Radio Star--Brooklyn

347.799.1190

Beloved eight.  Radio star.  What can I say?  It's a long tale but Radio Star is the kid sister of Glasserie.  It's not a particularly big place, perched right next to Transmitter park.  And I believe the radio themed menu has a lot to do with said transmitter park, it being the birth place of public radio and all.  But there's something sneaky about this place.  It's not its very unique cuisine (pig cheeks anyone?) or it's esoteric wine list.  It's the gigantic room in the back that sits calling, beckoning.  This place is a round the clock bar with an orgy space built in!

Okay, kidding aside.  The back room, called the Neptune Room, is run by Glasserie Events so this space is for private dining only.  I've not eaten the banquet food for Glasserie, so cannot enlighten you dear reader, but I can say that it's reputable as I run in those circles.  Radio Star the open-to-the-public space, on the other hand, I believe I've eaten the entire menu.  And I would say that, similar to Glasserie, I never know what to expect but am surprised at how delicious it is.  

My lack of expectation is due to my ignorance with food.  However, I'm quite adept at getting drunk, and they deliver in both departments.  Nonetheless, if you're in the neighborhood I'd say this place is a must see.

90 acres--New Jersey

908.901.4710

Ol' wifey wife and I agreed to a double date with some friends from the burbs.  They were married recently, and this place was their first choice but they didn't have the date.  There's a abundance of these places all about the tristate area.  Fine dining on some beautiful crop of Hudson Valley land that's essentially a prop to remind people of how everything used to be pristine, but now it only is this little parcel of 90 acres humanity has yet to spoil.  To add to the irony, the restaurant will serve you a ton of food that isn't locally sourced and isn't even remotely seasonal so that you can enjoy the splendor of our surrounding while eating food dripping in fossil fuels.  I get it.  It was beautiful.  The service was as good as you can ask from untrained NJ residents. At the end of the day, though, it was one massive fabrication.

The food?  In spite of my opening, arguably the fine dining we've had in Jersey.  Everything was done well, seasoned well, prepared well, but after eating at the real deal (French Laundry) this place is a reasonably priced nod to the real deal.  We ate most of the menu and nothing really stood out to me, but I must say that my ol' wifey wife said that the scallops were the best she's ever had.  And that's saying something as she eats scallops occasionally.

Perhaps I came on too strong, beloved seven (RIP Vapid Blond), but the idea that we're somehow preserving our planet with this window dressing gets my goat.  Nonetheless, if you happen to be in the neighborhood this is as good as it will get unless you head into NYC.

Tatiana--Manhattan

(212) 875-5222

The ol' other wife pretty much follows Pete Wells religiously, both for professional and personal reasons.  So when he gushes over a place, it's pretty much a lock that I'm gonna end up there eventually.

For this particular place it happened on April 4th of 2024, and ol' other wife's man piece somehow bought a reservation from some bot, so when I arrived amidst a tropical depression, I posed as someone else.  Not relevant to the dining experience, as Carla, the pixie like hostess handled it with class and aplomb, but the fact that you have to resort to such measures just demonstrates the influence of Pete Wells.

And how was it?  Meh.  I liken it to an amateur hour.  Where do I begin?  I asked for a Hemmingway daiquiri and when they could not make that specific daiquiri, the bartender recommended a whisky drink when they had two rum based drinks on the menu--both of which were much closer in spirit to my original order.  This is after I asked him for something close.  Certainly not a deal breaker, but for the best restaurant in the city I'd expect a touch more.  This slight over site turned out to be the standard.  The service was disjointed and unpredictable.  Many times the runners would come to our table with something we didn't order.  The serving utensils were smaller than the vessels, causing the oversized spoon to to fall into the vessel to get covered in sticky goo.  The food?  Interesting, but the best in the city?  Hardly.  Aside from the short rib pastrami I would argue it was gimmicky more than delectable, with heavy handed spicing. The bathrooms were a disaster.  The wine mediocre.  And the vibe was sterile and reminiscent of corporate dining.  Not sure what Wells is seeing in this one, but braving a copy right I quote:

"And after quarantines and masks and distancing and sundry social traumas, we needed a party. We needed a reason to get dressed up, to drink rum cocktails with spicy food, to stay out past 9 o’clock, to look around a dining room and see a new, heterogeneous vision of New York and to feel hope for its future."

So that's something.  Though, I feel that this restaurant is lauded more for its' cultural revolution, than for its food.  And I cannot deny the emotion and the gravity of a post pandemic, multicultural dining experience.  However, food is food.  If you're looking for a fine dining experience, I suggest you stick with me beloved eight, I won't steer you wrong.

Il Buco--Manhattan

(212) 837-2622

Surprised I've never been here given it's longevity and proximity to the village.  I mean, back in the day I remember that I was always looking for solid Italian, and Hearth always seemed to be the only game in town.  Maybe three of clubs?  It's been a decade or two, so spare me the judgement. Nonetheless it's great to see the City still has surprises even for old curmudgeons like myself.

The food was great.  Simple ingredients, well prepared, etc....  The veal chop seasoning wasn't spectacular because it has a big ass poblano on top of it that made everything taste like poblano, even the succulent fat off the bone.  The rabbit was tiny given it's price, like a whole rack of tiny little rabbit chops.  So cute!  But aside from those two overall it was a good value and excellent food.  

Given that it was (and still is) dry January the overall experience was quite boring and staid.  There were some lanky attractive girls at the bar, but they were children--maybe 25 or something.  How's that for some flash?

French Laundry--Napa Valley

707.944.2380

Holy shit.  Where do I begin?

So went with the ol' wifey wife, her sister and husband participating in said husbands' scratching off a bucket list item.  I was a tagalong.  And to be honest, I had no idea what to expect.  I've been to Frenchette, and 11 Madison, and as well as other gastronomically credentialed places all over NYC (see restaurant list), so part of me had my NY snob-o-meter dialed up.  However, another part of me was actually a bit curious and trepidatious of being simply too over my skis on this one.

How was the food you inevitably ask me after my longwinded intro? Spectacular.  However, this was only a mere component of arguably one of the best, if not the best dining experience of my life. Here's the dinner menu in its entirety as they hand it to you when you leave:

• Oysters and Pearls
• Bitter Garden Chicory Salad
• Sweet Butter Poached Nova Scotia Lobster
• Bread and Butter
• Applewod Smoked Wolfe Ranch White Quail
• Carnaroli Risotto Biologico
• Prime Rib of Elysian Fields Farm Lamb
• Gougere
• Caramelized K & J Orchards Sour Apple
• Hojicha Tea Ice Cream
• K & M Rogher
• Mignardises

There were some truffle and Wagyu beef options that other people tried, but not for me.  So aside from the abundance, the care and craft of the food, the wine pairing and service were equally unparalleled.  And perhaps that is why I'm still rock hard about this place weeks later. Alex, our front waiter and de facto sommelier was exemplary (he confessed he started working there after learning all he could at Charlie Trotter's!  Ha!) both in terms of breadth of knowledge but also affability.  The back waiters were personable not pushy.  Tod the maitre d'hotel took us on a personal tour.  Chris talked about fish forks.  There was wine poured when we arrived, even before water, and we drank the entire night.

Perhaps most amazing, however, is that I saw Alex keeping his distance from the romantic couple, and dumbing down his delivery to the status seekers that were their simply for cache. He knew that Husband wanted to talk shop, he recognized that my wine selections for the pairing (they paired wines not to the food but to our tastes first and then the food) were too expensive for our budget, so got close with what we could afford, and saw that my wife basically wanted to be left alone to dine so laid off the flirtatiousness.

Lights out.  Nothing more I could add to make it better.

Atoboy--Manhattan

646.476.7217

The 2nd wife's other husband loves this place.  It's gourmet, interesting (Korean if I had to guess) and rather hard to get into.  I don't see what the hubbub is about, but interesting is definitely the case.  

Before I go on about the $40 chicken boneless chicken wings, I will say that they took the whole service ninja thing to the umpteenth level.  And for no good reason as they didn't quite execute.  I understand the whole back-waiter, front-waiter system can be elegant and allow for a coverage that a single server can't.  But when each server that walks up doesn't know what we are drinking (and we're clearly empty), and doesn't know who ordered what (as we ordered the entire menu), and solicits us for jobs because they overheard us talking and deduced we were "in the industry,"  the whole cover gets blown.

Run on sentences aside, how was the food?  Solid according to my spouses that eat Korean food.  Not that it isn't for me, but when you have absolutely no idea what it is you're being served, it's less about meeting an expectation and more about creating one.  According to them it was delectable.  According to me it was weird.  The fried chicken was fine, but incredibly expensive. I mean, they have to carry that service overhead somehow. 

Balthazar--Manhattan

212.965.141

I know, how the hell have I lived in the city for so long and not gone here? Schiller's?  Check. Pastilles? Check.  Both closed (though one was brought back to life).  So for my 28th birthday I decided to take the team here, hoping to capture the experience in hopes of not being Peter Luggered.

Did they deliver? You bet.  However, I need to provide some context here.  In spite of their excellent service and food, this place in July is a huge-ass sprawling tourist restaurant.  Tourist that are "in the know," but still fanny packing around with their walking sneakers and bored children in tow.  When we made the rezzie we were given a firm two hour time so they could turn the table.  This is clearly not enough time for us, as we booze and generally the other wife orders like sixty things from the menu.

So to get around this I opted for outside dining. In 100 degree heat. It was hot, too hot. Since I was coming from work there was a suit involved.  A summer suit, but who fucking cares.  Nonetheless, we did our best and ate and drank and the staff was lovely and we spent way too much but the heat, the underlying pervasiveness of the heat greatly impacted the experience.  We hit the major stuff, the raw bar tower, some Sancerre, tar tar, fish and mussels, and of course some bread.  I must say this was not a Peter Luger experience, so those dorky Northern Europeans (who needs walking sticks, really?) were on to something.