The Standard--Manhattan

212.645.4646

Boy oh boy a fancy pants dinner at the Standard. I generally try to stay away from such dazzling hot restaurants, as I am far too much of an asshole and do not belong. And the Standard is the place so I've been told which is why I'd never been. But one of my wives wanted to go, and what sort of Husband would I be not to satisfy her every whim?

A place like the Standard reminds me of why I am a misanthrope by nature, as everyone there is good looking, rich, or both. It reminds me that outside of my tiny little fiefdom, the city is teeming with people that don't consider a night out worth it unless they're at the place where everyone else wants to be. It's a worthy case study in sociology, but studies such as these are always performed by people like me: on the outside looking in. The people on the inside know they're on the inside, and thus have no reason to question why. We were able to score a lovely table in the dining room as long as we weren't late to our 6:15 pm Friday evening reservation, nearly a late lunch. The waiting list for a more reasonable hour was weeks and weeks, so we sucked it up and left work early.

Immediately I was reminded how a well run restaurant should be: the host told us that we had until 8:15 pm, so don't dally with dinner. This prompt, attentive service underscored the entire experience (that is until we went up stairs to the bar) but we never felt rushed, a testament to their overall polish. The food was acceptable for the price. We decided to split dishes, and selected the quail, the venison, as starters, and the trout and brazino as entrees with some brussel sprouts and duck fat potatoes. We finished up with oversized portions of cheesecake and Pecan Pie. As the menu changes daily I don't know if these were stalwarts or whether they were experiments but were executed well, though, the brussel sprouts were without a doubt the best thing we had. All in all, my socks were still on my feet considering it was $250 for two three-course meals and a decent bottle of red.

One nice feature that I must point out is the waiter gave us a free glass of grunervetliner for our fish. We had selected a heavy red wine, and it did not pair well at all. In fact, it paired so poorly that I actually noticed that it paired poorly, much like a blind man saying the color is off. My point is, this guy hooked us up out of genuine concern for our experiece. We were joking around--I believe an off-colored aside about anal sex kicked off our relationship--but it was nice to have someone be personable and generous but at the same time totally professional and respectful of his craft.

After dinner the menonite server, no really, his Grandmother was omish, recommended we visit the bar upstairs. The bar closes at 9:00 but reopens late night as an ultra swank lounge. Evidently their is a VIP bathroom where things get a little wierd. For all of the earnestness we experienced downstairs, we saw nothing but pretension and general loserdom associated with the Meat Packing District upstairs. The prices ($50 for two whiskey's) the jokey airplane stewardesses and nero jacket attendants, the douchebaginess of the the patronage, and the fact that a VIP bathroom even exists, all extoll an accurate first impression that this place would never be my scene despite the stunning view.

I suppose that it's awfully presumptious of me to assume that anyone who frequents the Standard would give two squirts for my opinions, but perhaps this was written to warn the would-be sociologist. I have no doubt that the restaurant will eventually lose it's busyness and settle into a great place to take out of town guests, as I am also assured of the eventual lameness of the upstairs bar. And I suppose with the comfortable nugget of self-assuredness, I can sleep at night.

Jimmy's-Brooklyn

(718) 218-7174

This place for a long time was a sandwich shop, and then it closed mysteriously after a visit from the health department. I only remember that because before the Emerald city was constructed we'd play bocci on the south east corner of the park and we used to go there to pee. I always remember it odd that it closed due to health department orders, because it didn't seem that gross. Then one of my venues failed a health department test for not having a current food handlers (our sous had the old one that was nothing more than a piece of paper) and not having soap in a hand sink dispenser. So it isn't to say that this old place wasn't crawling with vermin that are a hybrid of mice and cockroaches; but rather it's not that hard for the health department to close your doors for some ticky tack shit. None of this has anything to do with Jimmy's other than geographical coincidence by the way, but at least I got to say my piece about the NYC Department of Mental Health and Hygiene.

If I had to sum up Jimmy's menu in one word it would be: fried. If I had to write a haiku about Jimmy's it would read:
Hungover again
Let's eat taters and bacon
Good lord I am full.

I wouldn't recommend Jimmy's without a note from your doctor. On the flip side, if you're like me and your palate was honed on Wonderbread, Ding Dongs, and Pop Tarts, then you're in heaven. Everything on this menu could be classified as junk food. It's a place designed around the sustenance required when you're reeling on the morning after from an all day drinking binge. The place has a pretty solid dinner menu/sandwich menu as well, though I've never been there for anything but brunch.

On separate note this place is obviously family run. I like that; it means that the waitstaff actually give a shit about what's going on. Furthermore, they're also going to treat the place like their own, so if they're busy they probably won't be the most courteous or hospitable servers to pushy people who are bleary-eyed and think they deserve prompt flash-fried relief. But if you keep coming back for their abuse they eventually consider you to be part of the family.

I suppose that's all. The have some freaky photography on the walls, I particularly like the naked chick wearing the gas mask. Oh, and try their milkshakes. They may not be fried, but they're still quite fattening.

Moto--Brooklyn

(718) 599-6895

The first time I went to Moto I was afraid for my life. Not to say that I was in any danger, but rather I'm a puss when it comes to unfamiliar neighborhoods. Moto is wedged in an intersection directly below the elevated JMZ, and having to cut across South Williamsburg to get there I definitely noticed the socio-economic decline. I make it known that these are my own white-bred bigoted idiosyncrasies, which is a caveat at best and a poor excuse for character at worst. My snobbery is not the focal point of this, but rather that by the time I was finished at Moto I deemed it worth whatever self-contrived fears I had.

Some say Moto NYC is a copy of a well known Moto in Chicago, and this couldn't be further from the truth. They share the same name true, but there is no wacky gastronomical gimmicks coming from the Moto in NYC. Just take a gander at Moto NYC's kitchen; it's basically a hot plate and a microwave. Not to say Moto (NYC from now on I promise) doesn't have it's fair share of acclaim. There's a documentary about the making of this restaurant called Eat This New York (Directed by Andrew Rossi and Kate Novak) that depicts the hell it takes to open even a small restaurant like Moto. I don't know if it's a must see, but it's interesting at the very least.

As for the restaurant itself, I must be honest it's been a while. I admit the folly of reviewing a restaurant you haven't been to in a while, but this is the last of the old Williamsburg places I've been meaning to write about. I mean, it certainly deserves my attention. I've since moved well out of walking distance, but rest assured on the clarity of my memories of yesteryear. One, there's live music of the jazz variety. And considering the sqaure footage of the place that's a feat unto itself. Two, this place has a legitimate coolness about it. Opened in 2002, right before the New Williamsburg scene came to prominence, it secured itself a spot in the Williamsburg scene (5-leaves opened in conjunction with John McCormick and his bar tutelage). Three, the food, albeit comforty, is quite delicious especially considering the kitchen. The date cake in particular is about as good as they come and I vaguely remember having some tasty chicken. The service is what you get in old Williamsburg, self-respecting waiters not interested in a waiting career, but since Moto is so small and quaint it's impossible for them to ignore you.

I suppose that's as good as I can do considering I'm dredging almost all of this up from a memory my second wife calls "horrible." I'll eventually make it back there, and perhaps then can comment more on specific menu items. Regardless of what they're serving, I maintain that it's a restaurant worth the trip. But if you're a puss, or covered in diamonds, you might think about taking a cab.

Roebling Tea Room- Brookyn

(718) 963-0760

Okay so back from the holidays and back on the trolley...

I'm not sure what to make of a restaurant designed around the culture of tea drinkers. The immediate image that comes to mind is a bunch of British Aristocrats, straight from a Henry James novel. Not so appealing. If I dig a little deeper I think of mousy little librarians blaring Natalie Imbruglia songs. Excuse the blatancy but I can't help myself; not my cup of tea. So when I first walked into Roebling Tea room and saw a relatively cozy albeit sexy scene unfolding, I was a little confused.

This place snuck in under the radar and though has been open for a few years I would still classify it as old Williamsburg--you heard that term here first folks. Old Williamsburg, in my not so humble opinion, is what attracted the thousands upon thousands of people here to crowd the L train wearing suits and carrying Brooklyn Industry bags (that and an insane 15 year tax abatement on new construction). New Williamsburg is what is going to push the old Williamsburg trend setters to Bushwick--think Blue Ribbon's Brooklyn Bowl. Now I'm not sure if Roebling Tea Room came from the Diner/Dumont/Moto comfort-food coaching tree but it has the same approximate feel. Service is casual, seating is casual, food is comforty. Yet this place has a gimmick: shit loads of tea!

When there last I opted for some tea as I have been trying to dry out and I was, after all, at a tea room. I had peppermint and my wife had Early Grey. Not so adventurous considering the vast amount of teas on the menu, but I'm a man of simple tastes and I had indigestion. Regardless, there must be over fifty maybe sixty different teas on the menu and it looks as though they're all loose leaf teas, as our came with little hand-tied cheese cloth do-hickeys that only added to the overall tea-drinking quaintness. I suppose it wasn't so bad, drinking tea that is, and to give a great blogosphere description, my tea tasted minty. Whoopitydo.

Many posts so little time...

So as I become a more and more experienced "blogger" I realize that I'm good for a post about every two weeks. Unfortunately, I eat out far more often than that so I have this tremendous backlog of scibbles and notes from the last few months. I would love to write a lengthy explanation of every single dining experience, but time, patience, and the reality that sometimes I had a no frills dinner out of necessity prevents this from happening. Look, not every dinner I've ever had is memorable. I'd say, that seven out of ten are simply dinner. It's not like I get thrown out of a place everytime I eat out, at least, not anymore. So without further adeau, here's a recap of some places that didn't impress me, didn't offend me, and are not memorable for anyother reason than my time constraints and alcohol-sodden brain:

41 Greenwich-Manhattan:
212.255.3606

Just had dinner here two weeks ago (so about the beginning of December) with wife number one. We were seeing an absolutely fabulous review called Hello My Name is Billy, and decided to make it an actual date. Everything was acceptable in terms of cuisine, and the restaurant is quaint. Spent more than I should have for a chicken dinner though and left with my socks still on my feet. And the only other notable experience was a wine bottle crashing to the floor from their ramshackle wine cooler. Ho hum.

Docks-Manhattan:
212.724.5588

Holy shit is this place a rip off. If you're in the mood for bad service and worse oysters, just let me know and I'll come to your house and kick you in the balls for an hour. Then you can pay me $700. Obviously built for hi-felutin' stock brokers, we came for oysters and left bankrupt. You know you're in trouble when a place charges this much and you have to ask the waiter to bring you water. To make matters more awkward, some friends showed up for just a drink and one of them brought their dog which made the overpriced raw food that much more unapetizing. I mean, who brings a dog to someone else's dinner?

Rye House-Manhattan:
212.255.7260

Fucking cold. That's all I can say. Their heat was broken on perhaps the coldest day of the year. They didn't mention it, but the fact that all of the servers and bartenders were bundled up should have tipped us off. We sat and froze. Their menu is sophisticated comfort food. If that seems like a contradiction in terms, that's because it is. Fried Mac and Cheese balls, Kobe Beef sliders, and Ghouda and Pork Belly Empenadas all sound good on paper but failed to deliver. Why reinvent the wheel? Oh, I know, to distract me from the fact I can see my breath.

Bar Stuzzichini-Manhattan:
212.780.5100

This place is too good to be true. I've been twice now, eagerly awaiting them to screw something up. But no, the food is conistent Italien; fresh ingredients and a wide selection. Service is attentive and articulate. Decor is as breath taking as a restaurant can be (I mean, who ever really has their breath taken away at a restaurant? Guastavino's of yester year maybe?). There is nothing wrong with this restaurant that I can tell. So I guess there's nothing wrong with that. Try the veal meatballs.

El Almacen-Brooklyn:
718.218.7284

Empanadas. Argentine Empanadas. Boom-shaka-laka. Argentine Carne Asada tacos. Yum yum. Encheledas, not so Argentine. Still sweet. This place has amazing potential, and though it's been open for long enough to iron out most of the kinks that still exist I'm going to keep coming back with my wives so we can watch the sweet little latin apple bottoms slither through the tight tables. My only complaint, if I were in the mood, is the seating. Be careful you can get fucked on the seating if you're not. I'm not in the mood though, so let's see if this place develops into the sultry, sex depot that it looks like its destined to become.

Elote-Brooklyn

(718) 599-2655

I believe this restaurant was called something else earlier, but I forget what it was called originally so I'll stick with its current name. For what it's worth, and this may not be much, this is probably the best Mexican food you're going to get in the berg after they closed down that deli on Bedford between north 6th and 7th.

Elote has a decently sized back yard, with picnic tables and some shade. It's the perfect place for summertime margheritas, an easy feat considering the resplendent number of quality tequilas on the bar. The last time I visited Elote I was attacked by Mosquitoes. It was quite unnerving, but at the time this was happening all over Brooklyn, and, in fact, also happened to me recently at Dumont. Fucking mosquitos man. I mean, what a wretched insect. They nearly ruined the experience, but fortunately we had all of that delicious tequila so after a little while the mosquitoes had their fill and we just sat there and slowly got drunk.

The food and service are more than acceptable, but Mexican food for me is a little different in terms of experiencing cuisine. Firstly, it is generally made from all of the same ingredients, save for minor variations in the actual mode of transport. For instance there is little difference between an enchilada and a burrito. I don't necessarily think that one dish is going to stand out more than another, merely because the beans are the same beans in whichever dish you compare. So when determining the quality of a mexican restaurant's menu, if the over all food is good, and the guacamole is good, then chances are the entire menu is good. And that is the case for Elote.

Unfortunately, the more I look at other blogs the more I realize that I don't have pictures or anything. I'm not sure I understand the food-blog picture, because to be honest the pictures rarely do anything. Obviously they are taken by amateur photographers on a digital camera, with no lighting to speak of, so the pictures make the plate look more unappetizing. Have any of you actually looked at a picture and said, 'that looks so good I just want to eat it right now.' Or even better, 'That looks revolting, I'm never eating there ever unless I'm starving or it's free.' What do you need them for? Filler? To see the size of the portions? I just don't get it. I have no pictures. sorry.

Eating on the train

I don't actually have a restaurant to talk about here. This just came from the ol' wellspring of bitchiness that I drink from on an almost daily basis. Okay....so... don't eat on the fucking subway. I'm sure you're pressed for time and this may be your only opportunity to eat something before you start whatever it is that is more important that sustenance and nutrients, but it's fucking gross. It's grosser than gross. The subway system of New York City is about as sanitary as a toilet in Paris or maybe a Turkish bath changing room. You're exposed to so much foul shit that the very idea of eating should be unappetizing. I'm begging all six of you that might be reading this, spread the word. Eating on the train is a bummer.