When my colleague Donna Garlough revealed that she had a direct (and, ahem, illegal) line to some prime Okinawan potatoes from Hawaii, I jumped out of my chair. These, of course, are the best sweet potatoes in the world: bright purple, sweet like candy, dry and fluffy like Yukon Golds, and impossible to find in Boston markets (or so I thought—more on that later).

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As more mid-priced restaurants enter Boston’s dining scene, I can’t help but notice patterns emerging. To be a bona fide neighborhood boite, it seems your menu must contain at least two of following: High-end mac and cheese; some sort of pasta Bolognese; anything Milanese; fish and chips; braised short ribs; mussels in a white wine broth; and steak frites.

(See: Dorchester’s Ashmont Grill, Somerville’s Highland Kitchen, the South End’s Rocca, Kenmore’s Eastern Standard, and JP’s Alchemist Lounge and Zon’s. ) 

Lucky for me, I like all of those dishes. But there’s something else I’m seeing everywhere, and it’s ubiquity is really starting to chap my hide: Beets.

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During a recent brainstorming session on reasons to love Boston, amid all the waxing rhapsodic about our culture, architecture, and sports heroes, there was a shout-out to the Chocolate Bomb cupcake at Fiore’s Bakery in Jamaica Plain. The vegan Chocolate Bomb cupcake. I admit: As a longtime devotee of all things milk, butter, and eggs, I scoffed. Then I stopped by the South Street bakery this weekend for a taste. And I smartened up fast. (more…)

There’s a place I like to go near Central Square. The food is great, reasonably affordable, and the beer and wine selections are solid. All in all, it’s the definition of a neighborhood favorite.

One caveat, however: The service is dreadful. It’s not just slow. It’s painstakingly, amateurishly bad.

From the server who tried to use a corkscrew on a screw-top bottle of wine to the same misguided soul trying to perform the opposite trick on a cork, something always goes wrong. Entrees are mishandled, or forgotten altogether. Seating often devolves into anarchy. Asking the bartender what they had on tap led to this memorable answer, “What you see is what you get.” Thanks.

It’s a shame because I have vowed never to return on numerous occasions only to be lured back several months later by the intoxicating promise of the impossibly-good tater tots. OK, that’s one frustrating experience, but all of this got me to thinking: Are our restaurants undermined by sub-standard service? (more…)

Finding a good place for brunch is a tricky proposition when you live alone. Without built-in brunchmates, you tend to find yourself trekking across town to someone else’s neighborhood to eat the week’s most leisurely meal.

I found myself in this predicament on Sunday, when a friend persuaded me to bundle up and head to the North End for brunch at to the North Street Grille.

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As a food-savvy blogger for Chowder, it’s painful to admit that I’ve been on the South Beach diet for three-and-a-half weeks. Even more painful? As the Boston staff worked late nights to wrap up the March issue, I was faced with a stream of staff dinners based on burritos or pizza.

So it was with much joy and elation that I found my tasty, South Beach-friendly solution at a Huntington Avenue Vietnamese/Thai restaurant called Pho & I. (more…)