L'artussi--Manhattan

(212) 255-5757

I must be honest, I went here on the tail end of a hang over and the eve of a serious shomit (look that one up) attack so I don't know if I can be as objective as I normally am.

Here's what I jotted down: Olive Cake.  Get the fucking olive cake.  Skip dinner, skip drinks, have some of this olive cake.  This shit was so delectable I ate it with the mother fucking flu.

We had a bunch of other stuff, fish and scallops and ravioli and my wifey wife, (it was our second time out in months) had a total boner about. Evidently the food is pretty spectacular but I couldn't focus on that because I was trying to hair of the dog a flu--which is ill-advised to say the very least.  Anyway. Look for a second post on this one someday years from now.

Elm--Brooklyn

(718) 218-7500

Normally I would've been excited about the fact that there's a new place in brooklyn that isn't hipstered out and serves gourmet food sans burgers and mac and cheese.  But now that greater Williamsburg and even Greenpoint (Greenpoint, jeez) has become the second coming of SoHo I am no longer surprised.  Elm is the reincarnation of the unborn fetus that was the restaurant in the basement of the defunct Hotel Williamsburg. After shuttering and reopening as King and Grove, Chef Paul Liebraundt (Exec of a million different French Restaurants in the City, Corton being most recent) decided to slum it in New SoHo.  For the record, he is not fucking around.  Yup, beloved nine, we've upped the bar and the neighborhood that taught me how to be a man is now going to teach me how to be a snob.  Eat shit Upper Eastside!

After bagging a gala dinner in Park Slope wifey wife and I waited upstairs at the bar for seats in the restaurant bar.  The upstairs bar is everything I wish the Wythe was, that is, devoid of kids with their parent's credit cards.  Eventually, the host who introduced himself as manager, sommelier, and all things Corton--as he must have mentioned the fact that he worked there a dozen times--sat us while while pushing his wine selections in jokily oversized glasses.  We got to talking, and it took repeated shin kicking by the ol' wife to give me the hint that I was spending more time talking to this dude than eating the food.  For the record, I got the confession that the wine glasses were that way due to unforeseen breakage.  Eat shit sleek restaurant!

Iconman enough masturbatory shop talk, how was the food?  Good.  Food was good, portions were a bit small but that's what you get when you up the price.  The tar tar was nice, beet salad superb if you're into root vegetables.  Unfortunately, the rest of the place doesn't live up to the food, the bathrooms were a touch messy, the bartender kept forgetting our water, and there was this pushy manager with nothing better to do but brag about his ho-hum wine pairings.  Hey, that's what you get in Williamsburg these days: exquisite food served in a sold out, second-hand environment by a talented chef with a recognizable brand.  Eat shit Manhattan!

Dumont--Take Two (Brooklyn)

The last time I wrote about this place was just about seven years ago.  That post set out to compare Dumont to the budding development that was Williamsburg, as the restaurant and neighborhood took the same path from authentic and homespun to slick and polished.

Dumont is now a mature restaurant, being open over ten years.  It hasn't quite achieved the institutional vibe of say Diner or St Anslem's, but it still stands as a testament that even the most over developed neighborhood in New York still needs cozy restaurants serving comfort food (I would argue that Dumont is responsible for the Mac and Cheese craze of the Brooklyn food movement).  To its credit it has spawned an entire franchise and coaching tree; directly responsible for the now closed Dresslers and Dumont Burger, and associated with Rye, Five Leaves, and Nights and Weekends by employing the owners.

My wife, daughter, and I decided to pay it a visit the other day.   Several years ago we were recognized as regulars.  We spent the eve of our wedding weekend, my bachelor party, and every meal when returning from a long trip there.  And I must say that despite the multitude of different seating variations and interior overhauls, the food is exactly what you'd expect from a menu that's had slight variation over the last ten years.  I imagine the cooks could do this sort of thing in their sleep.  I have no more to add.  If you live in the neighborhood you'll come to appreciate it.  If you're coming to the neighborhood to dine chances are Dumont won't be high on your list.  Unless, of course, you awoke in this neighborhood, are hung over, and and are looking for some comfort.

R.I.P. Collin.

Achille's Heel--Brooklyn

(347) 987-3666

This place looks and feels like it belongs in a Wes Anderson film, or perhaps should simply be relocated to Maine.  There is food, in the form of charcuterie and oysters, and for the record it is also the latest incarnation from Andrew Tarlow of Diner fame.  And with little scrutiny you can see all of the tells that come from it:  delectable menu of fine food? Check.  Strong hipster pretension?  Check.  Careful crafted cocktails?  Che...wait a minute! 

I was there late one night after a hellish night of margarita's, my unofficial drink of the summer, and I received the stink eye from the bartender with bad tattoos when I asked for a simple margarita with salt.  He couldn't do it as he had no sour mix.  He resorted to lime which is fine, and oddly more traditional, but not traditional in the American sense as a sour mix has sugar which gives it the requisite sweetness required of all cuisine uniquely American (for the record I don't believe he added any simple syrup).  I digress, the drink was not great.  It wasn't bad, and I still drank it, but it definitely did not hit the spot.  I drank it out of spite and my latent alcoholism, but to produce a bad margarita is a swift kick in the juneberries.

It will be interesting to see how this place pans out.  It was d.e.d dead, and with Glasserie around the corner composed of an all-star team of ex-Tarlow cronies, I wonder if his Midas Touch has failed him.

Wolfgang's Manhattan

212.889.3360

I'll admit I had to look this one up.   There are several Wolfgang's around the world, Beverly Hills, Wakiki, etc.. but there's also Wolfgang Puck, who owns a zillion restaurants and world wide acclaim.  I know I may come off as stupid, but for the longest time I though Wolfgang's and Wolfgang Puck was the same restaurant.  After about thirty seconds on the internet and I realized once again I was an idiot.

I went to Wolfgang's, the Guastavino tiled original.  As the website will tell you this guy is old Peter Luger, so you have that stiff efficient union-esque waiter mentality.  Unlike Peter Luger's, you're not getting Peter Lugered, and though they definitely move you right through dinner, they don't expect you to be grateful for doing so. I was there with a number of dudes, nay, golf dudes, (the dorkiest of jocks) so I couldn't go for the jugular and really dig in because I had to play nice and help my boss not spend too much money but appear like he spent some money.  And I have to say...

Not too bad.  I mean it's expensive, there's no doubt about that.  It's a steak house.  It's not as fancy as Keanes, not as Lugery as Lugers, but there's still that air of oil barons and fat men smoking cigars.  The food is good, filling, fattening, with all of the fixings that puts you in a food coma and makes you drowsily look at your pocket watch.  The owner walks around and smiles, the homogenous male waiters all scurry to and fro with professional curtness, and there's a requisite cute hostess at the entrance.  Wolfgang's crosses all of the t's and dots the i's with little to no fanfare.

Father's Office--Culver City

310-202-6808

Wow.  My first post about LA.  Well, sort of LA, in that it is or isn't, I've never really understood the whole LA neighborhood thing.  Is it a borough?  Is it a separate city?  Anyway, I went to many bars, and the Cheesecake Factory, but this was the only restaurant worthy of the Iconman.

I was not alone in this dinner, I had a 300 lbs professional bowler, a gimpy Englishman, a retired golf pro, and a dude from Georgia all with me.  And perhaps that's where the fun began, as it was seat yourself first come first serve.  We were five, and practically every table that could seat five had some fit, tan, romantic couple hogging the seats.  After a few failed attempts we realized we did not understand this laid back approach to seating, and contemplated giving up as we were unable to move people off despite our brash and aggressive our NY sensibilities.  It was nothing short of awkward.  It was actually quite taller than awkward.

Eventually, after displacing some surfer bra from Hawaii and his hot sister, we were able to get a toe hold on a bench table and were offensive enough to chase away everyone else.  And then we ate.  The food was quite good.  Burgers, lamb kabobs, etc.,, all of it tasty and hot.  And judging by how hard it was to muscle in for a seat, this is probably the norm.

Glasserie--Brooklyn

(718) 389-0640

About fucking time!  Finally, someone had sense enough to figure out a way to integrate the style and general ambiance of what has made the Brooklyn Brand successful without doing the same old thing.  Seriously, beloved nine, I've been saying this for how long?  Well, long enough to feel vindicated, that's for sure.

Glasserie is an outpost in Brooklyn, sitting literally on the tip of Northwest Greenpoint, far enough away from the SoHo that is Williamsburg that it reminds you of neighborhoods past.  It's chef hales from the Diner coaching tree.  It's owner, a nice Lebanese dish, earned her stripes at Cipriaini's.  Together they have somehow fused the sensibilities of the Brooklyn culinary movement with food from the cradle of civilization.  Normally I wouldn't be caught dead eating this shit, but by the time I got there I realized there was no way I could survive the trek back to civilization without sustenance   How was the food?  Remarkable.  I had the steak, chicken, some cheesy bread things, and sent from heaven, lamb tar tar.  All of it fresh and fantastic.

I must also say how turn key the whole place seemed.  It opened and voila: a functional restaurant. Decor was elegant and understated, the servers professionally sexy, and the place seemed to already have regular customers.  It had none of the usual foibles in vision nor execution that are tantamount to new places.  There are definitely some recognizable faces that have been at other establishments--Walter's foods and Reynards to name a few--so I'm sure that helps but I must say, this place is run by pros.  To be honest though, I'm just psyched to find that someone is actually listening to yours truly.

Steiner Studios--Brooklyn

(718) 858-1600

Okay so this isn't a restaurant so much as a banquet space, but they still serve food so it qualifies as a place to talk about.  I mean, I wrote about the Baltimore Ravens stadium a while ago, and none of you said a thing.  Come to think of it, you never say anything.

The night in question was a fake awards dinner for the Rising Stars of Brooklyn.  Basically a ponzi scheme for local newspapers that enables them to sell tickets to the award winner's friends, family, etc. The ticket price is more than the cost of the dinner, and so the dying local rag gets enough money to survive until the next awards dinner.  The recipients?  A collection of used cars salesmen and deli owners, vice principles and law clerks.  In a word: losers.  Oh and yours truly.

Enough Iconman, how was the food?  A first place tie between disgusting and revolting.  The whole operation was a shit show, and I'm sure the first fifty people to pick through the two buffets had a fine time, but when guest number four hundred walks up they find cold platters of processed crap, frozen fecal, and oddities from the world around.  I believe the only two stations were an Asian station and an Italian station; both served by apathetic latino waiters in black tie.  The Italian station had an action pasta that was at best bland, and the unmanned Asian station had soggy steamed dumplings that barely passed as sustenance.  

Fortunately I had sense enough to sneak in my own wine but the douchey banquet captain was too chicken shit to put glasses on my table.  I had to go behind the bar, grab a handful of glasses, and slink back to my table just to get a drink.  It's strange to see the absolute disconnect from restaurant dining to banquets.  They're close cousins, but when you compare them its as though one was raised in Manhattan and the other in outer Romania.  There simply isn't a comparison. To be fair to Abigail Kirsch I doubt this banquet had the best they could offer, as they probably weren't paid much after the room rental.  But what can you say?  A newspaper needs to make a buck, so spare the expense for the rising stars!

100 posts!--Bella Luna Brooklyn

718.836.9444

I'd like to thank the academy, my wife, and Google.  I'd like to thank my beloved nine, which is actually eight because in trying to follow a Vapid Blonde I accidentally started following myself.  I'd like to thank Franky, Johnnie, Bluetooth, Rumpelteazer, Macavity, Mom and Dad, Brothers, Eloise Vienna, Dug Dug, and everyone else I didn't think of on this Sunday Morning.  100 posts equates to absolutely nothing.  It isn't important.  It's an irrelevant number that only denotes meaning as it is a product of our species having ten fingers.  But it's still pretty cool.

On with the review:

I work in deep Brooklyn now.  I work all of the time.  Seriously, the only place that I've been to in the last four months give or take is a red-sauce Italian pizza parlor across the street.  There is absolutely nothing to speak about with this place.  It's a pizza parlor.  The food is processed and fried but served hot and delicious.  Mozzarella is an ingredient on just about every entree.  It's my kind of place.

Considering the neighborhood, I wouldn't expect much more.  I go every Friday to this restaurant because a colleague has a schoolboy crush on the waitress.  She, like the restaurant, is typical fodder for South Italian brooklyn.  She's middle class, pretty, Italian, and like every other girl under the age of 25 wears tights/spandex as outerwear.  I can't really blame my colleague.  I will say the mozzarella sticks are second to none, though I know they come frozen and they drop them in the fryer until they float.  It doesn't matter, when they're delivered by a pretty little Italian American wearing her underwear on the outside, they're delicious.

Okay.  Whoopee that was 100.

Maison Premiere--Brooklyn

347.335.0446

It's been a while.  A new job, a baby, all of these grown up things have prevented me from venturing out and trying new stuff.  I've tried to get out, tried to experience new and better places in the greater New York area but to no avail.  I meant to go to the Bronx, and to Queens, and to DC and all I've gotten was Reynard's over and over again.  What to do beloved nine?  What to do?

So  I have this business card with a few notes jotted down.  I went here the first night the kitchen open, though I didn't eat.  Prior to that it was an oyster bar and judging by the size of the crowd it was pretty well received.  I sucked down French 75's while my other wife drank Negronis.  The cocktails were made well by guys in bow ties and vests.  They all had facial hair.  At this point I'm used to it.

Then I went to the bathroom and there was an old-fashioned toilet with an old gravity tank.  The toilet dispensers were also old, rusty, dilapidated.  The door didn't close quite right, but it was beautiful and warped.  As I sat there peeing I wondered to myself, is this bathroom authentic?  Quite a philosophical question I know, but since I have no food to talk about I have to talk about something.  So, is this bathroom anymore authentic?  Is it the sum of its parts?  Aesthetically, it looks cool and funky but at the cost of being functional.  What is the attraction to this bygone era?  Certainly things were made better then, but they're also 100 years old.  I flushed the toilet.  It didn't work that well, but it did work.  I'm glad I didn't leave an iceberg in the water as it would have still been there.

When I got back to the bar I took a good look at the bartender to the point I think I freaked him out.  Then I realized the problem: he's a phony.  They're all faking it.  That bathroom isn't original.  It's a replica of an original using original parts.  Probably bought in some old broken down town from a building about to be demolished.   But here's the catch, the clothes of the bygone era are still made.  Names like Anderson Shepard, Henry Poole, Paul Stuart.  And you know what?  They're fucking expensive!  You wouldn't want to bar tend in this expensive suit.  This guy had an ill-fitting button down collar, his braces were clipped to his pants with belt loops.  His vest didn't fit and he'd buttoned the sixth button.  And more to the point he doesn't know the difference.  I'm sure the craftsman that made that beautiful bathroom door would want it replaced because it wasn't plum.  I'm sure the manufacturer of the toilet paper dispenser eventually automated their production, creating homogenous, yet profitable, toilet paper dispenser after toilet paper dispenser. 

Maison Premier is not at fault here.  They're keeping up with the times, and at least they're devotion to style is consistent with their devotion to well made cocktails and craft beer.  And in the end, you can't fake quality.  They're salvaging quality from a bygone era.  The craftsman for custom doors still exists.  They just didn't want to pay for it.

Antica Pesa--Brooklyn

 (347) 763-2635

At long last the trend that Reynard's created has begun to bear fruit. Antica Pesa is the first in a trend of what I predict to be many well conceived fine dining establishments in Williamsburg.  The neighborhood has grown up, be it from pricing bringing in an older crowd, or an older crowd bringing pricing.  Whatever the case may be, something that has matching flatware and cloth napkins was due and Antica Pesa delivers superbly  The dining room is beautiful, with low hanging globes over dinner tables that capture sound, a fire place, and Italian men walking around with their shirts un buttoned, putting their hands on the back of your chair suggesting, hinting, alluding to the fact that in some other universe you could be the desire of such a man...ehem.

Put your dick back in your pants iconman, how was the food?  In a word fantastic. Granted the menu never seems to vary, but there is some crowd pleasing items for all.  I'd stay away from the tour of Tuscany thing, and the fried cheese and prosciutto might be too much of a good thing to start with on your own.  And unlike Aurora, the reigning high end Italian in the neighborhood, the waiters here aren't slack-jawed yokels.  No, the waiters here own the place, as well as a well known sister restaurant in Rome.  How's that bitches, Brooklyn is importing directly from the motherland.