Carino--Brooklyn

718.384.8282

You can always tell a new restaurant by the disjointed service, it's choppy and the staff take ten too many steps because the systems aren't in place to make things fluid and efficient. There's also a lot of bickering because the requisite hot-ass hostess is actually forced to do things that pretty girls just don't do: like work. In my younger days I would have teed off on this place, but now that I'm older and wiser, and have had the displeasure of opening not one buy two facilities in the city (notice the gaping hole of 2007 entries), I am much, much more patient with the service of a brand new restaurant. Especially when they're at least some hot ass girls struggling to not break a nail.


Enough of that. This is a restaurant blog dear readers, and a for that we should keep things focused. We originally wanted to go to this place when it first opened around June. The cooks and chef were all from Bonita, but were frustrated that their authentic Mexican cuisine was being doctored by the good people at Diner so decided to do it on their own. I'm reporting this from a somewhat reliable source though I have not heard that from them myself. It's gossip, pure and simple. We didn't go in June because they did not have a full liquor licence (one tremendous mistake of Bonita's) and there's no way I'm eating Mexican without a Margarita nearby. So we waited. Eventually they got through the steeple chase that is the SLA and voila, here we sat a month or so ago.


Their guacamole is pretty damned good. I've said this before about Mexican food, if their guac checks out then most everything else to follow will too. See Elote post for more extrapolation. Here's something not posted in the Elote post: what is up with habanero salsas? For the record, they don't taste good. In fact, I'd be hard pressed to tell you what a habanero even tastes like, because my mouth is suffering from a minor chemical burn. I appreciate spicy food, and understand the complexity of say, a chipolte pepper, but habanero peppers are down right inedible. They've somehow permeated the condiment barrier and are now standard at every fucking Mexican restaurant in the city. Why? So some douche bag can show off his ability to stomach battery acid? Well I for one have sworn off trying to enjoy the little bastards. Let that douche bag become the poster child for acid reflux, I'm gonna stick with the much more refined jalapeno based salsas.

But this is a restaurant review damn it! The food was pretty good despite the staff's best efforts to fuck it up. Now I feel better.

Paprika--Manhattan

(212) 677-6563

I used to live around the corner from Paprika another lifetime ago, and never remembered the place which doesn't mean much as New York is constantly changing, for better or worse. We went there on a double date as my wife's maid of honor has a new stud, and we had to go to do the typical nice-to-get-to-know-you-yet-judge-you-when-you-leave-the-table-to-sneak-a-cigarette dinner. Right before I ate a pork pie at this grimy meat pie place across the street and was fucking glad I did. Not only did it allow me a beer or two to ease the pain of having a double date, but I also ate some food that was edible.

And how happy I was for that edible meat pie. Firstly, and this should have been a warning sign, we had reservations but they sat us after waiting ten minutes at an awful table. How awful? The table didn't have any wine glasses because they'd run out. This should have, and would have sent me into a frenzy, or at least back over to the pie place because there's nothing worse than waiting for a wine glass with a full bottle of wine already on the table. Especially since when glasses actually arrive it's approximately 180 degrees having just come from the final rinse cylce on a Hobart 66. Which is exactly what happened.

Dinner was okay in that most of it wasn't memorable. The only thing I jotted down was that my meal was disgusting. And it was. Once again I should know better than to order a seafood pasta special seasoned with lemon. Lemon, the smoke screen of rotten seafood. This pasta dish was so lemony that it tasted synthetic, like the cherry flavor in bubble gum. And the angel hair had glued itself together into one big clump of soft starch. While I was cutting through my Angel Hail clump, I had the pleasure of getting to know someone while at the same time hanging out with people I've known for ten years. Thank God the food was so lousy, because in comparison that aspect of the night was quite enjoyable.

Without a doubt the best part about Paprika was leaving. We were spit out right in the East Village, which on a Friday night is quite a place to be. I was instantly nastalgic, and this reminded me that the city is much bigger than my little feifdom in Brooklyn. Not that any of you care but we ended up in some LES bar listening to a saxophone cover band. And the bar had clean glasses for our wine.

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.

Third Ward--Brooklyn

Okay, okay, I know it's not a restaurant. In fact, it's not even really a food and beverage operation, unless of course you count The Goods which I'm not counting. What I'm talking about is the free-for-all multi-level super parties hosted by 3rd Ward (who also by no coincidence opened The Goods on Metropolitan). My friends that are still single and looking for some easy trim convinced me I should check it out once again. My wife isn't stupid, she let me off the leash to realize that a quiet night at home is better than this.

Firstly, for those eight reading this that don't know what 3rd Ward is, it's actually an art community. Check out their website. It's a pretty cool collaborative program that is locally based. I appreciate what they're going for, considering the type of art produced and applaud them for their efforts. It's not easy keeping something like that going day in and day out and without serious corporate or personal backing, it's a pretty strenuous hustle. At the end of the day though, what I experienced a few Saturdays ago was not a commitment to the art community at large, but rather two thousand people jammed into various where-houses in Bushwick. Kind of a rave but not too ravy, and kind of a club but more gritty, urban, and underground.

One thing is for sure, I'm too old to be doing this sort of thing. Not to say there is an age limit but rather there should be an age limit. I consider age to loosely equate to cynicism, and this cynicism defeats the sense of wonder created by flame-throwers and tin foil. The burning man culture certainly has something to offer, but at the end of the day it's centered around drug and alcohol abuse. And after a decade or two of poisoning my body every-which-way but loose, it gets a little tiring. I started to view a lot of these people as just plain and simple losers. Most are faking it to get laid. And if you're not faking it ,but happen to be a genuinely authentic un-shaven, chanting, dread-locked, tarot card reading tribal spaz, and you're convinced that dancing until seven am and twirling fire around is going to save the world, then you're an even bigger loser.


Here's the bitch and why I felt compelled to report on this: someone is making shit tons of money on this party! Cans of Paps for $6!? Bottled water for $2? It also must be noted the children of mother earth did not seem to be recylcing though I'm sure they were; I'm sure at 9:00 am the next day after being up on coke, adirol, and ecstasy there's a ruddy team chomping at the bit to clean up the thousands upon thousands of plastic cups and bottles and then cart them off to the local recycling center.


Here's another beef: The place is run stupidly. There's a separate entrance just to get carded and wrist banded. Yet, anyone who knows where the where houses are simply go there directly. And then they made everyone listen to some drum circle while waiting to be let into the largest room. The rules include (abridged): respect the neighborhood, don't get too fucked up, and "kiss a stranger. Make it count." Juvenile, feel good nonsense!


Like I said, I'm too old for this stuff. And I can't really blame the brain-trust of artists for figuring out a way to exploit the thousands upon thousands of drug hobbyists in the greater north Brooklyn area. I suppose then my actual complaint is this veneer of feel-good mystical bullshit inevitably tied to these sort of things excuses the half hazard operation. Look, get your shit together and exploit me properly. With no lines, ample space, and legitimate world changing initiatives. For instance: perhaps a cool science exhibition, instead of chainsaw ice sculptures. If you're going to go through the trouble to waste all of these resources, just don't waste my time. And perhaps I'm the one being inauthentic, or perhaps I was not out of my head enough to not care.

JG Melons--Manhattan

(212) 650-1310

I'm torn about this one. I just had lunch there the other day with a friend, a chicken sandwich (I limit myself to one burger a week--and Donahue's normally fills that slot) and some of their cross-cut fries. It was decent. The weather was nice and we procured an outside seat, so we could watch all of the Upper East Side faux milfs scoot by with their two thousand dollar scooters and LL Bean slacks.

I'd been to this place a million times about a decade ago, and my only relevant memory is of a friend pulling a box staple out of his mouth. It was about an inch long and hidden in his salad and the server was about as apologetic as Heidegger post WWII. I suppose that she might have had a bad day but a staple? What other things might accidentally fall into the salad bin on the lowboy counter top when you're not looking? A band aid? Cockroach? Human hand!?!

That was years ago so I'm sure that an establishment like the Melon's has not cleaned up its act one iota. With that said, you can only trash so many institutions before you get a bad name for yourself. So I'm going to keep my insults to a minimum. If you're stuck on the Upper East Side, this place is charming enough. If you have some prep school, Upper-East-Side douche-bag singing its praises, know that he probably has way too much copper and iron in his bloodstream. How's that?

Momofuku Ssam-Manhattan

212-254-3500

Let me start of by saying I'm pretty ignorant when it comes to food and beverage and whatever else it is all of these food writers find time to write about. I hope I don't come off as knowledgeable, because deep down I know I'm not. In fact, the only reason I do these at all my beloved seven, is because I know how much it means to you.

With that said, I don't read magazines, or other blogs--unless emailed to me by one of my many wives-- and generally don't understand the buzz or hype about a particular place. If you're food tastes good, and your service compliments your food, I'm generally pleased. If not, then I'm not. Simple enough. So when I went to Momofuku I had no idea what I was getting into. After a quick perusal of Wikipedia I found that Beard, amongst others, have had there noses buried in the guy's ass for the better part of four years. I also appreciate the notion behind Momofuku Ko first come first serve policy. Pretty cool. Take that influential rich people, you wait just like the rest of us. Furthermore, this guys doesn't give a rats ass if you're a vegetarian or not, so in a way, I already liked this restaurant.

Unfortunately, all of these things do nothing to explain the repeated gag-reflex I had when eating here the other day. We tried the pork-belly buns, sea-urchin, pickled vegetables, and bone-marrow with Chantilly mushrooms and quail's eggs, and I am not lying when I say I found the food to be absolutely fucking disgusting. Shit in my mouth disgusting. Seriously, I gagged on both the urchin and the bone marrow. Even the pork belly buns were sub par, fatty, flavorless garbage.

What am I supposed to do here? This guys seems to be the best chef ever, and somehow I think his food sucks. I know I'm wrong and that's a problem. But how do you argue with your gag-reflex? Acquire the taste for things that make you want to vomit? Pretend like you're enjoying it? For me, the rest of these people are fucking nuts, sort of like an emporer's new clothes thing going on here. I suppose that's all I can say. I understand eating sea-urchin and bone marrow when you're some indigenous person desperate to survive but let's all own up to the fact that it does not taste good. It just doesn't.

Ghosts of Restaurants Past--Williamsburg

We played a little game the other night at one of our friend's fortieth birthday, doing our damnedest to remember all of the places that have closed since we collectively moved to the neighborhood years ago. Oddly, we bumped into one of the owner's of Moto and one of the owner's of Walter's Foods and both couldn't out-do us. So take that naysayers. I'll offer a brief explanation as to why they place closed:

• Anytime: Now Lovin Cup. A good idea in concept, it was open for 24 hours which probably did it in.
• Pita Power: Now the front part of Spike Hill. Place was run by a drug addict.
• Brooklyn Diner: On Driggs and north seventh. It was just too clean and pretty.
• Miss Williamsburg Cafe: Buried beneath forty stories of glass and steal on Kent Ave. It was so insanely expensive, but at the same time had a fantastic wine list. Also a cool garden, so when we thought about it probably before its time.
• Planet Thai: Okay, who wants a two hundred cover sushi and Thai places where everything is under six dollars an entree in their neighborhood? I ate there more than I'd care to admit.
• L Cafe: Now BagelSmith. Places was run by drug addicts.
• Bulls Eye: Turned into Green Eatery.
• Green Eatery: Cursed by being an old steakhouse.
• Oznots, Silent H: A new incarnation is coming soon. Oznots was overthinking the Greek, and Silent H over thought Thai, hopefully the third attempt won’t be so cerebral.
• Bonita: Opened with the tutelage of Diner, it actually franchised itself to Fort Green, but then who knows what happened. The chef that started it recently opened Carina
• Brick Oven Pizza Gallery: Turned into Brooklyn Star. Then burned down.
• The Stinger (Honorable Mention): Never been myself, but allegedly a good bar near clems.
• Black Betty (Honorable Mention): Now another fried chicked restaurant. Sweet!
• Sparky's: Now Egg. I suppose it's an upgrade, but this place wasn't too bad, that is, for serving hotdog's.
• Yabby: They served food, I think. But this place was actually a gas station parking lot. Removed for new construction at one time it was prime hipster watching.
• Alioli: Great tapas place on Grand. This one is too bad.
• Chicken Bone: Flash in the pan. It went so quickly I never actually visited.
• Cokie's: Perhaps the biggest blow to the neighborhood, you didn’t eat, but could certainly miss dinner and not notice. Turned into the Antique Lounge, and now is the Levee.
• Union Picnic: Now Jimmy's. See Jimmy's post.
• Bean: No small coincidence that this is right next to Union Picnic as they were owned by the same dude. This has turned into Pop's.

Okay, that’s what we could come up with, though I’m sure there are more. Please feel free to remind me.

Park Avenue- Summer/Winter/Spring/Fall

212.644.1900

It would be fitting to cover each season of this restaurant, and since they change their menu's seasonally so maybe I will do that. But for now I'm going to cover the spring menu because that's what I ate with my other wife, on a lovely afternoon some time in May. This was actually pre- Berlin, but I've been so slammed that I had to flip through my little journal to dig up the notes. Superfluous details aside, I was with other wife so we inevitably sat at the bar.

The food was superb. We had a light lunch so we didn't delve too far into the menu but instead shared three small dishes: The Beet Salad, the Crab Salad, and the Salmon Tar Tar. Each were light and delicious in that deconstructed cubist sort of way that makes me think "I don't know what the fuck this is but it looks pretty." And then I pop it in my mouth and think "I still don't know what the fuck this is but it tastes good." Yes, you heard it here first beloved seven, I think those things.

The bartender deduced that we were industry insiders, and gave me a free Pimms Cup float. As much I love the ol' number 1 I would have rather have him jump up on the bar and piss in my mouth. Perhaps the pastry chef is a lush (and voted best by Beard no less), maybe he's bored and trying to do the impossible, but whatever the reason that dessert was an abomination. Anywho, we'll probably come back for Summer. Maybe they'll have a Carpiriihna sorbet!

Berlin- Iconman Style

My wife and I took our baby moon to Berlin. Originally we wanted to visit Barcelona, but opted for Berlin because of the time constraints. Some would say we were crazy to fly to Berlin for only three and a half days, and on paper I would say they have a right to call us crazy. Berlin is easily doable in that amount of time though, and since we aren't planning on an extended European vacation any time soon we figured it was a good locale for a surgical strike. This entry should serve as an all encompassing Berlin tour. Iconman style.

Oscar and Co.

Oscar-co-Berlin.de
Potssdam Platz
oxstraße 1 10785
030-2529-2792

This place looked pretty sweet from the outside. It was our first meal (dinner) and we were jetlagged and our anuses were sore from getting screwed by Delta. This happens every time I come to Europe. I have no idea where I'm eating the first night and stumble into the first place that has something on the menu I like. My wife was in tow, exhausted, and her mood befit an exhausted woman dragged into a restaurant. The food was okay. It was sufficient for its price. I had steak and bruschetta and my wife had a cesar salad and fish.

I Due Forni

Schonhauser Allee
030-4401-7333
Mitte/Prenzlauer Berg

What is it about traveling that forces you to revert to Pizza? After a day of walking, literally we walked the fuck out of Berlin; we ended up at this place for pizza and beer. It was run by Italians, all Italians, and because my German is about as good as my Chinese I reverted to Spanish. Close enough right? The place was enormous, easily three hundred covers. And considering the tiny little kitchen it must be slammed when invaded by krauts. It also had a sort of punk theme going, with NOFX and Bad Religion posters all over the place, which lent itself to the European authenticity. Italian punk rockers, what could be more quaint than that? Then a foxy Euro-punk Italian bird served us lunch, and I realized I had underestimated the powers of eyeliner and tattoos. As for the food it was pizza; delicious, familiar pizza.

Guy

www.guy-restaurant.de
Jägerstraße 59
030 2094-2600

We originally wanted to go to a place called Borchardt which located in the same Soho-esque region of Berlin, but our concierge talked us out of it. I should rephrase that, he bullied us out of it in a typically German manner. His description went something like this:

"Why would you want to go, yah? This restaurant is for people who know people and wear the Guess and wear the Armini and have I-phones. I know a better place, the food is better, and there isn't this nose in the arm (he actually said nose in the arm) attitude. Now, the humor of this man's expression wasn't nearly as amusing as the irony of the fact that we were staying at a 19th Century palace design to cater to these exact type of people. And for the record I'm not one of those people, though I'd like to be, this palace was discounted through our entire collective American Express rewards points. We didn't want to be rude, and we did need this German maniac to make the reservation so we went with his suggestion: Guy.

Initially we were pretty psyched. It was definitely highfalutin. Linen table cloths, greeted at the door, offered aperitif the whole nine. The problem was this: it was sort of a faux luxury, like they read all of this stuff in a book somewhere and figured this is what luxury was so they should give it a whirl. I could swear I was in Vegas or something. How do I know? Good question, my beloved septuplet of followers. I know because luxurious places are devoted to the details. The effortless of clearing silver (with out dropping it), the subtly of crumbing. They work in the microexperience, the uniforms fitted, the well poured glass of wine without dripping on the table, the thick-tined fish fork. The bells and whistles approach, the shock and awe of an amuse bouche or hospitable hostess are definitely part of the package, but when you don't deliver on the nuts and bolts of good, efficient, and for lack of a better word experienced service, you come off looking cheap. Dont' get me wrong, Vegas is the capital of cheap, and for the idiots that flock their (as well as the entrepenuers that fleece them) this is the haute couture of luxurious service.

The food was okay. Not great, not bad. It's tough, the European palate hasn't been dulled by as much processing and corn syrup. We both had a tasting menu of four courses, and for whatever reason each dish made me feel as though I were a guest judge on top chef. There were so many extra ingredients and flavors to make a pretty standard dinner unique, but somehow everything tasted a little off. It was a seasonal menu, and for obvious reason each Spring menu gets overloaded with asparagus. My pee still smells funny. But the fish was good--lemon foam unnecessary, the chicken three way, well, not exactly what you'd think was passable. Another annoying contrivance was my recommended wine. I had veal, and asked to pair my meal to a red wine. The waiter brought me the cheapest wine on the menu, a Cabernet perhaps, which was about as paired with veal as two male genitalia. At least I didn't have to leave an expect 20% tip.

Nola's am Weinburg

Veteranstrabe 9

030-4404-0766

Fucking Roschti. We were pretty beat up after a long night out hitting the ridiculous Berlin night life scene. We ended up at this cheesy club called Kaffeburger. It was pretty hilarious actually though I ended up drunker than I wanted to be. And I'm no spring chicken, so staying out to watch the bizarre dancing of the the Berliners had definitely taken it's toll. When we rolled up to this restaurant that felt as though it were an old fort or artillery hold or something, I was just hoping to grab some schnitzel in an attempt to subdue my hangover. What I got instead was Roschti. Hallelujah. How this dish isn't a staple at every single Williamsburg comfort food establishment is beyond me.

Roschti is basically pan seared hash browns topped with cheese. I had a little proscuito on mine as well, but it didn't make it that much better. Yes, German cheese potatoes. Mark my words, there will be a Roschti trend coming soon to the states. Its inevitable, like bad German dancing.

Vivaldi
Schlosshotel im Grunewald
Bahmastrabbe 10
030-895-840

So we had to eat at the restaurant in this ridiculous hotel. I flight left the following morning, and after our spa treatment we couldn't bring ourselves to leave the hotel. As opposed to Guy, this place was the real deal. Granted, it helps when the dining room is an anteroom to a 19th century palace, but the details were there this time.

I had some sole with lemon foam, and it was divine. The venison amuse bouche, perfect. The Lasagna, well, it was lasagna. Even the capacino was spectacular, really, the best I've ever had. It's kind of unfair to write about a restaurant like this only because I wasn't 100% sure of what I was putting in my mouth at any given time. (Not unlike that two week stretch in college..ehem.) But I can assure you that whatever it was it was pretty fucking awesome.

So that's Berlin. Probably not the most informative piece I've ever written, but damn it was long enough.

Aldea--Manhattan

212.675.7223

Hello faithful seven. It's that time of year again. The busy season. It sucks me into a frenzy of charity events, high end weddings, higher end Bar and Bat Mitzvah's, and the occasional swift kick in the balls. I'm too old to really complain about the hours, and the season also provides me with perks like nice wine and the already mentioned nut sack cinch. Unlike 2007, I've had time to dine at some nice places and even more time to tell you all about them.

The first thing Aldea made me realize is that I'm a food dummy. I don't necessarily know what I'm eating, why I'm eating it, or where it came from. What I do know is there are people who do know this shit and one of my wives happens to be one of them. Thankfully, she keeps dragging me to these places. Aldea is a Portuguese, though that really means nothing to me. The only thing I know about Portugal is that my friend caught herpes there years ago. But after eating here I must admit that Portuguese food is pretty good.

Since I am a food dummy, and don't know Portugese food, I'm also rather cowardly when it comes to ordering. I order only what I recognize, in this instance the hanger steak and a green salad with pine nuts. Pine nuts are like the green crayon in the massive crayola crayon box (you know, the one with the pencil sharpener) they make everything better. My other wife, being a polygamist by nature, has a far more adventurous palate. She had the urchin, the oysters, the ham, the pigs ears and ramps, and the egg pea and bacon. All of them were excellent.

Another interesting detail I noticed was the mention of the farm on the menu. This is a pretty cool idea, and after the Omnivore's Dilemma smeared everything edible in the United States I appreciate the attempt. Though, I only know of certain restaurants pulling this off in any sort of sustainable way (Diner comes to mind, that also has a butcher shop in tow) but to me it is a very cool idea but only to a select few restaurants. What would happen if every nice restaurant in NYC decides to do this? How much pork or lamb can they really grow in once season? What happens with a bad crop? Re print the menu? What about the hotels and banquets that serve six hundred rack of lamb at a pop? I nice idea, but it smells of gimmick to me. Then again, what do I know? I'm a food dummy with sore balls.

Marlow and Sons--Brooklyn

718.384.1441


Holy shit, it's been a while. Fucking busy season man. It sucks you in. I'm currently writing this while a horrible Greek band bellows four flights down. I'm in the attic of my place furiously typing a way. I've already written about Diner and though Marlow and Sons is a completely different restaurant, I've always felt like they're the same place. In fact, geographically, they are the same place; share the same kitchen, the same staff, and the same devil may care attitude towards service. It was my other wife's birthday, so naturally we ended up sitting up at the bar.

My other wife's birthday is at the beginning of April and my memory, as always, is a bit hazy. Here's what I got in my notepad:

Aloof once again. I suppose this was the staff. I don't necessarily think they were meaning to be aloof, but that I thought they was because I was intimidated by how cool they were.

Oysters. How do you hate oysters?

We ordered 1st courses. They were all good. I had a ravioli and my wives had salads. I don't want to get into it again, but it is Diner's kitchen, the food's always going to be good.

Tons of lesbos. One wearing sexy stockings. Wives wouldn't let me engage. I suppose that this was going to be the crux of the piece, as the place was teeming with sexy interpenetrated trim. The sexy lesbos were also quite young and modely, which means that they probably were just dressing the part.

Great Scale. They have a scale in the bathroom. I suppose that's cool.

Correcting the pee stream. I have no idea what this means other than I was drunk. You can tell I was scribbling it as I was peeing



So there you go, the inner thoughts of a review that expired. Hopefully that helps.

Schiller's Liquor Bar--Manhattan

212.260.4455

One problem I encounter with writing about restaurants is the difficulty of expectations. There are all sorts of expectations to manage, some founded in reputation, others in dimwitted buzz, and still some in rating systems. When I went to Schiller's I can honestly say that I didn't know what to expect. I've been drinking myself to the point of black out in that neighborhood for years and years, and Schiller's was always this brightly-lit place that seemed to attract well-heeled Europeans. Certainly not the spot for a disheveled ill-tempered drunk that is rolling in off the Ludlow pubcrawl. To be honest, when my boss and long time Upper East side Socialite mentions it as part of his hoity-toity food go to places, I figured that it was somewhere in the meatpacking district, tucked between two bridge and tunnel uber-restaurants. Obviously, I was mistaking it for Pastis, same difference really.

So what can be said after not having any expectations? The place is pretty good. It's a well run restaurant. It has to be to turn over that many people. I went with my other wife and we managed to grab a seat at the bar right before the explosion of bridge and tunnel fashionistas. Our bartenders were a little too practiced at being cooler than me, and when they kept hitting on my other wife it got old, but overall they were congenial, friendly, and fresh smelling. The food was fast and prompt and delicious, I had a chicken Piard and we split some Nachos and to be honest they were satisfying. I guess if I could own a restaurant, and bang hot chicks every night with a devil may care attitude, riding around on a motorcycle wearing a red scarf I would probably have a place just like this one.

My one caveat for trying this restaurant is if you're fat, ugly, or poorly dressed. If you are any of these three, or like me and have a harem at your disposal to make you seem like you're rich, then this scene is not your bag. Places like this never really make you feel comfortable, and unless you're with a crowd of people exactly like you, you're going to be pretty bummed. Sad but true, sad but true.

Boqueria--Manhattan

212.343.4255

Tapas. I've mentioned my beef with Tapas before, but I was drinking around the corner with my other wife at The Room, and we tried Blue Ribbon and it was too crowded so once again I acquiesced. Fucking tapas man. A bunch of first courses cleverly disguised as dishes. No timing, just send it whenever it's ready!

I wouldn't normally go to a place like this, but if you're into banging slightly overweight, dolled up bridge and tunnel cougars than this is the place for you. The place was teeming with used trim. We had so many different items that I'm not about to comment on all of them. I'll make it simple and put grades next to them:

Dates w/ Bacon: B- Way too much blue cheese.
Hake: B
Sauteed spinach with garbanzos: B
Croquettes: B+ Out of pork, those fucks! Chicken creamy but good. Didn't try the mushrooms.
Cerano Ham w/ tomato Paste: B
Mixed Salad: B+
Kale Salad: C-
Tomato Bread: F Why don't you take a cold shit in my mouth instead?
Cod Fritters: B
Tuna: C Zombie tuna man.

Okay, sorry for the sauciness, but I've been drinking Beck's since noon. Word.

Vinegar Hill House--Brooklyn

718.522.1018

Since one of my wives relocated to Dumbo not so long ago, she has stopped eating out in Williamsburg altogether and has found a new restaurant to frequent daily. And due to my social outbursts and overall assholedom (that's a word) she has been reluctant to invite me down to visit her newfound dining oasis, Vinegar Hill House. The other week I visited for my very first time, and though I wasn't blown away, I wasn't thrown out either, a testament to what first impressions really amount to.

Vinegar Hill House, despite its intimacy, is surprisingly large with a downstairs and backyard that opens in the warmer months. It also has a surprisingly neighborhood-joint feel, despite it's reputation for good eats. What is not surprising is the casual dining atmosphere, though this could have been induced by my other wife's ultra-regular status, as it offers up culinary treats that are an anathema to my preferences without formality. Think Friend of a Farmer meets Diner.

At this point I could write two reviews, as the regular status of my other wife greatly affected the experience we had. As a challenge, I will try to do just that: one from the perspective of a regular who is granted perks for patiently returning time and time again, and one from the perspective of a first time eater.

Review #1:
The one thing I love about this restaurant, more than any other, is the vast selection on the menu. Firstly, every first course is completely different. The buttermilk dressing and bitter green salad is a perfect contrast to the market salad with vinegar dressing , there's grilled octopus, there's cheese, and all of this is differs from day to day depending upon the availability and season, guaranteeing freshness and quality. The entrees are delectable, again offering an array of selections the hilight being the porkchop. The cuisine is gourmet but not pretentious, using time tested techniques to create flavors commiserate with such a perfect setting.

When we entered, the manager instantly recognized my friend, and allowed us to sit even though our party was not complete; giving us a table right in the thick of the dining room. Drink orders were quickly taken and we seemed to lose our sense of time eating and drinking and conversing. By the time we were through, the restaurant was packed, though we didn't feel rushed whatsoever, enjoying the comfort atmosphere with full bellies and good company. The meal was resplendent with quality products fine-tuned for a perfect night out. And the bill was more than agreeable....

Review #2
We arrived at Vinegar Hill House and had a twenty minute wait to get a table. As the dining room is smack in the middle of the bar, there was nothing to do but to stand around like a dope waiting for something to open up. Eventually, we were seated and the waiter took our drink order. The place was pretty busy, so it took a while for him to get us our wine/beer, though I don't know why, as I saw him chatting with the manager for half the time.

We each had a different salad, all of them done quite well though the bitter green salad with buttermilk dressing was without a doubt the winner. My wife had the fish, my other wife had the octopus, and I had the chicken with a potato on the side. The potato had cod in it, sort of a spin on bacalao, which would have been nice to know ahead of time. This would have been less egregious if he hadn't first delivered brussel sprouts, which none of us ordered, but the manager astutely included free of charge. The bummer was that the sprouts were far superior to my fish-potato.

The food was delicious, but once again convoluded by an inattentive and spacey waiter. Each of us had something different, and each of us was quite pleased, though we all had to wait for our fourth order to be delivered--the steak with bone marrow. I still can't seem to wrap my head around restaurants who put so much time an attention into a product, and then have some brain donor execute. It's a good thing I was with my wives, as they seem to temper my outspokenness with their patience and understanding. All in all I can say that once again Brooklyn has opened a restaurant with far superior food than service, with more attention put on decor than lay out, and more concern with style and feeling than efficiency...

As you can tell from either review, I had a fine time, and it's hard to say whether the waiter was out of it because I was with a super-regular, or if that's what you get when you come to Vinegar Hill House. Take it as you will, but I must concede that it is definitely worth a try. And something tells me the more you try it the more you will acquire the taste.

The Standard--Manhattan

212.645.4646

Boy oh boy a fancy pants dinner at the Standard. I generally try to stay away from such dazzling hot restaurants, as I am far too much of an asshole and do not belong. And the Standard is the place so I've been told which is why I'd never been. But one of my wives wanted to go, and what sort of Husband would I be not to satisfy her every whim?

A place like the Standard reminds me of why I am a misanthrope by nature, as everyone there is good looking, rich, or both. It reminds me that outside of my tiny little fiefdom, the city is teeming with people that don't consider a night out worth it unless they're at the place where everyone else wants to be. It's a worthy case study in sociology, but studies such as these are always performed by people like me: on the outside looking in. The people on the inside know they're on the inside, and thus have no reason to question why. We were able to score a lovely table in the dining room as long as we weren't late to our 6:15 pm Friday evening reservation, nearly a late lunch. The waiting list for a more reasonable hour was weeks and weeks, so we sucked it up and left work early.

Immediately I was reminded how a well run restaurant should be: the host told us that we had until 8:15 pm, so don't dally with dinner. This prompt, attentive service underscored the entire experience (that is until we went up stairs to the bar) but we never felt rushed, a testament to their overall polish. The food was acceptable for the price. We decided to split dishes, and selected the quail, the venison, as starters, and the trout and brazino as entrees with some brussel sprouts and duck fat potatoes. We finished up with oversized portions of cheesecake and Pecan Pie. As the menu changes daily I don't know if these were stalwarts or whether they were experiments but were executed well, though, the brussel sprouts were without a doubt the best thing we had. All in all, my socks were still on my feet considering it was $250 for two three-course meals and a decent bottle of red.

One nice feature that I must point out is the waiter gave us a free glass of grunervetliner for our fish. We had selected a heavy red wine, and it did not pair well at all. In fact, it paired so poorly that I actually noticed that it paired poorly, much like a blind man saying the color is off. My point is, this guy hooked us up out of genuine concern for our experiece. We were joking around--I believe an off-colored aside about anal sex kicked off our relationship--but it was nice to have someone be personable and generous but at the same time totally professional and respectful of his craft.

After dinner the menonite server, no really, his Grandmother was omish, recommended we visit the bar upstairs. The bar closes at 9:00 but reopens late night as an ultra swank lounge. Evidently their is a VIP bathroom where things get a little wierd. For all of the earnestness we experienced downstairs, we saw nothing but pretension and general loserdom associated with the Meat Packing District upstairs. The prices ($50 for two whiskey's) the jokey airplane stewardesses and nero jacket attendants, the douchebaginess of the the patronage, and the fact that a VIP bathroom even exists, all extoll an accurate first impression that this place would never be my scene despite the stunning view.

I suppose that it's awfully presumptious of me to assume that anyone who frequents the Standard would give two squirts for my opinions, but perhaps this was written to warn the would-be sociologist. I have no doubt that the restaurant will eventually lose it's busyness and settle into a great place to take out of town guests, as I am also assured of the eventual lameness of the upstairs bar. And I suppose with the comfortable nugget of self-assuredness, I can sleep at night.

Jimmy's-Brooklyn

(718) 218-7174

This place for a long time was a sandwich shop, and then it closed mysteriously after a visit from the health department. I only remember that because before the Emerald city was constructed we'd play bocci on the south east corner of the park and we used to go there to pee. I always remember it odd that it closed due to health department orders, because it didn't seem that gross. Then one of my venues failed a health department test for not having a current food handlers (our sous had the old one that was nothing more than a piece of paper) and not having soap in a hand sink dispenser. So it isn't to say that this old place wasn't crawling with vermin that are a hybrid of mice and cockroaches; but rather it's not that hard for the health department to close your doors for some ticky tack shit. None of this has anything to do with Jimmy's other than geographical coincidence by the way, but at least I got to say my piece about the NYC Department of Mental Health and Hygiene.

If I had to sum up Jimmy's menu in one word it would be: fried. If I had to write a haiku about Jimmy's it would read:
Hungover again
Let's eat taters and bacon
Good lord I am full.

I wouldn't recommend Jimmy's without a note from your doctor. On the flip side, if you're like me and your palate was honed on Wonderbread, Ding Dongs, and Pop Tarts, then you're in heaven. Everything on this menu could be classified as junk food. It's a place designed around the sustenance required when you're reeling on the morning after from an all day drinking binge. The place has a pretty solid dinner menu/sandwich menu as well, though I've never been there for anything but brunch.

On separate note this place is obviously family run. I like that; it means that the waitstaff actually give a shit about what's going on. Furthermore, they're also going to treat the place like their own, so if they're busy they probably won't be the most courteous or hospitable servers to pushy people who are bleary-eyed and think they deserve prompt flash-fried relief. But if you keep coming back for their abuse they eventually consider you to be part of the family.

I suppose that's all. The have some freaky photography on the walls, I particularly like the naked chick wearing the gas mask. Oh, and try their milkshakes. They may not be fried, but they're still quite fattening.

Moto--Brooklyn

(718) 599-6895

The first time I went to Moto I was afraid for my life. Not to say that I was in any danger, but rather I'm a puss when it comes to unfamiliar neighborhoods. Moto is wedged in an intersection directly below the elevated JMZ, and having to cut across South Williamsburg to get there I definitely noticed the socio-economic decline. I make it known that these are my own white-bred bigoted idiosyncrasies, which is a caveat at best and a poor excuse for character at worst. My snobbery is not the focal point of this, but rather that by the time I was finished at Moto I deemed it worth whatever self-contrived fears I had.

Some say Moto NYC is a copy of a well known Moto in Chicago, and this couldn't be further from the truth. They share the same name true, but there is no wacky gastronomical gimmicks coming from the Moto in NYC. Just take a gander at Moto NYC's kitchen; it's basically a hot plate and a microwave. Not to say Moto (NYC from now on I promise) doesn't have it's fair share of acclaim. There's a documentary about the making of this restaurant called Eat This New York (Directed by Andrew Rossi and Kate Novak) that depicts the hell it takes to open even a small restaurant like Moto. I don't know if it's a must see, but it's interesting at the very least.

As for the restaurant itself, I must be honest it's been a while. I admit the folly of reviewing a restaurant you haven't been to in a while, but this is the last of the old Williamsburg places I've been meaning to write about. I mean, it certainly deserves my attention. I've since moved well out of walking distance, but rest assured on the clarity of my memories of yesteryear. One, there's live music of the jazz variety. And considering the sqaure footage of the place that's a feat unto itself. Two, this place has a legitimate coolness about it. Opened in 2002, right before the New Williamsburg scene came to prominence, it secured itself a spot in the Williamsburg scene (5-leaves opened in conjunction with John McCormick and his bar tutelage). Three, the food, albeit comforty, is quite delicious especially considering the kitchen. The date cake in particular is about as good as they come and I vaguely remember having some tasty chicken. The service is what you get in old Williamsburg, self-respecting waiters not interested in a waiting career, but since Moto is so small and quaint it's impossible for them to ignore you.

I suppose that's as good as I can do considering I'm dredging almost all of this up from a memory my second wife calls "horrible." I'll eventually make it back there, and perhaps then can comment more on specific menu items. Regardless of what they're serving, I maintain that it's a restaurant worth the trip. But if you're a puss, or covered in diamonds, you might think about taking a cab.

Roebling Tea Room- Brookyn

(718) 963-0760

Okay so back from the holidays and back on the trolley...

I'm not sure what to make of a restaurant designed around the culture of tea drinkers. The immediate image that comes to mind is a bunch of British Aristocrats, straight from a Henry James novel. Not so appealing. If I dig a little deeper I think of mousy little librarians blaring Natalie Imbruglia songs. Excuse the blatancy but I can't help myself; not my cup of tea. So when I first walked into Roebling Tea room and saw a relatively cozy albeit sexy scene unfolding, I was a little confused.

This place snuck in under the radar and though has been open for a few years I would still classify it as old Williamsburg--you heard that term here first folks. Old Williamsburg, in my not so humble opinion, is what attracted the thousands upon thousands of people here to crowd the L train wearing suits and carrying Brooklyn Industry bags (that and an insane 15 year tax abatement on new construction). New Williamsburg is what is going to push the old Williamsburg trend setters to Bushwick--think Blue Ribbon's Brooklyn Bowl. Now I'm not sure if Roebling Tea Room came from the Diner/Dumont/Moto comfort-food coaching tree but it has the same approximate feel. Service is casual, seating is casual, food is comforty. Yet this place has a gimmick: shit loads of tea!

When there last I opted for some tea as I have been trying to dry out and I was, after all, at a tea room. I had peppermint and my wife had Early Grey. Not so adventurous considering the vast amount of teas on the menu, but I'm a man of simple tastes and I had indigestion. Regardless, there must be over fifty maybe sixty different teas on the menu and it looks as though they're all loose leaf teas, as our came with little hand-tied cheese cloth do-hickeys that only added to the overall tea-drinking quaintness. I suppose it wasn't so bad, drinking tea that is, and to give a great blogosphere description, my tea tasted minty. Whoopitydo.