Carrera--Manhattan

(212) 253-9500

A lot of ground to cover here. First of all a little house keeping. We are now nine strong, as a dear friend Vapid Blond has joined our ranks, an excellent Yoga Blog--Balance in the City has joined our ranks, and the Iconman himself! And there lies the problem. I meant to follow the Vapid Blond as part of the unsaid blogosphere reciprocity that plagues the Internet these days, but instead look like a douche following myself. I'm actually afraid to unfollow myself, or block myself, because who knows what Google would do. The last thing I want to do is fuck with Google. Not even China can do that.

Okay, on with Carrera. There are two locations, but my wife and I ate at the west side location. We were in a hurry as we had about an hour before scurrying up to some hidden west village theatre to watch a very, very gay play in the Fringe festival. Knowing my gay-play sensibilities my wife does her best to get me medicated before I go in to a grueling two hour stint of homosexual conflict. I swear, the biggest curse of living in New York is off-off Broadway.

So we went to Carrera because I was already getting a head start on my buzz at The Room, and it was literally on the way. And I must say, despite it's overtly flamboyant crowd, (a warm up to what was coming) the place ruled. Finally, a use for tapas--we're in a fucking hurry get us some food quick. And they had a dish so delectable that we ended up ordering it again: The Egg in a Blanket. Fucking Genius! They had other typical fare, caprese, dates wrapped in bacon, etc.. but everything pales to that Egg wrapped in philo pastry. Why this isn't on every McDonald's menu is beyond me.

Seattle--Iconman Style

Holy Shit! Seattle. Man oh man I've been traveling like a mother fucker. A large crew of us went up to go fishing for sockeye Salmon, and ended up in Seattle for a night. Let me start by saying one word: Dick's. It's a religion. Three dollar hamburgers and dollar shakes. Not good, per se, but when you're drunk there's nothing you want more than a mouthful of Dick's.

Now aside from their phallacio obsession I must say that Seattle is full of weirdos. There's definitely an energy, but it's a weird one. A tweaked one. Almost as though everyone is depressed and juiced on coffee. We hit quite a few places in our four hours, and almost all of us, including my wife, my other wife, and her husband were all quite drunk by the end of it.

Pink Door:

(206) 443-3241

I'd say it was alright. Italian food, foo-foo cocktails, and a pretty nice balcony. Evidently it rains all of the time in Seattle, which would explain why the balcony was so fucking packed. We were there on the only sunny day of the year. It also explains why the hostess, two waiters, and the manager couldn't somehow tetris two four tops into a six top. Fortunately we were able to get some eats in our stomach, because our next stop was:

Bathtub Gin:

(206) 728-6069

Gin Martini's at four in the afternoon. This place was okay but we were sequestered to the torture chamber in an already dark bar. I get what they're after, and in that regard it was a pretty cozy little place, but Gin is a tough sell. I mean, who wants to go slurp down artesianal, craft gin? Especially on the only sunny day in Seattle? I'll tell you who, I do.

Zig Zag Cafe:

(206) 625-1146

Evidently this place has the best bartender in the world. Or United States, or Seattle, I don't know the particulars but it certainly explains why everyone that works there walks around with a hard-on. His name is Murray in case you're interested. While trying to get one of his famous cocktails we got stuck on one of those plank lean-to bar contraptions that are a good idea if you aren't stuck sitting/leaning on one. The drinks? Pretty good, though after the firewater at Bathtub Gin this guy could have pissed in my mouth and I would have been happy.

Shorty's:

(206) 441-5449

Sufficiently pickled, the reality that we had to eat didn't stop us from pissing away a bunch of cash at this nerd haven. Actually a very cool aesthetic, if you could just eliminate the leering, pinball crazed, dorks. We certainly ruffled their feathers as we liked pin ball and were good looking.

Purple Cafe:

(206) 829-2280

After much deliberation we ended up at the chi-chi Purple cafe. Not a bad restaurant, though at this point we were fourteen strong , inappropriately dressed, and didn't give a shit that we were sitting with the who's who of the Seattle bridge and tunnel social scene. Certainly not my style of place, but a pretty quality product delivered by prompt service. Think meat packing district, but with less money.

As you can tell that was a pretty impressive bar crawl, not necessarily a restaurant crawl. Alas, I forgot to give you the info on what started this trip off:

Dick's:
206) 363-7777 (There's a zillion as this bad boy is a franchise).
Short order burgers. Not that good, unless of course you've visited a zillion bars.

Prune-Manhattan

(212) 677-6221

Sort of odd to write about a place that has been around forever and is established as a restaurant, but I don't ever write about restaurants in the East Village so why not start with this one. Prune was not our first choice, but the sweltering heat forced us to abandon our originaly destination and retreat to Prune to get a seat at their four seat bar.

We had radishes and squash blossoms (that looked like unborn cabbage patch kids), chicken with aspic and celery with blue cheese, and it was all weird and delicious. The waitresses popped around in pink shirts and one of them kept checking me out until I was told that the place was largely populated by lesbians, though, that has never stopped me before.

The only notable event of the night was the pisswater Pimms cup; made by jigger. In fact, all of the drinks were made by jigger. I don't agree with the practice, though it has become fashionable in the recent months, as I like my drinks to be very strong. But when the bartender, a tubby little number, told me that owner/chef did it to control costs that's where I draw the line. I don't mind watching the almighty dollar as it's a tough business, but if you're gonna do that don't serve lousy drinks. Of course, who the hell am I? Prune was packed, and even the wretched female judge on Top Chef even came by to dine and she hates everything so you know this place must be good.

Actually, the more I dig I also remember this waif of a women with long stringy black hair sitting next to me at the bar. Her boyfriend was quite hot and since she looked like an alien she assumed she was too, and kept leaning into me and flipping her gross hair. I nearly freaked out, but the Pimms cup was so gross we elected to leave before I made a scene and got tossed by lesbo's. And not in the good way. Fucking long-haired alien women. They're taking over.

Prime Meats--Brooklyn

718.254.0327

Our friends live in Carroll Gardens and just squeezed out a beautiful brown baby boy. We decided to celebrate by eating at Prime Meats, Frankie's second installment on Clinton street. Having never been, and most likely not going again for a while, I must say that this place was pretty good. Granted, it is just like every other restaurant that has opened in the last two years in Brooklyn (American cuisine, turn-of-the century schtick, mustahces, cold draft ice cubes, etc....) but is done well and the food was delicious. They're not reinventing the wheel, but it's a pretty nice replication. I must say don't come here if you're in a hurry, as the two course dinner took the better part of forever. I mean, the kid was walking before it was through.

We went there a while ago, and have some other notes I jotted down but for the life of me can't make any sense of them:
Jody Foster
Glory Holes
Spatzle.

Hmmmm....I think our waitress looked like Jody Foster. And the table we sat at must have been salvaged wood and it had a hole right in the middle that I kept poking my finger through and then leering at my wife. I assume spatzle is on the menu. So there you go.

Third Ward--Brooklyn

Okay, okay, I know it's not a restaurant. In fact, it's not even really a food and beverage operation, unless of course you count The Goods which I'm not counting. What I'm talking about is the free-for-all multi-level super parties hosted by 3rd Ward (who also by no coincidence opened The Goods on Metropolitan). My friends that are still single and looking for some easy trim convinced me I should check it out once again. My wife isn't stupid, she let me off the leash to realize that a quiet night at home is better than this.

Firstly, for those eight reading this that don't know what 3rd Ward is, it's actually an art community. Check out their website. It's a pretty cool collaborative program that is locally based. I appreciate what they're going for, considering the type of art produced and applaud them for their efforts. It's not easy keeping something like that going day in and day out and without serious corporate or personal backing, it's a pretty strenuous hustle. At the end of the day though, what I experienced a few Saturdays ago was not a commitment to the art community at large, but rather two thousand people jammed into various where-houses in Bushwick. Kind of a rave but not too ravy, and kind of a club but more gritty, urban, and underground.

One thing is for sure, I'm too old to be doing this sort of thing. Not to say there is an age limit but rather there should be an age limit. I consider age to loosely equate to cynicism, and this cynicism defeats the sense of wonder created by flame-throwers and tin foil. The burning man culture certainly has something to offer, but at the end of the day it's centered around drug and alcohol abuse. And after a decade or two of poisoning my body every-which-way but loose, it gets a little tiring. I started to view a lot of these people as just plain and simple losers. Most are faking it to get laid. And if you're not faking it ,but happen to be a genuinely authentic un-shaven, chanting, dread-locked, tarot card reading tribal spaz, and you're convinced that dancing until seven am and twirling fire around is going to save the world, then you're an even bigger loser.


Here's the bitch and why I felt compelled to report on this: someone is making shit tons of money on this party! Cans of Paps for $6!? Bottled water for $2? It also must be noted the children of mother earth did not seem to be recylcing though I'm sure they were; I'm sure at 9:00 am the next day after being up on coke, adirol, and ecstasy there's a ruddy team chomping at the bit to clean up the thousands upon thousands of plastic cups and bottles and then cart them off to the local recycling center.


Here's another beef: The place is run stupidly. There's a separate entrance just to get carded and wrist banded. Yet, anyone who knows where the where houses are simply go there directly. And then they made everyone listen to some drum circle while waiting to be let into the largest room. The rules include (abridged): respect the neighborhood, don't get too fucked up, and "kiss a stranger. Make it count." Juvenile, feel good nonsense!


Like I said, I'm too old for this stuff. And I can't really blame the brain-trust of artists for figuring out a way to exploit the thousands upon thousands of drug hobbyists in the greater north Brooklyn area. I suppose then my actual complaint is this veneer of feel-good mystical bullshit inevitably tied to these sort of things excuses the half hazard operation. Look, get your shit together and exploit me properly. With no lines, ample space, and legitimate world changing initiatives. For instance: perhaps a cool science exhibition, instead of chainsaw ice sculptures. If you're going to go through the trouble to waste all of these resources, just don't waste my time. And perhaps I'm the one being inauthentic, or perhaps I was not out of my head enough to not care.

JG Melons--Manhattan

(212) 650-1310

I'm torn about this one. I just had lunch there the other day with a friend, a chicken sandwich (I limit myself to one burger a week--and Donahue's normally fills that slot) and some of their cross-cut fries. It was decent. The weather was nice and we procured an outside seat, so we could watch all of the Upper East Side faux milfs scoot by with their two thousand dollar scooters and LL Bean slacks.

I'd been to this place a million times about a decade ago, and my only relevant memory is of a friend pulling a box staple out of his mouth. It was about an inch long and hidden in his salad and the server was about as apologetic as Heidegger post WWII. I suppose that she might have had a bad day but a staple? What other things might accidentally fall into the salad bin on the lowboy counter top when you're not looking? A band aid? Cockroach? Human hand!?!

That was years ago so I'm sure that an establishment like the Melon's has not cleaned up its act one iota. With that said, you can only trash so many institutions before you get a bad name for yourself. So I'm going to keep my insults to a minimum. If you're stuck on the Upper East Side, this place is charming enough. If you have some prep school, Upper-East-Side douche-bag singing its praises, know that he probably has way too much copper and iron in his bloodstream. How's that?

Momofuku Ssam-Manhattan

212-254-3500

Let me start of by saying I'm pretty ignorant when it comes to food and beverage and whatever else it is all of these food writers find time to write about. I hope I don't come off as knowledgeable, because deep down I know I'm not. In fact, the only reason I do these at all my beloved seven, is because I know how much it means to you.

With that said, I don't read magazines, or other blogs--unless emailed to me by one of my many wives-- and generally don't understand the buzz or hype about a particular place. If you're food tastes good, and your service compliments your food, I'm generally pleased. If not, then I'm not. Simple enough. So when I went to Momofuku I had no idea what I was getting into. After a quick perusal of Wikipedia I found that Beard, amongst others, have had there noses buried in the guy's ass for the better part of four years. I also appreciate the notion behind Momofuku Ko first come first serve policy. Pretty cool. Take that influential rich people, you wait just like the rest of us. Furthermore, this guys doesn't give a rats ass if you're a vegetarian or not, so in a way, I already liked this restaurant.

Unfortunately, all of these things do nothing to explain the repeated gag-reflex I had when eating here the other day. We tried the pork-belly buns, sea-urchin, pickled vegetables, and bone-marrow with Chantilly mushrooms and quail's eggs, and I am not lying when I say I found the food to be absolutely fucking disgusting. Shit in my mouth disgusting. Seriously, I gagged on both the urchin and the bone marrow. Even the pork belly buns were sub par, fatty, flavorless garbage.

What am I supposed to do here? This guys seems to be the best chef ever, and somehow I think his food sucks. I know I'm wrong and that's a problem. But how do you argue with your gag-reflex? Acquire the taste for things that make you want to vomit? Pretend like you're enjoying it? For me, the rest of these people are fucking nuts, sort of like an emporer's new clothes thing going on here. I suppose that's all I can say. I understand eating sea-urchin and bone marrow when you're some indigenous person desperate to survive but let's all own up to the fact that it does not taste good. It just doesn't.