The Iconman Report

Parm--Manhattan

2012-02-03T15:04:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-18T15:46:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-08T06:37:00.000-08:00

(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.

Total Backlog, part 2--Manhattan

2011-12-22T08:27:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-28T11:08:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-16T15:10:00.000-08:00

(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

2011-11-06T07:53:00.000-08:00

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...

2011-10-15T10:18:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-16T13:51:00.000-07:00

(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

2011-08-24T05:07:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-01T15:16:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-18T09:57:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-06T16:46:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-31T09:30:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-14T07:34:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-26T05:32:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-05T15:01:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-26T09:06:00.001-07:00

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

2011-03-11T12:04:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-10T12:11:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-24T11:18:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-13T08:39:00.001-08:00

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

2011-01-01T08:24:00.001-08:00

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.

Carino

2010-12-08T12:20:00.000-08:00

718.384.8282

You can always tell a new restaurant by the disjointed service, it's choppy and the staff take ten too many steps because the systems aren't in place to make things fluid and efficient. There's also a lot of bickering because the requisite hot-ass hostess is actually forced to do things that pretty girls just don't do: like work. In my younger days I would have teed off on this place, but now that I'm older and wiser, and have had the displeasure of opening not one buy two facilities in the city (notice the gaping hole of 2007 entries), I am much, much more patient with the service of a brand new restaurant. Especially when they're at least some hot ass girls struggling to not break a nail.

Enough of that. This is a restaurant blog dear readers, and a for that we should keep things focused. We originally wanted to go to this place when it first opened around June. The cooks and chef were all from Bonita, but were frustrated that their authentic Mexican cuisine was being doctored by the good people at Diner so decided to do it on their own. I'm reporting this from a somewhat reliable source though I have not heard that from them myself. It's gossip, pure and simple. We didn't go in June because they did not have a full liquor licence (one tremendous mistake of Bonita's) and there's no way I'm eating Mexican without a Margarita nearby. So we waited. Eventually they got through the steeple chase that is the SLA and voila, here we sat a month or so ago.

Their guacamole is pretty damned good. I've said this before about Mexican food, if their guac checks out then most everything else to follow will too. See Elote post for more extrapolation. Here's something not posted in the Elote post: what is up with habanero salsas? For the record, they don't taste good. In fact, I'd be hard pressed to tell you what a habanero even tastes like, because my mouth is suffering from a minor chemical burn. I appreciate spicy food, and understand the complexity of say, a chipolte pepper, but habanero peppers are down right inedible. They've somehow permeated the condiment barrier and are now standard at every fucking Mexican restaurant in the city. Why? So some douche bag can show off his ability to stomach battery acid? Well I for one have sworn off trying to enjoy the little bastards. Let that douche bag become the poster child for acid reflux, I'm gonna stick with the much more refined jalapeno based salsas.

But this is a restaurant review damn it! The food was pretty good despite the staff's best efforts to fuck it up. Now I feel better.

Paprika--Manhattan

2010-11-20T15:33:00.000-08:00

(212) 677-6563

I used to live around the corner from Paprika another lifetime ago, and never remembered the place which doesn't mean much as New York is constantly changing, for better or worse. We went there on a double date as my wife's maid of honor has a new stud, and we had to go to do the typical nice-to-get-to-know-you-yet-judge-you-when-you-leave-the-table-to-sneak-a-cigarette dinner. Right before I ate a pork pie at this grimy meat pie place across the street and was fucking glad I did. Not only did it allow me a beer or two to ease the pain of having a double date, but I also ate some food that was edible.

And how happy I was for that edible meat pie. Firstly, and this should have been a warning sign, we had reservations but they sat us after waiting ten minutes at an awful table. How awful? The table didn't have any wine glasses because they'd run out. This should have, and would have sent me into a frenzy, or at least back over to the pie place because there's nothing worse than waiting for a wine glass with a full bottle of wine already on the table. Especially since when glasses actually arrive it's approximately 180 degrees having just come from the final rinse cylce on a Hobart 66. Which is exactly what happened.

Dinner was okay in that most of it wasn't memorable. The only thing I jotted down was that my meal was disgusting. And it was. Once again I should know better than to order a seafood pasta special seasoned with lemon. Lemon, the smoke screen of rotten seafood. This pasta dish was so lemony that it tasted synthetic, like the cherry flavor in bubble gum. And the angel hair had glued itself together into one big clump of soft starch. While I was cutting through my Angel Hail clump, I had the pleasure of getting to know someone while at the same time hanging out with people I've known for ten years. Thank God the food was so lousy, because in comparison that aspect of the night was quite enjoyable.

Without a doubt the best part about Paprika was leaving. We were spit out right in the East Village, which on a Friday night is quite a place to be. I was instantly nastalgic, and this reminded me that the city is much bigger than my little feifdom in Brooklyn. Not that any of you care but we ended up in some LES bar listening to a saxophone cover band. And the bar had clean glasses for our wine.

M &T Bank Stadium--Baltimore

2010-10-27T11:56:00.000-07:00

(410) 261-7283

The last time I wrote about something in Baltimore it led to a smattering of disappointment mixed with a healthy dose of shame. Sadly, this post is more of the same.

Let's begin with the obvious. I went down to see my beloved and currently beleaguered Denver Broncos teach the entire town of Baltimore how it is done. I wasn't alone in my "broncomania," though I was almost certainly alone in my New York snobbery, forgoing dressing like some orange and blue douche-bag by merely showing my support when appropriate. Fortunately for me I didn't have to focus on that much as the Ravens trounced the Broncos.

I sat at the second to last row on the fifty yard line, approximately six hundred feet from the field. The seats were so atrocious I had to bribe the beer man $10 just to make it up to the upperdeck. Because of the ten dollar vig, I inevitably managed to drink at least a dozen various light-beer tall boys. Whilst enjoying the sun, and the small little purple dots stepping all over the small little white dots several hundred feet below, I also started to notice the crowd in all of its belligerence. The light-beer took effect, and my curiosity slowly transformed into disgust, as the football fans continuously exhibited all that is gross, vile, and truly American.

Firstly, everyone is fat at these things. I mean FAT. If they're not fat then they're malnourished. I couldn't believe it. Obese, obese, obese.

And what's with the fucking camouflage? Purple camouflage is about as stylish as cargo pan..wait a minute they are cargo pants! Foiled again by the camouflage.

But what gets me the most was the utter devotion to the team when it is apparent that 80% of professional athletes are not devoted to the fans. Of course there are exceptions, but for the most part the teams are a conglomeration of self indulged super athletes, who are all much, much taller than the rest of us. Yet, all of these people, thousands upon thousands of them, have spent millions of dollars on jerseys and face paint and camouflage pants just to come to some stadium that charges ten dollars for a can of pee. It's like some wierd masocistic catharsis, where everyone has the opportunity to partake in something just slightly more shallow and callous than their own lives.

Jesus H Christ, I have become a snob. Yikes.

Roberta's--Brooklyn

2010-10-15T13:56:00.000-07:00

(718) 417-1118

Finally an institution that I can handle. Well, a newfangled institution relative to some of the other restaurant's I've discussed but an institution none the less. Roberta's for those of you who don't know, is in Bushwick. Bushwick for those of you who don't know, is a rough and tumble commercial area in Brooklyn. It has a rather large project sitting right in the middle of it, which makes it less desirable for just about anyone who can afford to not live there. There are those who appreciate the commercial charm of Bushwick, the flat-roofed single story buildings that come with any industrial complex landscape. And I may sound like a priss when I say this, but I find these things hard to appreciate when getting jumped by a team of angry thugs.

Which is a perfect introduction to Roberta's, and oasis of hipsterdom in an otherwise arid land. Roberta's has a rich history, and is just about the only game in town. Essentially, Roberta's serves pizza. There are quite a few delectable pizza's to choose from, but the main reason you're eating here is because of two reasons: You live in the neighborhood and it's the only place in town, or you're visiting the neighborhood and it's the only place in town.

With that said this isn't necessarily bad as Roberta's does quite a few things well. Firstly, they have a nice garden which is excellent for warm weather boozing. As an added feature they grow many of their herbs from this garden and are exceptionally vigilant about sourcing all of their produce and livestock locally. They share their garden with Brooklyn Heritage Radio so you can watch a public broadcast right from your table; a selling point for any nerd that likes watching other nerds nerd out. And their food tastes good, though pizza is a pretty tough one to fuck up.

My only experiences have been of the black out variety: be it at some motorcycle rally, Halloween pre third ward, or just drinking bud mini cans because they're so fucking cute. I mean, really cute bud cans.

Collette--Williamsburg

2010-10-09T08:03:00.000-07:00

No phone I could find....

See the ghost's of restaurant's past. A bad way to start but it popped into my head and I'm too lazy to start over. This spot has closed two respectable restaurants, Oznot's and Silent H. Kitty corner to Hotel Delmano the owner Zeb Stewart (also of Union Pool) decided to capitalize. First order of business: move the door! And that's all it took. Now the entrance is on 11th street as opposed to Berry and it makes all of the difference.

We sat at the bar, and I wasn't with my other wife this time, but my wife, and we had a quick dinner. I remember I wasn't drinking so had a glass of Pellegrino. We had a green salad and ceviche and the Mrs had a steak sandwich. It was nice. So nice.

There's not much more to report. I'm sure it will develop some offshoot scene that circulates between the two bars. And I'm sure that Zeb will continue making a pile of money. And good for him, he's certainly got the older hipster trend thing dialed.

Carrera--Manhattan

2010-09-20T06:33:00.000-07:00

(212) 253-9500

A lot of ground to cover here. First of all a little house keeping. We are now nine strong, as a dear friend Vapid Blond has joined our ranks, an excellent Yoga Blog--Balance in the City has joined our ranks, and the Iconman himself! And there lies the problem. I meant to follow the Vapid Blond as part of the unsaid blogosphere reciprocity that plagues the Internet these days, but instead look like a douche following myself. I'm actually afraid to unfollow myself, or block myself, because who knows what Google would do. The last thing I want to do is fuck with Google. Not even China can do that.

Okay, on with Carrera. There are two locations, but my wife and I ate at the west side location. We were in a hurry as we had about an hour before scurrying up to some hidden west village theatre to watch a very, very gay play in the Fringe festival. Knowing my gay-play sensibilities my wife does her best to get me medicated before I go in to a grueling two hour stint of homosexual conflict. I swear, the biggest curse of living in New York is off-off Broadway.

So we went to Carrera because I was already getting a head start on my buzz at The Room, and it was literally on the way. And I must say, despite it's overtly flamboyant crowd, (a warm up to what was coming) the place ruled. Finally, a use for tapas--we're in a fucking hurry get us some food quick. And they had a dish so delectable that we ended up ordering it again: The Egg in a Blanket. Fucking Genius! They had other typical fare, caprese, dates wrapped in bacon, etc.. but everything pales to that Egg wrapped in philo pastry. Why this isn't on every McDonald's menu is beyond me.

Seattle--Iconman Style

2010-09-10T12:26:00.000-07:00

Holy Shit! Seattle. Man oh man I've been traveling like a mother fucker. A large crew of us went up to go fishing for sockeye Salmon, and ended up in Seattle for a night. Let me start by saying one word: Dick's. It's a religion. Three dollar hamburgers and dollar shakes. Not good, per se, but when you're drunk there's nothing you want more than a mouthful of Dick's.

Now aside from their phallacio obsession I must say that Seattle is full of weirdos. There's definitely an energy, but it's a weird one. A tweaked one. Almost as though everyone is depressed and juiced on coffee. We hit quite a few places in our four hours, and almost all of us, including my wife, my other wife, and her husband were all quite drunk by the end of it.

Pink Door:

(206) 443-3241

I'd say it was alright. Italian food, foo-foo cocktails, and a pretty nice balcony. Evidently it rains all of the time in Seattle, which would explain why the balcony was so fucking packed. We were there on the only sunny day of the year. It also explains why the hostess, two waiters, and the manager couldn't somehow tetris two four tops into a six top. Fortunately we were able to get some eats in our stomach, because our next stop was:

Bathtub Gin:

(206) 728-6069

Gin Martini's at four in the afternoon. This place was okay but we were sequestered to the torture chamber in an already dark bar. I get what they're after, and in that regard it was a pretty cozy little place, but Gin is a tough sell. I mean, who wants to go slurp down artesianal, craft gin? Especially on the only sunny day in Seattle? I'll tell you who, I do.

Zig Zag Cafe:

(206) 625-1146

Evidently this place has the best bartender in the world. Or United States, or Seattle, I don't know the particulars but it certainly explains why everyone that works there walks around with a hard-on. His name is Murray in case you're interested. While trying to get one of his famous cocktails we got stuck on one of those plank lean-to bar contraptions that are a good idea if you aren't stuck sitting/leaning on one. The drinks? Pretty good, though after the firewater at Bathtub Gin this guy could have pissed in my mouth and I would have been happy.

Shorty's:

(206) 441-5449

Sufficiently pickled, the reality that we had to eat didn't stop us from pissing away a bunch of cash at this nerd haven. Actually a very cool aesthetic, if you could just eliminate the leering, pinball crazed, dorks. We certainly ruffled their feathers as we liked pin ball and were good looking.

Purple Cafe:

(206) 829-2280

After much deliberation we ended up at the chi-chi Purple cafe. Not a bad restaurant, though at this point we were fourteen strong , inappropriately dressed, and didn't give a shit that we were sitting with the who's who of the Seattle bridge and tunnel social scene. Certainly not my style of place, but a pretty quality product delivered by prompt service. Think meat packing district, but with less money.

As you can tell that was a pretty impressive bar crawl, not necessarily a restaurant crawl. Alas, I forgot to give you the info on what started this trip off:

Dick's:
206) 363-7777 (There's a zillion as this bad boy is a franchise).
Short order burgers. Not that good, unless of course you've visited a zillion bars.

Prune-Manhattan

2010-09-01T13:01:00.000-07:00

(212) 677-6221

Sort of odd to write about a place that has been around forever and is established as a restaurant, but I don't ever write about restaurants in the East Village so why not start with this one. Prune was not our first choice, but the sweltering heat forced us to abandon our originaly destination and retreat to Prune to get a seat at their four seat bar.

We had radishes and squash blossoms (that looked like unborn cabbage patch kids), chicken with aspic and celery with blue cheese, and it was all weird and delicious. The waitresses popped around in pink shirts and one of them kept checking me out until I was told that the place was largely populated by lesbians, though, that has never stopped me before.

The only notable event of the night was the pisswater Pimms cup; made by jigger. In fact, all of the drinks were made by jigger. I don't agree with the practice, though it has become fashionable in the recent months, as I like my drinks to be very strong. But when the bartender, a tubby little number, told me that owner/chef did it to control costs that's where I draw the line. I don't mind watching the almighty dollar as it's a tough business, but if you're gonna do that don't serve lousy drinks. Of course, who the hell am I? Prune was packed, and even the wretched female judge on Top Chef even came by to dine and she hates everything so you know this place must be good.

Actually, the more I dig I also remember this waif of a women with long stringy black hair sitting next to me at the bar. Her boyfriend was quite hot and since she looked like an alien she assumed she was too, and kept leaning into me and flipping her gross hair. I nearly freaked out, but the Pimms cup was so gross we elected to leave before I made a scene and got tossed by lesbo's. And not in the good way. Fucking long-haired alien women. They're taking over.

Prime Meats--Brooklyn

2010-08-27T08:55:00.000-07:00

718.254.0327

Our friends live in Carroll Gardens and just squeezed out a beautiful brown baby boy. We decided to celebrate by eating at Prime Meats, Frankie's second installment on Clinton street. Having never been, and most likely not going again for a while, I must say that this place was pretty good. Granted, it is just like every other restaurant that has opened in the last two years in Brooklyn (American cuisine, turn-of-the century schtick, mustahces, cold draft ice cubes, etc....) but is done well and the food was delicious. They're not reinventing the wheel, but it's a pretty nice replication. I must say don't come here if you're in a hurry, as the two course dinner took the better part of forever. I mean, the kid was walking before it was through.

We went there a while ago, and have some other notes I jotted down but for the life of me can't make any sense of them:
Jody Foster
Glory Holes
Spatzle.

Hmmmm....I think our waitress looked like Jody Foster. And the table we sat at must have been salvaged wood and it had a hole right in the middle that I kept poking my finger through and then leering at my wife. I assume spatzle is on the menu. So there you go.

Third Ward--Brooklyn

2010-08-05T10:20:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, I know it's not a restaurant. In fact, it's not even really a food and beverage operation, unless of course you count The Goods which I'm not counting. What I'm talking about is the free-for-all multi-level super parties hosted by 3rd Ward (who also by no coincidence opened The Goods on Metropolitan). My friends that are still single and looking for some easy trim convinced me I should check it out once again. My wife isn't stupid, she let me off the leash to realize that a quiet night at home is better than this.

Firstly, for those eight reading this that don't know what 3rd Ward is, it's actually an art community. Check out their website. It's a pretty cool collaborative program that is locally based. I appreciate what they're going for, considering the type of art produced and applaud them for their efforts. It's not easy keeping something like that going day in and day out and without serious corporate or personal backing, it's a pretty strenuous hustle. At the end of the day though, what I experienced a few Saturdays ago was not a commitment to the art community at large, but rather two thousand people jammed into various where-houses in Bushwick. Kind of a rave but not too ravy, and kind of a club but more gritty, urban, and underground.

One thing is for sure, I'm too old to be doing this sort of thing. Not to say there is an age limit but rather there should be an age limit. I consider age to loosely equate to cynicism, and this cynicism defeats the sense of wonder created by flame-throwers and tin foil. The burning man culture certainly has something to offer, but at the end of the day it's centered around drug and alcohol abuse. And after a decade or two of poisoning my body every-which-way but loose, it gets a little tiring. I started to view a lot of these people as just plain and simple losers. Most are faking it to get laid. And if you're not faking it ,but happen to be a genuinely authentic un-shaven, chanting, dread-locked, tarot card reading tribal spaz, and you're convinced that dancing until seven am and twirling fire around is going to save the world, then you're an even bigger loser.

Here's the bitch and why I felt compelled to report on this: someone is making shit tons of money on this party! Cans of Paps for $6!? Bottled water for $2? It also must be noted the children of mother earth did not seem to be recylcing though I'm sure they were; I'm sure at 9:00 am the next day after being up on coke, adirol, and ecstasy there's a ruddy team chomping at the bit to clean up the thousands upon thousands of plastic cups and bottles and then cart them off to the local recycling center.

Here's another beef: The place is run stupidly. There's a separate entrance just to get carded and wrist banded. Yet, anyone who knows where the where houses are simply go there directly. And then they made everyone listen to some drum circle while waiting to be let into the largest room. The rules include (abridged): respect the neighborhood, don't get too fucked up, and "kiss a stranger. Make it count." Juvenile, feel good nonsense!

Like I said, I'm too old for this stuff. And I can't really blame the brain-trust of artists for figuring out a way to exploit the thousands upon thousands of drug hobbyists in the greater north Brooklyn area. I suppose then my actual complaint is this veneer of feel-good mystical bullshit inevitably tied to these sort of things excuses the half hazard operation. Look, get your shit together and exploit me properly. With no lines, ample space, and legitimate world changing initiatives. For instance: perhaps a cool science exhibition, instead of chainsaw ice sculptures. If you're going to go through the trouble to waste all of these resources, just don't waste my time. And perhaps I'm the one being inauthentic, or perhaps I was not out of my head enough to not care.

JG Melons--Manhattan

2010-07-21T15:32:00.000-07:00

(212) 650-1310

I'm torn about this one. I just had lunch there the other day with a friend, a chicken sandwich (I limit myself to one burger a week--and Donahue's normally fills that slot) and some of their cross-cut fries. It was decent. The weather was nice and we procured an outside seat, so we could watch all of the Upper East Side faux milfs scoot by with their two thousand dollar scooters and LL Bean slacks.

I'd been to this place a million times about a decade ago, and my only relevant memory is of a friend pulling a box staple out of his mouth. It was about an inch long and hidden in his salad and the server was about as apologetic as Heidegger post WWII. I suppose that she might have had a bad day but a staple? What other things might accidentally fall into the salad bin on the lowboy counter top when you're not looking? A band aid? Cockroach? Human hand!?!

That was years ago so I'm sure that an establishment like the Melon's has not cleaned up its act one iota. With that said, you can only trash so many institutions before you get a bad name for yourself. So I'm going to keep my insults to a minimum. If you're stuck on the Upper East Side, this place is charming enough. If you have some prep school, Upper-East-Side douche-bag singing its praises, know that he probably has way too much copper and iron in his bloodstream. How's that?

Momofuku Ssam-Manhattan

2010-07-09T11:56:00.000-07:00

212-254-3500

Let me start of by saying I'm pretty ignorant when it comes to food and beverage and whatever else it is all of these food writers find time to write about. I hope I don't come off as knowledgeable, because deep down I know I'm not. In fact, the only reason I do these at all my beloved seven, is because I know how much it means to you.

With that said, I don't read magazines, or other blogs--unless emailed to me by one of my many wives-- and generally don't understand the buzz or hype about a particular place. If you're food tastes good, and your service compliments your food, I'm generally pleased. If not, then I'm not. Simple enough. So when I went to Momofuku I had no idea what I was getting into. After a quick perusal of Wikipedia I found that Beard, amongst others, have had there noses buried in the guy's ass for the better part of four years. I also appreciate the notion behind Momofuku Ko first come first serve policy. Pretty cool. Take that influential rich people, you wait just like the rest of us. Furthermore, this guys doesn't give a rats ass if you're a vegetarian or not, so in a way, I already liked this restaurant.

Unfortunately, all of these things do nothing to explain the repeated gag-reflex I had when eating here the other day. We tried the pork-belly buns, sea-urchin, pickled vegetables, and bone-marrow with Chantilly mushrooms and quail's eggs, and I am not lying when I say I found the food to be absolutely fucking disgusting. Shit in my mouth disgusting. Seriously, I gagged on both the urchin and the bone marrow. Even the pork belly buns were sub par, fatty, flavorless garbage.

What am I supposed to do here? This guys seems to be the best chef ever, and somehow I think his food sucks. I know I'm wrong and that's a problem. But how do you argue with your gag-reflex? Acquire the taste for things that make you want to vomit? Pretend like you're enjoying it? For me, the rest of these people are fucking nuts, sort of like an emporer's new clothes thing going on here. I suppose that's all I can say. I understand eating sea-urchin and bone marrow when you're some indigenous person desperate to survive but let's all own up to the fact that it does not taste good. It just doesn't.

Ghosts of Restaurants Past--Williamsburg

2010-06-30T09:46:00.000-07:00

We played a little game the other night at one of our friend's fortieth birthday, doing our damnedest to remember all of the places that have closed since we collectively moved to the neighborhood years ago. Oddly, we bumped into one of the owner's of Moto and one of the owner's of Walter's Foods and both couldn't out-do us. So take that naysayers. I'll offer a brief explanation as to why they place closed:

Anytime: Now Lovin Cup. A good idea in concept, it was open for 24 hours which probably did it in.
Pita Power: Now the front part of Spike Hill. Place was run by a drug addict.
Brooklyn Diner: On Driggs and north seventh. It was just too clean and pretty.
Miss Williamsburg Cafe: Buried beneath forty stories of glass and steal on Kent Ave. It was so insanely expensive, but at the same time had a fantastic wine list. Also a cool garden, so when we thought about it probably before its time.
Planet Thai: Okay, who wants a two hundred cover sushi and Thai places where everything is under six dollars an entree in their neighborhood? I ate there more than I'd care to admit.
L Cafe: Now BagelSmith. Places was run by drug addicts.
Bulls Eye: Turned into Green Eatery.
Green Eatery: Cursed by being an old steakhouse.
Oznots, Silent H: A new incarnation is coming soon. Oznots was overthinking the Greek, and Silent H over thought Thai, hopefully the third attempt won’t be so cerebral.
Bonita: Opened with the tutelage of Diner, it actually franchised itself to Fort Green, but then who knows what happened. The chef that started it recently opened Carina
Brick Oven Pizza Gallery: Turned into Brooklyn Star. Then burned down.
The Stinger (Honorable Mention): Never been myself, but allegedly a good bar near clems.
Black Betty (Honorable Mention): Now another fried chicked restaurant. Sweet!
Sparky's: Now Egg. I suppose it's an upgrade, but this place wasn't too bad, that is, for serving hotdog's.
Yabby: They served food, I think. But this place was actually a gas station parking lot. Removed for new construction at one time it was prime hipster watching.
Alioli: Great tapas place on Grand. This one is too bad.
Chicken Bone: Flash in the pan. It went so quickly I never actually visited.
Cokie's: Perhaps the biggest blow to the neighborhood, you didn’t eat, but could certainly miss dinner and not notice. Turned into the Antique Lounge, and now is the Levee.
Union Picnic: Now Jimmy's. See Jimmy's post.
Bean: No small coincidence that this is right next to Union Picnic as they were owned by the same dude. This has turned into Pop's.

Okay, that’s what we could come up with, though I’m sure there are more. Please feel free to remind me.

Park Avenue- Summer/Winter/Spring/Fall

2010-06-18T12:18:00.000-07:00

212.644.1900

It would be fitting to cover each season of this restaurant, and since they change their menu's seasonally so maybe I will do that. But for now I'm going to cover the spring menu because that's what I ate with my other wife, on a lovely afternoon some time in May. This was actually pre- Berlin, but I've been so slammed that I had to flip through my little journal to dig up the notes. Superfluous details aside, I was with other wife so we inevitably sat at the bar.

The food was superb. We had a light lunch so we didn't delve too far into the menu but instead shared three small dishes: The Beet Salad, the Crab Salad, and the Salmon Tar Tar. Each were light and delicious in that deconstructed cubist sort of way that makes me think "I don't know what the fuck this is but it looks pretty." And then I pop it in my mouth and think "I still don't know what the fuck this is but it tastes good." Yes, you heard it here first beloved seven, I think those things.

The bartender deduced that we were industry insiders, and gave me a free Pimms Cup float. As much I love the ol' number 1 I would have rather have him jump up on the bar and piss in my mouth. Perhaps the pastry chef is a lush (and voted best by Beard no less), maybe he's bored and trying to do the impossible, but whatever the reason that dessert was an abomination. Anywho, we'll probably come back for Summer. Maybe they'll have a Carpiriihna sorbet!

Berlin- Iconman Style

2010-06-01T07:07:00.000-07:00

My wife and I took our baby moon to Berlin. Originally we wanted to visit Barcelona, but opted for Berlin because of the time constraints. Some would say we were crazy to fly to Berlin for only three and a half days, and on paper I would say they have a right to call us crazy. Berlin is easily doable in that amount of time though, and since we aren't planning on an extended European vacation any time soon we figured it was a good locale for a surgical strike. This entry should serve as an all encompassing Berlin tour. Iconman style.

Oscar and Co.

Oscar-co-Berlin.de
Potssdam Platz
oxstraße 1 10785
030-2529-2792

This place looked pretty sweet from the outside. It was our first meal (dinner) and we were jetlagged and our anuses were sore from getting screwed by Delta. This happens every time I come to Europe. I have no idea where I'm eating the first night and stumble into the first place that has something on the menu I like. My wife was in tow, exhausted, and her mood befit an exhausted woman dragged into a restaurant. The food was okay. It was sufficient for its price. I had steak and bruschetta and my wife had a cesar salad and fish.

I Due Forni

Schonhauser Allee
030-4401-7333
Mitte/Prenzlauer Berg

What is it about traveling that forces you to revert to Pizza? After a day of walking, literally we walked the fuck out of Berlin; we ended up at this place for pizza and beer. It was run by Italians, all Italians, and because my German is about as good as my Chinese I reverted to Spanish. Close enough right? The place was enormous, easily three hundred covers. And considering the tiny little kitchen it must be slammed when invaded by krauts. It also had a sort of punk theme going, with NOFX and Bad Religion posters all over the place, which lent itself to the European authenticity. Italian punk rockers, what could be more quaint than that? Then a foxy Euro-punk Italian bird served us lunch, and I realized I had underestimated the powers of eyeliner and tattoos. As for the food it was pizza; delicious, familiar pizza.

Guy

www.guy-restaurant.de
Jägerstraße 59
030 2094-2600

We originally wanted to go to a place called Borchardt which located in the same Soho-esque region of Berlin, but our concierge talked us out of it. I should rephrase that, he bullied us out of it in a typically German manner. His description went something like this:

"Why would you want to go, yah? This restaurant is for people who know people and wear the Guess and wear the Armini and have I-phones. I know a better place, the food is better, and there isn't this nose in the arm (he actually said nose in the arm) attitude. Now, the humor of this man's expression wasn't nearly as amusing as the irony of the fact that we were staying at a 19th Century palace design to cater to these exact type of people. And for the record I'm not one of those people, though I'd like to be, this palace was discounted through our entire collective American Express rewards points. We didn't want to be rude, and we did need this German maniac to make the reservation so we went with his suggestion: Guy.

Initially we were pretty psyched. It was definitely highfalutin. Linen table cloths, greeted at the door, offered aperitif the whole nine. The problem was this: it was sort of a faux luxury, like they read all of this stuff in a book somewhere and figured this is what luxury was so they should give it a whirl. I could swear I was in Vegas or something. How do I know? Good question, my beloved septuplet of followers. I know because luxurious places are devoted to the details. The effortless of clearing silver (with out dropping it), the subtly of crumbing. They work in the microexperience, the uniforms fitted, the well poured glass of wine without dripping on the table, the thick-tined fish fork. The bells and whistles approach, the shock and awe of an amuse bouche or hospitable hostess are definitely part of the package, but when you don't deliver on the nuts and bolts of good, efficient, and for lack of a better word experienced service, you come off looking cheap. Dont' get me wrong, Vegas is the capital of cheap, and for the idiots that flock their (as well as the entrepenuers that fleece them) this is the haute couture of luxurious service.

The food was okay. Not great, not bad. It's tough, the European palate hasn't been dulled by as much processing and corn syrup. We both had a tasting menu of four courses, and for whatever reason each dish made me feel as though I were a guest judge on top chef. There were so many extra ingredients and flavors to make a pretty standard dinner unique, but somehow everything tasted a little off. It was a seasonal menu, and for obvious reason each Spring menu gets overloaded with asparagus. My pee still smells funny. But the fish was good--lemon foam unnecessary, the chicken three way, well, not exactly what you'd think was passable. Another annoying contrivance was my recommended wine. I had veal, and asked to pair my meal to a red wine. The waiter brought me the cheapest wine on the menu, a Cabernet perhaps, which was about as paired with veal as two male genitalia. At least I didn't have to leave an expect 20% tip.

Nola's am Weinburg

Veteranstrabe 9

030-4404-0766

Fucking Roschti. We were pretty beat up after a long night out hitting the ridiculous Berlin night life scene. We ended up at this cheesy club called Kaffeburger. It was pretty hilarious actually though I ended up drunker than I wanted to be. And I'm no spring chicken, so staying out to watch the bizarre dancing of the the Berliners had definitely taken it's toll. When we rolled up to this restaurant that felt as though it were an old fort or artillery hold or something, I was just hoping to grab some schnitzel in an attempt to subdue my hangover. What I got instead was Roschti. Hallelujah. How this dish isn't a staple at every single Williamsburg comfort food establishment is beyond me.

Roschti is basically pan seared hash browns topped with cheese. I had a little proscuito on mine as well, but it didn't make it that much better. Yes, German cheese potatoes. Mark my words, there will be a Roschti trend coming soon to the states. Its inevitable, like bad German dancing.

Vivaldi
Schlosshotel im Grunewald
Bahmastrabbe 10
030-895-840

So we had to eat at the restaurant in this ridiculous hotel. I flight left the following morning, and after our spa treatment we couldn't bring ourselves to leave the hotel. As opposed to Guy, this place was the real deal. Granted, it helps when the dining room is an anteroom to a 19th century palace, but the details were there this time.

I had some sole with lemon foam, and it was divine. The venison amuse bouche, perfect. The Lasagna, well, it was lasagna. Even the capacino was spectacular, really, the best I've ever had. It's kind of unfair to write about a restaurant like this only because I wasn't 100% sure of what I was putting in my mouth at any given time. (Not unlike that two week stretch in college..ehem.) But I can assure you that whatever it was it was pretty fucking awesome.

So that's Berlin. Probably not the most informative piece I've ever written, but damn it was long enough.

Aldea--Manhattan

2010-05-14T18:17:00.000-07:00

212.675.7223

Hello faithful seven. It's that time of year again. The busy season. It sucks me into a frenzy of charity events, high end weddings, higher end Bar and Bat Mitzvah's, and the occasional swift kick in the balls. I'm too old to really complain about the hours, and the season also provides me with perks like nice wine and the already mentioned nut sack cinch. Unlike 2007, I've had time to dine at some nice places and even more time to tell you all about them.

The first thing Aldea made me realize is that I'm a food dummy. I don't necessarily know what I'm eating, why I'm eating it, or where it came from. What I do know is there are people who do know this shit and one of my wives happens to be one of them. Thankfully, she keeps dragging me to these places. Aldea is a Portuguese, though that really means nothing to me. The only thing I know about Portugal is that my friend caught herpes there years ago. But after eating here I must admit that Portuguese food is pretty good.

Since I am a food dummy, and don't know Portugese food, I'm also rather cowardly when it comes to ordering. I order only what I recognize, in this instance the hanger steak and a green salad with pine nuts. Pine nuts are like the green crayon in the massive crayola crayon box (you know, the one with the pencil sharpener) they make everything better. My other wife, being a polygamist by nature, has a far more adventurous palate. She had the urchin, the oysters, the ham, the pigs ears and ramps, and the egg pea and bacon. All of them were excellent.

Another interesting detail I noticed was the mention of the farm on the menu. This is a pretty cool idea, and after the Omnivore's Dilemma smeared everything edible in the United States I appreciate the attempt. Though, I only know of certain restaurants pulling this off in any sort of sustainable way (Diner comes to mind, that also has a butcher shop in tow) but to me it is a very cool idea but only to a select few restaurants. What would happen if every nice restaurant in NYC decides to do this? How much pork or lamb can they really grow in once season? What happens with a bad crop? Re print the menu? What about the hotels and banquets that serve six hundred rack of lamb at a pop? I nice idea, but it smells of gimmick to me. Then again, what do I know? I'm a food dummy with sore balls.

Marlow and Sons--Brooklyn

2010-04-30T19:24:00.000-07:00

718.384.1441

Holy shit, it's been a while. Fucking busy season man. It sucks you in. I'm currently writing this while a horrible Greek band bellows four flights down. I'm in the attic of my place furiously typing a way. I've already written about Diner and though Marlow and Sons is a completely different restaurant, I've always felt like they're the same place. In fact, geographically, they are the same place; share the same kitchen, the same staff, and the same devil may care attitude towards service. It was my other wife's birthday, so naturally we ended up sitting up at the bar.

My other wife's birthday is at the beginning of April and my memory, as always, is a bit hazy. Here's what I got in my notepad:

Aloof once again. I suppose this was the staff. I don't necessarily think they were meaning to be aloof, but that I thought they was because I was intimidated by how cool they were.

Oysters. How do you hate oysters?

We ordered 1st courses. They were all good. I had a ravioli and my wives had salads. I don't want to get into it again, but it is Diner's kitchen, the food's always going to be good.

Tons of lesbos. One wearing sexy stockings. Wives wouldn't let me engage. I suppose that this was going to be the crux of the piece, as the place was teeming with sexy interpenetrated trim. The sexy lesbos were also quite young and modely, which means that they probably were just dressing the part.

Great Scale. They have a scale in the bathroom. I suppose that's cool.

Correcting the pee stream. I have no idea what this means other than I was drunk. You can tell I was scribbling it as I was peeing

So there you go, the inner thoughts of a review that expired. Hopefully that helps.

Schiller's Liquor Bar--Manhattan

2010-04-05T13:13:00.000-07:00

212.260.4455

One problem I encounter with writing about restaurants is the difficulty of expectations. There are all sorts of expectations to manage, some founded in reputation, others in dimwitted buzz, and still some in rating systems. When I went to Schiller's I can honestly say that I didn't know what to expect. I've been drinking myself to the point of black out in that neighborhood for years and years, and Schiller's was always this brightly-lit place that seemed to attract well-heeled Europeans. Certainly not the spot for a disheveled ill-tempered drunk that is rolling in off the Ludlow pubcrawl. To be honest, when my boss and long time Upper East side Socialite mentions it as part of his hoity-toity food go to places, I figured that it was somewhere in the meatpacking district, tucked between two bridge and tunnel uber-restaurants. Obviously, I was mistaking it for Pastis, same difference really.

So what can be said after not having any expectations? The place is pretty good. It's a well run restaurant. It has to be to turn over that many people. I went with my other wife and we managed to grab a seat at the bar right before the explosion of bridge and tunnel fashionistas. Our bartenders were a little too practiced at being cooler than me, and when they kept hitting on my other wife it got old, but overall they were congenial, friendly, and fresh smelling. The food was fast and prompt and delicious, I had a chicken Piard and we split some Nachos and to be honest they were satisfying. I guess if I could own a restaurant, and bang hot chicks every night with a devil may care attitude, riding around on a motorcycle wearing a red scarf I would probably have a place just like this one.

My one caveat for trying this restaurant is if you're fat, ugly, or poorly dressed. If you are any of these three, or like me and have a harem at your disposal to make you seem like you're rich, then this scene is not your bag. Places like this never really make you feel comfortable, and unless you're with a crowd of people exactly like you, you're going to be pretty bummed. Sad but true, sad but true.

Boqueria--Manhattan

2010-03-26T14:52:00.000-07:00

212.343.4255

Tapas. I've mentioned my beef with Tapas before, but I was drinking around the corner with my other wife at The Room, and we tried Blue Ribbon and it was too crowded so once again I acquiesced. Fucking tapas man. A bunch of first courses cleverly disguised as dishes. No timing, just send it whenever it's ready!

I wouldn't normally go to a place like this, but if you're into banging slightly overweight, dolled up bridge and tunnel cougars than this is the place for you. The place was teeming with used trim. We had so many different items that I'm not about to comment on all of them. I'll make it simple and put grades next to them:

Dates w/ Bacon: B- Way too much blue cheese.
Hake: B
Sauteed spinach with garbanzos: B
Croquettes: B+ Out of pork, those fucks! Chicken creamy but good. Didn't try the mushrooms.
Cerano Ham w/ tomato Paste: B
Mixed Salad: B+
Kale Salad: C-
Tomato Bread: F Why don't you take a cold shit in my mouth instead?
Cod Fritters: B
Tuna: C Zombie tuna man.

Okay, sorry for the sauciness, but I've been drinking Beck's since noon. Word.

Vinegar Hill House--Brooklyn

2010-03-04T12:42:00.001-08:00

718.522.1018

Since one of my wives relocated to Dumbo not so long ago, she has stopped eating out in Williamsburg altogether and has found a new restaurant to frequent daily. And due to my social outbursts and overall assholedom (that's a word) she has been reluctant to invite me down to visit her newfound dining oasis, Vinegar Hill House. The other week I visited for my very first time, and though I wasn't blown away, I wasn't thrown out either, a testament to what first impressions really amount to.

Vinegar Hill House, despite its intimacy, is surprisingly large with a downstairs and backyard that opens in the warmer months. It also has a surprisingly neighborhood-joint feel, despite it's reputation for good eats. What is not surprising is the casual dining atmosphere, though this could have been induced by my other wife's ultra-regular status, as it offers up culinary treats that are an anathema to my preferences without formality. Think Friend of a Farmer meets Diner.

At this point I could write two reviews, as the regular status of my other wife greatly affected the experience we had. As a challenge, I will try to do just that: one from the perspective of a regular who is granted perks for patiently returning time and time again, and one from the perspective of a first time eater.

Review #1:
The one thing I love about this restaurant, more than any other, is the vast selection on the menu. Firstly, every first course is completely different. The buttermilk dressing and bitter green salad is a perfect contrast to the market salad with vinegar dressing , there's grilled octopus, there's cheese, and all of this is differs from day to day depending upon the availability and season, guaranteeing freshness and quality. The entrees are delectable, again offering an array of selections the hilight being the porkchop. The cuisine is gourmet but not pretentious, using time tested techniques to create flavors commiserate with such a perfect setting.

When we entered, the manager instantly recognized my friend, and allowed us to sit even though our party was not complete; giving us a table right in the thick of the dining room. Drink orders were quickly taken and we seemed to lose our sense of time eating and drinking and conversing. By the time we were through, the restaurant was packed, though we didn't feel rushed whatsoever, enjoying the comfort atmosphere with full bellies and good company. The meal was resplendent with quality products fine-tuned for a perfect night out. And the bill was more than agreeable....

Review #2
We arrived at Vinegar Hill House and had a twenty minute wait to get a table. As the dining room is smack in the middle of the bar, there was nothing to do but to stand around like a dope waiting for something to open up. Eventually, we were seated and the waiter took our drink order. The place was pretty busy, so it took a while for him to get us our wine/beer, though I don't know why, as I saw him chatting with the manager for half the time.

We each had a different salad, all of them done quite well though the bitter green salad with buttermilk dressing was without a doubt the winner. My wife had the fish, my other wife had the octopus, and I had the chicken with a potato on the side. The potato had cod in it, sort of a spin on bacalao, which would have been nice to know ahead of time. This would have been less egregious if he hadn't first delivered brussel sprouts, which none of us ordered, but the manager astutely included free of charge. The bummer was that the sprouts were far superior to my fish-potato.

The food was delicious, but once again convoluded by an inattentive and spacey waiter. Each of us had something different, and each of us was quite pleased, though we all had to wait for our fourth order to be delivered--the steak with bone marrow. I still can't seem to wrap my head around restaurants who put so much time an attention into a product, and then have some brain donor execute. It's a good thing I was with my wives, as they seem to temper my outspokenness with their patience and understanding. All in all I can say that once again Brooklyn has opened a restaurant with far superior food than service, with more attention put on decor than lay out, and more concern with style and feeling than efficiency...

As you can tell from either review, I had a fine time, and it's hard to say whether the waiter was out of it because I was with a super-regular, or if that's what you get when you come to Vinegar Hill House. Take it as you will, but I must concede that it is definitely worth a try. And something tells me the more you try it the more you will acquire the taste.

The Standard--Manhattan

2010-02-15T09:34:00.000-08:00

212.645.4646

Boy oh boy a fancy pants dinner at the Standard. I generally try to stay away from such dazzling hot restaurants, as I am far too much of an asshole and do not belong. And the Standard is the place so I've been told which is why I'd never been. But one of my wives wanted to go, and what sort of Husband would I be not to satisfy her every whim?

A place like the Standard reminds me of why I am a misanthrope by nature, as everyone there is good looking, rich, or both. It reminds me that outside of my tiny little fiefdom, the city is teeming with people that don't consider a night out worth it unless they're at the place where everyone else wants to be. It's a worthy case study in sociology, but studies such as these are always performed by people like me: on the outside looking in. The people on the inside know they're on the inside, and thus have no reason to question why. We were able to score a lovely table in the dining room as long as we weren't late to our 6:15 pm Friday evening reservation, nearly a late lunch. The waiting list for a more reasonable hour was weeks and weeks, so we sucked it up and left work early.

Immediately I was reminded how a well run restaurant should be: the host told us that we had until 8:15 pm, so don't dally with dinner. This prompt, attentive service underscored the entire experience (that is until we went up stairs to the bar) but we never felt rushed, a testament to their overall polish. The food was acceptable for the price. We decided to split dishes, and selected the quail, the venison, as starters, and the trout and brazino as entrees with some brussel sprouts and duck fat potatoes. We finished up with oversized portions of cheesecake and Pecan Pie. As the menu changes daily I don't know if these were stalwarts or whether they were experiments but were executed well, though, the brussel sprouts were without a doubt the best thing we had. All in all, my socks were still on my feet considering it was $250 for two three-course meals and a decent bottle of red.

One nice feature that I must point out is the waiter gave us a free glass of grunervetliner for our fish. We had selected a heavy red wine, and it did not pair well at all. In fact, it paired so poorly that I actually noticed that it paired poorly, much like a blind man saying the color is off. My point is, this guy hooked us up out of genuine concern for our experiece. We were joking around--I believe an off-colored aside about anal sex kicked off our relationship--but it was nice to have someone be personable and generous but at the same time totally professional and respectful of his craft.

After dinner the menonite server, no really, his Grandmother was omish, recommended we visit the bar upstairs. The bar closes at 9:00 but reopens late night as an ultra swank lounge. Evidently their is a VIP bathroom where things get a little wierd. For all of the earnestness we experienced downstairs, we saw nothing but pretension and general loserdom associated with the Meat Packing District upstairs. The prices ($50 for two whiskey's) the jokey airplane stewardesses and nero jacket attendants, the douchebaginess of the the patronage, and the fact that a VIP bathroom even exists, all extoll an accurate first impression that this place would never be my scene despite the stunning view.

I suppose that it's awfully presumptious of me to assume that anyone who frequents the Standard would give two squirts for my opinions, but perhaps this was written to warn the would-be sociologist. I have no doubt that the restaurant will eventually lose it's busyness and settle into a great place to take out of town guests, as I am also assured of the eventual lameness of the upstairs bar. And I suppose with the comfortable nugget of self-assuredness, I can sleep at night.

Jimmy's-Brooklyn

2010-02-01T17:40:00.000-08:00

(718) 218-7174

This place for a long time was a sandwich shop, and then it closed mysteriously after a visit from the health department. I only remember that because before the Emerald city was constructed we'd play bocci on the south east corner of the park and we used to go there to pee. I always remember it odd that it closed due to health department orders, because it didn't seem that gross. Then one of my venues failed a health department test for not having a current food handlers (our sous had the old one that was nothing more than a piece of paper) and not having soap in a hand sink dispenser. So it isn't to say that this old place wasn't crawling with vermin that are a hybrid of mice and cockroaches; but rather it's not that hard for the health department to close your doors for some ticky tack shit. None of this has anything to do with Jimmy's other than geographical coincidence by the way, but at least I got to say my piece about the NYC Department of Mental Health and Hygiene.

If I had to sum up Jimmy's menu in one word it would be: fried. If I had to write a haiku about Jimmy's it would read:
Hungover again
Let's eat taters and bacon
Good lord I am full.

I wouldn't recommend Jimmy's without a note from your doctor. On the flip side, if you're like me and your palate was honed on Wonderbread, Ding Dongs, and Pop Tarts, then you're in heaven. Everything on this menu could be classified as junk food. It's a place designed around the sustenance required when you're reeling on the morning after from an all day drinking binge. The place has a pretty solid dinner menu/sandwich menu as well, though I've never been there for anything but brunch.

On separate note this place is obviously family run. I like that; it means that the waitstaff actually give a shit about what's going on. Furthermore, they're also going to treat the place like their own, so if they're busy they probably won't be the most courteous or hospitable servers to pushy people who are bleary-eyed and think they deserve prompt flash-fried relief. But if you keep coming back for their abuse they eventually consider you to be part of the family.

I suppose that's all. The have some freaky photography on the walls, I particularly like the naked chick wearing the gas mask. Oh, and try their milkshakes. They may not be fried, but they're still quite fattening.

Moto--Brooklyn

2010-01-19T14:54:00.000-08:00

(718) 599-6895

The first time I went to Moto I was afraid for my life. Not to say that I was in any danger, but rather I'm a puss when it comes to unfamiliar neighborhoods. Moto is wedged in an intersection directly below the elevated JMZ, and having to cut across South Williamsburg to get there I definitely noticed the socio-economic decline. I make it known that these are my own white-bred bigoted idiosyncrasies, which is a caveat at best and a poor excuse for character at worst. My snobbery is not the focal point of this, but rather that by the time I was finished at Moto I deemed it worth whatever self-contrived fears I had.

Some say Moto NYC is a copy of a well known Moto in Chicago, and this couldn't be further from the truth. They share the same name true, but there is no wacky gastronomical gimmicks coming from the Moto in NYC. Just take a gander at Moto NYC's kitchen; it's basically a hot plate and a microwave. Not to say Moto (NYC from now on I promise) doesn't have it's fair share of acclaim. There's a documentary about the making of this restaurant called Eat This New York (Directed by Andrew Rossi and Kate Novak) that depicts the hell it takes to open even a small restaurant like Moto. I don't know if it's a must see, but it's interesting at the very least.

As for the restaurant itself, I must be honest it's been a while. I admit the folly of reviewing a restaurant you haven't been to in a while, but this is the last of the old Williamsburg places I've been meaning to write about. I mean, it certainly deserves my attention. I've since moved well out of walking distance, but rest assured on the clarity of my memories of yesteryear. One, there's live music of the jazz variety. And considering the sqaure footage of the place that's a feat unto itself. Two, this place has a legitimate coolness about it. Opened in 2002, right before the New Williamsburg scene came to prominence, it secured itself a spot in the Williamsburg scene (5-leaves opened in conjunction with John McCormick and his bar tutelage). Three, the food, albeit comforty, is quite delicious especially considering the kitchen. The date cake in particular is about as good as they come and I vaguely remember having some tasty chicken. The service is what you get in old Williamsburg, self-respecting waiters not interested in a waiting career, but since Moto is so small and quaint it's impossible for them to ignore you.

I suppose that's as good as I can do considering I'm dredging almost all of this up from a memory my second wife calls "horrible." I'll eventually make it back there, and perhaps then can comment more on specific menu items. Regardless of what they're serving, I maintain that it's a restaurant worth the trip. But if you're a puss, or covered in diamonds, you might think about taking a cab.

Roebling Tea Room- Brookyn

2010-01-07T04:47:00.000-08:00

(718) 963-0760

Okay so back from the holidays and back on the trolley...

I'm not sure what to make of a restaurant designed around the culture of tea drinkers. The immediate image that comes to mind is a bunch of British Aristocrats, straight from a Henry James novel. Not so appealing. If I dig a little deeper I think of mousy little librarians blaring Natalie Imbruglia songs. Excuse the blatancy but I can't help myself; not my cup of tea. So when I first walked into Roebling Tea room and saw a relatively cozy albeit sexy scene unfolding, I was a little confused.

This place snuck in under the radar and though has been open for a few years I would still classify it as old Williamsburg--you heard that term here first folks. Old Williamsburg, in my not so humble opinion, is what attracted the thousands upon thousands of people here to crowd the L train wearing suits and carrying Brooklyn Industry bags (that and an insane 15 year tax abatement on new construction). New Williamsburg is what is going to push the old Williamsburg trend setters to Bushwick--think Blue Ribbon's Brooklyn Bowl. Now I'm not sure if Roebling Tea Room came from the Diner/Dumont/Moto comfort-food coaching tree but it has the same approximate feel. Service is casual, seating is casual, food is comforty. Yet this place has a gimmick: shit loads of tea!

When there last I opted for some tea as I have been trying to dry out and I was, after all, at a tea room. I had peppermint and my wife had Early Grey. Not so adventurous considering the vast amount of teas on the menu, but I'm a man of simple tastes and I had indigestion. Regardless, there must be over fifty maybe sixty different teas on the menu and it looks as though they're all loose leaf teas, as our came with little hand-tied cheese cloth do-hickeys that only added to the overall tea-drinking quaintness. I suppose it wasn't so bad, drinking tea that is, and to give a great blogosphere description, my tea tasted minty. Whoopitydo.

Many posts so little time...

2009-12-14T11:21:00.000-08:00

So as I become a more and more experienced "blogger" I realize that I'm good for a post about every two weeks. Unfortunately, I eat out far more often than that so I have this tremendous backlog of scibbles and notes from the last few months. I would love to write a lengthy explanation of every single dining experience, but time, patience, and the reality that sometimes I had a no frills dinner out of necessity prevents this from happening. Look, not every dinner I've ever had is memorable. I'd say, that seven out of ten are simply dinner. It's not like I get thrown out of a place everytime I eat out, at least, not anymore. So without further adeau, here's a recap of some places that didn't impress me, didn't offend me, and are not memorable for anyother reason than my time constraints and alcohol-sodden brain:

41 Greenwich-Manhattan:
212.255.3606

Just had dinner here two weeks ago (so about the beginning of December) with wife number one. We were seeing an absolutely fabulous review called Hello My Name is Billy, and decided to make it an actual date. Everything was acceptable in terms of cuisine, and the restaurant is quaint. Spent more than I should have for a chicken dinner though and left with my socks still on my feet. And the only other notable experience was a wine bottle crashing to the floor from their ramshackle wine cooler. Ho hum.

Docks-Manhattan:
212.724.5588

Holy shit is this place a rip off. If you're in the mood for bad service and worse oysters, just let me know and I'll come to your house and kick you in the balls for an hour. Then you can pay me $700. Obviously built for hi-felutin' stock brokers, we came for oysters and left bankrupt. You know you're in trouble when a place charges this much and you have to ask the waiter to bring you water. To make matters more awkward, some friends showed up for just a drink and one of them brought their dog which made the overpriced raw food that much more unapetizing. I mean, who brings a dog to someone else's dinner?

Rye House-Manhattan:
212.255.7260

Fucking cold. That's all I can say. Their heat was broken on perhaps the coldest day of the year. They didn't mention it, but the fact that all of the servers and bartenders were bundled up should have tipped us off. We sat and froze. Their menu is sophisticated comfort food. If that seems like a contradiction in terms, that's because it is. Fried Mac and Cheese balls, Kobe Beef sliders, and Ghouda and Pork Belly Empenadas all sound good on paper but failed to deliver. Why reinvent the wheel? Oh, I know, to distract me from the fact I can see my breath.

Bar Stuzzichini-Manhattan:
212.780.5100

This place is too good to be true. I've been twice now, eagerly awaiting them to screw something up. But no, the food is conistent Italien; fresh ingredients and a wide selection. Service is attentive and articulate. Decor is as breath taking as a restaurant can be (I mean, who ever really has their breath taken away at a restaurant? Guastavino's of yester year maybe?). There is nothing wrong with this restaurant that I can tell. So I guess there's nothing wrong with that. Try the veal meatballs.

El Almacen-Brooklyn:
718.218.7284

Empanadas. Argentine Empanadas. Boom-shaka-laka. Argentine Carne Asada tacos. Yum yum. Encheledas, not so Argentine. Still sweet. This place has amazing potential, and though it's been open for long enough to iron out most of the kinks that still exist I'm going to keep coming back with my wives so we can watch the sweet little latin apple bottoms slither through the tight tables. My only complaint, if I were in the mood, is the seating. Be careful you can get fucked on the seating if you're not. I'm not in the mood though, so let's see if this place develops into the sultry, sex depot that it looks like its destined to become.

Elote-Brooklyn

2009-12-03T20:05:00.001-08:00

(718) 599-2655

I believe this restaurant was called something else earlier, but I forget what it was called originally so I'll stick with its current name. For what it's worth, and this may not be much, this is probably the best Mexican food you're going to get in the berg after they closed down that deli on Bedford between north 6th and 7th.

Elote has a decently sized back yard, with picnic tables and some shade. It's the perfect place for summertime margheritas, an easy feat considering the resplendent number of quality tequilas on the bar. The last time I visited Elote I was attacked by Mosquitoes. It was quite unnerving, but at the time this was happening all over Brooklyn, and, in fact, also happened to me recently at Dumont. Fucking mosquitos man. I mean, what a wretched insect. They nearly ruined the experience, but fortunately we had all of that delicious tequila so after a little while the mosquitoes had their fill and we just sat there and slowly got drunk.

The food and service are more than acceptable, but Mexican food for me is a little different in terms of experiencing cuisine. Firstly, it is generally made from all of the same ingredients, save for minor variations in the actual mode of transport. For instance there is little difference between an enchilada and a burrito. I don't necessarily think that one dish is going to stand out more than another, merely because the beans are the same beans in whichever dish you compare. So when determining the quality of a mexican restaurant's menu, if the over all food is good, and the guacamole is good, then chances are the entire menu is good. And that is the case for Elote.

Unfortunately, the more I look at other blogs the more I realize that I don't have pictures or anything. I'm not sure I understand the food-blog picture, because to be honest the pictures rarely do anything. Obviously they are taken by amateur photographers on a digital camera, with no lighting to speak of, so the pictures make the plate look more unappetizing. Have any of you actually looked at a picture and said, 'that looks so good I just want to eat it right now.' Or even better, 'That looks revolting, I'm never eating there ever unless I'm starving or it's free.' What do you need them for? Filler? To see the size of the portions? I just don't get it. I have no pictures. sorry.

Eating on the train

2009-11-15T14:47:00.000-08:00

I don't actually have a restaurant to talk about here. This just came from the ol' wellspring of bitchiness that I drink from on an almost daily basis. Okay....so... don't eat on the fucking subway. I'm sure you're pressed for time and this may be your only opportunity to eat something before you start whatever it is that is more important that sustenance and nutrients, but it's fucking gross. It's grosser than gross. The subway system of New York City is about as sanitary as a toilet in Paris or maybe a Turkish bath changing room. You're exposed to so much foul shit that the very idea of eating should be unappetizing. I'm begging all six of you that might be reading this, spread the word. Eating on the train is a bummer.

Peter Lugers- Brooklyn

2009-11-04T15:46:00.000-08:00

718-387-7400

What prompted me to talk about Peter Luger's is not an actual visit to the NYC steakhouse. I just returned from Obrycki's crab shack in Baltimore. I went there to have the "authentic" crab shack experience that I've heard so much about and that is only available close to the Chesapeake Bay. What I got was a watered down coke and a not-too-bad crab cake for fifty bucks. Fucking Peter Lugered.

I've been Peter Lugered more times than I'd like to count. Smith and Wollensky, JG Melon's, Oyster Bar, and even PJ Clark's on the East side have all done it to me, but none of these are better at Peter Lugering than (obviously) Peter Luger's. Actually, I stand corrected, Cheers might be the ultimate Peter Lugerer in the land. What is getting Peter Lugered? No my sick twisted followers, it is not a sexual maneuver involving a hand gun and some fecal. It is what happens when a restaurant becomes an institution and ultimately loses the quality that initially made it so yet charges prices that are inflated because they can. When I was twelve my 15-year-old brother was bored to death walking the freedom trail in Boston. He begged to go to Cheers for lunch. My parents succumbed, fearing a serious bout of pouting for the remainder of the colonial trip down memory lane. I'm sure you already know what's coming, so to wrap it up quickly we paid well over a hundred dollars for a lunch that Boston Market could have done better.

Peter Luger's is much the same. Now hold on a sec, before you discount my interpretation the steaks are good. It's a good steak. But...I've had better. I've had better in New York. I've had better steaks in Los Banos, California. And more to the point, these better steaks weren't served by some overweight, inconsiderate, Brooklyn cretin who seems to think it's a privilege to eat at such a NYC institution. And there's my beef. I appreciate Peter Luger's has been around one hundred years; in restaurant terms that's eternity. But to fleece people with such insane prices and curt unfriendly service under the auspice of an authentic New York City experience is lame. Even the website depicts these hand-tied bow ties and polished dudes from back in the day when an honest day's wage didn't include paid vacations or benefits. Luger's has taken these fellows' gumption, and through the slow, plodding degradation of generational entitlement, transformed it into a culinary tourist trap. Believe me, there's nothing left to milk. The creamed spinach: sucks. The hand cut bacon: sucks. The bottled sauce: sucks. They even carry a line of Peter Luger steak knives and cutting board! WTF? Isn't it about the simplicity of great steaks served in a humble atmosphere, free of all of the alchemy and sophistication of new cuisine techniques? Or is it about moving merchandise to unsuspecting Manhattanites?

I don't give a fuck if Peter Luger's is an institution. Lot's of things are institutions that don't necessarily connote quality: organized religion for instance, or the Macy's parade, or Disney World. What I want is a quality steak, served with quality sides, by a person who is grateful that I'm in the restaurant to begin with. And that is definitely not Peter Luger's.

Sea--Brooklyn

2009-10-19T15:00:00.000-07:00

(718) 384-8850

Something I've always found odd about New York is just how easy it is to ignore the fact you live in New York. Here I am having been here more than a decade, and I still haven't visited the Statue of Liberty or Ellis Island. I've made it to the MET twice, both times with out of town guests. And though I've seen more Broadway shows than I would care to admit, the trek through times square usually has my in-laws in tow. New York City has a lot to offer, which is my standby response to Uncle Brian when answering why I haven't seen the slow plod that is Ground Zero's construction. And this couldn't be anymore true about New York City than it is with its restaurants.

Sea is a place I walk by on a weekly basis. I honestly couldn't tell you the last time I went in. It has a reverse bridge-and-tunnel vibe that I always steer clear of, yet, inevitably when I have someone coming in from the mid west for dinner I find myself reflecting at the over sized..um...reflecting pool about how this restaurant isn't that bad. For one, if you can get by the impractical circular bar and pod bathrooms the dining rooms is quite spacious. The surprisingly clean pool, the gigantic Buddha, and the fact that you wait maybe thirty seconds before being seated indicate intelligent design. And the price, holy shit, this place is by all means cheap. I've never spent more than $25 a entree.

The food is Thai. Not being a culinary expert, I would say that Thai menus are like sushi menus in that every restaurant offers the same cultural staples. And true to this fiction, at Sea you've got your Americanized items like calamari and fried chicken wings, and then your more traditional items with words like Pad and Noon and other monosyllabic choices your father would throw out while impersonating orientals. For the most part, Sea's menu is pretty good. Did I mention the price? Cheap cheap cheap!

Like Pastis in the meat packing district Sea is a place that most New Yorker's don't go unless they want to impress their friends with what New York has to offer. If you can handle some GQ Polish kids and some Benz-driving yokels, then you're brother and his wife are going to be blown away.

Dressler's--Brooklyn--take two

2009-09-23T07:04:00.000-07:00

I haven't been to Dressler in years, only because the last time I was there they confused their cuts of meat. But now they have a Michelin star, and I had to see what all of the hoopla was about. To be honest, up until five minutes ago I wasn't crystal clear on what a Michelin star is. I mean, I knew it was good sign if a restaurant has one, but I wasn't sure what the criteria was based upon. Here's a refresher from their website:

The MICHELIN Guide uses a system of symbols to identify the best hotels and restaurants within each comfort and price category. For restaurants, Michelin stars are based on five criteria:

* The quality of the products
* The mastery of flavor and cooking
* The "personality" of the cuisine
* The value for the money
* The consistency between visits

Michelin stars are awarded to restaurants offering the finest cooking, regardless of cuisine style. Stars represent only what is on the plate. They do not take into consideration interior decoration, service quality or table settings.

* A very good restaurant in it's category
** Excellent cooking and worth a detour
*** Exceptional cuisine and worth the journey

Here's the website if you need more: www.michelinguide.com. I won't get into the history of where it came from because to be honest I'm too lazy to do so. I mean, you have a computer so go figure it out if you're so curious.

I'd say that Dressler's is worthy of a star, the night I visited was after a long book reading on the upper west side and was famished. You could have served a plate of steaming dog shit and I would have been satisfied. I had the trout salad, followed up with a rib small plate and mash potato combination frankensteined together. Both were very good, Michelin star good I suppose, and since the restaurant was empty I suppose I would also qualify the service as good. My wife had something off the specials list, I think it was the fish. She was happy with it. Okay, not too much more to mention.

Gino's--Manhattan

2009-09-15T13:33:00.000-07:00

(212) 758-4466‎

My first time in Gino's was a bit of an experience. I was there with a friend, his girl friend, and her friend. We were all just out of college, and I'd been in the city maybe a week passing through on a road trip across the states. My friend grew up in this place; all of his childhood birthdays, his graduations, and most of his holidays were spent dining at Gino's. I was so intimidated by the wealth that seemed to ooze from every geriatric patron, that I could barely hold my flatware, let alone enjoy the easy wasp driven attitude. I was wearing my nicest shirt from a mall in the fashionable Midwest, and the snot that my friend wasn't banging sized me up by asking where I had bought it. My friend the regular ordered for me and when the veal Milanese (still on the bone) arrived the simplicity and recognition relieved me, I didn't have to pretend to enjoy it. It also distracted me from trying to keep up with Hampton and Nantucket references, from deciphering just exactly what this girl did to enjoy a pent house apartment on 55th street, and from wondering why her inflection was so god-damned nasal. This experience was not so much about the meal I enjoyed, but rather about the first time I interacted with old, stodgy, money. I mean the class of people who look at your Ross shirt and Dockers, and know immediately that you are several pegs lower than them on the backwards, elitist code the entire Upper Eastside seems to live by.

Now I've eaten their a million times with my friend, and can be honest when I say that this place is worth checking out though the cuisine is nothing to get excited about. Upon entering you can feel that Gino's was really swinging in the late fifties, thick with smoke and loud with boisterous drunks, braces holding up their pants and hair slicked to their skulls. But the fluorescent lighting, the faded red wallpaper with Zebras, and the waitstaff that are roughly the same mean age as the patrons are a clear indication that its time has passed. The food is consistent red-sauce Italian. It's good, but not great. Words like infused, organic, and healthy should be left at the double swinging barn doors. The service is professionally brisk, honed from decades of repetition. The waiter walks up, takes your order, is annoyed for a bit, and from that point any two or three people working the dining room will deposit food and drink in front of you. Their assured way of serving leaves no doubt that they have the utmost confidence in what they are doing but also attests that they forgot long ago about hospitality. Interestingly enough, Gino's is one of the few restaurants in the city that still operates under the suffocating umbrella of the local restaurant union. And like many of the classic places of yesterday, Rainbow Room and Tavern on the Green to name a few, the Local 101 is driving Gino's right into the ground.

If you're dressed for it, and want to experience how the top 1% used to spend their days, then Gino's is for you. It won't be flashy, it won't be exciting, it probably won't be that impressive, but as a bedrock for old family money, it's an example that's tough to beat.

Self Aggrandizing Recap

2009-09-09T19:08:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I think it is appropriate to revisit some of the places I've already mentioned to see how they are doing. It makes it easier to keep tabs on things, and more importantly prevents me from pulling another Queen's hideaway gaff. I should also mention that I don't necessarily comment on the food in each and every single entry. If you are looking for that then I suggest a rather thorough food blog called Eat It Brooklyn, it is one of the links listed below. If you're looking for actual food comments, along with pictures of their Sunday brunch then this is the website for you. At Iconman I deal with nothing but the hechos, and by hechos I mean my interpretation of how things went down. Yup, a regular old Dick Tracy.

Aqua Santa (Originally posted 6/13/09): Just had dinner here with my other wife, and once again sat in the garden sipping on Peroni's. Sound as a pound this place, that is if you're into uninspired Italian cuisine consistent in its usualness. As an added bonus we witnessed a Godfather style drug deal occur, complete with stashing of the contraband in the toilet tank.

Hearth (Originally posted 2/24/09): Just had dinner last night and was much more impressed with the service than last time. It might help that the server is also a server at Terroir and knows me as a spaz. I also noticed that the menu clearly states the veal meatballs come with ricotta ravioli, which was the source of my complaint in the earlier entry. But, to my credit, they still wear ridiculous shirts. And the place is way more expensive than I want it to be.

Fada (Originally posted 6/4/09): Went here with my wife and other wife a few weeks ago out of desperation for some cold Sancerre. And let me tell you there was a waitress that was so hot I am still making withdrawals from the spank bank. Ouch. Too hot. She must not work there anymore because of the repeated solicitation by yours truly to have a foursome. Even my wives were into it. Oh, and the food absolutely sucked. It was a hot day, and the tuna tartar seemed like it was made of peach plado. I’m still going back in hopes that she's wearing a tank top.

Donahue's--Manhattan

2009-08-26T08:39:00.000-07:00

212.650.0748

So the overwhelming response and questions--from currently all five of you-- have been quite difficult to keep up with. I will list the top five in order of frequency:

1) What does Iconman mean?
2) Could you include pictures with your blog?
3) Could those pictures be of your testicles? (Seriously. That is number three.)
4) Why do you always write about Williamsburg?
5) Where do I find your rating system?

Those are all very good questions. And for the purpose of this blog I am going to answer number four, followed up not coincidentally with my thoughts of Donahue's Steak House. The reason I write about Williamsburg is that I live here and have lived here for many years. I saw the slow transformation from Puerto Ricans on the south side and Polish on the north side to hipsters everywhere, to now hipsters on the fringes and yuppies everywhere. And for the most part, this slow transformation has manifested in the restaurants in the neighborhood. No longer am I subjected to Vera-Cruz, Pita Power, Williamsburg Diner, or Anytime, as there are a plethora of new places to check out. And for the record all of those places save Vera-Cruz are closed (also for the record I lived in a building owned by the owner of Vera Cruz and if you eat in that restaurant I hope you enjoy cockroach shells and mouse feces; but that's a tale for another time). I don't mean to say that I don't eat in other parts of the city, but rather I haven't gotten around to writing about them because they're not necessarily going to include the incisive social commentary that all five of you have grown to appreciate. Jesus, that was a mouthful.

With that said, I feel that Donahue's is due because they serve indisputably the BEST CORN BEEF SANDWICH in NYC. That's right, I said THE BEST CORN BEEF SANDWICH in NYC. The owner, Maureen, is the daughter of the original owner of Donahue's and hasn't changed a thing in this small steakhouse sitting smack dab across from Bernie Madoff's ex-deluxe apartment on Lexington and 64th. This place is no nonsense, and though it provides prompt and attentive service, often by Maureen herself, bull shitting is not an option. The mean age is approximately fifty, and I since I lunch here just about every Thursday, the only day that the corn beef is offered, I witness many a retiree slurping down five ounce martini's or straight scotch with their meal. People are here to eat and drink, so shut up and get on the trolley.

This no nonsense attitude permeates the food as well. And now that we watch chefs compete on cable to out do each other by vacuum sealing halibut or infusing bacon fat with nitrogen, it's nice to know that there are places like Donahue's that haven't fucked with a recipe for 50 years. What is especially refreshing about Donahue's is that you're also not getting that PJ Clark's, JG Mellons, Peter Luger vibe, the attitude created from the instituition syndrome: we can shit on you because we've been around for a hundred years and there's a line at the door because everyone who doesn't live here thinks this is the best place in town. Nope, Donahue's is like momma bears porridge, so if you're in the neighborhood of the lower-upper-east side and it's a Thursday you'd be a fool not to try this sandwich.

Enid's--Brooklyn

2009-08-17T14:01:00.000-07:00

718.349.3859

For those of you familiar with anything above N 7th in Williamsburg, you'll most likely agree that it gets pretty thin for delectable eats once you start walking in the direction of McCarren Park. If you continue through the park you'll see the most dramatic change in demographics since the Harlem/Upper East Side border, as the park loungers go from pale, white, supple, tattooed hotties to red, fat, surly Polish drunks splayed about with abandon. This isn't necessarily a bad thing if you're into the grittier side of New York or plumber's crack, but if you're hungry and don't feel like Polish National food your pretty much fucked. I'm weary of both Lokal and Five Leaves for my own personal reasons, which means that for about a ten block radius you've basically got Enid's in terms of cuisine not spelled with a bunch of hard consonants--Golabki anyone?

Okay, that was quite an opening, but with that in mind, Enid's has some good stuff to offer, especially since the not-so-recent purchase of a larger deep fryer. Their chicken sandwich is hearty, as is their chicken fried steak and for brunch they have a hang-over killer called the potato hash. But let's face it, Enid's cuisine, much like Lodge, Rye, Dumont, Dumont Burger, Five Leaves, Moto and the sixteen million other comfort food joints in greater Williamsburg is nothing more than a conglomeration of crowd pleasing American food. What sets Enid's apart is that it is an oasis in an otherwise dead zone of decent eating establishments. If you're coming here for dinner, it's just as likely you're coming out of necessity as out of a desire for a culinary epiphany.

Now with that said there is an upside to Enid's that may or not be attributed to its geography: there is definitely a scene going on. A difficult to determine scene, perhaps not as sophisticated as Walter's or understated as Diner's, but a bonafide collection of cute girls, mustached men, and a legitimate je-ne-sais quoi that makes you want to sit on the sidewalk and knock back pint after pint of Pilsner Urquells while the freaks and drunk plumbers walk by. I suppose that's not enough for the foodies out there in the blog world, but it is certainly enough for me.

Diner--Brooklyn

2009-07-13T17:50:00.000-07:00

718.486.3077

Yikes. How do I begin with Diner? From what I understand, and there’s little I do, this place is the Mecca of all things hipster and/or Williamsburg. From it, and because of it, Williamsburg evolved into what it is today. Other places emulate Diner, but none of them come close to offering what Diner effortlessly provides. For a long time it seemed like the only place any of us wanted to go. There was a two-year stretch where nothing compared. Too bad I’m not allowed in anymore. Haven’t been for four years or so. I won’t get into the details, let’s just say it’s a textbook case of cutting off my nose to spite my face. But much like my brief tenure years ago at Siberia Bar, the countless nights at Diner represent a high tide in my life. My banishment allowed me to move on, try other things, and eventually get over it. And not unlike breaking up with a really hot girl, it’s nostalgic in the shower but there is a lot of baggage that comes with going to Diner night after night. If you’re reading this blog and actually trying to find a good restaurant in Williamsburg, you can stop here. This is the best restaurant in Williamsburg, and as far as I’m concerned one of the most authentic New York City has to offer. The food is impeccable. The atmosphere is enviable. The service is, well, let’s just say the first two more than make up for the service. Below are just bits of letters, journal entries, etc… that I’d collected over the years eating at Diner.

09-05-05 –Letter to a friend… So we were supposed to meet this friend of A*****’s at Diner, who was going to give me the key to the apartment in Paris where we would be staying next week. I was quite excited, as it was my first trip overseas in a few years and I’d already taken off work for the trip so I had nothing better to do than get rip roaring drunk with a total stranger, a Parisian no less! It was like three and the sun was blasting through the screen door casting shadows that belong to late summer sun. I was having something in a Collins glass, maybe this drink they have with a twig of thyme, listening to the music and excited to get on with my trip. There’s nothing quite like having a day off before the departure overseas, especially when it’s three in the afternoon and you’re knocking back an expertly made cocktail watching young unfettered trim walk by in the late summer. Then, a hand slapped my back. I turned and to my surprise there’s A*****, his greasy hair and a goofy French smile standing there holding a key.
Holy shit the time we had. Stoli Orange shots abounded, and it wasn’t until my wife dragged me out by the ear did the possibility of leaving even occur. We must have ate, though the only thing I can remember about the night was the bar itself, crowded, sexy, alive, certainly a great precursor to Paris. Shot after shot of orange flavored vodka and sociable volume, people coming and going and not giving a shit. There is a pinnacle to a good night out, a time and place where it teeters from drunken obliviousness to fatigue. The beauty of this night was the way we teetered and maintained a perfect buzz the whole time….

06-15-04 --Letter to a friend… We decided to take our clothes off. Now granted, it was somewhat uncontestable because I was with three beautiful women. I’m pretty convinced robbing a bank is conceivable if you’re armed with three beautiful women. And I’m certain that you can get away with eating dinner shirtless….

10-10-04 --Jounal… I don’t know the condition that brought me to Diner that night, it was crowded or I would have refused sitting at the bar. I was stoned I think, getting a freebee from work and sneaking out early to write, look at internet porn, and smoke pot. S**** probably convinced me to have a drink. I ended up staying for dinner. Whatever the circumstances, one thing is for sure: it was by far the best meal I’ve had in the United States. Crushed potatoes, floating in a moat of creamed corn and bacon, with a thick roasted pork chop nestled right on top. I ate it at the bar, occasionally coming up for air or a swill of Wild Turkey. I followed it up with a slice of the chocolate cake. This meal is not oft repeated on the specials menu. And maybe, just maybe, this night at the bar was the only time I’ll ever eat it….

06-29-04 –Journal… Another large party. I feel like this is perhaps the tenth or eleventh in the last year. It seems as though my life centers around working enough to afford the three-hundred-dollar dinners spent at Diner. The server let it be known at Union Pool the other night that when we have these large parties we all get so drunk that our math is atrocious and their tips suffer greatly. Naturally, they’re thinking we’re going to take care of them as well as they took care of us. How are we supposed to know that they comped just about every drink they served? There are no prices on the menu.

10-06-05 --Email to Friend… I’m comfortable, too comfortable. I actually wore my “Fuck a Bitch” tee-shirt that Crazy L***** gave me for my birthday. I am lude with Wild Turkey logic, and now the servers see me coming and turn the other way.

11-5-05—Email to Friend (After being thrown out)… I wracked up enough points on my Amex to buy a McDonald’s franchise. And what did I receive in return? At the end of the day I bought myself dinner. Sometimes served cold, sometimes served incorrectly, sometimes served late, but always served unapologetically. I’m sorry if my standards ruined a good time. But I’m not sorry for my attitude that seems contrary to everyone else in the Williamsburg restaurant scene; that is, I am somehow supposed to compromise because the server/owner/bartender is too cool to be bothered to do their job, or too snobbish to be servile, or to not do whatever it takes to make the dining experience enjoyable…

So what makes a good restaurant? Is it the food? Is it the service? Some indeterminable combination of the two? Don’t get me wrong I looooove to harp about service. Sit their and stroke my own cock about how someone didn’t crumb correctly, or tickle my balls about a glaring restaurant inefficiency, but that’s just a professional preference. If a restaurant has bad food, I merely take pity. If you're serving bad food you shouldn’t be in business. But really good service, or really good food doesn’t necessarily make you want to come back for more. It’s more like those things can make the restaurant really special, a bastion for occasions, celebratory occasions. A good restaurant doesn’t necessarily neglect these qualities, but rather these qualities do not make a good restaurant. So whatever intangible is, it’s one that allows you to be yourself. To be comfortable. Just not too comfortable.

Sweetwater Tavern--Brooklyn

2009-07-01T17:43:00.000-07:00

718.963.0608

For those of you who lamented the closing of arguably the best punk jukebox ever compiled, (next to Zeitgeist in SF perhaps), the mourning period should be over by now. Get over it. Sweet, you used to live here before Union Pool became the mecca for all people tattooed and under thirty, that doesn't mean that people who just moved to the burg are less cool than you. Don't get me wrong, Sweetwater’s closing as a bar was a tragic loss, comparable even to the replacement of our beloved contraband for the now-defunct Levee about six years ago. Fortunately for us though, Sweetwater is now a consistently good restaurant.

The food isn’t so unique; it’s comforty with an European aftertaste. In terms of actual menu items the lamb burger is certainly good as is the pork loin. I've actually never had an unsatisfying meal, and that's something to be said considering the number of times I've visited. The important thing to remember with all restaurants of this ilk, and a tough lesson to stomach, is that the atmosphere lends itself to being casual. When I mean casual, I mean casual. Don’t come here hungry or in a hurry. The owner will most likely seat any friend/hot chick/celebrity before he sits your party of four. It’s his place, and obviously he opened it to get himself laid. This laisez-faire attitude seeps into the service as well, as the servers and bartenders are more inclined to have a good time than turn the restaurant during a busy dinner rush. If you can handle a little bit of a wait, and some forgetful service, then this place will become an old standby in your repertoire of Williamsburg restaurants. If you can't, then coming here will only drive you crazy.

Clerkinwell--Manhattan

2009-06-19T11:56:00.000-07:00

212.614.3234

A few Saturdays ago I went with my wife to the Zeigfield to see the new Star Trek. Since we were already in the city we decided to go down to the LOE on our way home for a fancy dinner out on a Saturday night. I had downed something like forty ounces of Sprite, and had to pee before even getting in the cab, but figured I’d wait until we got to the restaurant. We first headed to Schillers, thinking we could sneak into the bar; no dice. My bladder was beating. Then we walked towards Frankie’s in Manhattan, but I couldn’t make it so we bounced into a dead Clerkenwell. I mean D-E-D dead, which made the trip to the bathroom a little conspicuous. Going into a restaurant that is dead to pee is sort of like going to the retarded kid’s house after school to play. Sure you get to play with his GI Joe USS Flag, but at the end of the day he’s still retarded and completely unaware that you’re just there for the playtime with Keel-Haul. I digress; after running into the Clerkenwell to pee there was no way I was not eating there after seeing the bartender, server and hostess give me the puppy dog eyes. I felt so guilty that I convinced my wife to stay and eat.

The food was good. I must say that. My wife had a Cesar salad and risotto that were both pleasing, and I had a fresh rocket salad and a Toad in the Hole, sort of a bangers and mash with some puff pastry. It’s English pub grub done well, and though English food has an uphill battle in the culinary world, Clerkenwell serves good English cuisine. The décor had a pubby-feel, but it was open and didn’t smell of beer or vomit or swill. And I wish the place well only because I remember working at a restaurant that ultimately didn’t succeed. And much like the Clerkenwell I remember our close knit staff would watch throngs of potential customers walk by on their way to some other destination, surely not run by such dedicated and devoted people. It’s frustrating to see a place run with compassion fail when so many douche bags are successful in their douche baggery. Well, hopefully I’ll return to the Clerkenwell years from now, and the owner will be chewing on a big fat cigar, and the place will smell of swill, and the tenderness with which we were served will be deafened by the ring of a busy cash register. If that’s something to hope for.

Queen's Hideaway--take two

2009-06-15T14:57:00.000-07:00

So if you haven't figured out by now, many of these reviews have been written over the years. I've informally started posting them just to get into the habit of "blogging"--something that I think used to be called writing. I've been writing these reviews over the years for several reasons: 1) I thought the restaurant review to be an interesting medium. 2) It's an easy way to keep in writing shape, sort of speak. 3) I work largely in restaurants these days. 4) My friends were sick of listening to me bitch.

Queens Hideaway is now closed. Sorry. You're welcome to the review I wrote years ago. If you're reading this to get up to the minute information on restaurants then you're almost as internet clumsy as I am and should look somewhere else.

Here are some suggestions:

eater.com
nymag.com
tastespace.com

What's so funny about these listings is they are the first three listed after googling 'restaurant blog nyc.' If you had me do that for you, then you're definitely more inept than I am. And chances are you're old.

Okay. Good luck!

Acqua Santa--Brooklyn

2009-06-13T09:11:00.000-07:00

718.384.9695

One word: Garden. The interior of this place is like a mom and pop pizza restaurant. It’s hot, kind of gross, and certainly not hospitable enough for a long three-course meal. Outside though, it’s a different story. The two-tiered garden is a perfect place to spend a nice summer afternoon. In fact, until recently, this restaurant was a summer venue only, that is until the red-car inclined owner bucked up enough dough to enclose it for year round dining.

Let me just give you a quick anecdote of what a good garden can do for you. August 14th, 2003. I took the day off from work because we were heading out of town, and since I had a few hours to kill decided to head to Acqua Santa for some bruschetta and Peroni’s. I was reading Death in the Afternoon, and like most Hemmingway books, reading it made me feel as though putting down eight beers before dinner was perfectly acceptable. Nonetheless, around eight or so my girlfriend called. She was walking over the Williamsburg Bridge and was wondering if I was okay. Of course I was, I said trying to hide my slur, I was sitting beneath grape vines eating a fresh tomato bruschetta and drinking beer. What more could a fellow ask for? It turns out that the entire city had blacked out and I had no idea, only because I was outside of space and time and everything else that reminds you that you’re in a city. That’s what a nice quiet restaurant garden can do.

On this one the food and service can take a back seat. And for the record, unless you head several blocks east or north you’re not going to find a standard Italian dinner like one that is offered at Acqua Santa (There’s a new one, relatively speaking, that’s cropped up on South Bedford but more on that later). The food is good enough, they have pizza’s, pasta’s, caprese salad, etc… Italian food. And for a backyard like Acqua Santa’s that’s all you need.

Fada--Brooklyn

2009-06-04T19:07:00.000-07:00

718.388.6607

So I don’t really know what to write about Fada. It’s quite simply a run-of-the mill French Bistro. I can’t really say I’ve ever had the time of my life there, nor have I ever left disgusted at the food or the service. And I should add that I have a thing for French chicks, which every French Bistro in the city seems to attract. I like French chicks, they have a sort of sexy appeal in skanky, unabashed way. But that has nothing to do with restaurants, let alone Fada.

The tuna tar tar is quite nice, though on occasion I’ve been served an older batch and it came out a little gamey. Their muscles are good, steak frites, also good, brunch consistent and pleasing. The space has a nice easy feel, and if you catch one of the bar stools you can watch the new home owners hoof it down Driggs towards their emerald city north of the park. Yup, Fada isn’t a place that is going to blow the doors off your friend visiting from any other cultured city, but at the same time, you're not going to be embarrassed taking them there.

Fabiane’s--Brooklyn

2009-05-27T12:33:00.000-07:00

718.218.9632

Odd that I’d post this one so close to my other post of Julienne’s. And I wouldn’t call Fabiane’s even a restaurant per se, though their treats are good enough, and the outside seating is a stalwart of optimal-people-watching/Sunday Times Reading. The food is consistent enough, but not what I think of when I go out for a meal. I grab shit at Fabiane’s when I’m not too hungry.

I do remember it being on my shit list quite a few years ago, though it wasn’t so much what I could get but what I couldn’t, that is substitutions. Dumont also went on a no substitutions bender for a while—and naturally rescinded after my prolonged silent protest. I don’t see the sense of no substitutions. Why can’t I get the sandwich you make to order without ingredient x? Especially when ingredient x forces me into apoplectic shock. The answer is honest but flimsy. Both places claim that when they get busy it just slows down the culinary assembly line and they fuck it up or run out of things. To me thats sounds like your assembly line needs some fixing. Or maybe it's time you rethink the side or sandwich.

Any who, it’s a mute point for me at Fabiane’s (other than a sidebar to broach the subject of substitutions) because I always order the baguette with jam and a coffee. For that dish there is no substitute.

Juliette--Brooklyn

2009-05-27T12:25:00.000-07:00

718.388.9222

So I might be a little biased on this one because this place used to be Red and Black and back in the day that meant dancing and smoking and drinking away my youth. Now it’s a French bistro, and though it’s been open for years I always found myself going to Fada before going to this place. My wife and I decided to risk it for brunch. The place was clean and open, and I wasn’t hung over so it had this refreshing summertime vibe when we walked in and I must say that I was excited, the place looked promising. Three pleasant girls welcomed us, and though downstairs was completely empty we opted to sit outside hiking up to a bustling roof-deck complete with full bar and black-clad servers scurrying to and fro. Again, this seemed promising, so I was content to wait with the weather being what it was and my pretty young wife beaming across from me.

And wait we did. No water, no coffee, no check-in by the server to ask for another minute because she was in the shit and just couldn’t possibly attend to our table. Nope. Nada. Nothing. Disez-vous en Francais? We might have well have been ghosts of dance-club past. The sun turned against us and we had time to dissect the service, struggling to ascertain how two servers, a busboy, and a bartender could be suffering with maybe 30 covers--half of which already served. I don’t know how long we waited, if I had to guess I’d say twenty minutes. Eventually, we discovered the problem: the server was smoking at the bar, along with the bartender and one of the cute bubbly hostesses that lured us in downstairs.

I wish I could tell you how the food is but I had brunch that day at Fabianne’s across the street. Too bad Red and Black closed.

Rye--Brooklyn

2009-04-07T15:57:00.000-07:00

718.218.8047

Before I begin a few brief definitions:

Beef Short Ribs, IMPS/NAMP 123 & 130
Beef Short Ribs are old favorites. Providing a rich, deep flavor, short ribs lend themselves to a variety of ethnic flavors becoming the star item on trendy menus.
Short Ribs contain at least 2 but no more than 5 ribs (ribs 6 through 10). The diaphragm muscle and heavy connective tissue are removed. Short ribs are frequently cut into individual pieces. They are also cut across the bone into thick or thin crosscut pieces and can be ordered boneless.

Beef Rib Eye Steak:
Beef Rib, Ribeye Steak, IMPS/NAMP 1112 & 1112B
Convenient and versatile, these boneless steaks can be ordered any thickness for a variety of menu options. Ribeye Steaks offer great plate coverage and impressive presentations.
Cuts in the IMPS/NAMP 1112 series can be specified. Each includes more specific cutting, trimming and boning specifications.

When I spoke to a dear friend who is a chef for clarification purposes, he said that they are absolutely different cuts of meat: The rib eye being a muscle that holds the ribcage together beneath the sternum and runs the length of the cow, the short rib being the meat that is actually attached to the lower rib. This was later confirmed by a very friendly butcher at Marlowe and Daughters--evidently, my reputation has subsided (see soon to come Diner post). I didn’t mention Rye in particular as the two are distant cousins on the same restaurant lineage, but he was utterly shocked that anyone would be stupid enough to pass a short rib for a rib eye. He even took me into his meat locker, a walk in box with huge pieces of cow lying about, to show me the difference between a rib-eye steak and a short rib. After that educational field trip I would say that a rib eye steak is a big juicy, fatty steak, where as a rib steak, or rib roll steak, is what most people would consider to be a short rib, which in turn is delicious when prepared properly but not so much when prepared like a rib eye steak, that is grilled. So before I begin with Rye, I must say that I had a complete slam-dunk on my hands. A no questions asked, ‘he is absolutely fucking right’ slam dunk. And like most know-it-alls I wanted only a simple ‘you’re right’ to assuage my undying desire for vindication….

We went to dinner at Rye with high hopes, and though the oak bar and comfort food menu was a glaring redundancy if you walked two blocks in just about any direction, we were happy to see familiar faces go out on their own, since two owners my companions have known for years at Dumont/Dressler. I ordered the mixed green salad, incredibly reminiscent of Dumont sans the flavor, and then ordered the Rib Eye Steak. Imagine my surprise when I was delivered a short rib, complete with rope ties to keep it rolled. I beckoned my waitress, who didn’t arrive until the manager—the lovely, graceful manager who I won’t name here but has vocationed through Williamsburg-- had already received my complaint. They both reassured me that what I was served was indeed a rib eye steak. I also should remind you, that this is a 28-dollar entrée. Nonetheless, they claimed that my confusion was due to the sauce, beef bourginon (which I assume is a take on the bourguignon sauce—glazed onions, mushrooms, and bacon) which had pieces of short rib in it. Right, that’s it. I somehow confused the sauce with the actual cut of meat.

It ruined dinner. I couldn’t shut up about it and for that I’m sorry for my dinner companions. And as much as I hate to go on about it even now, they did not serve what they were advertising. I think this place has potential, and since I’m posting this about a month after their unofficial opening, it will be interesting to see how they do. I know that I won’t be there to see it though, because I’m not paying $28 for a short rib.

Hearth--Manhattan

2009-02-24T12:17:00.000-08:00

646.602.1300

It should be noted that a lot of my restaurant experiences included the influence of tremendous amounts of alcohol. And it as been said that I am not necessarily the smoothest of drunks. Nonetheless, I must say that Hearth was a place I’d been dying to visit. Not me, actually, but rather my wife, who begrudgingly joins me on many of my restaurant sojourns. In this instance it was my other wife, a dear friend dialed into the industry to direct me to places she thinks I’d like. Unfortunately for these places, I’m a drunk. And when drunk, I’m an asshole.

The Hearth experience began at Terroir, the little-sister wine bar. Terroir is fantastic, and we started there with a little bacala and a few glasses of wine. I’m not sure what kind, so I’ll stick with red. When we finally got over to Hearth we decided to sit at the bar so we could observe the wait staff scurry around in their pre-determined casual attire. More on the pre-determined in minute. The bartender reminded me of someone, and when she walked up I was creepily familiar. I say creepily because I didn’t have my I’ve-never-met-you-before defenses up and was a little too much myself. Dare I say that for one, I was drunk, and two by virtue of one, an asshole. As we looked over the Northern-Italian Aspired menu I inquired about her nifty shirt, which everyone else in the restaurant was wearing to some degree. Did the restaurant make them buy their own striped shirt so that they could personalize the obvious manufactured casual look? Or were they forced by the conglomerate to wear them? My server did not receive these questions well, briskly going over the menu before taking a drink order for more red wine.

Now at this point I’m going to take minute to discuss what we had. I’d already wolfed down the bacala, which was delicious and I presume from the same kitchen. My friend had a salad with a lot of fennel and the quail. She said both were quite delicious but I wasn’t about to try her food because she’s kind of hot and fennel is gross. I had the veal meatballs, and because the server curtly took my order, also had a plate of salty gnocchi. There was also ravioli on the plate of meatballs. A question I distinctly asked when ordering to begin with, which is why the salty gnocchi was so fucking disappointing; because the dish already came with a fucking starch.

I understand that owners are trying to make their restaurant into a specific brand to attract a specific customer. I know this. Certain places do not necessarily have formal service, some places require a tie, and other places deal with insanely poor people and serve them processed protein that sometimes passes for beef. That’s the owner’s prerogative; what he or she thinks will sell well and for what price. And all of these places have two things in common: the first is that they are going to serve food; the second their staff is going to have to deal with assholes.
I appreciate I might have been off-putting to that lovely bartender on that particular night. I know my hang ups, look at myself everyday in the mirror and go on with life. I’m an asshole when I’m drunk. I get it. But don’t fuck up my order because of it. A restaurant that charges the money that Hearth charges should have the person who manages their bar, including service drinks mind you, know the menu backwards and forwards. And should prevent someone, even if they make fun of your silly dress code, from ordering a side of starch with a dish that clearly covers the starch department, especially if you’re going to charge that person forty dollars for an entrée and the side. You never know who keeps closeted restaurant reviews. And if Terroir’s staff wasn’t so knowledgeable, and most likely a better representation of the owner’s vision, an asshole like me would choose never to return.

Walter Foods--Brooklyn

2009-02-01T18:17:00.000-08:00

718.387.8783

Williamsburg eateries beware; there is a new game in town. Un fettered by it’s predecessors of comfort cuisine, Walter’s is poised to take the mantle of hipsterdom and turn it on its pretentious ear. Walter’s serves up its product with something many should take note: Pride and Polish. From the clean, well lit, and finished dining room, to the beautiful bar, to the hand tied bowties of its staff, there is nothing that isn’t finished, and finished well.

Make no mistake, this is a bar first and restaurant second, though the quality of the food and service would lead one to believe otherwise. There is something inviting about the bar besides its prominence, as though it’s a permanent fixture of comfort in a topsy-turvy world of economic woes and nationwide layoffs. The cocktail list is plenty, albeit old-fashioned, and the mixologists behind the bar are both friendly and adept. The cocktails are well done, cold draft cubes and basic, refined ingredients make their “old fashioned’ legitimately old fashioned, and other classic cocktails (Pimms Cup, Hemmingway, etc…) are cold, crisp, and enjoyable.

Even though the bar is the crown jewel, the menu compliments it quite well reflecting a willingness to serve crowd pleasers but doing so in a matter that is both unique and refreshing. Two good examples of this are the Cocktail Franks in a Blanket and the Chicken Pops—really just buffalo wings with the bone exposed. The menu also offers a middle tier of sandwiches and burgers and each is worth trying: The Rib Eye burger is well cooked, and the Filet Mignon French Dip and Lobster Club are all worthy of having more than once. The entrées reflect the same no-frill attitude but are executed with precision and delicacy. The hanger steak (aptly disguised as a “Butcher’s Steak) was cooked and seasoned well. The half fried chicken, and seasonal oyster platter are other enjoyable meals. My only complaint would be the price, as a $44 dollar surf and turf seems a bit steep, but I’ve seen worse ways to piss away money.

All in all it’s about time that restaurants turned the corner in Williamsburg. Too long this neighborhood has succumbed to establishments where the food is all that matters; where if clean and professional ambiance is ostracized as a gimmick and automatically considered too commercial or Manhattany. Dressler was the first to take a stab at this, yet fell flat with the amateur service after nailing the ambiance. At last we have a restaurant that has servers who take their job seriously, but more so, have pride in running a restaurant. Thank God that someone has finally taken the inhabitants of Williamsburg as something more than anti-establishment trend setters, because it was long over due.

Spice Market--Manhattan

2009-01-17T12:13:00.000-08:00

212.675.2322

I have to be honest; I wouldn’t normally go to a restaurant like this. It isn’t so much the price, as Spice Market’s Asian fare is relatively cheap, rather it’s more of the location in the Meat Packing District. I find the image of that area to be so less than authentic that it requires a sort of blurred vision of reality, a delusion of what is actually going on, and to that this restaurant fits the bill perfectly. The women are all tall and done up, though not necessarily beautiful. The men are all wearing designer button down shirts and designer jeans and cologne, a combination that is easy on the eyes, yet still unfathomable. Call it reverse snobbery a la Epstein, I just can’t handle so many cool people at once.

Naturally, to cater to such a faux-heeled crowd, Spice Market does a lot of things that in ordinary circumstances I would consider a good idea. The problem is, the translation from idea to execution is difficult to do in such a culture of mediocrity. For instance, open back uniforms for your female server is, in theory, a sexy, unprecedented move. Given the right circumstances, say a third world country where discrimination based on looks is common place, I see the vision of several ninety-pound Asian girls scooting around with their supple, a-cup breasts spilling over and their jet-black hair tumbling down an exposed nubile back. I bet it would look pretty swell. However, in good ol’ USA, this open shirt policy results in love-handles, back hair, and most unappetizing bacne.

This high-concept sloppy execution is the unofficial motto Spice Market. Our server delivered cocktails, a gin martini and glass of wine, then promptly returned with our $80 bottle of wine. Even I can’t drink that fast. The buss boys dropped in from no where, to change our place mat between course, to add a fork or subtract a vessel, and though in theory this is service I expect from such an acclaimed establishment, it was so clumsy and awkward I couldn’t help but notice there was a small strike force attacking my table. After dinner, when ordering the digestive, Fernet Branca, it turned out that it was “in the wrong place” and the bartender couldn’t find it. Though, from my vantage point, it seemed obvious that the bartender and server had no fucking clue as to what I was talking about, as he looked at just about every dust covered bottle before finding it. Evidently, leaving the Grey-Goose sugar-tini menu wasn’t his forte.

The food, in all of its splendor, sucked. Not to say it sucked, though the shrimp appetizer with dehydrated pineapple was deplorable, in a typical sucky way, but it just didn’t seem to match the idea behind a multi-million dollar fauxury restaurant. It was simple, crude, plain, Asian fare. It’s as though they tried to replicate the disappointment one experiences when dining at Sea in Brooklyn, or at just about any restaurant in Vegas. It was uninspired suckiness, a suckiness born of omission, instead of ambitious commission by an untalented chef.

Of course this dressing down is somewhat moot. I am not the typical Spice Market goer. If it had not been for a well-intentioned gift card from one of my vendors I would have never known of the Spice Market world. The place succeeds, it was full of good-looking simple people who like to stand around and admire each other. They need places like this to complete their saccharine world of superficiality. If it weren’t for Spice Market this scene might seek out and destroy the quality places I like, and then where would I be? More to the point, they’re getting exactly what they want, and who is to criticize that?

Barrio-Brooklyn

2008-10-27T12:26:00.000-07:00

718.965.4000

(I actually sent this letter)

To whom it may concern, 10/27/08

I am writing to inform your chef/owner that he/she is misleading people with what is called shrimp ceviche on the menu. I was extremely dissatisfied with the dish, and though did not request a refund, felt as though one should have been offered. Ceviche, as many cook books and online recipes will tell you, is seafood marinated in citrus juice (most common of which is lime juice) until the acid in the juice cooks the seafood. The seafood is normally chopped into small pieces, and served with other raw vegetables like onion, celery, peppers, tomatoes, etc… It is not whole, pealed shrimp in a mild pecante sauce, which is what I was served. I appreciate the difficulties of owning and operating a busy restaurant, and applaud the hard working and friendly staff for being sympathetic to my disappointment. However, I recommend refraining from calling the shrimp dish ceviche. Perhaps changing the name to something more accurate, like spicy shrimp cocktail, shrimp pecante, or whole shrimp in a bland tomato sauce, so the menu won’t mislead future customers. I for one, will never return to the restaurant, and hope this letter will assist in preventing further loss of business such as mine.

Sincerely,

The Iconman

Dumont--Brooklyn

2008-06-15T17:47:00.000-07:00

718.486.7717

I remember 2001
Stumbling, bumbling in search of fun
The Southside boring and 6th far from there
We happened ‘pon this eastern fair
The food was good, the service great
Though neither really persuaded fate
The outside garden was the catch
A sunny desperate mismatch
Chairs for grandma’s back yard porch
wobbly, faunae, the sun would torch.
Cracks in concrete, and wine from tumblers
Made perfect sense to us bumblers
It matter little at the time
We laughed, made merry, drank cheap wine
The place, like us, so fancy free
At the height of Billy’s B
But now sequestered to the heated bar
Made of pressure treated wood and tar
Strangers scurry to and fro
Clad in black they serve the status quo
What happened is our own damned fault
Our neighborhood grew out of its alt
And though the grub is still the same
The homey charm does not remain
My lament, to be fair, is not from reason
Like crying over the loss of a season
The masses happy at what’s become
A tree house, micros, and all the fun
And this tiny garden is just a mirror
For all the hood I held so dear
I remember also the designed protest.
Yet glass filled towers spring; no rest
The loss is not of the memory
Instead the sale of integrity.

Le Barricou--Brooklyn

2008-03-01T15:42:00.000-08:00

718.782.7372

Living off of the Lorimer or Graham stop on the L train makes one desperate for a new restaurant. Aside from Dumont, which is transforming from neighborhood staple to neighborhood cash cow, the East Side of Williamsburg is a ghost town for decent cuisine. That is why my patience with all of the new fangled places on Grand Street (the seemingly only zone for new places in the neighborhood) is a lot bigger than it should be. Take Le Barricou, a typical French restaurant with a cozy atmosphere and authentic foosball table. A place I really, really want to do well. Unfortunately, my patience just couldn’t last.

To their defense it was Valentine’s day. And what sort of douchebag expects a restaurant to put its best foot forward on such a busy day? I do for one. If you can’t handle being busy, then you can’t handle being good, because if you’re good you’re going to be busy. Especially on Grand St in East Williamsburg when your only viable competition is Dumont. Furthermore, I don’t know the impetus for the Valentine’s Prefix, but if you decide to go the prefix route, I suggest not making it steak versus fish. And if you do make that rookie mistake, you should assume that the steak will account for 50% of the covers you do for a night, considering at least 50% of the deuces include men, steak-eating men. None-the-less, when our threesome arrived (what can I say I’m a Casanova) we had the perfect opportunity to try everything on the menu. Our first courses were out in a split second. My wife had the duck confit salad. It was basically a field of greens and duck breast and a very light dressing. It was quite ordinary and a little disappointing. Our companion had the bisque, and though advertised as lobster it was crab but still sumptuous. I had the Salmon Souffle, and it was also quite good.

I can only stress that our first courses came out quickly, making the hour and fifteen minute wait for our entrées that much more agonizing. I’m not exaggerating, one hour and fifteen minutes. I can only predict that not only did they run out the strip steak (which they did) but the skirt steak they dug up must have been bought at a grocery store, and my skirt steak was the first one to arrive from that impromptu crisis. I know I belabor this point in all of my reviews, but good service can so fuck up good food. Had the waiter come over to me and told me, in not so uncertain terms that they were out of steak and that if I wanted to eat any time soon I should change my order, then I would have. But no, they tried to pull one over on me and run to the grocery store, and then tell me upon delivering a different and significantly less expensive cut of meat that they ran out; basically assuming that I am ignorant to the world and the way that stupid people work in it.

The food was good the wait was bad. We were so sore from sitting at the bar for nearly two hours that we didn’t even stay for dessert. I did receive some icing, metaphorically speaking, and that was the attitude we received when we told our server that we didn’t want to wait just five minutes for dessert, we’d already waited two fucking hours. Alas, it’s back to Dumont for me, where even though the waiter turnover is more frequent than their specials, at least they know what they’re doing.

Aurora--Brooklyn

2008-02-20T18:25:00.000-08:00

718.388.5100

I’ll admit that we were loud and rowdy. I mean, for Christ’s sake we had kazoos. At $100 a person though, that’s no excuse. I’ve said before and now I’ll say it again: nothing can fuck up a perfectly good time like bad service.

We were ten strong and it was our friend’s birthday. We’d all eaten there before and appreciated the authentic Italian fare. And truth be told, when you finally get the food it’s pretty fucking good. It’s real Italian in the sense that it’s not dumbed down cream sauces and breaded veal that American’s have grown to associate with the boot. But this is all besides the point, because I’ve seen four-year-olds that could serve a table better than the way we were served on this particular night.

So…where do I begin? How about it took twenty minutes for us to get a drink order. To make things simple we asked for a bottle of red and a bottle of white. A few of us threw a curve ball at our waiter by asking for some Peroni’s. Evidently the chore of taking such a complex drink order short-circuited our waiter. He delivered the white wine, opened it, offered it, then left the red wine on the table unopened. I can only guess that he thought one of us would have a wine key. When he resurfaced, five minutes later, with the Peroni’s I asked to get the red wine open. His curt response was that he couldn’t serve us the beers and wine at the same time, he only has, like, two hands—I want to throw out that I have nothing against gay people, male or female, and generally consider someone’s sexual preference a non issue in all manners of interaction, unless of course, I get, like, an affected gay bitch boy who, like, has to talk, like all of the gay designers on Project Runway, like, so gross— Yes, fuckhead you only have two hands and evidently half a brain, so why don’t you open the red wine while the micros printout of the beer order is probably fourth or fifth in line, instead of leaving an un-opened bottle on the table to go wait, yes wait, for the beer?

Two-handed Jack wasn’t finished with us though. After the twenty-minute delay in getting our drink order, it was another cool twenty to order our food. When we all finally received our first course, it was about an hour after we sat down. When we were served our entrée it was a mere hour and forty-five minutes after we sat down. I can’t necessarily blame our handicapped server on this one, although he couldn’t be bothered to help run our food, leaving it to the runner to take five trips from the kitchen, because of the fascinating conversation he must have been having about gloves, or mittens, or other apparatus that involve not one but two hands. Nonetheless, the dinner took up our night; dessert was also fucked up, because we unintentionally confused our server by asking for Sambuca with our espresso, and almost expected the mistake.

Here’s the fucking the rub though, and might explain my overtly rant filled tone. We were still hit with a 20% gratuity because of the size of our party! Utterly fucking ridiculous! True, a large party should mean a more difficult job for the server. And a loud, kazooing, party that desperately wants to get drunk despite ever attempt by captain inept to keep us sober, is probably more difficult than say, a party of ten republicans. But the service on this night was not worth 20%, and since our check was around $1000, this fuck did not deserve $200 for what I could describe as the worst service I’ve ever had in New York City. Aurora, like so many other promising restaurants in the Burg, is off my list due to some stupid, pretentious, shit head who doesn’t consider the $300 a night he/she makes a “good job.” You’re servers! It’s your job to be servile. I’m not asking for you to abandon self-respect, but there is a degree of caste in your position. You make your money on serving people. Satisfying their requests. Making them happy. What’s wrong with that?

Suba--Manhattan

2008-01-21T12:11:00.000-08:00

212.982.5714

So here is my problem with ultra chic, sparkling new, saccharine restaurants: they intimidate me. It’s not their polished sterility, nor their eclectic cuisine, or well thought out décor, I actually think that it’s the staff. They hold themselves with the air that they some how out interviewed thousands of other village-voice applicants on some Wednesday morning, and earned the right to be snooty. Now Suba, a new ultra-chic, sparkling new, restaurant on the Lower East Side, did not have particularly snooty staff, but it didn’t matter, it wanted to be place like those other places so that’s good enough for me.

In all honesty I wasn’t intimidated as usual because this restaurant’s image hinged on a gimmick, somehow making the vibe more palatable, in that you now pity the staff the same way you pity the teenage kid operating the kiddy rides at Six Flags. You know he wants to run the roller coasters that have a steady stream of cute high-school chics with their vato boyfriends, but alas he’s sequestered to the bird cage and swinging toddlers around at the pace of a brisk walk. The gimmick behind Suba, which I’m sure means something in some other language –you look it up—is that the main dining room sits on a pool. If it didn’t have that, I don’t know why they would charge such high prices. And as far as gimmicks go it isn’t bad, I mean, the lighting on the waves gives the restaurant a cool glowy effect. But like most gimmicks though, this one wasn’t thought all the way through as the first thing our host, waiter, and busboy said to us was watch your stuff. Cool gimmick, where the fuck are the hooks?

The staff was relatively knowledgeable, though the manager thought my tie didn’t look nice so how knowledgeable could he really be? The wine list was long and impressive, and our waiter was all over it, which is a big plus (refer to paragraph one). The tapas cuisine, however, was completely hit or miss. I could go into detail here, but it’s tapas. Tapas to me is like sushi. You’re going to order the same thing at every tapas place, so why go into detail about what I ordered, since my staple tapas order consists of dates and bacon, meatballs, and sautéed shrimp? If the food is good for my standby tapas order, then it is safe to presume it will be for yours. My meatballs were overcooked. I don’t think I had dates or shrimp. Another thing I don’t understand about tapas is the food intentionally delayed or is the chef just an asshole? I mean, is there ever a possibility that a tapas chef might actually get everything to the table at the exact same time? Or is it some sort of chef intuition, that she plans certain things to go with other certain things, and each particular order creates a different algorithm of timing? Or, is the chef a chef, in that she does whatever she pleases because she thinks her job is harder than anyone else’s? It doesn’t really matter, because aside from the scientific oddity of choice number two no answer is a good one. And that’s why the Spanish empire tumbled; they never knew what they were getting next.

So, I digress. Suba is an interesting place. It’s one of those bespectacled places in NYC that you’d take your easily impressed out of town friends to show off how cool a restaurant could look. And because your friends are so impressionable, they’d understand why things were overcooked, or the staff was snooty, or your hand bag fell into an over chlorinated Petri dish.

Tasting Room--Manhattan

2008-01-18T12:03:00.000-08:00

212.358.7831

Okay, so who am I to write a review about a restaurant like this? I have mild aspirations to become a foodie, and loving criticizing what I think is wrong with less serious restaurants. I’m more of a restaurant bully, knowing that it takes very little to knock a server off kilter by making demands outside of the normal way they do things. It’s easy, in a way, to look at a place and pick out it’s flaws by gazing through the lens of what I would do with the place if it were mine. The Tasting Room, on the other hand, is in a league above what I know to be proper or right. I write to you now a humbled dilettante.

The dining room is simple and quaint, and though the bar is centered in such a way that you have to walk by it to get to your table it isn’t cumbersome. Immediately after sitting down you are attended to. Though I belabor this in all of my restaurant writings, nothing compliments good food better than good service and this seems to be a cornerstone of Tasting Room, and though the dining is not formal, the service does not take casual dining casually. To give you a visual of what I am talking about, take the appearance of the waiter. He had a beard and ponytail, two things frowned upon in the world of formal service, yet his knowledge of the food, wine, and the respect with which he held himself told me he took the job seriously. The timing of the meal was impeccable and our water glass was never left empty.

We started with the pumpkin salad, the crab and lobster consommé’ and pork and hen terrine. All of them were utterly delicious, the pumpkin salad in particular. Once our first courses were finished, they did the service of clearing and replacing our silver, even if we hadn’t used it. Again, a seemingly “formal” service aspect, though I think it really makes a difference. Why would anyone want to use the same fork and knife over and over? You put it on your table and then there’s olive oil on the table, and then that olive oil gets on your French cuff and then you’re pissed off the rest of the night as everyone in your party tries homeopathic remedies to remove oil. The next thing you know you’ve got salt and soda water and hairspray on your wrist and you’re miserable for the rest of the night because some Ecuadorian bus boy couldn’t be bothered to replace your salad fork and knife. Fuck a bitch if I haven’t had this exact thing happen to me three different times.

For the entrée I had the Pork rib, while my companions both tried fish: Bass and Skate. The sides were again perfectly complimentary, from the carrots to the French leaks, and though the portions were exactly hearty, we were quite full by the end of the meal. The server again sensed us about to finish and came and offered dessert right away instead of coming by on afterthought. It was though he considered dessert to be part of the meal. We all split the Apple Short cake, again divine, polished off some excellent dessert wine, Torbeck if I’m not mistaken, and went our merry way. The night was excellent; the food was excellent, the service, finally—thank God almighty-- was excellent.

Fornino's--Brooklyn

2008-01-07T18:12:00.000-08:00

718.384.6004

So we used to live right next door to the L Cafe and remember saying goodbye to the ineptitude that it fostered, reveling when a small business with a semi-corporate panache called Fornino’s took place. Imagine our excitement when this gourmet place opened up, complete with a competent staff and a stellar classica Margherita pizza. Within a few months Fornino was the staple Sunday night dinner, we had it down to such a science that we could budget the exact dollar amount and run down in our bathrobes in the dead of winter. Yes, it was the best of times, and looking back I now know that we took Fornino for granted by calling it our local pizza restaurant.

Unfortunately, the vagaries associated from living across from Spike Hill and Greenpoint Tavern forced us to part ways with the comfort we’d so depended upon. We moved two stops away on the L, to Italian Williamsburg. Now this area is much more quiet and subdued, and though it is resplendent with Italian restaurants and pizza parlors, nothing could compare to Fornino’s delectability. I now no longer eat at Fornino’s, and this is indirectly related with moving.
It is heart wrenching to develop a relationship with a restaurant that is owned by a devoted chef, a person who’s very soul is served up daily on wood fired dough, and then seeing this restaurant run by a bunch of stupid, inconsiderate, bungling nincompoops. After a few weeks of withdrawal we opted to try a delivery. We called Fornino’s unfamiliar with the delivery zones due to our recent proximity and the girl who answered the phone admitted she wasn’t sure about delivery, but that they weren’t open for another hour and we should call back. When we called back an hour later (starving) she said that the driver was happy to trek out to East Williamsburg to deliver to devoted ex-neighbors and took our order. We were elated, not only were they going to deliver, but we had also been promoted to quasi regular-status. An hour passed, and were now two hours from our initial call (famished). We waited. Another twenty minutes passed and my wife called back. The girl said that the driver had refused to deliver once he realized where we lived. We asked why she couldn’t have called us, why she had to torture us with the anticipation of a Fornino’s pie, why she couldn’t have practiced a little human decency and at least given us the courtesy of a phone call? She replied that she was busy, and unapologetically hung up the phone.

After a few minutes our anger bubbled up. Who was this woman to torment us so? Some twenty-something artist, unconcerned with customer service that is so beneath her, and mostly likely uninspired by the very art she served no doubt. We called back demanding the manager. Imagine our surprise when a few minutes later the bus boy gets on the phone! Delivery he asks in a thick south American accent, no we say, manager. I manager he responds, delivery? No! Where’s the manager?!? Click. We call back. No answer, the restaurant caller id reveals our number. That sniveling little turd not only was discourteous to us, but is willing to stake the reputation of sublime pizza on her snide demeanor. Fuck her, fuck Fornino’s, eat there if you want but I am man of principle. I would rather eat stale Italian-Williamsburg pizza than potentially support a smug little cunt like that.

Pere Pinard--Manhattan

2008-01-03T12:07:00.000-08:00

212.777.4917

There’s nothing worse than a relatively good restaurant going to shit. Experiencing this deplorable truth inevitable happens the last night you attend the restaurant, when you succumb to the fact that despite your fond memories and security in knowing a solid place in a foreign neighborhood, the meal that sits in front of you is shit. Overpriced, overcooked, underserved, shit.

The establishment in question that conjured this recent sentiment is none other than the Lower East Side French Embassy: Pere Pinard. I had the misfortune of dining with some true pros, as a celebratory dinner for the changing of the guard at the East Village staple 26 Seats -- It should be noted that 26 Seats has also allegedly befallen the same fate due to said change in ownership.

The evening was to thank the owners for six years of employment and delectable authentic French cuisine. For many French imports Pere Pernard is familiar fare, and we figured that it was as good as any place in the neighborhood. I’d been there quite a few times and remember the steak frites being the perfect pre Ludlow Street bender food. I’d taken friends there from overseas. I’d gotten really drunk in the bar. It was always a reliable place to eat decent, albeit not outstanding, French food and check out some authentic Franco-trim. But as I was about to learn, those days are over.

Let’s start with the fact that they ran out of house wine. Not after serving the fourth or fifth bottle to a large party over the course of a diner, but at 7:00 at night after serving just a glass. The bartender ran out of house wine. Now, I know I’m kind of a stickler but if a guy comes in to your restaurant the first of a large party, assume he’s going to be drinking for a while. Don’t offer him something you only have two servings of. Just don’t. That rookie mistake should have warned me of the potential disaster, but I chalked it up cost cutting mischief and ordered a different bottle. By that time, everyone had arrived and we sat for dinner.

Now the food, Christ the food. No cuisine is affected more by stale, old, or poor quality ingredients than French. And since you’re preparing it in front of the guests, this rule of thumb especially applies to steak tar tar. I had the Salmon, which was disgusting in its own, overcooked way, and the lettuce on my first course, a mixed green salad, was wilted. Luckily for them, the rest of our guests were either too drunk or too young to notice. Fifi, the staple manager was nowhere to be found, and the service, though marginal, strutted around as though they weren’t serving last week’s leftovers.

Though not as bad as losing the quality of food and drink, there is almost nothing worse than an established restaurant relying upon its Lower East Side attitude for business. I appreciate restaurant mavericks pioneering into pre-gentrified and often dangerous neighborhoods. Though I don’t agree, I begrudgingly accept that if you work at a cool establishment you have the right to take the whole service/hospitality thing a little lighter. You have the right to charge a little more for the food, considering a price of admission of sorts. But to do this, you have to have the food to back it up. Pere Pernard, if it keeps this trend going, is going to become a well known bar that serves suspect bar food.

North East Kingdom--Brooklyn

2006-10-27T15:53:00.000-07:00

718.386.3864

Northeast kingdom is exactly what it is. That statement is so tautological it becomes nonsensical, and I’m okay with that. The small, modest little place deep in the heart of Brooklyn, call it Williamsburg, or Bushwick, or Bed Sty, (I don’t know exactly where it is), doesn’t try to clobber you with gourmet comfort food pretense. It doesn’t overwhelm you with fancy-pants soft cow’s milk cheeses or exotic seasonal vegetables. The décor is modest, not riddled with post hipster kitsch appeal. No, Northeast Kingdom presents itself in all its layers as a small, quiet, neighborhood place that serves an affordable dinner. Thank God, for if I have to visit another stupid, gimmick riddled, quasi-gourmet Brooklyn restaurant I’d puke.
As most of the restaurants in Brooklyn, Kingdom’s staff is composed of older idealistic artists awaiting their upper middle class inheritance. And that’s cool. To be honest I find most people in that demographic to be educated and generally quite nice. What separates the Northeast Kingdom’s staff from the rest of the echelon is that they’re not trying to shove some sort of foodie snobbery down your throat.

I visited this restaurant with a group of friends in the know about a new place. Believe me you, I don’t necessarily know good restaurants from bad restaurants, and still feel that the Polish Diner on Bedford Avenue might be a contender for the best place in Brooklyn (to be honest this has less to do with the food than it does with the stiff, aloof Polish Lesbians who run the joint). None the less, when we got there we drank some beers and basically mixed it up enough to sample about everything on the menu. It’s not the best meal in town, in fact the green salad was rather ordinary, but the menu had some gems. For instance the chicken pot pie rocked. Granted, if you fuck up a chicken pot pie you’re either an idiot or my mother, but it was still a non pretentious down home meal. And that’s how most of the meal was, nothing flashy, nothing gross, just hearty and warm and inviting. The food was good, it was served hot, and it didn’t cost much money, really, what more can you ask for?

Dressler's--Brooklyn

2006-09-27T19:05:00.000-07:00

718.384.6343

A beautifully restored restaurant, the iron wrought dining room reminds me of London, or perhaps New Orleans, not hipster haven Williamsburg. The iron working and tiled floors give off an ambiance that is rarely found in New York. This is about all I can say that was positive about the experience, and as much as I hate to write a negative review, cannot avoid it after encountering such an over-priced, mediocre, and quite frankly, insulting experience.
Owner, Colin Devlin, is no stranger to the gourmet Americana fare. Dumont, and Dumont Burger, both offer quality products at reasonable prices. Yet, his insistence on good food must have made him blind to service, and the shadow cast by the misgivings of the pretentious servers could spoil even the most savory of dishes. Not to say that the menu is something more than usual. It reeks of over cheffing, with each and every item having just one too many ingredients; for instance the sea scallop salad that contains too many oranges. Or the snapper, which turns out to be a considerably Asian dish in an Americana restaurant. All in all the menu has no identity or consistency, and the only dish that was interesting was a throwback to Dumont: the White bean and Artichoke salad.

Our party of three arrived on time for our reservation, and then waited five minutes to flag down a server to order a cocktail. We were tartly informed that she wasn’t our server, and thus rendered completely incapable of helping us. While waiting for our server we served bread, but no water. I can only assume they wanted us to work up our thirst, but this was not the case for when our server did arrive she asked for our dinner order. Fifteen minutes or so later, we were given our cocktails and our wine simultaneously. This junior varsity maneuvering should have prompted us to go, but I foolishly coaxed my companions to stay a little while longer.
Dressler does not offer specials, nor does it allow substitutions. To me, this is the spawn of chef ego, insisting that we eat the food the way it was meant to be prepared. This line of arguing is sufficient until a dietary restriction or food allergy comes in to play, and then its self-righteousness shines. "Sorry I can't take out the peanuts because of a nut allergy, we don't allow substitutions." The menu was so overly sophisticated that two of us ordered the plain salad and the “Rib eye.” Imagine our alarm when we served what looked to be a strip steak. We mentioned it to the server and she quickly corrected us, insisting that it was indeed a rib eye steak. Now I am no stranger to this business, and do not need to recount my resume to justify that I was not served a rib eye steak. Let’s just say that for one it was far too lean. When I pointed this out to her she said that it was marbled with fat. I nearly went cross-eyed. When I asked her to demonstrate the marbling effect on my piece, she said that the chef must have trimmed the marbling. That ranks easily as the top five stupidest things I’ve ever heard. Furthermore, any chef with a head for food costs would be foolish to buy a rib eye steak, only to trim away the fat that gives it its entire flavor. Even now, recounting this, I’m incensed.
Since we left without desert, after paying roughly $75 per person for two courses a bottle of wine, and a cocktail, I am unable to comment on the dessert menu. And why bother? If you are reading this I highly recommend you steer clear of Dressler. Believe me; you can admire the only nice thing about it from the street.

The Queen’s Hideaway--Brooklyn

2006-07-09T15:50:00.000-07:00

718.383.2835

Not too long ago a large group of old friends planned an expedition to The Queen’s Hideaway. Our party was so large and the dining room so small that we had a narrow window in which The Queen could accommodate us. The organizer insisted that we get there on time so we trekked there 10 strong intent on making it. We arrived on time and boisterous, after having to jettison our cocktails at a not-so-nearby-bar, relieved to find the people who dictated this time slot to be completely amenable, as opposed to the Gestapo I envisioned on our large liquorless journey. Little did I know, and to be honest rarely do I know anything, that this attitude permeates the entire restaurant. Their motto must be laid back, for the Queen’s Hideaway’s dining room embraces trailer park chic down to the salt and pepper shakers, it has an open kitchen and large and comfortable backyard. Everything seemed to be, well, relaxed. I could tell immediately that our rag tag band of misfits would fit right in.

The Queen’s Hideaway is a no-nonsense eatery devoid of anything but down home, offering culinary slang such as Fritters, Snaps, and my all time favorite, Bacony. The place is as charming a backwoods cousin, and the grub suggests this simile even more in essence as it is also humble; the Potato salad was home-made, the salads fresh, and the trout hot off the griddle. There was nothing overbearing about the food, and this might be a curse as well as a blessing, for nothing jumped out as a must have. This is acceptable only because the menu changes daily, literally hand written on a sheet of paper. And it could be argued that there was enough variety and home-made consistency that one will always find something worth eating.

Despite its humility the Queen’s Hideaway takes itself very seriously. The menu modestly hides its fresh food and organic underbelly. The waitress succinctly warned us when supplies of certain dishes were low, and the table maintenance, though with mismatched silver, was impeccable. The chef banged out an incredibly busy restaurant with a four top stove and not much else, a feat in time and anger management. And the whole time this grace in restauranteering was not trumpeted, but rather accepted as par for the course. The night passed and our merriment grew, having as much to do with the endless supply of Paps in a can as our own store bought wines (with a $5 corkage fee). Our shenanigans were tolerated if not encouraged, and after a filling meal our group enjoyed itself immensely. Queen’s Hideaway offers a good meal at a fair price, it is the best of a low bar and for less than thirty bucks, delivers authentically. The only shortcoming, and one we didn’t anticipate at the beginning of this escapade, was becoming stranded from civilization completely drunk. Be weary fellow food aficionados, the Queen’s Hideaway is a remote destination.

Henry's End--Brooklyn

2006-06-05T12:23:00.000-07:00

718.834.1776

As much as I’m surprised to say it, a good meal isn’t too difficult to find in New York City. A great restaurant must obviously have exquisite cuisine, but the food must be supported by a cast of equally great amenities. So many times I’ve waited eternities for my check, fought with hostesses, searched beguiled for toilet paper, shouted to my companions, and felt as though I were lucky, no, privileged to eat at Chez Rank. Fortunately for Henry’s End, the great food is accompanied by a tremendous wine selection, superb service, and a subdued unpretentious atmosphere, missing all of the shortcomings that can fuck up a perfectly good meal.

Our party of six was given ample attention, and we were sat even though the entire party hadn’t arrived. I love that, especially if there isn’t a bar. It allows you to get take off your coat, refresh yourself with water, order the wine, and get the entire process moving. Those restaurants who don’t do that because they want to use the table are assuming their diners are as rude as they are. Any polite group knows to order if a couple is running late. Henry’s End seemed to understand this, and since this time I was the late comer it was nice to walk in and get a drink after a harrowing cab ride.

We ordered a number of appetizers to share, and then rated the appetizers. All of them were above average, but none could beat the West Indian shrimp. The crab cake, a first course that has burrowed itself onto every menu I’ve seen in recent history, was also remarkable. The salads were ample, especially the Fiddlehead fern salad. Yet, more than the great food was the brisk attention of a seasoned waiter. He wasn’t there to be our friend, wasn’t there to up sell a special, but was there to serve us.

The dinner menu is exciting yet crowd pleasing. Our entree’s came out promptly, and though the Kobe beef didn’t live up to it’s over thirty dollar price, it was delicious. The veal scaloppini with lemon and capers was great, as was the Moroccan Salmon. It’s quite a large menu, justifying repeat visits. One thing to note: the entrée’s come with a side salad. This allows you to explore the 1st courses and still get your leafy bed for you meal to lie on.

We quickly moved to dessert when the waiter offered us a free Mrs. Mud pie to accompany our Mud pie. Again, what a great move. These guys know that we just put down a lot of money and threw in the dessert. Chances are the dessert was going in the garbage and the staff was sick of eating it, but the gesture was one of camaraderie. They didn’t throw in dessert because they had to, but because they understood that we deserved it. We drank, we ate, we made merry, and had survived the entire rush. Since we were the last ones standing, we got the prize: free dessert. After we settled up and polished off our buzzes with some grappa we left Henry’s End as one should when spending $100 a person: completely satisfied.

Bar Tabac--Brooklyn

2006-05-20T12:32:00.000-07:00

718.923.0918

After visiting an artist friend in Cobble Hill we decided to try Bar Tabac, on Smith Street. A hopping joint full of black haired sex pots serving food in push up bras and tight black clothing, Bar Tabac is a neighborhood standby not a destination spot. Though it didn’t necessarily make culinary promises, it also didn’t deliver a memorable culinary experience. By far and away the most notable feature of this restaurant is the old fashioned foosball table sitting smack dab in the bar. Regretfully, the dark lights and subtly sultry setting swept my girlfriend away, forcing me to sit before I could play a game and teach some middle aged graphic designer a lesson.

I would love to go on and on about the menu, but it was a French Bistro. If you’re reading a restaurant review and don’t know the predictability menu of a French Bistro then move back to Iowa. The food was average, as was the service, sans an occasional glance at some cleavage. We had the Muscles and the Steak Frites, two anonymous dishes for a wine list that was equally anonymous and uninteresting. All in all setting us back $61 bucks. I imagine that on late nights the lights go even lower and there could be some interesting dance sex orgy party. Of course, this could also be my misogynistic fantasies getting the better of me. I would recommend Bar Tabac if you can’t make up your mind where else to go in the neighborhood. But whatever you do, don’t go with your girlfriend.

Good Fork--Brooklyn

2006-05-09T12:30:00.000-07:00

718.643.6636

The Good Fork is a lovely little restaurant situated in the industrial district of Red Hook. Located on it is exactly what one would expect from a hipster outpost, quaintly standing proud in an otherwise industrial and underdeveloped neighborhood. As the website will tell you the word is out on the 25 seat restaurant. It was packed. The owner/operator Ben Schneider did what he could to assuage our hungry group of four, sending us just north to have a cocktail at a neighborhood drinkery.

It was evident with our negotiation of getting a table that this was a new enterprise. Ben’s heart was in the right place but you could tell that despite the casual ambiance that he was teetering on the edge of total disaster the entire evening. Good Fork became somewhat of a quagmire, suggesting one thing and delivering another. Though the front of house experience was truly lacking, the food was exceptional. A unique collection of Asian influenced comfort food, the eclectic menu dares you to try the sweet breads, but has crowd-pleasing stand-bys like the crab cake and farfalle with lamb ragu. The pan seared dumplings were off the hook, obviously a specialty of chef/owner Sohui Kim. For dessert we shared the chocolate cake, and it was again as consistent in attention to detail and taste as was our first course and entree. Our dinner of four with a three course meal, wine, dessert, and after dinner drinks landed in the $60 a person ballpark; and despite not having half of the after dinner drinks in house, our party was completely satisfied.

Much like the contrast between the service and the food, the overall décor was a little confusing. The natural homey feeling intimated an obsession with wood working and interior design, yet all of it was so brand new that it came off as saccharine. It was too handmade, too well crafted. Like so many New York restaurants the devotion spent on the design should have been spent on the front of house operations. For example: the bathroom, done complete with clever counter levered door, offered paper C-fold napkins as a hand towel. The backyard looked as though it were an impending project, yet, due to ventilation the door was left open, exposing a ramshackle underbelly.

My hat is off to the hardworking couple, for at the end of the day they delivered a nice product: a comfortable atmosphere with quality product. In Brooklyn this recipe grows on trees, and Good Fork’s only true shortcoming sprouts from this accepted notion of casual dining. I understand dropping the formality, but on the same token guests should not be treated like house guests. Good Fork is worth the trip, but you might be expected to help with the dishes at the end of the night.