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.