I am, much to my dismay, a sucker for a good streak.
No
matter how much I tell myself I’m out of the game, I’ll always have to
come back at least once a year to do the damn lists. It’s been 21 years.
I can’t NOT do them.
But before that, let’s throw in a little bonus material for good measure. |
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I’d like to talk about The Ra Ra Room.
(Stick with me. I’m going somewhere with this.)
During
a year when ultrafancy, unusually expensive, über-exclusive restaurants
seized center stage in the Phoenix dining scene, no reservation book
has inspired more arm-twisting, skullduggery and called-in favors than
the one at The Ra Ra Room. Want to have some fun? Get a hold of the GM’s
card and toss it in the air at a restaurant media event. Once they
untangle the bodies, no fewer than half a dozen influencers and
socialites will end up spending the night in the emergency room.
A
savvy PR flack once told me that the secret to owning the Phoenix
dining scene is perceived scarcity. I can’t imagine how he would have
salivated over the opportunity to sell actual scarcity.
This conversation was over a decade ago, but it’s no less true now than
it was then. There are few things Phoenix loves more than a restaurant
nobody can get into, and unless you have $15,000 to drop on an annual
membership or happen to know somebody, you aren’t getting into the
swanky Italian-American supper club hidden deep within the bowels of America West Arena US Airways Center Talking Stick Resort Arena Phoenix Suns Arena Footprint Center PHX Arena Mortgage Matchup Center. |
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I
didn’t even know somebody. I knew somebody who knew somebody. If we’re
playing degrees of separation, I’m just as close to Kevin Bacon as I am
to The Ra Ra Room. (No, really.) But a few months ago, I was surprised
to find myself with an invitation to spend one of the quietest nights of
the year at one of the most coveted tables in town. And that isn’t an
invitation one turns down.
So I didn’t. And what followed was a game of expectations.
I
expected The Ra Ra Room to be good. It’s operated by the
self-aggrandizing Major Food Group, which runs somewhere north of 50
restaurants around the world, but is probably best known for turning
NYC’s Carbone into a kitschy, classy, and Very Expensive international
chain with locations in places like Miami, Vegas, Hong Kong, London and
Riyadh. More impressive, despite achieving the kind of splashy sprawl
that tends to turn great restaurants into soulless corporate cash
machines, critics mostly don’t seem to hate them. The crew can run a
restaurant.
But would it be a good restaurant or a GOOD restaurant?
No
one can say we didn’t get their best shot. We certainly had their
attention, anyway. All of it, in fact. About 20 minutes after we walked
in the door, the only other table in the joint checked out, and the
entire staff was left with nobody other than us to tend to for the rest
of the evening.
Let it be said that there’s something a little intimidating about having a room like this all to yourself:
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But
it sure helps when the folks helping you are a friendly, chill sort.
What isn’t surprising is that the staff is great and the place is a
hoot. A retro supper club with grand chandeliers and floral arrangements
the size of privacy hedges in the basement of a concrete sports arena
already feels like a wrinkle in spacetime, so a chatty, down-to-earth
staff keeps it from feeling like New Year’s Eve at the Overlook.
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It’s
perhaps worth noting that the $15,000 you plunk down for membership is
little more than a (very) generously greased palm that gets you in the
door. You pay for your (expensive) food. You pay for your (expensive)
drinks. You pay tax and — unless you’re an insufferable asshole — tip on
that food and those drinks. In fact, as far as I can tell, the only
tangible goods you receive in exchange for your $15,000 is a crack at
the candy room on the way out the door, where you can grab a soda and a
bag of popcorn and a box of Goobers to snack on while you watch the
game. (Come to think of it, at NBA concession prices, that $15,000
spread across 41 home games might be a bargain.)
To be fair, the menu prices, while expensive, aren’t wildly extortionate. Heck, the $42 martini at the recently revamped Durant’s
somehow makes The Ra Ra Room’s $22 specimen look like chump change. But
fear not. Half the menu’s entrees are either in the triple digits or
within striking distance, so you can easily drop a couple hundo per head
by the time you’re done, or enjoy a $33 cheeseburger if you’re on a
budget. (Yes, that was sarcasm.)
Those
who’ve endured my rants for the past few years know it isn’t so much
the price tag that gets me. This is what it costs to run a fancypants
restaurant these days. But if you’re going to charge me top dollar, I
expect a top flight meal, and that’s where things sometimes get sticky.
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Fried
calamari is dynamite — crispy, tender rings canoodling with giant
chunks of battered and fried chile peppers, all socked with a perky mix
of seasoning and a slick chile beurre blanc for dipping. The tableside
Caesar is all I want from a performative salad, crisp greens in a thick
and sticky dressing with monstrous croutons and an avalanche of Parmesan
snow. Six little pigs in a blanket — served with mustard and Russian
dressing for dipping — are exactly what they are, exactly what you
expect, and comically priced at $25. That same $25 can also get you a
shrimp cocktail, though I’d recommend sticking with the piggies. The
shrimp are plump but swimming in a bathtub of sauce that tastes less
like cocktail sauce and more like unseasoned marinara, and the distinct
lack of punch is a bizarre miss on a menu that trades in attitude. |
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I’m
not sure shrimp scampi needed to be fancied up — butterflied and bathed
in butter with a modest hint of garlic, in contrast to the sizzling
stink bombs of checkerboard tablecloth fame. I understand the play for a
bit of elegance and refinement, but it mostly feels like the dish left
its personality at home. And the Roman artichokes are a flavorless face
plant that any Roman worth his salt would immediately send back to the
kitchen.
No
such worries with Mario’s Meatballs. Baseball-sized, coarsely ground
and sporting a hefty shot of heavily seasoned sausage, they’re a
muscular, scrappy sort that punch like Jake LaMotta. If ours hadn’t been
nearly raw at the core, they’d have been perfect. No technical issues
with the veal parmigiana, however, which was just about the Platonic
ideal of the form — a tender and crisply breaded chop the size and shape
of the Millennium Falcon, doused with marinara and cheese and a bit of
crisp fried basil to gild the lily. And Carbone’s signature spicy
rigatoni vodka might’ve been a little on the soft side for my tastes,
but the sauce packs a punch, and I’m throwing no shade when I say I’d
swear there’s some kind of processed cheese in there. The sauce has a
kind of telltale sticky richness that is very un-Italian and entirely
welcome. I’d love to see what goes into it. |
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Churros
are surprisingly great and an ice cream sundae is an ice cream sundae,
and after a few drinks, our quartet walks out the door having dropped
close to $800.
Will I go again? I can’t. Would I
go again? Sure, I guess. I get awfully sore about that many botched
dishes at $200/head, but it’s a fun joint and the dishes that hit would
be enough to bring me back, if only on rare occasion and only if I felt
it could be more consistent on a night that wasn’t so weirdly quiet. But
even if you could get in, I don’t know that I’d be in a hurry to
recommend it, exactly. What’s good is undeniably good. I’m still
thinking about that veal parmesan. But like so many of its fancy,
expensive new contemporaries, “good” isn’t good enough at that price
point. You probably didn’t need me to tell you this, but The Ra Ra
Room’s primary value is not as a culinary destination, but as a status
symbol.
Which brings us to what I really want to talk about. |
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What the hell are we doing, people?
I
moved to Phoenix in 2010, and from an artistry standpoint, I think 2025
is the most depressing year I’ve ever witnessed on the Phoenix
restaurant scene, and I include 2020 in that calculation.
2025
is the year that everything in Phoenix got big, dumb and expensive. How
in the everloving fuck did $300 caviar bumps become a white hot menu
item the same year most people can barely afford groceries? Are y’all
just pining for the guillotine over there in
Scottsdale? I have never seen so much capital thrown at so many
restaurants with opulent dining rooms and unambitious, mediocre menus
that are still somehow jam-packed with people who seem to have infinite
money to spend and no taste to guide that spending. Lord knows I’m not
anti-fine dining by any stretch of the imagination, but most of these
places aren’t fine dining. They’re parties with gilded snacks. They’re
shiny excuses for PV scenesters with no palates to drop coin. If you set
aside the private club schtick, The Ra Ra Room — with its elegant
atmosphere and hit-and-miss menu — is actually one of the best of these
new additions. But most of them are just straight-up sucker bets. It’s
like the K-shaped economy and influencer culture have joined forces to
bring us the worst of both worlds — poorly executed food and sky-high prices.
Worse,
the middle class of the restaurant world — much like the middle class
of America — is being eaten alive. The fiery, creative indies and
comforting Mom and Pop joints that make up the heart and soul of any
good dining scene are dying. Closures don’t seem to be markedly higher
than previous years, but meaningful openings have slowed to a trickle
and half of the places that are hanging on might as well be dead. The
number of times I’ve walked into an old stalwart this year only to have a
really disappointing meal at 150% of the price is downright depressing.
And no wonder. Most folks can no longer afford them, and the folks who
can would apparently rather down some $40 martinis and a $250 tomahawk
and call it a night. I’d have a hard time putting my best out there day
after day under those circumstances, too.
Meanwhile,
social media is stacked floor to ceiling with casual diners complaining
that their favorite fast food chain isn’t as good as it used to be,
while conveniently continuing to ignore the dynamite immigrant
restaurants that are now the same price or cheaper than their value
meal. They used to tell me they didn’t go to the restaurants I
recommended because the extra $3-4 was too expensive. Turns out the
truth is that they just prefer fast food.
It
was big news a couple of weeks ago when Michelin announced they’d be
covering Phoenix for the first time ever. Popular sentiment seems to be
that the Valley is finally going to get the recognition it deserves.
Folks, real talk here, if you’re among those who are looking forward to
watching Michelin stars light up Phoenix like a Christmas tree, I would
strongly advise you to start moderating your expectations now. We’ll see
what happens, and I hope I’m wrong, but my suspicion is that a lot of
people are going to be very, very disappointed.
Believe
you me, I would much prefer to write an unbridled celebration
of a gloriously delicious year gone by, but when I think back on
2025 in the Phoenix dining scene, things are bleak, you guys.
Celebrations over the well-deserved back-to-back James Beard wins for
Bacanora and Lom Wong have obscured the fact that there’s nobody on the
bench ready to tag in. The talent is there. Phoenix has always been home
to some tremendously talented chefs, and that hasn’t suddenly changed.
(Though the number that have understandably ditched the line to
cook private dinners, staff call centers and protect desert tortoises
have thinned the ranks a bit.) But even folks who I *know* are capable
of doing tremendous work are fighting just to keep their shit together.
Which isn’t to say that everything is crap — see below — but if a city’s
restaurant scene is an ecosystem, this ecosystem is breaking down.
Between fast food's hegemony, caviar chic and the public's baffling
decision to get their restaurant recommendations directly from
advertisers poorly disguised as citizen journalists, big money is
devouring everything else in the pond. And for the first time
in 15 years, I feel completely powerless to do anything about it.
So
I'm cocooning. Where Phoenix is concerned, I’m going back to where I
first started circa 2004: writing for myself whenever I feel like
it and never when I don’t. Anybody else is welcome to read along.
And there is nothing I write more for myself than the yearly deliciousness. |
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The Deliciousness of 2025 |
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The deliciousness, it confounds me to say, has officially entered its third decade.
This
is the twenty-first year that I have compiled a detailed list of my
favorite bites of the year, and the same rules as always apply.
These
are not necessarily the best dishes I had this year, nor the most
creative, nor the most interesting, nor the most technically proficient,
nor the most unique, though any or all of the above might be true. They
are, quite simply, the dishes that have jammed themselves deep in my
cortex and that I feel fortunate to have experienced for the first time
over the course of the year.
And so, without further ado, presented — per tradition — in order determined by random.org, the Deliciousness of 2025: |
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This
edition of Something to Doux has been nice and uplifting, so why spoil
the mood? Sadly, my memory of Stephen Jones’ pastrami pork jowl has
lasted longer than the third iteration of his restaurant. Look, I know
my penchant for pork fat — particularly the cheeks — might be showing
here, but this bite was so freaking good. Huge fat, silky texture, a
pungent but gorgeously balanced pastrami spice, splashed with 1000
island jus and rye mustard mixed with a bit of mirepoix that
displayed some brilliant knifework, and a grounding little dab of sweet
parsnip puree. It was all the succulence and spice of a killer pastrami
sandwich distilled down into one incredibly potent bite. |
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Ma Po Tofu with Pork Clay Pot |
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The
Deliciousness generally only includes dishes I try for the first time,
but I’m making an exception for the ma po tofu at Old Town Taste because
this is NOT the dish they were serving a
couple of years ago when I last had it. OTT has been on fire lately, but
that goes triply for this dish, one of the best iterations of ma po
tofu I’ve had the pleasure of sampling. Ma Po Tofu is like an Italian
Sunday gravy — a very pure, personal expression of the cook, and there
are as many versions out there as there are cooks who make it. This
one spoke to me, thick and rich, heavy on the
pork, sporting a nice mala buzz but deeply layered with ginger and
fermented black bean. This is comfort food right here. |
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When I talk about old stalwart restaurants that have lost their luster, I am quite emphatically not
speaking about Hush Public House. Dom Ruggiero’s OG joint has had a few
ups and downs over the years, same as anybody, but right now they’re
slaying at peak efficiency, which is a marked and welcome contrast to
what I see happening around town. Case in point? The schnitzel.
Beautifully seasoned, delicate crumb encasing a juicy slab of pork
sauced with a concoction of demi, mustard, onions and — if I’m correct —
minced cornichon, with a little frisee salad and apple butter to cut
the richness. It ain’t rocket science, baby. It’s execution. |
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Ho-hum, Charleen works wonders with vegetables... again. I’m
genuinely unsure whether she’s picking up the national trend or setting
it in this case, but I’m never going to say no to caraflex, tender and
sweet with a bit of char. (And a bit of Char.) Whipped, creamy goat
cheese and marinated chickpeas are a natural pair, but to me the stroke
of genius here is the salami chips — salty and tart and so crisp they
shatter, adding the perfect little exclamation point to the whole
situation.
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Sunny
and Alex, once again answering calls in the wish fulfillment
department. First they opened the Thai restaurant I’d been dreaming
about for a decade. Then, at long last, they added my personal favorite
Thai dish to the menu. Naem Khao Tawt is a bright and pungent salad
built on sour fermented pork sausage and curried rice croquettes that
are fried to a crisp and shattered into crunchy little pieces. As wild
as the flavors are, the textures are even wilder, and I think the note
in my spreadsheet pretty much says it all: “LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE.” |
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Okay,
look, I know I’m at least a decade late to the party here, but the Year
of Our Lord Twenty Twenty-Five is when I finally had a chance to try
pickled fries, and it happened to be at Shift, and they were so good we
ordered a second round for dessert. If you are somehow even further
behind the curve on this than I am, they’re exactly what they sound like
— potatoes that have been saturated with pickle brine for a couple of
days before hitting hot oil, resulting in crispy fries that boast a tart
pickle pucker. It is probably for the best that these are a two-hour
drive away. |
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Burger
and fries are a little on the nose, I know, but look... La Hamburguesa
lives up to the hype. I’ve not yet had the pleasure of visiting the
truck, but I did manage to catch a pop-up at Chilte that featured this
slick little monster — two wagyu smash patties plied with the requisite
veg, melted onions and truffle aioli. A friend once insisted that we
have solved the cheeseburger. He said there are no more mysteries left
to unlock, and for anyone who wants to make an outstanding cheeseburger,
the information is all out there and readily accessible. Generally, I’d
agree. But a specimen like this makes me think that maaaaaaaaaybe we
haven’t *quite* reached Peak Burger just yet. |
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This
is the kind of dish that seems a little bizarre until you remember that
— oh yeah! — Italy colonized Ethiopia for five years in the 1930s.
Effectively lamb mandi with spaghetti in place of the rice, this dish is
so perfect. The meat is juicy and gamey and sizzled to a crisp, the
pasta sauce is a tomato base but with some funky East African spices
going on, the yogurt adds a little bit of cooling contrast, and even the
spaghetti itself is actually cooked al dente. The only thing I don’t
love about this dish is that they have inexplicably stopped serving it, saying they don’t have any spaghetti on my last few visits. If this keeps up, I’m going to start bringing a box with me. |
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I
wish I could say the rest of my meal at Amelia’s was up to the same
standard, but this machaca burrito was a knockout. Stuffed with
scrambled eggs, pico, potatoes and cheese, it nailed the machaca texture
test, nice and dry and chewy rather than rehydrated mush. That’s a damn
fine tortilla to boot, and the green poblano sauce — whoa man, this
stuff is intense, creamy and rich with fresh green chile flavor that
drops like a hammer. The menu will say the poblano sauce is optional,
but it is very, very much mandatory. |
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Hatch Chile Chopped Cheese |
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It’s
a weirdly meaty deliciousness this year, isn’t it? (Ah, just wait for
the distant deliciousness.) Though it’s going to hurt him a bit to hear
me say this, since from a business standpoint he’d really rather you
come in to buy some meat, Dustin Dahlin’s sandwiches at Underbelly are
some of the best in town. Chopped cheese seems to be having a moment,
and while I don’t want to call this version “elevated,” exactly, let’s
just say that it brings a level of quality and care and insane, goopy,
beefy intensity that’s a whole lot more exacting than your standard
issue corner bodega sandwich. Of all the meaty sandwiches I had at
Underbelly this year — and I had quite a few — this was probably my
favorite. |
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Distant Deliciousness of 2025 |
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I
spent a lot of time traveling in 2025. A lot. So in a mild break with
tradition, I’m going to expand the distant deliciousness to ten dishes
this year. In truth, I could’ve easily picked twenty. |
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Yes,
this is that fish. And yes, this is that part of that fish — the part
translated as “milt” or “sperm,” but more accurately a reproductive
organ that...... you know what? In my experience, either you’re in or
you’re out, and no amount of explanation is going to change that. I am
emphatically *IN*. This was so wonderful. First grilled over coals, then
paired with steamed lotus root, loaded into a hollowed-out yuzu and
warmed again over the fire, resulting in a creamy, smoky mix with a
citrusy scent that was rich and gentle and so flipping delicious. |
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I
am a little embarrassed that my favorite dish at one of the most famous
soba restaurants in Tokyo was a smear of miso. That’s it. Sweet white
miso mixed with a small amount of minced veg and green onion, spread on a
metal plate and charred. And it was a revelation. The depth of flavors,
the contrast of the sweetness and char, the crazy wild textures going
on not just with the veg but within the miso itself. It’s one thing to
know that there are all kids of crazy specialized artisanal miso out
there. It’s another to really dig into the depths of one of them as it
shares the spotlight with nothing. Wow. |
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That
dumb little piece of freshwater eel contained so much joy. The dips are
a bit of sansho, salt, and wasabi. That’s not what made it special. And
the meat and the glaze were what you would expect from a first-rate
sushi restaurant, but that’s not what made it special. What made it
special was what made the gentleman from Argentina on my left exclaim,
“CHICHARRONES!” when Endou-san cut into it and it let out a resounding
CRUNCH. The skin on this thing was incredible — a little fatty, a little
smoky, and impossibly crisp, like a thinner version of the best damn
pork rind of your life. Bonus: Led to a great discussion with the chef
about the difference between “crispy” and “crunchy.” |
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Dinner
at the yakiniku temples of Tokyo are endless parades of premium beef,
and ordinarily I’d say choosing a favorite is a fool’s quest, but this
meal was an exception. I know precisely which piece of beef was
my favorite. It was the one briefly swished in a sweet soy broth,
transferred to a bowl with egg yolk and a stupid amount of killer black
truffle, and then whisked until the yolk was frothy and the truffle
surrendered every last bit of its essence. I have had VERY few truffles
in my life that were this good, and I’ll remember this one for a good
long while. |
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Y’all
know how desperately I fight to avoid using the word “best,” but
suffice it to say that this Osaka-style okonomiyaki is now the yardstick
by which I measure all others. You know what the secret is, apparently?
Time. Nooooo rush. The fellas at Imari spread out the batter-soaked
cabbage on the teppan and let that cook for a good long while. Then they
add noodles, flip it, and let it sit even longer. Then they drape it
with thinly sliced bacon, flip it again, and let it sit even longer. By
the time they baste it with okonomiyaki sauce and mayonnaise and slide
it over to your seat, it has spent no less than 20 minutes on the
flattop, slowly warming and crisping, the cabbage gently melting, the
noodles turning dark golden and crunchy, the bacon becoming a thin,
impossibly crisp layer that runs through the whole thing. Time and
patience. |
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Smelt and Lily Root Nanbanzuke |
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I’ve
always had a soft spot for nanbanzuke, in no small part because it
reminds me of my beloved Venetian sarde in saor. But this Shibuya
izakaya served up a spin on the dish that slayed me. Their fish of
choice was a little school of smelt, battered and fried and edible head
to tail, paired with nutty lily buds and marinated in a sweet vinegar
just a little bit spicy and so light and smooth that I was tempted to
pick it up and drink it down before surrendering the plate to the dish
pit. |
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Can we please
get another Malaysian restaurant here in Phoenix ASAP? Man, dinner at
Mambow in London was one banger after another after another. And picking
a favorite is basically impossible, but I’ll go with the hogget rump,
in no small part because it is easily the most fun dish to say. Hogget,
for the uninitiated, is somewhere between lamb and mutton, a little
mature and gamey but not quite so aggressive as the elder meat. And this
meat was so juicy and perfectly grilled that that alone would have
earned it a spot on my list, but add a splash of ghee and set it on a
deep and complex Malaysian curry and I’m smitten. |
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Special Scallop and Kelp Water Tsukemen |
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I
had to line up at 8:20 AM, get a ticket at 9:00, return at 1:00, wait
in line until 1:20, buy my noodle ticket, get back in line again, and
finally sit down to eat around 1:35. And it was SO worth it. This isn’t a
favorite for the year. This is a favorite for the decade. I am simply
blown away by this tsukemen — thick, chewy noodles served in a viscous,
almost slimy kelp water with a rich but subtle umami base that tastes
faintly of the sea. Hell, I’d eat them on their own, but first you can
try them with a little bit of salt or yuzu juice. Then you can try them
with a chunk of scallop sashimi. Then you can dip them in a complex
scallop-based seafood broth and slurp and slurp and slurp until they’re
all gone and you’re tempted to get right back in line again. Mind blown. |
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“Capelli
di Mago” translates to Magician’s Hat — one of the more colorful pasta
names — and there is, indeed, some kind of sorcery going on here. They
don’t look like much, but holy crap, the flavor in these explosive
little morsels. Perfect fresh pasta with killer bite wrapped around a
mix of ground rabbit, polenta and foie gras, sauced with a chicken stock
reduction infused with a little orange zest to poke right through that
richness, and I’m just floored. One of the most mature, thoughtful and
precise pasta dishes I’ve had in a long time. |
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In
contrast with more formalized kaiseki cuisine, kappo ryori tends to be a
more casual, creative affair where interaction with the chef as they
cook your meal is an integral part of the experience. And when chef is a
bit of a creative goofball, you get gems like this — crispy
tempura-fried sweetfish with a little Western flair, topped with caviar
and set in a fresh yogurt sauce with cucumber, tomato and dill. A bit of
Japan, a bit of Greece, and a bit of good ol’ fine dining decadence,
all coming together to make one hell of a bite. |
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And yeah, 15 (or 20) is never enough. Here are ten more, split between Arizona and Beyond Arizona. |
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Dogenzaka Mammoth — Tokyo
Yeah, they aren’t kidding. The dipping soup is impossibly rich, deep and
porky and easy to get lost in. But the star is those thick, angular
whole-wheat noodles with incredible bite and flavor. |
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Ginger-Lemongrass Branzino |
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Chula Seafood Greyhawk
Another Kyle Kent feature that made me swoon — crisp whole branzino in a
fragrant turmeric batter with lentils and squash, a stupid rich red
curry coconut cream, and a pile of fresh herbs and aromatics you
could smell across the room. |
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Japanese Spice Curry Wacca — Tokyo
My love for classic Japanese curry roux is not diminished, but man, they
are doing some wild things with curry over there these days, including
this fragrant, lush, bright green curry loaded to the brim with fresh
vegetables. |
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Akira Sushi — Tokyo
My
first crack at kawahagi — a hyperseasonal whitefish that’s mild and
sweet and clean, dressed with shredded negi and topped with a bit of the
fish’s liver, that played almost like a mix of whipped cream and foie
gras. Mindbending. |
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Double Zero Pie & Pub — Las Vegas
Truffle
that doesn’t suck is reason enough to love it, but this is some
seriously stellar bread, stuffed with cheese and honey and so over the
top good that I don’t even care about the twee presentation. |
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First & Last
THANK
you. Not enough rabbit served in this town. Or in this country, for
that matter. And I really dug this rendition, delicate saddle meat
wrapped in guanciale and served with a light rabbit demi and simply
dressed greens. An understated delight. |
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MB Foodhouse
I
am beyond frustrated that Kristen Martinez’s run of bad luck has had
her relocating all over town, because it has made it VERY DIFFICULT for
me to get a hold of this slurpy delicious mix of carnitas, eggs and
cheese that I’m desperate to try again. |
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The Stone Korean Tofu House
I
was already a naeng myun junkie (a staple of my Cold Noodle Summer
regimen), but this version with just enough fermented baby radish kimchi
to stain the broth emerged as my go-to hot weather dish. |
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Casa Playa
Yeah, it’s a trendy strip restaurant, but Sarah Thompson is doing
incredible things at Casa Playa, including this dynamite squash tamal
smothered with a sparkling mole verde and topped with the fresh, spicy
bite of Thai basil. |
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Hillstone
I’m
a little mad at myself for including this one, but if I’m being honest,
these were the best damn crab cakes I’ve had since leaving Baltimore —
stupid simple, killer product, drowning in salty butter with a light and
delicate crust. Done. |
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And, at long last, it is time once again for the only year-end list that matters.
The
rules are as always: food band names must be phrases that are naturally
uttered in the course of conversation while discussing food in my
presence during the course of the year.
And so, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Food Band Names of 2025: |
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Astute
observers may notice that I’m spending an awful lot of time in Japan
lately. That is no accident, and yes, I have something brewing. Not
ready to blow the top off just yet, but I’m shooting for a public
unveiling this summer with a launch by the end of the year. Whenever it
happens, you’ll hear about it here.
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In
the meantime, no promises, but we’ll see if I can manage a newsletter
or two in between the travel madness. I am, as you may surmise, deeply
soured on the local scene these days, but there are always little gems
to unearth and I still — despite my best efforts to absolve myself —
feel a responsibility to help unearth them.
Doin’ my best. Y’all keep doing the same.
Thanks as always for the support. |
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