Total Backlog, part 2--Manhattan

Rayela--LES

212.253.8840

A tasting menu debacle. Went here with with all three spouses and a boisterous expat living in London. Other wife was convinced that the multiple awards meant something. We decided to get the tasting menu and make a night of it. There must have been something lost in translation, as they kept bringing us regular sized portions, of different items, and then expecting us to pass the plates and share.

At first it was okay, but once you've tried everything and realized that one or two of the items may or may not contain dog, you want to stick with one thing. You inevitably end up competing with the other diners for the one tasty dish (the ceviche was miraculous). By the end of it, I had a black eye.

Trattoria Rino--Midtown West

212.307.0666

I'm never trusting Yelp again. Rather, I'm going to start the new fad, beloved nine, of stating quite clearly that I've been yelped. We saw Book of Mormon (not as good as you've been led to believe, FYI,--but this is a restaurant review damn it!) and needed to get the in-laws to a relatively inexpensive and menu-neutral post theater dinner. Yelped Italian food and this is what we got:

A glorified pizza parlor with gimmicky wall hangings and a bunch of wanna-be Gambino's playing make believe mafioso restaurateurs. Food sucked. Service Atrocious. They had this weird dude in a fedora and trench coat chain smoking cigarettes outside that would occasionally come inside and ask how everyone was doing. There was a fat, greased, mustacheoud oddball that must have been the owner, getting up from his table of losers every ten minutes to come and ask how everything was doing.

Hey Rocko, you know what? Everything thing is going poorly. Your team of Ecuadorians are currently hauling your garbage through the dining room, your wine is a magnum of grape juice and antifreeze, and your risotto is par cooked crap. Go smoke another cigarette and while your at it continue your effective yelp campaign as that is the only way I could fathom you getting three stars.

Pelligrino's--Little Italy

212.226.3177

Now on the other side of that coin is Pelligrino, a typical red-sauce joint down in little Italy. I know that everyone rolls their eyes when they think little Italy, assuming the worst: the fleecing of would-be diners who are mostly from areas of the country that don't have little Italies (let alone Italians). But I must say that this place was perfect for my purposes. Firstly, I was with my family. It had enough gimmick to satisfy their tourist hungers, but enough class to satisfy my NY snobbery.

The food was authentic red-sauce Italian. Cooked well but with no real surprises. Not great, not bad, but cooked as though it's been cooked a million times before. And the pricing? I'm the wine buyer at my company, and I must say we were knocking down Antinori Toscana ( a decent middle of the road wine) bottle after bottle and it was inexpensive enough to do just that and still stick my older brother with the tab.

Total Backlog part 1--Brooklyn

Holy moley, the busy season does this to a fellow. My little scribble pad is full of places that I've vowed to review, only to not review. Many of these are antiquated, but probably still relevant.

The Meatball Shop--Williamsburg:

718.551.0520

Right in the center of the universe for Williamsburg, this place seemed to come out of nowhere one day and replace an old card shop (I think?). There's a few in the city, so like other local LES franchises (Grif dog's and San Loco to name a few) these guys decided to capitalize by exploiting their demographic. Anyway, it has all of the hipster fixins: marble bar, turn of the century vibe, and comfort food. Seems like a recipe for success, but how could they make it different enough to stand out from all of the other places doing the exact same thing? By using a dry erase marker on a jarring and poorly designed laminated menu to select your meatballs? Stupendous!

So there's this over-designed menu to contend with, and since I'm sitting at the bar trying to make sense of it, and the bartender is too busy rehearsing his bit to help us, how about a decent pilsner draft beer? PBR, the only option, is totally insufficient. And why I'm on the subject of the bar, I appreciate a comedian/bartender as much as the next asshole, but how about a little less joking around and a little more pouring my pisswater beer? The meatballs, on the other hand, are as good as advertised. Too bad they make it overly confusing to order and hire jackass bartenders.

Trix--Williamsburg:
347.599.0702

Speaking of overly designed, walk a few blocks north and you run into Trix. Completely re-done in all painted wood, this place was a florist shop for years, but eventually like everything Polish in this neighborhood transformed into a wooden bar with cute hipster waitresses.

Oddly, we ate here the night before the infamous Irene rain storm that came through. We had oysters, bruschetta with artichoke, and fries. I can't comment too much as this is way distant (more distant than I've ever gone before!) but I can say that I haven't been since--meaning I definitely didn't shit myself with excitement. Though, to be fair, it's hard to get that excited eating oysters. Unless, of course, they're very, very bad oysters.

Fat Goose--Williamsburg:
718.963.2200

This place is the culmination of someone trying to grasp the whole hipster Brooklyn thing by reading about it and replicating from magazine clippings. And boy oh boy, there's nothing worse than seeing a restaurant with hard working people destined to fail. The last time I wrote that was about the Clerkinwell in the LES and I was proven wrong. Much in the same vain I hope I'm wrong about this place, but we were here with my entire family the night before Thanksgiving and they had maybe, I'm being generous here, ten covers. The staff was clearly bored and worse, were used to it.

The chef came and served a lot of the stuff herself (clear sign of a dead restaurant--as she even had time to comment about a bad yelp post) which was a bummer because one of the appetizer specials was about as delectable as gravy train which made the fact we didn't eat it a little awkward when she came back. The entrees were all prepared well, and the vision of a game influenced menu is cool, but this place is too new, too polished, trying too hard. A game influenced menu should have a rustic vibe, not an overly varnished strip mall pedestal-table vibe.

The chef seemed sincere and was quite pleasant, too bad that doesn't equate to success in this town.

ISA--Brooklyn

(347) 689-3594

Pretty exciting one for me, only because the moment I have been waiting for has arrived. You see, I was at this place the exact same time as NY times reviewer Eric Asimov. This allows me to see how I work as a sort of litmus test against perhaps my most evasive (and newfangled) nemesis. Let's not forget the NY times and my history. It was them that took my idea of an occasional restaurant review and ran with it, leaving me to have a registered readership of nine while they stole all of the glory. It was them that rejected my resume time after time after time. It was the NY Times that publishes it's newspaper! This is my chance to show them what a real restaurant review is about. The facts: how hot was the server? How was the food? How well did they maintain my buzz while I checked out the server? Well, now we finally have the exact same dining experience to compare just who writes the better review:

As for a caveat, it is unfortunate that the person behind the bar was an old acquaintance/server at a previous restaurant. It's hard to write objectively about a friend's endeavor. I hereby declare using the scouts honor gang sign that I'm totally objective:

My Review:
Sat at the bar with the old wife after driving around looking for a place that wasn't going to serve us comfort food with some sort of Williamsburg gimick. Fortunately we found ISA, a quasi diner-esque venue opened by the same guys who made having a beard cool at Freeman's. We knew the bartender, which warranted us a few mistakenly made cocktails that were interesting but not shit-yourself-good. The place looked like it was made by a bunch of wood shop nerds. Seriously, wooden bar stools, wooden stools, wooden walls wood everywhere. There were a bunch of 30-something, feel-good, sustainable-eating, bohemian types, some of who were good looking enough to potentially give me, ehem, well you know.

The food? Complicated. I didn't have to ask to know that it was going to be preservative free, farm fresh, organically grown, delicately harvested, etc.. but that doesn't necessarily lead to deliciousness. It only means that you have a good conscious at best and have the right to be snobby to all other inhabitants of the US that are not rich or New Yorkers at worst. Was it good? Yes. The tar tar was superb as was the bread but the simple menu was a little too healthy for me. My wife on the other hand had a total boner meaning it was tasty and nutritious.

End of my review.

Their Review:

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/23/dining/reviews/isa-nyc-restaurant-review.html?pagewanted=all

I don't need you to tell me how superior my review is so don't bother, I already know.

Rosarito Fish Shack--Brooklyn

718.388.8833

Man oh man how times change. For many, many years this was the Williamsburg Cafe, then it changed to some restaurant with Sunny chef who's now back at the Essex house (Sunny made these awesome pork-brain dumplings one time at this pig roast, it's a long story by I ended up with sporks and tortillas in my hair and bit Bill Phelps on the dick at union pool) before it shuttered once again. I know this isn't very interesting to many people, but seeing a neighborhood like Williamsburg rapidly change is an odd and somewhat unnerving experience. I had brunch with both of my parents at the Williamsburg cafe, sitting below a wagon wheel that was suspended but what must have been velcro. My parents are divorced now. So there's that to think about.

The fish shack lost the cheesey tex mex vibe to install a more Latin feel. I'm not sure they pulled it off, but one thing is for sure: they serve fish. Fish tacos, fish ceviches, fish, fish fish. We went on a Sunday, With wife, other husband, other wife, and other husband's brother (other brother in law?) as I'm in the busy season and this is the only spare time I have. Our waitress suffered from news caster syndrome: the jarring switch from perfect English to perfectly pronounced Spanish when reciting the menu.

I made the mistake of trusting her to get me the best dish on the menu: which happened to be a fish stew that was comprised of everything about to spoil. It was good and hearty though. I had a bunch of margaritas so I'm not sure of anything else. Both wives said food was kind of bland, especially the crab tostada. But that white girl sure could say taquitos convincingly.

A little of this a little of that...

Hi there good people. Another one of those posts that has a bunch of restaurants that were okay:
Elephant and Castle: West Village
212.243.1200

Went here on a Friday night and were actually pretty psyched. I'm not sure what we had, I think a burger and some fish, but it was cute, quaint, understated and an overall pleasant experience. I'm also not sure why I jotted down the waiter thanked us, though if I had to guess it's because he probably thanked us for something. Which is odd, my expected comment from a waiter ranges from "go away" to "get the hell out."


Isle of Capris--Upper East Side
212.223.9430

Holy shit this place is a time warp. Multi-roomed, cheese-balled out, and authentically corny Iatlien, this is everything your Grandmother remembers about fancy places from yesteryear.

Only in New York would a place like this exist. For one the wiaters all wear cheesy bowties and vests that are covered in the thin film of three hundred shifts without a dryclean. They have a crazy olive jar Antipasto table set up right smack in the middle, and I'd say just about every guest there is over the age of 65.

This sort of authenticity really wears thin when you realize that every entree is at least thirty bucks. Some places should have closed years ago, like this one.


Tabare--Williamsburg
347.335.0187

Sick of the bar food at Walter's we decided to try this place just one block south on South 1st street. It's this little Argentine number opened a bit ago by two gay dudes who were there that night. Let me tell you, we were pretty psyched as at least 50% of the menu is a combination of meat and cheese.

I had the cheese empinadas and they were fantastic. Gooey, messy, and full of cholesterol and other things sure to kill me. Then I followed that up with the skirt steak bam, take that still-beating heart. Wifey wife wasn't as psyched on her steak sandwich. Anywho it wasn't a culinary epiphany, but comforty in a Latin sort of way; a decent place if you're in a pinch and can't get a seat at Rye or Walters.

Roman's--Brooklyn

(718) 622-5300

I finally made it over here after years of accolades from my other wife, who moved to Fort Greene after deciding that Williamsburg has sold out. I'm not sure if that's here official position, but considering she won't comment if I'm wrong, I'm gonna stick with it. For those of you beloved nine that don't know Fort Greene there's not too much too it. There's a big steep park with a fort, just south of Flushing Ave. If you live in Manhattan then Fort Greene is one of those neighborhoods you drive through while lost looking for some God forsaken brownstone. It's that memorable.

As for the mighty Roman's: from what I understand this is a second under taking from the folks at Diner in the same location, the first being the second incarnation of Bonita. Bonita part deux closed and re-opened as Roman's as a sort of quasi gourmet comfort food that we have grown accustomed to after all these years from Broadway and Berry. I just ate there and managed to not get too drunk, so what we had for dinner is still fresh in my sodden mind:

Two crustini: Chicken Liver pate and some sort of Chick Pea concoction.

String bean salad with a poached egg
Spaghetti and meatballs
Tortellini
Round steak with hen of the woods mushrooms
Cheese plate
two sorbets: Chocolate and Fruitish. The chocolate was heavily salted mind you.
Butter cookies

My actual wife was quite late so we ate a lot of food over the course of about two hours. And just how was it? Well, pretty good I suppose. But not great. It's interesting, the atmosphere, the wine, the service, all top notch. If I'd been drinking or if the night had not been out of synch, (having to wait for an hour for one of your party will do that to you) then I would think that Roman's was out of this world. They were also nice enough to seat us still incomplete, which is rare these days.

The problem with Romans, and Moto, and Five Leaves, and Dumont, and Franky's, and Diner, and Hotel de Mano, and the Bedford, and that new uber beer Garden in Greenpoint, and Northeast Kingdom,, and Walters, and Rye, and the Richardson, and god knows what else is opening in the next six months is that it's been done! I guess that's why the perfectly good food is boring. When is someone in the greater Brooklyn area open up a restaurant that makes out of this world French? Or Italian? Or Russian? Or Chinese? Why can't Brooklyn have a Shun Lee palace? Or Nobu? And not in the old world style that is so cache, but a new, sexy, white linen Italian restaurant run by serious restaurateurs? One or eight comes to mind. We need more of that.

In the meantime I'll take Roman's as it is all I've got. But I have to say this whole turn of the century Brooklyn Brand thing is starting to get a little old.

Lucien--Manhattan

212.260.6481

Man oh man. There's so many restuarants in this fucking city that it seems all but impossible to keep up. And forget Williamsburg/Greenpoint, every day another place is popping up selling local sustainable products. Just what I need, more green mac and cheese. That's why I love the East Village, because if you can last there more than a year, and you have a solid lease, you'll be there for a decade or two. Enter Lucien, the cute little French place on 1st Avenue.

What makes this place so special? Well for one, it's authentically simple. It's French. The cuisine is French, the staff is French, the menu is in French, you know what you're getting. Secondly, it's cozy and quaint but at the same time sociable and boisterous. It's a local French place. It doesn't rely on a bridge and tunnel scene, or perhaps a foodie network of adventurous eaters, it does what it does and the people in the neighborhood come and go and are generally happy that it exists for them to come and get a table in an unabashed French place. Lastly, it's well balanced between reasonably priced and fine food quality.

Iconman? What's this? Why aren't you talking about the hot skinny looking mime that always seems to work there (she does)? Or the way the gay host/waiter was so touchy feely he got you half mast with his little back massage (he did)? What's this tame, almost seemingly professional review of a boring, neighborhood French place? What happened?

Well beloved nine truth be told enough hair has fallen out of my head that I've learned that a steady dose of asshole (even when it's so well written) gets a little boring. This place checks out. And I suggest checking it out.

Other Restaurants--Brooklyn

I've hit a few places lately that have not been note worthy enough to justify an entire post.

Rabbit Hole:
718.782.0910
This place is on the southside of Williamsburg and I'd walked by it a zillion times wondering what it must be like. It was on Bedford and seemed to have all of the ingredients. Nice Garden, check. Long bar with tasty beer, check. Semi-attractive seemingly artisinal staff who are well educated but clearly working at Rabbit Hole to make ends meat, check.

The occasion was my wife's birthday. She wanted a no frills dinner with just the closest of friends so it was me, my wife, ,my other wife, and my other wife's husband. We sat outside becuase we all like to be attacked by mosquitos. It's a freaky sadistic polyamorous thing.

This was a month or so ago so all I can really say is what I jotted down in my journal:
Food boo
Service booer

Evidently I somehow rattled one of the Annie De Franco wannabe waitresses. Couldn't imagine how.

Le Gamin:
718.770.7918
This restaurant is a manifestation of the inevitable development that is Greenpoint Avenue near the East River. With the park going in, and the anchor that is the Pencil Factory, it was just a matter of time before cute little rustic french places sprouted up all over the place.

I checked this restaurant out for brunch, and would be lying if I didn't say that I was unabashedly hung over. And they nailed it. Granted, I had to drink Kronenbourg (the French may have good wine but I'm not crazy about their beer) but I also inhaled a croque madame that was so good it hurt. Le Gamin is cash only, but wisely--dare I say appropriately-- they have an ATM right inside of the restaurant. Smrt.

Saraghina:
718.574.0010
This might be the only place in town to eat in Bedstuy. Seriously, I think the name of this restaurant translates to: "first place of gentrification." It's cute, folky, and right in the middle of what most would consider a gehtto. It's also slow as shit.

I went with the team, on a Sunday night and the place was chaulk-a-block full of artfully minded white people. The Italian cuisine was fresh, but somewhat plain and average. Nothing jumped out at me other than it was so slammed it took us 20 minutes to get the motherfucking check. I imagine for patrons that are also local inhabitants of the neighborhood, the food tastes so great because they are lucky to be alive when they arrive. These same maniacs also don't mind waiting for the check because they don't want to leave after dark. Yup, that's right, I said those things.

11 Madison Park-Manhattan

212.889.0905

Firstly, allow me a brief stint of humility: I'm probably not qualified enough as a food authority to blog about 11 Madison Park accurately. And that's not a shameful thing, as I offer what I think is my own unique perspective about restaurants in New York City. Most of the time I come off as an asshole, and I rarely actually speak about the food unless I really really like it or really really dislike it. If you look at the places I've written about in the last several years you'll see that I am not one to appreciate reputation or buzz or awards or anything else that would merit an affinity for fine food and beverage.

So with that long winded caveat, I can honestly state, in my humble opinion, there is no fucking way this place is worth the money. Not even close. We went for our wedding anniversary dinner (with the real wife) and had a gift certificate that was generously given to us by a friend who has two infant children and woudn't have been able to use it. After seeing the sum on the gift card, we figured why not splurge a little and get the four course tasting and the wine pairing. That's the set up. Here's what you get for roughly $400 a head:

• A menu with the principle ingredients laid out. The food preperation is so good, you only need to know the protein. Food allergies be damned, the food preperation is so good you couldn't possibly be allergic to it.



• The wine pairings are sexist.
  


• Service ninja's, this happened at Spice Market too, what's with the service ninjas? They appear out of no where, deliver something bite-sized you didn't order, and then vanish after throwing sand in your eyes. Seriously, it kept fucking happening and it was jarring.



• While on service, the ones that weren't ninjas were robotic. Not unpleasant, but clearly trained to feel superior than the guest because they're fleecing you. I'd feel that way too if I'd bamboozled you into telling you what you're going to have for dinner.



• The food itself: interesting. I'd say it's interesting. I certainly didn't shit myself, and some of it wasn't that great.

And there in lies my problem: you don't know what you're getting so have none of the joy of anticipating what you're eating. And unless you sit there and ask the server about all 16 dishes, you're working with just one ingredient. To be honest I remember the chicken being nice. And the rest of the food was beautiful, to a degree artfully and skillfully prepared, but that's not why I go to a restaurant of this caliber. I go to a restaurant of this magnitude to have my socks blown completely off of my feet. To walk out of there so full and so drunk and so happy that I went that I become depressed at being such a plebian.

More to the point, my contention is the overall pretention. 11 Madison oozed a self-awareness of their quality. The amuse bouch scenario sums this perfectly. They kept throwing all sorts of appetizers at us, amuse bouche after amuse bouche, to the point that my bouche wasn't that amused. Firstly, I wasn't sure if this is what I ordered or not, because we only knew one ingredient. How was I not supposed to know that the pea soup wasn't actually spinach soup? The menu only said spinach. And because of the service ninjas, reciting the ingredients with their condescending manner, one that invokes the idea that we both know I'm going to enjoy this, that I'd better enjoy this, that since I'm paying so much money for this 2 oz portion of soup delivered in a cheap-ass oneida coffee creamer that if I don't enjoy this it is clearly my problem (a tonality, I must say, that take years upon years of pretentious training), and then swish away in a cloud of smoke. If you didn't catch their over-rehearsed retelling of the ingredients then too bad for you.

Look, if you're reading this, most likely you live in Brooklyn and aren't too concerned about what the uber-rich in Manhattan are doing to piss away their money. I just want to stress you're really not missing anything.

Vacation's Over

Even the most cynical of people need a little time off. Truth be told, I haven't gone anywhere in the last month to warrant a legit review anyhow. Except for these places...

Fatty-Cue:
718.599.3090
Ate here in their outside "garden." It was more like the alley next to it but it didn't matter. Their portions were out of control. I vaguely remember this place being a different restaurant, I want to say East River Bar, but I'm not quite sure. We had brunch. It was brunchy. I also remember that my wife gave the nod for me to have a beer as a hair of the dog. Not that I need the nod, but when you get the nod you feel a lot better knowing that you didn't make too much of a fool of yourself the night before.

Penny Farthing:
212.387.7300
Another Brunch addition. I might add that this was the 4th of July. The delivered the bacon we ordered as a side as a first course. The runner must have fucked up, because the waitress came over like ten minutes later apologizing. I was totally cool with it because a) she was hot, but young enough to have to work the brunch shift on the 4th b) was with my two brothers who are both not from the city and have the table manners of cromagnum men and c)got another nod from the ol' wifey wife.

The Smith:
212.420.9800
I had to do a little research to make sure this place wasn't owned by Keith McNally as it as a seems like a rip off of other well established American-Bistro-Bridge-and-Tunnel-Scenester-Grub, but hey, at least they deliver. Food was fine, the service was prompt, and I was able to get my cromagnum family in and out without too much incident...

Paquitos--Manhattan

Yelp creates quite a dilemma. Generally speaking, it's a useful tool to find a restaurant when in an unfamiliar locale. In essence, this is a nice feature of any smart phone: "We need a quick easy restaurant with outdoor seating, margarita's, and quesadillas. Go find it!" The dilemma is all of the choices presented are reviewed by users who are clearly adept at posting things to Yelp, but may not be so adept at being taste-makers.

It's a demographic thing. Most people, I would think, that are posting things on Yelp are below the ages of 35. There may be a few people older than that, but statistically they're mute on the whole rating system algorithm. For the most part I'm convinced that no-one I know has parents that are posting on this. So the people who are essentially rating it, are rating it at with criteria that may or may not coincide with an older, more conservative person's attitude. Creating the conundrum of just how do you trust the ratings of a place when yelping? If you go with a higher rating, you may end up eating quesadillas at a glorified NYU bar: cheap, easy going, and totally fucking disgusting unless you have no money and are satisfied with junk food.

You could go by the low ratings, but somehow low ratings do not necessarily denote the inverse of the high ratings, that is, they are also sucky places. This has absolutely nothing to do with Paquitos by the way, which we found on Yelp while cruising through the East Village. Paquitos was, by no coincidence, a glorified bar, with awful service and canned guacamole (see patent pending guacamole rating system).

I suppose the solution is to start a new search engine, called snob. And only rate the restaurants that worth eating at to begin with. We'll see if that has any traction.

1 or 8--Brooklyn

718-384-2152

I feel like the next time I go to this place I should wear all white. I could blend in like a sushi ninja, swooping in to grab your roll when no one is looking. I'd eat for free and fulfill the childhood ambition of being an actual, honest to God, ninja. I love ninjas.

It's sushi place people. How am I supposed to comment on sushi? It was served cold. It tasted like a combination of fish, soy sauce, and wasabi. It had little Japanese women running around, with littler Japanese men behind some counter making the sushi. It tasted fine. Perhaps this establishment is more authentic than others, though I wouldn't know having never been to Japan. I did learn that Nigiri is another word for what I would call sushi, that is a piece of fish on a nugget of rice. So there's that.

I was more impressed with the whiteness of the whole affair. I mean, white booths, white walls, pale white hipsters. It was white, white, white!

Beco--Brooklyn

718.599.1645

This little Brazilian joint is on the back side of the Emerald City. When it first opened, at least two years ago, I was curious how such a tiny little electric kitchen with niche world food was going to survive. The owner escaped the film industry, and I was totally expecting to see his dream of a small Brazilian place shrivel and die like my hydrangeas that didn't come back. Boy was I wrong.

Firstly, there's the steak sandwich; a force to be reckoned with. I'm certain that at points in the restaurant's growth, 80% of its revenue was just steak sandwiches: Filet Mignon, cheese, and a baguette. Tough to beat that one.

Then came the nice open air windows in the summer and cold, cheap brazilian pilsner. Next came the soccer games projected on the far wall, the Federal cup when US almost shocked Brazil in the final (after shocking Spain) comes to mind as the place was standing room only. Then came the brunch. This is after all the no man's land of restaurants, with thousands of people in luxury condo's waiting in line at either Enid's or Five Leaves.

So I guess it's no surprise at all. Beco is a sum of its parts, and it looks as though the owner is living the dream. Good for him. He's a pretty nice dude and Beco is a pretty nice place.

Las Vegas Nevada

Holy shit. I don't even know where to begin. Perhaps an appropriate preface to this debacle of debauchery would be that I was wifeless. I repeat, no wife on this one. Not to say she wouldn't have reveled in the ridiculousness that is Las Vegas, but that she generally is my last line of defense before doing something really, really stupid. It's a shame I don't let her read these posts before they're published.

Las Vegas is the most disgusting place on the planet. I could not think of a more contrived, base, and saccharin attempt at luxury if I tried. The old Vegas, the authentic rat pack Vegas, has been replaced with 21st century towers of glass and steel, up to date service, over thought cuisines, expensive cocktails and wine, and the dames, holy Christ the place is dripping with trim. But it's all a hoax. A faux lavish design to extort you by playing on the most primitive instinct in the human brain: greed.

I must say I had a total blast. I drank like I used to drink. I Was thrown out of two casino's for fighting, once with a pair of lesbians. I played 52 card pick up outside the Wynn. And the dames, good lord almighty there were women everywhere. Cheap, easy, looking-for-rich-men, women.

There are some things I would have done differently, that ferragamo tie was unnecessary, but over all here are some tips that would make a trip to Vegas Iconman:

Wear a suit. Dress nice. This goes for the ladies too. Most of the trash that visits Vegas considers dressing up throwing on one of those tube-top-esque dress that barely covers their flabby asses. The end up looking like low-rate hookers. Try to look like a top rate hooker.

Buy a bottle of liquor. Don't gamble for free drinks, as they never end up free. And don't go to the bar or you'll get stung for $10-$15 a cocktail. Since you can walk anywhere with a drink, I got a flask and took a rocks glass from the hotel where ever I went.

Assume authority, they'll respect it. Now that you're in a suit and sufficiently hydrated, walk up to the front of lines or sit down at reserved tables, the staff at Vegas are so ingrained to keep you happy so they can fleece you unsuspectingly, they'll allow you to do just about anything. The suit is key, it makes you seem richer than the regular shclock in a button down short sleeve and dockers.

Don't sleep. Sleep is completely irrelevant in Vegas. The longer you stay up the more enjoyable it becomes.

Don't stay on the strip the whole time. Down town is pretty cool, we hit a bar called the Griffin around 3am one night and it was not as bad as I don't remember.

If you gamble, don't expect to win.

Check out a cabaret. I don't know of any other town, with the exception of Paris, where you can see hot beautiful women dancing naked for one fixed price. No solicitations for a lap dance, no stripper stink all over your clothes, just clean, pretty women dancing around. Well worth the $60.

Okay so there's a brief list. I wish I could give you more details, but due to the only detail I can really mention with certainty (that I was wifeless) sort of clouds all of my other judgements.

Motorino--Brooklyn

718.589.8899

It's funny what buzz can do for a restaurant. I've been hearing about Motorino for years now, because the pizza is "soooooo good." I was expecting another forino's, but perhaps with a little bit friendlier staff. And I can't say I was disappointed, as the food was pretty good, but I think the buzz was more of a result of this placing being just off the Graham stop, in Italian Williamsburg where the dining options are improving but still pretty nill.

Wife and I went on a non-descript Wednesday night right before my departure for Las Vegas (next post dearest nine, and it will be a doosy) and we were served quickly and with a smile. The wood fired pizza oven crackled in the distance, and though the decor of this place leaves something to be desired, it was by no means offensive. The food was fine. It wasn't delectable, it wasn't atrocious, it was a quick and easy individual pizza.

I suppose if I lived in the neighborhood I would rave about this place. I mean, I could see a habit form with such a simple transaction for dinner. You can be in and out in no time, or you could bring friends from out of town and make a night of it. Sadly, there aren't enough places like this around.

Calexico--Brooklyn

347.763.2129

I feel like I've been saying it for years, to the point that all of my wives roll their eyes and quote me: "Low hanging fruit, ripe for the picking." Yes. That is Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. As Williamsburg slowly morphs into upper-middle class Soho the kids are moving east and north. Greenpoint, though still relatively Polish, is now being infiltrated by the younger middle class. The junior graphic designer and architects, accountants, and other hipster related white-collar professions. Manhattan Ave is the main drag, be-lining straight through. See my Manhattan Inn post for more clarification, but I have been preaching to anyone that will listen (and that list is dwindling my dear nine) that if you have an inkling of restauranteurship in you, this area is a no brainer.

Enter Calexico, a Mexican restaurant on Manhattan Ave right next door to the illustrious Dunkin Donuts. Five of us went on a Sunday night, in the middle of a fucking monsoon mind you, and we waited a full hour before sitting down. The place was packed. I mean, sardine can, only place in town, packed. Granted, our wait was a result of poor management as much as anything else (the douchebags at the table nursed their dark beers like they were twelve) but that only drives my point further: we had no other choice but to wait!

The food? It's Mexican food. The degree between bad and good is slight, as it's always the same ingredients. The guac was flavorless, so I'm gonna lean on not-so-good food by my now patented Guacamole=restaurant quality litmus test. But it wasn't bad. It was edible. And for Manhattan Avenue that's a beginning.

Here are the notes from my logbook:

I hate people

Good

Busy

Kids

Decent

Crowded.

How's that for note taking? I should get a job in the steno pool.

Gramercy Tavern--Manhattan

212.477.0777

The venerable Gramercy Tavern. Been dying to go for a while but it's always so hard to come up with a reason to eat in the city. I hate eating after work in my suit and there's no way in hell I'm going back to Brooklyn to change and then return to the city. Despite the logistics, which I for one feel is not covered enough in online amateur restaurant reviewing, the Gramercy Tavern is just never on the radar.

And what's the big deal? The food was good but the prices were expensive. It's not like I shit myself. In fact, I had the meatball and thought the hillbillies at Hearth do a better job. My wife had the fish croquette to start and a white fish (either halibut or sea bass, I can't read my writing--yes it's that bad) as her entree and the server didn't mention that it comes with the same cassoulet.

That's about all I got. I think it's appropriate to give a lack luster review for a lack luster place. Oh wait. One exception. German Chocolate cake, boomshakalaka. This cake needs a come back. I'm sick of eating flourless chocolate cake, or molten chocolate cake, or some version of the two. Let's get some coconut and caramel on this bitch and call it German.

Falai--Manhattan

212.253.1960

8:45 reservation. Ouch. I'm too old to eat that late, especially in such cold weather. After a few beers at Clerkinwell (still alive I'm glad to say) my wife, other wife, and her newly anointed husband, mosied right in to get a seat in the back. My initial impression was that my other wife had dragged us to some fancy-pants place, with clean white walls and models who aren't embarrassed to wear their jeans so short that you can sneak glances at theirs g-strings poking out and wonder why you're so grossed out. Ehem.


More to the point, these places are chalk-a-block full of weird sophisticated aced food that I'm not going to like. Fortunately for me, the food was good. The portions were small yet beautiful, and since there were four of us we got a pretty good sampling without having to pay for the exorbitant tasting menu. The Gnudi was particularly tasty. And I had a very nice cappuccino at the end.


The service, however, sucked asshole. Not just ass, but no, puckered right up the sheriff's badge and sucked away. There's a few hard and fast rules that every place should live by, and if you don't abide by them I don't care how beautiful your presentations are, how illustrious your dining room is, or how pretentious your clientele may be, you're burying your tongue in my turd-cutter:
1) If your table is ready to order food by the time you come to get the drink order, then they've waited too long.
2) If you offer bread a second time, make sure you didn't already clear the plate with the oil and butter on it.
3) If you are going to sell $100 plus bottles of wine, and want to make a show of clearing the glasses I suggest either waiting until all of the glasses with the first wine are empty before you clear them all, or clear the empty ones and come back and switch out the lone straggler afterwards.
4) Make sure your food is served at the same time, to the people that ordered it.
5) If you do not know what you're serving, then don't fake it, just say I don't know and go ask the chef or manager.


There are probably a million more rules that anyone who's actually worked as a waiter could tell me, but I'm fairly certain that of my short list our waiter at Falai violated at least three. Why oh why do these restaurants devote so much time and energy to the food, and then have some dimwitted faux-hawk toting nincompoop deliver it? When will anyone learn? I suppose Falai is worth a second try, but it's going to be when it's earlier and warmer outside. I'll keep you posted.

The plastic straw

I was at lunch at Spitzer's the other day in the LES and had a coke. The waitress, a cute little number, decided to put a straw in my coke with the little twist paper thing floating off of the top. I immediately pulled the straw out of the drink and put it next to my glass. The straw will now reside on this planet for another 500 years.

Aside from lipstick users, and you know who you are, why the hell does the drinking straw exist? I don't feel that it makes the drink taste better, nor do I feel it makes the drink easier to drink. In fact, with the exception of a mind eraser, I can't think of a drink that absolutely must require a straw. Furthermore, there are plenty of drinks that using a straw becomes unthinkable, like beer or coffee or sparkling wine.


So what gives? What compelled that girl to not only put a straw in my drink, but also to add enough flair to point out the fact that there is a straw in my drink? I often use this train of thought with people when I get going about the straw. There are about 8 million plus people in New York. And on average I would say that we each have a cocktail, soda, bottle of water (that's another story) etc... so it's safe to say that there are approximately 8 million drinking straws tossed in the garbage, in our sewers, or on the ground a day. That's 29.2 billion a year. Since the turn of the millennium NY has discarded 300 billion fucking straws!

I'm not one to crusade unnecessarily as I am too lazy and or busy for that. But I think it should be a standard to offer a straw, as opposed to plopping one in my drink for no good reason. Okay, so I've said it. Hopefully the nine of you reading this will join me. That's nine less drinking straws a day, three thousand a year, 32 k a decade. Almost a .0000001% decrease. So much for starting locally.

Manhattan Inn-Brooklyn

718.383.0885

Despite what 5-leaves has done (and then closely followed by Lokal) Manhattan Inn has been the first to pluck one of the low hanging fruits that is Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint. As Bloomberg's abatement kicks in, and the Emerald City fully develops, more and more of the mom and pop stores on Manhattan Avenue, the main commercial drag of Greenpoint, are going to slowly convert to cozy, hipster inspired restaurants. Mark my words beloved nine, there will be a point in a decade or so when the entire stretch of Manhattan Avenue will be a bustling hotbed of night life activity, gourmet restaurants, and bridge and tunnel fuckwads. All of this without a sour, gin-blossomed Polish person in sight.

Eventhough Manhattan Inn is a trailblazer, and in spite of it perhaps, it is a sort of phenominom. Months ago it was the epicenter of Brooklyn Music due to its unique backroom that has an antique white-washed piano smack in the middle and elevated booths surrounding it; almost a caberet feel but with ironic schtick. The front area is really just a narrow bar, and like the back room this schtick comes in the form of hi-top tables that are actually recylced school desks. All in all this gives the entire room a uniquely old feel, as though it's been there for decades covered in old bed sheets just waiting for the right dreamer to come along with his/her parents money and finally open that roller disco.

The food is a little more confusing than that last sentence. If I had to describe it, which I do as this is what the iconman report is all about, then I'd say it's a complete jumble fuck. Part comfort food (somehow that has become a cuisine) part asian, and part tapas. It's not bad per se, but it's hard to have a hankering for tofu salad with sesame and pork ribs with kale and cornbread. I suppose they're lucky, a few years from now the competition will be stiffer and more refined cuisine will come with it. But for now, I'm glad for their success, because from one successful restaurant comes many. That and I love being right.