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?