With jaunty thumbs-up, that’s Peter’s salient review of Aces (36th Ave. between 32nd and 33rd Sts), Astoria’s new(ish) styley restaurant. I’m just getting that joke out of the way right at the start, so we can move on to more important things.
Like drinks!
I said in an earlier post that Miguel makes a mean mojito. This time I ordered one, and then thought I should try something else, but while I was mulling, he mentioned he was doing a passionfruit mojito. I loves me some passionfruit, but I still said nah, and ordered an old-fashioned, for variety. Minutes later, in swoops my drink. “I did something special to it,” says Miguel. I managed a weak, dishonest smile. This always seems to spell disaster.
But no! He’d muddled a little passionfruit in my drink. And he’d used Peychaud’s bitters. Daaaaang, it was good. So good, in fact, I didn’t even realize till I was typing this that there was no maraschino cherry in it–and that cherry is half the reason I order an old-fashioned.
“My companion” (uh, Peter) and I proceeded to order a tasty endive-and-arugula salad, very tastefully dressed in something creamy and garnished with pecans and avocado–a great combo of crispy-crunchy and supa-smooth. Butternut squash soup had a nice dollop of brown butter and little bits of apple on top.
“Would it be bad if I just ordered a burger?” Peter wondered. As it turned out, not bad in the least. Because that burger (for only $8!) was, as he said, “the best piece of chopped sirloin” he’d ever had–not the best burger, mind you, because in Peter’s mind, that requires char-broiling, which was not the case here. It was, nonetheless, crazy succulent and oozing medium-rare-ness, just as ordered, and served on a little English muffin that was almost comically smaller than the big slab o’ meat itself. Thickish-cut fries came on the side.
I went a little more highbrow, with the short ribs, and they were good, though Peter dubbed it “70s beef,” by which I think he means not rare in the least. Which, of course, your short ribs would never be, so never mind. These were done in a nice peppery, rich mole sauce that coated the beef but didn’t smother it. (Mole, huitlacoche, nopales–all these nice little Mexican details show up in a handful of dishes, but don’t dominate the menu.) But I got even more satisfaction out of my side of roasted carrots and parsnips–I fucking love parsnips, and these were almost candy-like. The sauteed spinach was great too. Aces has some really good produce purveyors, it seems.
To wrap up, we had a couple glasses of tasty red wine, and then we had a very buttery apple tart for dessert.
That’s the obligatory meal description. Now let’s talk about the bigger picture: Astoria needs Aces, and it had better not fail because people don’t walk down to this unfashionable edge of barely-Astoria (where I’ve lived twice during my nine years here, thank you very much), or because they think $18 is too much to pay for an entree “in Queens.” Fuck that. If you want good food, you should have good food, and be willing to pay for it wherever you are. (Or, if you’re really on a budget, order the burger.)
It was interesting to examine Aces and try to figure out why it’s different from, say, Li’l Bistro 33, 718, the Brick, or even that French bistro on Broadway that is no more. All of these places have/had their merits (um, except 718–talk about fucking up an old-fashioned), and none of them are quite right. The French bistro seemed the closest to offering genuine, soulfully cooked food, though I had that unfortunate incident with my lost duck. Li’l Bistro 33 had a nice mom-and-pop feel (when the owners weren’t bitching out the staff, v. v. audibly), but the food was way too fussy, and the wine list was execrable (Gato Negro?! Really?). 718 not only fucked up my drink and dropped a fly on my pizza, but it has absurdly pretentious dinnerware. The Brick may do grilled sardines, but it also seems to cater to a certain guys-in-tracksuits clientele.
Maybe this is the larger issue with Astoria restos of the “bistro” category: They’re trying to serve both Astorian “hipsters” (for want of a better word) and the Queens glitterati, which appreciates things like valet parking. It worries me that the one place that didn’t, the French place, has closed. And at this point, if a gorgeous little Brooklyn-style modern bistro sprang up, I’d also be skeptical of that–it doesn’t quite belong here. I want grassroots, and I want food cooked with care. I shouldn’t complain, because we have Kabab Cafe, but sometimes I want a little variety.
But maybe I’m over-analyzing. Maybe it’s really all about the drinks. I can’t tell you how a really solid cocktail–one that doesn’t involve Earl Grey infusions or rose petals or -tini tacked on the end–can inspire hope in my bosom that the food I’m about to eat will also be honest, gimmick-free and really, really cooked with flavor, not appearance, in mind. A good drink can override some other details that otherwise would cause me to worry: odd use of quotation marks on the menu (I think that’s just my problem), a borderline-trying-to-be-loungey-cool soundtrack (only at first, though–later we got the Arabic version of “Shaft”!), a not-quite-there back waiter.
Or maybe it just gets me drunk, and that much less critical. Still, I came away from that dinner with no misgivings, no “pretty good, for Queens” feeling. I came away full and happy and wishing those guys the best with their new project. When you stop in, look for me–I’ll be propping up the bar.
[UPDATE: Peter went in yesterday, a Monday, only to find out there were no cocktails, because it was Miguel’s night off. Peter was impressed that they didn’t attempt to make him what would likely be a bad cocktail, but still disappointed. So, maybe Monday isn’t the best night for boozing at Aces. Ooh, also he ordered the tres leches cake for dessert–straight out of a Mexican bakery, complete with that fluffy, glossy frosting. Mmmmm.]
But it won’t be. Why couldn’t they pick this one, with a big mushroom cloud? Birthplace of the Atomic Bomb–how’s that for ass-kicking? Maybe now’s the time to take up counterfeiting. Does it even count as a felony if my quarter isn’t an exact imitation of existing money?
I discovered this not through Portales’s excellent marketing machine, but through my own research, when a friend in high school went there for college. Frankly, I’d barely even heard of Portales. This visit in December was the second in my entire life, and during that trip I learned that while Portales produces less than 10 percent of the nation’s peanut crop, it produces the large majority of its Valencia peanuts. These little guys are known for their exceptional flavor, and their lovely red skins.
Finally, you’ll want to bone up on 
A banh mi is meant to be gulped down while standing on a sidewalk, hunkered against the wind on a park bench, or crouched on a rickety seat in front of a jewelry display counter (if you’re at Banh Mi Saigon). It’s easier to be outside, because then you don’t have to worry about the crumbs flying everywhere. (If you aren’t banh-mi-savvy yet, read up at 
In retrospect, this caramel business didn’t seem so essential, because all Peter did was mix up the pork and the five-spice, pour on the caramel sauce and stick the thing in the broiler–then every few minutes, pull it out, stir out around, and let it recaramelize. He admitted to pouring on lots more sugar in the process. It took a while to get really tasty. And it really was not like Banh Mi Saigon’s. But it tasted great–more like a snack food than anything.
The daikon and carrot and cuke had been sitting in their little pickling juices for a bit, so he laid those on, then some cilantro sprigs and slices of green chili. (“Regular or spicy?” he called out from the kitchen, in an attempt to re-create the Saigon experience.)