Maison Premiere--Brooklyn

347.335.0446

It's been a while.  A new job, a baby, all of these grown up things have prevented me from venturing out and trying new stuff.  I've tried to get out, tried to experience new and better places in the greater New York area but to no avail.  I meant to go to the Bronx, and to Queens, and to DC and all I've gotten was Reynard's over and over again.  What to do beloved nine?  What to do?

So  I have this business card with a few notes jotted down.  I went here the first night the kitchen open, though I didn't eat.  Prior to that it was an oyster bar and judging by the size of the crowd it was pretty well received.  I sucked down French 75's while my other wife drank Negronis.  The cocktails were made well by guys in bow ties and vests.  They all had facial hair.  At this point I'm used to it.

Then I went to the bathroom and there was an old-fashioned toilet with an old gravity tank.  The toilet dispensers were also old, rusty, dilapidated.  The door didn't close quite right, but it was beautiful and warped.  As I sat there peeing I wondered to myself, is this bathroom authentic?  Quite a philosophical question I know, but since I have no food to talk about I have to talk about something.  So, is this bathroom anymore authentic?  Is it the sum of its parts?  Aesthetically, it looks cool and funky but at the cost of being functional.  What is the attraction to this bygone era?  Certainly things were made better then, but they're also 100 years old.  I flushed the toilet.  It didn't work that well, but it did work.  I'm glad I didn't leave an iceberg in the water as it would have still been there.

When I got back to the bar I took a good look at the bartender to the point I think I freaked him out.  Then I realized the problem: he's a phony.  They're all faking it.  That bathroom isn't original.  It's a replica of an original using original parts.  Probably bought in some old broken down town from a building about to be demolished.   But here's the catch, the clothes of the bygone era are still made.  Names like Anderson Shepard, Henry Poole, Paul Stuart.  And you know what?  They're fucking expensive!  You wouldn't want to bar tend in this expensive suit.  This guy had an ill-fitting button down collar, his braces were clipped to his pants with belt loops.  His vest didn't fit and he'd buttoned the sixth button.  And more to the point he doesn't know the difference.  I'm sure the craftsman that made that beautiful bathroom door would want it replaced because it wasn't plum.  I'm sure the manufacturer of the toilet paper dispenser eventually automated their production, creating homogenous, yet profitable, toilet paper dispenser after toilet paper dispenser. 

Maison Premier is not at fault here.  They're keeping up with the times, and at least they're devotion to style is consistent with their devotion to well made cocktails and craft beer.  And in the end, you can't fake quality.  They're salvaging quality from a bygone era.  The craftsman for custom doors still exists.  They just didn't want to pay for it.

Antica Pesa--Brooklyn

 (347) 763-2635

At long last the trend that Reynard's created has begun to bear fruit. Antica Pesa is the first in a trend of what I predict to be many well conceived fine dining establishments in Williamsburg.  The neighborhood has grown up, be it from pricing bringing in an older crowd, or an older crowd bringing pricing.  Whatever the case may be, something that has matching flatware and cloth napkins was due and Antica Pesa delivers superbly  The dining room is beautiful, with low hanging globes over dinner tables that capture sound, a fire place, and Italian men walking around with their shirts un buttoned, putting their hands on the back of your chair suggesting, hinting, alluding to the fact that in some other universe you could be the desire of such a man...ehem.

Put your dick back in your pants iconman, how was the food?  In a word fantastic. Granted the menu never seems to vary, but there is some crowd pleasing items for all.  I'd stay away from the tour of Tuscany thing, and the fried cheese and prosciutto might be too much of a good thing to start with on your own.  And unlike Aurora, the reigning high end Italian in the neighborhood, the waiters here aren't slack-jawed yokels.  No, the waiters here own the place, as well as a well known sister restaurant in Rome.  How's that bitches, Brooklyn is importing directly from the motherland.

Station--Brooklyn

718-599-1596

Station, and I'm sorry but I cannot help myself, is a train wreck.  My experience here was so bad, so ridiculously poor, that I pity the owner that spent their investor's money on such over the top  business cards and peculiar menus.  How do I begin?

Comfortably located fifteen steps from the Bedford stop, I arrived late with my wife already sat at the door.  It was a blustery night, and the heavy wooden door could not stay closed.  It blew and blew then every once in a while a waify little hostess would remember to close it. This would be a harbinger of things to come, as the service was without a doubt, the worst I've ever had in New York City.

The menu was nothing short of schizophrenic:  French, Italian, African, I mean all over the map, or book.  Or whatever it was they were trying to do.  We decided to have rilettes and a nice glass of wine while waiting for our server to finally materialize   The waitress knew as much about food as I know about organic chemistry, stating that the menu was Mediterranean influenced.  She also told us later, that she had to clear our rillets as the short ribs were ready and needed to be served--presumably for fear of overcooking.  She also didn't offer us water once.  Not a single time.  In fact this is my first meal ever at a restaurant--going all the way back to Denny's and Carrows and Marie Calenders when I was just a wee lass--that I was not offered water with a meal.

The food?  Abysmal.  The chef hales from 11 Madison Park which means she spent most of her time telling diners what they were going to have for dinner.  Here the flavors and aesthetic were so mish-mashed together: said short rib had mushrooms red wine while my chicken had curry and potatoes.  Of course, its hard to say you enjoy eating anything when you're parched.  Maybe soup.  Wifey wife was paying, so we still tipped, but had I been paying I would have laid a big fat goose egg all over the check.  That would also would have been a first.

St Anslem's--Brooklyn

718-384-5054

Went here a few months ago to try the famous rib eye for two.  It was a Tuesday night, and since they don't take reservations we decided to head on in a touch early.  Tuesday, 7pm, 1 hour wait.  No problem, we'll just grab a drink at the bar.  Sorry charlie, no drinking at the bar. Try our short order place across the street Fette Sau (which I've never reviewed by the way).  Been there, thanks.  Thanks maybe next time (big smile).

Fast forward to last Saturday.  We wanted a steak dinner and since we don't like getting Peter Lugered we figured this place is the only place in our neighborhood to get a guaranteed non butcher steak dinner (certainly Dresslers or Diner or somewhere else may have a steak special, but who wants to risk it when you have a hankering...).  We knew there would be a wait so we headed in at 6 p.m. thinking even if we have to wait an hour, we were still eating at a reasonable time--as we were told by some mystical creature that had happened to eat there the cooking/resting time on the rib eye is an hour.  The wait?  Two mother fucking hours!  They entire restaurant could turn and we would still have to wait.  Normally, I would say good for them.  Here are some entrepreneurs that opened a small beer bar (Spuyten and Duyvil) and then opened a cool kitchy barbeque place (Fette Sau), and have finally arrived serving steak to the carnivorous locals.  But the hostess, with her i-pad and horrible hippy-esque corduroy's and awful second hand boots, was so motherfucking smug, so unapologetically proud of the fact that she was turning away another customer that I wanted to punch her square between the eyes.  And after the group behind us, a party of five no less, was told three and a half hours I evacuated, swearing never to return.

We eventually met up with the friend we intended on meeting there, and he told us that he was asked tonot to stand behind the bar while two other friends finished up their dinner.  Okay, so now I know I'm not crazy.  This place is too much of a good thing, and since it is reinforced by insanely patient consumers, the attitude of the staff has clearly gotten out of control.  I don't understand why you would not take reservations if you have waits of two and three hours.  I would understand not taking reservations if you had a loitering kind of bar, or if it was truly first come first serve, ie., no poorly dressed asshole with an i-pad.  A two-hour wait in a forty cover restaurant means that you're perfectly willing to turn away business that may not come back.  And this arrogant attitude has infected the staff since they're all too happy to tell tell people to try your over-rated pickle bar across the street.   And since everyone is on the bandwagon of amazing food and my new favorite restaurant I can only assume that your popularity is due to the exclusivity that creates such buzz.  What am I to do, other than say  I hate restaurants that are cooler than their customers, especially since I'm the coolest guy I know.

Cafe Boulud--Manhattan

1. 212.772.2600

We scored tickets to Into The Woods at the Shakespeare in the park theater, and since they're free we decided to spend the money we would have normally spent on a show on dinner.  Enter Cafe Boulud, the Daniel Boulud eatery in the Mark Hotel. It was a pleasant walk from the box office to the cafe, and as I was roughly an hour earlier than the ol' waddly wifey wife, I decided to knock back some southsides while watching upper east-side milfs truck on by.

This place is fine dining, even if the Maitre D isn't in tails.  And I could regale you with all sorts of refined details that most casual restaurants wouldn't even consider, much less attempt. But by now you've all grown to trust my sensibilities, so I'll spare you said details and just say that everything was executed flawlessly by a well groomed Austrian waiter.  And unlike the pretentious 11 Madison Park, this place delivered the food without gimmick or fanfare.  

So why Iconman do you blow by the restaurant review?  Isn't what this is all about?  Well, that's a good couple of questions beloved nine, and to answer honestly it's because what happened at the table next to me.  A group of six or so very young women trotted up after blowing at least 10k on assorted Hermes, Wang, and Bergdorf accouterment and they were so revile, so ignorant of their pathetic existence, and so entitled that it nearly spoiled my wonderful dinner.  What is it about rich, upper east-side women that creates such useless, well dressed flesh bags?  I could only over hear bits and pieces of their for lack of a better work conversation--as it was interrupted with so many nasally "likes" and "yeahs" that I had difficulty deciphering their dialect--but much of it was centered around the fact that they spend conspicuous amounts of money without really understanding the source of their wealth.  To quote:

• "I think he just got promoted to EVP, or SVP, I'm not sure what that stands for, but then again I'm not sure what he does anyway."  In reference to boyfriend/husband.  I'll tell you what he does sweetheart, cheat, rob, and extort the corrupt financial system.
• "I love Veuve Cliqout. The bubbles make it good."  
• "I was like, excuse me, like, you can't like, talk to me that way."
• "Oh my God, that waiter smelled so bad!"  Which by the way wasn't true, the waiter smelled just fine in that you couldn't smell him at all.  What she was actually smelling was the old rich man cruising by in a wheelchair, pushed by a young, pretty gold digger.  Essentially, one of their peers.
• "Sometimes I wish I had something to do."  What the fuck!?!  Did you really just say that?

Needless to say but I'll put it in there anyway, these creatures disgusted me.  And I can only say that my wives are honest, hardworking, intelligent women--which is a good thing.  Also, for the record, Into the Woods should be one act and one act only.

Cayler--Brooklyn

347- 889-6323

Named after its street, this place is pretty much about as Brooklyn as you can get.  The interior looks as though a bunch of lesbians decided to replicate their summer camp's lodge, with a kitchy green ceiling and long bar to one side.  Not to say I have anything against lesbians, in particular these lesbians were all quite friendly and affable but that doesn't take away from the fact that the place is run by dykes with tattoos. 

Interestingly enough the menu was pretty ambitious, they called it Tapas, I call it gimmick.  Telling us when we ordered that the dishes will come when they're ready, only to have quite large portions delivered to us as a first and main course.  Despite the attempt to be something they're not, ehem, the food was all quite delicious, in particular the broccoli which looks to be a mainstay.

My only gripe, and it's negligable, was the poorly picked music.  I appreciate death metal and heavy metal as much as the next guy or girl/guy.  But it is inappropriate for the quasi gourment we were served in such a quaint atmosphere.  Alas, I begrudgingly admit I was at least five years older than anyone else in the place, so perhaps I was being a curmudgeon; wouldn't be the first time.

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?