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.