Aurora--Brooklyn

718.388.5100

I’ll admit that we were loud and rowdy. I mean, for Christ’s sake we had kazoos. At $100 a person though, that’s no excuse. I’ve said before and now I’ll say it again: nothing can fuck up a perfectly good time like bad service.

We were ten strong and it was our friend’s birthday. We’d all eaten there before and appreciated the authentic Italian fare. And truth be told, when you finally get the food it’s pretty fucking good. It’s real Italian in the sense that it’s not dumbed down cream sauces and breaded veal that American’s have grown to associate with the boot. But this is all besides the point, because I’ve seen four-year-olds that could serve a table better than the way we were served on this particular night.

So…where do I begin? How about it took twenty minutes for us to get a drink order. To make things simple we asked for a bottle of red and a bottle of white. A few of us threw a curve ball at our waiter by asking for some Peroni’s. Evidently the chore of taking such a complex drink order short-circuited our waiter. He delivered the white wine, opened it, offered it, then left the red wine on the table unopened. I can only guess that he thought one of us would have a wine key. When he resurfaced, five minutes later, with the Peroni’s I asked to get the red wine open. His curt response was that he couldn’t serve us the beers and wine at the same time, he only has, like, two hands—I want to throw out that I have nothing against gay people, male or female, and generally consider someone’s sexual preference a non issue in all manners of interaction, unless of course, I get, like, an affected gay bitch boy who, like, has to talk, like all of the gay designers on Project Runway, like, so gross— Yes, fuckhead you only have two hands and evidently half a brain, so why don’t you open the red wine while the micros printout of the beer order is probably fourth or fifth in line, instead of leaving an un-opened bottle on the table to go wait, yes wait, for the beer?

Two-handed Jack wasn’t finished with us though. After the twenty-minute delay in getting our drink order, it was another cool twenty to order our food. When we all finally received our first course, it was about an hour after we sat down. When we were served our entrée it was a mere hour and forty-five minutes after we sat down. I can’t necessarily blame our handicapped server on this one, although he couldn’t be bothered to help run our food, leaving it to the runner to take five trips from the kitchen, because of the fascinating conversation he must have been having about gloves, or mittens, or other apparatus that involve not one but two hands. Nonetheless, the dinner took up our night; dessert was also fucked up, because we unintentionally confused our server by asking for Sambuca with our espresso, and almost expected the mistake.

Here’s the fucking the rub though, and might explain my overtly rant filled tone. We were still hit with a 20% gratuity because of the size of our party! Utterly fucking ridiculous! True, a large party should mean a more difficult job for the server. And a loud, kazooing, party that desperately wants to get drunk despite ever attempt by captain inept to keep us sober, is probably more difficult than say, a party of ten republicans. But the service on this night was not worth 20%, and since our check was around $1000, this fuck did not deserve $200 for what I could describe as the worst service I’ve ever had in New York City. Aurora, like so many other promising restaurants in the Burg, is off my list due to some stupid, pretentious, shit head who doesn’t consider the $300 a night he/she makes a “good job.” You’re servers! It’s your job to be servile. I’m not asking for you to abandon self-respect, but there is a degree of caste in your position. You make your money on serving people. Satisfying their requests. Making them happy. What’s wrong with that?

Suba--Manhattan

212.982.5714

So here is my problem with ultra chic, sparkling new, saccharine restaurants: they intimidate me. It’s not their polished sterility, nor their eclectic cuisine, or well thought out décor, I actually think that it’s the staff. They hold themselves with the air that they some how out interviewed thousands of other village-voice applicants on some Wednesday morning, and earned the right to be snooty. Now Suba, a new ultra-chic, sparkling new, restaurant on the Lower East Side, did not have particularly snooty staff, but it didn’t matter, it wanted to be place like those other places so that’s good enough for me.

In all honesty I wasn’t intimidated as usual because this restaurant’s image hinged on a gimmick, somehow making the vibe more palatable, in that you now pity the staff the same way you pity the teenage kid operating the kiddy rides at Six Flags. You know he wants to run the roller coasters that have a steady stream of cute high-school chics with their vato boyfriends, but alas he’s sequestered to the bird cage and swinging toddlers around at the pace of a brisk walk. The gimmick behind Suba, which I’m sure means something in some other language –you look it up—is that the main dining room sits on a pool. If it didn’t have that, I don’t know why they would charge such high prices. And as far as gimmicks go it isn’t bad, I mean, the lighting on the waves gives the restaurant a cool glowy effect. But like most gimmicks though, this one wasn’t thought all the way through as the first thing our host, waiter, and busboy said to us was watch your stuff. Cool gimmick, where the fuck are the hooks?

The staff was relatively knowledgeable, though the manager thought my tie didn’t look nice so how knowledgeable could he really be? The wine list was long and impressive, and our waiter was all over it, which is a big plus (refer to paragraph one). The tapas cuisine, however, was completely hit or miss. I could go into detail here, but it’s tapas. Tapas to me is like sushi. You’re going to order the same thing at every tapas place, so why go into detail about what I ordered, since my staple tapas order consists of dates and bacon, meatballs, and sautéed shrimp? If the food is good for my standby tapas order, then it is safe to presume it will be for yours. My meatballs were overcooked. I don’t think I had dates or shrimp. Another thing I don’t understand about tapas is the food intentionally delayed or is the chef just an asshole? I mean, is there ever a possibility that a tapas chef might actually get everything to the table at the exact same time? Or is it some sort of chef intuition, that she plans certain things to go with other certain things, and each particular order creates a different algorithm of timing? Or, is the chef a chef, in that she does whatever she pleases because she thinks her job is harder than anyone else’s? It doesn’t really matter, because aside from the scientific oddity of choice number two no answer is a good one. And that’s why the Spanish empire tumbled; they never knew what they were getting next.

So, I digress. Suba is an interesting place. It’s one of those bespectacled places in NYC that you’d take your easily impressed out of town friends to show off how cool a restaurant could look. And because your friends are so impressionable, they’d understand why things were overcooked, or the staff was snooty, or your hand bag fell into an over chlorinated Petri dish.

Tasting Room--Manhattan

212.358.7831

Okay, so who am I to write a review about a restaurant like this? I have mild aspirations to become a foodie, and loving criticizing what I think is wrong with less serious restaurants. I’m more of a restaurant bully, knowing that it takes very little to knock a server off kilter by making demands outside of the normal way they do things. It’s easy, in a way, to look at a place and pick out it’s flaws by gazing through the lens of what I would do with the place if it were mine. The Tasting Room, on the other hand, is in a league above what I know to be proper or right. I write to you now a humbled dilettante.

The dining room is simple and quaint, and though the bar is centered in such a way that you have to walk by it to get to your table it isn’t cumbersome. Immediately after sitting down you are attended to. Though I belabor this in all of my restaurant writings, nothing compliments good food better than good service and this seems to be a cornerstone of Tasting Room, and though the dining is not formal, the service does not take casual dining casually. To give you a visual of what I am talking about, take the appearance of the waiter. He had a beard and ponytail, two things frowned upon in the world of formal service, yet his knowledge of the food, wine, and the respect with which he held himself told me he took the job seriously. The timing of the meal was impeccable and our water glass was never left empty.

We started with the pumpkin salad, the crab and lobster consommé’ and pork and hen terrine. All of them were utterly delicious, the pumpkin salad in particular. Once our first courses were finished, they did the service of clearing and replacing our silver, even if we hadn’t used it. Again, a seemingly “formal” service aspect, though I think it really makes a difference. Why would anyone want to use the same fork and knife over and over? You put it on your table and then there’s olive oil on the table, and then that olive oil gets on your French cuff and then you’re pissed off the rest of the night as everyone in your party tries homeopathic remedies to remove oil. The next thing you know you’ve got salt and soda water and hairspray on your wrist and you’re miserable for the rest of the night because some Ecuadorian bus boy couldn’t be bothered to replace your salad fork and knife. Fuck a bitch if I haven’t had this exact thing happen to me three different times.

For the entrée I had the Pork rib, while my companions both tried fish: Bass and Skate. The sides were again perfectly complimentary, from the carrots to the French leaks, and though the portions were exactly hearty, we were quite full by the end of the meal. The server again sensed us about to finish and came and offered dessert right away instead of coming by on afterthought. It was though he considered dessert to be part of the meal. We all split the Apple Short cake, again divine, polished off some excellent dessert wine, Torbeck if I’m not mistaken, and went our merry way. The night was excellent; the food was excellent, the service, finally—thank God almighty-- was excellent.

Fornino's--Brooklyn

718.384.6004

So we used to live right next door to the L Cafe and remember saying goodbye to the ineptitude that it fostered, reveling when a small business with a semi-corporate panache called Fornino’s took place. Imagine our excitement when this gourmet place opened up, complete with a competent staff and a stellar classica Margherita pizza. Within a few months Fornino was the staple Sunday night dinner, we had it down to such a science that we could budget the exact dollar amount and run down in our bathrobes in the dead of winter. Yes, it was the best of times, and looking back I now know that we took Fornino for granted by calling it our local pizza restaurant.

Unfortunately, the vagaries associated from living across from Spike Hill and Greenpoint Tavern forced us to part ways with the comfort we’d so depended upon. We moved two stops away on the L, to Italian Williamsburg. Now this area is much more quiet and subdued, and though it is resplendent with Italian restaurants and pizza parlors, nothing could compare to Fornino’s delectability. I now no longer eat at Fornino’s, and this is indirectly related with moving.
It is heart wrenching to develop a relationship with a restaurant that is owned by a devoted chef, a person who’s very soul is served up daily on wood fired dough, and then seeing this restaurant run by a bunch of stupid, inconsiderate, bungling nincompoops. After a few weeks of withdrawal we opted to try a delivery. We called Fornino’s unfamiliar with the delivery zones due to our recent proximity and the girl who answered the phone admitted she wasn’t sure about delivery, but that they weren’t open for another hour and we should call back. When we called back an hour later (starving) she said that the driver was happy to trek out to East Williamsburg to deliver to devoted ex-neighbors and took our order. We were elated, not only were they going to deliver, but we had also been promoted to quasi regular-status. An hour passed, and were now two hours from our initial call (famished). We waited. Another twenty minutes passed and my wife called back. The girl said that the driver had refused to deliver once he realized where we lived. We asked why she couldn’t have called us, why she had to torture us with the anticipation of a Fornino’s pie, why she couldn’t have practiced a little human decency and at least given us the courtesy of a phone call? She replied that she was busy, and unapologetically hung up the phone.

After a few minutes our anger bubbled up. Who was this woman to torment us so? Some twenty-something artist, unconcerned with customer service that is so beneath her, and mostly likely uninspired by the very art she served no doubt. We called back demanding the manager. Imagine our surprise when a few minutes later the bus boy gets on the phone! Delivery he asks in a thick south American accent, no we say, manager. I manager he responds, delivery? No! Where’s the manager?!? Click. We call back. No answer, the restaurant caller id reveals our number. That sniveling little turd not only was discourteous to us, but is willing to stake the reputation of sublime pizza on her snide demeanor. Fuck her, fuck Fornino’s, eat there if you want but I am man of principle. I would rather eat stale Italian-Williamsburg pizza than potentially support a smug little cunt like that.

Pere Pinard--Manhattan

212.777.4917

There’s nothing worse than a relatively good restaurant going to shit. Experiencing this deplorable truth inevitable happens the last night you attend the restaurant, when you succumb to the fact that despite your fond memories and security in knowing a solid place in a foreign neighborhood, the meal that sits in front of you is shit. Overpriced, overcooked, underserved, shit.

The establishment in question that conjured this recent sentiment is none other than the Lower East Side French Embassy: Pere Pinard. I had the misfortune of dining with some true pros, as a celebratory dinner for the changing of the guard at the East Village staple 26 Seats -- It should be noted that 26 Seats has also allegedly befallen the same fate due to said change in ownership.

The evening was to thank the owners for six years of employment and delectable authentic French cuisine. For many French imports Pere Pernard is familiar fare, and we figured that it was as good as any place in the neighborhood. I’d been there quite a few times and remember the steak frites being the perfect pre Ludlow Street bender food. I’d taken friends there from overseas. I’d gotten really drunk in the bar. It was always a reliable place to eat decent, albeit not outstanding, French food and check out some authentic Franco-trim. But as I was about to learn, those days are over.

Let’s start with the fact that they ran out of house wine. Not after serving the fourth or fifth bottle to a large party over the course of a diner, but at 7:00 at night after serving just a glass. The bartender ran out of house wine. Now, I know I’m kind of a stickler but if a guy comes in to your restaurant the first of a large party, assume he’s going to be drinking for a while. Don’t offer him something you only have two servings of. Just don’t. That rookie mistake should have warned me of the potential disaster, but I chalked it up cost cutting mischief and ordered a different bottle. By that time, everyone had arrived and we sat for dinner.

Now the food, Christ the food. No cuisine is affected more by stale, old, or poor quality ingredients than French. And since you’re preparing it in front of the guests, this rule of thumb especially applies to steak tar tar. I had the Salmon, which was disgusting in its own, overcooked way, and the lettuce on my first course, a mixed green salad, was wilted. Luckily for them, the rest of our guests were either too drunk or too young to notice. Fifi, the staple manager was nowhere to be found, and the service, though marginal, strutted around as though they weren’t serving last week’s leftovers.

Though not as bad as losing the quality of food and drink, there is almost nothing worse than an established restaurant relying upon its Lower East Side attitude for business. I appreciate restaurant mavericks pioneering into pre-gentrified and often dangerous neighborhoods. Though I don’t agree, I begrudgingly accept that if you work at a cool establishment you have the right to take the whole service/hospitality thing a little lighter. You have the right to charge a little more for the food, considering a price of admission of sorts. But to do this, you have to have the food to back it up. Pere Pernard, if it keeps this trend going, is going to become a well known bar that serves suspect bar food.

North East Kingdom--Brooklyn

718.386.3864

Northeast kingdom is exactly what it is. That statement is so tautological it becomes nonsensical, and I’m okay with that. The small, modest little place deep in the heart of Brooklyn, call it Williamsburg, or Bushwick, or Bed Sty, (I don’t know exactly where it is), doesn’t try to clobber you with gourmet comfort food pretense. It doesn’t overwhelm you with fancy-pants soft cow’s milk cheeses or exotic seasonal vegetables. The décor is modest, not riddled with post hipster kitsch appeal. No, Northeast Kingdom presents itself in all its layers as a small, quiet, neighborhood place that serves an affordable dinner. Thank God, for if I have to visit another stupid, gimmick riddled, quasi-gourmet Brooklyn restaurant I’d puke.
As most of the restaurants in Brooklyn, Kingdom’s staff is composed of older idealistic artists awaiting their upper middle class inheritance. And that’s cool. To be honest I find most people in that demographic to be educated and generally quite nice. What separates the Northeast Kingdom’s staff from the rest of the echelon is that they’re not trying to shove some sort of foodie snobbery down your throat.

I visited this restaurant with a group of friends in the know about a new place. Believe me you, I don’t necessarily know good restaurants from bad restaurants, and still feel that the Polish Diner on Bedford Avenue might be a contender for the best place in Brooklyn (to be honest this has less to do with the food than it does with the stiff, aloof Polish Lesbians who run the joint). None the less, when we got there we drank some beers and basically mixed it up enough to sample about everything on the menu. It’s not the best meal in town, in fact the green salad was rather ordinary, but the menu had some gems. For instance the chicken pot pie rocked. Granted, if you fuck up a chicken pot pie you’re either an idiot or my mother, but it was still a non pretentious down home meal. And that’s how most of the meal was, nothing flashy, nothing gross, just hearty and warm and inviting. The food was good, it was served hot, and it didn’t cost much money, really, what more can you ask for?

Dressler's--Brooklyn

718.384.6343


A beautifully restored restaurant, the iron wrought dining room reminds me of London, or perhaps New Orleans, not hipster haven Williamsburg. The iron working and tiled floors give off an ambiance that is rarely found in New York. This is about all I can say that was positive about the experience, and as much as I hate to write a negative review, cannot avoid it after encountering such an over-priced, mediocre, and quite frankly, insulting experience.
Owner, Colin Devlin, is no stranger to the gourmet Americana fare. Dumont, and Dumont Burger, both offer quality products at reasonable prices. Yet, his insistence on good food must have made him blind to service, and the shadow cast by the misgivings of the pretentious servers could spoil even the most savory of dishes. Not to say that the menu is something more than usual. It reeks of over cheffing, with each and every item having just one too many ingredients; for instance the sea scallop salad that contains too many oranges. Or the snapper, which turns out to be a considerably Asian dish in an Americana restaurant. All in all the menu has no identity or consistency, and the only dish that was interesting was a throwback to Dumont: the White bean and Artichoke salad.

Our party of three arrived on time for our reservation, and then waited five minutes to flag down a server to order a cocktail. We were tartly informed that she wasn’t our server, and thus rendered completely incapable of helping us. While waiting for our server we served bread, but no water. I can only assume they wanted us to work up our thirst, but this was not the case for when our server did arrive she asked for our dinner order. Fifteen minutes or so later, we were given our cocktails and our wine simultaneously. This junior varsity maneuvering should have prompted us to go, but I foolishly coaxed my companions to stay a little while longer.
Dressler does not offer specials, nor does it allow substitutions. To me, this is the spawn of chef ego, insisting that we eat the food the way it was meant to be prepared. This line of arguing is sufficient until a dietary restriction or food allergy comes in to play, and then its self-righteousness shines. "Sorry I can't take out the peanuts because of a nut allergy, we don't allow substitutions." The menu was so overly sophisticated that two of us ordered the plain salad and the “Rib eye.” Imagine our alarm when we served what looked to be a strip steak. We mentioned it to the server and she quickly corrected us, insisting that it was indeed a rib eye steak. Now I am no stranger to this business, and do not need to recount my resume to justify that I was not served a rib eye steak. Let’s just say that for one it was far too lean. When I pointed this out to her she said that it was marbled with fat. I nearly went cross-eyed. When I asked her to demonstrate the marbling effect on my piece, she said that the chef must have trimmed the marbling. That ranks easily as the top five stupidest things I’ve ever heard. Furthermore, any chef with a head for food costs would be foolish to buy a rib eye steak, only to trim away the fat that gives it its entire flavor. Even now, recounting this, I’m incensed.
Since we left without desert, after paying roughly $75 per person for two courses a bottle of wine, and a cocktail, I am unable to comment on the dessert menu. And why bother? If you are reading this I highly recommend you steer clear of Dressler. Believe me; you can admire the only nice thing about it from the street.