My first fancy meal out happened over a decade ago at Antoine’s, one of New Orleans’ oldest, greatest dining destinations. A second grade classmate opted out of the Laser Tag or paint-your-own-pottery birthday parties that everyone else was doing in favor of a glittery, all-grown-up way to commemorate her 8th birthday. As my mom helped me get dressed, she fervently reviewed everything she’d ever taught me about manners: No elbows on the table, under any circumstances. Put your napkin on your lap as soon as everyone’s seated. Always say please and thank you. I still remember the pomp and circumstance with which we enjoyed this most auspicious meal, feeling exactly like miniature adults as the hostess sashayingly brought us to our table and the waiters scraped away our bread crumbs.
What I had then were the greatest hits; those awe-inspiring puff potatoes, that buttery trout amandine, and of course the baked Alaska, confectionery wonder of wonders, lodged themselves in my 8-year-old memory and still hold a fond place there. But that gold standard of fine dining, characterized by menus written in French and a heartily traditional repertoire of ingredients and preparations, has lost some of its salience. Of course, places like Galatoire’s, Antoine’s, Arnaud’s, and Brennan’s are destinations for festivity and indulgence. But the tasting menu has edged into all kinds of restaurants – not just at places like The French Laundry or Alinea, where it has its most noble roots, but also as options at places frequented for their à la carte menu. Stella! has enough traditional first and main courses to make me want to pull a Mr. Creosote, but a chef’s tasting as well as an international caviar and vodka marathon also tempt.
Maroni Cuisine in Northport, Long Island, finds itself elsewhere on the spectrum. Wedged in a veritable hole in the wall on the main street of a beachy town, it easily goes unnoticed as a hot dining spot, especially because its precious front window real estate reads simply “TAKE OUT.” Stumble through the front door, though, and you find something decidedly different. The place is unreal, like a shoebox lined with rock ‘n roll memorabilia and finished with gilding and plush curtains. It is a chef’s wet dream: against the odds, classic rock and fine dining meet, fall in love, and elope. Their offspring is the kind of biracial toddler you see walking into school (a Montessori or international school, no doubt), exotic and perplexing and, somehow, already more interesting than you. You are engrossed.
Funky light fixtures are suspended from the elaborately molded ceiling, and every square inch of the walls has been hung with posters, record covers, and kitschy mementos. About ten tables fill the restaurant, running along each wall to leave just enough of a pathway for the adept waitstaff to shimmy through. Albums at a time blast through the speakers; we heard The Beatles’ “Rubber Soul” and a little bit of Rolling Stones. The bathroom walls are plastered with eyes (an homage to Pink Floyd?). The ambiance is hip and irreverent, sure, but gussied-up for an elaborate tasting? Not so much.
Looks can be deceiving, though, so hold your horses. While it’s true that Maroni’s made its reputation on its thriving takeout business (the restaurant’s nationally acclaimed meatballs can be taken to go in “hot pots” so they’re still fresh and warm at dinnertime), it has carved out a name as a restaurant to be taken more seriously in recent years. The eccentricity of the whole venue and set-up, as well as abundantly positive reviews from customers and critics alike, is really what puts them on the map.
First things first, you’ll want to make a reservation. Because it’s a tasting menu, because the restaurant is so teeny, because whoever is the manager is trying to protect waitstaff from nervous breakdowns, guests are seated and served simultaneously. We ate at 6:30, and I believe the other seating is at 8:30 or 9. The close proximity of the tables makes for ideal eavesdropping, and it boosts community, encouraging the kind of fleeting casual conversation with strangers that tinges the atmosphere with a sort of European romance. The attentive, enthusiastic, and seemingly overabundant servers simply ask if you have any food allergies or intense dislikes, and then you hit the ground running. No, there is no formal menu. But you’re in good hands, I promise.
Chef Mike Maroni is quite clearly well-versed on, and curious about, world cuisine; his tasting menu explores just about every corner of the world, giving some countries loud shoutouts and others no more than whispered references in what can only be described as his global fusion dishes. He leans heavily on Asian as well as seafood, and he’s not as into Spanish, Mexican, or Indian, of which we saw none. Just about everything else was fair game. It was a dinner for champions, and nothing like what I’ve experienced more before. Maroni’s is distinguished by its casual and unpredictable nature, at once both furthering and overturning the tasting menu trend. Its bizarre formula is inimitable and quirky, but it works out for them, making for a dining experience that certainly won’t blur together with others in your memory.
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They immediately brought out a plate of sweet red peppers stuffed with goat cheese — fast enough that I wasn’t sure if they were the first course of the meal or a little hospitable snack, like olives or bread and butter, to nibble before orders were placed.
Next up was an espresso glass with a single shot of uber-rich lobster bisque. This soup was extremely smooth, with a discernible kick of sherry and flecks of tail meat at the bottom of the tiny cup. If I’m to commit to a full bowl of lobster bisque, I want it to be creamy but still somehow light, with a more aggressive lobsterness manifested in generous chunks of salty, buttery meat. This sip lacked both components, but because it was simply a sip, it remained a tantalizing start to the abundance ahead of us.
It seems like every restaurant has a tongue-in-cheek riff on the Dr. Seuss classic Green Eggs and Ham. In concept, it’s whimsical, witty, and playful – and even now that it’s creeping toward cliché territory, who can argue that eggs and ham go well together? That right there is a fact of life, my friends. This rendition had quail eggs fried over-easy with ethereal, almost glassy flakes of slow-roasted Serrano ham and crunchy little toasts. The symbolism of Kimberly deciding up-front that she wouldn’t like it (“I do not like them, Sam I Am! I do not like green eggs and ham!”) amused me more than it did her, I think. In any case, the quail eggs were delicious under the herbaceous green garnish, basilly oil, and intriguing ham flakes.
“Ham flakes.” There it is: the least appetizing phrase ever.
Pictured here were the next two courses: million dollar potato chips with creme fraiche and foie gras on toast. The million dollar potato chips were so called because they tasted like crispy, solid gold. They were thick-cut and not too greasy, seasoned with coarse crystals of salt that perfectly set off the salinity of the caviar. The foie gras was, well, foie gras – velvety, earthy, decadent. I don’t have anything new to contribute to that.
This was followed by spring rolls filled with a creamy mixture of snow crab, minced shrimp, and spinach. The shells were a translucent gold, fried until they blistered. The filling was sweet and definitely unlike any spring rolls I’ve encountered before – it could’ve stood alone as a dip. The product was a departure from tradition and would’ve been equally at home served on a big platter alongside beer for the Saints’ first game of the season.
Course #7: baked clams casino. Tasty, lemony, with a healthy hit of garlic and toasty bread crumbs. I want to eat these from a trough on an outdoor picnic table.
Here’s a dish of chicken and ginger steamed dumplings, to be eaten family-style. This tasted much more traditional than the spring rolls we’d eaten minutes before these arrived. Little wisps of Chinese sea spinach added color and a vegetal crunch. This was not one of the standout dishes for me (oh, those are coming), but the spinach, chives, and white sesame seeds made them look like little presents that needed to be unwrapped.
Shortly after this, servers made the rounds of the restaurant, handing each of us little planks of smoked turkey bacon topped with lobster salad. This dish is an exemplar of Chef Maroni’s ventures in the more strictly American realm, which are as successful, tasty, and fresh as his more exotic endeavors. As it turns out, the large, gorgeous pieces of lobster meat that were lacking in the bisque (and which would’ve been terribly out of place in those tiny cups) had been hiding all along in this dish. The thick-cut bacon was crispy, and the turkey was a good choice – pork bacon might have competed with and compromised the lobster, which was the star of the dish.
Just as we were getting used to the onslaught of small white plates bearing two-bite courses, this behemoth arrived at our table, and the intricate gilded ceiling opened up for a chorus of angels. Icelandic oysters, Newfoundland crab claws, and Hawaiian spotted prawns are a locavore’s nightmare (and made me awfully nostalgic for our own Gulf oysters), but all my qualms disappeared with my first bite. The oysters, dotted with a touch of hot sauce, were icy, sweet, and delicate, the antidote to our scrumptious but massive (occasionally unwieldy) bivalves. The crab claws were pristine and plump, and the shrimp were the perfect vehicle for the heavily horseradished cocktail sauce. Culinary ingenue? Not so much, but one of life’s finer things, to be sure.
Continuing on the theme of Wildly Foreign Seafood, the next course was Newfoundland lobster (not the whole thing, for goodness’ sake; they let us select either the tail or a claw). My claw was no different from any other lobster claw I have gleefully devoured in this lifetime, which is to say that it was a dream. I do wonder, though: what’s wrong with Maine lobster? I didn’t think to ask at the time because I was so happily ensconced in my little lobster world.
Kimberly composed this beautiful design with the following two courses. Serving as what appears to be the fellow’s coif is a three-cheese cracker, and his visage is made up of sliced melon and wild boar sausage. I asked which cheeses went into the cracker and the server told me “cow, goat, and sheep,” so I guess it’s more like three-milk. The cracker was ethereal, like a tiny crunchy crepe, and the goat cheese spread onto it was mild. I loved the wild boar sausage that came with the palate-cleansing melon; both slices were thick and perfectly chewy, sweet with a touch of spice, mellow but slightly wild. Being a relentlessly peckish snacker, I live for charcuterie, which lends itself so swimmingly to keeping around and nibbling here and there. I want this on hand at all times.
Hamachi tuna lollipops arrived next, neatly cut bites of firm, silky flesh. Apart from the chives that clung to the fish, it had hardly been doctored or touched. Like the melon, it was a clean, simple refresher amidst the chaos of such a decadent, fast-paced meal.
The lightness of the previous two courses was quickly forgotten when a big plate of Memphis-style barbecue ribs arrived at the table. The ribs met Memphis’ high standards for barbecue; the meat fell apart and off the bone upon contact, and the sauce was tangy and dark. Cole slaw was piled high on top of the ribs, but it took up valuable stomach space that needed to be economized for the ribs and courses that followed. By the time this plate was bussed, the only thing left on it was most of the cole slaw and all the bones, licked clean.
My, but wasn’t this lovely? A filet of Rhode Island cod was prepared Piccata-style and plated with zingy asparagus spears and tiny capers. The sauce, a lemony, buttery emulsion, lived up to its name; it was neither greasy nor sour, just very balanced, and enough to bathe the flaky white cod, which had the oceanic saltiness of only something very fresh.
These Kobe beef sliders were, like the green eggs and ham, a fancified spin on a universally recognized (but far less gourmet) concept. The tiny patties of beef were grilled to a juicy medium-rare and served with melty cheese (if my memory serves me, I think it was American) on precious buns that were reminiscent of Hawaiian sweet rolls. “Tasting menu,” much less “26-course tasting menu,” no doubt conjures images of white linen tablecloths and a hushed, plush dining room. This course, with its top-notch beef served between packets of Heinz ketchup and a side of tater tots (arguably sourced straight from an Ore-Ida bag), was a comical reminder of where we were and of the philosophy behind the dinner itself — a philosophy that crosses culinary expertise and gastronomical indulgence with pragmatism, humor, and a refreshing lack of pretense.
Before we had even polished off our two-bite burgers, a server whisked through the restaurant with a large platter of duck spring rolls with a thick, sweet plum sauce. These spring rolls were different from the ones we’d had at the beginning of the meal; they were thin little cigars with a sturdier shell that stood up to the rich duck meat it contained. The flavor combination, too, was much more classic, reminding me of the Peking duck crepes we used to order so often from Five Happiness.
Ahhh… this was butter-poached lobster on mashed potatoes my single favorite bite of the night. This says a lot after all the lobster they’d sated us with by this point, but I still daydream about that one spoonful. In presentation and concept, it seemed more likely to come from the kind of restaurant with white tablecloths and hushed dining rooms that I described earlier; it was, after all, a tiny amount of exquisite ingredients served on a silver spoon, without any of the casualness or humor of the Kobe sliders and green eggs and ham. But that’s what I came to love about Maroni’s: this unpredictable but somehow harmonious alternation between casual snack and highbrow fare. The mashed potatoes that anchored the dish were flawlessly smooth and aided by heavy cream but evaded both starchiness and heaviness, instead sliding off the spoon and melding with the morsel of lobster. And such a good morsel it was, its luxurious texture accentuated by the butter. It was, altogether, a luxurious meeting of flavors that left me wanting just one more bite.
Instead of another bite, they were so kind as to bring out veal short ribs that might’ve been a teeny bit superfluous as we’d already had one dose of ribs that night, but when we’re talking about ribs, is there such a thing as too much of a good thing? I’m still investigating, but my tentative conclusion is: no. I preferred the Memphis-style BBQ to these, tender as they were; they were just a bit too much on the fatty side. Some people like that. I do not.
Indonesian peanut shrimp followed, one for everybody, and even our Kimberly set aside her disdain for seafood to taste it. A big prawn was fried in a crispy batter, then tossed in a sticky-spicy-sweet peanut sauce and crusted with a few white sesame seeds. I didn’t eat my whole shrimp because it was so gooey and decadent that my already full stomach protested, knowing full well it had much more on the way. I can say with confidence, though, that I’d have polished it off had it come a bit earlier in the meal.
And then… there it was. The moment I’d been waiting for. The course my stomach had saved a little room for. Maroni’s meatballs.
This along with the following two courses, which came out simultaneously, marked a sudden shift in the chef’s repertoire to cozy Italian food like grandmas make it. The meatballs came with great ceremony; they have long been loved, worshipped, craved, and sought after. In fact, Maroni’s made its name as a largely takeout-oriented business, and people would come from all over to take home Grandma Maroni’s secret-recipe meatballs in their own hot pots. Now that it’s established itself as a reputable restaurant for sit-down meals as well, meatballs remain a fixture. A bit smaller than baseballs, they arrive bathing in pomodoro sauce and garnished with grated parmesan and slices of basil. The meat itself is finely ground, incredibly so, imparting a delicacy and refinement to the rustic presentation. I’ve made meatballs many times, and I’ve concluded that meatballs are one of the foods that are easy to make decent but hard to perfect. The Maronis are doing something right: a few years back, they challenged – and defeated – Bobby Flay in a meatball-making throwdown on Food Network.
Pictured beneath that are the eggplant parm and rigatoni pomodoro with ricotta creme fraiche. The eggplant was layered with the cheese in very, very thin slices and baked, as it should be, until the cheese on top got super melty and ugly. Because it was sliced so thin, it was easy for Kimberly’s mom, not usually an eggplant lover, to eat (and in fact she did so with great joy and passion), but because there were so many thin slices, there was still a good wallop of undeniable eggplant flavor. The rigatoni was al dente, perhaps could have even been cooked thirty seconds longer, and was no-frills with the same red sauce that came with the meatballs, it was overshadowed by the magnificence of its two predecessors – but tasty all the same.
As if to laugh in our faces at the dull pain we were experiencing by that point as a result of our satiety, we were awarded yet another plate, this one laden with gnocchi and shaved black truffles. I feel about truffles the way some 15-year-old girls feel about Justin Bieber, so I was very, very excited upon first whiff. I have to say, I was let down. The gnocchi were leaden, which competed with the earthy truffles and dark gravy.
To remedy my disappointment was this FINAL COURSE: pigs in blankets. You heard me. Tiny sausages wrapped in flaky dough, akin to that of Pillsbury crescent rolls. And yes, you’re seeing correctly: they came on one big plate with tongs (so we could help ourselves) and a piggy bank (should we be so inspired to tip prematurely) whose rump read “Happy Halloween” (I don’t get it either). That was funny. The PIBs were, well, PIBs: the kind of snack that seems unremarkable until you realize you’ve eaten 20 of them because they’re fatty and salty and oh so addictive, especially with the spicy Dijon that was served on the side.
Dessert came all at once on a long plate that was to be shared amongst all the table members. Perhaps understandably, Maroni’s skimps on desserts in both effort and quantity. (The question here is, after successful completion of such a gourmet extravaganza, is an equally lavish dessert in order, or are we better off with scant dishes of sorbet and a kiss goodbye… or maybe even less?) All in all, here was the spread:
- A small ramekin of chocolate mousse with a toasted marshmallow top
- Another small ramekin of crème brûlée
- A wafer-thin (see what I did there?) slice of “chocolate ganache cake”
- A minuscule slice of tiramisu
- A chipwich (chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich)
- A “kaleidoscope cookie” (essentially a giant, overstuffed Oreo rolled in rainbow sprinkles)
- A homemade Dove bar
Standouts were the crème brûlée, which had a warmly satisfying layer of burnt sugar that yielded to the spoon’s pressure with a loud, crunchy crack, and the tiramisu. The chocolate ganache cake was a whole lot more cake than it was ganache, and it was a bit on the dry side; the chipwich and kaleidoscope cookie were yummy because, um, they were cookies with sweet cream filling… but they could’ve just as well come off a tricked-out ice cream truck. Kimberly’s dad had a shot of espresso that was spiked with a bit of sambuca. That, to me, was the best send-off.
