Juliette--Brooklyn

718.388.9222

So I might be a little biased on this one because this place used to be Red and Black and back in the day that meant dancing and smoking and drinking away my youth. Now it’s a French bistro, and though it’s been open for years I always found myself going to Fada before going to this place. My wife and I decided to risk it for brunch. The place was clean and open, and I wasn’t hung over so it had this refreshing summertime vibe when we walked in and I must say that I was excited, the place looked promising. Three pleasant girls welcomed us, and though downstairs was completely empty we opted to sit outside hiking up to a bustling roof-deck complete with full bar and black-clad servers scurrying to and fro. Again, this seemed promising, so I was content to wait with the weather being what it was and my pretty young wife beaming across from me.

And wait we did. No water, no coffee, no check-in by the server to ask for another minute because she was in the shit and just couldn’t possibly attend to our table. Nope. Nada. Nothing. Disez-vous en Francais? We might have well have been ghosts of dance-club past. The sun turned against us and we had time to dissect the service, struggling to ascertain how two servers, a busboy, and a bartender could be suffering with maybe 30 covers--half of which already served. I don’t know how long we waited, if I had to guess I’d say twenty minutes. Eventually, we discovered the problem: the server was smoking at the bar, along with the bartender and one of the cute bubbly hostesses that lured us in downstairs.

I wish I could tell you how the food is but I had brunch that day at Fabianne’s across the street. Too bad Red and Black closed.

Rye--Brooklyn

718.218.8047

Before I begin a few brief definitions:

Beef Short Ribs, IMPS/NAMP 123 & 130
Beef Short Ribs are old favorites. Providing a rich, deep flavor, short ribs lend themselves to a variety of ethnic flavors becoming the star item on trendy menus.
Short Ribs contain at least 2 but no more than 5 ribs (ribs 6 through 10). The diaphragm muscle and heavy connective tissue are removed. Short ribs are frequently cut into individual pieces. They are also cut across the bone into thick or thin crosscut pieces and can be ordered boneless.

Beef Rib Eye Steak:
Beef Rib, Ribeye Steak, IMPS/NAMP 1112 & 1112B
Convenient and versatile, these boneless steaks can be ordered any thickness for a variety of menu options. Ribeye Steaks offer great plate coverage and impressive presentations.
Cuts in the IMPS/NAMP 1112 series can be specified. Each includes more specific cutting, trimming and boning specifications.

When I spoke to a dear friend who is a chef for clarification purposes, he said that they are absolutely different cuts of meat: The rib eye being a muscle that holds the ribcage together beneath the sternum and runs the length of the cow, the short rib being the meat that is actually attached to the lower rib. This was later confirmed by a very friendly butcher at Marlowe and Daughters--evidently, my reputation has subsided (see soon to come Diner post). I didn’t mention Rye in particular as the two are distant cousins on the same restaurant lineage, but he was utterly shocked that anyone would be stupid enough to pass a short rib for a rib eye. He even took me into his meat locker, a walk in box with huge pieces of cow lying about, to show me the difference between a rib-eye steak and a short rib. After that educational field trip I would say that a rib eye steak is a big juicy, fatty steak, where as a rib steak, or rib roll steak, is what most people would consider to be a short rib, which in turn is delicious when prepared properly but not so much when prepared like a rib eye steak, that is grilled. So before I begin with Rye, I must say that I had a complete slam-dunk on my hands. A no questions asked, ‘he is absolutely fucking right’ slam dunk. And like most know-it-alls I wanted only a simple ‘you’re right’ to assuage my undying desire for vindication….

We went to dinner at Rye with high hopes, and though the oak bar and comfort food menu was a glaring redundancy if you walked two blocks in just about any direction, we were happy to see familiar faces go out on their own, since two owners my companions have known for years at Dumont/Dressler. I ordered the mixed green salad, incredibly reminiscent of Dumont sans the flavor, and then ordered the Rib Eye Steak. Imagine my surprise when I was delivered a short rib, complete with rope ties to keep it rolled. I beckoned my waitress, who didn’t arrive until the manager—the lovely, graceful manager who I won’t name here but has vocationed through Williamsburg-- had already received my complaint. They both reassured me that what I was served was indeed a rib eye steak. I also should remind you, that this is a 28-dollar entrée. Nonetheless, they claimed that my confusion was due to the sauce, beef bourginon (which I assume is a take on the bourguignon sauce—glazed onions, mushrooms, and bacon) which had pieces of short rib in it. Right, that’s it. I somehow confused the sauce with the actual cut of meat.

It ruined dinner. I couldn’t shut up about it and for that I’m sorry for my dinner companions. And as much as I hate to go on about it even now, they did not serve what they were advertising. I think this place has potential, and since I’m posting this about a month after their unofficial opening, it will be interesting to see how they do. I know that I won’t be there to see it though, because I’m not paying $28 for a short rib.

Hearth--Manhattan

646.602.1300

It should be noted that a lot of my restaurant experiences included the influence of tremendous amounts of alcohol. And it as been said that I am not necessarily the smoothest of drunks. Nonetheless, I must say that Hearth was a place I’d been dying to visit. Not me, actually, but rather my wife, who begrudgingly joins me on many of my restaurant sojourns. In this instance it was my other wife, a dear friend dialed into the industry to direct me to places she thinks I’d like. Unfortunately for these places, I’m a drunk. And when drunk, I’m an asshole.

The Hearth experience began at Terroir, the little-sister wine bar. Terroir is fantastic, and we started there with a little bacala and a few glasses of wine. I’m not sure what kind, so I’ll stick with red. When we finally got over to Hearth we decided to sit at the bar so we could observe the wait staff scurry around in their pre-determined casual attire. More on the pre-determined in minute. The bartender reminded me of someone, and when she walked up I was creepily familiar. I say creepily because I didn’t have my I’ve-never-met-you-before defenses up and was a little too much myself. Dare I say that for one, I was drunk, and two by virtue of one, an asshole. As we looked over the Northern-Italian Aspired menu I inquired about her nifty shirt, which everyone else in the restaurant was wearing to some degree. Did the restaurant make them buy their own striped shirt so that they could personalize the obvious manufactured casual look? Or were they forced by the conglomerate to wear them? My server did not receive these questions well, briskly going over the menu before taking a drink order for more red wine.

Now at this point I’m going to take minute to discuss what we had. I’d already wolfed down the bacala, which was delicious and I presume from the same kitchen. My friend had a salad with a lot of fennel and the quail. She said both were quite delicious but I wasn’t about to try her food because she’s kind of hot and fennel is gross. I had the veal meatballs, and because the server curtly took my order, also had a plate of salty gnocchi. There was also ravioli on the plate of meatballs. A question I distinctly asked when ordering to begin with, which is why the salty gnocchi was so fucking disappointing; because the dish already came with a fucking starch.

I understand that owners are trying to make their restaurant into a specific brand to attract a specific customer. I know this. Certain places do not necessarily have formal service, some places require a tie, and other places deal with insanely poor people and serve them processed protein that sometimes passes for beef. That’s the owner’s prerogative; what he or she thinks will sell well and for what price. And all of these places have two things in common: the first is that they are going to serve food; the second their staff is going to have to deal with assholes.
I appreciate I might have been off-putting to that lovely bartender on that particular night. I know my hang ups, look at myself everyday in the mirror and go on with life. I’m an asshole when I’m drunk. I get it. But don’t fuck up my order because of it. A restaurant that charges the money that Hearth charges should have the person who manages their bar, including service drinks mind you, know the menu backwards and forwards. And should prevent someone, even if they make fun of your silly dress code, from ordering a side of starch with a dish that clearly covers the starch department, especially if you’re going to charge that person forty dollars for an entrée and the side. You never know who keeps closeted restaurant reviews. And if Terroir’s staff wasn’t so knowledgeable, and most likely a better representation of the owner’s vision, an asshole like me would choose never to return.

Walter Foods--Brooklyn

718.387.8783

Williamsburg eateries beware; there is a new game in town. Un fettered by it’s predecessors of comfort cuisine, Walter’s is poised to take the mantle of hipsterdom and turn it on its pretentious ear. Walter’s serves up its product with something many should take note: Pride and Polish. From the clean, well lit, and finished dining room, to the beautiful bar, to the hand tied bowties of its staff, there is nothing that isn’t finished, and finished well.

Make no mistake, this is a bar first and restaurant second, though the quality of the food and service would lead one to believe otherwise. There is something inviting about the bar besides its prominence, as though it’s a permanent fixture of comfort in a topsy-turvy world of economic woes and nationwide layoffs. The cocktail list is plenty, albeit old-fashioned, and the mixologists behind the bar are both friendly and adept. The cocktails are well done, cold draft cubes and basic, refined ingredients make their “old fashioned’ legitimately old fashioned, and other classic cocktails (Pimms Cup, Hemmingway, etc…) are cold, crisp, and enjoyable.

Even though the bar is the crown jewel, the menu compliments it quite well reflecting a willingness to serve crowd pleasers but doing so in a matter that is both unique and refreshing. Two good examples of this are the Cocktail Franks in a Blanket and the Chicken Pops—really just buffalo wings with the bone exposed. The menu also offers a middle tier of sandwiches and burgers and each is worth trying: The Rib Eye burger is well cooked, and the Filet Mignon French Dip and Lobster Club are all worthy of having more than once. The entrées reflect the same no-frill attitude but are executed with precision and delicacy. The hanger steak (aptly disguised as a “Butcher’s Steak) was cooked and seasoned well. The half fried chicken, and seasonal oyster platter are other enjoyable meals. My only complaint would be the price, as a $44 dollar surf and turf seems a bit steep, but I’ve seen worse ways to piss away money.

All in all it’s about time that restaurants turned the corner in Williamsburg. Too long this neighborhood has succumbed to establishments where the food is all that matters; where if clean and professional ambiance is ostracized as a gimmick and automatically considered too commercial or Manhattany. Dressler was the first to take a stab at this, yet fell flat with the amateur service after nailing the ambiance. At last we have a restaurant that has servers who take their job seriously, but more so, have pride in running a restaurant. Thank God that someone has finally taken the inhabitants of Williamsburg as something more than anti-establishment trend setters, because it was long over due.

Spice Market--Manhattan

212.675.2322

I have to be honest; I wouldn’t normally go to a restaurant like this. It isn’t so much the price, as Spice Market’s Asian fare is relatively cheap, rather it’s more of the location in the Meat Packing District. I find the image of that area to be so less than authentic that it requires a sort of blurred vision of reality, a delusion of what is actually going on, and to that this restaurant fits the bill perfectly. The women are all tall and done up, though not necessarily beautiful. The men are all wearing designer button down shirts and designer jeans and cologne, a combination that is easy on the eyes, yet still unfathomable. Call it reverse snobbery a la Epstein, I just can’t handle so many cool people at once.

Naturally, to cater to such a faux-heeled crowd, Spice Market does a lot of things that in ordinary circumstances I would consider a good idea. The problem is, the translation from idea to execution is difficult to do in such a culture of mediocrity. For instance, open back uniforms for your female server is, in theory, a sexy, unprecedented move. Given the right circumstances, say a third world country where discrimination based on looks is common place, I see the vision of several ninety-pound Asian girls scooting around with their supple, a-cup breasts spilling over and their jet-black hair tumbling down an exposed nubile back. I bet it would look pretty swell. However, in good ol’ USA, this open shirt policy results in love-handles, back hair, and most unappetizing bacne.

This high-concept sloppy execution is the unofficial motto Spice Market. Our server delivered cocktails, a gin martini and glass of wine, then promptly returned with our $80 bottle of wine. Even I can’t drink that fast. The buss boys dropped in from no where, to change our place mat between course, to add a fork or subtract a vessel, and though in theory this is service I expect from such an acclaimed establishment, it was so clumsy and awkward I couldn’t help but notice there was a small strike force attacking my table. After dinner, when ordering the digestive, Fernet Branca, it turned out that it was “in the wrong place” and the bartender couldn’t find it. Though, from my vantage point, it seemed obvious that the bartender and server had no fucking clue as to what I was talking about, as he looked at just about every dust covered bottle before finding it. Evidently, leaving the Grey-Goose sugar-tini menu wasn’t his forte.

The food, in all of its splendor, sucked. Not to say it sucked, though the shrimp appetizer with dehydrated pineapple was deplorable, in a typical sucky way, but it just didn’t seem to match the idea behind a multi-million dollar fauxury restaurant. It was simple, crude, plain, Asian fare. It’s as though they tried to replicate the disappointment one experiences when dining at Sea in Brooklyn, or at just about any restaurant in Vegas. It was uninspired suckiness, a suckiness born of omission, instead of ambitious commission by an untalented chef.

Of course this dressing down is somewhat moot. I am not the typical Spice Market goer. If it had not been for a well-intentioned gift card from one of my vendors I would have never known of the Spice Market world. The place succeeds, it was full of good-looking simple people who like to stand around and admire each other. They need places like this to complete their saccharine world of superficiality. If it weren’t for Spice Market this scene might seek out and destroy the quality places I like, and then where would I be? More to the point, they’re getting exactly what they want, and who is to criticize that?

Barrio-Brooklyn

718.965.4000

(I actually sent this letter)

To whom it may concern, 10/27/08

I am writing to inform your chef/owner that he/she is misleading people with what is called shrimp ceviche on the menu. I was extremely dissatisfied with the dish, and though did not request a refund, felt as though one should have been offered. Ceviche, as many cook books and online recipes will tell you, is seafood marinated in citrus juice (most common of which is lime juice) until the acid in the juice cooks the seafood. The seafood is normally chopped into small pieces, and served with other raw vegetables like onion, celery, peppers, tomatoes, etc… It is not whole, pealed shrimp in a mild pecante sauce, which is what I was served. I appreciate the difficulties of owning and operating a busy restaurant, and applaud the hard working and friendly staff for being sympathetic to my disappointment. However, I recommend refraining from calling the shrimp dish ceviche. Perhaps changing the name to something more accurate, like spicy shrimp cocktail, shrimp pecante, or whole shrimp in a bland tomato sauce, so the menu won’t mislead future customers. I for one, will never return to the restaurant, and hope this letter will assist in preventing further loss of business such as mine.

Sincerely,

The Iconman

Dumont--Brooklyn

718.486.7717

I remember 2001
Stumbling, bumbling in search of fun
The Southside boring and 6th far from there
We happened ‘pon this eastern fair
The food was good, the service great
Though neither really persuaded fate
The outside garden was the catch
A sunny desperate mismatch
Chairs for grandma’s back yard porch
wobbly, faunae, the sun would torch.
Cracks in concrete, and wine from tumblers
Made perfect sense to us bumblers
It matter little at the time
We laughed, made merry, drank cheap wine
The place, like us, so fancy free
At the height of Billy’s B
But now sequestered to the heated bar
Made of pressure treated wood and tar
Strangers scurry to and fro
Clad in black they serve the status quo
What happened is our own damned fault
Our neighborhood grew out of its alt
And though the grub is still the same
The homey charm does not remain
My lament, to be fair, is not from reason
Like crying over the loss of a season
The masses happy at what’s become
A tree house, micros, and all the fun
And this tiny garden is just a mirror
For all the hood I held so dear
I remember also the designed protest.
Yet glass filled towers spring; no rest
The loss is not of the memory
Instead the sale of integrity.