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.