractive singles (or would-be singles) crowds. These people are there only to impress each other and arrange sexual liaisons. They do not deserve to be catered to. Food comes first if the place is called a restaurant. If I have to stay in my own kitchen to get good food, something is wrong. 

~Bonita Sigmundfreud

CAFE HABANA

Saturday morning broke crisp and clear. Stavros and I slept late, of course, and finally got up to make coffee at about 9:30. “Hey, I thought you said ‘late,’” you say. “9:30’s not late.” I know, I’m just pretending that we get up really early on weekends and get a bunch of stuff done like normal people. We don’t.

Anyway, before your rude interruption, I believe I was describing waking up and making coffee. As I lay in bed staring at Stavros, I considered breakfast options. I had visions of vegetables, salsa, spiciness. We’ve got to hit the Farmer’s Market, I thought. We should eat in Royal Oak. I remembered my dear friend Janis Beaglehole telling me that Café Habana had a decent brunch. That would fill my spicy hole, I thought, gazing thoughtfully at Stavros’s sleeping form.

Never one to argue, Stavros agreed to my Royal Oak plan. By some miracle, we were able to find a parking place right behind the restaurant as well as the additional blessing of hearing the oddest song in history while parking. It was some country-fried fellow talking about Buddy Holly, and the REAL story of what happened to him. I think. I can’t remember enough of the lyrics to properly Google it. However, it was very strange and anyone who knows what this magnificent number is should please leave the artist and song title in the comments, thank you.

We walked into a half-full room. Or half-empty, depending on your attitude. If you’re a dour son of a bitch, you would have thought the place looked near-empty. I, however, noted simply that all the tables I wanted to occupy were taken and thus the capacity registered at 50% full and 100% assholes for taking all the good tables. So we had to take one on a bit of a riser near the kitchen. This turned out to be okay because at least we had a window and got to watch the swarm of cops who began circling the area about a half hour later. But I digress.

Our waiter, one of two serving the room, was a blandish youth with a vacant expression. He brought us coffee and water and returned a few minutes later to take our order. I’d decided to get one of everything from the “sides” menu, which together would be the equivalent of a basic breakfast at any other restaurant. Eggs, potato, toast, bacon. I asked the waiter what, exactly, was “Cuban toast.” He stuttered, “It’s…it’s toast, just toast, white bread.…” Okay, I told him, put me down for one. I also added a side of black beans and some chili sauce the waiter claimed was “spicy.” Stavros ordered something consisting of eggs, peas, and possibly black beans. He’s far more daring than I.

While we waited for the food to arrive, I browsed idly through a copy of the free Latino newspaper. “Oh, look, Stavros: ‘Elephant Family to Dine on Abandoned Children,’” I translated. Eventually we grew tired of reading foreign news stories and Stavros attempted to hack into the restaurant’s sound system using a nifty iPhone app he downloaded last weekend. After several fruitless attempts, I suggested we resort to the TV-B-Gone, a little universal remote that hooks onto your keyring and turn off any TV within 15 feet or so. “Is that a TV?” I asked, craning my neck to peer around a corner.

Finally the waiter arrived with our brunch. I have to say it looked a lot better than it tasted. The potato component was essentially mashed potatoes with minced onions and shaped into a disc and deep fried. Sounds good, doesn’t it? But it really wasn’t. The inside was too gluey and the outside tasted exactly like onion chips from White Castle. The bacon was slightly undercooked but not as horrifically so as served by those rat-bastards at Café Muse, so I won’t complain too much about it. The “Cuban toast”? It was half a small baguette sliced lengthwise and toasted to point of light crispness, then left unbuttered or in any way adorned. There was no butter on the table so presumably this is the way the Cubans like their toast: dry and tubular. The “spicy” sauce was so bland I was worried that I had blown out my tastebuds on wine the night previous. “Try this,” I said to Stavros, who was having much better luck that I. “It’s good,” he said. “This is all really subtle; I like it.”

Hrrrmph. I tried the black beans. They were good once I added a lot of salt. Oh, I must mention this: At Café Habana, they use those terrible salt grinders. I hate those. That’s too much for tabletop use, in my opinion. I ate what I could, chewing dutifully on the flavorless bread and admiring Stavros’s ruggedly handsome visage. Around this time was when the cops began their siege. One after the other, they passed our window. “I’m going to go see if they need any assistance,” I told Stavros, and got up from the booth, hiked up my jeans, and stepped outside. A lone cruiser crept around the lot we’d parked in, and a couple more rolled slowly past me on 5th Street headed toward Main. I scanned the terrain for guys in ski masks hunched behind dumpsters but failing to see anything except a gaggle of middle-aged women in “Race for the Cure” t-shirts lumbering into a minivan, I went back into the restaurant.

Stavros was in the final round of his eggs-and-peas mess, so I looked around for our waiter. He was over by the restrooms, carrying a broom and dustpan with an odd look of bliss and tranquility on his face. I started to raise a hand but he was obstinately refusing to notice me, even peripherally. I turned around and saw the other waiter sitting in the booth behind us, folding napkins around silverware. “Excuse me, can we get our check, please?” I asked.

He looked around, saw our waiter. “Sure,” he said, getting up and looking irritated and amused at the same time. “He’s…uh, he’s a little under the weather. I think he ate something bad,” he added unnecessarily. Well, that’s just terrif, I thought. Our waiter’s got the shits. Then I recalled the beatific expression on his face, and decided that he was stoned. I felt better, but not a lot, and Stavros paid and we left. Normally I would conclude our story here but one funny thing happened at the Farmer’s Market that I must report.

First of all, I was disappointed to find that the majority of their produce was lettuce. About a million kinds of lettuce. Everything else was only available in embryonic or infantile versions. Of course, moron, you’re thinking. It’s May. The Farmer’s Market isn’t the grocery store. Fine, okay, I forgot. Sue me. Lucky thing, I love lettuce. So we’re wandering around with our lettuce when we bump into some guy he knows.

“Hey, Stavros,” the guy said. I turned around. The guy was with a woman; we smile weakly at each other without speaking.

“We see each other all the time!” the guy continued. I look at Stavros.

“Yeah, we…see each other…from time to time,” Stavros agreed. Well! This is certainly an exhilarating reunion! I take Stavros by the hand and we move toward the Praying Mantids display (“Guaranteed to Fix Your Insect Problem—200 Live Praying Mantids, Should Hatch By July!”).

“That guy never introduces me to his wife,” he grumbled, totally unaware of the strangeness of their conversation. “Don’t get those,” he added, nodding toward the Mantids. I took his hand and we left.

I’m going to go back next weekend for the Mantids.

Cafe Muse

Before they moved down the block to a larger space, Stavros and I really liked Cafe Muse. Their new location, next to the vulgarly named "Chaud Jeans," however, has been nothing but disappointment after disappointment.

Our last and probably final visit took place last Saturday. We arrived at about 11:30, prime weekend breakfast/brunch time. There were several people crowded into the vestibule and not knowing if they were all in the same party, I marched ahead of them to give my name to the hostess. No employee of Cafe Muse took the least notice of me and instead seated four people who'd been at the front of the line. Finally the hostess returned and two women who'd been next in line stepped forward and informed me that excuse me, I think we were before you. You think? Really, I thought there was a breach in the time-space continuum and we were before you but appeared to arrive later. Well, I was embarrassed and said that I'd only been trying to give our name to the hostess but I don't think they even heard me. How was I supposed to know all those people weren't all part of some overlarge mass breakfasting group? At any rate, it's a good thing they were before us because they got a little table just in front of the vestibule that I've had before and it's really too close to the tables around it which disturbs me. Besides, I wanted the high-top in front of the window that we've never been able to get. Actually it's not in front of the window, two "comfy" chairs and a little table are in front of the window and the table is about five feet from the window. This puzzled me, because when and by whom would that area be used? Why not put another table there? They clearly have no aversion to closeness and jamming people in next to each other at Cafe Muse. Another thing that gave me the willies was the busboy's attention to polishing our table before we took it. I don't mean wiping down. I mean polishing. I thought I was watching Kustom Kar Kommandos the way this fellow was making love to the tabletop.

We sat down and coffee and ginger ale (for me) was ordered and we looked at the daily menu. Cafe Muse has its regular all-the-time menu, then a daily list of special dishes. I didn't feel like having breakfast, plus the last few times we'd been in my toast wasn't toasted and the bacon was on the alive side, so I ordered the turkey burger, which of course I had to ask for sans avocado (bogue, bogue, bogue!). It was supposed to come with "tomato vinaigrette," of which I was naturally suspicious, but I assumed it would be on the side so I held my tongue on that account. The waitress inexplicably asked if I wanted ketchup or mustard, which in retrospect I guess was her way of letting me know they were out of the dressing, because there was none when it arrived. But anyway, I'm skipping ahead. I told her I'd like yellow mustard please. I have have to be sure to say yellow mustard in restaurants because they so often try to fancy the joint up by giving you Dijon, which is good in salad dressing and spaetzle and stuff but not on a sandwich, for God's sake. Gross. I also requested the chips versus the daily salad on the side, because the daily salad was something like barley with pieces of fruit in it or some sweet concoction that sounded revolting. I also asked for a pickle and was told that they have no pickles at Cafe Muse. Stavros ordered the French toast with some kind of fruit. He likes pancakes and things like that but I can't eat anything sweet in the morning. And on the weekend I consider it morning until about 2PM.

Our drinks arrived, brought by a very stoned-seeming waiter. He had a look of bliss that one doesn't see often on the face of one in the service industry. Come to think of it, he was also the table polisher. Hm. Normally I don't order pop but I daresay I am capable of detecting carbonation, and this ginger ale, I'm sorry to report, contained none. I decided to drink it anyway because I felt that by barging to the head of the line then making all sorts of demands regarding the preparation of the turkey burger hadn't endeared me to any of the staff. Also Stavros asked for water when we ordered and I assumed that the request had registered with the waitress and that its arrival was imminent should I choose to eschew entirely the ginger ale. Well, guess what, ladies and gentlemen? No water was brought. Waitresses and waiters (I will not say "servers") milled hither and nigh but none would look in our direction despite Stavros's vain attempts to catch someone's eye.

In our ongoing waterlessness, we drank our drinks and commented on the surroundings. Stavros is particularly smug about a blow-up of a wine bottle label bearing the word "Chateau" followed by his last name, Papanastasiou, which hangs framed in the vestibule. "I can't believe they don't have pickles. What kind of a place doesn't have pickles?" I asked him.

"Maybe because pickles aren't French," said Stavros. French? I thought. What's that got to do with it? Then it dawned on me that Cafe Muse was trying to be a French place. It certainly accounted for the "Chateau Papanastasiou" wine label and the gaudy curtains hanging in the vestibule. "Perhaps," I replied.

Finally the food arrived. No water, of course, and Stavros repeated his request. "Sure," said the waitress before disappearing into the teeming mass of waitstaff attending to the every whim of all other patrons, including the two guttersnipes who'd had the gall the insinuate that I'd been trying to cut ahead of them. Those two, I happened to notice, ordered three sandwiches. Well, maybe they split two orders and had three plates but still. It didn't look good.

I was initially pleased to note the absence of the mysterious "tomato vinaigrette," but upon removing the top bun of the burger, saw with dismay that the lettuce atop was coated in a creamy-looking substance that may or may not have contained cream or (shudder) mayonnaise. With the tip of my knife, I edged the slimy greens off the burger and flipped the two tomato slices over and over to be sure none of the matter had contaminated them as well. They looked clean so I slathered a healthy amount of yellow mustard on the bun and assembled the burger. I'm not gonna say it was horrible, but it was pretty dry and flavorless. Those who prefer beef burgers will likely claim that such is the nature of poultry burgers but I have made them at home a million times and it's really not that hard to make them juicy and flavorful. This one bore all the hallmarks of being pulled directly from the package and grilled till it was Cajun (i.e., burnt and dried up). Still, it was edible. The chips turned out to be of the very thick salt & pepper variety (French-style, perhaps) and provided excellent relief from the blandness of the burger.

Stavros seemed displeased with his fruity French toast as well. "Taste this," he commanded, spearing a triangle of what looked like pineapple. The look on his face didn't scream "IT'S SO DELICIOUS," so I said no, and he didn't press it, his manners being slightly better than mine when it comes to criticizing food while still in the restaurant.

We paid the bill and vowed never to return. And not that I need tell you, but the water never came.

TOWN TAVERN

Stavros and I had an early Friday dinner at Royal Oak's Town Tavern recently. It was fairly crowded for 6:30, but once inside, we realized it was because everyone in there was old. Or they had kids. Or they were dining exclusively on booze. Nonetheless, the room was pleasantly full, and aside from the odor of fish that greeted us as soon as we opened the doors, the room itself was quite nice-looking and well laid out. Booths in the middle, high-tops in front and low tables in the middle and along the walls. We chose a high-top for two along a mirrored wall because Stavros likes to look at himself frequently.

The waitstaff were upon us at once, which was nice because Stavros and I were very thirsty. The day's specials, all fish (which accounted for the parfum de poisson), were written on two blackboards, one thirty feet away behind some hostessy-types, and one on the wall next to the mirror reflecting Stavros's undeniably striking visage, which I was able to read aloud to him by contorting my body into a spiral and leaning backward slightly. 

Since I am so picky, I chose the one entree I wouldn't have to decimate to make edible, the pan-seared turkey. Stavros ordered the grilled swordfish. We both asked for the house chopped salad. When the drinks had been brought, so too was a bread basket. "Crazy Bread," pronounced Stavros, and I peered into the deep wire basket and saw that yep, it was basically Crazy Bread, albeit short Crazy Bread. Since I hate cheese I was put off but Stavros ate a piece and didn't make a face or anything so I assume it was decent.

Within moments of ordering, possibly fewer than five, the waitress returned with the salads. I was pretty startled as the quickness, and said so, and she quipped, "Well, that's what we're pretty much known for!" I wondered about this, since the Town Tavern didn't strike me as the sort of place to go if you're in some ass-on-fire rush, but maybe the idea of a super-hasty dinner appeals to their clientele. So we ate the salad. It was as advertised: chopped. Chopped Romaine, chopped red onion, chopped cucumber, and chopped tomato. All very tiny pieces in a mustardy vinaigrette. Oh, and garbanzo beans. It was good, but the plate was chilled, which I hate. I understand most people want salad that will freeze their fillings (don't they?) but I happen to prefer something a little closer to room temperature, and since everything is done at breakneck speed at the Town Tavern, I hardly think a room-temp plate would interfere with a raw vegetable experience. Especially since there was about one cup of salad on the plate. How long could it take to eat? Anyway, it was still good. I just have a thing about a chilled plate.

The entrees arrived as soon as the salads were whisked away (surprise!). They certainly looked nice. Stavros's grilled swordfish was atop a pile of stir-fried bok choy and a spoonful of some kind of pineapple salsa was on top of the fish. Three lumps of deep-fried basmati rice/coconut fritters sat adjacent. I asked for a small bite of the fish and of course some blackish vein or something came off on the piece I took and frankly, that was enough to put me off, but I tried it anyway. It was a bit dry. The coconut fritter was decent--mildly sweet and squishy on the inside and crunchy on the outside. Stavros remarked that the fish was indeed dry all over and the whole affair could have used more of the "sauce." 

My turkey was not exactly what I'd had in mind. When you think "pan-seared turkey breast," don't you think of some nice thin fillet, maybe with some brown skin? That's what I thought. But no. It was three or four thick triangles of breast meat that had been sauteed, skinless, and presented around a glob of mashed potatoes (which were VERY good with bits of fresh sage rampant) and a tablespoon of tart, fresh cranberry relish, which was also good and I don't normally like cranberry sauce. On top of the turkey being a bit of a drag, the "gravy" was an abomination. I understand that "pan-searing" these great skinless chunks will result in zero juice from which to make gravy, but it can be managed. What curled in a big gelatinous C around the perimeter of half my plate was like half-melted caramel-colored jello of no discernable flavor. Actually I thought it tasted vaguely of my ultimate food nemesis, cheese, but I know there could have been none present. Stavros agreed that it was vile. I finished before he and I have to tell you now that the waitress committed what I consider to be the biggest sin in food service: She tried to take my plate away when Stavros was still eating. I wouldn't let her. Don't do that! I know you're in a hellsapoppin' big hurry to get us out of there so you can race someone else through dinner, but leave my goddamned plate on the table until everyone is finished! No one wants to be the only person left eating. 

We did not order dessert but I believe they had the standard four chocolate things. They did also have Ray's ice cream in special flavors, maybe daily. I think the night we were there it was coffee. Sick! 

Other items of note:

• The ladies' room was pretty nice and clean

• I don't think they allow smoking