Some Italian Place in Milburn, NJ

So beloved nine, I'm sure you've noticed that my departure from the city has created a vacuum in reliable NYC restaurant posts.  And though in recent years I would throw in the random destination here or there, it would be to demonstrate merely how cool and well traveled I am or to blast some place for not being in NYC.  Now, stuck in the burbs, I must succumb like millions, if not billions of people, to average food served by average people in average towns.  I vow to you, beloved nine, that I will continue to seek out the best of the best, and will limit my posts to those places that truly make a mark on my palate, or give me a boner, or both.

Sadly, this place is not one of those places.  You should be weary of a wine list that carries all of the wine from one vineyard in California.  You should be more weary of the wine list saying they have Super Tuscan wines from California.  And when you call out the innocently uneducated vinophile discussing the list, and she comes back moments later with a "gotcha" pointing out the bottle says Tuscan Style, you should pack up your things and go.

If you need more, say the food or decor or anything like that, know that my bill was well over $75 a person, and we each had a pasta.  This is fine dining in the Suburbs.  I can't say much about the food. The fact that I don't even bother finding the name, phone number, or website of this restaurant should just about sum it up.

Like I said, it may be a while as I'm only going to write about places that have something to offer.  No one likes a wet blanket.

The Original Pancake House--Denver

303-795-0573

I had to visit Denver for numerous family reasons, and therefore due to my reputation had to succumb to my family dishing up the best that this town of rich hill billy's had to offer.  If you haven't realized this before there's not much to offer anyone who has live in Northern California or New York.  And before any of my beloved nine blast me for being and ignoramus, know that I know I'm an ignoramus, thus nullifying your claim as a self-aware ignoramus creates quite a logical contradiction.  Check mate.

Anyway, I put on a brave face and went to this pancake franchise based out of Oregon.  Then I waited an hour with two dozen other hungry people in the parking lot of a strip mall, most of whom wore a Broncos jersey with loose fitting stone-washed wrangler jeans.  We were about to go to a football game to watch the Denver Broncos annihilate the Cardinals, so time was relatively short.  It was painstaking how nice people were about waiting.  I was going apeshit, partly due to the wait, partly due to my hangover, and partly due to my company, i.e., my immediate family.

Okay.  A lot of nothing so far.  Shut the fuck up Iconman, how was the food? They were pancakes. After hearing my family go on and on I was expecting gold turds on a plate.  They served pancakes. The degree between a fantastic pancake and an okay pancake is rather slim, so I can't really say I was wowed.  Mcdonalds has pancakes that taste about the same, except you don't wait an hour. Furthermore, I was told I had to try the bacon.  Okay, no problem there.  The bacon?  Thick cut! What a revelation, it is thick cut bacon.  And the OJ?  Fresh squeezed in a carafe!  Holy smokes these people have literally re-invented the wheel.

The only thing more insulting is a cow-poke introducing me to a breakfast every major hotel in NYC offers for free, is the same cow-poke having no fucking earthly idea how to serve said breakfast. When delivering the best pancakes on the planet, it's a good idea to also deliver syrup less than a minute after delivering the pancakes.  And when you pour coffee, you should also offer milk.  Not cream, which seems to be a standard anywhere between the Hudson and the San Joaquin.

Okay.  I've had my fill of the midwest.  They're good pancakes, but they're not that good.

The Red Lion Inn--Massachusetts

413-298-5545

I've been meaning to write about the Berkshires for quite some time.  I've been going up there long enough to post on multiple places, some of which are still open (John Andrews) and some that have turned over so many times they've now closed (The Union Grill).

Doesn't matter.  This is not a recap post, but a hotel post.  I'm in quite a quandary here as there were several places I could review as we ate there almost every night.  So I must pull out an old trick a la the Spotted Pig post.  This time though, it will be current self versus older self.   (knuckle crack) Here goes:

Current Self:  What the fuck, $180 for two of us for this crappy food?  Am I at the same place where they filmed Dirty Dancing?  Tomorrow night I'm eating in the motherfucking Grill room.
Older Self:  Oh fuck, they have a wedding tomorrow night, I'm gonna have to eat in the grill room.

Current Self: This place is sooooo fucking quiet, and we're the only young people staying here, and our daughter is the only kid under the age of 20.
Older Self: This place is sooooo fucking quiet, there aren't any young people staying here, and no fucking kids.  Just me, my old wife, and my yappy little lap dog.

Current Self:  This place is so quaint.  It's got antique furniture and quilts, and we're gonna go antiquing so we can find the perfect butcher block!
Older Self:  There are four different places to sit around and get drunk, each of them hopping at a different time of day.  I don't ever have to leave!

Current Self:  The patio is actually kind of nice.  The food is average, as long as you suck down burgers in the restaurant, its enough sustenance for the booze.
Older Self:  I've been drinking booze on this patio for the last twenty five years...

Or something like that.  Truth be told, the Red Lion Inn is worth checking out if you have 1k to spend for the weekend and want to get out of the city.  There is absolutely nothing to do but go spend money on crap you don't need, so be prepared to be sequestered to overpriced food in the main dining room, and pub grub in the old timey grill, but in odd non-impressive way, it was totally worth it.

Ricalton's--South Orange NJ

973-763-1006

What the hell is going on here?  Having deduced that Arturo's is the only place in town, we decided to try another town:  South Orange.  Owned by an ex-teacher turned self-serving explorer, it's a shame in all of this travels he didn't visit more fine dining establishments.  For the price, I'd rather schlep back into the city.

For starters the sun-burned college drop out fucked up my martini, shaking it right in front of me when I asked for it stirred.  I hate bruised ice.  I rarely drink martinis but I needed something to blur the lines of what is my new culinary reality.  This was also, to note, my first martini in front of the ol' family, and the look I got from Nagzilla for even ordering it in the first place demanded that it better be good.  For this kid to deliver it, in a shaker whilst shaking, was the first indication that I was in for a delight. It's been a while since I've harped on bad service.  But this walking Cheeto definitely struck a nerve.

Fuck you Iconman, how was the food?  The food was a combination of shared ingredients and lack of imagination.  It was well prepared but ill fitting, like a prom dress sized before you fell in love with donuts.  Yes, I must say, the bar is much lower in the burbs, and we are having difficulty adjusting. I had the airplane chicken (which I was under the impression was not a specific cut of meat, but rather a purchasers vernacular) with cous cous and artichokes.  It also, for some odd reason, decided to incorporate edemame.  There was the cod special with Avocado and Red Peppers.   Just bizarro combinations delivered by a nincompoops.

Dear God, what have I become?  Long gone are the days of Reynards and Glasserie and black outs where I yelled at Andrew Marlowe for no good reason.  SOS

Craft--Manhattan

212.780.0880

So the ol' wifey wife is a huge top chef fan.  I've always found the only inspiring thing about the show was the hot co-host's body, but since it is one of the only shows that she likes that I can tolerate I admit to having seen my fair share.  Craft's Tom Colicchio I always found kind of douchey--in that the name of the show should really be called top cook as there's no contest for scheduling, food costs, hiring right, or any of the other managerial responsibilities of what a real chef may do.  He's always kind of a dick, and walks around with his chef jacket on in the kitchen scenes, and I've always thought he was pretentious and unnecessarily critical.  Don't get me wrong, I know this guy has chops, serious food award winning chops, but Bill Laimbeer was good at basketball and he still was a cockhead.  Okay, with that said I went to Craft ready to take this guy down, ready to nitpick to death just to satisfy my overwhelming insecurities when it comes to being in the presence of celebrities, nay celebrity chefs, wait, celebrity chefs that I am convinced are kind of douchey.

And I am disappointed to say Craft delivered.  Ever aspect save one (see below) of this dining experience was executed flawlessly.  We went for an anniversary dinner, and had everything for two.  Simple arugula salad.  Perfect.  Sirloin for two. Perfect.  Hemmingway daiquiri.  Perfect.  Service.  Perfect.  Ambiance.  Elegant yet not pretentious  Music....wait a minute!  They were playing a pandora station (I got this from the waiter who had worked their ten years and told me everything I ever thought about Colicchio was wrong) that Colicchio designed.   It was a bunch of recognizable alt bands, but the one that really stuck out was the Pixies.  Who the fuck plays Pixies as background music!  Eat a dick Tommy Boy, I knew I'd get you.

Arturo's--Maplewood, NJ

(973) 378-5800

Oh Beloved nine.  Tragedy has befallen the Iconman.  Yep, like all good things his sojourn in Brooklyn has come to an end.  He, like so many brave souls before him, has embarked on a mission to make everything better outside of the outer boroughs.  And like the phoenix must rise from the ashes and start a new.

What to say about Arturo's brick oven pizza?  It's the only game in town.  Literally, it is the only decent place to eat, congregate, make merry, etc in the entire town.  To be fair, it's a pretty small place, Maplewood.  Word on the street is that it's all but impossible to get a liquor license, which would explain the BYOB policy.    None the less if you happen to be lost around Newark, and somehow stumble into this sleepy little suburban oasis, Arturo's is the only place you will want to park and get some grub.

How's the food?  Passable.  Pretty good by my standards, but that's like throwing a virgin in a whorehouse and asking him thirty seconds later if he fell in love.  Actually, scratch that, as it makes no sense whatsoever.  The food is fine--the service unrefined and barely legal.  I had some raviolis and they delivered with one six different salads as the entrees come with a side salad, and we ordered the same salads to start--see above unrefined service.  Evidently,  they like you to be regular in Maplewood.

The wine was exceptional as I bought what I wanted since the place is BYOB.  I had a sancerre.  I had to ask the waiter to get ice maybe fifteen times.  His voice cracked, so I think I might have scared him.  Anyway, it's the only gig in town so I played nice and left a big tip.  I'm sure he's gonna spend it on baseball cards that will end up in the back wheel of his bike.  Yep, it's like that.

August--Manhattan

212-929-8727

www.augustny.com/‎

Wow.  So this is what being an adult is like. My last post, that is the last time I ate at a restaurant I'd never been to before, was four months ago.  I live in NY. With the multitude of new places cropping up in my neighborhood you'd think that I would have tried a new place by now.  Alas, the odyssey that is mustering up the energy and the dough to coordinate my schedule, my wife's schedule, getting a sitter, and then determining just where we should go that isn't the old standby (see Glasserie or Reynards for that one) is so incredibly difficult that it normally doesn't happen.

Thank God August didn't suck.  We went due to a very generous Xmas giftcard, donated by the owner.  The quaint little place is tucked in the heart of the west village, and we went on a Saturday night.  The food was out standing, and after a little snooping around I was even more impressed after seeing the kitchen be cobbled together in three separate spaces.

We had in no particular order: the onion tart, the mussels, the roasted chicken, the cod (I think, maybe it was sea bass) a bottle of wine, an expresso, the chocolate cake and the creme brulee.  It was good mother fucking French food.  Everything was delectable.  The service was crisp and attentive, and....oh my God I have turned into an adult! What happened to me?  Where did the Iconman of old gone?  I was excited to be out in the Village on a Saturday.  I used to never, ever go out on a  Saturday.  Crap.

It's a solid West Village haunt.  Don't get as excited as I am about it, I don't get out much.