Fushimi--Brooklyn

718.833.7788

What the fuck is this place? I'll tell you what: the future of Williamsburg. And for the record, I don't necessarily think it's that bad of a thing.

What is Fushimi? Evidently a franchise based out of Staten Island that is trying to capitalize on the upwardly mobile yuppy vibe that is slowly, albeit with the pervasiveness of a glacier, transforming Williamsburg. Though comparable to Sea in its over-the-top saccharinicity (that's a word) this place delivers with more punch and more fire power. Cloth napkins, attentive service from a uniformed employee, a host that says welcome and thank you, sake tastings, matching flatware, and the decor, Christ all mighty they must have a tiny little coal burning power station all to their own to light up all of the neon and LEDs kicking around (and that's after taking into consideration the limited draw of LED power).

I digress, the decor is not necessarily to my taste, but at least it departs for the now mundane turn of the 19th century vibe that Zeb and Billy and all of the other Townies have cashed in on. And the food? Well, if you like steak, and you like sushi, and you like somewhat predictable crowd pleasing fair, then the food is okay. Lot's of fat kicking around on the menu in the form of mayonnaise dressings and deep fried goodness but for someone like me that's a plus. For someone like any number of my wives, perhaps a a little too close to Appleby's if Appleby's started a sushi chain.

For the record, this place is also insanely large. I'll be shocked if it actually fills to capacity. But who cares? More important is the validation of my opinion. I've been talking for years, literally years, about the low-hanging fruit on the north end of Williamsburg. With the Emerald City near completion it was just a matter of time before these super restaurants emerged, catering to those who can afford to buy an apartment at $600 a square foot. God, it feels good to be right, even if it is all of the time.

PT--Brookyln

718.388.7438

Ate here once a while ago for a friend's birthday, but it was so far on the south side we never returned. Recently while coming home from the LES we decided to hit it up, and boy were we psyched!

Firstly, this is how an Italian restaurant should feel. Simple, rustic, darkly lit, romantic. I felt like coming in from the fields after a hard days work, Ernest Hemmingway sipped absinthe at the bar. There was an innocent country girl waiting to offer me a washing bowl. As for the food, well the food was good. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what we had, as did not write anything down. Once again I will employ a cutting-edge reviewing technique, that of hypnotic reflection, to intuit what we had drawing on the sensations I feel when I think about this restaurant. Here goes!

First I must find my chi and then balance the bad ass motherfucker.

Um-num-chi-bum. Um-num-chi-bum. Um-num-chi-bum.

Mmmm...server in black pants...She's hot. No, she's not hot. Damn it, she's like a librarian, sort of hot but not feminine in any way.

Here comes the wine. Red. Flavorful. Barbera, no...Barberesca.

Okay....we started oil, flat bread, salt. Cristini? Cheese tomatoes. good. Yes. Okay, maybe she's not a librarian, but like the less attractive of two sisters...

Wife had the fish. No the lamb. No the fish. I had steak. Came out to rare, but they brought it back.

Followed up with a tiramisu. Delicious.

And that's it. I channeled that entire review just by using my memory. Egad, that's a tricky thing to do. Fortunately for you all, I have the skill to pull something like that off.

Parm--Manhattan

212.993.7189

Ate here with my other wife on an intrepid visit during my workday. It was cramped, tiny really, and I made the mistake of bringing a derby hat that I had no place to put. The waitress was cute in an inept sort of way, spilling things and unfamiliar with the beers, though it didn't bother me so much because I was drinking on a Wednesday afternoon instead of running around trying to make people happy that would rather not be. My hat made a home for itself on the napkin dispenser.

Other wife has a knack for finding places that have buzz, and I have a knack for being completely unimpressed as a natural defense mechanism to the insecurity I feel when I don't understand something. I had some deep fried cheese that was made in house, and the baked clams. Other wife had some turkey sandwhich sort of thing. All in all the food was delicious, though I thought the cheese wasn't as melted as I would prefer. And since the food was so delicious I suppose Parm justifies all of this buzz.

But somehow, good food doesn't do it. This place was crowded as fuck for a lunch hour in Nolita. I mean wait at the door crowded. What gives this delicious food so much more clout than say, some mom and pop place just down the street that's been there for years. Press? Sexiness? Some je ne sais quoi factor that idiots like me should not try to put into words? I guess buzz is a sociological phenomenon well above my ignorant head. And good for them, cause the food was delicious.

Il Baggato--Manhattan

212.228.0977

Had another nostalgic night in the East Village the other Friday. Yes, I was out on a Friday, once again with my wife, and once again instantly sad that I'm getting old. This time we ate at this Italian place that she used to love that I'd never been to. The owner was cruising around table to table in a cheesy politician sort of way, quipping about how much wine they drank or how the garlic must be sliced thin but not too thin and I was thinking that he's a total phoney.

Then Bam! I had a dish of five simple ingredients that was shit yourself good. I still can't believe how good it tasted. It was a special, spaghetti with oil, garlic, salt and parm. Mami jami. Everything else was solid, but so pale in comparison to the gleaming light that was this miracle bowl of spaghetti.

By the time the guy got to me I was so spyched to talk to him, that I was hoping he would dish out one of those cheesy puns just to bring me back to earth. So much for being a phoney. I would walk around with my dick in my hand too if I knew that spaghetti dish had my back.

All's Well--Brooklyn

(347) 799-2743

Went there with the polygamist-four the other day for dinner. I'd walked by it a bazillion times, not realizing that it had changed in the same way most of North Williamsburg has, ie., Polish to Trendy Youngish American. Sadly, it's more of the same. I'm starting to get sick of the fact that every restaurant that opens in my neighborhood is nothing more than a different twist on what Dumont and Diner were doing ten years ago. Fortunately for me, this place gave me something else to talk about, the handling of corked wine.

It's been a while since I've discussed how unfriendly and inhospitable service can ruin a chef's good intentions. Once you have a snide waitress be "annoyed" it affects your entire perception of the place. In this instance, we had a bottle of corked wine. It was evident to me (who for once sat on the inside--as I am a gentleman and almost without exception deposit my lovely wives on the bench so that I can stare lovingly into their eyes, and their eyes only) that she went to the bar, took a swig, and confirmed to herself that we could not be trusted and were trying to get the restaurant to open another bottle of the exact same wine. She returned to tell us that it wasn't corked with such disdain you'd think we were dressed as SS officers, clearly gloating that she had uncovered our conspiracy of cheating the restaurant out of a bottle of wine that we wouldn't drink in the first place.

At this point, if I weren't older and more humble, I would have had a long-winded, profane diatribe about the server's ignorance of the collective food and beverage knowledge at the table (including ASA wine credentials), as well as her ignorance of the industry as she clearly did not know that any restaurant can return the corked bottle for full credit, how the owner would have been displeased with her overall lack of hospitality, etc... But I'm older and wiser you know? You're not reading this to hear about some waitress that was potentially having a bad day, you want to know my take on the restaurant as a whole. How it fits into the overall socio-economic fabric of the neighborhood. Basically, whether or not it merits a visit.

So with all of that....How was the food? Who gives a shit when you're being served by Cruella de Vil. Honestly, I'm still rankled by it. Actually, I barely remember the food. My notes said that the entrees were prepared well, but in terms of cuisine it's more of the day special menu's, comforty, bacon infused, blah, blah, blah. I'm shocked at how packed the place was, that's for sure, which only means that I'm ahead of the curve in boredom. I do have notes that the fig thing was disgusting. Though by the time we got to dessert I wanted to punch someone in the face so I wouldn't necessarily take my word for it.

Total Backlog, part 2--Manhattan

Rayela--LES

212.253.8840

A tasting menu debacle. Went here with with all three spouses and a boisterous expat living in London. Other wife was convinced that the multiple awards meant something. We decided to get the tasting menu and make a night of it. There must have been something lost in translation, as they kept bringing us regular sized portions, of different items, and then expecting us to pass the plates and share.

At first it was okay, but once you've tried everything and realized that one or two of the items may or may not contain dog, you want to stick with one thing. You inevitably end up competing with the other diners for the one tasty dish (the ceviche was miraculous). By the end of it, I had a black eye.

Trattoria Rino--Midtown West

212.307.0666

I'm never trusting Yelp again. Rather, I'm going to start the new fad, beloved nine, of stating quite clearly that I've been yelped. We saw Book of Mormon (not as good as you've been led to believe, FYI,--but this is a restaurant review damn it!) and needed to get the in-laws to a relatively inexpensive and menu-neutral post theater dinner. Yelped Italian food and this is what we got:

A glorified pizza parlor with gimmicky wall hangings and a bunch of wanna-be Gambino's playing make believe mafioso restaurateurs. Food sucked. Service Atrocious. They had this weird dude in a fedora and trench coat chain smoking cigarettes outside that would occasionally come inside and ask how everyone was doing. There was a fat, greased, mustacheoud oddball that must have been the owner, getting up from his table of losers every ten minutes to come and ask how everything was doing.

Hey Rocko, you know what? Everything thing is going poorly. Your team of Ecuadorians are currently hauling your garbage through the dining room, your wine is a magnum of grape juice and antifreeze, and your risotto is par cooked crap. Go smoke another cigarette and while your at it continue your effective yelp campaign as that is the only way I could fathom you getting three stars.

Pelligrino's--Little Italy

212.226.3177

Now on the other side of that coin is Pelligrino, a typical red-sauce joint down in little Italy. I know that everyone rolls their eyes when they think little Italy, assuming the worst: the fleecing of would-be diners who are mostly from areas of the country that don't have little Italies (let alone Italians). But I must say that this place was perfect for my purposes. Firstly, I was with my family. It had enough gimmick to satisfy their tourist hungers, but enough class to satisfy my NY snobbery.

The food was authentic red-sauce Italian. Cooked well but with no real surprises. Not great, not bad, but cooked as though it's been cooked a million times before. And the pricing? I'm the wine buyer at my company, and I must say we were knocking down Antinori Toscana ( a decent middle of the road wine) bottle after bottle and it was inexpensive enough to do just that and still stick my older brother with the tab.

Total Backlog part 1--Brooklyn

Holy moley, the busy season does this to a fellow. My little scribble pad is full of places that I've vowed to review, only to not review. Many of these are antiquated, but probably still relevant.

The Meatball Shop--Williamsburg:

718.551.0520

Right in the center of the universe for Williamsburg, this place seemed to come out of nowhere one day and replace an old card shop (I think?). There's a few in the city, so like other local LES franchises (Grif dog's and San Loco to name a few) these guys decided to capitalize by exploiting their demographic. Anyway, it has all of the hipster fixins: marble bar, turn of the century vibe, and comfort food. Seems like a recipe for success, but how could they make it different enough to stand out from all of the other places doing the exact same thing? By using a dry erase marker on a jarring and poorly designed laminated menu to select your meatballs? Stupendous!

So there's this over-designed menu to contend with, and since I'm sitting at the bar trying to make sense of it, and the bartender is too busy rehearsing his bit to help us, how about a decent pilsner draft beer? PBR, the only option, is totally insufficient. And why I'm on the subject of the bar, I appreciate a comedian/bartender as much as the next asshole, but how about a little less joking around and a little more pouring my pisswater beer? The meatballs, on the other hand, are as good as advertised. Too bad they make it overly confusing to order and hire jackass bartenders.

Trix--Williamsburg:
347.599.0702

Speaking of overly designed, walk a few blocks north and you run into Trix. Completely re-done in all painted wood, this place was a florist shop for years, but eventually like everything Polish in this neighborhood transformed into a wooden bar with cute hipster waitresses.

Oddly, we ate here the night before the infamous Irene rain storm that came through. We had oysters, bruschetta with artichoke, and fries. I can't comment too much as this is way distant (more distant than I've ever gone before!) but I can say that I haven't been since--meaning I definitely didn't shit myself with excitement. Though, to be fair, it's hard to get that excited eating oysters. Unless, of course, they're very, very bad oysters.

Fat Goose--Williamsburg:
718.963.2200

This place is the culmination of someone trying to grasp the whole hipster Brooklyn thing by reading about it and replicating from magazine clippings. And boy oh boy, there's nothing worse than seeing a restaurant with hard working people destined to fail. The last time I wrote that was about the Clerkinwell in the LES and I was proven wrong. Much in the same vain I hope I'm wrong about this place, but we were here with my entire family the night before Thanksgiving and they had maybe, I'm being generous here, ten covers. The staff was clearly bored and worse, were used to it.

The chef came and served a lot of the stuff herself (clear sign of a dead restaurant--as she even had time to comment about a bad yelp post) which was a bummer because one of the appetizer specials was about as delectable as gravy train which made the fact we didn't eat it a little awkward when she came back. The entrees were all prepared well, and the vision of a game influenced menu is cool, but this place is too new, too polished, trying too hard. A game influenced menu should have a rustic vibe, not an overly varnished strip mall pedestal-table vibe.

The chef seemed sincere and was quite pleasant, too bad that doesn't equate to success in this town.