Tasting Room--Manhattan

212.358.7831

Okay, so who am I to write a review about a restaurant like this? I have mild aspirations to become a foodie, and loving criticizing what I think is wrong with less serious restaurants. I’m more of a restaurant bully, knowing that it takes very little to knock a server off kilter by making demands outside of the normal way they do things. It’s easy, in a way, to look at a place and pick out it’s flaws by gazing through the lens of what I would do with the place if it were mine. The Tasting Room, on the other hand, is in a league above what I know to be proper or right. I write to you now a humbled dilettante.

The dining room is simple and quaint, and though the bar is centered in such a way that you have to walk by it to get to your table it isn’t cumbersome. Immediately after sitting down you are attended to. Though I belabor this in all of my restaurant writings, nothing compliments good food better than good service and this seems to be a cornerstone of Tasting Room, and though the dining is not formal, the service does not take casual dining casually. To give you a visual of what I am talking about, take the appearance of the waiter. He had a beard and ponytail, two things frowned upon in the world of formal service, yet his knowledge of the food, wine, and the respect with which he held himself told me he took the job seriously. The timing of the meal was impeccable and our water glass was never left empty.

We started with the pumpkin salad, the crab and lobster consommé’ and pork and hen terrine. All of them were utterly delicious, the pumpkin salad in particular. Once our first courses were finished, they did the service of clearing and replacing our silver, even if we hadn’t used it. Again, a seemingly “formal” service aspect, though I think it really makes a difference. Why would anyone want to use the same fork and knife over and over? You put it on your table and then there’s olive oil on the table, and then that olive oil gets on your French cuff and then you’re pissed off the rest of the night as everyone in your party tries homeopathic remedies to remove oil. The next thing you know you’ve got salt and soda water and hairspray on your wrist and you’re miserable for the rest of the night because some Ecuadorian bus boy couldn’t be bothered to replace your salad fork and knife. Fuck a bitch if I haven’t had this exact thing happen to me three different times.

For the entrée I had the Pork rib, while my companions both tried fish: Bass and Skate. The sides were again perfectly complimentary, from the carrots to the French leaks, and though the portions were exactly hearty, we were quite full by the end of the meal. The server again sensed us about to finish and came and offered dessert right away instead of coming by on afterthought. It was though he considered dessert to be part of the meal. We all split the Apple Short cake, again divine, polished off some excellent dessert wine, Torbeck if I’m not mistaken, and went our merry way. The night was excellent; the food was excellent, the service, finally—thank God almighty-- was excellent.

Fornino's--Brooklyn

718.384.6004

So we used to live right next door to the L Cafe and remember saying goodbye to the ineptitude that it fostered, reveling when a small business with a semi-corporate panache called Fornino’s took place. Imagine our excitement when this gourmet place opened up, complete with a competent staff and a stellar classica Margherita pizza. Within a few months Fornino was the staple Sunday night dinner, we had it down to such a science that we could budget the exact dollar amount and run down in our bathrobes in the dead of winter. Yes, it was the best of times, and looking back I now know that we took Fornino for granted by calling it our local pizza restaurant.

Unfortunately, the vagaries associated from living across from Spike Hill and Greenpoint Tavern forced us to part ways with the comfort we’d so depended upon. We moved two stops away on the L, to Italian Williamsburg. Now this area is much more quiet and subdued, and though it is resplendent with Italian restaurants and pizza parlors, nothing could compare to Fornino’s delectability. I now no longer eat at Fornino’s, and this is indirectly related with moving.
It is heart wrenching to develop a relationship with a restaurant that is owned by a devoted chef, a person who’s very soul is served up daily on wood fired dough, and then seeing this restaurant run by a bunch of stupid, inconsiderate, bungling nincompoops. After a few weeks of withdrawal we opted to try a delivery. We called Fornino’s unfamiliar with the delivery zones due to our recent proximity and the girl who answered the phone admitted she wasn’t sure about delivery, but that they weren’t open for another hour and we should call back. When we called back an hour later (starving) she said that the driver was happy to trek out to East Williamsburg to deliver to devoted ex-neighbors and took our order. We were elated, not only were they going to deliver, but we had also been promoted to quasi regular-status. An hour passed, and were now two hours from our initial call (famished). We waited. Another twenty minutes passed and my wife called back. The girl said that the driver had refused to deliver once he realized where we lived. We asked why she couldn’t have called us, why she had to torture us with the anticipation of a Fornino’s pie, why she couldn’t have practiced a little human decency and at least given us the courtesy of a phone call? She replied that she was busy, and unapologetically hung up the phone.

After a few minutes our anger bubbled up. Who was this woman to torment us so? Some twenty-something artist, unconcerned with customer service that is so beneath her, and mostly likely uninspired by the very art she served no doubt. We called back demanding the manager. Imagine our surprise when a few minutes later the bus boy gets on the phone! Delivery he asks in a thick south American accent, no we say, manager. I manager he responds, delivery? No! Where’s the manager?!? Click. We call back. No answer, the restaurant caller id reveals our number. That sniveling little turd not only was discourteous to us, but is willing to stake the reputation of sublime pizza on her snide demeanor. Fuck her, fuck Fornino’s, eat there if you want but I am man of principle. I would rather eat stale Italian-Williamsburg pizza than potentially support a smug little cunt like that.

Pere Pinard--Manhattan

212.777.4917

There’s nothing worse than a relatively good restaurant going to shit. Experiencing this deplorable truth inevitable happens the last night you attend the restaurant, when you succumb to the fact that despite your fond memories and security in knowing a solid place in a foreign neighborhood, the meal that sits in front of you is shit. Overpriced, overcooked, underserved, shit.

The establishment in question that conjured this recent sentiment is none other than the Lower East Side French Embassy: Pere Pinard. I had the misfortune of dining with some true pros, as a celebratory dinner for the changing of the guard at the East Village staple 26 Seats -- It should be noted that 26 Seats has also allegedly befallen the same fate due to said change in ownership.

The evening was to thank the owners for six years of employment and delectable authentic French cuisine. For many French imports Pere Pernard is familiar fare, and we figured that it was as good as any place in the neighborhood. I’d been there quite a few times and remember the steak frites being the perfect pre Ludlow Street bender food. I’d taken friends there from overseas. I’d gotten really drunk in the bar. It was always a reliable place to eat decent, albeit not outstanding, French food and check out some authentic Franco-trim. But as I was about to learn, those days are over.

Let’s start with the fact that they ran out of house wine. Not after serving the fourth or fifth bottle to a large party over the course of a diner, but at 7:00 at night after serving just a glass. The bartender ran out of house wine. Now, I know I’m kind of a stickler but if a guy comes in to your restaurant the first of a large party, assume he’s going to be drinking for a while. Don’t offer him something you only have two servings of. Just don’t. That rookie mistake should have warned me of the potential disaster, but I chalked it up cost cutting mischief and ordered a different bottle. By that time, everyone had arrived and we sat for dinner.

Now the food, Christ the food. No cuisine is affected more by stale, old, or poor quality ingredients than French. And since you’re preparing it in front of the guests, this rule of thumb especially applies to steak tar tar. I had the Salmon, which was disgusting in its own, overcooked way, and the lettuce on my first course, a mixed green salad, was wilted. Luckily for them, the rest of our guests were either too drunk or too young to notice. Fifi, the staple manager was nowhere to be found, and the service, though marginal, strutted around as though they weren’t serving last week’s leftovers.

Though not as bad as losing the quality of food and drink, there is almost nothing worse than an established restaurant relying upon its Lower East Side attitude for business. I appreciate restaurant mavericks pioneering into pre-gentrified and often dangerous neighborhoods. Though I don’t agree, I begrudgingly accept that if you work at a cool establishment you have the right to take the whole service/hospitality thing a little lighter. You have the right to charge a little more for the food, considering a price of admission of sorts. But to do this, you have to have the food to back it up. Pere Pernard, if it keeps this trend going, is going to become a well known bar that serves suspect bar food.

North East Kingdom--Brooklyn

718.386.3864

Northeast kingdom is exactly what it is. That statement is so tautological it becomes nonsensical, and I’m okay with that. The small, modest little place deep in the heart of Brooklyn, call it Williamsburg, or Bushwick, or Bed Sty, (I don’t know exactly where it is), doesn’t try to clobber you with gourmet comfort food pretense. It doesn’t overwhelm you with fancy-pants soft cow’s milk cheeses or exotic seasonal vegetables. The décor is modest, not riddled with post hipster kitsch appeal. No, Northeast Kingdom presents itself in all its layers as a small, quiet, neighborhood place that serves an affordable dinner. Thank God, for if I have to visit another stupid, gimmick riddled, quasi-gourmet Brooklyn restaurant I’d puke.
As most of the restaurants in Brooklyn, Kingdom’s staff is composed of older idealistic artists awaiting their upper middle class inheritance. And that’s cool. To be honest I find most people in that demographic to be educated and generally quite nice. What separates the Northeast Kingdom’s staff from the rest of the echelon is that they’re not trying to shove some sort of foodie snobbery down your throat.

I visited this restaurant with a group of friends in the know about a new place. Believe me you, I don’t necessarily know good restaurants from bad restaurants, and still feel that the Polish Diner on Bedford Avenue might be a contender for the best place in Brooklyn (to be honest this has less to do with the food than it does with the stiff, aloof Polish Lesbians who run the joint). None the less, when we got there we drank some beers and basically mixed it up enough to sample about everything on the menu. It’s not the best meal in town, in fact the green salad was rather ordinary, but the menu had some gems. For instance the chicken pot pie rocked. Granted, if you fuck up a chicken pot pie you’re either an idiot or my mother, but it was still a non pretentious down home meal. And that’s how most of the meal was, nothing flashy, nothing gross, just hearty and warm and inviting. The food was good, it was served hot, and it didn’t cost much money, really, what more can you ask for?

Dressler's--Brooklyn

718.384.6343


A beautifully restored restaurant, the iron wrought dining room reminds me of London, or perhaps New Orleans, not hipster haven Williamsburg. The iron working and tiled floors give off an ambiance that is rarely found in New York. This is about all I can say that was positive about the experience, and as much as I hate to write a negative review, cannot avoid it after encountering such an over-priced, mediocre, and quite frankly, insulting experience.
Owner, Colin Devlin, is no stranger to the gourmet Americana fare. Dumont, and Dumont Burger, both offer quality products at reasonable prices. Yet, his insistence on good food must have made him blind to service, and the shadow cast by the misgivings of the pretentious servers could spoil even the most savory of dishes. Not to say that the menu is something more than usual. It reeks of over cheffing, with each and every item having just one too many ingredients; for instance the sea scallop salad that contains too many oranges. Or the snapper, which turns out to be a considerably Asian dish in an Americana restaurant. All in all the menu has no identity or consistency, and the only dish that was interesting was a throwback to Dumont: the White bean and Artichoke salad.

Our party of three arrived on time for our reservation, and then waited five minutes to flag down a server to order a cocktail. We were tartly informed that she wasn’t our server, and thus rendered completely incapable of helping us. While waiting for our server we served bread, but no water. I can only assume they wanted us to work up our thirst, but this was not the case for when our server did arrive she asked for our dinner order. Fifteen minutes or so later, we were given our cocktails and our wine simultaneously. This junior varsity maneuvering should have prompted us to go, but I foolishly coaxed my companions to stay a little while longer.
Dressler does not offer specials, nor does it allow substitutions. To me, this is the spawn of chef ego, insisting that we eat the food the way it was meant to be prepared. This line of arguing is sufficient until a dietary restriction or food allergy comes in to play, and then its self-righteousness shines. "Sorry I can't take out the peanuts because of a nut allergy, we don't allow substitutions." The menu was so overly sophisticated that two of us ordered the plain salad and the “Rib eye.” Imagine our alarm when we served what looked to be a strip steak. We mentioned it to the server and she quickly corrected us, insisting that it was indeed a rib eye steak. Now I am no stranger to this business, and do not need to recount my resume to justify that I was not served a rib eye steak. Let’s just say that for one it was far too lean. When I pointed this out to her she said that it was marbled with fat. I nearly went cross-eyed. When I asked her to demonstrate the marbling effect on my piece, she said that the chef must have trimmed the marbling. That ranks easily as the top five stupidest things I’ve ever heard. Furthermore, any chef with a head for food costs would be foolish to buy a rib eye steak, only to trim away the fat that gives it its entire flavor. Even now, recounting this, I’m incensed.
Since we left without desert, after paying roughly $75 per person for two courses a bottle of wine, and a cocktail, I am unable to comment on the dessert menu. And why bother? If you are reading this I highly recommend you steer clear of Dressler. Believe me; you can admire the only nice thing about it from the street.

The Queen’s Hideaway--Brooklyn

718.383.2835

Not too long ago a large group of old friends planned an expedition to The Queen’s Hideaway. Our party was so large and the dining room so small that we had a narrow window in which The Queen could accommodate us. The organizer insisted that we get there on time so we trekked there 10 strong intent on making it. We arrived on time and boisterous, after having to jettison our cocktails at a not-so-nearby-bar, relieved to find the people who dictated this time slot to be completely amenable, as opposed to the Gestapo I envisioned on our large liquorless journey. Little did I know, and to be honest rarely do I know anything, that this attitude permeates the entire restaurant. Their motto must be laid back, for the Queen’s Hideaway’s dining room embraces trailer park chic down to the salt and pepper shakers, it has an open kitchen and large and comfortable backyard. Everything seemed to be, well, relaxed. I could tell immediately that our rag tag band of misfits would fit right in.

The Queen’s Hideaway is a no-nonsense eatery devoid of anything but down home, offering culinary slang such as Fritters, Snaps, and my all time favorite, Bacony. The place is as charming a backwoods cousin, and the grub suggests this simile even more in essence as it is also humble; the Potato salad was home-made, the salads fresh, and the trout hot off the griddle. There was nothing overbearing about the food, and this might be a curse as well as a blessing, for nothing jumped out as a must have. This is acceptable only because the menu changes daily, literally hand written on a sheet of paper. And it could be argued that there was enough variety and home-made consistency that one will always find something worth eating.

Despite its humility the Queen’s Hideaway takes itself very seriously. The menu modestly hides its fresh food and organic underbelly. The waitress succinctly warned us when supplies of certain dishes were low, and the table maintenance, though with mismatched silver, was impeccable. The chef banged out an incredibly busy restaurant with a four top stove and not much else, a feat in time and anger management. And the whole time this grace in restauranteering was not trumpeted, but rather accepted as par for the course. The night passed and our merriment grew, having as much to do with the endless supply of Paps in a can as our own store bought wines (with a $5 corkage fee). Our shenanigans were tolerated if not encouraged, and after a filling meal our group enjoyed itself immensely. Queen’s Hideaway offers a good meal at a fair price, it is the best of a low bar and for less than thirty bucks, delivers authentically. The only shortcoming, and one we didn’t anticipate at the beginning of this escapade, was becoming stranded from civilization completely drunk. Be weary fellow food aficionados, the Queen’s Hideaway is a remote destination.

Henry's End--Brooklyn

718.834.1776


As much as I’m surprised to say it, a good meal isn’t too difficult to find in New York City. A great restaurant must obviously have exquisite cuisine, but the food must be supported by a cast of equally great amenities. So many times I’ve waited eternities for my check, fought with hostesses, searched beguiled for toilet paper, shouted to my companions, and felt as though I were lucky, no, privileged to eat at Chez Rank. Fortunately for Henry’s End, the great food is accompanied by a tremendous wine selection, superb service, and a subdued unpretentious atmosphere, missing all of the shortcomings that can fuck up a perfectly good meal.

Our party of six was given ample attention, and we were sat even though the entire party hadn’t arrived. I love that, especially if there isn’t a bar. It allows you to get take off your coat, refresh yourself with water, order the wine, and get the entire process moving. Those restaurants who don’t do that because they want to use the table are assuming their diners are as rude as they are. Any polite group knows to order if a couple is running late. Henry’s End seemed to understand this, and since this time I was the late comer it was nice to walk in and get a drink after a harrowing cab ride.

We ordered a number of appetizers to share, and then rated the appetizers. All of them were above average, but none could beat the West Indian shrimp. The crab cake, a first course that has burrowed itself onto every menu I’ve seen in recent history, was also remarkable. The salads were ample, especially the Fiddlehead fern salad. Yet, more than the great food was the brisk attention of a seasoned waiter. He wasn’t there to be our friend, wasn’t there to up sell a special, but was there to serve us.

The dinner menu is exciting yet crowd pleasing. Our entree’s came out promptly, and though the Kobe beef didn’t live up to it’s over thirty dollar price, it was delicious. The veal scaloppini with lemon and capers was great, as was the Moroccan Salmon. It’s quite a large menu, justifying repeat visits. One thing to note: the entrée’s come with a side salad. This allows you to explore the 1st courses and still get your leafy bed for you meal to lie on.

We quickly moved to dessert when the waiter offered us a free Mrs. Mud pie to accompany our Mud pie. Again, what a great move. These guys know that we just put down a lot of money and threw in the dessert. Chances are the dessert was going in the garbage and the staff was sick of eating it, but the gesture was one of camaraderie. They didn’t throw in dessert because they had to, but because they understood that we deserved it. We drank, we ate, we made merry, and had survived the entire rush. Since we were the last ones standing, we got the prize: free dessert. After we settled up and polished off our buzzes with some grappa we left Henry’s End as one should when spending $100 a person: completely satisfied.