The CRÚ Crew

Wine bars are not normally somewhere I want to go for lunch.

I mean, to be completely honest, wine bars are not my choice of place to eat no matter what time of the day it is. Though I find the art of winemaking fascinating, beer and whiskey/bourbon are much more my preferred imbibements (that's a word now). J, however, is very into wine and it's really impressive. So one chilly day in December, we decided to venture to Avalon — remember my visit to The El Felix? It's near there — to do some shopping, and when we discovered there was a wine bar in the vicinity, we figured we'd check it out.

I'm still not sure I'd pick out a wine bar for the sake of eating at a wine bar, but I would go back to CRÚ in a heartbeat!

CRÚ Food & Wine Bar, believe it or not, is a franchise. But you wouldn't know it if you walked in (or at least, I had no idea). The restaurant named its executive chef on the door; it's beautifully decorated; and there are a million bottles of wine everywhere.

The service was also fantastic. Ever since J started working as a server, we've both been really conscious to when we have excellent service and when it's sort of lackluster. Our main server was talkative, engaging and gave great advice on what wines to pair which which meals. The wine menu rotates pretty regularly, so it's nice to be able to go to a place and have your server tell you what's new, what's great, etc. Since I'm not much of a vino, I didn't get a drink, but J got a wine flight.

If you are into wine, you should order a wine flight. Not only do you get the requisite three restaurant-sized glasses of wine (I say that because if I do drink wine at home, I pour until the glass is at least half-full, because where's the fun in anything less?), but they are presented to your table in this nifty little carrier. No more bulky hand trays for these folks. You also get a flight card that describes what each of the wines is, its region, how it's made and the flavors you should experience. J has to usually tell me what flavors I'm experiencing, but I did take a sip of each just for fun. But I wasn't there for the wine ... I was there for the Napa Burger.

The CRÚ lunch menu is small, and I was torn between going whole hog on a burger or being light and dainty and pseudo-healthy and ordering a cheese plate. But because we don't treat ourselves to a lot of date nights or date days these days, I decided to spoil myself a little this time.

The Napa Burger just sounded incredible. First, it's a hamburger, so duh. Second, the toppings. I love, love, love savory and sweet, and this burger had everything I needed in each bite. The fig jam was divine. It wasn't sugary sweet, but it had a deep, almost molasses-like sweetness that just enveloped the melted cheese, the caramelized onions and the hot, juicy beef patty. Oh, the cheese! As good as each bite of the burger was, I could probably have eaten an entire wheel of the Humboldt Fog. This melty, creamy goat cheese comes form California and has a consistency like brie. They also served it with the white rind on, which I really liked. Plus the bun was soft and buttery; the arugula not overly peppery; and the gherkin pickles on top were nice and crunchy. The side was matchstick potatoes, and though some of them weren't cut all the way through, totally worth it. They were tasty and since they were so skinny, I didn't feel like a fatty for eating most of them!

My only qualm is that the burger promised roasted tomatoes, and instead was served with fresh sliced. Given that tomatoes aren't in season again until May here in Georgia, whatever distributor CRÚ uses did a fab job of bringing in vibrant red fruits. They were delicious, but I can't help but wonder what depth of flavor the roasted would have achieved.

Guess I'll have to come back to find out. And maybe try the "Sinful Experience" cheese flight while I'm at it.

My Meatloaf Has Antlers.

Disclaimer: Please excuse terrible iPhone photos. I promise I'll do better next time. :)

One of the things J and I do at least once a month now (OK, starting last month, but whatever) is go to dinner and a movie. We kicked off this new tradition by heading to one of those fancy theaters with the reclining cushy seats and cocktail bars to see Benedict Cumberbatch star in his Marvel debut: "Doctor Strange."

Before I tell you about dinner let me confess to being a Cumberbitch. Yes. That is what my man Benedict's fanclub of fangirls is called. We are Cumberbitches. If anyone is looking to get me a Christmas present, a Cumberbitch shirt would be amazing. Preferably with a cape so that I can pretend I too am a Tilda Swinton-devotee-time-traveling-time-bending-mirror-dimension-fighting-superhero-who-takes-on-Mads Mikkelsen-the-white-ninja-with-a-cape-related-to-Aladdin's-magic-carpet. That is the plot of the movie, in case you did not get that part.

On the way out, J looked up nearby restaurants that were open and said, "Hey, here's Sage Woodfire Tavern. I've always wanted to go there since like high school."

That's the super-interesting story of why we decided to go here.

My first impression? Oh shit; I did not dress appropriately. See, the word "tavern" in the restaurant title is a tiny bit misleading. When I think tavern, I think hyper-masculine place with beer served in flagons, burgers, steak, mounted game on the walls ... you get my drift. Sage Woodfire Tavern is not that kind of tavern. It's a dark, moody restaurant on the inside with glossed wood tables and candlelit accent lights with live music and high-class decor. "Sage Woodfire Super Fancy Restaurant" would have been a better name. Thankfully, the dark lighting hid my ripped jeans and Converses from public view.

We started off with an appetizer of calamari, which is fried squid. Delicious. There are two ways to mess up fried squid: one, cook it so it's too tough (ew) or two, bland breading (ugh). Sage did neither of those things! The calamari was lightly breaded in a seasoning that had just enough kick to complement the spicy dipping sauce it was served with, but not enough to overpower your palate. The texture was also nice. Each bite required chewing, but it wasn't like you were trying to gnaw through raw, chilled, uncooked pork fat or anything. I thought the garnish of red pepper strips was a weird touch, but I ate them anyway because I do enjoy red pepper.

Along with the appetizer, our server brought bread. The bread was whatever. The dipping oil though? Y'ALL. I would go back just for that. Salt. Oil. Herbs de provence (I asked). Balsamic drizzle. Green onions. Tomatoes. The flavor in this little bowl was amazing! It had everything I could possibly imagine to mix in a dipping oil and then some. Like imagine this on a pasta dish, right?! Hold on; making a mental note to try that.

I had to do some major resisting to avoid eating all of the bread.

The star of the show, though, was this insane meatloaf thing I ordered. LOOK. IT HAS ANTLERS. My meatloaf has. antlers. I have never seen a garnish like this. I'm not sure what I think of it, especially since being a weird meat science person I happen to know that none of the three types of meat in this meatloaf have antlers (beef, veal [baby beef] and pork). But it caught my attention, for sure.

Let me break this entree down for you.

The meatloaf, as I mentioned, was a combination of Angus filet mignon, veal and pork. Those are all three pretty decadent in themselves, but combined? I have never eaten a meatloaf with this much depth of savory flavors. Angus is one of the most common types of beef cattle in America — they're the big black ones you'll see in fields all over the Southeast, especially. It's so popular that it has its own brand with specific requirements to market beef: Certified Angus Beef. The filet mignon is the retail name for a specific cut from the tenderloin, and it is the most tender cut of beef. It also happens to be my favorite, so!

Now, before y'all start yelling at me for eating veal, let me school you a moment.

Veal is baby beef. Beef is technically a meat derived from a steer (castrated male bovine) that is harvested at 12 to 18 months of age. Sidenote: If you're buying grass-finished beef, it's probably closer to 18 to 24 months. Because grass-only puts less fat on meat than a grain-and-grass diet, it takes longer for these animals to get a similar fat covering and thus flavor. Veal calves are harvested younger than 12 months old, and enjoy a mostly milk-based diet. There are also lots of regulations regarding how they are raised in a safe manner with the health of the calves paramount ... but that's another post for another time. Anyway, because the animals are harvested at such a young age, veal is ridiculously tender. Butter-soft. And also naturally mild-flavored (goes back to the calves' diets).

So let's review. The meatloaf has pork (naturally rich and flavorful, because fat is amazing). It has Angus filet (read my lips: t-e-n-d-e-r). It also has veal (tender-er).

I kid you not: forkfuls melted in my mouth. Combined with the mushroom bordelaise sauce, which includes red wine and marrow in its ingredient list, plus soft and fluffy Yukon Gold mashed potatoes and salty wilted spinach ... this is foodgasm-level good. (If you look on the menu, you'll notice the vegetable side was supposed to be steamed vegetables. Gross. I subbed in the wilted spinach.)

Oh, and have I mentioned the portion size yet?! You may think $17 for a meatloaf is bat-guano-crazy, but you get a lot of meatloaf/potatoes/veg for $17. I turned it into three meals. Three so-good meals.

This will definitely be a repeat place — also on the specials menu is tiramisu cheesecake ... what! — but I will probably wear something a little more appropriate for the atmosphere.

On a Date with Myself

What began as a routine delivery of some Mary Kay products turned into a lunch worth writing about.

I met my aunt briefly at a new outdoor shop-stravaganza in Alpharetta, Georgia, called Avalon. It's one of those swanky places where families and young professionals with a lot of money can live above West Elm, J. Crew, BCBG or an incredibly righteous restaurant. Like Atlantic Station, sort of, but newer and with more modern architecture.

Since the delivery was at 10:30 a.m., and I had a grand total of nothing to do for the next 12 hours, I decided to stick around and take myself on a shopping date. That took about an hour, and then I realized I was getting hungry.

Did I have food at the house? Yes.

Was it the same stuff to make a sandwich like I had for every other weekend lunch when I was trying to conserve food money? Yes.

Did I really want another turkey sandwich? ... Negative, ghostrider.

Thanks for this image, Dr. Google.

I turned on my heels to find The El Felix, which I had passed on my first trip around the shops. It sounded Mexican and had a cool, kind of creepy early 1900s Halloween cat logo mascot on its to-go cups. I could go for some tacos.

Clearly, this was divine intervention: I wasn't intending on eating out. I wasn't intending on a nice meal if I did eat out. But the weather was beautiful -- perfect for sitting outside. I was by myself, perfect for taking myself on a Mexican food date because Justin is "eh" on Mexican food and I am like "LET ME SEE YOU GUAC, GUAC, GUAC" on the reg. And I had gotten paid the week before.

So that's how I found myself on the patio of The El Felix, ordering a margarita and being delighted by the cute containers that my salsas were brought out in. I had no idea what I was getting, had no forethought about "I want to go to this restaurant, order this food, drink this alcohol and go home and write about it." Hell, y'all, for once in my life my Nikon wasn't in my purse. Sorry for the really poor photo quality. But then I dipped a thin, crisp tortilla chip in the green tomatillo salsa and my life changed forever.

I will willingly drive 30 minutes up Georgia 400 for this mouthwatering tomatillo salsa. Just ... whoa.

My first impression of The El Felix: a salsa verda para morirse.
That means "green salsa to die for."

A bit of background. Tomatillo salsa is my favorite kind of salsa to begin with. Tomatillos are most commonly seen as green tomato-looking things with a husk. However, they're not tomatoes, but a distinct species of the nightshade family, along with eggplants, potatoes, petunias and tomatoes. Tomatillos are known by the Latin name Physalis philadelphica and tomatoes by Solanum lycopersicum. See? Totes different genus and species. So, tomatillos are a little tangier than tomatoes. They kind of remind me taste-wise of a fried green tomato, and are best mixed with herbs, peppers and adobo (we are big fans of adobo in my household). That green salsa you can get at Barberito's, for example, is a tomatillo salsa. It's really easy to screw up, namely if whoever makes that day's batch doesn't add enough salt or uses more salt than cilantro. Gross.

This tomatillo salsa was a gift handed down from Mother Nature to Felix's chefs Ford Fry and Kevin Maxey. Y'all, I've never had a salsa like it. It's as if the best-made tomatillo salsa and the creamiest, smoothest fresh guacamole had a mad, tequila-induced lovefest and produced a sauce that is the perfect genetic mix of both. I actually turned the waiter away the first time he came to take my order because I was too into the chips to bother to look at the menu. Oops.

When I did take a peek at the restaurant's offerings, I noticed a salsa advertised as "avocado salsa verde," Ah, assuming that these are both the same thing, that makes total sense. The avocado added to the tomatillo salsa, mild, fresh and with just a hint of heat, is what gave it the thick, creamy texture that made it so irresistible!

I also had trouble deciding between tacos al pastor (note to self: take a day on The Meatetarian and explore delectable taco fillings) and something called "Campechana de Marisco." I'd never heard of "campechana" before, but "de marisco" means "of seafood," and it was pretty hard to turn down the ingredient listing.

Campechana de Marisco, otherwise known as a "seafood
sundae." Served in a parfait glass with spoon and tostadas.

About 10 minutes (and a basket of chips and bowl of that salsa) later, I was presented with what can only be described as a seafood sundae. The retro parfait glass was heaped to the gills with seafood, chopped veggies and a delicate-handled spoon to eat it all with. This was a $17 seafood dish well worth the "usually I don't spend $17 on a lunch" splurge.

No lie, there were nearly a dozen melt-in-your-mouth shrimp, a couple of generous tablespoons of lump crab meat and tender octopus all tucked in the glass. What little room in the serving ware that was left had been doused in a spicy tomato mixture. There were slightly greasy fresh tostadas around the bottom of the glass, present to hold spoonfuls of campechana. When bitten into, they proved light and airy and gave a satisfying crunch to the light and chewy textures of the seafood and diced veggies.

I kept trying to tell myself, "This is your last bite! Then you can take the rest home and share it with Justin!"

Except that I kept eating and the next thing I knew, both my unforgettable salsa and seafood sundae were gone with the wind. But here's a great thing about this meal: everything was fresh and nothing was heavy! It was filling and satiating and I left wanting more, but I didn't feel like I had a small burrito baby growing inside me.

Now that's what I call a successful date.

Aw, Shucks, Y'all!

Guess what -- after three weeks of no posts, you get two doses of Meatetarian Eats this week! Aren't you lucky!

Somehow my 26th birthday became "The Year of the Seafood," as two of the three celebratory meals I ate centered on chicken of the sea. Eh, that pun didn't work. Moving on.

Birthday part three took place in Alpharetta (north of Atlanta) at this swanky seafood place called Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen. The concept behind Pappadeaux includes French and Creole flavors that bring Bourbon Street to the metro area. Lots of things are blackened or served with andouille; lots of menu items end with "etouffee" or are served in a gumbo. Since I'd just eaten fish, I decided to venture a little more toward the seafloor.

A cup of crawfish bisque

The meal began with something I'd never had before, but seemed appropriate for being in a Creole restaurant: a cup of crawfish bisque.

I could have eaten a bowl.

Here's the thing about bisque. If you get "bisque" from a can or from somewhere that prepares it cheaply, you're more than likely to get a watery, greasy soup with more butter melted on top than any other ingredient. It may be creamy, but there's no texture to it aside from the one piece of meat buried at the bottom. A true bisque is a thick, creamy soup studded with chunks of meat throughout. It is rich. It is flavorful. It makes you slurp the whole thing down in three minutes and ask the waiter for bread so you can sop up what your spoon didn't get.

The crawfish bisque gets two thumbs up at Pappadeaux. It was packed with chunks of crawfish. It had just a hint of kick without being overly spicy. The only downside was we did not get bread to dip in it, so I had to resist the urge to be ultra ladylike and stick my finger in the cup.

Instead of getting a fish entree, I followed up the soup with the oyster duo. This is a plate of six Apalachicola oysters (and yes, they were from Apalachicola -- I asked!) served two different ways. Three are Oysters Baton Rouge, presented with a melted parmesan-romano sauce on top. The remaining three are Oysters Pappadeaux, stuffed with crabmeat and then topped with chopped spinach and hollandaise sauce.

Left: Oysters Pappadeaux, right, Oysters Baton Rouge;
served on a platter of salt

The oysters were baked, so the cheese was nice and bubbly and the hollandaise smooth and creamy. The oysters themselves (I scraped the toppings off to try the pure little mollusks) were thick, meaty and briny. Despite being baked, they were well-cooked and still tasted fresh. No slime here, bro. I enjoyed the Oysters Pappadeaux trio more than the Baton Rouge -- though the cheese was good, it was the only flavor presented, and that left a little to be desired. Granted, I am no expert at oyster toppings, but this blend of cheeses could have been amped up a bit, perhaps with the addition of the Tabasco sauce folks usually throw on raw oysters.

Pappadeaux is definitely a cool place to take the family. I felt like we went back in time a few decades and that jazz music should have been playing. This restaurant (a franchise, so I'm only speaking for the Alpharetta location) is what I'd imagine a New Orleans seafood restaurant circa 1924 would be like. The decor, the acoustics, all of it. You walk in and next to the lobster container is a huge on-ice display of fish that you can eat that night. The restaurant seats 400 people. FOUR. HUNDRED. There was live music playing in one room, dimmed lights added to the ambiance and servers bringing out dessert sampler platters every 10 minutes. I enjoyed the meal and the atmosphere and would definitely come back. They also have a lunch menu if you're in the mood for something heftier than a soup and salad.

But if you go and get a soup and salad at lunch, I highly recommend the crawfish bisque.