Falai--Manhattan

212.253.1960

8:45 reservation. Ouch. I'm too old to eat that late, especially in such cold weather. After a few beers at Clerkinwell (still alive I'm glad to say) my wife, other wife, and her newly anointed husband, mosied right in to get a seat in the back. My initial impression was that my other wife had dragged us to some fancy-pants place, with clean white walls and models who aren't embarrassed to wear their jeans so short that you can sneak glances at theirs g-strings poking out and wonder why you're so grossed out. Ehem.


More to the point, these places are chalk-a-block full of weird sophisticated aced food that I'm not going to like. Fortunately for me, the food was good. The portions were small yet beautiful, and since there were four of us we got a pretty good sampling without having to pay for the exorbitant tasting menu. The Gnudi was particularly tasty. And I had a very nice cappuccino at the end.


The service, however, sucked asshole. Not just ass, but no, puckered right up the sheriff's badge and sucked away. There's a few hard and fast rules that every place should live by, and if you don't abide by them I don't care how beautiful your presentations are, how illustrious your dining room is, or how pretentious your clientele may be, you're burying your tongue in my turd-cutter:
1) If your table is ready to order food by the time you come to get the drink order, then they've waited too long.
2) If you offer bread a second time, make sure you didn't already clear the plate with the oil and butter on it.
3) If you are going to sell $100 plus bottles of wine, and want to make a show of clearing the glasses I suggest either waiting until all of the glasses with the first wine are empty before you clear them all, or clear the empty ones and come back and switch out the lone straggler afterwards.
4) Make sure your food is served at the same time, to the people that ordered it.
5) If you do not know what you're serving, then don't fake it, just say I don't know and go ask the chef or manager.


There are probably a million more rules that anyone who's actually worked as a waiter could tell me, but I'm fairly certain that of my short list our waiter at Falai violated at least three. Why oh why do these restaurants devote so much time and energy to the food, and then have some dimwitted faux-hawk toting nincompoop deliver it? When will anyone learn? I suppose Falai is worth a second try, but it's going to be when it's earlier and warmer outside. I'll keep you posted.

The plastic straw

I was at lunch at Spitzer's the other day in the LES and had a coke. The waitress, a cute little number, decided to put a straw in my coke with the little twist paper thing floating off of the top. I immediately pulled the straw out of the drink and put it next to my glass. The straw will now reside on this planet for another 500 years.

Aside from lipstick users, and you know who you are, why the hell does the drinking straw exist? I don't feel that it makes the drink taste better, nor do I feel it makes the drink easier to drink. In fact, with the exception of a mind eraser, I can't think of a drink that absolutely must require a straw. Furthermore, there are plenty of drinks that using a straw becomes unthinkable, like beer or coffee or sparkling wine.


So what gives? What compelled that girl to not only put a straw in my drink, but also to add enough flair to point out the fact that there is a straw in my drink? I often use this train of thought with people when I get going about the straw. There are about 8 million plus people in New York. And on average I would say that we each have a cocktail, soda, bottle of water (that's another story) etc... so it's safe to say that there are approximately 8 million drinking straws tossed in the garbage, in our sewers, or on the ground a day. That's 29.2 billion a year. Since the turn of the millennium NY has discarded 300 billion fucking straws!

I'm not one to crusade unnecessarily as I am too lazy and or busy for that. But I think it should be a standard to offer a straw, as opposed to plopping one in my drink for no good reason. Okay, so I've said it. Hopefully the nine of you reading this will join me. That's nine less drinking straws a day, three thousand a year, 32 k a decade. Almost a .0000001% decrease. So much for starting locally.

Manhattan Inn-Brooklyn

718.383.0885

Despite what 5-leaves has done (and then closely followed by Lokal) Manhattan Inn has been the first to pluck one of the low hanging fruits that is Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint. As Bloomberg's abatement kicks in, and the Emerald City fully develops, more and more of the mom and pop stores on Manhattan Avenue, the main commercial drag of Greenpoint, are going to slowly convert to cozy, hipster inspired restaurants. Mark my words beloved nine, there will be a point in a decade or so when the entire stretch of Manhattan Avenue will be a bustling hotbed of night life activity, gourmet restaurants, and bridge and tunnel fuckwads. All of this without a sour, gin-blossomed Polish person in sight.

Eventhough Manhattan Inn is a trailblazer, and in spite of it perhaps, it is a sort of phenominom. Months ago it was the epicenter of Brooklyn Music due to its unique backroom that has an antique white-washed piano smack in the middle and elevated booths surrounding it; almost a caberet feel but with ironic schtick. The front area is really just a narrow bar, and like the back room this schtick comes in the form of hi-top tables that are actually recylced school desks. All in all this gives the entire room a uniquely old feel, as though it's been there for decades covered in old bed sheets just waiting for the right dreamer to come along with his/her parents money and finally open that roller disco.

The food is a little more confusing than that last sentence. If I had to describe it, which I do as this is what the iconman report is all about, then I'd say it's a complete jumble fuck. Part comfort food (somehow that has become a cuisine) part asian, and part tapas. It's not bad per se, but it's hard to have a hankering for tofu salad with sesame and pork ribs with kale and cornbread. I suppose they're lucky, a few years from now the competition will be stiffer and more refined cuisine will come with it. But for now, I'm glad for their success, because from one successful restaurant comes many. That and I love being right.

Carino--Brooklyn

718.384.8282

You can always tell a new restaurant by the disjointed service, it's choppy and the staff take ten too many steps because the systems aren't in place to make things fluid and efficient. There's also a lot of bickering because the requisite hot-ass hostess is actually forced to do things that pretty girls just don't do: like work. In my younger days I would have teed off on this place, but now that I'm older and wiser, and have had the displeasure of opening not one buy two facilities in the city (notice the gaping hole of 2007 entries), I am much, much more patient with the service of a brand new restaurant. Especially when they're at least some hot ass girls struggling to not break a nail.


Enough of that. This is a restaurant blog dear readers, and a for that we should keep things focused. We originally wanted to go to this place when it first opened around June. The cooks and chef were all from Bonita, but were frustrated that their authentic Mexican cuisine was being doctored by the good people at Diner so decided to do it on their own. I'm reporting this from a somewhat reliable source though I have not heard that from them myself. It's gossip, pure and simple. We didn't go in June because they did not have a full liquor licence (one tremendous mistake of Bonita's) and there's no way I'm eating Mexican without a Margarita nearby. So we waited. Eventually they got through the steeple chase that is the SLA and voila, here we sat a month or so ago.


Their guacamole is pretty damned good. I've said this before about Mexican food, if their guac checks out then most everything else to follow will too. See Elote post for more extrapolation. Here's something not posted in the Elote post: what is up with habanero salsas? For the record, they don't taste good. In fact, I'd be hard pressed to tell you what a habanero even tastes like, because my mouth is suffering from a minor chemical burn. I appreciate spicy food, and understand the complexity of say, a chipolte pepper, but habanero peppers are down right inedible. They've somehow permeated the condiment barrier and are now standard at every fucking Mexican restaurant in the city. Why? So some douche bag can show off his ability to stomach battery acid? Well I for one have sworn off trying to enjoy the little bastards. Let that douche bag become the poster child for acid reflux, I'm gonna stick with the much more refined jalapeno based salsas.

But this is a restaurant review damn it! The food was pretty good despite the staff's best efforts to fuck it up. Now I feel better.

Paprika--Manhattan

(212) 677-6563

I used to live around the corner from Paprika another lifetime ago, and never remembered the place which doesn't mean much as New York is constantly changing, for better or worse. We went there on a double date as my wife's maid of honor has a new stud, and we had to go to do the typical nice-to-get-to-know-you-yet-judge-you-when-you-leave-the-table-to-sneak-a-cigarette dinner. Right before I ate a pork pie at this grimy meat pie place across the street and was fucking glad I did. Not only did it allow me a beer or two to ease the pain of having a double date, but I also ate some food that was edible.

And how happy I was for that edible meat pie. Firstly, and this should have been a warning sign, we had reservations but they sat us after waiting ten minutes at an awful table. How awful? The table didn't have any wine glasses because they'd run out. This should have, and would have sent me into a frenzy, or at least back over to the pie place because there's nothing worse than waiting for a wine glass with a full bottle of wine already on the table. Especially since when glasses actually arrive it's approximately 180 degrees having just come from the final rinse cylce on a Hobart 66. Which is exactly what happened.

Dinner was okay in that most of it wasn't memorable. The only thing I jotted down was that my meal was disgusting. And it was. Once again I should know better than to order a seafood pasta special seasoned with lemon. Lemon, the smoke screen of rotten seafood. This pasta dish was so lemony that it tasted synthetic, like the cherry flavor in bubble gum. And the angel hair had glued itself together into one big clump of soft starch. While I was cutting through my Angel Hail clump, I had the pleasure of getting to know someone while at the same time hanging out with people I've known for ten years. Thank God the food was so lousy, because in comparison that aspect of the night was quite enjoyable.

Without a doubt the best part about Paprika was leaving. We were spit out right in the East Village, which on a Friday night is quite a place to be. I was instantly nastalgic, and this reminded me that the city is much bigger than my little feifdom in Brooklyn. Not that any of you care but we ended up in some LES bar listening to a saxophone cover band. And the bar had clean glasses for our wine.

M &T Bank Stadium--Baltimore

(410) 261-7283

The last time I wrote about something in Baltimore it led to a smattering of disappointment mixed with a healthy dose of shame. Sadly, this post is more of the same.

Let's begin with the obvious. I went down to see my beloved and currently beleaguered Denver Broncos teach the entire town of Baltimore how it is done. I wasn't alone in my "broncomania," though I was almost certainly alone in my New York snobbery, forgoing dressing like some orange and blue douche-bag by merely showing my support when appropriate. Fortunately for me I didn't have to focus on that much as the Ravens trounced the Broncos.

I sat at the second to last row on the fifty yard line, approximately six hundred feet from the field. The seats were so atrocious I had to bribe the beer man $10 just to make it up to the upperdeck. Because of the ten dollar vig, I inevitably managed to drink at least a dozen various light-beer tall boys. Whilst enjoying the sun, and the small little purple dots stepping all over the small little white dots several hundred feet below, I also started to notice the crowd in all of its belligerence. The light-beer took effect, and my curiosity slowly transformed into disgust, as the football fans continuously exhibited all that is gross, vile, and truly American.

Firstly, everyone is fat at these things. I mean FAT. If they're not fat then they're malnourished. I couldn't believe it. Obese, obese, obese.

And what's with the fucking camouflage? Purple camouflage is about as stylish as cargo pan..wait a minute they are cargo pants! Foiled again by the camouflage.

But what gets me the most was the utter devotion to the team when it is apparent that 80% of professional athletes are not devoted to the fans. Of course there are exceptions, but for the most part the teams are a conglomeration of self indulged super athletes, who are all much, much taller than the rest of us. Yet, all of these people, thousands upon thousands of them, have spent millions of dollars on jerseys and face paint and camouflage pants just to come to some stadium that charges ten dollars for a can of pee. It's like some wierd masocistic catharsis, where everyone has the opportunity to partake in something just slightly more shallow and callous than their own lives.

Jesus H Christ, I have become a snob. Yikes.

Roberta's--Brooklyn

(718) 417-1118

Finally an institution that I can handle. Well, a newfangled institution relative to some of the other restaurant's I've discussed but an institution none the less. Roberta's for those of you who don't know, is in Bushwick. Bushwick for those of you who don't know, is a rough and tumble commercial area in Brooklyn. It has a rather large project sitting right in the middle of it, which makes it less desirable for just about anyone who can afford to not live there. There are those who appreciate the commercial charm of Bushwick, the flat-roofed single story buildings that come with any industrial complex landscape. And I may sound like a priss when I say this, but I find these things hard to appreciate when getting jumped by a team of angry thugs.

Which is a perfect introduction to Roberta's, and oasis of hipsterdom in an otherwise arid land. Roberta's has a rich history, and is just about the only game in town. Essentially, Roberta's serves pizza. There are quite a few delectable pizza's to choose from, but the main reason you're eating here is because of two reasons: You live in the neighborhood and it's the only place in town, or you're visiting the neighborhood and it's the only place in town.

With that said this isn't necessarily bad as Roberta's does quite a few things well. Firstly, they have a nice garden which is excellent for warm weather boozing. As an added feature they grow many of their herbs from this garden and are exceptionally vigilant about sourcing all of their produce and livestock locally. They share their garden with Brooklyn Heritage Radio so you can watch a public broadcast right from your table; a selling point for any nerd that likes watching other nerds nerd out. And their food tastes good, though pizza is a pretty tough one to fuck up.

My only experiences have been of the black out variety: be it at some motorcycle rally, Halloween pre third ward, or just drinking bud mini cans because they're so fucking cute. I mean, really cute bud cans.