Alto Paradiso--Manhattan

(646) 952-0828

Holy shit faithful 8!  It's been so god damned long since I've been able to write about a place with such conviction, such fervor.  I mean, a real gourmet place sans the pretension or buzz, at least to my knowledge, and from the looks of the crowd a pretty mellow place.  As important, perhaps more important, this was an old-school double date with the ol' wifey wife and the other ol' wifey wife, sometimes referred to as the 2nd wife for those following a decade ago.  I'd have to search around to know for sure, but know that it's been a long time since we've dined at a place we didn't own or that didn't suck.

Iconman, shut up, how was the food?  In a word: great.  We had just about all the menu had to offer, and I can tell you that it was all masterfully executed.  The cuisine lends itself to simplicity, and the ingredients were high quality so there you go.

More importantly, however, was the excellent waiter and staff.  Friendly, yet knowledgeable, they were able to navigate the menu with knowledge but lacking condescension or what I am now coining "faux service."  You heard it here first, faux service.  This is what people who don't know what they're doing hang on to the little that they do know, and then do that so much and in such a pronounced way that they look stupid.  It happens quite frequently in the food and beverage industry, as you can take a little fragment about something, say where a wine was made, and be so confident in your delivery that people automatically assume you know what the fuck you are talking about.  When you know one detail about one region in one country in the whole world of wine producers.  Faux service manifests in many different ways:  walking around the dining room with your arms behind your back being hyper observant, like Morpheus if he were a host.  Or spouting fun facts and histories about the pastas, but mispronouncing the accompaniment.  Or writing a badly written blog. It saddens me, as it is incredibly difficult to know, I mean truly understand, a menu like Alto Paradiso.

Any who, no faux service here.  This place is legit as it gets.

Red Rooster--Manhattan

212.792.9001

Holy fucking honey butter.  Went here for a business lunch on a lovely spring day that must have been graduation day for some local college.  The place was fucking packed.  We muscled in, grabbed a high top table before anyone figured out it was available, and hunkered down for a two hour lunch. 

The wait was long.  I mean it took us 2o minutes for a beer.  Given the lack of urgency with the bar staff, I though a peter lugering was in the making and about to go apeshit when our waitress delivered that honey butter with home made cornbread.  It saved me, us, and the lunch.

We all ordered a crispy chicken sandwich, which was good except that it was covered in hot sauce.  Not too hot, but it changed the texture from crispy to soggy.  Fortunately for me I was so hungover from the night before I devoured it with little fan fare.

This place was slow.  Granted, it was packed.  So packed it makes me want to re-think the whole State Liquor Authority ban on licenses within 250 of a church, which is why Harlem is still a veritable no-man's land of fine dining and night life in an largely gentrified neighborhood.  Any who, this place is a solid B, for butter.

Malibu Farm--Malibu

310-456-1112

If you're hanging out in Southern California, and the sun is shining, and the birds are chirping and you'd like to be surrounded by beautiful healthy people then this place might be for you.  Talk about picturesque, this place is pristine. Nestled right on the ocean, we enjoyed freshly made by liberal laid-back hotties (both men and women) serving the ultra-rich LA types.  Tons botox laden housewives drinking wheat-grass infused teas, and eating avocado toast. 

Pricy, yet fresh, the food was passable. If you're a health nut then you're gonna be psyched.  Freshly made and flavorful, it was a touch veggie heavy for me.  I had the quesadillas, and we split a bunch of other crap that I didn't touch.  Even the ice cream was somehow healthy, with real fruit (you could see the seeds) blended with freshly organic cream massaged out of the cow while two hippie-nymphs whispered into its ear.  Perhaps the crowing achievement was convincing my 5-year-old that cauliflower pizza was real pizza and then watching her unknowingly eat an entire plate of vegetables. 

The place was prime for people watching, I mean, I already mentioned it was on a pier in Malibu. LA is funny as it's so sprawling you somehow forget that it's a huge ass city which comes with a robust cast of characters.  It's easy to think that you're looking at some unsophisticated wanna-be, until you watch them pull away in a fully-loaded Audi and realize their net worth is 100 times yours.  I don't blame anyone for dropping anchor in Malibu and eating at a place like this.  If I had the money and time, it's exactly where I would go too.

Mohunk Mountain House--NY

845.765.3286

When I heard about this place I figured we'd take a nice, rustic, quiet weekend at what looked to be a hidden gem of a family friendly trip.  Then after scant research, I realized that there's no way we could afford $1,100 a room.

So, we opted to piss away slightly less money and drag our two small children up to the most expensive buffet lunch in history.  After getting passed the front gate--and the only way to prevent people from avoiding the food and beverage extortion, you take a very scenic drive up a windy mount road to a staggering reveal of the house.   And given that introduction, I started to wonder if the price was worth it.

The place was clean, but refurbished twenty years ago.  Upon scrutiny, the cheesy faux-rustic creeps out but is not remotely cool, as though it was a deluxe Marriot with zero soul or genuineness. This poorly outfitted retro only advertised the fact that it was clearly a money maker--an inauthentic rustic vibe fabricated to fool the masses.  There were day time conferences, bachelor parties, and the unmistakable garb and odor of European travelers all duped by the views.

The lunch was laughable.  Similar to the decor, the buffet looked just a touch antiquated and the food had a stale and un-fresh quality; barely over the bar set by school cafeterias.  If I were paying, say, $15 a head for this buffet, I'd be content with the views and crappy volley ball courts.  But you're there for the pristine quality of the lake and hiking, that's what your paying for not the hotel or the food, and in that regard I'm not sure the views are worth it.

Virgina

Had a whirlwind tour with the ol' wifey wife.  I don't think I've ever done a post about the lover's state, so better late than never.

Virginia Beach:

Cavalier Club:
757.428.3131

As this is a private club, not sure you're gonna be too interested beloved eight.  Unless, of course, you're a retired Jew!  The food and service are exactly what you expect from a club--sub par.  The reason being, is any serious cook/waiter/chef, is at a real place working for cash or at the very least a higher hourly rate.

Great golf course though.

Croakers:
757.363.2490

Now here's a really legit shit-hole crab shack.  Low frills.  Mis-matched furniture several decades old.  And a bunch of bloated, tan regulars parking their full-sized pick up trucks to saddle up and drink cold bottles of whatever domestic piss water they prefer.

The food was basically a vessel for drawn butter.  Plenty of Old Bay and lemon kicking around.  Not a bad place, not a culinary epiphany.

Richmond:

Jefferson Hotel:
888.918.1895

Now we're talking.  Let's go 180 degrees the opposite direction from Croakers to the prim and stuffy Southern Jefferson Hotel.  Talk about swanky, this place left no amenity un-turned.  Fuck a bitch.  I mean they had video in the mirrors.  A great pool.  Turn down service.  And the robes, like being draped in a plush shroud of Turin.

Iconman, who cares, how was the food?  The food?  We had brunch and it was brunchy.  The service and quality were commensurate with everything other gilded aspect of this place.

821:
804.649.1042

Welcome to Hipster Richmond.  Quite a departure from the swankiness of the Jerfferson this place was comfort food royale.  I had a chicken salad sandwich with cumin, my wife had a great burger, and my little one rocked a grilled cheese.  The server was mindful of kids, and there was a cool, laid back vibe to this place.

The Roosevelt:
804.658.1935

It helps knowing the executive chef.  And considering that, we basically tried everything on the menu.  And everything was great.  I mean everything.  Great.  Fuck an A man, I'd be hard pressed to find a place in New York that had such a consistent menagerie of unique dishes.  Maybe Diner.  Maybe.  In fact, I'd gander outside of NY and Europe, this place is the best meal I've had.

If you're in Richmond, and looking for a place to eat.  This should be your only selection.

Tim Ho Wan--Manhattan

212.228.2800

Went there after a very long walk across town because of its acclaim.  I mean, a cheap Michelin star?  Why the fuck not?  And like every other sucker that walked in expecting a culinary epiphany, I got so caught up in the idea of something, it blinded me to common sense.

When we arrived we noticed right of the bat that this is a legitimate dumpling place, in that is was packed with Asians, slurping down dumplings with their chopsticks only they way they can.  I've got nothing against Asians, but will say their adeptness with chopstick is a sight to behold.  They almost use them like a spoon.

Iconman, who cares about how Asian eating implements?  How was the food?  Well, we waited a while and eventually sat down at the bar.  Having walked as far as we did, we were quick to order beer first which annoyed the shit out of the dumpling man as he's there to serve dumplings not beer for the white man.   Still intoxicated by the buzz, and the seemingly authentic legitimacy, I'm still patient with what looks to be a total shit hole.

 The menu is very seafood heavy, and my companion doesn't eat fish or shellfish.  So our specialized order dodged more than half the menu.  The food?  Slimy in a word.  Tasty, but there was a wet noodleness to these suckers that I'd never experienced before.  It's sort of the difference from eating Americanized Shun Lee dumplings your whole life, and then getting the real deal.  Or, perhaps eating Olive Garden and then eating true Italian.  Maybe I need to acquire the taste, I don't know.  In the end though, I thought it was gross.  And the shitty service, lackluster decor, and brisk hurried nature didn't help its cause.

21 Club--Manhattan

212.582.7200

What to say beloved eight?  Yes, no longer nine, now eight.  Not sure who dropped out, but good riddance.  Eight's a better number for me anyway.  More denominators. First cubed number out there.

So I finally saddled up to the most over priced steak dinner in all of the land.  And it did not disappoint.  I expected a full-fledged Lugering, but surprisingly enough this place had an air of legitimacy.  Food wise, it was well-prepared.  Price was to be expected (not on my dime, thankfully). What I found most interesting, however, was the Sommelier.

Pray-tell Iconman, what is so interesting about a guy walking around with a sippy-spoon trying other people's wine?  Well, beloved eight, aside from the ridiculousness of the pomp and circumstance, I feel that this Sommelier' entire approach is completely misdirected.

Allow me a brief explanation.  To have a knowledge of wine to where you recognize the different flavors, palates, what-have-you--"earthy," "grassy," etc... I feel you must have an above average knowledge of wine.  That is, you know a California Red is gonna be this, or a Burgundy is gonna be that, and for the most part you have a handle on regions as they relate to expectations  Wait, let me walk that back.  I mean to a certain degree, 50% of the people on the planet that like wine enough to know what they like and will have inadvertently educated themselves enough to open up a wine list and see Burgundy and say to themselves--"Hey, I like burgundy.  I'll try some."

Enter Sommelier.  In my experience every Somm's MO is to saunter up to the table, while someone is thumbing through a forty page wine list, and ask what everyone is thinking.  And here's the rub.  I'm thinking, I can afford X, and therefore want the best possible wine for that price.  I'm less concerned with earthiness, texture, label, or what you think I may like,  and since I have someone at the table perfectly willing to pay several hundred dollars for wine, I don't want you to guess my opinion, I want your opinion.  You're the fucking expert.  Give me the best value for what pairs with what I am  eating at the exact price that I can afford.

What do I get?  "I have an interesting such and such..." and then the inevitably steer you to a place outside of your price range, to a wine that hasn't moved in ten years and they're just happy to ditch it on some schmuck that knows nothing about wine. Like me.  And of course since it's $400 I'm not about to send it back and have to enjoy it in an emperor-wears-no-clothes sort of way.

Even as I write this I realize that there are probably a million Somm's out there that are going to roll their eyes and tell me I get what I deserve.  They're not wrong.  But I maintain that it's not as though there's a specialized beef taster to give you the perfect cut of meat.  Or a spirit taster.  And that's because wine so infinitesimally more complex.  Which is my point.  Somms should help you navigate that, not complicate it by asking a novice what they like.  You might as well as ask a 4th grader to do calculus.  Maybe if I knew more about the subject, I'd be less of an idiot.  And that's a big maybe.