Craft--Manhattan

212.780.0880

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

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

Arturo's--Maplewood, NJ

(973) 378-5800

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

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

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

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

August--Manhattan

212-929-8727

www.augustny.com/‎

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

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

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

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

L'artussi--Manhattan

(212) 255-5757

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

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

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

Elm--Brooklyn

(718) 218-7500

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

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

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

Dumont--Take Two (Brooklyn)

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

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

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

R.I.P. Collin.

Achille's Heel--Brooklyn

(347) 987-3666

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

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

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