“The menu divined by Bucco is a coming together of contemporary cooking. He trends seasonal, adds a little local, and comes up with American Med as a core.”

It’s the late 1970s and there’s a small crowd at the bar of the venerable Ryland Inn, tucked back off the whoosh of cars on Route 22 in the Whitehouse Station section of Readington, in suddenly populated eastern Hunterdon County. There are fellows just in from jobs in New York, the long commute to their new five-bedroom homes on two acres over for the day, there’s a smattering of casual dinner-seekers finishing burgers, there are journalists like me, in between night meetings, stopping in to catch the local gossip in a homey, low-key setting. That Ryland’s a roadhouse, a pitstop on the outskirts of suburbia. By the time it was purchased and re-imagined as a fine-dining destination, with Dennis Foy briefly installed as the name chef—a front man for then-little-known Craig Shelton—Readington and eastern Hunterdon had sprawled confidently into suburbia and many of the denizens in the immediate ‘hood (not to mention surrounding hunt country) were well-heeled and world-wise, ready for haute cuisine in an atmosphere to match, right in their backyards. The 1990s Ryland Inn delivered it all. Soon Shelton was on the cover of Gourmet magazine and the recipient of the food world’s equivalent of an Oscar, a James Beard Award. Ryland catered to the food cognoscente and captains of industry in a seamless operation that defied anything New Jersey had seen. Though its last years were rocky—and the flood that six years ago forced the inn to close was tragic—Ryland had made restaurant history in a state once better known for red sauce joints and boardwalk grub. The rebirth of the Ryland Inn a year ago, a vision realized by new owners Jeanne and Frank Cretella, with chef Anthony Bucco, gives us a very shiny new dining toy.

Today’s Ryland is posh, suave and ready for parties. The outdoor entryway that leads to the indoor entryway just about shouts “Have your wedding here!” Once inside, vaulted ceilings, chandeliers that look like they were recycled from Liz Taylor’s diamond booty, fabrics and appointments hardly from the off-the-rack collections, and an air of mission accomplished set the scene for rarefied dining. Rather than a pretty charger plate that will be swept away shortly after you’re seated, there’s a framed picture at your place setting. Something old to add to all the new, I suspect. The Cretellas clearly wanted to bring every aspect of Ryland’s past to its high-toned present, and so there’s a sense of history in the artwork as well as in the Old-World graciousness of the well-orchestrated service. Come to Ryland to be pampered, once again.

The menu divined by Bucco is a coming together of contemporary cooking. He trends seasonal, adds a little local, and comes up with American Med as a core. You can expect pears and pumpkin in fall, Jersey staples such as birds from Griggstown Farm and fish from Barnegat, and also luxe ingredients the revived Ryland wants attached to its name: foie gras, Berkshire pork, uni. The cavalcade of chi-chi ingredients punctuates the menu, some of them a tad out-of-date (squid ink, white anchovies), some of them more current (red quinoa, shishito peppers). You can go a la carte, you can go tasting menu; you will spend. All entrees are in the $30s, the least expensive starter a salad at $12. Indeed, the wine list struggles at the value end of the spectrum and could stand to be updated at the three-figure range as well with a smarter selection of artisan bottles. But we enjoy our splurge, cosseted as we are in the grand Polo Room, and dispatch a complimentary uni-custard with smiles. I’m feeling quite at home with the Jersey’d version of pasta carbonara, a tangle of squid ink chitarra with ultra-smoky Mangalitsa bacon, spirited Fresno chilies and a dot or five of uni.

It’s mod and classic at the same time and, most importantly, it’s delicious. So is the stately torchon of foie gras, swaddled with pears braised in vanilla and an onion jam I’d be happy to have for dessert. There’s even a dusting of chocolate crumbs to make my case for this starter as a most grand finale. The octopus done Spanish style is terrific, an assemblage of tender meat with crumbles of warming chorizo, those vivacious shishitos, real-deal black potatoes and a kick of zesty chimichurri. Bring it on, anytime. By contrast, the mild purée of fall vegetables is a bland option, but that isn’t to say this take on a stylish soup is uninteresting: with twirls of fennel fronds, a smack of fig jam and a sprinkling of pumpkin seed oil, it’s both comforting and appropriately warming. Our server tosses in an extra, a black olive cavatelli that strikes me as pure Sicily with its dressing of golden raisin puree kept in check by good, salty capers and buttery pine nuts. Just when I think Bucco is too reliant on sweet, he proves his mettle with a shot of the right balancing agent. The harissa-stoked tomato jam is as fine a friend as grilled swordfish can have, the sweet-hot condiment giving a needed tickle to the rich fish steak. I don’t think the red quinoa or eggplant on the dish did as spirited a two-step with the meaty sword, however.

But I love the way the chickpea panisse and riffs of white anchovies play off the steamed red snapper, and thought the spark of lemon basil and snap of skinny string beans kept pace with the plate. Pork belly, especially Hudson Valley Berkshire, took a liking to the cheerful crumb-like topping the folks here dub “granola,” and the tart apple and mild butternut squash accompaniments were just-right sides. Desserts trip the globe, but need reining in at times. The yuzu curd “truffle,” with astringent Asian pear, a sultry black sesame cake and green tea ice cream works a Far East theme nicely. But flavors warred in the frozen cranberry parfait, with pecan streusel, toasted marshmallow meringue and cloying pumpkin pie ice cream proving too much that’s too sweet isn’t a good thing. The central taste of cranberry was lost. Tamarind, however, was a uniting element in the peanut butter mousse ensemble that allowed specks of banana and dabs of Nutella to compliment, not cover up. Ryland, rebooted for an era that knows both unbridled luxury and forced restraint. Wow, I think as I leave the space I first set foot in 36 years ago. Lots of bucks have been put into this ol’ gal, and she’s looking mighty fine. Over the top? Maybe. But not out of sight.

“I am definitely stealing that pancetta vinaigrette for a dozen different dishes I cook at home.”

Ursino’s executive chef, Peter Turso

Back there,” my friend said, pointing to his left as we walked across an expansive parking lot at Kean University to Ursino, a restaurant set in a science building amid classrooms and common spaces. “That’s where the farm is. Four acres. You don’t expect it, but it’s there.” He continued to describe the produce he saw growing during a summertime tour—how the farm was laid out, and the enthusiasm for the percolating crops displayed by Ursino’s executive chef, Peter Turso, and the farmer-in-residence, Henry Dreyer. Four lush, green acres are cloistered in crammed-full Union that are mined to the max by the farm-to-table team of Turso and Dreyer. As he detailed the operation, I envisioned similar campus farms sprouting at any one of New Jersey’s institutions of higher learning. I’m glad for the overview my friend provided because, once inside Ursino’s thoroughly modern, multilevel dining areas, that was the only mention of the mere-yards-away, oncampus farm I heard. Not one member of the service staff took a moment to tell us of the unique relationship between Kean and Ursino, the reasons for its existence and how Turso’s menu reflects what’s grown by Dreyer and his farm crew. The menu descriptions, while referring to the origins of ingredients such as Barnegat scallops and “local” oysters, all but ignored this extraordinary plus. For instance, Liberty Hall beet salad, with its richly colored baby carrots, nibs of honeyed walnuts and sparks of sharp Valley Shepherd cheese, was a rousing harbinger of autumn on this latesummer night. Yet nowhere is it explained that Liberty Hall is both the name of one of Kean’s campuses and a history museum, originally the elegant home of New Jersey’s first governor. (You’d think an education would be part of the dining package.) We had to ask about almost everything, and waits between questions and answers often were long. On the other hand, Turso’s focused, uncomplicated food doesn’t need a promotional boost. Slice into the smoked swordfish, smartly partnered with shavings of crunchy fennel and perky pea tendrils, and you’ll quickly be distracted from service flaws by flavor rhythms of the rich fish as it intersects with a smack of anise from the fennel and the engaging rawness of the shoots.

With the grilled octopus, also a starter, a taut, charred crust yields to a softer center as harmonious riffs of accents enhance the fundamentally bland but meaty sea creature. There’s the silky puree of Marcona almonds, the sweetness of roasted red peppers and the spirited heat of chimichurri. All prod more from the octopus than typical treatments with lemon and garlic. We asked for spoons to help us get all we could out of the coconut-curry mussel pot. It’s a bountiful cauldron of large mussels in a rousing sauce that resonates with curry’s warming mix of spices tempered by the cooling sweetness of coconut milk. A bonus on the side: crunchy, spunky, slightly salty shrimp toast, the perfect sop-up agent. During the waits for wine and food, my dining companion offered the background the staff didn’t—on Turso (experienced chef, stints at Nicholas in Middletown and David Drake, now shuttered, in Rahway) and Dreyer (veteran farmer, renowned and beloved in the region), and why Kean U. wanted both a farm and an upscale restaurant (farm-to-table is on-trend and attractive to potential students, their parents, alumni and donors). In my mind, I added an introduction to the menu that said, “Your vegetables are grown on this campus. Please take a short walk and visit our farm.”

Those Barnegat scallops do have a ball, tossing tastes back and forth with Dreyer’s roly-poly turnips and bitter, but braised-to-sweet radicchio. As I swiped a scallop speared with a slice of turnip, a leaf of radicchio and a sliver of sweet apple through a wash of citrus-licked butter sauce, I tasted exactly why this farm-to-table thing has taken root: Fresher is better. But I did want to know where the “local pork” and its hen-of-the-woods mushrooms that star in one of Turso’s signature dishes come from. So even if the captains don’t care to connect, a little menu rewriting could serve as a bridge. Ursino’s expertly cooked, top-quality halibut has no problems connecting to an accompanying stew of leeks, red onions, fennel and potatoes. Uniting it all is a vivacious vinaigrette, punctuated by smoky-sweet pancetta that underscore for me why dining out and experiencing strong new voices in food is a joy. I am definitely stealing that pancetta vinaigrette for a dozen different dishes I cook at home. Terrific, and then some. Less than terrific was the cheese plate. I’d asked if any of the cheeses were from the revered Valley Shepherd, of Long Valley, and was told “maybe one,” without specifics, by a plate runner. He returned to say “all the cheeses” were Valley Shepherd’s, though still without much in the way of details. We gambled, and though my favorite nettle-streaked cheese made it to the plate, we were served just six paper-thin, inchlong slivers of cheese that looked lonely and wan on the large plate. And for $15. No price-to-portion quibble with the lemon ricotta ice cream sandwich, with almond sponge cake forming the bookends and raspberry, lavender and teensy sprigs of basil reminding us of that very nearby farm. I wasn’t impressed, though, by the heavy-textured banana bread pudding, laden as it was with too many layers of caramel, chocolate and hazelnut. As we walked out of Ursino and back across the parking lot, my friend says, “Food’s great here, but how would you know there’s a farm behind it? Shouldn’t that be all over the menu and the first thing the servers say?” Yes to both.

Ursino, as envisioned by its chef and its farmer, hits the mark with fresh-faced food that routinely tips its hat to its origins through inherent simplicity. It follows Rule No. 1 in cooking—don’t mess too much with fine ingredients—to the letter. But it’s incongruous, particularly in a university setting, that the educational component of farm-to-table is lacking. But this is an easy fix; basic menu-editing and staff instruction. By the time you read this, the team of chef Peter Turso and farmer Henry Dreyer will almost certainly have aced the test. 

Editor’s Note: Andy Clurfeld has been an advocate of “buying local” in the Garden State since the late 1970s, so the burgeoning farm-to-table movement is hardly new to her. She writes the syndicated food-wine pairing column Match Point and has been covering everything New Jersey—from politics to crime to tax issues (and of course food!)—as a newspaper and magazine journalist for more than three decades. She was a Pulitzer Prize finalist in 2010.  

“Cucharamama is the image of its chef-owner: visionary, scholarly, driven to educate.”

Photo credit: Joseph Corrado

Before there were more chefs than size-2 starlets on TV, there was Maricel E. Presilla, doctor of medieval Spanish history, making her students at Rutgers late to their next classes by feeding them irresistible snippets from the Latin world’s diverse culinary cultures. Dr. Presilla’s lectures were like tapas: bites that whet the appetite for more. She’d pluck them from her vast pantry of knowledge and drop them into the topics of the day, effectively setting the table for the bounty of Latin cuisines soon to come in New Jersey. Her students circa the 1980s and ‘90s are her “students” now. But Dr. Presilla’s classroom today is a restaurant kitchen—two, specifically, and both in Hoboken: the Pan Latin Zafra, born in 2000, and the high-style South American Cucharamama, 2004. (There’s also an atelier-cum-store exploring and selling Latin American provisions, Ultramarinos, opened in 2010.)

The professor is a chef, but still a scholar, still a visionary, still a teacher at heart. She is, arguably, the most respected Latin chef in America, the winner of the 2012 James Beard Award for Best Chef in the Mid-Atlantic for her work at Cucharamama. Just as her body of work transcended her classroom at Rutgers, so has her culinary expertise transcended her restaurants’ kitchens by way of critically acclaimed cookery books, articles in magazines and keynotes at conferences where all manner of intelligentsia convene. Maricel Presilla even has cooked at the White House. On this night, Presilla’s Cucharamama is the center of the culinary universe for me. I first was here in the spring of 2004, a week before Cucharamama officially opened its doors, to see the wood-fired oven Presilla was using to cook chicken, suckling pig, lamb, breads, peppers and arepas, the massive jars of marinating olives and escabeche of eggplant, and the rustic tools such as the batan, a grinding stone from the Andes her crew employed to muddle spices.

The corner storefront in Hoboken had been transformed into another world, one where respect for South America’s as-yet-unheralded cuisines reigned. That’s still the way at Cucharamama—which means “mother spoon”—and I find decades worth of periodic conversations with Presilla, as professor, as author, as chef, weaving through my mind as I dig into dishes I’ve both had before and am trying for the first time. There’s octopus, more tender than a strong sea creature deserves to be, awash in a smoky, rather fruity panca pepper sauce balanced by the salinity of black olives. There’s calamari done Peruvian style, its crunchy crust giving way to silky squid sprayed with a tangy, faintly heat-licked tamarind-rocoto chile sauce.

There are nuggets of chicken, coated in nutty, crackling quinoa, mouthfuls that would be pleasing to any child who tries them. Cucharamama’s soups are legend, and I’m reminded why as the Ecuadorian creamy corn soup blended with plantains and studded with shrimp rolls over my tongue. Ah! And there are little plantain-filled empanadas on the side! Reverie. The white bean and tomato soup, pureed to an ultra-thick creaminess and served with my all-time favorite cabrales-onion empanadas, re-focuses and soothes as those wood-fired savory pastries set me on a mission: I need to figure out the exact proportion of that Spanish blue cheese to sweet onion confit in time for my next dinner party. However, Presilla’s arepas, those addictive South American corn cakes that here are blistered beautifully in the wood-fired oven, are menu items I never could hope to duplicate. These days, they’re given dollops of salmon roe and Venezuelan crème fraiche, a true step above the Mexican crema I score every time I stop in at my favorite bodega. That smoky-fruity flavor of panca chilies comes through loud and clear in another dish cooked in the wood-driven oven—shrimp, deftly roasted in the sultry panca sauce.

Don’t miss whatever ceviche Presilla has on tap. On this night, there’s a veritable aquarium of shellfish and finfish sitting in a soupy broth of tomato and citrus, a tribute to Ecuador sprinkled with chopped peanuts and crisp plantain chips. I like this better than the somewhat wan shrimp and palmito salad, which lacks the personality and passion of much of the rest of the menu. But the tamals? Always soulful, particularly so with thick shreds of longbraised duck hop-scotching with skinny, apricot-y mirasol peppers atop that grainy, gutsy corn tamal. Ever since Presilla described for me the lengths she went to procure just the right ingredients to make a bitter orange mojo for her wood-oven-roasted chicken, I’ve not been able to leave Cucharamama without ordering it. Perfection—it’s perfection, this young, juicy half-a-bird,half-a-bird, basted with the garlicky, sour-orange glaze and served  with a high-octane, spiced-up potato puree that leaves all those butter-dominated incarnations of spud in the dust.

There are more potatoes to love, including those plied with a musky cheese-tomato sauce and accompanying the Argentinean chimichurri’d skirt steak. Once upon another time at Cucharamama, I wasn’t all that keen on the cannelloni filled with creamy spinach and walnuts, topped with a pair of intersecting sauces—a white number sporting riffs of manchego and parmigianoreggiano and a red of tomatoes warmed with, I suspect, a pinch of baking spices. This time, I was charmed, because the filling, not the sauces, took center stage. The grand dame of desserts here is the Argentinean millefeuille, a many, many, many layered confection of super thin puff pastry with dulce de leche, walnuts and a meringue spiked with malbec. It’s almost frightening when it’s presented, this elegant, yet seriously over-sized wedge, but it’s also intrinsically light. Order it alongside the wispy apple crepe or the Amazonian sorbet sundae ripe with tropical fruits, acai and, in season, suriname cherries, and share, definitely share. The only quibble I have with Cucharamama 2012 is the wine list. While it’s admirably and correctly focused on South America and Spain, it’s short and outdated. There’s more variety and many more quality producers available in the American market than when the restaurant opened in 2004. The list doesn’t reflect that, and it should. But in every other way, Cucharamama is the image of its chef-owner: visionary, scholarly, driven to educate. As Presilla once happily told me, “My former (Rutgers) students are coming here! I feel like I’m living history now.” And making it, as well.

Editor’s Note: Andy Clurfield is a former editor of Zagat New Jersey. The longtime food critic for the Asbury Park Press also has been published in Gourmet, Saveur and Town & Country, and on epicurious.com.

On this night, the roasted chicken was infused with tarragon, snuggled under the skin during its time in the high-temperature oven.

Photo credit: iStockphoto/Thinkstock

If there’s a single dish more satisfying than a properly roasted chicken, I’ve not found it. Skin crisped by intense heat and tinged with the taste of an herb, maybe subtle, maybe bold. Breast meat juiced by a little oil, a little butter, and hinting of the same thyme or tarragon that streaks through the skin. Dark meat starting to fall from bones, bones that have shared their soul, deepening and enriching what clings to them. Cavities from which you can pull extremes of flavor, perhaps strands of meat, moist to the point of almost drenched, perhaps a sliver of lemon attached to an out-of-the-way part of the bird. A roasted chicken is a contemplative dish, right for a Sunday when obligations either have been escaped or accomplished and supper can be a quiet affair that starts with all good intentions (a fork) and ends with a bit of rascally table behavior (hands) apropos for the food in front of you. Chicken soup has nothing on roasted chicken for me. I prefer chomping to sipping. Roasted chicken also brings to mind three vivid food memories, one actually experienced, one watched from a distance, one merely read about in a magazine.

The magazine account validated the culinary instincts of then-food writer, now-movie maker Nora Ephron as she traveled with friends in Europe. Passing the entrance to a small restaurant, I think it was in Italy, Ephron had the car stopped, stepped out, took a look and a sniff and said something to the effect of, “I bet they do a good roasted chicken here.” Upon which she and her party decamped and learned that indeed the restaurant did a splendid roasted chicken. The chicken-from-a-distance unfolded in a series, as I gawked again and again almost 20 years ago at the spit-roasted birds twirling about open-air markets throughout Provence. This was well before American supermarkets figured out selling already-roasted chickens would lure customers, and I was drop-jawed with awe at the spectacle. Never bought one in Provence, though, preferring to tinker around with raw ingredients. Stupid of me.

The actual experience came during a birthday trip to San Francisco a couple years ago, when all I wanted to do was lunge at chef Judy Rodgers’s roasted chicken bread salad at her Zuni Café. I did. Make whatever reservations you need – plane, train, blimp – to experience Rodgers’s perfect balance of chicken, bread cubes, greens and juices. Until Zuni, there is Verjus, in Maplewood, where roasted chicken has been on the menu since 2001, when the French restaurant opened for business, and where it might be taken more seriously than at any other restaurant in New Jersey. This is serious praise. The chef-owner Charles Tutino knows his birds. He not only roasts chickens every day Verjus is open, he roasts duck. Both often come in half-bird portions, which may seem an extreme amount of food to anyone who is not an aficionado of expertly roasted birds. The only reason I’ve ever found to stop eating once a roasted chicken (or duck) is set before me is to save something for the next day’s lunch. This requires belief in the benefits and joys of delayed gratification. When the bird is properly roasted, that is not always possible. It was not possible at Verjus. Let’s back up a bit, and give you some background as well as appetizers. Tutino is a classically trained chef who worked at French restaurants in New York before coming to New Jersey and setting up shop with his wife Jane Witkin in an understated space they decorated in a style that would mirror the food. There are cloth-covered tables, dark blond wood chairs, silver and stemmed glasses. There are, perhaps, a couple dozen tables. The scene is hushed, adult. You can converse.

Escargot, to start, are textbook, in the Burgundian manner: white wine, butter, a little garlic, parsley and anise. I adore the braised endive, a pert gratin of elegant spears bathed in lemon and sprinkled with a mix of romano and parmesan cheeses, because the vague bitterness cleanses for something richer. Like the duck liver terrine. Talk about a way with bird dishes: Tutino’s compact layering is cut deftly by his accompaniments—cornichons, cranberry compote, a slash of Dijon mustard. Though I wouldn’t restrict my starter to a mere toss of baby greens, even with Verjus’s signature barely-there vinaigrette, I admire the in-season salads here. Dandelion or morels and mache in the spring, frisée and roasted beets in the fall. Soups, too: Count on spinach in the spring, pumpkin in the fall. But roasted birds, always.

On this night, the roasted chicken was infused with tarragon, snuggled under the skin during its time in the high-temperature oven, and served with carrots glazed by ginger-charged honey and garlicky mashed potatoes. The roasted Pekin duck is positively high-toned, compared to the chicken’s simplicity, skin lacquered but not blackened by silly sweet stuff, as is too much the fashion elsewhere, and plated with black rice and braised red cabbage. There’s a flourish of saucy cranberries, a tart note expertly played. Sure there’s meat and there’s fish (beef Bourguignonne with a soothingly tame mushroom sauce; lightly crusted salmon with lentils), but what you most need to remember is there’s rosé here, from Bandol. A nice Rhone Valley red wine always does right by roasted chicken for me, but there’s something restaurant-special about real-deal pink vino with birds. I wasn’t so impressed with the desserts at Verjus—we tried a serviceable ice cream terrine anchored by fig ice cream and quince sorbet and an apple tarte tatin that, frankly, needed more apples—but I figured anyone who knows chickens as well as Tutino also might know eggs, so I came back for Sunday brunch.

Why not eggs Benedict, poached, set atop English toasts in a pool of Hollandaise? Or an omelette, with poached salmon and a pile of twice-cooked potatoes? There’s even a dessert reward at this time of day and week of very eggy crème brulée, with a suggestion of lavender. As I paid the bill for brunch, I thought about when I could return for another of Verjus’s properly roasted chickens and ducks. I thanked the server and said I’d enjoyed the eggs almost as much as the roasted birds at dinner. A gentleman at the next table leaned over and whispered a tip: “If you like the chicken here,” he said, “you’ll love the chicken salad they do at lunch. With tarragon mayonnaise and a ciabatta roll.” My eyes widened. I’d need to pick up a chicken on the way home. Couldn’t make it through the day without chicken salad.

Plates here arrive awash in subtlety, with sauces demure and focused, main elements expertly cooked, technically precise. 

Photo credit: iStockphoto/Thinkstock

Photo credit: iStockphoto/Thinkstock

“Sam,” I say to my friend who is about to leave with his family on a trip abroad, “once upon a time in New Jersey, there wasn’t sushi on every corner or places nearby where you get tacos or tortas or other Mexican foods. There weren’t Thai restaurants. You know that, right?” Sam is 11 and, after hearing my spiel, puzzled. “Really, Andy?” he asks. “No California rolls?” I don’t want him to think I grew up deprived. But, compared to the variety of restaurant options we have today, the New Jersey I grew up in circa the 1960s and 1970s was, at best, limited. “When I was your age,” I tell Sam as we navigate the Garden State Parkway, “there was pizza and Chinese and that was about it for ethnic food.” I quickly realize I need to qualify Chinese. “I’m not talking Szechuan or soup dumplings or any of the things we eat now. Chinese was…well, Chinese was very different back then.” Which is why we are en route to Lun Wah, a classic in Roselle since 1974.

I wanted Sam to come back in time with me to a vintage New Jersey-style Cantonese/Polynesian restaurant, complete with tiki bar, waiters in Hawaiian-print shirts and a koi pond—a setting, a scene and a bill of fare almost extinct now in these parts. He’ll experience the most exotic foods of a generation past and realize what a treat it will be to have a chance to trek across the Atlantic to try a whole other new world of food. “Sam,” I continue as Steve Tyrell belts out Ain’t Misbehavin’ on my CD player, “you need to know how to take chances with new foods. You need to know how to order in a restaurant without falling back on the same-old, same-old stuff. You need to know this, Sam. You understand?” His response is barely audible, even though I’ve tamped down Tyrell. “Yeah,” he says. “When are we getting there?” We do get there, and settle into a bamboo-lined booth in one of two “palm”-tree lined dining spaces. Sam looks up at the fierce mask glaring down at us from its perch on the wall, then at me, unfazed. “How about Voodoo Steak?” I ask, and Sam laughs at the name. However, he’s appalled when I tell him we’re going to start with a pu-pu platter.” “Poo-poo? Oh, Andy, no!” Sam protests, until the platter arrives with a lazy-Susan arrangement of nibs and bits and a flaming mini-grill in the center.

Suddenly, Sam’s eyes glow. By the time we polish off our chunks of marinated beef, meaty hunks of ribs, shrimp toasts, packets of moist, spiced chicken and old-fashioned, pork-stuffed egg rolls, Sam is a big believer in the charms of Lun Wah’s superior pu-pu platter. Lun Wah is, after all, pure retro. As we spear cubes of beef, warming them for a minute on our grill, we see many diners file in. They’re all greeted by a veteran floor crew which seamlessly takes orders, delivers dishes and replenishes drinks served in pineapple shells trimmed with paper umbrellas and rimmed with plastic monkeys threatening to dive into the fruited spirits. By the time we’re served our resolutely Cantonese soups—a house wonton plumped not only with the steamed dough pouches filled with minced pork but also slices of chicken and roast pork, shrimp and crisp choy, and a thoroughly comforting chicken-corn that earned its moniker “velvet”—Sam’s ready to surrender to Lun Wah’s ways. “You can take the rest of the soup home,” I tell Sam, who is having a hard time saying goodbye to the kernels of corn and shreds of chicken swarming the not-too-thick soup base. This is a naturally thickened slow-cooked model, I suspect, for there is none of that cornstarch aftertaste that’s kept me from ordering the standard in many moons. Sam’s about to offer what I’m sure would’ve been a compelling argument for finishing every last drop of soup when our new best friend, Kenny—server sublime and master of Lun Wah ceremonies—arrives to see how we’re doing.

I take this as a cue our entrées are almost ready and, in turn, cue Sam to put down his spoon and prepare for more. “This place is the best, Andy,” Sam says, emphasizing the superlative with a slam-dunk imitation of one who has ingested a couple of Lun Wah’s Coco Locos, a concoction of rum and coconut milk. “What’s Volcano Steak?” Soon, he’s caught up on how he’ll describe to his family the multiple slabs of filet mignon set upon a thick layer of Chinese vegetables, all of which ring a tiny flame nestled in a citrus shell. Lun Wah doesn’t miss a chance to light a fire under, or for, its diners. But although there’s no shortage of ceremony and pomp, plates here arrive awash in subtlety, with sauces demure and focused, main elements expertly cooked, technically precise. The claypot subgum, a stew of myriad ingredients, illustrates that perfectly. There are chicken and shrimp, not a smidgen overcooked, shredded beef, muchos mushrooms and snow peas, broccoli and shards of more esoteric Asian vegetables in the heated pot. It’s bound by a light, sprightly sauce.

taste everything, individually. Nothing’s muddied. Grand Marnier shrimp, that luscious standard that at one time titillated, is textbook correct, with crunchy fried walnuts helping to offset the richness of the creamy, fruity sauce. Sam isn’t a shrimp fan (he’ll learn, he’ll learn), but he can’t get enough of that lush sauce, which he considers a kind of salad dressing for the thick slabs of cabbage and choy bedding the shrimp. We end as I always ended as a late-stage teen dining out with friends: with chocolate ice cream and chunks of pineapple.

On the way home, Sam, Lun-Wah-fortified, belts out his own personal rendition of “They All Laughed” and I don’t feel the need to reprise my beloved Steve Tyrell. But I do feel the need to reprise, for your sake, Lun Wah. So I return to check out several more classics that you might need to know about should you visit. Do you remember Happy Family? I remember Happy Family, and Lun Wah’s is a delirious version—the same that taught us about oyster sauce and how it relates to pork, shrimp, beef and chicken. Som Bo Duck is delicate and soothing, a splay of boneless duck breast amid chicken and shrimp, all atop a bevy of Asian vegetables. Coconut Shrimp never has been done as well in fusionfriendly New Age restaurants as it is here, with Lun Wah’s kitchen striking just the right balance of flakes to shellfish.

Just because we figured we should, we tried one of the handful of Szechuan selections, gingered beef that we asked to have kicked up to the max with hot sauce. The verdict? Gummy and one-dimensionally hot; no nuance, no finesse. Stick with Lun Wah’s core Cantonese/Polynesian dishes. Rather than doing dessert, use up your guilty-pleasure calorie allotment by starting your evening with one of the house-special drinks the folks gathering at the tiki bar so adore. Hawaiian Sunrise is a tart-tangy mix of lime juice and vodka. The Scorpion blends both light and dark rums with brandy, fruits and almond. Gin, lime juice and a liqueur (or two) we couldn’t divine and our server wouldn’t divulge make up the Bamboo Cooler. Lun Wah makes up in its warm wrap of nostalgia what it lacks in chic. There’s nothing new here. And there shouldn’t be. But when the call of the exotica of yore beckons, you’ll be glad to know it’s there, waiting for and welcoming baby boomers…and those whose generation has yet to be defined.

Everyone in New Jersey thinks they can run an Italian restaurant. I don’t think I want to.

Being part of an Italian restaurant is all I’ve ever known. I was born into a generational, family owned business that has been operating for more than fifty years. My grandfather’s dream was my playpen. Literally. Warm smiles were usually accompanied by a pignoli cookie or a cannoli. The servers were like aunts, uncles and cousins. What a fabulous and affectionate way to spend my childhood. It was not a life of privilege in the conventional sense. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. But a wooden one suited me just fine. Of course, the reality of the business eventually climbs into your life. My childhood Candyland was a living, breathing, hectic restaurant. And it wasn’t always sunshine and dreams. My first real job in the restaurant took place at the tender age of 13. Twice a week, for a total of four hours, I labored in the bakery. That time was primarily spent pouting, standing along the wall, brushing crumbs onto the floor and trying to look busy whenever my parents walked in. All the while, the actual workers were glaring at me. I wasn’t helping. I was in their way. Other kids I knew got grounded when they did something wrong. I was forced to help the hostess on busy Saturday nights. I did more moping than greeting. Ironically, when I look back, I would have to say hostessing was my favorite duty. It required the least amount of actual movement or labor, and I got to stand there looking all dolled-up for a few hours. Working in the bakery would come in second, since all I really had to do was fold cake boxes, weigh pastries, hand customers breads or pizzas,

and assemble cookie trays (so that one extra would land in my mouth). My least favorite (and current) duty is waitressing. Although it is the highest-paying job in the restaurant, at the end of a shift I am covered with grease and alcohol, my head is filled with customers’ complaints and I am dog tired. Being a waitress is really hard work. This is compounded by my natural talent for messing up orders, dropping plates and spilling drinks on patrons. Once I was blind-sided by a negative review of my service after I thought I had done an amazing job with a table. The customers’ actions and generous gratuity seemed to confirm this, yet they smack-talked me on the way out to my manager. That was an especially low blow to my ego. Although being part of a restaurant family has its occasional perks, family members tend to get the short end of the stick compared to the employees, particularly when it comes to the more unpleasant jobs.

There have been numerous instances where I’ve had to get down and dirty. Really dirty. When there’s a clog in the restroom, it always falls to a family member because we can’t say, “I quit!” Also, if I have an amazing date on a Saturday night, or maybe I’m just having one of those days, can I call in and say I’m a no-show tonight? Fugghetaboutit. Can they call me in on my day off because someone else left them hanging? Absolutely. So here I am, a struggling writer with a handful of clippings and a college diploma, looking to get out of the restaurant business as soon as I can afford to. It’s not a decision I came to easily. To take over the family business and continue the Piancone legacy would put a colossal beam on my father’s and late grandfather’s faces—especially since I am an only child and the oldest of seven cousins. Although pride would be coursing through their veins, my family members completely support and understand my need to pursue the career of my choosing. And needless to say, without the help from my family and the restaurant, I would not have been able to receive my undergraduate degree, or be able to put money aside for graduate school. Of course, this is New Jersey, so there’s always someone out there dying to run an Italian restaurant. If that’s you, my advice is to involve your extended family—but also to go in with your eyes wide open. You will need a family that is at least semi-stable, and always ready to man-up and hold down the fort. For what it’s worth, here are some additional words of wisdom:

Treat Family & Workplace Like Church & State. No one wants to talk or think about work after they’ve made it back to the sanctuary of the home. Imagine being overworked and exhausted and then having someone—I won’t mention any names, Mom—asking an endless series of rapid-fire questions. Was it busy? How much money did you make? What’s your schedule? How did the food look? Were there a lot of people at the bar? By the same token, everyone needs to leave work baggage at the door. This is definitely easier said than done. It is also inevitable that your personal life will clash with your work life. Expect it, but don’t invite it. Bottom line? Separate home and work problems. Long-term it’s the only successful route to take.

Respect the Pecking Order. The boss is the boss, the chef is the chef, and family members need to fit in to make a place run smoothly. As the boss’s daughter, I got treated differently. The chefs were nice to me even though, as a rule, they don’t have such a peachy demeanor. On the flip-side, no one wants to include you in small talk. It’s amazing how kitchen conversations suddenly end when I pop my head in and say, “What’s up, guys?”

Don’t Take It Personally. If a customer is unhappy with the food or gripes about the service, chances are he or she is complaining about a family member. Let it go. Stay calm and respectful, even if your stomach is tied in knots. Everyone has an off day, including Mom and Dad. In my case, there’s an added twist since my boyfriend works in our restaurant. When a customer calls him a cutie pie, I need to tell myself servers and patrons are always flirting. Again and again and again. All kidding aside, the Piancone family has experienced business and personal success due to our genuine love and passion for the restaurant and one another. Unlike a corporate work environment, our staff is made up of handpicked prodigies that we know truly care about the well-being of the restaurant because they are our best friends. Our church and state may continuously clash, and a few customers may give us grief, but at the end of a long night, we know we’ll come together and share a glass of wine. Which, believe me, beats the heck out of those pignoli cookies.

Editor’s Note: Johnny Piancone (johnnypiancone.com) is located on Broadway in Long Branch. Francesca’s grandfather and his brother started in Bradley Beach in the 1950s. Francesca graduated from Lynn University in Florida. She wrote for Gold Coast magazine before joining the EDGE family.

 ‘The ricotta-marinara blush sauce is crazy-good, its rich cheesey soul tempered by the acidity of tomatoes. Get it over a sturdy pasta that can stand up to the sauce.’

 Should you be worried you’ve actually come to the right place, the voice – The Voice – of Frank Sinatra will reassure you that you have, that this duck-your head, watch-your-step, below-sea-level entrance is indeed the way, the only way, to enter the inner sanctum of Chef Vola’s. Frank is always singing at Chef Vola’s. Frank, who legend has it wanted to be buried with a slice of owner Louise Esposito’s banana cream pie, who knew the secret behind the name of the world-renowned restaurant, and who just might be its unofficial mascot, invariably greets diners who descend into the basement and keeps crooning all night long. Those diners might be Jay-Z and Beyonce. They might be members of the cast of The Sopranos. They might be sports stars. They might be good old Jersey boy rock stars such as Jon Bon Jovi. You don’t believe these folks, plus heads of state and of Fortune 500 companies, hurdle the hoops of the reservation process to score a table in the cramped, cluttered, completely charismatic low-ceilinged, dimly lit dining spaces where vintage Italian nonna fare is served alongside a handful of improbable-sounding original Esposito dishes? They do.

Check out Chef Vola’s walls of fame that bulge with bumper-to-bumper photos of Louise and her co-owner family members, husband Michael and sons Michael Jr. and Louis, as they snuggle with the familiar faces of those they’ve fed. Fancy-pants restaurants can’t claim the extent of the celebrity patronage of this 90-year-old BYOB a block from the Boardwalk and at the edge of a neighborhood sometimes described as a tad sketchy in Atlantic City. They fly in from L.A. They pit-stop from a finals match to a championship game. They hop-scotch from Munich via Philadelphia, renting a car and driving east on the Atlantic City Expressway. As did my dining neighbors the same night I marveled at the new additions to my old restaurant friend, which had gotten a bathroom upgrade and some extra seating since my last visit. (Oh, don’t think Chef Vola’s still isn’t cheek-to-jowl. You will, I promise, still be able to read the fine print on the wine bottles at the adjoining table and hear everything said.)

Two couples from Germany started their U.S. tour with a dinner at Chef Vola’s because, they revealed, friends who’d made a similar trek told them the food, the atmosphere—and what I translated as schtick—was the best anywhere. And you only have to drive from your home port somewhere in New Jersey. Chances are, once you do, you will again. You may well make reservations on your way out for your next birthday or anniversary. You will return for the cannellini and string bean salad scattered with cubes of sharp cheese and salami, a veal chop so large you will be glad you didn’t fly in because even the leftovers couldn’t fit in an airplane’s overhead compartment, pasta awash in a “blush” sauce that combines ricotta and marinara, and Louise Esposito’s pies, each of which—and there are a good couple dozen—have their own ardent legions of fans. I’ll throw my support behind the coconut-pecan ricotta pie, but we’ll discuss later. First, the hype surrounding Chef Vola’s is exaggerated. Yes, the phone number remains unlisted in a phone-book sense of listing numbers. But you have it here and you can find it if you have basic-level Internet skills. Second, you can get a reservation. As with many extremely popular restaurants, you simply have to plan ahead, call ahead and not expect a table at 8 on a Saturday night.

You don’t need to be blood relatives of the Espositos or routinely play to sold-out concerts in stadiums. Yes, it’s cash only, it’s not cheap and you must bring your own spirits. (Consider prosecco for starters and a red wine for entrées.) It is a bit hard to find on initial visit. Park in the lot in the shadow of the Tropicana and walk a block and a half north. That boardinghouse-style structure you see at an odd, almost dead end is Chef Vola’s. Don’t look up for the entrance, but look down and to the side farthest from the Atlantic Ocean. You got it, Bunky. Now you’ve got to get a salad, such as that double-bean number with creamy white cannellinis and crisp green-bean batons set off by the same elements as a classic chopped salad. Or, right for autumn, the toss of arugula with dabs of goat cheese, sweet-tart dried cranberries and a dressing much like a fig glaze, only thinner. Don’t go all hoggish on the plates delivered to your table: Share everything.

Chef Vola’s is where the you-getta-lot school of eating in Joisey was born. You’ll find prosciutto- and roasted red pepper-wrapped mozzarella served to half the diners around you. You’ll see crab cakes made from jumbo lump crab that defy the genre in pure size of lump. They’re simple and divine. Too many people, distracted by the sensationalism of the crab cakes, overlook the most rustic of dishes here, the veal sausages. Please don’t make this mistake. Channel your inner Italian grandma and get these links with their tangle of fried red and green peppers and onions. The second you’ll walk in the door, you’ll get a hankering for pasta, and you should not let this craving go unabated. The ricotta-marinara blush sauce I spoke of is crazy-good, its rich cheesey soul tempered by the acidity of tomatoes. Get it over a sturdy pasta that can stand up to the sauce. Or, if you’re choice-challenged, try the pasta trio.

The night of my recent visit, we blasted angel hair with that blush sauce and took another haystack of the thin macaroni with a clam sauce skillfully composed of clams, a jigger of olive oil and plenty of garlic. I adored the mushroom fra diavolo, a chunky sauce with spirit and sass, though I think I’ll like it better next time with penne. I so liked the Flintstone-size veal chop with mushrooms I once had at a birthday dinner that I maneuvered ordering to make sure my first-timer dining companions could take a stab at it. To my knowledge, they are still debating which rendition of the veal chop they most love: the mushroom’d one or the parm’d one. (Parm fans outnumber ‘shroom fans a good 10-to-1. I’m a proud minority voice.) While my companions argued, I ate most of a fish entrée I’d avoided at previous dinners because it sounded unlikable. It’s anything but, no matter how overwrought it sounds: red snapper topped with a jumbo lump crab cake and topped again with a Champagne-Cognac cream sauce, all of which is swirled with pesto. Who knew this could work? The Espositos, who invented it.

If you want to delve into Chef Vola’s history, and perhaps be told the secret behind its name, order the chicken cacciatore. It’s one of the few dishes from the original owner of the restaurant, Chef Pina Vola. And here’s what few patrons know: Pina Vola was a woman. (She sold the place to a fellow who kept it fairly intact until 1982, when the Espositos bought it and greatly expanded the menu.) Not only weren’t there many female chefs in Pina’s day, women weren’t exactly thought of as top chef material. Which maybe is why Pina didn’t do much to publicize her presence. But her cacciatore is commendable, a feisty stew that lets big-flavored tomatoes dominate. Do order it bone-in. And don’t fold on me now, not with your nimble server ready to recite the pies of the night. Plus, Frank’s probably revved up to “New York, New York” form and one of those Espositos will be watching, if not taking your dessert order personally.

If you want to get invited back – that is, have your next reservation taken—don’t skip dessert. With Sinatra’s devotion to the banana cream pie recommendation enough (be aware it comes semi-frozen, which I think doesn’t do its flavor justice—but who am I and what do I know?), I’ll direct you to the coconut-pecan ricotta pie. It’s served warm and it’s a doozy, the shreds of coconut and crumbles of pecan bringing soul to the molten cheese. I’ve also got a thing for the limoncello cream pie. This one’s packed into a crust made of lemon drop cookies, which are the perfect foil for the pumped-up Italian liqueur. Decadence is what the chocolate-peanut butter mousse pie is about. I laughed as I watched a friend tuck away all but the three bites I’d taken mere minutes after declaring himself too full to make it back to the car, let alone consider dessert. Maybe that’s why Louise Esposito personally slaves over those pies. Maybe that’s why this family and its crews both in the kitchen and in the front of the house shimmy around the diminutive spaces night after night. They want to keep an eye on you to make sure you’ve taken dinner to the extreme—eaten more than you should, laughed more than usual, eavesdropped on your table neighbors more than propriety allows. They want you to have the full Chef Vola’s experience. Their way.

In the restaurant business, necessity isn’t always the mother of invention. More often, reality is. When Rudy Carrera and Andy Dinic opened the doors at Mosaico in 2005, they envisioned it as being trendy and high-concept, with an unflinching Northern Italian menu—a slice of SoHo transported to Rte. 22 in Mountainside. Good reviews and a loyal clientele from their previous place (an Italian bistro in Springfield) helped get the longtime partners off to a roaring start in their new digs. But when the air went out of the economy a couple of years later, they had to rethink their hard line on Northern Italian in order to maintain Mosaico’s bottom line. Their solution was to fully embrace the meaning of Mosaico. “A mosaic is made up of a thousand little details that are individually beautiful and of high quality,” says Carrera. “The artist assembles them to form a complete picture. We just reassembled some of the pieces.”

The menu morphed into what Carrera describes as Northern Italian with a twist, and it’s the twist that has kept the customers coming back. The Mosaico staff noticed that, as times became increasingly uncomfortable, their regulars started asking for familiar “comfort” foods ranging from Bolognese and carbonara dishes to pizza and burgers. So Dinic and Carrera began sneaking these items into the menu, or at least letting diners know that the kitchen could whip up almost anything they wanted, on the spot, made to order. “The economy forced us to become more flexible, more nimble,” says Dinic. “Our customers appreciated that. They always said, ‘We come here because we know it’s always good.’ As long as we could maintain our standards of service, quality and creativity, we felt that we were being true to the original concept.” Mosaico’s 2011 menu still leans heavily toward modern and traditional Northern Italian cuisine.

The signature dish, Veal Mosaico, a creation of chef Luis Romero (who has been cooking for Carrera and Dinic for more than a decade) is a scallopine layered with portabella mushrooms, roasted peppers and gorgonzola, in a brandy brown sauce, served with red potatoes on a bed of arugula. Another standout item is the French cut grilled pork chop. It has an entirely different thickness than what New Jersey restaurant-goers are probably used to. It’s never dry, even when ordered well done. Mosaico has also carved out a sterling reputation as a place to enjoy the bounty of the ocean. There are always at least two fish specials on the menu, even at lunch. Regulars swear by the crab cakes and, according to Carrera, the seafood salad rivals prosciutto and melon as their most popular appetizer. Grilled calamari is not on the menu, but is listed among the specials almost every day. Fish and shellfish are delivered each morning, so there’s an excellent chance that what comes to the table was swimming somewhere the previous day. The crowd at Mosaico is a mosaic in and of itself. At midday, four out of five tables appear to be business lunches. Some tables tear through their meals, while others linger well into the afternoon. In the evenings, it’s a blend of young and old, family dinners and romantic twosomes, and a fair number of business people.

The restaurant is also a popular spot for private parties. According to Dinic, that is how many people discover Mosaico. He also estimates that, at any given time, about 40 percent of the faces that come through the door are familiar ones. In an era where customer loyalty is key, that is a very healthy number. The look of Mosaico is best described as a blend of modern and traditional. High ceilings in the dining room create a feel of openness and cut down on the noise, and there is a cozy lounge area that makes waiting for tables a very civilized experience. Mosaics fashioned from antique tiles that once graced buildings in Italy serve to soften the decor and add color—and also inspired the restaurant’s name. Indeed, at first the two owners could not agree on a name. It was their interior designer who suggested Mosaico.

Ultimately, what people appreciate most about Mosaico is not what’s inside the walls, but what’s inside the people who work there. From the owners to the kitchen and wait staff— right down to the busboys—there is a genuine feeling of family. And that feeling is extended to the people who patronize Mosaico. Carrera says that he and Dinic work hard every day to keep their employees focused on the experience they deliver to customers—and to treat them the way they would like to be treated if they were sitting down to a great meal. “As much as the quality and consistency of the food, it’s the personal attention and service that defines Mosaico,” says Dinic. “When you’re here you really feel like you’re at home,” adds Carrera. “Only the food is better and you don’t get stuck doing the dishes.”

Gourmet Food Trucks Go Full Throttle

Early morning. My friend, Pam, jumps off the ferry at Pier 17. As she scoots up Wall Street, she stops at a steaming cart to purchase the “best oatmeal in the world.” Next stop is a fresh fruit purveyor for just squeezed orange juice. Then on to another truck to buy “phenomenal” coffee. Breakfast in hand in only three minutes—a lot quicker than the corner diner—she heads up to catch the #6 subway. “I love buying food from these trucks,” she enthuses. Pam is an elegant woman in her 60s with high standards. She enjoys good food and dresses impeccably. So what is she doing ingesting food-on-the-fly (and from the street, no less)? My first reaction: Inoculate me…or at the very least pass the Tongue Purell! But since observing Pam grab food on the run that morning, I’ve noticed that food trucks have become ubiquitous, quite the thing and even chic on both sides of the Hudson. In the immortal words of Jimmy Durante, “Everybody’s getting in on the act.”

In his televised Bobby Flay’s Throwdown!, Iron Chef Bobby Flay has challenged to culinary cook-offs—and lost to—a number of food truck vendors. The New York Times food section regularly mentions these popular gourmet gypsies, and how and where to locate them. Zagats’ blog has launched a Food Truck Finder, providing parking location, reviews and even ratings of dozens of trucks—which is amazing since it didn’t include the popular Rickshaw Dumpling Truck, Kimchi Taco Truck, or King of Falafel. Even Food Network celebrity chef Tyler Florence has joined the movement, hosting The Great Food Truck Race, a culinary road show in which seven food trucks from California to Texas vie to be the most successful and win a $50,000 prize. Street food is older than a Babylonian bazaar. So what is creating this present-day proliferation of mobile food vending businesses? From Portland Oregon (600-plus trucks) to Austin, Texas, (more than 1,000), the mobile food business seems to be gaining momentum. It started on the West Coast (Los Angeles had food trucks as far back as the 1940s) and has headed East. Recently, Newsweek devoted an entire page to a wildly popular taco truck in L.A. Being in-the-know about a new restaurant, art installation or trend feeds the pop-up culture of the 3rd millennium, where businesses come and go in a matter of weeks. Often aided by social networks, a movable feast in a truck has become something for foodies to watch, follow, friend and tweet. Pam, my commuting friend, is no exception. She adores the thrill of discovery and being in on something new, delicious and personal.

KING OF QUEENS Krista, a chic young New Yorker, often grabs her dinner from King of Falafel in Astoria, Queens on the way home from her sales and marketing job. She says the very personal aspect of dining “a la cart” lends added appeal to the experience. “A huge part of what makes it so great are the people,” Krista explains. “There is always a long line of ‘Astorians’ of all ages and ethnicities waiting for the consistently delicious food. It’s fun to listen to the banter and the guys that work the cart are great. Oftentimes they give me some fresh falafel to munch on while I wait for my order of piles of marinated chicken and lots of tahini. And they tend to call me sweetie or sweetheart, which is actually kind of charming coming from them.” Not every food aficionado is on board with the truck trend. Once when the subject was raised, Mimi Sheraton, the former New York Times food critic, demanded to know “where the hell do you eat” the food? How about at the office, on a bench, or whatever conveyance takes you home? Since being inspired by Pam’s culinary trek up Wall Street, I have shared a Rickshaw Truck Hudson Valley Peking duck dumpling with my friend Sugie on the high seas (aka the Seastreak Ferry). I’ve even managed to carry a Dessert Truck sublime chocolate bread pudding all the way home before devouring it.

THE WHEEL DEAL Who are these enterprising mobile food vendors? Culinary school grads find the trucks a low-cost way to start a food following. Whereas opening a restaurant with rent and renovation might cost over $1 million, outfitting a gourmet food truck will cost between $75,000 for a used one and $200,000 for brand spanking new. New Jersey chef Adam Sobel purchased, outfitted and decorated his vegan food “Cinnamon Snail” truck for $26,000—acquiring the

used truck and supplies through Craigslist and paying his artistic and electronically savvy friends with free food. He has since upgraded the truck with $14,000 worth of improvements. Some restaurants wanting to deliver their food brand to other neighborhoods have started fleets of mobile food vendors. Rickshaw Dumpling, with a brick and mortar restaurant on West 23rd Street in New York, recently added another truck to service its curbside fans. On the other hand, some trucks—Dessert Truck and Cupcake Stop to name a couple—have actually engendered flagship restaurants. So you’re thinking of running a food truck? Thinking it might be fun, cheap and easy? Not so fast. In addition to the sometimes 90-hour-a-week time commitment, roadblocks and speed bumps include municipal bureaucracies with hard-to-obtain permits and licenses, monthly health inspections and police harassment. Also, strict and biased parking restrictions—such as parking too close to a crosswalk—can plague an enterprising food truck operator. As a result, the Street Vendor Project, an unofficial union of vendors, was formed as part of the Urban Justice Center in New York. To raise money to advocate for all street vendors, they initiated the Vendy awards, which Mario Batali calls “the Oscars for food for the real New York.”

JERSEY DRIVERS Gourmet trucks have started pulling into towns across New Jersey, too. However in many places restrictive ordinances can discourage the mobile food business. Sobel, a native of Red Bank, with a kitchen there, spent endless hours earlier this year trying to convince borough officials to carve out a spot where he (and others) could sell food near his home. During the warm-weather months, his Cinnamon Snail has a home every Sunday at the Red Bank Farmer’s Market. Jersey City and Hoboken are home to a number of trucks offering interesting fare. The aforementioned Cinnamon Snail, Two Pitas in a Pod, and the Taco Truck are among the more popular. In the highly competitive food business, one might surmise there is cutthroat competition or turf wars, but in fact there exists camaraderie and mutual respect among the mobile vendors. Indeed, they often swap meals for variety and friendship. Lev Ekster, the Cupcake Stop truck entrepreneur, opted out of law, hired some great bakers and started the first mobile cupcake shoppe. In less than two years, his cupcakes won the Food Network’s Food Feud for Best Cupcake. With a bakery in Montclair, a newly opened shop in Greenwich Village and a truck that ventures into Manhattan each day, Ekster seems to have all the bases covered. If you work in the city, you can even preorder cupcakes for the office and pick them up at his Twittered location. How tweet it is.

‘Since you’re playing lord or lady of the manor, order the entrée-size as your appetizer and practice reveling.’

The long and winding road that drops you at the entrance to Ninety Acres might justify the traction of Hummer’s H2, or the agility of a basic Jeep, or the diminutive size of a Mini Cooper to best navigate its narrow confines. But, frankly, I was thinking “Bentley” as we approached the restored carriage house in Peapack- Gladstone that has been transformed into a destination restaurant on the 500-acre estate called Natirar. A Rolls would be too obvious. As the valet opened a door of our SUV, protecting us with an umbrella on this monsooning night, I wanted to ask, “How many Bentleys do you park a month?” I didn’t. I wanted to be inside, cloistered by the expanses of stone and wood that are brightened by glass and warmed by leather and copper. After being seated and gazing about, I sensed an Arts & Crafts attitude about the place. Albeit Arts & Crafts on a soaring, grandiose scale. To the right of the entrance is a bar with tavern room dining; to the left is the main dining space. Wander around and you’ll come across an open kitchen where you can watch pizzas shoveled into, then taken out of, a wood-fired oven— and maybe even the tucked-away Cognac Room, where parties who’ve properly reserved can dabble in a small plates scene.

If it all seems mighty aristocratic, remember: You are only in the carriage house. The original estate of the Ladds—Walter and Kate—began to take shape in the first decade of the 20th century. The couple acquired parcels eventually totaling 1,000 acres in Peapack-Gladstone, Far Hills and Bedminster, the core of the Somerset Hills. They built a 33,000-square-foot main home in the Tudor style. In clever tribute, they named the whole shebang the reverse of the river that runs through it. The anagram of the Raritan stuck, even after it was sold in the 1980s to the Royal Family of Morocco. As the new century dawned, local resident Bob Wojtowicz started to realize his dream of turning Natirar from historic estate to luxury resort. His plans caught the interest of Sir Richard Branson of the Virgin Group, and dovetailed nicely with the goals of Somerset County. It became a Wojtowicz- Branson-Somerset County public-private partnership, and today Natirar itself reflects that arrangement. There’s a private club, offering trips abroad, wine tastings and sports. To come will be a hotel and spa.

Right now, open to all, is Ninety Acres, the restaurant. That is the domain of chef David Felton, who mines New Jersey for ingredients that shape his menus and add to what is grown on Natirar’s farm and raised in its pastures and pens. It’s a concept not unlike Blue Hill at Stone Barns in upstate New York, though there’s a very, very Somerset Hills-y feel to the scene. That is to say, the plates at Ninety Acres have a contemporary classic esthetic. Felton, formerly chef at the Pluckemin Inn, doesn’t press at the edges of global trends or push unfamiliar ingredients upon a crowd accustomed to their comforts (and comfort zone). He’s taking it slowly, looking at the concept and the menu as an educational process. For example, on my first visit to Ninety Acres shortly after it opened in December 2009, folks were just testing the poached egg and pork belly starter that now, a year-and-a-half later, is a signature dish scoring universal raves.

This time, we tried a spin-off pizza in which the egg and pork mingle with the heat of chilies and the pungent spark of Gorgonzola and asiago cheeses, mellowed only slightly by a film of fontina. It’s a winner, the pie that Ninety Acres’ fans recommend without hesitation. I’d recommend a terrific pasta dish (whether you try it as a starter or main course) of chewy garganelli and Natirar lamb that’s been slow-braised till it’s practically spoon-ready. What makes it lovable is the tingle of mint pesto coupled with the richness of meaty fava beans and maitakes, my personal favorite all-luxe mushroom. Don’t stint on this one; since you’re playing lord or lady of the manor, order the entrée-size as your appetizer and practice reveling. I wanted to revel in the terrine of duck breast and foie gras, but found it too one-dimensional. There was a dab of aged sherry, snips of blood orange and a sprinkle of pistachio on the plate, but nothing to add vigor to the seriously buttery taste and texture of the terrine. More satisfying was a petite pot of French lentils bolstered by a true darling of a stew of spring vegetables. Here, Felton nudges diners by adding Valley Shepherd Creamery’s “Nettlesome” cheese to the mix, topping it all off with a spray of lemon oil. The mixed milk cheese flecked with nettles and the intensely citrusy oil make a dish with an inherently gentle soul provocative. That’s good cooking.

FULL SERVICE The floor crew at Ninety Acres has come into its own since its rocky start in late 2009/early 2010. I recall a dinner at which a few members of the service staff debated right in front of us which table got the plates they had in hand; politely trying to wrangle silverware as our food grew cold; and having to beg refills of our wine from a bottle set at a distance. The worst offenders? A couple of captains who openly complained about being short-staffed. None of that happened during a recent visit, when our meal’s delivery was well-orchestrated and servers attentive (if still prone to interrupting conversation with the always-awkward, “How is everything?”). The wine list has grown in scope and depth, the handiwork of sommelier Brooke Sabel. Though the by-the-glass program could offer more boutique selections, there’s a tie to the cuisine that shows thought. Clearly, Ninety Acres is in this game for the long haul.

Perhaps that’s where Felton would be taking the entrées. Don’t misunderstand: Once settled into the posh, so very comfortable dining spaces of Ninety Acres, even completely unadorned basics might do you just fine. But I know Felton’s cooking can offer head-turning surprises—quirks that complement and even elicit uncontainable exclamations from diners. I wasn’t getting a lot of that here. Yet. Next on the table was a top-notch bone-in strip steak, panroasted to a T and sided with a couple of small grilled portobellos. A quick lick of steak sauce, and that’s all the kitchen delivered. I wanted to taste a feisty crust of seasoning on the steak and a counterpoint to the portobellos, which, after all, have a similar beefy appeal as the meat. We ordered a couple of sides (at $9 apiece)—a strapping plate of earthy braised greens pocked with bacon and made bold by mustard and ultra-haute mashed potatoes ordered with olive oil but served instead with butter. I’d suggest doing the same. I’d also suggest—should it be on tap as the menu changes with the seasons and evolves—the cod with a pitch-perfect Meyer lemon-lobster sauce. It’s Felton at his peak, respecting the integrity of the cod by enhancing its flavor, but without overwhelming it by adding both contrasting acidity and rich, dense, naturally buttery shellfish. A flourish of royal trumpet mushrooms, sunchokes and runner beans ringing the plate made this one exuberant, defining dish. Very small Barnegat Light scallops were planned as the focus of an entrée that didn’t quite come together. Partnered with the overcooked scallops were roasted beets, a small beef short rib and a smattering of horseradish. At a nearby table, a party of smartly dressed adults and children were doing Ninety Acres’ Saturday night special of prime rib, exchanging grins and wielding their steak knives with admirable skill. Food for thought. Finales here follow suit, meaning they are neither splashy nor curiosities, but takes on classic confections. My favorite was the mascarpone cheesecake that may have skirted pledges to seasonality with roasted pear and rosemary honey as accents, but charmed with pure deliciousness. The crust of the maple custard pie was short of perfectly flaky, but the tout to local eggs and the fledgling sugaring industry can’t be shortchanged. There’s also a chocolate torte paired with chocolate-jalapeno ice cream that shouldn’t put off anyone who fears the heat of chilies. It’s a barely-there presence, that jalapeno, making the dessert all about chocolate. Ninety Acres is all about the New Jersey the jokesters ignore—the New Jersey, mind you, we’re grateful they ignore. It’s been described by those who don’t live here as an oasis. But it’s not. Natirar and its restaurant reflect the well-mannered elegance of the Somerset Hills. It’s going to be a pleasure to watch Ninety Acres and its surrounding communities explore new culinary horizons together.

Editor’s Note: Andy Clurfield is a former editor of Zagat New Jersey. The longtime food critic for the Asbury Park Press also has been published in Gourmet, Saveur and Town & Country, and on epicurious.com.

Internationally acclaimed chef, bestselling author, beloved TV personality, retail superstar— there isn’t much Emeril Lagasse hasn’t done in the culinary world. So it might surprise you to know that among his 12 award-winning restaurants there has never been an Italian one. Until now. This June, Lagasse opens Emeril’s Italian Table at a casino near you—the Sands Casino Resort Bethlehem to be specific, just over an hour away, a straight shot out Rte. 78. It will be his third eatery at the Sands, joining Emeril’s Chop House and Burgers and More (aka BAM). Emeril’s Italian Table features the chef’s creative takes on the rustic Italian cuisine he grew up on, as well as classic meat, fish and vegetarian dishes, wood-oven pizzas and artisanal cheeses. Diners will get to experience the cooking process up close thanks to a large window into the kitchen. EDGE editor Mark Stewart tracked down Lagasse as he put the finishing touches on his latest creation.

EDGE: Everything you do is accompanied with such high expectations now—do you experience more pressure or anxiety when you are creating a restaurant concept, or after the restaurant opens?

EL: Opening a restaurant is tough but I love it. With Emeril’s Italian Table the feeling is definitely excitement. I’ve got a great team that has been part of my organization since the very beginning. We all work hard and put a lot of energy into the planning and the menu, crafting the right look and feel of the restaurant. Our style of service and hospitality originates from my restaurants in New Orleans and is a huge part of our culture and the Emeril’s experience. In the end, we’re in the business of making people happy.

EDGE: What signature touches will veteran diners recognize at your new place in the Sands?

EL: When I opened my first restaurant, Emeril’s, in New Orleans, we really wanted to take down the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. If you visit today, there’s really no barrier between the kitchen and dining room—you can see us at work and we can see who’s dining, and make sure everything is going smoothly out in the front of the house. Emeril’s Table will include an antipasto bar and a food bar so you get that same experience and interaction up close. The food bar is still one of the hottest seats in the house.

EDGE: You opened Emeril’s Chop House at the Sands a couple of years back, and people swear by it. What goes into making a first-rate chop house—from the menu to service to the atmosphere?

EL: This is our only Chop House, so the concept here is a steakhouse with a little twist on the usual standards – chops, steaks, free-range chicken, seasonal fish, lobster and there’s also some Creole-inspired dishes. We wanted to keep a little sensibility of an American steakhouse, except more open and modern. It’s a really inviting and comfortable atmosphere with great food and great service. Each one of my restaurants has its own personality. My belief is that a restaurant must have heart, soul, and always provide a great customer experience. Great food, great wines, and great service—that’s our philosophy regardless of location.

EDGE: In the pantheon of “celebrity chefs” I think of you as approaching things with a rock-star attitude. Does that come from the days when you were considering a career in music? Are you kind of living both lives at the same time?

EL: Well, I grew up doing both and I still love both. Music was and still is another big passion for me. I was in a local band and played the drums in high school. I was even offered a scholarship to music school, but I decided instead to enroll in culinary school at Johnson & Wales University. I have been fortunate enough to overlap the two along the road.

EDGE: When was that moment when you said to yourself Hey, I’m REALLY good at what I do!

EL: I was probably 8 or 9 years old when I realized that I might want to cook and be a chef one day.

EDGE: You are a proponent of eating local produce, and obviously New Jersey has a lot to offer in that respect. What do you feel is the #1 most misunderstood or underrated vegetable?

EL: Kale. I love cooking with fresh greens, lettuces and kale—whether it’s in a soup or sautéed and served with pasta and clams. Our menus generally rotate about three or four times a year. As we transition into summer we’ll make a few menu changes for the season and incorporate the local summer corn and tomatoes and you’ll really see the seasonal influences.

EDGE: This is our Mind Your Manors issue—manors referring to homes. What are some of the mistakes home chefs tend to make when they try to prepare big, bold cuts of meat themselves?

EL: Under-seasoning. Salt and pepper are a cook’s best tool. Sometimes people are afraid to season, but that’s the secret to a great steak—salt, pepper and maybe a little cayenne or essence. Sprinkle a little more salt at the end, and maybe a drizzle of olive oil and a squeeze of fresh lemon.

EDGE: Can you make a truly great steak at home without a commercial kitchen?

EL: A cast-iron skillet, grill pan, or a gas or charcoal outdoor grill are all you need. A lot of people are afraid of under cooking meat, so a good meat thermometer is a smart investment.

EDGE: How has home cooking—from your family background—expressed itself in your creations over the years? How often do you reach back 40 or 50 years for a little inspiration?

EL: Growing up, I was always interested in food from a very young age. My mom Miss Hilda, who is Portuguese and French Canadian, and my dad, Mr. John, were a huge influence on my life. I learned a great deal from my mom. She taught me how to cook and that started my passion for the culinary arts. I also worked at a local Portuguese bakery while in school. I learned the art of making breads, pastries and cakes. Everything I learned early on shows up in some way in my restaurants.

EDGE: What did you learn from baking?

EL: What I learned is one of the most important foundations of my restaurants: make everything from scratch. Bread, pasta, Andouille sausage, Worcestershire sauce, ice creams, sauce—you name it.

EDGE: No shortcuts?

EL: No. There are no shortcuts.

Editor’s Note: BAM! EDGE readers can Cook with Emeril. Go to edgemagonline.com for an Opening Night recipe from Emeril’s Italian Table.

A Trio of Westfield Winners 

If at first you succeed, why not keep at it? It’s hard to remember a time when Theresa’s wasn’t around to feed families who realize they can’t make meal ends meet in between soccer and homework. Or couples who commute and, on occasion, want more than takeout rotisserie chicken and strip-mall Chinese. Or 20-somethings just off the train who are looking for a gathering place with more eats than drinks. The successful formula at this Italian-leaning, something-for-everyone restaurant on Elm Street encouraged founder and guiding force Robert Scalera to open a Southwestern-style spot called Mojave Grill, a mere blink away in downtown Westfield. Now folks craving a good bowl of black bean soup, quesadillas with punch and pizzazz, and chile-infused main courses had a downtown alternative in the same come-as-you-are vein as Theresa’s. And when it seemed there was a niche not yet explored, Isabella’s American Bistro was born in yet another storefront on Elm. It borrows culinary themes now and again from its siblings, but does have a much-loved jazzed-up meatloaf, wasabi-crusted seafood specials and a fruited bread pudding locals can’t do without. In other words, bistro style with an American-food attit      ude. An old friend from Westfield told me her four kids might have gone hungry during their high school days if not for Theresa’s and Mojave. They were at one or the other— sometimes both—every week. They’d all zero in on their favorite dishes, order and feel sated. Tara King, catering manager for all Scalera’s restaurants, says the faithful indeed do pop in two, three nights a week. And that doesn’t include lunch stops, since they all serve midday meals as well. Curious? Come dine with us then. We took in dinner at each of the Westfield mainstays to catch the individual flavor of each place. Neighborhood joints though they may be, there’s a sense of pride in the crafting of dishes that’s not always apparent in restaurants with a similar purpose and point of view. Ingredients are fresh. Stocks are made in house, not purchased in vats from food distributors. Though there are no ahead-of-time reservations to be made, there is a nightly call-ahead system that keeps table waits to a minimum. The restaurants routinely are packed to the gills, but on most occasions, there’s commendable flow from kitchen to table. Scalera’s restaurants are well run.

THERESA’S The always-smart partnership of shellfish and beans makes for a simple, yet engaging starter. Shrimp are marinated, then grilled, and plated with a white bean salad. The pair is united by a sweet flash of roasted red pepper and the herbal kick of a pesto-laced oil. Flashy and fussy? No. Soulful and satisfying? Yes. So is a local favorite pasta dish, the now-classic penne with vodka sauce. It’s so often tired and trite, laden with massive amounts of sauce that prompt giggles among teens, who think they’ll get a buzz from a sauce labeled “vodka.” Sorry. There’s a vaguely astringent quality to the spirited sauce, but what gives Theresa’s version of the dish a lift above the norm is the carbonara-like addition of crumbled pancetta and sweet peas. Potent in a non-alcoholic way. It’s possible that riots would ensue in genteel Westfield if the asiago-crusted chicken ever were taken off Theresa’s menu. Our polite server on this night said there was no chance of that. Folks love the cheese-on-cheese aspect of the dish, what with mozzarella layered in the mix. It’s all balanced by a dose of tomato and a garlicky cream sauce. If you’re looking for a sweet-tart sensation, give the balsamic-and apricot-glazed pork tenderloin a go. It’s got the appeal of something barbecued as well as a couple of hearty standbys on the side in garlic-licked mashed potatoes and a tangle of spinach. The dessert of choice? A dense, yet light, flourless chocolate cake that demands, and receives, a dollop of vanilla gelato.

MOJAVE GRILL There was a special soup on tap the night of our visit that intrigued: caramelized onion and potato, punctuated by the freshness of scallions and topped with crisped onions that have been shot through with cayenne. Of all the Scalera concepts, I’ve liked Mojave the best. There’s bolder seasoning and more of a distinctive personality on the plates, particularly on the specials’ roster. This soup crystallizes why?: The onion-potato soup is thick, rich and calls for counterpoint, which it gets in the rawness of the scallions and the heat of the crunchy cayenne’d onions. The signature black bean soup needs its jalapeno spike, as well as the luxurious lime crema, chunks of avocado and chopped, spiced tomato. Extra dimension in a dish is why we eat out, so we can experience what we might not do for ourselves at home. We tend not to make tuna ceviche at home very often, either, which is why Mojave’s faithful snag the chunks of yellowfin made brazen by ginger and pasilla chilies and then soothed by cooling cucumbers and avocado. Tune into the pulled chicken enchiladas and, if you’re in the mood for comfort food, for the ancho mole, red rice and black beans with a swath of cotija cheese and sultry crema. They’re just about as harmonic as a chorus from The Mamas and The Papas. If you’re craving quesadillas, nab the blackened chicken number that comes cosseted with a Monterey Jack-esque cheese and a generous slather of avocado-basil aioli. I wasn’t taken with the yucca-crusted grouper, a nightly special, for the grouper was overcooked, the taste of the yucca not doing a thing for the fish, and the red pepper puree overwhelming. The one-two punch of seared flank steak topped with a vigorous chimichurri hit on all cylinders, though—and it just might make you whip up your own take on the parsley-garlic-hot pepper-vinegar sauce this summer when you’re grilling a flank steak in your backyard.

As I scooped up the last of the spiced walnuts in the orange-and-arugula salad at ISABELLA’S, I sensed an impatience on the part of my dining companion. It took no special powers of deduction for me to realize my pal wanted our bacon- Cheddar meatloaf now. It soon arrived and began to disappear. I managed to score two bites and reasonable enough spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and creamed spinach, both of which benefit from gravy chunky with shallots. You’d think meatloaf is only served in this country when the moon is full on a fourth Tuesday the way some people attack slices of the stuff. There’s no denying the appeal of Isabella’s meatloaf. (Which has a lot to do with an abundance of bacon, I suspect.) While the attack on the meatloaf was taking place, I took advantage of an uninterrupted spell communing with the night’s special ravioli: pasta pockets stuffed with goat cheese and roasted red peppers, then drizzled with a vibrant tomato-pesto sauce. There’s an accord reached on the fettuccine tossed with baby shrimp, corn, sweet peas, sundried tomatoes and mushrooms, all of which is bound by a chipotle-charged cream sauce. This is vintage Scalera and what I think his restaurants do best: Take a bunch of familiar ingredients, a concept that’s not off-putting, then jazz it all up to the level of food you expect when you go out to eat. My wish for Isabella’s? That it would pair a cut of beef other than filet mignon with a crust of peppercorns. That intense coating would work much better with a chewier, heartier flavor, such as strip steak or rib-eye, than it does with a mildmannered filet. But all ends well here with a banana-studded bread pudding streaked with caramel and served with vanilla ice cream. It usually does at Westfield’s trio of winners. EDGE

Editor’s Note: Andy Clurfield is a former editor of Zagat New Jersey. The longtime food critic for the Asbury Park Press also has been published in Gourmet, Saveur and Town & Country, and on epicurious.com.

“This BYOB is crowded from the ring of the dinner bell ‘til last call from the kitchen.”

The Italian Pantry Bistro hits a trifecta of buzzwords for comfort in its name. Italian as a genre is the feel-good food of choice for many. Pantry is where all that good stuff in the kitchen is stored. Bistro signifies a down-home, humble restaurant where local favorites are served. Frank Rizzo, chef-owner of The Italian Pantry Bistro, follows through on all the promises made in the restaurant’s name on his menu—in his cooking and in the attitude set forth in this small, near-Spartan storefront in downtown Cranford. “Comfort” may have become a gastronomic cliché, yet Rizzo and his crew disregard it as a sound-bite and wend their way around its possibilities with confidence and a smack of creativity. All that makes Italian Pantry a fun place to dig in to hearty grub. Which is why this BYOB is crowded from the ring of the dinner bell ’til last call from the kitchen. And why families, kids in tow, can be spotted doing early-shift eating—and couples catching a casual-dress date night knock wineglasses in twosomes and foursomes later on. For all its popularity in Union County, it flies under the radar of many of New Jersey’s restaurant groupies. That might be because it is devoted to the now-rather-passé Comfort Food category. Yet I’d bet a bite of sage-tinged French toast, in full fall regalia with the flavors of poached pear, red onion and a pungent blue cheese sauce, might tempt those trackers of trends. I know the baby-back ribs could stand against anything a destination barbecue shack in the South might be dishing up. You could rack up the clichés describing them—falling off the bone, licked with sauce neither too tart nor too sugared—but the point is the sincerity of the preparation. And, absolutely, the pert, moist, just-shy-of-sturdy cornbread served on the side. You could spend a lot of time wondering why you might never before have come across a sweet potato dumpling. Gently kneaded flour-water dough is plied into myriad shapes and stuffed with all manner of fillings the world over, but the marriage of petite fried turnover and mashed sweet potato is rare. It shouldn’t be. Especially if a swirl of chive oil is used as a spirited accent as it is here. Crunchy calamari with a tomato fondue reads like a signature dish for a restaurant called The Italian Pantry Bistro. But it was the weak link in the opening rounds, with too-tough squid giving off too much frying oil and a dipping sauce that needed to pack more of a spice punch. You’ll expect—and you’ll get—burgers, pizzas and pastas in this hometown-proud spot. But there’s always a twist, or a hint of something extra. It might be a “Buffalo”-style burger paying homage to that city’s famous Anchor Bar wings, slathered as it is with blue cheese. Or a beefy patty that’s another trip to the South, with Tennessee bacon, mushrooms, onions, Cheddar and a slap of that excellent house barbecue sauce. There’s a hint of truffle oil, a substance I usually dread, in the mix, but it’s a background note. Personal-size (jumbo personal-size, that is) pizzas (here, called pizzettas) aren’t the corner takeout kind. We took to the potato-onion-mascarpone pie, loving its charred crust and light-on-the-toppings style. I would’ve liked it even more with a more generous sprinkle of big-flake sea salt. Something to think about. That pizzetta offered a better use of the spud than the potato gnocchi, which weighed heavy in a terrific pumpkin beurre fondue sporting crispy fried sage leaves. That combo of high-fall pumpkin and butter has potential galore. You’ll see another riff on often-tired comfort fare in Rizzo’s chicken pot pie, which is topped with cornbread instead of either pastry or biscuit. It has all the usual suspects within (chicken chunks, mushrooms, peas, carrots) and a soothing gravy to bind it all together. Johnny Blue mussels, however, are anything but predictable. This season, the kitchen’s playing the pumpkin theme big, and it sets the bivalves in a startling sauce of pumpkin dotted with flecks of cranberries. It seems discordant at first, that swash of mildly sweet sauce with mussels, but there’s something funky and fun about the pairing. And the stand-up fries on the side don’t mind the frivolity. You guessed right: There’s a cupcake on the dessert menu. On this night, it’s a mini sweet potato number dressed in toasted marshmallow frosting. It’s fit for Thanksgiving. I had to laugh, eating one, as I imagined Rizzo and his kitchen team devising it as a spoof to all those marshmallow-topped sweet potato casseroles on holiday tables. Less satisfying was a baked apple dumpling that lacked substantial apple presence and seemed to try to compensate with too much walnut-raisin stuffing and a burst of butterscotch sauce. But a well-balanced poached pear crème brulée with a properly crusted top hit its stride, and the high mark for finales. The Italian Pantry Bistro is a neighborhood restaurant with a voice. It’s deliberately modest and humble, like many storefront BYOBs, but it doesn’t run with the pack by playing it safe with familiar dishes. No, instead, Italian Pantry spins comfort in a way that makes it impossible to take the genre for granted. EDGE   

The Italian Pantry Bistro 13 Eastman St., Cranford 908.272.7790 Open from 11:30 a.m. to 9 p.m. Tuesday through Thursday, from 11:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. Friday and Saturday, and from 5 to 9 p.m. Sunday. Closed Mondays. Reservations accepted for Sunday, Tuesday through Thursday only; it’s first-come, first-served on Fridays and Saturdays. All major credit cards accepted. BYOB. Appetizers generally range from $8 to $14, burgers $13 to $14, pizzas from $9 to $14 and pastas $20 and up. Entrees are $22 to $32.

 “Richer took over the old pizza joint in downtown Maplewood in early 2007 and re-made it to suit his dreams and palate.”

Seven forty-five on a Saturday night, and the show is about to begin. Regulars file into the corner storefront at Maplewood and Baker, settling into seats that almost seem assigned. There are nods of recognition, glances over to the fellow in charge, a sense of anticipation in not-sohushed exchanges. Corks pop. Wine glasses are filled and the floor crew at Arturo’s switches into high gear. At the rear of the intimate restaurant, chef/maestro Dan Richer already has warmed up his wood-burning oven by firing dozens and dozens of pizzas for the early-eating crowd. But right now, as the 8 o’clock hour approaches, he’s dispatching cups filled with husked cherries, also known as bush cherries. They’re nutty little fruits that look a bit like miniature tomatillos, but taste like nothing else on the planet. Peel back the papery skins, flick the fruit into your mouth and wonder how you’ll ever again eat another sugared peanut or mushy olive as a prelude to dinner. They’re the ideal starter for Richer’s unique show. It’s dinner theater, this ritualistic Saturday night minuet between chef and diner, a paean to all that’s locally grown and produced and catches the chef’s discerning eye. There’s no formal bill of fare on this night, just a procession of plates served forth with no fanfare and minimal explanation. It’s based on the trust Richer has built up between himself and his diners, folks who have warmed to the distinctive style of both the rustic, no-frills dining space and the man who delivers a spare, yet deeply satisfying dining experience. “Coppa, house-made,” is the way our server describes the next dish. He knows no embellishment is needed to sell diners on the veritable kaleidoscope made from cured pork shoulder and its fat, presented as delicate slices of salumi that appear air-brushed on the platter. Alone, or partnered with crusty, country bread, this coppa is pretty darn perfect. Actually, so is Arturo’s. Richer took over the old pizza joint in downtown Maplewood in early 2007 and re-made it to suit his dreams and palate. Pizzas are now of the modern age – that is to say, they go back in time to ovens fueled by wood, to crusts born of kneading and slow-rise techniques, to toppings that tilt toward Spartan, not extra-anything. A welledited selection of those thin-crust pizzas plus pastas are the order of the night five days a week, with Tuesdays turned over to a scaled-back tasting menu and Saturdays the destination-diner extravaganza. On that night, Richer goes strictly market and microseasonal. It’s completely, obsessively ingredient-driven in a good way. Ask about the olive oil, for instance, and you’ll be brought a bottle of the newest member of the Arturo’s Olive Oil Brigade, an unfiltered number from Puglia whose fruitiness makes already silky-sweet scallops even silkier and sweeter. These scallops are the star of Richer’s crudo, a bowl of dense and rich shellfish bathed in the Puglian oil with needle-thin slivers of French breakfast radish that add color and bite to the raw-fish dish. There are a few twirls of baby greens—so tiny that they probably are better thought of as newborn greens—to add color and contrast, and that’s it. It’s gentle, it’s refined, it’s an exacting example of what this chef is trying to do: simplify, simplify, simplify. That’s his culinary style, and it’s both brave and smart. While others less secure in their métier, less confident of their skills, fuss and add a silly number of frills to a plate, Richer practices the art of the take-away. He pares down a dish to its fundamentals, letting his ingredients assume center stage. A salad of baby arugula, for instance, is accented by thin slices of peaches and flecks of shaved Parmigiano- Reggiano. That’s it. High-season tomatoes, both cheery Sun Golds and beefy San Marzanos, are chopped and set in a glass compote to be served only with a sprinkling of sea salt. The tomatoes’ own juices make it good to the last drop. Tagliolini, a thin-strand pasta, is too fresh, too creamy in taste and texture to need anything more than a handful of teeny cubes of zucchini and a little grated Parmigiano Reggiano. We all but bribed our server to admit to an infusion of cream or butter. No, we were told. Nothing but the fresh pasta, the zucchini, the Parmigiano-Reggiano. That’s what good pasta can do. And a good hunk of pork shank needs but a bed of earthy kale to keep it company. In northern states, it’s such an underappreciated partnership, anything pig and greens. In Richer’s hands, it could be the next big thing in Yankeeland. His whipped ricotta, served with raspberries and what possibly was a mirage of shaved dark chocolate, is precisely what dessert should be: neither overwhelmingly sweet nor baroque in scale. I would’ve had seconds had seconds been offered, however, since I’ve always dreamed of cheese and fruit being transformed into just this kind of finale. I left Arturo’s thinking that either I should 1) move to Maplewood or 2) convince Richer to take his show on the road to my hometown. I’ll further assess these options when I return to Arturo’s for the duck prosciutto, hazelnut-pear salad and pasta with wild boar ragu. For without a doubt, this food needs to be a regular part of my eating life. EDGE

Arturo’s 180 Maplewood Avenue, Maplewood 973.378.5800 Open Sunday through Thursday from 11:30 a.m. to 9 p.m., Fridays and Saturdays from 11:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. Reservations are accepted only for the Tuesday and Saturday night tasting menus—in fact, they are required for those nights. The Tuesday night tasting ($30) begins at 7 and the Saturday night tasting ($48) at 7:45. Pizzas start at $6.50 and go up to $16.50; pastas range in price from $9.95 to $16.95; salads from $7.95 to $10.95; salumi is $7.95 for an individual portion and $15.95 for the daily selection. All major credit cards are accepted. BYOB. Service is cheerful and helpful.

“On this weekend night, folks everywhere are toasting one another. Servers sashay around the dining spaces briskly and purposefully as the evening promises to crescendo every 15 minutes.”

A private room just off the entrance to Boulevard Five72 is set for a large party. Plates, glasses and votives sit pert on a long banquet table. As we’re shown to our “}e21`perch in the L-shaped first-floor dining room, a table for 10 catty-corner from ours is being readied for guests. Before long, on our other side, a few tables are being pushed together by the busy floor crew. I ask a server how many will be in that party. He shrugs and says, “Either 10 or 12. We’ll find out when they get here.” Party Central in Kenilworth. Boulevard Five72 is fit for celebrations and, on this weekend night, folks everywhere are toasting one another. Servers sashay around the dining spaces briskly and purposefully as the evening promises to crescendo every 15 minutes. Everyone and everything is dressed for the occasion. Approach the restaurant, which sits stately on the main thoroughfare that lends its name to Boulevard Five72, and you might think it looks something like a French chateau. Inside, there’s a bit of a French provincial feel to the décor, dominated by shades of beige and wood tones. It’s an appropriately restful backdrop to the constant-motion dining scene. Snag a bottle of wine from the list and settle in. Chef-partner Scott Snyder’s menu is amenable to almost anything you might be in the mood for. I’d suggest going for one of the value-priced red wines from Spain and letting it do-si-do with the fava bean ravioli nestled in a rustic rabbit ragout. It’s the standout dish on the menu of the moment at Boulevard Five72—a partnership of stalwarts from the south of France that have long earned their stripes at the table. Snyder finishes the starter with an ethereal pouf of truffle scented mascarpone that provides yet another flavor bridge from rabbit to fava to pasta. Or you might consider the crab cake, which here comes accompanied by a coarse chop of a salsa, starring chickpeas with a cameo of fruit. The punchline of the appetizer? A flash of sriracha sauce, moderated by avocado. As I ate, I thought there’d be nothing wrong with giving that hot-fun sriracha more of a chance to dance around the plate: Between the sweetness of the crab and the earthiness of the chickpeas, the dish has the foundation to stand up to more heat. Go for it. Shrimp punctuate a chunky corn chowder that benefits from a trio of compelling accents: smoky bacon, celery root and a touch of turnip. It’s a solid soup—one worth exploring all summer long—as Snyder and his kitchen crew riff on the shellfish and switch around the accenting vegetables to stay in season. One vegetable I wish they’d switch out is the red flannel hash that’s made from beets and plated with the grilled salmon. The grainy mustard and pesto-like spinach purée adds spot-on counterpoints to the moist fish, but the root vegetable clashes with the salmon. A basic strip loin, meanwhile, showed the kitchen’s precision, and the rich reduction of red wine swirled on the plate was all the steak needed. But a haystack of onions that looked more frizzled than frittered, as the menu described, proved an amiable companion, so we gobbled it all up. Why not? Steak and onions are a heavenly marriage. As are shellfish and arborio, the basis for Boulevard Five72’s risotto. It’s heavy on the truffle in its lobster broth, which I know draws applause from a multitude of diners impressed by the presence of extreme luxury. I’m a little less drawn to the use of truffle oil than most; I think it overwhelms shellfish, in particular, keeping its unique character in the closet. We added character to our entrées in the form of two sides well worth the supplement. Spanish chips are one of the planet’s most enjoyable foods. Here the thick-cut potato slices are crisp and crunchy and judiciously dusted with pimenton and salt. Good greens are spiced just right—and right for just about any of Boulevard Five72’s entrées. My suggestion re the greens? Serve with a wedge of lemon to give diners the option of adding a little zing as desired. There’s citrus aplenty in the steamed pudding cake, an elegant finale served with a side of blackberry sorbet. An updated strawberry shortcake was underscored by a faint drop of balsamic vinegar and partnered with a creamy, subtle basil gelato. A favorite at my table was the dark chocolate-caramel tart, with its delightful sprinkling of fleur de sel and a cloud of mascarpone mousse offered as a finishing flourish. As we wound down our dinner, servers were gearing up for yet another large-party table. Amid all the activity, you might notice a slight slow-down between appetizers and main courses, and maybe your entrée plates are left to sit a tad too long after you’ve set down knife and fork. But the crew, largely, performs admirably. The crescendos continue at Boulevard Five72. EDGE

Boulevard Five72 572 Boulevard, Kenilworth 908.709.1200 Dining hours: Lunch, from 11:30 a.m. to 3 p.m. Tuesday through Friday; dinner, from 5 to 10 p.m. Monday through Thursday, 5 to 11 p.m. Friday and Saturday, 4 to 8 p.m. Sunday. Brunch is served Sundays from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. All major credit cards accepted. Appetizers range from $14 to $16, with salad and soups in the $9-to-$12 range, entrees $22 to $38 and sides $5 to $7. Desserts are $8.

“Campos can cook. His superior technical skills are made clear through the fine chop of a tartare and the ethereal texture of a near-weightless crepe.”

Lorena’s defines intimate. You enter, through a slip of a passageway, a dining room that seats but 32. Tables are small, space between them is at a premium, but there’s never a feeling of claustrophobia. No, instead a wall of windows swathed in dark sage fabric expands the diminutive space. Large, brightly colored paintings bring joy and festivity to the scene. Not that Lorena’s needs any help infusing happiness into the world. It’s a love story, an ode from chef Humberto Campos, Jr. to Lorena Perez, the woman who inspired the restaurant that has, in spite of its size, anchored a particularly chic stretch of downtown Maplewood for almost five years. The romance of this husband-wife team plays out every night dinner is served, with Lorena gracefully orchestrating the doings of the dining room, while Humberto works a kitchen fitted with fewer accoutrements than offered in most suburban McMansions. This is one of those fairy-tale ending restaurants: Boy meets girl, boy and girl share a dream, boy and girl make the dreams of couples looking to celebrate special nights come true as a matter of course. You’d spend your dinner here sighing under the spell of this story if the food didn’t interrupt your revelry.

And the food is pure pleasure. Campos can cook. His superior technical skills are made clear through the fine chop of a tartare and the ethereal texture of a near-weightless crepe. His ability to let an ingredient strut its stuff is evident in the perfectly cooked simplicity of a piece of cod set against a backdrop of humble lentils. His quiet confidence is on display in an elegant cup of divine, unadorned ice cream. Fuss happens in the selection of those ingredients, in the focus on prep, in the concentration it takes to turn from pan to plate an exquisite composition that never befuddles the diner. All the while Lorena Perez is quietly orbiting the dining room—directing a floor crew that misses not a dropped napkin, a dirtied knife or a subtle cue from a table ready to move on to the next course—Campos is mirroring his wife’s front-of-the-house grace in his compact kitchen. The French-influenced, modern American fare quickly becomes the topic of conversation at the tables. The briskness of sake and the punch of wasabi are almost elusive in a starter of raw Scottish salmon chopped as fine as an infant’s fingernail, then punctuated by pops of tobiko and served with a wisp of crème fraiche and a crisp, fried wonton.

The Far East gets a visit from the Continent, and they reach an accord. Campos gives a similar twist to homemade cavatelli, tossing the pasta with shreds of duck so tender, so inherently rich, that it mimics confit, then adds the crunch of blanched snow peas to the mix along with a sprinkling of sharp sheep’s milk cheese. That crepe may look weak-kneed, but it’s got the strength to hold ample jumbo-lump crab—shellfish so sweet that you understand immediately why the chef sought balance with earthy wild mushrooms. Given a swirl of puréed herbs, the first-course dish charms. The cod made me jealous. Sure, Campos secured an extra thick center cut of the fish. He has at his disposal an amped-up, professional stove that rocks at higher temperatures than mine. He probably doesn’t hold back when doling out butter, either. I’d cooked cod at my home the night before and Campos’s version made me want to enter culinary school at the nursery level. Remedial class. This cod, with its barely cooked interior and lightly seared edges, found soulmates in French lentils, pert and forest green, and an all-luxe parsnip purée. It was a plate composed of nothing but accomplished elements.

Wild-caught Arctic char kept pace. A lot like salmon, a little like trout, char isn’t often seen wild in these parts. Campos treats the rare find right, partnering it with wild rice, zesty and bold pickled red onion, then adds dried fruits as a backdrop. Though it may not remain on the menu as Lorena’s shifts through spring into foods more suitable for warmer weather, the short ribs are a classic to revisit as soon as the temperatures again suit. Resolutely beefy and tender, they’re riddled with caramelized onion, sided by an uber-buttery purée of potatoes and given a shot in the arm by riffs of Roquefort, a potent cheese that actually tamps down the richness of the dish. My friends sniffed when I ordered the bread pudding for dessert. Such a sophisticated, polished restaurant. So much romance in the air. Why go boarding school at a time like this? Because, they soon learned, Campos starts with eggy-yet-airy brioche, moistens it with banana, gives it the kick of peanut butter (of all things), then finishes the very grand finale with maple-licked caramel sauce and vanilla ice cream. There’ll be competition over this one. As well as for the precise warm chocolate cake, a compact disc that wasn’t a smidgen too sweet and took a serious likin g to an accompanying swirl of raspberry purée. I took a liking to the homemade ice creams, and appreciated the sheer correctness of the chocolate ice cream and the intense citrus flavor in the orange sorbet. You don’t need to hit a diner over the head with frills and frou-frou to impress.

Which sums up Lorena’s, where the food and the scene are all heart.

In 1974, when Alice Waters’s Chez Panisse was a toddler, a young chef named DENNIS FOY opened a restaurant some 3,000 miles from the mecca in Berkeley, California that was setting a new standard for dining in America. Located in Meyersville— thought of in those days as west of nowhere—the Tarragon Tree drew people curious about a way of cooking that was ingredient-focused, seasonal, and dependent on the nearest farmers. Technique was critical but, like Waters and her foraged-food menus, Foy couldn’t, and wouldn’t, write his bill of fare until he’d made the rounds of local farms.

Foy’s philosophy remained the same as he moved Tarragon Tree from Meyersville to Chatham, opened Les Delices in Whippany with his brother, John, and crossed the Hudson to Manhattan, where he widened his audience with Mondrian. There were other restaurants: Toto, Townsquare, casual Shore spots in Bay Head and Point Pleasant Beach, as well as EQ and Dennis Foy in New York, both in partnership
with his wife, Estella Quinones. He often shared his kitchen space, as well as his experience and passion for local fare, with novice chefs—who themselves made serious marks on American cuisine, including the top judge of “Top Chef,” Tom Colicchio, and James Beard Award winners Debbie Ponzek and Craig Shelton. Foy also kicked in his two cents as consulting chef on major restaurants in New Jersey.

Now, after heart surgery and recovery, after a successful series of gallery shows that put the chef’s paintings in the spotlight, Foy’s back full-time in New Jersey. He and Estella last fall bought and re-fashioned the former Lawrenceville Inn, christening it Dennis Foy. This year, the chef and painter added another job to his résumé: student. He’s taking classes at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. ANDREA CLURFELD caught up with him between kitchen shifts and classes

EDGE: For those who don’t know you are the granddaddy of modern American food in New Jersey, talk a bit about your early restaurants

DF: In 1974, when we opened Tarragon Tree in Meyersville, there was a farm nearby where we’d get eggs still warm. That’s what we did— go from this farm to that farm. When we moved Tarragon Tree to Chatham, we kept that focus. In 1978, I also did Les Delices with my brother. Tarragon Tree was a precursor, really, to any modern restaurant in America. Out of that, I built other restaurants that helped to change food in America. It was a great time. The people who came to the restaurants and came through the kitchens were some of the biggest names in food. Critics, chefs. A lot of menus today are written the way I started writing menus back in the 1970s, early 1980s.

EDGE: You gave Tom Colicchio, a Jersey boy, his big break.

DF: Tom was my sous chef at Mondrian. I hired him because I knew him, knew his potential. A lot was happening in those days; I was also opening Toto, in Summit. Still doing Tarragon Tree.

EDGE: And you were hiring Debbie Ponzek and Craig Shelton.

DF: Debbie Ponzek [later the Beard Award-winning chef at Montrachet in New York] did a stage at Tarragon Tree. I just
love her. She’s a great talent, a great person, a great chef. She learned everything, worked hard, and deserves every
bit of her success. Debbie will tell you I drilled her. But she learned how to run a kitchen and how to cook. Craig Shelton[former chef-owner of Ryland Inn, Whitehouse, and anotherBeard Award winner] was a gifted, talented chef. Very bright, well-educated. We all were committed to our belief systems and very devoted to doing it right. I have been very fortunate to always have had a great deal of talent around me.

EDGE: Today, the buzzwords in food are local, sustainable and organic. Does that seem old hat to you?

DF: What’s really wild is that I’m returning to my roots— to what I was doing at Tarragon Tree in 1974. Getting eggs warm from the nest. Finding berries in the woods. Having people bring us things—wild things, berries, mushrooms— because they see what we’re doing. We’ve come full circle. So that is nothing new to me. The seasonality of food always has to be second nature; it has to be a natural reaction. It’s funny to remember this now, but back then, the Frelinghuysen’s used to bring me beefsteak tomatoes from their gardens every summer. My customers just did that, back in Meyersville and Chatham.

EDGE: How are you bringing local farms to your table at Dennis Foy in Lawrenceville today?

DF: The new menu literally is designed to be farm-to-table food. We found a guy who has black honey. Great stuff. We showcase it. Right near us are three farms. Two orchards. I feel almost like I’m back in the pool I first dove into in 1974. I source a lot of my produce through Nature’s Reward, the produce market over on Bridge Avenue in Point Pleasant; I’ve worked with them for years, going back to my places in Bay Head and Point Pleasant. It’s the best. I’ll go out of my way to go there.

EDGE: Have farmers become savvier?

DF: I think they have. There are farmers with serious degrees in agriculture and animal husbandry. New Jersey has some of the top growers. I think that if people become more attuned to what’s happening, the concept of the small farm can be reinvented. You don’t need big spreads. Just the right crops. The bottom line is that the farm-to-table concept is good economy—for both sides.

EDGE: How does all this Jersey bounty influence your cooking?

DF: I buy every day. So it’s basic. Keep it simple, keep it color-coded, keep it organic. It’s like the Depression-era mothers who made the most of their gardens

EDGE: So you think this has legs, that there’s a future to local-sustainable-organic—for the home cook and for restaurants?

DF: Absolutely. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how full circle this has come for me. I’m surprised, but not surprised to be realizing that everything old is new again. Look at it this way: If you have your own victory garden, you’re a step ahead. Having that food in your backyard will make you recalibrate your diet in a good way. That could be a big change. Frankly, I don’t think there’s much new that’s going to come down the road for restaurants. Gradual influences, not major changes. It’s great that so many different cultures are coming to America and adding ideas to menus

EDGE: What’s on the menu these days at Dennis Foy?

DF: I’m cooking more simply, but bringing out more flavor in my ingredients. I spent the past year recovering from
heart surgery. I ate fairly well, and I still eat well. But I’m more focused today. I’d love to have, say, two elements on a plate. Two absolutely pristine things. Sea scallops from Point Pleasant with a parsnip cream. Just a touch of a balsamic reduction. That’s it. Pristine, elegant. I’m not doing frou-frou food. I started getting ice cream, the best ice cream, from Jerry Reilly, who runs Halo Farm [in Mercer County]. I taste his ice cream and I’m totally blown away. I’ve been in New Jersey 35 years and I’m still discovering what’s here.

Editor’s Note: Dennis Foy is located at 2691 Main St., Lawrenceville. Telephone: 609. 219. 1900.

“It is Didier now,” says the gentleman in the Hermes tie and dapper suit as he sands, head bowed slightly in our direction, at the foot of our corner table at Chez Catherine. “Not ‘Sir.’ No more. I am Didier.”

Even Didier Jouvenet’s admonishments can flatter. I’ve just addressed him as “Sir” in a quick series of queries at the end of our dinner, and the owner/maitre d’/sommelier of this intimate and pure French restaurant in Westfi eld is insisting on doing away with distance between diner and proprietor. That’s how the old restaurant pros do it, and the veteran of La Grenouille and The Carlyle Hotel in New York is nothing if not the consummate pro. Chez Catherine has been around a long time in its somewhat incongruous home in the bosom of a Best Western motel near the downtown district. But it’s been reinvigorated by the current stewardship of Didier Jouvenet and his wife, Edith. They have secured the services of chef de cuisine C.J. Reycraft to turn out the French classics. There are very few places in New Jersey where brandade de morue and confit of duck and profiteroles are done with textbook care.

If the foamists have their way, or if designer burgers snatch any more menu space—or if yet another Everything-Asian eatery takes hold in a strip mall—restaurants such as Chez Catherine could find themselves on the culinary endangered species list of New Jersey. We shouldn’t let that happen. The Jouvenets and their kitchen crew give us too much reason to let that happen. The dining room may be a touch too pretty-pink, a tad cluttered and close-quartered. Yet the dishes served forth are precise, heartfelt translations of those that once made France the culinary capital of the planet. They merit attention. Brandade de morue, a soul-satisfying mash of housecured salt cod, potatoes and roasted garlic, is given a lick of olive oil to help smooth it on accompanying toasts. If you’ve ever thought fondue was fun, well, Chez Catherine’s brandade offers the same communal dip-in pleasures, with a different and arguably more intriguing base. Risotto, as popular in parts of southern France as it is in northwestern Italy, is given a creamy lift with the addition of mascarpone, which balances the tannic shreds of spinach nicely. Is a shot of truffle oil overkill? Not in the hands of Reycraft, whose deft hand keeps this often-overused condiment in proper check. It’s background here, wisely elusive. But the foie gras is brawny and bold. A hunk of the stuff serves as the centerpiece of a plate with a rash of partners that allow you to enhance the fatty liver in various ways.

There are pert cubes of Grand Marnier gelee, slivers of toasted hazelnuts, a compote of vanilla-laced pineapple and a swirl of pink peppercorn-infused blood orange. No reason to be shy; lap it all up, for all of it works. Skate, splayed gloriously on a wide plate, showed the wing span of an eagle—and the sure hand of a kitchen willing to let an expertly cooked piece of fish stand just about on its own. A little acid from nibs of citrus was all that was needed. Duck confit, plucked from the annals of the classic bistros of southwestern France, didn’t miss either. This is the dish that defines falling-off-the-bone tender, and Chez Catherine’s rendition is the snapshot for a cookery bible. Factor in a scattering of tart, dried cherries for counterpoint, a pile of wild rice for texture and long-braised scallions for sweetness, and you have an air-tight case for respecting tradition. Chez Catherine’s kitchen also knows how to respect lamb. Fat rib-eye chops come cosseted by a chestnut puree and Brussels sprouts—an appropriately (and pleasantly) bitter sideshow to rich meat. The parade of classics doesn’t let up at dessert. How long has it been since you’ve had a proper profiterole? Here, your new best friend, Didier, will pour from a miniature gravy boat a ration of hot chocolate sauce over and around buttery puffs of pastry with an inner prize of vanilla ice cream. The original molten chocolate cake, done to death at chain restaurants everywhere? It’s here in true French fashion, fastidiously made so it tastes of fine dark chocolate, not something insidiously sweet, and served with a scoop of pomegranate ice cream. The best of the finales may have been the lemon tart, with a curd that resonates sour, spooned into a meringue shell and then set astride flecks of Marcona almonds, a thimbleful of lemon verbena-mascarpone sorbet and a flourish of blackberry sorbet. Mon dieu, do the French know balance, or what?

I do wish, however, that the wine list was better balanced. It weighs heavily in favor of the high-priced (way highpriced) standbys, while all but ignoring the highly nuanced, spirited small-producer bottles from the south of France that would sing with Reycraft’s food. If you’re willing to shell out three figures (or four), you can enjoy a solid Burgundy or Bordeaux. But the $60-to-$80 price range is far too thin, lacking in imagination and educational value, for the list to be considered worth a trip. But the food at Chez Catherine is. It makes me hope France’s life at New Jersey’s tables is long lived.

Dress for Dining Success

Gents, Chez Catherine is a place that doesn’t demand jacket and tie, but certainly deserves to be honored by appropriate attire. While a jacket alone will do, the same clothes worn to accomplish household chores will not. Ladies, workout wear is unsuitable here. This is a place where diners should feel inspired to rise to the occasion, even if that occasion is simply dinner out. Clothes worn to mow lawns and shuffle kids to soccer may do you fine at Applebee’s, but not at Chez Catherine. Will you see inappropriately dressed people dining here? Yes. It would be hard to imagine Didier Jouvenet and his crew treating them with any less respect than his properly dressed clients. It’s known as class. Watch and learn.

Editor’s Note: Andy Clurfeld is a former editor of Zagat New Jersey. The longtime food critic for the Asbury Park Press also has been published in Gourmet, Saveur and Town & Country, and on epicurious.com. Don’t miss her Q&A with celebrity chef Dennis Foy on page 40.