Richard C.'s Profile

I'm done with expectations, the next time I hear great things about a supposed great burger I'm going to ignore it. The problem with mostly eating burgers is that in the case of a higher end restaurant, the burger is a perfect barometer to judge any future meals at the same establishment. Fair or unfair, if they can't properly cook a burger, what hopes do they have to cook any other dish? Served only at the bar, the Bergamot burger is rumored to be a beef blend consisting of marrow and brisket, but it was so salty and cooked so poorly I could have been eating a turkey burger. Ironically, we waited close to an hour for what was promised to be a very thin, medium cooked, and incredibly juicy burger. For such a slim patty, which should have taken mere moments to cook, the wait was far too long, but that's what happens when you're banished to the bar, our backs turned to the rest of the dining room.

The bartender described our burger as being "similar to In-N-Out," and would be one of the juiciest burgers we'd ever have. Quite the build-up, too bad it couldn't deliver. What we (finally) received was a pencil thin patty topped with far too many greens that were beyond overdressed, and all sandwiched between a house-made Milk Bun that easily weighed over a pound on its own. The burger was seemingly rushed, despite us waiting for far too long, it had no sear, no crust and was basically raw in the middle. The only flavors to come through were salt and salad dressing. Yes, salad dressing, as the overdressed greens became an overdressed burger, and a pool of vinegar and oil camped out on the corner of my plate. Juiciness? Not a chance, but greasiness? Absolutely.

The bun is a borderline disaster, I guess I can appreciate the homemade approach, but it tastes like a stale biscuit, and is at least ten times too big for the paltry burger. A tomato-bacon aioli is promised, as is cheese, but neither can stand up to the massive bun, and the oily/salty burger. French Fries are once again in the McDonald's mold, which are very satisfying and well seasoned, if not, once again, very uninspired. Needless to say this burger just didn't do it for me, and for $12 it was completely unremarkable and fairly unpleasant. Another poor burger mixed in with potential chef greatness, although it might be tough to convince me to come back.

As the son of a Polish immigrant, my expectations when it comes to quality pierogi, half-moon shaped stuffed dumplings, are exceptionally high. It doesn't hurt that my girlfriend, who also has Polish roots, makes one hell of a pierogi herself. In order to see if anyone else could perfect this traditional Polish dish, I ventured into Café Polonia in Southie with my father and girlfriend in tow.

This quaint restaurant has an instant hominess to it. That, coupled with the Polish eagle emblem in the back of the space, it makes you feels as if there's an apron-clad grandmother in the kitchen slaving away at the stove. In lieu of butter for your bread, the restaurant sends out a ramekin of bacon fat-- and with that, I knew we were in for a great meal. Then it was time to order the pierogi ($12 for 8), which came with a variety of filling options (potato, cabbage and mushroom, cheese, or meat). You can get them either boiled or fried, and fried is definitely the way to go here.

Comfort food is frequently discussed with a deep connection to childhood or ethnicity. It's the kind of stuff that you grew up with, and for me, this is it. There's something special about the crispy and buttery exterior giving way to a hearty and warm interior. The cabbage and mushroom filled pierogi take on a meatiness that is pleasing and delightful; the cheese pierogi are fresh and creamy, while the potato filling is reminiscent of mashed potatoes. The beauty of the pierogi that no two are alike-- rustic in appearance and each unique in their own way, they are the snowflakes of the food world.

Not wanting to miss anything, we also ordered the Polish Plate ($16), loaded with kielbasa sausage, bigos (a type of stew loaded with cabbage and beef), golabki (cabbage stuffed with rice and pork and smothered in a homemade tomato sauce), and, you guessed it, even more pierogi.  The crackly crisp of the kielbasa is among the best I've ever had, while the golabki is hearty enough to be a meal all on its own.

While the food, especially the pierogi, at Café Polonia is delicious, I think I'm going to skip the trip to Southie to eat the ones that can have in my home, anytime I want. But for those of you who aren't fortunate enough to have a Polish girlfriend or grandmother at the ready, Café Polonia is a great introduction into the stick-to-your-ribs wonders of Polish fare. Even three of the toughest critics of Polish cuisine can agree on that.

Submerged in the depths of Packard's Corner in Allston sits Roast Beast, a relative newcomer on the sandwich scene. At first glance, the concept appears to be a college-friendly schtick, complete with a silly name and an over-the-top logo of a cow holding a roast beef sandwich. But once inside the basement-level spot, you'll find that the marginally awkward space is both cozy and welcoming, with a few chairs are lined up at the counter for dining in (the main focus here is takeout). The staff is friendly and engaging; they genuinely care about their product and it shows--and honestly, they'd better, since the menu is pretty limited to the featured roast beef as well as turkey.

Thankfully, the aforementioned beef is divine--it's succulent, moderately beefy, impeccably fresh tasting, and carefully sliced to ensure that you don't get a thick slab of chewy beef. It's nestled inside a lightly griddled onion roll, and the kiss of the griddle is the perfect counterpoint to the chilled meat. As for the toppings? There's practically every condiment available to please your craving, ranging from the norm (barbecue sauce) to the not-so-norm (ginger wasabi mayo). If you want an extra kick in the pants, try the Thermonuclear sauce--even a sprinkling of this fiery topper will make you yearn for one of the Dumdum lollipops sitting at the counter to cool you off. After much deliberation and complimentary sampling, I opted for the "secret beast" sauce, a smoky, barbecue-laced concoction that is a far improvement from the generic supermarket variety. Finishing it all off is a thick slice of cheese, and I chose a chili-spiced Colby.

The large-sized sandwich ($8; there's also "regular," $6, and "mega," $10) contains a hefty portion of meat. It lies flat, with the beef packed properly to avoid any slippage, and each bite is large but still manageable. All in all, Roast Beast is definitely a one-trick pony; if they didn't do roast beef well, they'd be in trouble. Fortunately, however, they do one hell of a job.

I'm not a big guy; maybe 5'10 with heels (OK, I don't actually wear heels, aside from that one Halloween when I was 12) and a smaller burger gut than I should have by now. And when it comes to taking down massive quantities of food, I'm not much of an all-you-can-eat kind of guy-I always prefer quality over quantity, although it would be nice if the two could overlap. In late August, sports bar/lounge The Joshua Tree in Allston went under a revamp and reemerged as Barley Hall, bringing with it a mammoth three-pound burrito named The Beast. Would quality and quantity unite as one here? I decided to find out.

The three-pounder is described as "overstuffed" on the menu, which is an understatement. I figured though, that if I was going to succumb to this beast, it better culminate in some local notoriety (and not in a heart attack). Sarcasm aside, The Beast is a legit three pounds; they weren't lying. As burritos go its fairly standard, with fillings of black beans, Monterey Jack cheese, Mexican rice, salsa and pico de gallo. Oh, and it's also smothered in a nacho cheese sauce (think Taco Bell, but on steroids).

Ringing at $13, this burrito could easily satisfy three or four people. I, however, was going to eat it alone. My strategy was to eat as quickly as possible, Man vs. Food-style, figuring that the more breaks I took and the slower I ate, the more trouble I'd be in. In between dry bites of flabby chicken and canned beans, some flavor was detectable-mainly from a chipotle vinaigrette that offered enough heat and smokiness to sustain the Cheez Wiz-like sauce that drowned the entire thing. But once I got over the initial burrito hump-which was after the first pound or so-I lost all of my taste buds. I could have been eating anything. The flavors vanished, and it just became a pool of chewy tortilla filled with a mishmash of stuff.

The Beast proved a lofty challenge for a solo consumer. It's one I was able to conquer, I'm happy to report, though it's far from the best burrito I've ever consumed. Hardly an improvement over The Joshua Tree, Barley Hall does its best to impress the masses: in this case, unsuspecting college kids looking for a cheap pint. The food here isn't necessarily the focus, but a better bet than other local options like  Tavern in the Square and Sunset Grill and Tap.

With the addition of new food truck vending spaces everywhere from Bay Village to the Seaport District, truck-side eats seem to be here to stay. Now, you can find everything from lobster rolls to cupcakes to fall-apart ribs from mobile eateries. While well-known trucks like the Clover Food Lab, Roxy's Gourmet Grilled Cheese and Bon Me may be the current darlings of the street food scene, we'd like to throw another contender into the ring: Staff Meal.

Chefs Patrick Gilmartin and Adam Gendreau come from a fine-dining background, having done time everywhere from Bravo at the MFA to Bistro du Midi, but their truck is decidedly bare-bones -- Gilmartin and Gendreau, in fact, look more like the bros you'd find tailgating at a football game than those you'd expect to be dishing up gourmet fare. Their globally-influenced menu is equal parts playful and serious: expect a mix of Asian and Latin flavors, mixed with riffs on American classics like hot dogs or steak and cheese sandwiches.

One of my favorites so far is their "Chinese Sausage in Steamed Bun," a perfect balance of sweet, salty, and sticky -- and for $4, a downright bargain. It's sophisticated "man food," perhaps, but we say that the concept of meat on a bun is universal. The version here is as good as any that you'd find in Chinatown, with the cured sausage filling off-set by an assertive dose of fermented black bean aioli. The steamed bun plays as much of a starring role as the flavor-packed filling; soft and airy, it's the ideal foundation for the street food snack.

Gambling on gourmet food served in a space smaller than a dorm room isn't for everyone. There are no tables here, and there isn't anyone around to refill your water glass. Consistency, I think, is going to be the biggest obstacle for the first onslaught of Boston food trucks. Luckily, Staff Meal is well on their way.

Normally, standard nachos are pretty harmless (despite the brutal heartburn you get after the fact): you expect a bunch of tortilla chips, a mound of melted cheese, some sort of salsa concoction, and globs of sour cream. The newly-opened Parlor Sports in Somerville has their own spin on the staple, which they've called the "Pig Pile." In lieu of tortilla chips, you'll find house-fried kettle chips, which are layered with  heaps of pulled pork, Jack cheese, sour cream, jalapenos and salsa con queso. On paper, this combination should be incredibly successful. This was, however, a dish that I regret eating.

First off, it's a visually unappealing  one-tone beige-y color. I was most looking forward to the pulled pork, which I hoped would taste properly smoky. Instead, it tasted boiled and was gray, bland and chewy. The salsa con queso didn't fare much better. Rather than being a spicy cheese sauce, it was  a thin, mayo-based sauce that didn't taste of salsa or queso. The Jack cheese was scantily applied, and was half-melted and slick with oil.

My approach to the Pig Pile actually proved to be the opposite of most nachos I've had, where the goal is to search out a chip covered in as many toppings as possible. In this instance, I avoided the extras and searched for the plain chips, which were thick, crispy, and salty. I thought the chips would be the toughest thing to get right in this dish -- instead, they proved the most successful component.

In a perfect world, perhaps, the Pig Pile would be a delight: I'm imagining delicately smoked pulled pork, tons of pickled jalapenos, and gooey cheese in every nook and cranny of those kettle chips. In this case, though, I'm not sure that there's enough beer in the world to make this dish palatable.

After paying a visit to Anchovies in the South End, it's easy to see why it's a favorite after-hours haunt for many local chefs. It manages to be both completely unpretentious and uniformly satisfying--the epitome, I would say, of Man Food itself. At a first glance, the space feels like an incredibly dingy bar. Those who don't judge books by their covers, however, will be rewarded with some quality comfort food.

I went for the meatball sub ($8). A sub shop staple, meatball 'wiches are often generic and lackluster, featuring bland, heavy softballs of meat stuffed inside a stale roll that instantly becomes soggy with sub-par marinara. Thankfully, though, that is not the case at Anchovies. Their version contains a generous portion of plump, light, and supremely flavorful meatballs--a blend of beef, pork and veal--that your Italian grandmother wishes she could make. The veal and beef lend a lighter heartiness to the blend, while the dose of pork provides the necessary salt and fat.

The marinara is nothing to dismiss, either, with an ideal balance of sweet, robust tomatoes and fresh herbs. The precise application of sauce is impressive as well--there's just enough to let you know it's there, but it's not overdone as to make the bread saturated and distracting. Crisp and generously salted French fries round out the meal. If anything, the meatball sub is in accordance with everything else at Anchovies; it's familiar, nourishing, and inconspicuous, just the way it should be.

I'm usually a bit ashamed when an unexpected craving for fried chicken strikes; I generally find the stuff to be over-cooked, with the meat offset by a pasty, breaded exterior and accompanied by stodgy biscuits--all in all, not my idea of a delicious meal. Luckily, the chicken at Bon Chon in Allston is a far cry from any sort of Colonel Sanders foolishness. This Korean phenomenon is downright addictive.

On the menu, you'll find multiple options for the cuts and number of pieces of fried poultry available. I go for the wings and drumsticks combo, a ten-piece spectacle accompanied by cubes of pickled daikon and a bowl of coleslaw. The chicken comes in two flavors, soy-garlic and spicy, and I highly recommend ordering a mixture of both for an ideal combination of sweet, savory and mind-numbingly hot.

The breading of the twice-fried chicken is thin and light, creating just the right separation between the skin and the meat. When bitten into, the skin clings to the chicken, so each mouthful contains a perfect ratio of meat and skin, something that's usually a challenge when it comes to mastering fried chicken. The skin itself is ultra-crispy, with the depth of the soy and the pungent garlic carrying through in each delicious bite of the soy-garlic flavor. The spicy version, meanwhile, is not for the faint of heart (though it probably won't get you shipped out in an ambulance); there's a whole lot of chiles dancing on your tongue, and just when you think you can't handle more heat, you suddenly find yourself going back for another piece. The daikon and coleslaw help cool things down and cleanse your palate along the way, however.

While this might be the best fried chicken I've ever had, it does come with a hefty price tag, with the ten-piece platter clocking in around $20. However, it's well worth the expense, as Bon Chon's fried chicken proves worthy of a visit. Leftovers will proudly stay crispy in the fridge for days--though I highly doubt they'll last that long.

Before you even walk through the door at Santarpio's, the smell of smoke, garlic and bubbling cheese will smack you in the face. Once you step inside of the Eastie pizza place, you know the drill: squeeze into a wooden booth with torn leather cushions, and make nice with the waiters who will greet you with more attitude than charm. It's all part of the allure of the place.

Most know the spot for its trademark cornmeal-crusted pizza, but there's another must-get here: the single skewer of lamb ($6.50). Just like the pizza, the skewer is fairly straightforward, and modestly seasoned. What makes it a noteworthy dish, however, is the charcoal flame that it's cooked over, which yields a fantastic smoky flavor.

Five plump and fatty pieces of lamb are piled onto a plate with a couple of hot cherry peppers and a hunk of Italian bread. It's the perfect amount to fill you up halfway (and get your appetite ready for that inevitable pizza). The bread, warm and crusty, seems too hard at first -- but that just makes it perfect for mopping up the juice from the lamb. The meat itself is chewy, but in that same pleasing way as a great rib eye . The best part are those few extra crispy bits on the exterior of the meat, which give you an extra dose of smoke and charcoal to bring a taste of summer to a chilly winter day.

If the lamb had been seasoned a little bit more (it lacked salt) it would be out of this world. But if you can get past the grumpy waiters who may move you to another table mid-meal -- not to mention more wood paneling than anyone should be comfortable with -- then a trip to Santarpio's is still worth it for more than just the pizza.

Check it out!