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.