Spotted Pig--Manhattan

(212) 620-0393

Here I am writing about yet another, famous, New York City place.  It's of a renaissance of sorts, as I feel the days of the iconman are severely numbered.  Yep, before too long something tells me that there will not be a clean, predictable 24 posts a year but rather a few intermitant posts here and there.  So I guess I've got to create enough of a back log so that you all feel sufficiently informed.

So here's Spotted Pig, a West Village place that has nothing but rave reviews and pork inspired decor.  As I am feeling nestalgic about my forced retirement, I figured I would review this through two prisms: the old me, and the older me.  The old me is actually the young me, in that it was who I was when I first started this journey years ago.  The older me is literally that, me, but older.  Fascinating isn't it?


Old me:  Saddle up to the bar waiting for my girlfriend, and the dyke behind the bar decides that the service napkins are more important than I am.
Older me:  Arrived early, the staff still preparing for what looks to be a big night.  The bartender is battoning down the hatches so doesn't notice me right away, that and I took a stool near the service bar so I could see the Mrs. approach.

Old me:  There is definitely some sort of buzz here, and I'm not talking about the wild turkey sort.  This place must get going.  Can't wait to join.
Older me:  There is definitely some sort of buzz here, and I'm not talking about the wild turkey sort.  This place must get going.  Too bad I'm not joining.

Old me:  WTF!  You're burger is too precious to substitute roqeufort for something else.  Assholes, every single one of you.
Older me;  Too bad the only other cheese on the menu is ricotta.  Cheddar would've been nice.

Old me:  Straight from hell on the first courses, all of the items were quite devilish..ehem.
Older Me:  Deviled eggs, yum.  Devil on horseback okay.

Old me:  Pork Belly was finished well with a broth and some root vegetables.  The burger was quite nice though the shoe string fries required a fork.  Overall service was attentive, prompt, and satistfactory.
Older me:  Entree's were okay, though I didn't shit myself.  Waiter was cleary gay and clearly into me, but can you blame him, I work out.

End scene.

We didn't eat dessert, and I'm not drinking as much these days so there's not too much more to add.  In some ways I'm more of a douche and in others I'm not.  Aging, ain't it grand?

Balthazar--Manhattan

212.965.1414

Okay another institutional restaurant though not quite as "famous" as the other, lesser institutional restaurants I've critiqued.  Balthazar has been an industry standard sort of speak.  A place that is so well run, so consistent, and so fashionable that it is the bar for those looking to open a restaurant with the hopes of opening more.  So this is kind of a first for me, because I'm all a flutter with praise. First of all, Mcnally is a genius.  Not in a traditional I'm-solving-difficult-math-problems way, but rather he is quite masterful at creating restaurants that have an autonomy yet at the same time consistent service and operational standards.  Goodness gracious, I'm sounding a bit nerdy here.

This restaurant generally regarded as one of the better French bistros in NYC.  And why not?  They have oyster towers and a multidude of waiters and all sorts of official looking people scurrying to and fro.  It's big, and overwhelming, and when I'm there I feel like Ernest Hemmingway could sit down next to me.  To be honest there's a fair amount of Eurotrash, and since we went on our anniversary (and wifey wife is as pregnant as can bet) the snooty Soho Maitre D stuck us in the way back.  But who cares?  The French cuisine-arguably the most sophisticated cuisine on the planet- was exectuted with authentic detail.  Wifey wife had the onion soup and then a fish special and I had the steak tar tar and the mussels.  All of it was quite delicious.

So Iconman, what's with all of this reverence?  How is it you can shit all over 11 Madison Park and Peter Luger but you are practically offering Mcnally a rim job?  Good questions beloved nine.  I have respect for people who quietly create a perfect brand, without the pretension or ego.  I wasn't offered a menu of just proteins, nor was I expected to be impressed just because some douchebag local 111 waiter decided to eventually serve me.  No, with Balthazar, like any well run establishment, I left completely satisfied.

Odd Side Social Commentary

So I put this little nugget aside a few years ago while revisiting Hunter S Thompson's collection the Great Shark Hunt.  This little morsel encapsulated what is happening in Brooklyn so well, that I flagged it for future reference when I didn't have a restaurant to review (which is currently the case as I am forbidden to write about Virginia Beach by wife #1).

After re-reading, its not so much a crime or drug thing, though that is prevalent, but rather a real estate thing.  But overall the gist is there:

"The pattern never varies: a low-rent area suddenly blooms new and loose and human--and then fashionable, which attracts the press and the cops about the same time.  Cop problems attract more publicity, which then attracts junkies and jack-rollers.  Their bad action causes mobile types who dig the menace of "white ghetto" life and whose expense account tastes drive local rents and street prices out of reach of the original settlers...who are forced, once again, to move on." (Thompson, The Great Shark Hunt, pg 156--Rolling Stone #60, 1970).

Okay.  A few thoughts here that actually pertain to restaurants, as the are a component of the catalyst in the gentrification of a neighborhood.  And not to be too philosophical, but the attraction to Brooklyn is not so cut and dry, it involves a tremendous amount of peduciary factors, especially on a personal level.  With that said, however, there is something to selecting North West Brooklyn as opposed to The Bronx, or other parts of Queens that have as many amenities, low rents, etc...  Why is it that this particular neighborhood blew up versus Woodside queens for instance?  And the answer to that question, and the application of Mr. Thompson's theory are what I am trying to zone in on.  It's why there are now a bazillion restaurants and people who once lived in the East Village that swore they would never go to Brooklyn are now their biggest proponents.  There was a cache, created by artists, drug addicts (cokie's anyone?) and overall derelicts that settled Williamsburg.  They have now moved on pushed out by the mobile types.  They are now infiltrating Bedstuy and Bushwik.  There was an article in the Sunday Times Magazine (7/15/12) that talked about this--for the record the exact same article was published on line prior to the magazine, here's the linkehttp://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/15/magazine/bronx-economy.html?hpw...  Interesting.  That's all.

Reynard--Brooklyn

718.460.8000

A little odd for me beloved nine, as this is the first review on an Andrew Tarlow restaurant in quite some time.  I lifted my self imposed exile and decided to grow up, that and I stopped drinking cheap bourbon at five in the afternoon.  Fast forward five years, sheesh, make it eight years, and there's a new place in town getting all of the newbie Williamsburgers a twitter.  The Wythe hotel, the crown jewel of the Brooklyn Brand, standing like a beacon of all that is natural, organic, locally sourced, and covered in tattoos.

Firstly, something to be said about the insane amounts of tail running around in this place.  The patrons, the staff, I mean everyone seems to be effortlessly good looking, myself included of course.  I digress, it's an excellent point of departure as the patronage matches the decor perfectly.  This place is effortlessly beautiful.  Functional and raw yet elegant and refined.  The dichotomy being that what was once a typical no-frills apartment building that housed famed director Paul Black --American Brown-- is now a chic hotel complete with reverse bridge and tunnel roof bar.  Yes, Williamsburg has arrived, and this place is the port of call.

The food is everything you would expect from the Diner pedigree.  Delicate, complex, interesting, well prepared and overwhelmingly pleasing.  I've taken to having the guests dining with me grade their courses:

Deviled Eggs: Cumin was a nice touch. A
Soup: B+
Rabbit: A
Beet Salad: B
Pork Chop: A
Duck: B
Trout: B
Salad: (Diner goatcheese was in my notes though I don't think it was--sorry, been a while) A
Tar tar: B.
Hotties: Yes please.  (Seriously, that's in my notes).

Truth be told, I'm not a foodie.  I'm a drunk.  So the most impressive aspect of this restaurant, and one that I'm pleased to report after years and years of slander on the overall service motif of greater North Brooklyn, was the exceptional service.  I do not use this word lightly.  The service was exceptional.  The timing, the drink service, the sparkling tap water, the folding of the napkins, the delivery of my espresso before dessert was served, this all came together in a masterful display of understanding of hospitality. Reynard is the culmination of 12 years of homogenous gentrification, and it was worth the wait.

Montreal

It's been a while since I've done a post about an entire city.  I feel as though I might have posted about Barcelona, but not quite sure.  It doesn't matter, Barcelona has too much going on to try an encapsulate in a single post, but at the same time is not a city of more than three days.

Much could be said about Montreal, though, I was only there for three so it worked out perfectly.  It's been a bit since the trip so I'm going to have to rely on my scribbles.

Darling Foundry:

(514) 759-9815

Some sort of art bar weirdness run by Quebecois Ecuadorians.  Seriously.  Not a lick of English, fortunately for me I speak equally bad Spanglish and French.  This will explain why I ordered a cheese sandwich and ended up with a peice of cheese and some beer.  Cool place, however, with a nice laid back coffee shop vibe.   There are no places like this in NYC--that's a quote from my scribbles.

Bily Ku

I have no idea.  Here are my notes:  Ostrich Head.  Bad Math.  Hmmmm.

L'Express:

(514) 845-5333

This place I remember vividly as it was a three hour marathon of French cuisine.  One word: Cornichons.  Just about every place in Montreal delivers mustard and tiny yet delicious little pickles to your table.  This place, a well established French bistro, must have started the trend.  A little touristy, but those pickles quickly squashed that.  As we were four we sampled a pretty decent selection of the menu: caviar, muscles, fish, and the tar tar.  In fact two of us ordered the tar tar, which means we had roughly fifty ounces of raw ground beef.  The food was good. The service, a little too used to fleecing tourists, but not bad.  The tar tar; constipating.

Whisky Cafe

(514) 278-2646

Being drunk on straight vodka, Beaujolais, and raw meat., we decided to find a place to buy and smoke Cuban cigars.  Unfortunately, Montreal is like the rest of the world in that there is no place to smoke them inside.  Eventually, we found Whiskey Cafe a cigar bar that also happened to have a zillion single malts you've never heard of.  We bought our cigars, but wife one and wife two were not about to chill in the smoking lounge, so instead we knocked back a whiskey.  I decided it would be a fine idea to go dancing which led us to....

The Waverly:

My notes: Local Bar.  Alright if you're a Quebecois douche.

Le Contemporain:
514 847-6900


After a long walk and a brutal raw beef and vodka hangover, we conceded to eat lunch at the cafe right next door to the contemporary art museum.  It's on St Catherine and traffic is constantly whizzing by, but when that first pint of beer came the traffic dulled to a hum and we got down to business.  Fries, fried cheese, and more of those little pickles.  It wasn't too expensive, and to be honest, a relief just to sit down after power walking up and then down a mountain.  


Lawrence:

(514) 503-1070

Dinner number two were were weary from a long walk on the Mount, Real, and the hangover from the previous night.  I'd still had yet to pass the loaf of tar tar in my large intestine.  Lawrence was actually quite pleasant. Here's our letter grading system (patent pending):

Apetizers:

Linguine B

Macheral A++

Charchuterie (like pickles and mustard on just about every menu you saw) No Grade

Sausage: B+

Sturgeon: A++

Chicken Special: A

Trout: A

Soup B+

The desserts all sucked.  They had a baked alaska that simply did not deliver.  But as for the rest of the dinner, if those were my grades I probably wouldn't be an unheralded blogger.  Pretty nerdy grades.

St. Viateur Bagels

(514) 276-8044

This place has legendary bagels, as we were told to go by multitudes of locals transplanted to NYC.  We were psyched to get them to go on our way back to the city, but you know what?  They don't own a toaster.  It's a divey bagel conveyor belt and a bunch of leery eyed hasids.  You buy these things by the dozen and walk back to your home to eat them at your lesiure.  Since this was Sunday, we were totally fucked for an early breakfast.  And had to eat chewy bagels with little cream cheese to go containers on our drive back.  Thanks all-knowing insiders.

Ethos--Manhattan

(212) 888-4060

I don't know if this is the post I should discuss the fact that Google has completely changed the blog format, added a locations tab, label tab, and all sorts of other shit that I feel compelled to use to keep up with the ever changing landscape that is technology, but since I've started with such a long run-on sentence I might as well forge ahead.  I suppose I will use the map feature.  I'm not sure why I would label it, or schedule it, but okay.  For someone like me, that is someone who is definitely behind when it comes to technology, the ongoing evolution of Google, and email, and Apple totally sucks.  Just when I get used to something they change it in a completely unapologetic fashion.  I digress, the point is Google has given me absolutely no choice.  Like the crack dealers of the late eighties, they lured me in and now I'm hooked.

Ethos, is Greek.  Very Greek.  I should have realized this with the 18-year-old hostess who, with high heels and short skirt caught my attention right away.  She had this nubile I'm-the-daughter-of-the-owner thing going on that was nothing short of a perfect first impression.  What made the lasting impression, however, was the monobrow stretching from one eye to the other.  I was there with my wife and some friends, one of whom is a burnout Israili with the coolest pot smoking contraption ever (An Atmos).  And we all took a beat at the monobrow.

We decided to share a bunch of stuff, and it was all fresh, Mediterranean lightness: olive oil, lemon, grilled food.  I feel like they only had grilled fish on the menu all prepared one way: with olive oil and lemon.  And not to be overtly redundant, but guess what we had?  Grilled white fish with lemon and olive oil.  We also had a big greek salad that the Israeli ordered.  It was gigantic. He ate most of it.  The food was pretty good, the service professional enough (they even snuck the Israeli and I, who have the collective subtlety of a rocket launcher shots of tequila while our wives were in the can) though I'm pretty sure one of the guys was banging the monobrow at the front door.

What else do you want?  It's on 51st and 2nd (check the location).  I'm not exactly sure why we went here to begin with, it was really one of those restaurants in NYC that the neighbors all go to but that you'll never go to again.  I'll always remember that mono-brow.  Damn, it was unsightly.

Gwynett Street--Brooklyn

347.889.7002

Finally.  Dear God, it is about time.  Not only has a restaurant opened in Williamsburg in a much needed  spot off of the Graham Avenue stop, less of course the tragically sinking Motorino, but it has done so in an atypical Brooklyn fashion.  Gwynett street has finally decided to deviate from the Hipster culinary tree, instead pushing the envelope with ambitious cuisine that does not include a) a hanger steak, b) a burger, or c) a mac and cheese.

Originally a pizza shop, turned steakhouse (Catch 22), you wouldn't expect to have your mind blown walking in, as the place hasn't really changed since the last one.  It isn't until you sit down and have all sorts of gourmet delicacies do you realize that you're in for a treat.  Egg dish, nailed it.  Duck?  Off the charts. Whiskey Bread?!?  I mean they make bread with whiskey!    It wasn't until we spoke to the owner that we realized the chef was from WD50 and hired right off of craigslist.  Take that human resources department.

What is most refreshing, aside that we got a seat right away despite the favorable NY Times review, was the fact it wasn't trying to be Brooklyn.  The decor didn't scream turn-of-the-century chic.  There weren't vested, mustached, tattooed dudes tending bar (though I think one of them did have a tattoo).  It was refreshing to step outside of the dining hegemony that has plagued gentrification of this borough for too long.  It is the beginning of the revolution comrades, and we will rally around Gwynett Street.