Station--Brooklyn

718-599-1596

Station, and I'm sorry but I cannot help myself, is a train wreck.  My experience here was so bad, so ridiculously poor, that I pity the owner that spent their investor's money on such over the top  business cards and peculiar menus.  How do I begin?

Comfortably located fifteen steps from the Bedford stop, I arrived late with my wife already sat at the door.  It was a blustery night, and the heavy wooden door could not stay closed.  It blew and blew then every once in a while a waify little hostess would remember to close it. This would be a harbinger of things to come, as the service was without a doubt, the worst I've ever had in New York City.

The menu was nothing short of schizophrenic:  French, Italian, African, I mean all over the map, or book.  Or whatever it was they were trying to do.  We decided to have rilettes and a nice glass of wine while waiting for our server to finally materialize   The waitress knew as much about food as I know about organic chemistry, stating that the menu was Mediterranean influenced.  She also told us later, that she had to clear our rillets as the short ribs were ready and needed to be served--presumably for fear of overcooking.  She also didn't offer us water once.  Not a single time.  In fact this is my first meal ever at a restaurant--going all the way back to Denny's and Carrows and Marie Calenders when I was just a wee lass--that I was not offered water with a meal.

The food?  Abysmal.  The chef hales from 11 Madison Park which means she spent most of her time telling diners what they were going to have for dinner.  Here the flavors and aesthetic were so mish-mashed together: said short rib had mushrooms red wine while my chicken had curry and potatoes.  Of course, its hard to say you enjoy eating anything when you're parched.  Maybe soup.  Wifey wife was paying, so we still tipped, but had I been paying I would have laid a big fat goose egg all over the check.  That would also would have been a first.

St Anslem's--Brooklyn

718-384-5054

Went here a few months ago to try the famous rib eye for two.  It was a Tuesday night, and since they don't take reservations we decided to head on in a touch early.  Tuesday, 7pm, 1 hour wait.  No problem, we'll just grab a drink at the bar.  Sorry charlie, no drinking at the bar. Try our short order place across the street Fette Sau (which I've never reviewed by the way).  Been there, thanks.  Thanks maybe next time (big smile).

Fast forward to last Saturday.  We wanted a steak dinner and since we don't like getting Peter Lugered we figured this place is the only place in our neighborhood to get a guaranteed non butcher steak dinner (certainly Dresslers or Diner or somewhere else may have a steak special, but who wants to risk it when you have a hankering...).  We knew there would be a wait so we headed in at 6 p.m. thinking even if we have to wait an hour, we were still eating at a reasonable time--as we were told by some mystical creature that had happened to eat there the cooking/resting time on the rib eye is an hour.  The wait?  Two mother fucking hours!  They entire restaurant could turn and we would still have to wait.  Normally, I would say good for them.  Here are some entrepreneurs that opened a small beer bar (Spuyten and Duyvil) and then opened a cool kitchy barbeque place (Fette Sau), and have finally arrived serving steak to the carnivorous locals.  But the hostess, with her i-pad and horrible hippy-esque corduroy's and awful second hand boots, was so motherfucking smug, so unapologetically proud of the fact that she was turning away another customer that I wanted to punch her square between the eyes.  And after the group behind us, a party of five no less, was told three and a half hours I evacuated, swearing never to return.

We eventually met up with the friend we intended on meeting there, and he told us that he was asked tonot to stand behind the bar while two other friends finished up their dinner.  Okay, so now I know I'm not crazy.  This place is too much of a good thing, and since it is reinforced by insanely patient consumers, the attitude of the staff has clearly gotten out of control.  I don't understand why you would not take reservations if you have waits of two and three hours.  I would understand not taking reservations if you had a loitering kind of bar, or if it was truly first come first serve, ie., no poorly dressed asshole with an i-pad.  A two-hour wait in a forty cover restaurant means that you're perfectly willing to turn away business that may not come back.  And this arrogant attitude has infected the staff since they're all too happy to tell tell people to try your over-rated pickle bar across the street.   And since everyone is on the bandwagon of amazing food and my new favorite restaurant I can only assume that your popularity is due to the exclusivity that creates such buzz.  What am I to do, other than say  I hate restaurants that are cooler than their customers, especially since I'm the coolest guy I know.

Cafe Boulud--Manhattan

1. 212.772.2600

We scored tickets to Into The Woods at the Shakespeare in the park theater, and since they're free we decided to spend the money we would have normally spent on a show on dinner.  Enter Cafe Boulud, the Daniel Boulud eatery in the Mark Hotel. It was a pleasant walk from the box office to the cafe, and as I was roughly an hour earlier than the ol' waddly wifey wife, I decided to knock back some southsides while watching upper east-side milfs truck on by.

This place is fine dining, even if the Maitre D isn't in tails.  And I could regale you with all sorts of refined details that most casual restaurants wouldn't even consider, much less attempt. But by now you've all grown to trust my sensibilities, so I'll spare you said details and just say that everything was executed flawlessly by a well groomed Austrian waiter.  And unlike the pretentious 11 Madison Park, this place delivered the food without gimmick or fanfare.  

So why Iconman do you blow by the restaurant review?  Isn't what this is all about?  Well, that's a good couple of questions beloved nine, and to answer honestly it's because what happened at the table next to me.  A group of six or so very young women trotted up after blowing at least 10k on assorted Hermes, Wang, and Bergdorf accouterment and they were so revile, so ignorant of their pathetic existence, and so entitled that it nearly spoiled my wonderful dinner.  What is it about rich, upper east-side women that creates such useless, well dressed flesh bags?  I could only over hear bits and pieces of their for lack of a better work conversation--as it was interrupted with so many nasally "likes" and "yeahs" that I had difficulty deciphering their dialect--but much of it was centered around the fact that they spend conspicuous amounts of money without really understanding the source of their wealth.  To quote:

• "I think he just got promoted to EVP, or SVP, I'm not sure what that stands for, but then again I'm not sure what he does anyway."  In reference to boyfriend/husband.  I'll tell you what he does sweetheart, cheat, rob, and extort the corrupt financial system.
• "I love Veuve Cliqout. The bubbles make it good."  
• "I was like, excuse me, like, you can't like, talk to me that way."
• "Oh my God, that waiter smelled so bad!"  Which by the way wasn't true, the waiter smelled just fine in that you couldn't smell him at all.  What she was actually smelling was the old rich man cruising by in a wheelchair, pushed by a young, pretty gold digger.  Essentially, one of their peers.
• "Sometimes I wish I had something to do."  What the fuck!?!  Did you really just say that?

Needless to say but I'll put it in there anyway, these creatures disgusted me.  And I can only say that my wives are honest, hardworking, intelligent women--which is a good thing.  Also, for the record, Into the Woods should be one act and one act only.

Cayler--Brooklyn

347- 889-6323

Named after its street, this place is pretty much about as Brooklyn as you can get.  The interior looks as though a bunch of lesbians decided to replicate their summer camp's lodge, with a kitchy green ceiling and long bar to one side.  Not to say I have anything against lesbians, in particular these lesbians were all quite friendly and affable but that doesn't take away from the fact that the place is run by dykes with tattoos. 

Interestingly enough the menu was pretty ambitious, they called it Tapas, I call it gimmick.  Telling us when we ordered that the dishes will come when they're ready, only to have quite large portions delivered to us as a first and main course.  Despite the attempt to be something they're not, ehem, the food was all quite delicious, in particular the broccoli which looks to be a mainstay.

My only gripe, and it's negligable, was the poorly picked music.  I appreciate death metal and heavy metal as much as the next guy or girl/guy.  But it is inappropriate for the quasi gourment we were served in such a quaint atmosphere.  Alas, I begrudgingly admit I was at least five years older than anyone else in the place, so perhaps I was being a curmudgeon; wouldn't be the first time.

Spotted Pig--Manhattan

(212) 620-0393

Here I am writing about yet another, famous, New York City place.  It's of a renaissance of sorts, as I feel the days of the iconman are severely numbered.  Yep, before too long something tells me that there will not be a clean, predictable 24 posts a year but rather a few intermitant posts here and there.  So I guess I've got to create enough of a back log so that you all feel sufficiently informed.

So here's Spotted Pig, a West Village place that has nothing but rave reviews and pork inspired decor.  As I am feeling nestalgic about my forced retirement, I figured I would review this through two prisms: the old me, and the older me.  The old me is actually the young me, in that it was who I was when I first started this journey years ago.  The older me is literally that, me, but older.  Fascinating isn't it?


Old me:  Saddle up to the bar waiting for my girlfriend, and the dyke behind the bar decides that the service napkins are more important than I am.
Older me:  Arrived early, the staff still preparing for what looks to be a big night.  The bartender is battoning down the hatches so doesn't notice me right away, that and I took a stool near the service bar so I could see the Mrs. approach.

Old me:  There is definitely some sort of buzz here, and I'm not talking about the wild turkey sort.  This place must get going.  Can't wait to join.
Older me:  There is definitely some sort of buzz here, and I'm not talking about the wild turkey sort.  This place must get going.  Too bad I'm not joining.

Old me:  WTF!  You're burger is too precious to substitute roqeufort for something else.  Assholes, every single one of you.
Older me;  Too bad the only other cheese on the menu is ricotta.  Cheddar would've been nice.

Old me:  Straight from hell on the first courses, all of the items were quite devilish..ehem.
Older Me:  Deviled eggs, yum.  Devil on horseback okay.

Old me:  Pork Belly was finished well with a broth and some root vegetables.  The burger was quite nice though the shoe string fries required a fork.  Overall service was attentive, prompt, and satistfactory.
Older me:  Entree's were okay, though I didn't shit myself.  Waiter was cleary gay and clearly into me, but can you blame him, I work out.

End scene.

We didn't eat dessert, and I'm not drinking as much these days so there's not too much more to add.  In some ways I'm more of a douche and in others I'm not.  Aging, ain't it grand?

Balthazar--Manhattan

212.965.1414

Okay another institutional restaurant though not quite as "famous" as the other, lesser institutional restaurants I've critiqued.  Balthazar has been an industry standard sort of speak.  A place that is so well run, so consistent, and so fashionable that it is the bar for those looking to open a restaurant with the hopes of opening more.  So this is kind of a first for me, because I'm all a flutter with praise. First of all, Mcnally is a genius.  Not in a traditional I'm-solving-difficult-math-problems way, but rather he is quite masterful at creating restaurants that have an autonomy yet at the same time consistent service and operational standards.  Goodness gracious, I'm sounding a bit nerdy here.

This restaurant generally regarded as one of the better French bistros in NYC.  And why not?  They have oyster towers and a multidude of waiters and all sorts of official looking people scurrying to and fro.  It's big, and overwhelming, and when I'm there I feel like Ernest Hemmingway could sit down next to me.  To be honest there's a fair amount of Eurotrash, and since we went on our anniversary (and wifey wife is as pregnant as can bet) the snooty Soho Maitre D stuck us in the way back.  But who cares?  The French cuisine-arguably the most sophisticated cuisine on the planet- was exectuted with authentic detail.  Wifey wife had the onion soup and then a fish special and I had the steak tar tar and the mussels.  All of it was quite delicious.

So Iconman, what's with all of this reverence?  How is it you can shit all over 11 Madison Park and Peter Luger but you are practically offering Mcnally a rim job?  Good questions beloved nine.  I have respect for people who quietly create a perfect brand, without the pretension or ego.  I wasn't offered a menu of just proteins, nor was I expected to be impressed just because some douchebag local 111 waiter decided to eventually serve me.  No, with Balthazar, like any well run establishment, I left completely satisfied.

Odd Side Social Commentary

So I put this little nugget aside a few years ago while revisiting Hunter S Thompson's collection the Great Shark Hunt.  This little morsel encapsulated what is happening in Brooklyn so well, that I flagged it for future reference when I didn't have a restaurant to review (which is currently the case as I am forbidden to write about Virginia Beach by wife #1).

After re-reading, its not so much a crime or drug thing, though that is prevalent, but rather a real estate thing.  But overall the gist is there:

"The pattern never varies: a low-rent area suddenly blooms new and loose and human--and then fashionable, which attracts the press and the cops about the same time.  Cop problems attract more publicity, which then attracts junkies and jack-rollers.  Their bad action causes mobile types who dig the menace of "white ghetto" life and whose expense account tastes drive local rents and street prices out of reach of the original settlers...who are forced, once again, to move on." (Thompson, The Great Shark Hunt, pg 156--Rolling Stone #60, 1970).

Okay.  A few thoughts here that actually pertain to restaurants, as the are a component of the catalyst in the gentrification of a neighborhood.  And not to be too philosophical, but the attraction to Brooklyn is not so cut and dry, it involves a tremendous amount of peduciary factors, especially on a personal level.  With that said, however, there is something to selecting North West Brooklyn as opposed to The Bronx, or other parts of Queens that have as many amenities, low rents, etc...  Why is it that this particular neighborhood blew up versus Woodside queens for instance?  And the answer to that question, and the application of Mr. Thompson's theory are what I am trying to zone in on.  It's why there are now a bazillion restaurants and people who once lived in the East Village that swore they would never go to Brooklyn are now their biggest proponents.  There was a cache, created by artists, drug addicts (cokie's anyone?) and overall derelicts that settled Williamsburg.  They have now moved on pushed out by the mobile types.  They are now infiltrating Bedstuy and Bushwik.  There was an article in the Sunday Times Magazine (7/15/12) that talked about this--for the record the exact same article was published on line prior to the magazine, here's the linkehttp://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/15/magazine/bronx-economy.html?hpw...  Interesting.  That's all.

Reynard--Brooklyn

718.460.8000

A little odd for me beloved nine, as this is the first review on an Andrew Tarlow restaurant in quite some time.  I lifted my self imposed exile and decided to grow up, that and I stopped drinking cheap bourbon at five in the afternoon.  Fast forward five years, sheesh, make it eight years, and there's a new place in town getting all of the newbie Williamsburgers a twitter.  The Wythe hotel, the crown jewel of the Brooklyn Brand, standing like a beacon of all that is natural, organic, locally sourced, and covered in tattoos.

Firstly, something to be said about the insane amounts of tail running around in this place.  The patrons, the staff, I mean everyone seems to be effortlessly good looking, myself included of course.  I digress, it's an excellent point of departure as the patronage matches the decor perfectly.  This place is effortlessly beautiful.  Functional and raw yet elegant and refined.  The dichotomy being that what was once a typical no-frills apartment building that housed famed director Paul Black --American Brown-- is now a chic hotel complete with reverse bridge and tunnel roof bar.  Yes, Williamsburg has arrived, and this place is the port of call.

The food is everything you would expect from the Diner pedigree.  Delicate, complex, interesting, well prepared and overwhelmingly pleasing.  I've taken to having the guests dining with me grade their courses:

Deviled Eggs: Cumin was a nice touch. A
Soup: B+
Rabbit: A
Beet Salad: B
Pork Chop: A
Duck: B
Trout: B
Salad: (Diner goatcheese was in my notes though I don't think it was--sorry, been a while) A
Tar tar: B.
Hotties: Yes please.  (Seriously, that's in my notes).

Truth be told, I'm not a foodie.  I'm a drunk.  So the most impressive aspect of this restaurant, and one that I'm pleased to report after years and years of slander on the overall service motif of greater North Brooklyn, was the exceptional service.  I do not use this word lightly.  The service was exceptional.  The timing, the drink service, the sparkling tap water, the folding of the napkins, the delivery of my espresso before dessert was served, this all came together in a masterful display of understanding of hospitality. Reynard is the culmination of 12 years of homogenous gentrification, and it was worth the wait.

Montreal

It's been a while since I've done a post about an entire city.  I feel as though I might have posted about Barcelona, but not quite sure.  It doesn't matter, Barcelona has too much going on to try an encapsulate in a single post, but at the same time is not a city of more than three days.

Much could be said about Montreal, though, I was only there for three so it worked out perfectly.  It's been a bit since the trip so I'm going to have to rely on my scribbles.

Darling Foundry:

(514) 759-9815

Some sort of art bar weirdness run by Quebecois Ecuadorians.  Seriously.  Not a lick of English, fortunately for me I speak equally bad Spanglish and French.  This will explain why I ordered a cheese sandwich and ended up with a peice of cheese and some beer.  Cool place, however, with a nice laid back coffee shop vibe.   There are no places like this in NYC--that's a quote from my scribbles.

Bily Ku

I have no idea.  Here are my notes:  Ostrich Head.  Bad Math.  Hmmmm.

L'Express:

(514) 845-5333

This place I remember vividly as it was a three hour marathon of French cuisine.  One word: Cornichons.  Just about every place in Montreal delivers mustard and tiny yet delicious little pickles to your table.  This place, a well established French bistro, must have started the trend.  A little touristy, but those pickles quickly squashed that.  As we were four we sampled a pretty decent selection of the menu: caviar, muscles, fish, and the tar tar.  In fact two of us ordered the tar tar, which means we had roughly fifty ounces of raw ground beef.  The food was good. The service, a little too used to fleecing tourists, but not bad.  The tar tar; constipating.

Whisky Cafe

(514) 278-2646

Being drunk on straight vodka, Beaujolais, and raw meat., we decided to find a place to buy and smoke Cuban cigars.  Unfortunately, Montreal is like the rest of the world in that there is no place to smoke them inside.  Eventually, we found Whiskey Cafe a cigar bar that also happened to have a zillion single malts you've never heard of.  We bought our cigars, but wife one and wife two were not about to chill in the smoking lounge, so instead we knocked back a whiskey.  I decided it would be a fine idea to go dancing which led us to....

The Waverly:

My notes: Local Bar.  Alright if you're a Quebecois douche.

Le Contemporain:
514 847-6900


After a long walk and a brutal raw beef and vodka hangover, we conceded to eat lunch at the cafe right next door to the contemporary art museum.  It's on St Catherine and traffic is constantly whizzing by, but when that first pint of beer came the traffic dulled to a hum and we got down to business.  Fries, fried cheese, and more of those little pickles.  It wasn't too expensive, and to be honest, a relief just to sit down after power walking up and then down a mountain.  


Lawrence:

(514) 503-1070

Dinner number two were were weary from a long walk on the Mount, Real, and the hangover from the previous night.  I'd still had yet to pass the loaf of tar tar in my large intestine.  Lawrence was actually quite pleasant. Here's our letter grading system (patent pending):

Apetizers:

Linguine B

Macheral A++

Charchuterie (like pickles and mustard on just about every menu you saw) No Grade

Sausage: B+

Sturgeon: A++

Chicken Special: A

Trout: A

Soup B+

The desserts all sucked.  They had a baked alaska that simply did not deliver.  But as for the rest of the dinner, if those were my grades I probably wouldn't be an unheralded blogger.  Pretty nerdy grades.

St. Viateur Bagels

(514) 276-8044

This place has legendary bagels, as we were told to go by multitudes of locals transplanted to NYC.  We were psyched to get them to go on our way back to the city, but you know what?  They don't own a toaster.  It's a divey bagel conveyor belt and a bunch of leery eyed hasids.  You buy these things by the dozen and walk back to your home to eat them at your lesiure.  Since this was Sunday, we were totally fucked for an early breakfast.  And had to eat chewy bagels with little cream cheese to go containers on our drive back.  Thanks all-knowing insiders.

Ethos--Manhattan

(212) 888-4060

I don't know if this is the post I should discuss the fact that Google has completely changed the blog format, added a locations tab, label tab, and all sorts of other shit that I feel compelled to use to keep up with the ever changing landscape that is technology, but since I've started with such a long run-on sentence I might as well forge ahead.  I suppose I will use the map feature.  I'm not sure why I would label it, or schedule it, but okay.  For someone like me, that is someone who is definitely behind when it comes to technology, the ongoing evolution of Google, and email, and Apple totally sucks.  Just when I get used to something they change it in a completely unapologetic fashion.  I digress, the point is Google has given me absolutely no choice.  Like the crack dealers of the late eighties, they lured me in and now I'm hooked.

Ethos, is Greek.  Very Greek.  I should have realized this with the 18-year-old hostess who, with high heels and short skirt caught my attention right away.  She had this nubile I'm-the-daughter-of-the-owner thing going on that was nothing short of a perfect first impression.  What made the lasting impression, however, was the monobrow stretching from one eye to the other.  I was there with my wife and some friends, one of whom is a burnout Israili with the coolest pot smoking contraption ever (An Atmos).  And we all took a beat at the monobrow.

We decided to share a bunch of stuff, and it was all fresh, Mediterranean lightness: olive oil, lemon, grilled food.  I feel like they only had grilled fish on the menu all prepared one way: with olive oil and lemon.  And not to be overtly redundant, but guess what we had?  Grilled white fish with lemon and olive oil.  We also had a big greek salad that the Israeli ordered.  It was gigantic. He ate most of it.  The food was pretty good, the service professional enough (they even snuck the Israeli and I, who have the collective subtlety of a rocket launcher shots of tequila while our wives were in the can) though I'm pretty sure one of the guys was banging the monobrow at the front door.

What else do you want?  It's on 51st and 2nd (check the location).  I'm not exactly sure why we went here to begin with, it was really one of those restaurants in NYC that the neighbors all go to but that you'll never go to again.  I'll always remember that mono-brow.  Damn, it was unsightly.

Gwynett Street--Brooklyn

347.889.7002

Finally.  Dear God, it is about time.  Not only has a restaurant opened in Williamsburg in a much needed  spot off of the Graham Avenue stop, less of course the tragically sinking Motorino, but it has done so in an atypical Brooklyn fashion.  Gwynett street has finally decided to deviate from the Hipster culinary tree, instead pushing the envelope with ambitious cuisine that does not include a) a hanger steak, b) a burger, or c) a mac and cheese.

Originally a pizza shop, turned steakhouse (Catch 22), you wouldn't expect to have your mind blown walking in, as the place hasn't really changed since the last one.  It isn't until you sit down and have all sorts of gourmet delicacies do you realize that you're in for a treat.  Egg dish, nailed it.  Duck?  Off the charts. Whiskey Bread?!?  I mean they make bread with whiskey!    It wasn't until we spoke to the owner that we realized the chef was from WD50 and hired right off of craigslist.  Take that human resources department.

What is most refreshing, aside that we got a seat right away despite the favorable NY Times review, was the fact it wasn't trying to be Brooklyn.  The decor didn't scream turn-of-the-century chic.  There weren't vested, mustached, tattooed dudes tending bar (though I think one of them did have a tattoo).  It was refreshing to step outside of the dining hegemony that has plagued gentrification of this borough for too long.  It is the beginning of the revolution comrades, and we will rally around Gwynett Street.

Bellwether--Brooklyn

347.529.4921

What a surreal experience beloved nine. Royal oak, once the smaller star in the binary drinking system that was union avenue, converted itself into a restaurant. Seriously, this place is like a cross between Sweetwater and Walter's Foods. Take a raw bar, simple american menu, and combine it with a re-vamped and sanitized former water hole (though Sweetwater had much, much more cache, and in a much too long aside is why Union Pool became the larger star in the binary system) and presto a restaurant. And it seems to be doing just fine as we watched this place that is maybe a month old turn away young thirty-something couple after young thirty-something couple. Mark my words, as they seem to have a predictive quality to them, not only will this place survive in spades due to its proximity to the Emerald City that is Bloomberg's tax abatement, but it will also add more seating between the bar and newly apholstered booths to meet said demand.

Enough of this, Iconman, how's the food? Good but a little over thought. It certainly isn't going to have the same culinary intelligence of Diner or ISA, but at the same time they're trying to satistfy just about everyone with a little of this a little of that approach. I had the "blackened chicken," which is really more of a rip off of Bilboque's cajun chicken, and it wasn't horrendous just not necessarily inspired. My wife had a special, it was with ramps and was okay.  My shrimp cocktail had a hair in it. Who cares? The fact I can walk here in the middle of winter great outweighs the occasional eyelash or trimmed pube.

I think my drum beat of pointing out the obvious is finally being heard. Well, by nine followers that is. Any who, this place is worth checking out, though not necessarily worth going out of your way. I'm sure, by sheer necessity, I'll come here again. Hopefully, they'll bring back the free foosball.

Fushimi--Brooklyn

718.833.7788

What the fuck is this place? I'll tell you what: the future of Williamsburg. And for the record, I don't necessarily think it's that bad of a thing.

What is Fushimi? Evidently a franchise based out of Staten Island that is trying to capitalize on the upwardly mobile yuppy vibe that is slowly, albeit with the pervasiveness of a glacier, transforming Williamsburg. Though comparable to Sea in its over-the-top saccharinicity (that's a word) this place delivers with more punch and more fire power. Cloth napkins, attentive service from a uniformed employee, a host that says welcome and thank you, sake tastings, matching flatware, and the decor, Christ all mighty they must have a tiny little coal burning power station all to their own to light up all of the neon and LEDs kicking around (and that's after taking into consideration the limited draw of LED power).

I digress, the decor is not necessarily to my taste, but at least it departs for the now mundane turn of the 19th century vibe that Zeb and Billy and all of the other Townies have cashed in on. And the food? Well, if you like steak, and you like sushi, and you like somewhat predictable crowd pleasing fair, then the food is okay. Lot's of fat kicking around on the menu in the form of mayonnaise dressings and deep fried goodness but for someone like me that's a plus. For someone like any number of my wives, perhaps a a little too close to Appleby's if Appleby's started a sushi chain.

For the record, this place is also insanely large. I'll be shocked if it actually fills to capacity. But who cares? More important is the validation of my opinion. I've been talking for years, literally years, about the low-hanging fruit on the north end of Williamsburg. With the Emerald City near completion it was just a matter of time before these super restaurants emerged, catering to those who can afford to buy an apartment at $600 a square foot. God, it feels good to be right, even if it is all of the time.

PT--Brookyln

718.388.7438

Ate here once a while ago for a friend's birthday, but it was so far on the south side we never returned. Recently while coming home from the LES we decided to hit it up, and boy were we psyched!

Firstly, this is how an Italian restaurant should feel. Simple, rustic, darkly lit, romantic. I felt like coming in from the fields after a hard days work, Ernest Hemmingway sipped absinthe at the bar. There was an innocent country girl waiting to offer me a washing bowl. As for the food, well the food was good. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what we had, as did not write anything down. Once again I will employ a cutting-edge reviewing technique, that of hypnotic reflection, to intuit what we had drawing on the sensations I feel when I think about this restaurant. Here goes!

First I must find my chi and then balance the bad ass motherfucker.

Um-num-chi-bum. Um-num-chi-bum. Um-num-chi-bum.

Mmmm...server in black pants...She's hot. No, she's not hot. Damn it, she's like a librarian, sort of hot but not feminine in any way.

Here comes the wine. Red. Flavorful. Barbera, no...Barberesca.

Okay....we started oil, flat bread, salt. Cristini? Cheese tomatoes. good. Yes. Okay, maybe she's not a librarian, but like the less attractive of two sisters...

Wife had the fish. No the lamb. No the fish. I had steak. Came out to rare, but they brought it back.

Followed up with a tiramisu. Delicious.

And that's it. I channeled that entire review just by using my memory. Egad, that's a tricky thing to do. Fortunately for you all, I have the skill to pull something like that off.

Parm--Manhattan

212.993.7189

Ate here with my other wife on an intrepid visit during my workday. It was cramped, tiny really, and I made the mistake of bringing a derby hat that I had no place to put. The waitress was cute in an inept sort of way, spilling things and unfamiliar with the beers, though it didn't bother me so much because I was drinking on a Wednesday afternoon instead of running around trying to make people happy that would rather not be. My hat made a home for itself on the napkin dispenser.

Other wife has a knack for finding places that have buzz, and I have a knack for being completely unimpressed as a natural defense mechanism to the insecurity I feel when I don't understand something. I had some deep fried cheese that was made in house, and the baked clams. Other wife had some turkey sandwhich sort of thing. All in all the food was delicious, though I thought the cheese wasn't as melted as I would prefer. And since the food was so delicious I suppose Parm justifies all of this buzz.

But somehow, good food doesn't do it. This place was crowded as fuck for a lunch hour in Nolita. I mean wait at the door crowded. What gives this delicious food so much more clout than say, some mom and pop place just down the street that's been there for years. Press? Sexiness? Some je ne sais quoi factor that idiots like me should not try to put into words? I guess buzz is a sociological phenomenon well above my ignorant head. And good for them, cause the food was delicious.

Il Baggato--Manhattan

212.228.0977

Had another nostalgic night in the East Village the other Friday. Yes, I was out on a Friday, once again with my wife, and once again instantly sad that I'm getting old. This time we ate at this Italian place that she used to love that I'd never been to. The owner was cruising around table to table in a cheesy politician sort of way, quipping about how much wine they drank or how the garlic must be sliced thin but not too thin and I was thinking that he's a total phoney.

Then Bam! I had a dish of five simple ingredients that was shit yourself good. I still can't believe how good it tasted. It was a special, spaghetti with oil, garlic, salt and parm. Mami jami. Everything else was solid, but so pale in comparison to the gleaming light that was this miracle bowl of spaghetti.

By the time the guy got to me I was so spyched to talk to him, that I was hoping he would dish out one of those cheesy puns just to bring me back to earth. So much for being a phoney. I would walk around with my dick in my hand too if I knew that spaghetti dish had my back.

All's Well--Brooklyn

(347) 799-2743

Went there with the polygamist-four the other day for dinner. I'd walked by it a bazillion times, not realizing that it had changed in the same way most of North Williamsburg has, ie., Polish to Trendy Youngish American. Sadly, it's more of the same. I'm starting to get sick of the fact that every restaurant that opens in my neighborhood is nothing more than a different twist on what Dumont and Diner were doing ten years ago. Fortunately for me, this place gave me something else to talk about, the handling of corked wine.

It's been a while since I've discussed how unfriendly and inhospitable service can ruin a chef's good intentions. Once you have a snide waitress be "annoyed" it affects your entire perception of the place. In this instance, we had a bottle of corked wine. It was evident to me (who for once sat on the inside--as I am a gentleman and almost without exception deposit my lovely wives on the bench so that I can stare lovingly into their eyes, and their eyes only) that she went to the bar, took a swig, and confirmed to herself that we could not be trusted and were trying to get the restaurant to open another bottle of the exact same wine. She returned to tell us that it wasn't corked with such disdain you'd think we were dressed as SS officers, clearly gloating that she had uncovered our conspiracy of cheating the restaurant out of a bottle of wine that we wouldn't drink in the first place.

At this point, if I weren't older and more humble, I would have had a long-winded, profane diatribe about the server's ignorance of the collective food and beverage knowledge at the table (including ASA wine credentials), as well as her ignorance of the industry as she clearly did not know that any restaurant can return the corked bottle for full credit, how the owner would have been displeased with her overall lack of hospitality, etc... But I'm older and wiser you know? You're not reading this to hear about some waitress that was potentially having a bad day, you want to know my take on the restaurant as a whole. How it fits into the overall socio-economic fabric of the neighborhood. Basically, whether or not it merits a visit.

So with all of that....How was the food? Who gives a shit when you're being served by Cruella de Vil. Honestly, I'm still rankled by it. Actually, I barely remember the food. My notes said that the entrees were prepared well, but in terms of cuisine it's more of the day special menu's, comforty, bacon infused, blah, blah, blah. I'm shocked at how packed the place was, that's for sure, which only means that I'm ahead of the curve in boredom. I do have notes that the fig thing was disgusting. Though by the time we got to dessert I wanted to punch someone in the face so I wouldn't necessarily take my word for it.