Many posts so little time...

So as I become a more and more experienced "blogger" I realize that I'm good for a post about every two weeks. Unfortunately, I eat out far more often than that so I have this tremendous backlog of scibbles and notes from the last few months. I would love to write a lengthy explanation of every single dining experience, but time, patience, and the reality that sometimes I had a no frills dinner out of necessity prevents this from happening. Look, not every dinner I've ever had is memorable. I'd say, that seven out of ten are simply dinner. It's not like I get thrown out of a place everytime I eat out, at least, not anymore. So without further adeau, here's a recap of some places that didn't impress me, didn't offend me, and are not memorable for anyother reason than my time constraints and alcohol-sodden brain:

41 Greenwich-Manhattan:
212.255.3606

Just had dinner here two weeks ago (so about the beginning of December) with wife number one. We were seeing an absolutely fabulous review called Hello My Name is Billy, and decided to make it an actual date. Everything was acceptable in terms of cuisine, and the restaurant is quaint. Spent more than I should have for a chicken dinner though and left with my socks still on my feet. And the only other notable experience was a wine bottle crashing to the floor from their ramshackle wine cooler. Ho hum.

Docks-Manhattan:
212.724.5588

Holy shit is this place a rip off. If you're in the mood for bad service and worse oysters, just let me know and I'll come to your house and kick you in the balls for an hour. Then you can pay me $700. Obviously built for hi-felutin' stock brokers, we came for oysters and left bankrupt. You know you're in trouble when a place charges this much and you have to ask the waiter to bring you water. To make matters more awkward, some friends showed up for just a drink and one of them brought their dog which made the overpriced raw food that much more unapetizing. I mean, who brings a dog to someone else's dinner?

Rye House-Manhattan:
212.255.7260

Fucking cold. That's all I can say. Their heat was broken on perhaps the coldest day of the year. They didn't mention it, but the fact that all of the servers and bartenders were bundled up should have tipped us off. We sat and froze. Their menu is sophisticated comfort food. If that seems like a contradiction in terms, that's because it is. Fried Mac and Cheese balls, Kobe Beef sliders, and Ghouda and Pork Belly Empenadas all sound good on paper but failed to deliver. Why reinvent the wheel? Oh, I know, to distract me from the fact I can see my breath.

Bar Stuzzichini-Manhattan:
212.780.5100

This place is too good to be true. I've been twice now, eagerly awaiting them to screw something up. But no, the food is conistent Italien; fresh ingredients and a wide selection. Service is attentive and articulate. Decor is as breath taking as a restaurant can be (I mean, who ever really has their breath taken away at a restaurant? Guastavino's of yester year maybe?). There is nothing wrong with this restaurant that I can tell. So I guess there's nothing wrong with that. Try the veal meatballs.

El Almacen-Brooklyn:
718.218.7284

Empanadas. Argentine Empanadas. Boom-shaka-laka. Argentine Carne Asada tacos. Yum yum. Encheledas, not so Argentine. Still sweet. This place has amazing potential, and though it's been open for long enough to iron out most of the kinks that still exist I'm going to keep coming back with my wives so we can watch the sweet little latin apple bottoms slither through the tight tables. My only complaint, if I were in the mood, is the seating. Be careful you can get fucked on the seating if you're not. I'm not in the mood though, so let's see if this place develops into the sultry, sex depot that it looks like its destined to become.

Elote-Brooklyn

(718) 599-2655

I believe this restaurant was called something else earlier, but I forget what it was called originally so I'll stick with its current name. For what it's worth, and this may not be much, this is probably the best Mexican food you're going to get in the berg after they closed down that deli on Bedford between north 6th and 7th.

Elote has a decently sized back yard, with picnic tables and some shade. It's the perfect place for summertime margheritas, an easy feat considering the resplendent number of quality tequilas on the bar. The last time I visited Elote I was attacked by Mosquitoes. It was quite unnerving, but at the time this was happening all over Brooklyn, and, in fact, also happened to me recently at Dumont. Fucking mosquitos man. I mean, what a wretched insect. They nearly ruined the experience, but fortunately we had all of that delicious tequila so after a little while the mosquitoes had their fill and we just sat there and slowly got drunk.

The food and service are more than acceptable, but Mexican food for me is a little different in terms of experiencing cuisine. Firstly, it is generally made from all of the same ingredients, save for minor variations in the actual mode of transport. For instance there is little difference between an enchilada and a burrito. I don't necessarily think that one dish is going to stand out more than another, merely because the beans are the same beans in whichever dish you compare. So when determining the quality of a mexican restaurant's menu, if the over all food is good, and the guacamole is good, then chances are the entire menu is good. And that is the case for Elote.

Unfortunately, the more I look at other blogs the more I realize that I don't have pictures or anything. I'm not sure I understand the food-blog picture, because to be honest the pictures rarely do anything. Obviously they are taken by amateur photographers on a digital camera, with no lighting to speak of, so the pictures make the plate look more unappetizing. Have any of you actually looked at a picture and said, 'that looks so good I just want to eat it right now.' Or even better, 'That looks revolting, I'm never eating there ever unless I'm starving or it's free.' What do you need them for? Filler? To see the size of the portions? I just don't get it. I have no pictures. sorry.

Eating on the train

I don't actually have a restaurant to talk about here. This just came from the ol' wellspring of bitchiness that I drink from on an almost daily basis. Okay....so... don't eat on the fucking subway. I'm sure you're pressed for time and this may be your only opportunity to eat something before you start whatever it is that is more important that sustenance and nutrients, but it's fucking gross. It's grosser than gross. The subway system of New York City is about as sanitary as a toilet in Paris or maybe a Turkish bath changing room. You're exposed to so much foul shit that the very idea of eating should be unappetizing. I'm begging all six of you that might be reading this, spread the word. Eating on the train is a bummer.

Peter Lugers- Brooklyn

718-387-7400

What prompted me to talk about Peter Luger's is not an actual visit to the NYC steakhouse. I just returned from Obrycki's crab shack in Baltimore. I went there to have the "authentic" crab shack experience that I've heard so much about and that is only available close to the Chesapeake Bay. What I got was a watered down coke and a not-too-bad crab cake for fifty bucks. Fucking Peter Lugered.

I've been Peter Lugered more times than I'd like to count. Smith and Wollensky, JG Melon's, Oyster Bar, and even PJ Clark's on the East side have all done it to me, but none of these are better at Peter Lugering than (obviously) Peter Luger's. Actually, I stand corrected, Cheers might be the ultimate Peter Lugerer in the land. What is getting Peter Lugered? No my sick twisted followers, it is not a sexual maneuver involving a hand gun and some fecal. It is what happens when a restaurant becomes an institution and ultimately loses the quality that initially made it so yet charges prices that are inflated because they can. When I was twelve my 15-year-old brother was bored to death walking the freedom trail in Boston. He begged to go to Cheers for lunch. My parents succumbed, fearing a serious bout of pouting for the remainder of the colonial trip down memory lane. I'm sure you already know what's coming, so to wrap it up quickly we paid well over a hundred dollars for a lunch that Boston Market could have done better.

Peter Luger's is much the same. Now hold on a sec, before you discount my interpretation the steaks are good. It's a good steak. But...I've had better. I've had better in New York. I've had better steaks in Los Banos, California. And more to the point, these better steaks weren't served by some overweight, inconsiderate, Brooklyn cretin who seems to think it's a privilege to eat at such a NYC institution. And there's my beef. I appreciate Peter Luger's has been around one hundred years; in restaurant terms that's eternity. But to fleece people with such insane prices and curt unfriendly service under the auspice of an authentic New York City experience is lame. Even the website depicts these hand-tied bow ties and polished dudes from back in the day when an honest day's wage didn't include paid vacations or benefits. Luger's has taken these fellows' gumption, and through the slow, plodding degradation of generational entitlement, transformed it into a culinary tourist trap. Believe me, there's nothing left to milk. The creamed spinach: sucks. The hand cut bacon: sucks. The bottled sauce: sucks. They even carry a line of Peter Luger steak knives and cutting board! WTF? Isn't it about the simplicity of great steaks served in a humble atmosphere, free of all of the alchemy and sophistication of new cuisine techniques? Or is it about moving merchandise to unsuspecting Manhattanites?

I don't give a fuck if Peter Luger's is an institution. Lot's of things are institutions that don't necessarily connote quality: organized religion for instance, or the Macy's parade, or Disney World. What I want is a quality steak, served with quality sides, by a person who is grateful that I'm in the restaurant to begin with. And that is definitely not Peter Luger's.

Sea--Brooklyn

(718) 384-8850

Something I've always found odd about New York is just how easy it is to ignore the fact you live in New York. Here I am having been here more than a decade, and I still haven't visited the Statue of Liberty or Ellis Island. I've made it to the MET twice, both times with out of town guests. And though I've seen more Broadway shows than I would care to admit, the trek through times square usually has my in-laws in tow. New York City has a lot to offer, which is my standby response to Uncle Brian when answering why I haven't seen the slow plod that is Ground Zero's construction. And this couldn't be anymore true about New York City than it is with its restaurants.

Sea is a place I walk by on a weekly basis. I honestly couldn't tell you the last time I went in. It has a reverse bridge-and-tunnel vibe that I always steer clear of, yet, inevitably when I have someone coming in from the mid west for dinner I find myself reflecting at the over sized..um...reflecting pool about how this restaurant isn't that bad. For one, if you can get by the impractical circular bar and pod bathrooms the dining rooms is quite spacious. The surprisingly clean pool, the gigantic Buddha, and the fact that you wait maybe thirty seconds before being seated indicate intelligent design. And the price, holy shit, this place is by all means cheap. I've never spent more than $25 a entree.

The food is Thai. Not being a culinary expert, I would say that Thai menus are like sushi menus in that every restaurant offers the same cultural staples. And true to this fiction, at Sea you've got your Americanized items like calamari and fried chicken wings, and then your more traditional items with words like Pad and Noon and other monosyllabic choices your father would throw out while impersonating orientals. For the most part, Sea's menu is pretty good. Did I mention the price? Cheap cheap cheap!

Like Pastis in the meat packing district Sea is a place that most New Yorker's don't go unless they want to impress their friends with what New York has to offer. If you can handle some GQ Polish kids and some Benz-driving yokels, then you're brother and his wife are going to be blown away.

Dressler's--Brooklyn--take two

I haven't been to Dressler in years, only because the last time I was there they confused their cuts of meat. But now they have a Michelin star, and I had to see what all of the hoopla was about. To be honest, up until five minutes ago I wasn't crystal clear on what a Michelin star is. I mean, I knew it was good sign if a restaurant has one, but I wasn't sure what the criteria was based upon. Here's a refresher from their website:

The MICHELIN Guide uses a system of symbols to identify the best hotels and restaurants within each comfort and price category. For restaurants, Michelin stars are based on five criteria:

* The quality of the products
* The mastery of flavor and cooking
* The "personality" of the cuisine
* The value for the money
* The consistency between visits

Michelin stars are awarded to restaurants offering the finest cooking, regardless of cuisine style. Stars represent only what is on the plate. They do not take into consideration interior decoration, service quality or table settings.

* A very good restaurant in it's category
** Excellent cooking and worth a detour
*** Exceptional cuisine and worth the journey

Here's the website if you need more: www.michelinguide.com. I won't get into the history of where it came from because to be honest I'm too lazy to do so. I mean, you have a computer so go figure it out if you're so curious.

I'd say that Dressler's is worthy of a star, the night I visited was after a long book reading on the upper west side and was famished. You could have served a plate of steaming dog shit and I would have been satisfied. I had the trout salad, followed up with a rib small plate and mash potato combination frankensteined together. Both were very good, Michelin star good I suppose, and since the restaurant was empty I suppose I would also qualify the service as good. My wife had something off the specials list, I think it was the fish. She was happy with it. Okay, not too much more to mention.

Gino's--Manhattan

(212) 758-4466‎

My first time in Gino's was a bit of an experience. I was there with a friend, his girl friend, and her friend. We were all just out of college, and I'd been in the city maybe a week passing through on a road trip across the states. My friend grew up in this place; all of his childhood birthdays, his graduations, and most of his holidays were spent dining at Gino's. I was so intimidated by the wealth that seemed to ooze from every geriatric patron, that I could barely hold my flatware, let alone enjoy the easy wasp driven attitude. I was wearing my nicest shirt from a mall in the fashionable Midwest, and the snot that my friend wasn't banging sized me up by asking where I had bought it. My friend the regular ordered for me and when the veal Milanese (still on the bone) arrived the simplicity and recognition relieved me, I didn't have to pretend to enjoy it. It also distracted me from trying to keep up with Hampton and Nantucket references, from deciphering just exactly what this girl did to enjoy a pent house apartment on 55th street, and from wondering why her inflection was so god-damned nasal. This experience was not so much about the meal I enjoyed, but rather about the first time I interacted with old, stodgy, money. I mean the class of people who look at your Ross shirt and Dockers, and know immediately that you are several pegs lower than them on the backwards, elitist code the entire Upper Eastside seems to live by.

Now I've eaten their a million times with my friend, and can be honest when I say that this place is worth checking out though the cuisine is nothing to get excited about. Upon entering you can feel that Gino's was really swinging in the late fifties, thick with smoke and loud with boisterous drunks, braces holding up their pants and hair slicked to their skulls. But the fluorescent lighting, the faded red wallpaper with Zebras, and the waitstaff that are roughly the same mean age as the patrons are a clear indication that its time has passed. The food is consistent red-sauce Italian. It's good, but not great. Words like infused, organic, and healthy should be left at the double swinging barn doors. The service is professionally brisk, honed from decades of repetition. The waiter walks up, takes your order, is annoyed for a bit, and from that point any two or three people working the dining room will deposit food and drink in front of you. Their assured way of serving leaves no doubt that they have the utmost confidence in what they are doing but also attests that they forgot long ago about hospitality. Interestingly enough, Gino's is one of the few restaurants in the city that still operates under the suffocating umbrella of the local restaurant union. And like many of the classic places of yesterday, Rainbow Room and Tavern on the Green to name a few, the Local 101 is driving Gino's right into the ground.

If you're dressed for it, and want to experience how the top 1% used to spend their days, then Gino's is for you. It won't be flashy, it won't be exciting, it probably won't be that impressive, but as a bedrock for old family money, it's an example that's tough to beat.

Self Aggrandizing Recap

Every once in a while I think it is appropriate to revisit some of the places I've already mentioned to see how they are doing. It makes it easier to keep tabs on things, and more importantly prevents me from pulling another Queen's hideaway gaff. I should also mention that I don't necessarily comment on the food in each and every single entry. If you are looking for that then I suggest a rather thorough food blog called Eat It Brooklyn, it is one of the links listed below. If you're looking for actual food comments, along with pictures of their Sunday brunch then this is the website for you. At Iconman I deal with nothing but the hechos, and by hechos I mean my interpretation of how things went down. Yup, a regular old Dick Tracy.

Aqua Santa (Originally posted 6/13/09): Just had dinner here with my other wife, and once again sat in the garden sipping on Peroni's. Sound as a pound this place, that is if you're into uninspired Italian cuisine consistent in its usualness. As an added bonus we witnessed a Godfather style drug deal occur, complete with stashing of the contraband in the toilet tank.

Hearth (Originally posted 2/24/09): Just had dinner last night and was much more impressed with the service than last time. It might help that the server is also a server at Terroir and knows me as a spaz. I also noticed that the menu clearly states the veal meatballs come with ricotta ravioli, which was the source of my complaint in the earlier entry. But, to my credit, they still wear ridiculous shirts. And the place is way more expensive than I want it to be.

Fada (Originally posted 6/4/09): Went here with my wife and other wife a few weeks ago out of desperation for some cold Sancerre. And let me tell you there was a waitress that was so hot I am still making withdrawals from the spank bank. Ouch. Too hot. She must not work there anymore because of the repeated solicitation by yours truly to have a foursome. Even my wives were into it. Oh, and the food absolutely sucked. It was a hot day, and the tuna tartar seemed like it was made of peach plado. I’m still going back in hopes that she's wearing a tank top.

Donahue's--Manhattan

212.650.0748

So the overwhelming response and questions--from currently all five of you-- have been quite difficult to keep up with. I will list the top five in order of frequency:

1) What does Iconman mean?
2) Could you include pictures with your blog?
3) Could those pictures be of your testicles? (Seriously. That is number three.)
4) Why do you always write about Williamsburg?
5) Where do I find your rating system?

Those are all very good questions. And for the purpose of this blog I am going to answer number four, followed up not coincidentally with my thoughts of Donahue's Steak House. The reason I write about Williamsburg is that I live here and have lived here for many years. I saw the slow transformation from Puerto Ricans on the south side and Polish on the north side to hipsters everywhere, to now hipsters on the fringes and yuppies everywhere. And for the most part, this slow transformation has manifested in the restaurants in the neighborhood. No longer am I subjected to Vera-Cruz, Pita Power, Williamsburg Diner, or Anytime, as there are a plethora of new places to check out. And for the record all of those places save Vera-Cruz are closed (also for the record I lived in a building owned by the owner of Vera Cruz and if you eat in that restaurant I hope you enjoy cockroach shells and mouse feces; but that's a tale for another time). I don't mean to say that I don't eat in other parts of the city, but rather I haven't gotten around to writing about them because they're not necessarily going to include the incisive social commentary that all five of you have grown to appreciate. Jesus, that was a mouthful.

With that said, I feel that Donahue's is due because they serve indisputably the BEST CORN BEEF SANDWICH in NYC. That's right, I said THE BEST CORN BEEF SANDWICH in NYC. The owner, Maureen, is the daughter of the original owner of Donahue's and hasn't changed a thing in this small steakhouse sitting smack dab across from Bernie Madoff's ex-deluxe apartment on Lexington and 64th. This place is no nonsense, and though it provides prompt and attentive service, often by Maureen herself, bull shitting is not an option. The mean age is approximately fifty, and I since I lunch here just about every Thursday, the only day that the corn beef is offered, I witness many a retiree slurping down five ounce martini's or straight scotch with their meal. People are here to eat and drink, so shut up and get on the trolley.

This no nonsense attitude permeates the food as well. And now that we watch chefs compete on cable to out do each other by vacuum sealing halibut or infusing bacon fat with nitrogen, it's nice to know that there are places like Donahue's that haven't fucked with a recipe for 50 years. What is especially refreshing about Donahue's is that you're also not getting that PJ Clark's, JG Mellons, Peter Luger vibe, the attitude created from the instituition syndrome: we can shit on you because we've been around for a hundred years and there's a line at the door because everyone who doesn't live here thinks this is the best place in town. Nope, Donahue's is like momma bears porridge, so if you're in the neighborhood of the lower-upper-east side and it's a Thursday you'd be a fool not to try this sandwich.

Enid's--Brooklyn

718.349.3859

For those of you familiar with anything above N 7th in Williamsburg, you'll most likely agree that it gets pretty thin for delectable eats once you start walking in the direction of McCarren Park. If you continue through the park you'll see the most dramatic change in demographics since the Harlem/Upper East Side border, as the park loungers go from pale, white, supple, tattooed hotties to red, fat, surly Polish drunks splayed about with abandon. This isn't necessarily a bad thing if you're into the grittier side of New York or plumber's crack, but if you're hungry and don't feel like Polish National food your pretty much fucked. I'm weary of both Lokal and Five Leaves for my own personal reasons, which means that for about a ten block radius you've basically got Enid's in terms of cuisine not spelled with a bunch of hard consonants--Golabki anyone?

Okay, that was quite an opening, but with that in mind, Enid's has some good stuff to offer, especially since the not-so-recent purchase of a larger deep fryer. Their chicken sandwich is hearty, as is their chicken fried steak and for brunch they have a hang-over killer called the potato hash. But let's face it, Enid's cuisine, much like Lodge, Rye, Dumont, Dumont Burger, Five Leaves, Moto and the sixteen million other comfort food joints in greater Williamsburg is nothing more than a conglomeration of crowd pleasing American food. What sets Enid's apart is that it is an oasis in an otherwise dead zone of decent eating establishments. If you're coming here for dinner, it's just as likely you're coming out of necessity as out of a desire for a culinary epiphany.

Now with that said there is an upside to Enid's that may or not be attributed to its geography: there is definitely a scene going on. A difficult to determine scene, perhaps not as sophisticated as Walter's or understated as Diner's, but a bonafide collection of cute girls, mustached men, and a legitimate je-ne-sais quoi that makes you want to sit on the sidewalk and knock back pint after pint of Pilsner Urquells while the freaks and drunk plumbers walk by. I suppose that's not enough for the foodies out there in the blog world, but it is certainly enough for me.

Diner--Brooklyn

718.486.3077

Yikes. How do I begin with Diner? From what I understand, and there’s little I do, this place is the Mecca of all things hipster and/or Williamsburg. From it, and because of it, Williamsburg evolved into what it is today. Other places emulate Diner, but none of them come close to offering what Diner effortlessly provides. For a long time it seemed like the only place any of us wanted to go. There was a two-year stretch where nothing compared. Too bad I’m not allowed in anymore. Haven’t been for four years or so. I won’t get into the details, let’s just say it’s a textbook case of cutting off my nose to spite my face. But much like my brief tenure years ago at Siberia Bar, the countless nights at Diner represent a high tide in my life. My banishment allowed me to move on, try other things, and eventually get over it. And not unlike breaking up with a really hot girl, it’s nostalgic in the shower but there is a lot of baggage that comes with going to Diner night after night. If you’re reading this blog and actually trying to find a good restaurant in Williamsburg, you can stop here. This is the best restaurant in Williamsburg, and as far as I’m concerned one of the most authentic New York City has to offer. The food is impeccable. The atmosphere is enviable. The service is, well, let’s just say the first two more than make up for the service. Below are just bits of letters, journal entries, etc… that I’d collected over the years eating at Diner.

09-05-05 –Letter to a friend… So we were supposed to meet this friend of A*****’s at Diner, who was going to give me the key to the apartment in Paris where we would be staying next week. I was quite excited, as it was my first trip overseas in a few years and I’d already taken off work for the trip so I had nothing better to do than get rip roaring drunk with a total stranger, a Parisian no less! It was like three and the sun was blasting through the screen door casting shadows that belong to late summer sun. I was having something in a Collins glass, maybe this drink they have with a twig of thyme, listening to the music and excited to get on with my trip. There’s nothing quite like having a day off before the departure overseas, especially when it’s three in the afternoon and you’re knocking back an expertly made cocktail watching young unfettered trim walk by in the late summer. Then, a hand slapped my back. I turned and to my surprise there’s A*****, his greasy hair and a goofy French smile standing there holding a key.
Holy shit the time we had. Stoli Orange shots abounded, and it wasn’t until my wife dragged me out by the ear did the possibility of leaving even occur. We must have ate, though the only thing I can remember about the night was the bar itself, crowded, sexy, alive, certainly a great precursor to Paris. Shot after shot of orange flavored vodka and sociable volume, people coming and going and not giving a shit. There is a pinnacle to a good night out, a time and place where it teeters from drunken obliviousness to fatigue. The beauty of this night was the way we teetered and maintained a perfect buzz the whole time….

06-15-04 --Letter to a friend… We decided to take our clothes off. Now granted, it was somewhat uncontestable because I was with three beautiful women. I’m pretty convinced robbing a bank is conceivable if you’re armed with three beautiful women. And I’m certain that you can get away with eating dinner shirtless….

10-10-04 --Jounal… I don’t know the condition that brought me to Diner that night, it was crowded or I would have refused sitting at the bar. I was stoned I think, getting a freebee from work and sneaking out early to write, look at internet porn, and smoke pot. S**** probably convinced me to have a drink. I ended up staying for dinner. Whatever the circumstances, one thing is for sure: it was by far the best meal I’ve had in the United States. Crushed potatoes, floating in a moat of creamed corn and bacon, with a thick roasted pork chop nestled right on top. I ate it at the bar, occasionally coming up for air or a swill of Wild Turkey. I followed it up with a slice of the chocolate cake. This meal is not oft repeated on the specials menu. And maybe, just maybe, this night at the bar was the only time I’ll ever eat it….

06-29-04 –Journal… Another large party. I feel like this is perhaps the tenth or eleventh in the last year. It seems as though my life centers around working enough to afford the three-hundred-dollar dinners spent at Diner. The server let it be known at Union Pool the other night that when we have these large parties we all get so drunk that our math is atrocious and their tips suffer greatly. Naturally, they’re thinking we’re going to take care of them as well as they took care of us. How are we supposed to know that they comped just about every drink they served? There are no prices on the menu.

10-06-05 --Email to Friend… I’m comfortable, too comfortable. I actually wore my “Fuck a Bitch” tee-shirt that Crazy L***** gave me for my birthday. I am lude with Wild Turkey logic, and now the servers see me coming and turn the other way.

11-5-05—Email to Friend (After being thrown out)… I wracked up enough points on my Amex to buy a McDonald’s franchise. And what did I receive in return? At the end of the day I bought myself dinner. Sometimes served cold, sometimes served incorrectly, sometimes served late, but always served unapologetically. I’m sorry if my standards ruined a good time. But I’m not sorry for my attitude that seems contrary to everyone else in the Williamsburg restaurant scene; that is, I am somehow supposed to compromise because the server/owner/bartender is too cool to be bothered to do their job, or too snobbish to be servile, or to not do whatever it takes to make the dining experience enjoyable…

So what makes a good restaurant? Is it the food? Is it the service? Some indeterminable combination of the two? Don’t get me wrong I looooove to harp about service. Sit their and stroke my own cock about how someone didn’t crumb correctly, or tickle my balls about a glaring restaurant inefficiency, but that’s just a professional preference. If a restaurant has bad food, I merely take pity. If you're serving bad food you shouldn’t be in business. But really good service, or really good food doesn’t necessarily make you want to come back for more. It’s more like those things can make the restaurant really special, a bastion for occasions, celebratory occasions. A good restaurant doesn’t necessarily neglect these qualities, but rather these qualities do not make a good restaurant. So whatever intangible is, it’s one that allows you to be yourself. To be comfortable. Just not too comfortable.

Sweetwater Tavern--Brooklyn

718.963.0608

For those of you who lamented the closing of arguably the best punk jukebox ever compiled, (next to Zeitgeist in SF perhaps), the mourning period should be over by now. Get over it. Sweet, you used to live here before Union Pool became the mecca for all people tattooed and under thirty, that doesn't mean that people who just moved to the burg are less cool than you. Don't get me wrong, Sweetwater’s closing as a bar was a tragic loss, comparable even to the replacement of our beloved contraband for the now-defunct Levee about six years ago. Fortunately for us though, Sweetwater is now a consistently good restaurant.

The food isn’t so unique; it’s comforty with an European aftertaste. In terms of actual menu items the lamb burger is certainly good as is the pork loin. I've actually never had an unsatisfying meal, and that's something to be said considering the number of times I've visited. The important thing to remember with all restaurants of this ilk, and a tough lesson to stomach, is that the atmosphere lends itself to being casual. When I mean casual, I mean casual. Don’t come here hungry or in a hurry. The owner will most likely seat any friend/hot chick/celebrity before he sits your party of four. It’s his place, and obviously he opened it to get himself laid. This laisez-faire attitude seeps into the service as well, as the servers and bartenders are more inclined to have a good time than turn the restaurant during a busy dinner rush. If you can handle a little bit of a wait, and some forgetful service, then this place will become an old standby in your repertoire of Williamsburg restaurants. If you can't, then coming here will only drive you crazy.

Clerkinwell--Manhattan

212.614.3234

A few Saturdays ago I went with my wife to the Zeigfield to see the new Star Trek. Since we were already in the city we decided to go down to the LOE on our way home for a fancy dinner out on a Saturday night. I had downed something like forty ounces of Sprite, and had to pee before even getting in the cab, but figured I’d wait until we got to the restaurant. We first headed to Schillers, thinking we could sneak into the bar; no dice. My bladder was beating. Then we walked towards Frankie’s in Manhattan, but I couldn’t make it so we bounced into a dead Clerkenwell. I mean D-E-D dead, which made the trip to the bathroom a little conspicuous. Going into a restaurant that is dead to pee is sort of like going to the retarded kid’s house after school to play. Sure you get to play with his GI Joe USS Flag, but at the end of the day he’s still retarded and completely unaware that you’re just there for the playtime with Keel-Haul. I digress; after running into the Clerkenwell to pee there was no way I was not eating there after seeing the bartender, server and hostess give me the puppy dog eyes. I felt so guilty that I convinced my wife to stay and eat.

The food was good. I must say that. My wife had a Cesar salad and risotto that were both pleasing, and I had a fresh rocket salad and a Toad in the Hole, sort of a bangers and mash with some puff pastry. It’s English pub grub done well, and though English food has an uphill battle in the culinary world, Clerkenwell serves good English cuisine. The décor had a pubby-feel, but it was open and didn’t smell of beer or vomit or swill. And I wish the place well only because I remember working at a restaurant that ultimately didn’t succeed. And much like the Clerkenwell I remember our close knit staff would watch throngs of potential customers walk by on their way to some other destination, surely not run by such dedicated and devoted people. It’s frustrating to see a place run with compassion fail when so many douche bags are successful in their douche baggery. Well, hopefully I’ll return to the Clerkenwell years from now, and the owner will be chewing on a big fat cigar, and the place will smell of swill, and the tenderness with which we were served will be deafened by the ring of a busy cash register. If that’s something to hope for.

Queen's Hideaway--take two

So if you haven't figured out by now, many of these reviews have been written over the years. I've informally started posting them just to get into the habit of "blogging"--something that I think used to be called writing. I've been writing these reviews over the years for several reasons: 1) I thought the restaurant review to be an interesting medium. 2) It's an easy way to keep in writing shape, sort of speak. 3) I work largely in restaurants these days. 4) My friends were sick of listening to me bitch.

Queens Hideaway is now closed. Sorry. You're welcome to the review I wrote years ago. If you're reading this to get up to the minute information on restaurants then you're almost as internet clumsy as I am and should look somewhere else.

Here are some suggestions:

eater.com
nymag.com
tastespace.com

What's so funny about these listings is they are the first three listed after googling 'restaurant blog nyc.' If you had me do that for you, then you're definitely more inept than I am. And chances are you're old.

Okay. Good luck!

Acqua Santa--Brooklyn

718.384.9695

One word: Garden. The interior of this place is like a mom and pop pizza restaurant. It’s hot, kind of gross, and certainly not hospitable enough for a long three-course meal. Outside though, it’s a different story. The two-tiered garden is a perfect place to spend a nice summer afternoon. In fact, until recently, this restaurant was a summer venue only, that is until the red-car inclined owner bucked up enough dough to enclose it for year round dining.

Let me just give you a quick anecdote of what a good garden can do for you. August 14th, 2003. I took the day off from work because we were heading out of town, and since I had a few hours to kill decided to head to Acqua Santa for some bruschetta and Peroni’s. I was reading Death in the Afternoon, and like most Hemmingway books, reading it made me feel as though putting down eight beers before dinner was perfectly acceptable. Nonetheless, around eight or so my girlfriend called. She was walking over the Williamsburg Bridge and was wondering if I was okay. Of course I was, I said trying to hide my slur, I was sitting beneath grape vines eating a fresh tomato bruschetta and drinking beer. What more could a fellow ask for? It turns out that the entire city had blacked out and I had no idea, only because I was outside of space and time and everything else that reminds you that you’re in a city. That’s what a nice quiet restaurant garden can do.

On this one the food and service can take a back seat. And for the record, unless you head several blocks east or north you’re not going to find a standard Italian dinner like one that is offered at Acqua Santa (There’s a new one, relatively speaking, that’s cropped up on South Bedford but more on that later). The food is good enough, they have pizza’s, pasta’s, caprese salad, etc… Italian food. And for a backyard like Acqua Santa’s that’s all you need.

Fada--Brooklyn

718.388.6607

So I don’t really know what to write about Fada. It’s quite simply a run-of-the mill French Bistro. I can’t really say I’ve ever had the time of my life there, nor have I ever left disgusted at the food or the service. And I should add that I have a thing for French chicks, which every French Bistro in the city seems to attract. I like French chicks, they have a sort of sexy appeal in skanky, unabashed way. But that has nothing to do with restaurants, let alone Fada.

The tuna tar tar is quite nice, though on occasion I’ve been served an older batch and it came out a little gamey. Their muscles are good, steak frites, also good, brunch consistent and pleasing. The space has a nice easy feel, and if you catch one of the bar stools you can watch the new home owners hoof it down Driggs towards their emerald city north of the park. Yup, Fada isn’t a place that is going to blow the doors off your friend visiting from any other cultured city, but at the same time, you're not going to be embarrassed taking them there.

Fabiane’s--Brooklyn

718.218.9632

Odd that I’d post this one so close to my other post of Julienne’s. And I wouldn’t call Fabiane’s even a restaurant per se, though their treats are good enough, and the outside seating is a stalwart of optimal-people-watching/Sunday Times Reading. The food is consistent enough, but not what I think of when I go out for a meal. I grab shit at Fabiane’s when I’m not too hungry.

I do remember it being on my shit list quite a few years ago, though it wasn’t so much what I could get but what I couldn’t, that is substitutions. Dumont also went on a no substitutions bender for a while—and naturally rescinded after my prolonged silent protest. I don’t see the sense of no substitutions. Why can’t I get the sandwich you make to order without ingredient x? Especially when ingredient x forces me into apoplectic shock. The answer is honest but flimsy. Both places claim that when they get busy it just slows down the culinary assembly line and they fuck it up or run out of things. To me thats sounds like your assembly line needs some fixing. Or maybe it's time you rethink the side or sandwich.

Any who, it’s a mute point for me at Fabiane’s (other than a sidebar to broach the subject of substitutions) because I always order the baguette with jam and a coffee. For that dish there is no substitute.

Juliette--Brooklyn

718.388.9222

So I might be a little biased on this one because this place used to be Red and Black and back in the day that meant dancing and smoking and drinking away my youth. Now it’s a French bistro, and though it’s been open for years I always found myself going to Fada before going to this place. My wife and I decided to risk it for brunch. The place was clean and open, and I wasn’t hung over so it had this refreshing summertime vibe when we walked in and I must say that I was excited, the place looked promising. Three pleasant girls welcomed us, and though downstairs was completely empty we opted to sit outside hiking up to a bustling roof-deck complete with full bar and black-clad servers scurrying to and fro. Again, this seemed promising, so I was content to wait with the weather being what it was and my pretty young wife beaming across from me.

And wait we did. No water, no coffee, no check-in by the server to ask for another minute because she was in the shit and just couldn’t possibly attend to our table. Nope. Nada. Nothing. Disez-vous en Francais? We might have well have been ghosts of dance-club past. The sun turned against us and we had time to dissect the service, struggling to ascertain how two servers, a busboy, and a bartender could be suffering with maybe 30 covers--half of which already served. I don’t know how long we waited, if I had to guess I’d say twenty minutes. Eventually, we discovered the problem: the server was smoking at the bar, along with the bartender and one of the cute bubbly hostesses that lured us in downstairs.

I wish I could tell you how the food is but I had brunch that day at Fabianne’s across the street. Too bad Red and Black closed.

Rye--Brooklyn

718.218.8047

Before I begin a few brief definitions:

Beef Short Ribs, IMPS/NAMP 123 & 130
Beef Short Ribs are old favorites. Providing a rich, deep flavor, short ribs lend themselves to a variety of ethnic flavors becoming the star item on trendy menus.
Short Ribs contain at least 2 but no more than 5 ribs (ribs 6 through 10). The diaphragm muscle and heavy connective tissue are removed. Short ribs are frequently cut into individual pieces. They are also cut across the bone into thick or thin crosscut pieces and can be ordered boneless.

Beef Rib Eye Steak:
Beef Rib, Ribeye Steak, IMPS/NAMP 1112 & 1112B
Convenient and versatile, these boneless steaks can be ordered any thickness for a variety of menu options. Ribeye Steaks offer great plate coverage and impressive presentations.
Cuts in the IMPS/NAMP 1112 series can be specified. Each includes more specific cutting, trimming and boning specifications.

When I spoke to a dear friend who is a chef for clarification purposes, he said that they are absolutely different cuts of meat: The rib eye being a muscle that holds the ribcage together beneath the sternum and runs the length of the cow, the short rib being the meat that is actually attached to the lower rib. This was later confirmed by a very friendly butcher at Marlowe and Daughters--evidently, my reputation has subsided (see soon to come Diner post). I didn’t mention Rye in particular as the two are distant cousins on the same restaurant lineage, but he was utterly shocked that anyone would be stupid enough to pass a short rib for a rib eye. He even took me into his meat locker, a walk in box with huge pieces of cow lying about, to show me the difference between a rib-eye steak and a short rib. After that educational field trip I would say that a rib eye steak is a big juicy, fatty steak, where as a rib steak, or rib roll steak, is what most people would consider to be a short rib, which in turn is delicious when prepared properly but not so much when prepared like a rib eye steak, that is grilled. So before I begin with Rye, I must say that I had a complete slam-dunk on my hands. A no questions asked, ‘he is absolutely fucking right’ slam dunk. And like most know-it-alls I wanted only a simple ‘you’re right’ to assuage my undying desire for vindication….

We went to dinner at Rye with high hopes, and though the oak bar and comfort food menu was a glaring redundancy if you walked two blocks in just about any direction, we were happy to see familiar faces go out on their own, since two owners my companions have known for years at Dumont/Dressler. I ordered the mixed green salad, incredibly reminiscent of Dumont sans the flavor, and then ordered the Rib Eye Steak. Imagine my surprise when I was delivered a short rib, complete with rope ties to keep it rolled. I beckoned my waitress, who didn’t arrive until the manager—the lovely, graceful manager who I won’t name here but has vocationed through Williamsburg-- had already received my complaint. They both reassured me that what I was served was indeed a rib eye steak. I also should remind you, that this is a 28-dollar entrée. Nonetheless, they claimed that my confusion was due to the sauce, beef bourginon (which I assume is a take on the bourguignon sauce—glazed onions, mushrooms, and bacon) which had pieces of short rib in it. Right, that’s it. I somehow confused the sauce with the actual cut of meat.

It ruined dinner. I couldn’t shut up about it and for that I’m sorry for my dinner companions. And as much as I hate to go on about it even now, they did not serve what they were advertising. I think this place has potential, and since I’m posting this about a month after their unofficial opening, it will be interesting to see how they do. I know that I won’t be there to see it though, because I’m not paying $28 for a short rib.

Hearth--Manhattan

646.602.1300

It should be noted that a lot of my restaurant experiences included the influence of tremendous amounts of alcohol. And it as been said that I am not necessarily the smoothest of drunks. Nonetheless, I must say that Hearth was a place I’d been dying to visit. Not me, actually, but rather my wife, who begrudgingly joins me on many of my restaurant sojourns. In this instance it was my other wife, a dear friend dialed into the industry to direct me to places she thinks I’d like. Unfortunately for these places, I’m a drunk. And when drunk, I’m an asshole.

The Hearth experience began at Terroir, the little-sister wine bar. Terroir is fantastic, and we started there with a little bacala and a few glasses of wine. I’m not sure what kind, so I’ll stick with red. When we finally got over to Hearth we decided to sit at the bar so we could observe the wait staff scurry around in their pre-determined casual attire. More on the pre-determined in minute. The bartender reminded me of someone, and when she walked up I was creepily familiar. I say creepily because I didn’t have my I’ve-never-met-you-before defenses up and was a little too much myself. Dare I say that for one, I was drunk, and two by virtue of one, an asshole. As we looked over the Northern-Italian Aspired menu I inquired about her nifty shirt, which everyone else in the restaurant was wearing to some degree. Did the restaurant make them buy their own striped shirt so that they could personalize the obvious manufactured casual look? Or were they forced by the conglomerate to wear them? My server did not receive these questions well, briskly going over the menu before taking a drink order for more red wine.

Now at this point I’m going to take minute to discuss what we had. I’d already wolfed down the bacala, which was delicious and I presume from the same kitchen. My friend had a salad with a lot of fennel and the quail. She said both were quite delicious but I wasn’t about to try her food because she’s kind of hot and fennel is gross. I had the veal meatballs, and because the server curtly took my order, also had a plate of salty gnocchi. There was also ravioli on the plate of meatballs. A question I distinctly asked when ordering to begin with, which is why the salty gnocchi was so fucking disappointing; because the dish already came with a fucking starch.

I understand that owners are trying to make their restaurant into a specific brand to attract a specific customer. I know this. Certain places do not necessarily have formal service, some places require a tie, and other places deal with insanely poor people and serve them processed protein that sometimes passes for beef. That’s the owner’s prerogative; what he or she thinks will sell well and for what price. And all of these places have two things in common: the first is that they are going to serve food; the second their staff is going to have to deal with assholes.
I appreciate I might have been off-putting to that lovely bartender on that particular night. I know my hang ups, look at myself everyday in the mirror and go on with life. I’m an asshole when I’m drunk. I get it. But don’t fuck up my order because of it. A restaurant that charges the money that Hearth charges should have the person who manages their bar, including service drinks mind you, know the menu backwards and forwards. And should prevent someone, even if they make fun of your silly dress code, from ordering a side of starch with a dish that clearly covers the starch department, especially if you’re going to charge that person forty dollars for an entrée and the side. You never know who keeps closeted restaurant reviews. And if Terroir’s staff wasn’t so knowledgeable, and most likely a better representation of the owner’s vision, an asshole like me would choose never to return.

Walter Foods--Brooklyn

718.387.8783

Williamsburg eateries beware; there is a new game in town. Un fettered by it’s predecessors of comfort cuisine, Walter’s is poised to take the mantle of hipsterdom and turn it on its pretentious ear. Walter’s serves up its product with something many should take note: Pride and Polish. From the clean, well lit, and finished dining room, to the beautiful bar, to the hand tied bowties of its staff, there is nothing that isn’t finished, and finished well.

Make no mistake, this is a bar first and restaurant second, though the quality of the food and service would lead one to believe otherwise. There is something inviting about the bar besides its prominence, as though it’s a permanent fixture of comfort in a topsy-turvy world of economic woes and nationwide layoffs. The cocktail list is plenty, albeit old-fashioned, and the mixologists behind the bar are both friendly and adept. The cocktails are well done, cold draft cubes and basic, refined ingredients make their “old fashioned’ legitimately old fashioned, and other classic cocktails (Pimms Cup, Hemmingway, etc…) are cold, crisp, and enjoyable.

Even though the bar is the crown jewel, the menu compliments it quite well reflecting a willingness to serve crowd pleasers but doing so in a matter that is both unique and refreshing. Two good examples of this are the Cocktail Franks in a Blanket and the Chicken Pops—really just buffalo wings with the bone exposed. The menu also offers a middle tier of sandwiches and burgers and each is worth trying: The Rib Eye burger is well cooked, and the Filet Mignon French Dip and Lobster Club are all worthy of having more than once. The entrées reflect the same no-frill attitude but are executed with precision and delicacy. The hanger steak (aptly disguised as a “Butcher’s Steak) was cooked and seasoned well. The half fried chicken, and seasonal oyster platter are other enjoyable meals. My only complaint would be the price, as a $44 dollar surf and turf seems a bit steep, but I’ve seen worse ways to piss away money.

All in all it’s about time that restaurants turned the corner in Williamsburg. Too long this neighborhood has succumbed to establishments where the food is all that matters; where if clean and professional ambiance is ostracized as a gimmick and automatically considered too commercial or Manhattany. Dressler was the first to take a stab at this, yet fell flat with the amateur service after nailing the ambiance. At last we have a restaurant that has servers who take their job seriously, but more so, have pride in running a restaurant. Thank God that someone has finally taken the inhabitants of Williamsburg as something more than anti-establishment trend setters, because it was long over due.

Spice Market--Manhattan

212.675.2322

I have to be honest; I wouldn’t normally go to a restaurant like this. It isn’t so much the price, as Spice Market’s Asian fare is relatively cheap, rather it’s more of the location in the Meat Packing District. I find the image of that area to be so less than authentic that it requires a sort of blurred vision of reality, a delusion of what is actually going on, and to that this restaurant fits the bill perfectly. The women are all tall and done up, though not necessarily beautiful. The men are all wearing designer button down shirts and designer jeans and cologne, a combination that is easy on the eyes, yet still unfathomable. Call it reverse snobbery a la Epstein, I just can’t handle so many cool people at once.

Naturally, to cater to such a faux-heeled crowd, Spice Market does a lot of things that in ordinary circumstances I would consider a good idea. The problem is, the translation from idea to execution is difficult to do in such a culture of mediocrity. For instance, open back uniforms for your female server is, in theory, a sexy, unprecedented move. Given the right circumstances, say a third world country where discrimination based on looks is common place, I see the vision of several ninety-pound Asian girls scooting around with their supple, a-cup breasts spilling over and their jet-black hair tumbling down an exposed nubile back. I bet it would look pretty swell. However, in good ol’ USA, this open shirt policy results in love-handles, back hair, and most unappetizing bacne.

This high-concept sloppy execution is the unofficial motto Spice Market. Our server delivered cocktails, a gin martini and glass of wine, then promptly returned with our $80 bottle of wine. Even I can’t drink that fast. The buss boys dropped in from no where, to change our place mat between course, to add a fork or subtract a vessel, and though in theory this is service I expect from such an acclaimed establishment, it was so clumsy and awkward I couldn’t help but notice there was a small strike force attacking my table. After dinner, when ordering the digestive, Fernet Branca, it turned out that it was “in the wrong place” and the bartender couldn’t find it. Though, from my vantage point, it seemed obvious that the bartender and server had no fucking clue as to what I was talking about, as he looked at just about every dust covered bottle before finding it. Evidently, leaving the Grey-Goose sugar-tini menu wasn’t his forte.

The food, in all of its splendor, sucked. Not to say it sucked, though the shrimp appetizer with dehydrated pineapple was deplorable, in a typical sucky way, but it just didn’t seem to match the idea behind a multi-million dollar fauxury restaurant. It was simple, crude, plain, Asian fare. It’s as though they tried to replicate the disappointment one experiences when dining at Sea in Brooklyn, or at just about any restaurant in Vegas. It was uninspired suckiness, a suckiness born of omission, instead of ambitious commission by an untalented chef.

Of course this dressing down is somewhat moot. I am not the typical Spice Market goer. If it had not been for a well-intentioned gift card from one of my vendors I would have never known of the Spice Market world. The place succeeds, it was full of good-looking simple people who like to stand around and admire each other. They need places like this to complete their saccharine world of superficiality. If it weren’t for Spice Market this scene might seek out and destroy the quality places I like, and then where would I be? More to the point, they’re getting exactly what they want, and who is to criticize that?