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.