Anyone know what trailer/tractor supply parking lot he is talking about? See second to last paragraph of the introduction to the article pasted below.
Dishes That Earned Their Stars
By SAM SIFTON
I MADE a list of the 15 best things I ate in New York City in the past year of reviewing restaurants for The New York Times. It is an accounting that comprises restaurant dishes of uncommon excellence and flavor. Together they underscore New York’s place as one of the planet’s best cities in which to dine out.
And we’ll get to them soon enough.
But these dishes make up just one part of a year’s meals taken at the professional table, one sleeve in the accordion folder marked “2010 Delicious.” Add meals I ate out of town on assignment or off the clock or on the way to the clock, and the catalog swells. There is, for example, the sandwich of deep-fried oysters and house-made bacon I had this year at Cochon in New Orleans, served on white Pullman bread with a chili-spiked mayonnaise. And the black vinegar spare ribs with pine nuts served at Shanghai River in Vancouver, British Columbia.
Hoarsely I sing to the poached egg, potato mousseline and chorizo crumble I inhaled at LudoBites 5.0, in downtown Los Angeles. Also to the rabbit parfait with rabbit rillettes and a cinnamon-scented rabbit consommé at Alinea in Chicago (whoa, now!).
Closer to home, there were the Shanghai-style dumplings from Chui Hong Yuan in Bath Beach, Brooklyn, and lunchtime salads from Yemen Café near Brooklyn Heights, and midafternoon pickled veal tongue at M. Wells in Long Island City, Queens, and, always, plates of oxtail gravy over rice and peas from the Golden Krust on Eighth Avenue in Midtown.
For breakfast, there was the grapefruit at Pulino’s in SoHo, not really a dish so much as a magic trick, the fruit covered with muscovado sugar and mint, then cooked into caramel. (A recipe for it and a few other dishes appear here.)
There is the fist of bluefin I got this summer from the fishing guide Brendan McCarthy, who killed a tuna off Cape Cod after a long slog east from Montauk in the wind. I ate part of it raw, with soy sauce, and cooked the rest for the children, who ate it as if it were cake.
And I want to remember forever the martini I drank at the Carlyle before hearing John Pizzarelli and his wife, Jessica Molaskey, sing, with Mr. Pizzarelli’s father, Bucky, in the audience. (I waved to him before the show. “Who’s playing tonight?” he asked, and laughed.)
Also: the barbecue chicken I got from a guy cooking out of a trailer in the parking lot of a Tractor Supply Company in rural Delaware. And a plate of topneck clams from Randazzo’s in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. And the fish tacos I crushed on the sidewalk in front of Juanita’s Taco Shop in Encinitas, Calif. Them, too.
But the following list, which is presented in no particular order, reflects my professional experience over the course of 12 months dining out specifically in New York City restaurants, hoping each night to be surprised, yearning to be delighted, always hungry for the next great bite.
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