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Restaurant Review: My Mother's Kitchen BY KIERSTEN CONNER-SAX (as Charlie Spencer) If my mother's kitchen were a tree, what kind of tree would it be? Alas, it would be a once-great spreading oak where I climbed and spent many happy hours, now desiccated with age, yet still standing. I recently returned to my mother's kitchen, lured by a Proustian memory triggered by a pork chop. The aroma of the chop, rich and porky, made me think of times gone by: trading loaded comments around the dinner table, or, better, chewing silently before the television set. But the other white meat is not what it once was. As it turns out, you can go home again. If you do, however, be prepared for significant renovations: the dining room has been redone, thankfully jettisoning the early-1980s era wooden furniture; some difficult spouses or other family members are absent, or have disappeared or been replaced; and while the menu remains substantially the same, the ingredients have been upgraded, including noticeably better meat. An entrŽe of roasted chicken was just such a dish. The organic, free-range bird was noticeably plumper and juicier than in the past, while still retaining the comfortingly familiar flavors of dried garlic chips and onion salt. My mother's kitchen remains the same homey establishment with the same name (though different principal owner, following the divorce) it's always had, part of a well-worn American genre that includes mothers with kitchens all over the country. What these restaurants lack in flashy design and signature cocktails they make up for in less flamboyant, more dependable meals, with almost none of the verticality or squiggled sauces you'll find in virtually every Manhattan restaurant with the exception of McDonald's. The lack of pretension, however, only partially masks the simmering background aura of anxiety, judgment, and incessant passive-aggressive criticism. Though the cocktails are standard fare, they are poured with a strong hand, and alcohol both is and should be plentiful at most events. Rarely does a meal go by without some comment on the frequency of attendees' visits. While the comforts of home cannot be denied, a meal at my mother's kitchen is often a reminder of why I strayed from the establishment in the first place. Yet those comforts are substantial. Who can deny the power of the aroma of the apple pie they have eaten at every holiday since they began eating pie? Or the way a burger prepared here simply tastes more "right" than any other? And yet, the tastes still aren't quite what you remember. My mother's kitchen avoids the Asian-Latin-Southern-Basque-Alsatian-Sushi-Italian-French fusion trend, opting instead for an almost radically traditional aesthetic: lasagna, steak and potatoes, and chicken Caesar salad can all be found on the menu. Even after an extensive remodel (in which bright-white appliances were entirely replaced with stainless steel, and genuinely distressed furniture was replaced with professionally distressed furniture), the place retains its hometown bonhomie. Service remains well nigh nonexistent. Even if you are willing to pay for the meal—and in an emotional sense, often do—you may still find yourself washing dishes at the end of the night. Trees are both living things and overused metaphors. My mother's kitchen, like a tree, contains a good deal of wood. It remains a reliable neighborhood eatery, producing over-salted, over-glorified home-cooked fare that you will nevertheless find yourself coming back for, time and time again. My Mother's Kitchen One Star ATMOSPHERE An overly intimate, recently renovated space that feels simultaneously comfortable and claustrophobic. SOUND LEVEL Gossipy and boisterous, except during strained silences. RECOMMENDED DISHES Roast chicken with onion salt, barbecued spare ribs with barbecue sauce, apple pie with vanilla ice cream. WINE LIST Generally limited to whichever bottle happens to be open; a choice is sometimes available between red and white. PRICE Remarkably expensive, once therapy bills are included. RESERVATIONS Certainly. |
©2005 by Kiersten Conner-Sax
From "50 Tries" at www.connersax.com