Donahue's--Manhattan

212.650.0748

So the overwhelming response and questions--from currently all five of you-- have been quite difficult to keep up with. I will list the top five in order of frequency:

1) What does Iconman mean?
2) Could you include pictures with your blog?
3) Could those pictures be of your testicles? (Seriously. That is number three.)
4) Why do you always write about Williamsburg?
5) Where do I find your rating system?

Those are all very good questions. And for the purpose of this blog I am going to answer number four, followed up not coincidentally with my thoughts of Donahue's Steak House. The reason I write about Williamsburg is that I live here and have lived here for many years. I saw the slow transformation from Puerto Ricans on the south side and Polish on the north side to hipsters everywhere, to now hipsters on the fringes and yuppies everywhere. And for the most part, this slow transformation has manifested in the restaurants in the neighborhood. No longer am I subjected to Vera-Cruz, Pita Power, Williamsburg Diner, or Anytime, as there are a plethora of new places to check out. And for the record all of those places save Vera-Cruz are closed (also for the record I lived in a building owned by the owner of Vera Cruz and if you eat in that restaurant I hope you enjoy cockroach shells and mouse feces; but that's a tale for another time). I don't mean to say that I don't eat in other parts of the city, but rather I haven't gotten around to writing about them because they're not necessarily going to include the incisive social commentary that all five of you have grown to appreciate. Jesus, that was a mouthful.

With that said, I feel that Donahue's is due because they serve indisputably the BEST CORN BEEF SANDWICH in NYC. That's right, I said THE BEST CORN BEEF SANDWICH in NYC. The owner, Maureen, is the daughter of the original owner of Donahue's and hasn't changed a thing in this small steakhouse sitting smack dab across from Bernie Madoff's ex-deluxe apartment on Lexington and 64th. This place is no nonsense, and though it provides prompt and attentive service, often by Maureen herself, bull shitting is not an option. The mean age is approximately fifty, and I since I lunch here just about every Thursday, the only day that the corn beef is offered, I witness many a retiree slurping down five ounce martini's or straight scotch with their meal. People are here to eat and drink, so shut up and get on the trolley.

This no nonsense attitude permeates the food as well. And now that we watch chefs compete on cable to out do each other by vacuum sealing halibut or infusing bacon fat with nitrogen, it's nice to know that there are places like Donahue's that haven't fucked with a recipe for 50 years. What is especially refreshing about Donahue's is that you're also not getting that PJ Clark's, JG Mellons, Peter Luger vibe, the attitude created from the instituition syndrome: we can shit on you because we've been around for a hundred years and there's a line at the door because everyone who doesn't live here thinks this is the best place in town. Nope, Donahue's is like momma bears porridge, so if you're in the neighborhood of the lower-upper-east side and it's a Thursday you'd be a fool not to try this sandwich.

Enid's--Brooklyn

718.349.3859

For those of you familiar with anything above N 7th in Williamsburg, you'll most likely agree that it gets pretty thin for delectable eats once you start walking in the direction of McCarren Park. If you continue through the park you'll see the most dramatic change in demographics since the Harlem/Upper East Side border, as the park loungers go from pale, white, supple, tattooed hotties to red, fat, surly Polish drunks splayed about with abandon. This isn't necessarily a bad thing if you're into the grittier side of New York or plumber's crack, but if you're hungry and don't feel like Polish National food your pretty much fucked. I'm weary of both Lokal and Five Leaves for my own personal reasons, which means that for about a ten block radius you've basically got Enid's in terms of cuisine not spelled with a bunch of hard consonants--Golabki anyone?

Okay, that was quite an opening, but with that in mind, Enid's has some good stuff to offer, especially since the not-so-recent purchase of a larger deep fryer. Their chicken sandwich is hearty, as is their chicken fried steak and for brunch they have a hang-over killer called the potato hash. But let's face it, Enid's cuisine, much like Lodge, Rye, Dumont, Dumont Burger, Five Leaves, Moto and the sixteen million other comfort food joints in greater Williamsburg is nothing more than a conglomeration of crowd pleasing American food. What sets Enid's apart is that it is an oasis in an otherwise dead zone of decent eating establishments. If you're coming here for dinner, it's just as likely you're coming out of necessity as out of a desire for a culinary epiphany.

Now with that said there is an upside to Enid's that may or not be attributed to its geography: there is definitely a scene going on. A difficult to determine scene, perhaps not as sophisticated as Walter's or understated as Diner's, but a bonafide collection of cute girls, mustached men, and a legitimate je-ne-sais quoi that makes you want to sit on the sidewalk and knock back pint after pint of Pilsner Urquells while the freaks and drunk plumbers walk by. I suppose that's not enough for the foodies out there in the blog world, but it is certainly enough for me.

Diner--Brooklyn

718.486.3077

Yikes. How do I begin with Diner? From what I understand, and there’s little I do, this place is the Mecca of all things hipster and/or Williamsburg. From it, and because of it, Williamsburg evolved into what it is today. Other places emulate Diner, but none of them come close to offering what Diner effortlessly provides. For a long time it seemed like the only place any of us wanted to go. There was a two-year stretch where nothing compared. Too bad I’m not allowed in anymore. Haven’t been for four years or so. I won’t get into the details, let’s just say it’s a textbook case of cutting off my nose to spite my face. But much like my brief tenure years ago at Siberia Bar, the countless nights at Diner represent a high tide in my life. My banishment allowed me to move on, try other things, and eventually get over it. And not unlike breaking up with a really hot girl, it’s nostalgic in the shower but there is a lot of baggage that comes with going to Diner night after night. If you’re reading this blog and actually trying to find a good restaurant in Williamsburg, you can stop here. This is the best restaurant in Williamsburg, and as far as I’m concerned one of the most authentic New York City has to offer. The food is impeccable. The atmosphere is enviable. The service is, well, let’s just say the first two more than make up for the service. Below are just bits of letters, journal entries, etc… that I’d collected over the years eating at Diner.

09-05-05 –Letter to a friend… So we were supposed to meet this friend of A*****’s at Diner, who was going to give me the key to the apartment in Paris where we would be staying next week. I was quite excited, as it was my first trip overseas in a few years and I’d already taken off work for the trip so I had nothing better to do than get rip roaring drunk with a total stranger, a Parisian no less! It was like three and the sun was blasting through the screen door casting shadows that belong to late summer sun. I was having something in a Collins glass, maybe this drink they have with a twig of thyme, listening to the music and excited to get on with my trip. There’s nothing quite like having a day off before the departure overseas, especially when it’s three in the afternoon and you’re knocking back an expertly made cocktail watching young unfettered trim walk by in the late summer. Then, a hand slapped my back. I turned and to my surprise there’s A*****, his greasy hair and a goofy French smile standing there holding a key.
Holy shit the time we had. Stoli Orange shots abounded, and it wasn’t until my wife dragged me out by the ear did the possibility of leaving even occur. We must have ate, though the only thing I can remember about the night was the bar itself, crowded, sexy, alive, certainly a great precursor to Paris. Shot after shot of orange flavored vodka and sociable volume, people coming and going and not giving a shit. There is a pinnacle to a good night out, a time and place where it teeters from drunken obliviousness to fatigue. The beauty of this night was the way we teetered and maintained a perfect buzz the whole time….

06-15-04 --Letter to a friend… We decided to take our clothes off. Now granted, it was somewhat uncontestable because I was with three beautiful women. I’m pretty convinced robbing a bank is conceivable if you’re armed with three beautiful women. And I’m certain that you can get away with eating dinner shirtless….

10-10-04 --Jounal… I don’t know the condition that brought me to Diner that night, it was crowded or I would have refused sitting at the bar. I was stoned I think, getting a freebee from work and sneaking out early to write, look at internet porn, and smoke pot. S**** probably convinced me to have a drink. I ended up staying for dinner. Whatever the circumstances, one thing is for sure: it was by far the best meal I’ve had in the United States. Crushed potatoes, floating in a moat of creamed corn and bacon, with a thick roasted pork chop nestled right on top. I ate it at the bar, occasionally coming up for air or a swill of Wild Turkey. I followed it up with a slice of the chocolate cake. This meal is not oft repeated on the specials menu. And maybe, just maybe, this night at the bar was the only time I’ll ever eat it….

06-29-04 –Journal… Another large party. I feel like this is perhaps the tenth or eleventh in the last year. It seems as though my life centers around working enough to afford the three-hundred-dollar dinners spent at Diner. The server let it be known at Union Pool the other night that when we have these large parties we all get so drunk that our math is atrocious and their tips suffer greatly. Naturally, they’re thinking we’re going to take care of them as well as they took care of us. How are we supposed to know that they comped just about every drink they served? There are no prices on the menu.

10-06-05 --Email to Friend… I’m comfortable, too comfortable. I actually wore my “Fuck a Bitch” tee-shirt that Crazy L***** gave me for my birthday. I am lude with Wild Turkey logic, and now the servers see me coming and turn the other way.

11-5-05—Email to Friend (After being thrown out)… I wracked up enough points on my Amex to buy a McDonald’s franchise. And what did I receive in return? At the end of the day I bought myself dinner. Sometimes served cold, sometimes served incorrectly, sometimes served late, but always served unapologetically. I’m sorry if my standards ruined a good time. But I’m not sorry for my attitude that seems contrary to everyone else in the Williamsburg restaurant scene; that is, I am somehow supposed to compromise because the server/owner/bartender is too cool to be bothered to do their job, or too snobbish to be servile, or to not do whatever it takes to make the dining experience enjoyable…

So what makes a good restaurant? Is it the food? Is it the service? Some indeterminable combination of the two? Don’t get me wrong I looooove to harp about service. Sit their and stroke my own cock about how someone didn’t crumb correctly, or tickle my balls about a glaring restaurant inefficiency, but that’s just a professional preference. If a restaurant has bad food, I merely take pity. If you're serving bad food you shouldn’t be in business. But really good service, or really good food doesn’t necessarily make you want to come back for more. It’s more like those things can make the restaurant really special, a bastion for occasions, celebratory occasions. A good restaurant doesn’t necessarily neglect these qualities, but rather these qualities do not make a good restaurant. So whatever intangible is, it’s one that allows you to be yourself. To be comfortable. Just not too comfortable.

Sweetwater Tavern--Brooklyn

718.963.0608

For those of you who lamented the closing of arguably the best punk jukebox ever compiled, (next to Zeitgeist in SF perhaps), the mourning period should be over by now. Get over it. Sweet, you used to live here before Union Pool became the mecca for all people tattooed and under thirty, that doesn't mean that people who just moved to the burg are less cool than you. Don't get me wrong, Sweetwater’s closing as a bar was a tragic loss, comparable even to the replacement of our beloved contraband for the now-defunct Levee about six years ago. Fortunately for us though, Sweetwater is now a consistently good restaurant.

The food isn’t so unique; it’s comforty with an European aftertaste. In terms of actual menu items the lamb burger is certainly good as is the pork loin. I've actually never had an unsatisfying meal, and that's something to be said considering the number of times I've visited. The important thing to remember with all restaurants of this ilk, and a tough lesson to stomach, is that the atmosphere lends itself to being casual. When I mean casual, I mean casual. Don’t come here hungry or in a hurry. The owner will most likely seat any friend/hot chick/celebrity before he sits your party of four. It’s his place, and obviously he opened it to get himself laid. This laisez-faire attitude seeps into the service as well, as the servers and bartenders are more inclined to have a good time than turn the restaurant during a busy dinner rush. If you can handle a little bit of a wait, and some forgetful service, then this place will become an old standby in your repertoire of Williamsburg restaurants. If you can't, then coming here will only drive you crazy.

Clerkinwell--Manhattan

212.614.3234

A few Saturdays ago I went with my wife to the Zeigfield to see the new Star Trek. Since we were already in the city we decided to go down to the LOE on our way home for a fancy dinner out on a Saturday night. I had downed something like forty ounces of Sprite, and had to pee before even getting in the cab, but figured I’d wait until we got to the restaurant. We first headed to Schillers, thinking we could sneak into the bar; no dice. My bladder was beating. Then we walked towards Frankie’s in Manhattan, but I couldn’t make it so we bounced into a dead Clerkenwell. I mean D-E-D dead, which made the trip to the bathroom a little conspicuous. Going into a restaurant that is dead to pee is sort of like going to the retarded kid’s house after school to play. Sure you get to play with his GI Joe USS Flag, but at the end of the day he’s still retarded and completely unaware that you’re just there for the playtime with Keel-Haul. I digress; after running into the Clerkenwell to pee there was no way I was not eating there after seeing the bartender, server and hostess give me the puppy dog eyes. I felt so guilty that I convinced my wife to stay and eat.

The food was good. I must say that. My wife had a Cesar salad and risotto that were both pleasing, and I had a fresh rocket salad and a Toad in the Hole, sort of a bangers and mash with some puff pastry. It’s English pub grub done well, and though English food has an uphill battle in the culinary world, Clerkenwell serves good English cuisine. The décor had a pubby-feel, but it was open and didn’t smell of beer or vomit or swill. And I wish the place well only because I remember working at a restaurant that ultimately didn’t succeed. And much like the Clerkenwell I remember our close knit staff would watch throngs of potential customers walk by on their way to some other destination, surely not run by such dedicated and devoted people. It’s frustrating to see a place run with compassion fail when so many douche bags are successful in their douche baggery. Well, hopefully I’ll return to the Clerkenwell years from now, and the owner will be chewing on a big fat cigar, and the place will smell of swill, and the tenderness with which we were served will be deafened by the ring of a busy cash register. If that’s something to hope for.

Queen's Hideaway--take two

So if you haven't figured out by now, many of these reviews have been written over the years. I've informally started posting them just to get into the habit of "blogging"--something that I think used to be called writing. I've been writing these reviews over the years for several reasons: 1) I thought the restaurant review to be an interesting medium. 2) It's an easy way to keep in writing shape, sort of speak. 3) I work largely in restaurants these days. 4) My friends were sick of listening to me bitch.

Queens Hideaway is now closed. Sorry. You're welcome to the review I wrote years ago. If you're reading this to get up to the minute information on restaurants then you're almost as internet clumsy as I am and should look somewhere else.

Here are some suggestions:

eater.com
nymag.com
tastespace.com

What's so funny about these listings is they are the first three listed after googling 'restaurant blog nyc.' If you had me do that for you, then you're definitely more inept than I am. And chances are you're old.

Okay. Good luck!

Acqua Santa--Brooklyn

718.384.9695

One word: Garden. The interior of this place is like a mom and pop pizza restaurant. It’s hot, kind of gross, and certainly not hospitable enough for a long three-course meal. Outside though, it’s a different story. The two-tiered garden is a perfect place to spend a nice summer afternoon. In fact, until recently, this restaurant was a summer venue only, that is until the red-car inclined owner bucked up enough dough to enclose it for year round dining.

Let me just give you a quick anecdote of what a good garden can do for you. August 14th, 2003. I took the day off from work because we were heading out of town, and since I had a few hours to kill decided to head to Acqua Santa for some bruschetta and Peroni’s. I was reading Death in the Afternoon, and like most Hemmingway books, reading it made me feel as though putting down eight beers before dinner was perfectly acceptable. Nonetheless, around eight or so my girlfriend called. She was walking over the Williamsburg Bridge and was wondering if I was okay. Of course I was, I said trying to hide my slur, I was sitting beneath grape vines eating a fresh tomato bruschetta and drinking beer. What more could a fellow ask for? It turns out that the entire city had blacked out and I had no idea, only because I was outside of space and time and everything else that reminds you that you’re in a city. That’s what a nice quiet restaurant garden can do.

On this one the food and service can take a back seat. And for the record, unless you head several blocks east or north you’re not going to find a standard Italian dinner like one that is offered at Acqua Santa (There’s a new one, relatively speaking, that’s cropped up on South Bedford but more on that later). The food is good enough, they have pizza’s, pasta’s, caprese salad, etc… Italian food. And for a backyard like Acqua Santa’s that’s all you need.