M &T Bank Stadium--Baltimore

(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

(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--Brooklyn

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

(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

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

(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

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.