In our
last installment, before life got so busy, I once again failed in my blogging
schedule, I was telling you about my super fun Miss America/Birthday weekend
with Jill and Melinda in Atlantic City back in September. It’s true that AC is
a bit of a fading diva – the boardwalk still has that sheen of dingy seediness
to it, and the hotel we stayed in, Bally’s, while close to Boardwalk Hall and
by no means moderately priced, has seen better days. You would do better saving
your sheckles up before a weekend here and splurging on a room at one of the
two newest properties in town, Revel, down at the very far end of the
Boardwalk, or The Borgata, over on the Bay side of town.
Both are gorgeous, Vegas-style in their luxury, though Revel is reportedly mired in
backruptcy – it seems AC may not be able to bear the economic burden of two
high-end resorts. We also discussed my disappointment in our hoped-for birthday
treat Buddakan, and relative relief at a very casual lunch at Revel’s Yuboka
the next day. It turns out that all of Revel’s eateries are in partnership with
Jose Garces, the Philadelphia and Chicago-based Iron Chef. No wonder we so
enjoyed our post-Buddakan Village Whiskey cocktails and lunchtime Yuboka break! Garces’ restaurants are some of the most lauded in Philly, and I’m happy to have discovered that his Amada had a Revel outpost in time to book
that for our pre-pageant dinner while we were in town.
Prompted
by Miss New York’s first name, Nina,
and the idea of a spicy Spanish feast, we got gussied up for Miss America and
dubbed ourselves The Nina, The Pinta and the Santa Maria. It seemed fitting. We
went for broke, in the tradition of explorers before us, and ordered the
tasting menu. The abandon of not having to choose the tapas we were served, and
surrendering to the whims of the chef seemed appropriate for the culinary
anticipation Yuboka had inspired in us at lunch. Our waiter was formal, but
with a light-hearted twinkle in his eye, and provided impeccable service to our
glittery trio.
Along
with some wine and sangria, he started us with one of the most divine
Andalusian cheese plates ever. Next to the nutty, just-crumbly, aged manchego,
fresh slices of Granny Smith apple, and queso de cabra (whipped goat cheese)
were syrupy balsamic strawberries, fig and cherry marmalade and the most
sublime truffle honey ever tasted. It was light, like spun sugar, just barely
sweet with a tinge of a bitter edge, and permeated by the alluring, earthy musk
of truffles. We were spooning dribbles of the sensual honey out of its ramekin
long after tiring of every other ingredient on that platter, and nearly moaning
for more, such was its delectable appeal. Were I to read on the Internet that
the entire resort was named after Amada’s diners’ desire to revel in this one, singular ingredient,
I would totally buy it.
Next up,
a plate of whisper-thin Serrano ham, with a few delightfully puckery cornichon,
tart Dijon mustard, and collassal caper berries. I would be lying by omission
if I didn’t reveal that I absolutely paired truffle honey with my ham and
gobbled it up with reckless abandon.
A fairly
standard cocas, or Spanish flatbread, was next. I expected more flavor from its
pepperoni-adjacent chorizo and shrimp. This was perhaps the least exciting dish
to hit our table, but still glistening with really good olive oil and just
fine. I think the garbanzo bean paste with the cheese was what killed it for me
– the beans and cheese melded into a kind of samey blandness, for me.
The ham
croquettes, I liked much more. These are a tapas staple, and I’ve had them
before at Jaleo and Beso. The ultra-crunchy breaded coating was a pleasing
textural contrast from the creamy, saline mix of minced ham, potatoes and
cheese inside. I feel like if every bar in America would mix up these simple
fried treats in place of frozen mozzarella sticks, we would all be better off.
Spinach
empanadas were crunchy, cheesy, and packed with the subtle, metallic twang of fresh
spinach. Imagine spanakopita, Spanish-style, served on a saucy little bed of
peppers, onions, and artichokes. Lovely.
The one
other non-starter brought to our table besides the pizza was the habas a la
catalana, or fava bean salad, Catalan style. Despite the parmesan-like cheese
on top and herbs in the vinaigrette, the beans were bland, for me. Again, I
like beans, but in this meal of exciting flavors and nuances, the subtleness of
the favas just didn’t compare for me.
We loved
the Vieiras, just-seared diver scallops over a ring of Spanish chimichurri sauce. The
scallops were perfectly seasoned and cooked, almost creamy tasting, and the
herbaceous sauce packed a robust, peppery punch. The simple preparation and
presentation displayed the gorgeous shellfish exactly in the matter it deserved. I have no idea how the
chef sliced those scallops so thin, yet still managed to get a brown, crunchy crust on
them without overcooking. This is Spanish plancha-style cooking at its best.
But hold
on, because the mother load was coming. Madre e hijo was similarly simple, and yet
the most decadent, rich, satisfying dish of the whole trip. Roasted chicken
breast, salt-cured tuna, potato, truffle, and fried egg combined on one plate
into a riot of yolky, earthy, briny delight. The chicken was really chickeny,
concentrated in flavor yet still juicy and tender. The egg lent everything a
great fried egg does – that almost indescribably unctuous sauce made by the yolk
and the cleanness provided by the white. The truffle and flakes of mojama
(tuna) brought the luxe, buttery nuttiness and fireworks, and the potatoes
grounded everything else with earthy relief from all the flavor. I fell in
love with this dish, hard.
For
dessert, another home run, even though we were not the least bit hungry: torta
de aciete de olive – olive oil cake with plums, pistachios, and honey ice
cream. The cake was probably the most moist, savory cake I’ve ever had, nearly
juicy in its mouth-feel, and relying on the stewed plums for sweetness and
pistachios for salt. The ice cream, with that complex, sweet bitterness our
earlier honey encounter brought, was almost like a sauce and frosting for this
masterpiece. Nothing was too sweet, and I wouldn’t be surprised if no white
sugar was even used in its prep. We ate it right up and wished for more, though
our cocktail dresses were straining to contain our gluttony at this point.
Plain
and simple, this was a sexy meal, you guys. I think Santa Maria and Pinta would
agree with me. If Jose Andres’ Jaleo is the temple of tapas, this is the
bordello, equal parts raucous funhouse and corseted pleasure. Eat at Amada
after eloping, or buying naughty lingerie for your beloved, or getting engaged.
Eat there before winning lots of money at the tables, or seeing a burlesque
show at Revel’s Royal Jelly nightclub – just eat there. It’s a 10 on the BHS
scale, and if word gets out about this place, and Garces’ other masterworks on
property, Revel won’t be experiencing money woes anymore. This is destination
dining, folks, and if Amada has lost anything in translation from its mother
restaurant in Philly, it’s not showing. Our meal was phenomenal, and if I go to
Miss America again next year, I’ll be back.
I love Garces!
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