Montreal

It's been a while since I've done a post about an entire city.  I feel as though I might have posted about Barcelona, but not quite sure.  It doesn't matter, Barcelona has too much going on to try an encapsulate in a single post, but at the same time is not a city of more than three days.

Much could be said about Montreal, though, I was only there for three so it worked out perfectly.  It's been a bit since the trip so I'm going to have to rely on my scribbles.

Darling Foundry:

(514) 759-9815

Some sort of art bar weirdness run by Quebecois Ecuadorians.  Seriously.  Not a lick of English, fortunately for me I speak equally bad Spanglish and French.  This will explain why I ordered a cheese sandwich and ended up with a peice of cheese and some beer.  Cool place, however, with a nice laid back coffee shop vibe.   There are no places like this in NYC--that's a quote from my scribbles.

Bily Ku

I have no idea.  Here are my notes:  Ostrich Head.  Bad Math.  Hmmmm.

L'Express:

(514) 845-5333

This place I remember vividly as it was a three hour marathon of French cuisine.  One word: Cornichons.  Just about every place in Montreal delivers mustard and tiny yet delicious little pickles to your table.  This place, a well established French bistro, must have started the trend.  A little touristy, but those pickles quickly squashed that.  As we were four we sampled a pretty decent selection of the menu: caviar, muscles, fish, and the tar tar.  In fact two of us ordered the tar tar, which means we had roughly fifty ounces of raw ground beef.  The food was good. The service, a little too used to fleecing tourists, but not bad.  The tar tar; constipating.

Whisky Cafe

(514) 278-2646

Being drunk on straight vodka, Beaujolais, and raw meat., we decided to find a place to buy and smoke Cuban cigars.  Unfortunately, Montreal is like the rest of the world in that there is no place to smoke them inside.  Eventually, we found Whiskey Cafe a cigar bar that also happened to have a zillion single malts you've never heard of.  We bought our cigars, but wife one and wife two were not about to chill in the smoking lounge, so instead we knocked back a whiskey.  I decided it would be a fine idea to go dancing which led us to....

The Waverly:

My notes: Local Bar.  Alright if you're a Quebecois douche.

Le Contemporain:
514 847-6900


After a long walk and a brutal raw beef and vodka hangover, we conceded to eat lunch at the cafe right next door to the contemporary art museum.  It's on St Catherine and traffic is constantly whizzing by, but when that first pint of beer came the traffic dulled to a hum and we got down to business.  Fries, fried cheese, and more of those little pickles.  It wasn't too expensive, and to be honest, a relief just to sit down after power walking up and then down a mountain.  


Lawrence:

(514) 503-1070

Dinner number two were were weary from a long walk on the Mount, Real, and the hangover from the previous night.  I'd still had yet to pass the loaf of tar tar in my large intestine.  Lawrence was actually quite pleasant. Here's our letter grading system (patent pending):

Apetizers:

Linguine B

Macheral A++

Charchuterie (like pickles and mustard on just about every menu you saw) No Grade

Sausage: B+

Sturgeon: A++

Chicken Special: A

Trout: A

Soup B+

The desserts all sucked.  They had a baked alaska that simply did not deliver.  But as for the rest of the dinner, if those were my grades I probably wouldn't be an unheralded blogger.  Pretty nerdy grades.

St. Viateur Bagels

(514) 276-8044

This place has legendary bagels, as we were told to go by multitudes of locals transplanted to NYC.  We were psyched to get them to go on our way back to the city, but you know what?  They don't own a toaster.  It's a divey bagel conveyor belt and a bunch of leery eyed hasids.  You buy these things by the dozen and walk back to your home to eat them at your lesiure.  Since this was Sunday, we were totally fucked for an early breakfast.  And had to eat chewy bagels with little cream cheese to go containers on our drive back.  Thanks all-knowing insiders.

Ethos--Manhattan

(212) 888-4060

I don't know if this is the post I should discuss the fact that Google has completely changed the blog format, added a locations tab, label tab, and all sorts of other shit that I feel compelled to use to keep up with the ever changing landscape that is technology, but since I've started with such a long run-on sentence I might as well forge ahead.  I suppose I will use the map feature.  I'm not sure why I would label it, or schedule it, but okay.  For someone like me, that is someone who is definitely behind when it comes to technology, the ongoing evolution of Google, and email, and Apple totally sucks.  Just when I get used to something they change it in a completely unapologetic fashion.  I digress, the point is Google has given me absolutely no choice.  Like the crack dealers of the late eighties, they lured me in and now I'm hooked.

Ethos, is Greek.  Very Greek.  I should have realized this with the 18-year-old hostess who, with high heels and short skirt caught my attention right away.  She had this nubile I'm-the-daughter-of-the-owner thing going on that was nothing short of a perfect first impression.  What made the lasting impression, however, was the monobrow stretching from one eye to the other.  I was there with my wife and some friends, one of whom is a burnout Israili with the coolest pot smoking contraption ever (An Atmos).  And we all took a beat at the monobrow.

We decided to share a bunch of stuff, and it was all fresh, Mediterranean lightness: olive oil, lemon, grilled food.  I feel like they only had grilled fish on the menu all prepared one way: with olive oil and lemon.  And not to be overtly redundant, but guess what we had?  Grilled white fish with lemon and olive oil.  We also had a big greek salad that the Israeli ordered.  It was gigantic. He ate most of it.  The food was pretty good, the service professional enough (they even snuck the Israeli and I, who have the collective subtlety of a rocket launcher shots of tequila while our wives were in the can) though I'm pretty sure one of the guys was banging the monobrow at the front door.

What else do you want?  It's on 51st and 2nd (check the location).  I'm not exactly sure why we went here to begin with, it was really one of those restaurants in NYC that the neighbors all go to but that you'll never go to again.  I'll always remember that mono-brow.  Damn, it was unsightly.

Gwynett Street--Brooklyn

347.889.7002

Finally.  Dear God, it is about time.  Not only has a restaurant opened in Williamsburg in a much needed  spot off of the Graham Avenue stop, less of course the tragically sinking Motorino, but it has done so in an atypical Brooklyn fashion.  Gwynett street has finally decided to deviate from the Hipster culinary tree, instead pushing the envelope with ambitious cuisine that does not include a) a hanger steak, b) a burger, or c) a mac and cheese.

Originally a pizza shop, turned steakhouse (Catch 22), you wouldn't expect to have your mind blown walking in, as the place hasn't really changed since the last one.  It isn't until you sit down and have all sorts of gourmet delicacies do you realize that you're in for a treat.  Egg dish, nailed it.  Duck?  Off the charts. Whiskey Bread?!?  I mean they make bread with whiskey!    It wasn't until we spoke to the owner that we realized the chef was from WD50 and hired right off of craigslist.  Take that human resources department.

What is most refreshing, aside that we got a seat right away despite the favorable NY Times review, was the fact it wasn't trying to be Brooklyn.  The decor didn't scream turn-of-the-century chic.  There weren't vested, mustached, tattooed dudes tending bar (though I think one of them did have a tattoo).  It was refreshing to step outside of the dining hegemony that has plagued gentrification of this borough for too long.  It is the beginning of the revolution comrades, and we will rally around Gwynett Street.

Bellwether--Brooklyn

347.529.4921

What a surreal experience beloved nine. Royal oak, once the smaller star in the binary drinking system that was union avenue, converted itself into a restaurant. Seriously, this place is like a cross between Sweetwater and Walter's Foods. Take a raw bar, simple american menu, and combine it with a re-vamped and sanitized former water hole (though Sweetwater had much, much more cache, and in a much too long aside is why Union Pool became the larger star in the binary system) and presto a restaurant. And it seems to be doing just fine as we watched this place that is maybe a month old turn away young thirty-something couple after young thirty-something couple. Mark my words, as they seem to have a predictive quality to them, not only will this place survive in spades due to its proximity to the Emerald City that is Bloomberg's tax abatement, but it will also add more seating between the bar and newly apholstered booths to meet said demand.

Enough of this, Iconman, how's the food? Good but a little over thought. It certainly isn't going to have the same culinary intelligence of Diner or ISA, but at the same time they're trying to satistfy just about everyone with a little of this a little of that approach. I had the "blackened chicken," which is really more of a rip off of Bilboque's cajun chicken, and it wasn't horrendous just not necessarily inspired. My wife had a special, it was with ramps and was okay.  My shrimp cocktail had a hair in it. Who cares? The fact I can walk here in the middle of winter great outweighs the occasional eyelash or trimmed pube.

I think my drum beat of pointing out the obvious is finally being heard. Well, by nine followers that is. Any who, this place is worth checking out, though not necessarily worth going out of your way. I'm sure, by sheer necessity, I'll come here again. Hopefully, they'll bring back the free foosball.

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.