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.

Cosme--Manhattan

212.913.9659

Evidently this is one of the best restaurants in the world.  I learned that at the time of dining, so didn't come in with that expectation.  Considering  we were a large party, it's tough to say.  It was delicious no doubt but to be honest I'm not sure what we had, as it was family style service, but everything seemed to be spot on so I won't get to into specifics.  There were some great mexican Pizza style salads. Nice shrimp.  Hot sauce.  What do you want from me, it's not like this is a food blog.

Truth be told, my only interest in this post is a testament to my fuzzy memory.  Being a somewhat industry dinner, with several bartenders present, everyone dove into their specialty cocktail menu.  Everyone, that is, but me.  I'm a margarita guy, and at a restaurant of this caliber, spare me your gold rush margarita or your hibiscus margarita or your truffle margarita.  A margarita is Lime, Tequila, and Cointreau.  And that's what I rolled with, much to the cat calls and teasing of my fellow diners.

I enjoyed slurping down my drink (and at this place we ordered a freshy upon delivery--yes it took that long) and watching each of my compatriots jump onto my bandwagon one by one until we were all drinking the only version worth drinking--the orignal.  So what's my point?  I'm a genius and a trendsetter and clearly smarter than everyone else.

Good place.  Good Margarita.  Good food.  Best in the world?  Who am I to say?

Elmo--Manhattan

212-337-8000

So what do you get when you google "gayest restaurant in Manhattan?"  Of course that's a rhetorical question.  Went here with the four horsemen of yesteryear for our semi-annual trip. As it was my turn to pick, I figured that I'd test the inner homophobe of my companions and check out this Chelsea haunt.

It was pretty gay.  I don't mean that in any sort of pejorative sense, it was a gay restaurant.  In that, there were many gay people there.  There were also many straight people there.  So, it could be argued that it was in a gay neighborhood, and therefore by default there were gay people there.  That is until I snuck a peak in the downstairs lounge.  It was like a pick up bar for gay dudes designed by Freddy Mercury and MC'd by Elton John.  Gay.  Super Gay.  Not bad, but if I were to go to a Vietnamese lounge, and see a bunch of Vietnamese people, I'd probably have a similar, banal description.

Iconman, who fucking cares?  How was the food?  You can't say it was gay cuisine, can you?  Nope.  It was comfort food.  It covered its bases with some international twists, tacos and Asian glazed fish, somewhat uninspired but passable. I'd give it a solid B.  I was too busy watching my friend squirm and slogging down gin martini's to really think about the cuisine.  This is definitely a place to take your out-of-town, fly-over state relative to give him a taste of the far-left.  Sort of an anecdote to Trump country.  If your friend is a man, and particularly uncomfortable, take him down to the lounge for shits and giggles.

Sauvage--Brooklyn

718.486.6816

Actually ate here a while ago, but this somehow got buried in my notes.  This place used to be called Lokal, same ownership of My Moon, and the neighborhood promptly dubbed it the place to go if you can't get a seat at 5-leaves.  Too bad for those guys, but I'm sure they cleaned up on the real estate deal.

Sauvage, however, may shake that reputation given their even more impressive hipster chops with Maison Premiere (the costume themed speak easy down in Williamsburg).  They didn't go that direction, however, opting for a cleaner french cafe inspired attire instead.  I must say, beautiful bar, and at the time my notes say beautiful people watching--though at the time this came from someone deprived of the talent that walks the city on any given day.

I digress, the food?  I'm sick of marble bars.  Shit.  Sorry just referring to the notes.  They clearly dumped a ton of money in the place.  The fixtures are beautiful.  Really, the place is so well done.  Damn, look at that set of wheels.  Damn it Iconman, what is going on here?

The food was fine.  I had a steak and a few hors d'ouevres at the bar.  It was a touch pricey, but overall acceptable given the quality. Maybe a touch over thought, but you've got to do something to be different. I imagine the menu to change from time to time, so don't go trusting me.

And I bet this place is slamming on the weekends though, much to 5-leaves chagrin.

Gramercy Tavern--NYC--Again

212.477.0777

Beloved nine.  Where do I begin?  My Triumphant return to the city?  My rightful place as a GM? The rash that finally cleared up?

And what better way to commemorate my resumed schedule of consistent, informative reviews than starting with one long over due:  Gramercy Tavern!  Goodness gracious, so much to say, so much to say.  Firstly, when glancing at the menu, yes those prices are inflated.  Fret not! You're not supposed to tip.  That's right, salaried, normal waiters.  For years I've lamented how the service industry eats a shit sandwich, and how being a waiter is somehow associated with a non-committal stepping stone towards a "respectable" career.  As though making thousands a week with a flexible schedule is somehow reserved for schmucks.  Who's the schmuck now?  Who?

I went here with the second wife and her husband, for a delectable meal of overtly sophisticated fair.  The food?  Just fine.  There's a lot going on with the menu, which I presume changes from time to time.  Asian?  Pork Dumplings in a broth.  Italian?  Flatbread appetizer.  Steaks/Chops vibe?  Oysters in the half shell.  American cuisine?  Artic Char.  Herpes?  It cleared up people!  Dear God on and on with the herpes.  Nonetheless, the food is exactly what you'd expect from an establishment this, well, established though I for one would like to know what type of fare I'm eating.

More surprising was the light-footed happy-go-lucky waitstaff, waltzing around the dining room with a gait that I could only describe as vindicated.  What a perfect compliment to coming back in the city.  It's as though they knew I was coming....

But wait a minute Iconman!  You reviewed this place already you dumb hack!  How could you double dip like that?  To be honest, beloved nine, I completely forgot.  And to be fair to myself, I must say that I still didn't shit myself on the cuisine.  I do applaud Meyer for taking the plunge on the waitstaff, so consider this an update of sorts.

Brava--Great Berrington, Mass

413.637.9171

Jeez.  What a break.  Here's to having a second child.  Managed to get away with the ol' wifey wife and kids in tow back up the Cranwell for a much needed break.  Since that didn't happen, I at least had an opportunity to suck down a martini at Prairie Whale before dinner with one of the many friends without children.  He chose Brava, which was perfectly boozy yet kid friendly.  A sturdy wifi created an occupied four year old, coupled with a sleeping infant we almost felt like our wealthy friends across the table.

The ambiance was mellow, yet young.  A simple little restaurant, wood paneled, with a prominent bar devouring half of the entire space.  The food was pretty awesome.  I'm not sure if it was the uninterrupted two hours of adult talk or the opportunity to eat with flatware, but it seemed as though everything that came out of the kitchen was delicious.  As it was tapas, we tried quite a bit.  The calamari, Shrimp/garlic, meatballs, arugula salad, anchovies, all were gone in an instant.

Since Great Berrington is touristy, but with a sort of back woods NYC sensibility, I feel that this place is living up to its snuff. Though, I could imagine the experience being quite different without that wifi.

Barbuto--Manhattan

212.924.9700


Ahhhh...beloved nine.  How nice it is to have back to back posts about well known restaurants in Manhattan.  It's been too long.  No more of this slumming it at destinations around the States that pretend to understand what it's like to be in NY.  The hustling, bustling, pretentiousness of it all.  The young 20-something staff.  The smell.  The ambient ambulance sirens and taxi cab horns.  And let's not forget that bars close at 4am.

Iconman, shut the fuck up.  How was the food?  Well, it was okay.  Firstly, this place was seemingly packed when the four horsemen arrived (we are the old, very old banquet team of yesteryear) and were told that despite the preponderance of available seating the wait was two hours.  No problem, we know this drill.  We will simply stand at the most inconvenient place for the servers, clogging their flow, ordering bottle after bottle of over-priced Pinot Grigio.  Ipso facto twenty minutes later we were given a seat.  Service was brisk and professional. They even allowed me to bastardize one of their pasta dishes into a Carbonara (which it kind of already was but nonetheless this is a big plus for me.  If you can tweak a dish to make someone happy you should.  Right?).  Food:

Meatballs--A
Broccoli appetizer--B+
Barratta--B
Calamari--B+

Entree's--we all had pastas:

Shrimp pasta to el dante
My carbonara not enough something or other.
Other pasta--who cares I'm too drunk.  Seriously, that's a quote from my scribbles.

Cheeseplate--needed honey.

Tiramisu--lights out

As you can tell, when back in the city I revert back to my old ways.  The dinner was fine.  Was it $200 a head fine?  Unclear.  Also unclear is how many bottles of wine we consumed from start to finish.  It was definitely a place where you take your parents when you've finally come in to your own and want to impress them by paying for dinner.  There were quite a few of those people sitting at the bar waiting for four over-the-hill derelicts to finally vacate their seats.  Little did they know that sitting at the bar like a civilized person does no good.