PS7's

Hopping almost directly off a plane after a four-day bender (not really, but sounds better) of oyster, clams, and pasta and heading to a Friday-night urban haute-hot-dog-and-pizza picnic, it's impossible to deny how lucky I am (culinarily). Maybe I'm defeatist in promoting a tired theme of my good food fortune, but what else would you call it when an amateur food critic has a bacon-chocolate milk shake less than 24 hours after admirably creamy burrata (besides full up on calcium)?

Dotti, new and old blog fixtures, and I went to PS7's, the 66th best restaurant in the city. After four orbits around the same block (that was me being unable to converse and spot parking spaces), we settled in quickly for a drink. Our waitress was quite possibly the most enthusiastic smiler-nose-schruncher I've ever seen, which put the table at ease.

And, again, why wouldn't I be at ease? The night before, in Boston's North End, I had a whole portion of burrata, a tomato half the size of my head, and butternut squash tortelloni. Plus, my waiter's name was Carmen. I vowed to myself I'd watch the Godfather II and sip chianti this weekend to prolong the memories.














At PS7's, we focused on all the details of the present. We ordered six of the eight appetizers to start. With there being four of us and three appetizer food units per appetizer plate, we ordered to maximize the amount of food each of us could try. In thinking we were ordering three full plates, we actually received two hot dogs instead of two plates of hot dogs, one pork belly banh "mini" sandwich, and one tuna tartare bun. After portioning up our mini-servings, we clarified and began filling the fully round Scarface table with more plates (Carmen's legacy lived on a day longer).

We ordered two flatbreads--exercising some restraint as there were three on the menu--starting with the "nutty goat" flatbread featuring walnut butter, goat gouda cheese, arugula, toasted shallots. Breads--particularly the pizza kind--are great complementary vehicles to gossip over.


We also had the Autumn flavor flatbread: butternut squash puree, spiced pepitas, pickled cranberries, and Virginia ham.


The tuna tartare sandwiches, as they began trickling out, were adorable in their modesty. Each was served with white miso aioli and cucumber-cilantro slaw.


The banh minis, a diminutive play on Vietnamese banh mi sandwiches, were ridiculously tender and flavorful too, even when divided into two extra mini portions.


We kept drinking and food kept arriving. We had a charcuterie plate with reed-like breadsticks with exquisitely and complexly flavored meats.


We finally capitulated and ordered entrees, three of us getting the pork loin, set atop potato salad with pancetta, a side of BBQ peaches, and a fried basil leaf.

It seemed reckless and foolish to order any more, but when the waitress mentioned a dessert with banana, peanut butter, and bacon, rational-decision-making seemed irrelevant and we got “The Elvis.” Cutting into the peanut-encrusted cubes released a wave of melty peanut butter and banana. On the side was a chocolate bacon milkshake. It started off as a hunka hunka burnin' love, but quickly devolved to a bizarre aftertaste. It was worth it, though.

To finish, we had chocolate espresso balls.

One of our party graciously picked up the entire tab, pulling the pay-while-en-route-to-the-little-diner's-room. Thankfully, 24 additional--albeit veggie-ful--opportunities exist to repay the hospitality.