Paquitos--Manhattan

Yelp creates quite a dilemma. Generally speaking, it's a useful tool to find a restaurant when in an unfamiliar locale. In essence, this is a nice feature of any smart phone: "We need a quick easy restaurant with outdoor seating, margarita's, and quesadillas. Go find it!" The dilemma is all of the choices presented are reviewed by users who are clearly adept at posting things to Yelp, but may not be so adept at being taste-makers.

It's a demographic thing. Most people, I would think, that are posting things on Yelp are below the ages of 35. There may be a few people older than that, but statistically they're mute on the whole rating system algorithm. For the most part I'm convinced that no-one I know has parents that are posting on this. So the people who are essentially rating it, are rating it at with criteria that may or may not coincide with an older, more conservative person's attitude. Creating the conundrum of just how do you trust the ratings of a place when yelping? If you go with a higher rating, you may end up eating quesadillas at a glorified NYU bar: cheap, easy going, and totally fucking disgusting unless you have no money and are satisfied with junk food.

You could go by the low ratings, but somehow low ratings do not necessarily denote the inverse of the high ratings, that is, they are also sucky places. This has absolutely nothing to do with Paquitos by the way, which we found on Yelp while cruising through the East Village. Paquitos was, by no coincidence, a glorified bar, with awful service and canned guacamole (see patent pending guacamole rating system).

I suppose the solution is to start a new search engine, called snob. And only rate the restaurants that worth eating at to begin with. We'll see if that has any traction.

1 or 8--Brooklyn

718-384-2152

I feel like the next time I go to this place I should wear all white. I could blend in like a sushi ninja, swooping in to grab your roll when no one is looking. I'd eat for free and fulfill the childhood ambition of being an actual, honest to God, ninja. I love ninjas.

It's sushi place people. How am I supposed to comment on sushi? It was served cold. It tasted like a combination of fish, soy sauce, and wasabi. It had little Japanese women running around, with littler Japanese men behind some counter making the sushi. It tasted fine. Perhaps this establishment is more authentic than others, though I wouldn't know having never been to Japan. I did learn that Nigiri is another word for what I would call sushi, that is a piece of fish on a nugget of rice. So there's that.

I was more impressed with the whiteness of the whole affair. I mean, white booths, white walls, pale white hipsters. It was white, white, white!

Beco--Brooklyn

718.599.1645

This little Brazilian joint is on the back side of the Emerald City. When it first opened, at least two years ago, I was curious how such a tiny little electric kitchen with niche world food was going to survive. The owner escaped the film industry, and I was totally expecting to see his dream of a small Brazilian place shrivel and die like my hydrangeas that didn't come back. Boy was I wrong.

Firstly, there's the steak sandwich; a force to be reckoned with. I'm certain that at points in the restaurant's growth, 80% of its revenue was just steak sandwiches: Filet Mignon, cheese, and a baguette. Tough to beat that one.

Then came the nice open air windows in the summer and cold, cheap brazilian pilsner. Next came the soccer games projected on the far wall, the Federal cup when US almost shocked Brazil in the final (after shocking Spain) comes to mind as the place was standing room only. Then came the brunch. This is after all the no man's land of restaurants, with thousands of people in luxury condo's waiting in line at either Enid's or Five Leaves.

So I guess it's no surprise at all. Beco is a sum of its parts, and it looks as though the owner is living the dream. Good for him. He's a pretty nice dude and Beco is a pretty nice place.

Las Vegas Nevada

Holy shit. I don't even know where to begin. Perhaps an appropriate preface to this debacle of debauchery would be that I was wifeless. I repeat, no wife on this one. Not to say she wouldn't have reveled in the ridiculousness that is Las Vegas, but that she generally is my last line of defense before doing something really, really stupid. It's a shame I don't let her read these posts before they're published.

Las Vegas is the most disgusting place on the planet. I could not think of a more contrived, base, and saccharin attempt at luxury if I tried. The old Vegas, the authentic rat pack Vegas, has been replaced with 21st century towers of glass and steel, up to date service, over thought cuisines, expensive cocktails and wine, and the dames, holy Christ the place is dripping with trim. But it's all a hoax. A faux lavish design to extort you by playing on the most primitive instinct in the human brain: greed.

I must say I had a total blast. I drank like I used to drink. I Was thrown out of two casino's for fighting, once with a pair of lesbians. I played 52 card pick up outside the Wynn. And the dames, good lord almighty there were women everywhere. Cheap, easy, looking-for-rich-men, women.

There are some things I would have done differently, that ferragamo tie was unnecessary, but over all here are some tips that would make a trip to Vegas Iconman:

Wear a suit. Dress nice. This goes for the ladies too. Most of the trash that visits Vegas considers dressing up throwing on one of those tube-top-esque dress that barely covers their flabby asses. The end up looking like low-rate hookers. Try to look like a top rate hooker.

Buy a bottle of liquor. Don't gamble for free drinks, as they never end up free. And don't go to the bar or you'll get stung for $10-$15 a cocktail. Since you can walk anywhere with a drink, I got a flask and took a rocks glass from the hotel where ever I went.

Assume authority, they'll respect it. Now that you're in a suit and sufficiently hydrated, walk up to the front of lines or sit down at reserved tables, the staff at Vegas are so ingrained to keep you happy so they can fleece you unsuspectingly, they'll allow you to do just about anything. The suit is key, it makes you seem richer than the regular shclock in a button down short sleeve and dockers.

Don't sleep. Sleep is completely irrelevant in Vegas. The longer you stay up the more enjoyable it becomes.

Don't stay on the strip the whole time. Down town is pretty cool, we hit a bar called the Griffin around 3am one night and it was not as bad as I don't remember.

If you gamble, don't expect to win.

Check out a cabaret. I don't know of any other town, with the exception of Paris, where you can see hot beautiful women dancing naked for one fixed price. No solicitations for a lap dance, no stripper stink all over your clothes, just clean, pretty women dancing around. Well worth the $60.

Okay so there's a brief list. I wish I could give you more details, but due to the only detail I can really mention with certainty (that I was wifeless) sort of clouds all of my other judgements.

Motorino--Brooklyn

718.589.8899

It's funny what buzz can do for a restaurant. I've been hearing about Motorino for years now, because the pizza is "soooooo good." I was expecting another forino's, but perhaps with a little bit friendlier staff. And I can't say I was disappointed, as the food was pretty good, but I think the buzz was more of a result of this placing being just off the Graham stop, in Italian Williamsburg where the dining options are improving but still pretty nill.

Wife and I went on a non-descript Wednesday night right before my departure for Las Vegas (next post dearest nine, and it will be a doosy) and we were served quickly and with a smile. The wood fired pizza oven crackled in the distance, and though the decor of this place leaves something to be desired, it was by no means offensive. The food was fine. It wasn't delectable, it wasn't atrocious, it was a quick and easy individual pizza.

I suppose if I lived in the neighborhood I would rave about this place. I mean, I could see a habit form with such a simple transaction for dinner. You can be in and out in no time, or you could bring friends from out of town and make a night of it. Sadly, there aren't enough places like this around.

Calexico--Brooklyn

347.763.2129

I feel like I've been saying it for years, to the point that all of my wives roll their eyes and quote me: "Low hanging fruit, ripe for the picking." Yes. That is Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. As Williamsburg slowly morphs into upper-middle class Soho the kids are moving east and north. Greenpoint, though still relatively Polish, is now being infiltrated by the younger middle class. The junior graphic designer and architects, accountants, and other hipster related white-collar professions. Manhattan Ave is the main drag, be-lining straight through. See my Manhattan Inn post for more clarification, but I have been preaching to anyone that will listen (and that list is dwindling my dear nine) that if you have an inkling of restauranteurship in you, this area is a no brainer.

Enter Calexico, a Mexican restaurant on Manhattan Ave right next door to the illustrious Dunkin Donuts. Five of us went on a Sunday night, in the middle of a fucking monsoon mind you, and we waited a full hour before sitting down. The place was packed. I mean, sardine can, only place in town, packed. Granted, our wait was a result of poor management as much as anything else (the douchebags at the table nursed their dark beers like they were twelve) but that only drives my point further: we had no other choice but to wait!

The food? It's Mexican food. The degree between bad and good is slight, as it's always the same ingredients. The guac was flavorless, so I'm gonna lean on not-so-good food by my now patented Guacamole=restaurant quality litmus test. But it wasn't bad. It was edible. And for Manhattan Avenue that's a beginning.

Here are the notes from my logbook:

I hate people

Good

Busy

Kids

Decent

Crowded.

How's that for note taking? I should get a job in the steno pool.

Gramercy Tavern--Manhattan

212.477.0777

The venerable Gramercy Tavern. Been dying to go for a while but it's always so hard to come up with a reason to eat in the city. I hate eating after work in my suit and there's no way in hell I'm going back to Brooklyn to change and then return to the city. Despite the logistics, which I for one feel is not covered enough in online amateur restaurant reviewing, the Gramercy Tavern is just never on the radar.

And what's the big deal? The food was good but the prices were expensive. It's not like I shit myself. In fact, I had the meatball and thought the hillbillies at Hearth do a better job. My wife had the fish croquette to start and a white fish (either halibut or sea bass, I can't read my writing--yes it's that bad) as her entree and the server didn't mention that it comes with the same cassoulet.

That's about all I got. I think it's appropriate to give a lack luster review for a lack luster place. Oh wait. One exception. German Chocolate cake, boomshakalaka. This cake needs a come back. I'm sick of eating flourless chocolate cake, or molten chocolate cake, or some version of the two. Let's get some coconut and caramel on this bitch and call it German.