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Photographs by Kevin A. Roberts
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Flash-fried spinach atop smoked prime rib
We didn’t come here to be insulted, pal.
A package of Burry Long Island crackers on the plate next to the clam chowder you served us? Why not just uncork a German Riesling with those French crepes?
We know readers are busy. They don’t have a lot of time to read anything in-depth online. And dogswholooklikeElvis.com is only a click away. But some background is in order: New England clam chowder is made as the Lord intended it: with cream, pork fat for flavoring, cream, clam broth, cream, potatoes, cream, and clams. And cream. Manhattan “chowder” is a watery, tomato-flavored abomination, a culinary grotesquerie. Got it? Okay. “Long Island” chowder is a bad joke, an attempt to marry the two, mixing tomatoes and cream. Clam chowder doesn’t need crackers, but if you must have them, they will be, of course, Crown Pilot crackers. Burry Long Island crackers, whatever they are, do not belong anywhere near clam chowder.
A serious lack of cracker comity aside, the clam chowder at Piccadilly at Manhattan is quite decent (although only available on Friday). In fact, this is a pretty nice place for lunch or dinner. It’s in Ellendale. Right. We never heard of it, either. Take McCausland south, past I-40 for a day or so, and you’ll come to Manhattan Street. Turn up it and go until you get to Piccadilly Street. You’re there. And you understand the name.
P at M is in a residential area. The broad patio out back overlooks backyards. Inside, it’s comfy. A bar takes up one side. On the other, tables are themed. The tops are decorated and laminated. One features album covers of the Seventies. Another is a collage of tickets to sporting events. Another has an array of wine bottle labels. As some vintage photos on the walls attest, the place has been around since the turn of the last century. The fifth generation of owners are turning out some American classics, many with a rewarding twist or an inventive take.
A chicken pot pie appears to violate your rule about never eating anything larger than your head. It’s a crusty golden football of airy pastry that seems to be swallowing the bowl below it. Break it apart and a savory stew, thick with beans, chicken, and carrots, is steaming and delicious and the pastry makes for a superb accompaniment. It’s a piece of art, actually, as good as any croissant in town.
A shrimp poor boy is a surprise. You’ll expect fried shrimp. You’ll get them sautéed instead. You won’t be too disappointed, even though the lack of crispiosity in the shrimp deprives the poor boy of its distinctive crunch. Along with the typical shredded lettuce, the real dealmaker in this sandwich is a light remoulade sauce that dresses it, playing up the flavor and texture of the shrimp. A patty melt wings it as a Reuben, the thick beefy patty matched with rye bread, Thousand Island dressing, and Swiss cheese. A roast beef sandwich gets a blanket of the same cheese, along with a dill-spiked horseradish sauce. The cheeseburger here has its devotees; if you want something a little different, try the fried grouper sandwich, just lightly breaded and stacked thick on the bun.
Pasta primavera, spaghetti and meatballs, and fettucine alfredo all lend a comfortable Italian-American aroma to the menu. There are also plates of roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy, fried chicken, meatloaf and individual ramekins of mac and cheese that give the place a folksy feel as well.
The lunch crowd looks all business—apparently there are lots of offices concealed in the residential neighborhood—while at dinner, it’s locals and long-time habitués. This is a place where they know your name, one where you can sit with an order of toasted ravioli or onion rings, drinking a glass of beer or wine, and spend a long, happy evening. Just remember, if they’re serving that clam chowder on your visit, to tell them to keep their crackers to themselves. Otherwise, things could get ugly.
The Piccadilly at Manhattan, 7201 Piccadilly, at Manhattan. 314-646-0016. www.thepiccadilly.com
