Eats & Drinks
We swear, we're not being cynical. More than doctor/patient, priest/confessor, attorney/serial killer, the bartender/patron relationship is a sacred institution and a dear part of our lives. When we've had a rough day on the job, when our roommate is too much to handle (and when we can't accept that, at our age, we even have a roommate, not to mention an ex-wife and monstrous tax debt and no assets), we swing by our local for a quick one-two.
And there she is, smiling when we walk in the door. She remembers our name, offers whatever drink we had last and asks about our day. Just like the wife never did.
Nah, we know, it's not genuine. She's got her own life and a million guys chasing her tail, but if we don't think about it too much, the simulacrum of affection is enough to coax us off the ledge. It's cheaper than the comforts of a whore, and we don't need to run for bloodwork 30 days later.
Just to prove that we're not complete meanies, though, we've found a restaurant for you that may not be McDonald's, but serves French fries that taste exactly the same! Better, even, because they're made up fresh and don't get soggy sitting in that wire basket.
Yeah, we were surprised to find them at Live Bait. We'd been going there on a fairly regular basis for years, but it wasn't until a few months ago that we ordered something that came with fries. (We usually go for the gumbo.) There they were alongside our first crab cake sandwich, that same cut, that same sugar-brushed, over-salted, glowing yellow potato product that McDonald's offers several million times a day. But like we said, they're better. They're hotter, they're crispier and they don't soak through the bag.
Screw those dry, grainy, half-frozen steak fries you get at most diners in town. Screw those brown, soggy piles of shoestrings the mid-scale places offer. If you want McDonald's fries without admitting that you actually went to McDonald's, go to Live Bait, where you can act like a concerned counter-culturist while eating what you really want.
We like hot Ukrainian borscht just fine, steaming and brimming with cooked beans, carrots, cabbage and onions, but nothing comes close to the crisp goodness and pure refreshment of rose-red chilled beet juice, thickened with a splash of buttermilk cream and weighted with dices of fresh cucumber and a hard-boiled egg. This is the real borscht, the big Lebowski, the year-round summer soup we'd chug with glee were it not so satisfying to slurp slow and savor. Served with a side basket of bread, Neptune's $2.60 bowl of the cold stuff is the most delicious deal 10 blocks in any direction. Make that 15.
Eight weeks later, we tried again and Otto was amazing. We've heard of restaurants adjusting, but this was crazy. It went directly from Emperor's New Clothes-status to the Manhattan restaurant most worthy of its long waits for tables.
The whole front room is essentially one huge bar, a long, gorgeous strip of marble complemented by a cluster of free-standing slabs that are perfect for snacking or feasting. The place gets packed, but the crowd is jovial and the bartenders handle the crush with class.
Somehow, Otto figured out how to achieve crispy and chewy pizza crusts without having a proper brick oven (at least at this time). We never tried the meat plate again, but the fish plate is extraordinary: swordfish meltingly tender, absolutely non-chewy octopus, calamari and scungili, cold mussels with mint and much more. The cheese plate comes with outrageous preserves and even more outrageous black-truffle honey; the cheeses themselves are all Italian, all beautiful.
Then there's the head cheese, which is identified as "testa"-wise move, no matter how delicious the offering. Here, it's sliced thin and dappled pink, red and white; it's naturally gelatinous and glistening when we bring the first scoop to our mouth. We savor the succulent, meaty flavor, wait one second, two, and wham-the bracing zip of orange peel rips through the richness, balancing it perfectly.
Otto even has enough awe-inspiring vegetarian dishes to go full-glutton on them alone. The artichokes are exquisite; roasted corn in olive oil packs a wallop of flavor; the cauliflower is simply the best we've ever had anywhere; and the heirloom tomato salad with buffalo mozzarella is off the charts.
Despite being new and trendy, Otto is inexpensive-unless you show up thirsty, which we actually recommend doing. Try a fragolini cocktail: prosecco with strawberry liqueur, complete with tiny wild strawberries in it. End with a sparkling moscato that's like an exclamation mark on your meal, or amaro that's 10 times better than what everybody drinks on the Amalfi coast.
Looking back, even on that first unfortunate visit, their desserts were incredible. That is, after all, what brought us back. The gelato may be the best in New York, and be sure to try the creamy and unctuous olive oil variety, which continues to humble and amaze us.
"And," he went on, pointing a gnarled finger at the second table from the back, "when I was little boy, Leon Trotsky used to come in and sit right there!"
A quick calculation led to the year 1917, when Trotsky was in exile in New York, editing Novy Mir with Bukharin and about to return to Russia to join the Bolsheviks and take part in the October Revolution. The old fellow looked to be in pretty good shape; we'd bet he ordered the yogurt.
The knishery's yogurt is still made from the same culture that was imported from Romania in the late 19th century. Rabbi Yonah Schimmel started his knish business selling from a pushcart, and the bakery restaurant has been operating at its current location since 1910. We looked down at our own serving, and contemplated the idea that we were ingesting the same microbes that fueled the great revolutionary. It gave us a warm feeling.
L. bulgaricus' healthful properties were postulated more than 100 years ago by Nobel laureate Eli Metchnikoff, who discovered the strain while trying to find out why so many Bulgarians were so long-lived. Schimmel's manager Alex Volfman may not be all that familiar with Metchnikoff's work, but he does know his yogurt.
"It's very good for the stomach," he says. "People with stomach trouble, they get out of Beth Israel and come straight down here. You drink a little yogurt, you'll feel better. It's better than medicine."
Doses from Schimmel's dairy of youth run $1.75 for an at-table glass, $2.25 for a 10-ounce takeout container, $5 a quart.
Consider too the pitch-perfect mimosa and live music, and you've a splendid late- morning meal lined up.
Try the green tagliateli with chicken, artichokes and cream sauce or the spaghetti bolognese or the calamari siciliana or the linguini with seafood that's always overflowing with clams and mussels. A caveat: We were once there when an annoying Salon columnist was telling her unlucky date, at a volume loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, about how David Talbot said he was going to make so much money on something and then later ranted about how nobody reads fiction anymore. If this happens during your meal, walk next door to Southpaw and ask for a pair of earplugs.
We recommend loading up on the aloo gobi matar and murg xacuti, but there are no wrong turns here, where the bread is always more than a footnote and even has its own chef, who bakes a wide array of specialty breads in an authentic clay tandoori oven tuned to 600 degrees. All tandoori meats are marinated for 24 hours in yogurts and spices, and they go down extra nice with a glass of mango lassi. Don't forget the homemade pistachio ice cream.
After much gurning at the idea of actually-finally-trying the most daunting of desserts, we succumbed to the curiosity of a deep-fried Mars Bar, served with ice cream. With heads bowed, we checked and re-checked the contents of our bowl, trying desperately to figure out what exactly our taste buds were saying. Not since A Salt & Battery's deep-fried toffee crisp (which took home last year's "Best British Dessert to Go") have we put anything quite so exquisite in our mouth.
Thank god we only succumb to these desserts once a year. Fish 'n' chips every Friday night is one thing, but deep-frying candy bars would, to put it nicely, put us off the diet.
Hallas is the embodiment of genuine insouciance. He's got in spades what the fauxhemians in these parts can only acquire by proxy and at an embarrassing mark-up from neighboring boutiques like the ridiculous Stongarm (sellers of the $35 "vintage" t-shirt). While most local merchants can be expected to stay mute when the conversation turns political-or in certain cases go out of their way to parrot the sympathies of the local populace-Hallas is openly, unapologetically contrary. Whether we agree with him is not relevant here; that he doesn't lick boots is.
We recall, for instance, an afternoon this past July. Hallas had been rejoicing over the Jayson Blair troubles at the New York Times, claiming those events as evidence of the underlying bankruptcy of affirmative action. "Damn, this is great!" he'd exclaimed, repeatedly. "Just what the Times deserves."
He was sticking out his chin, looking for takers, and when a group of young tongue-studs entered the shop, one wearing a large anti-IMF button on her backpack, the game was on. In the ad hoc debate that ensued, things got heated. In our habitual role as centrist twinkie, we ended up moderating between righty merchant and lefty customers. But-and here we credit Hallas for being more than just a blowhard-no one was chased from the shop with a rolling pin. Nor did anyone scream "fascist!"
Goaded into a cleaner defense of their respective positions, the tongue-studs departed cheerfully and Hallas, in his cynical drone, called after them, "Come back any time. Really." They often do.
Hallas, who is Greek, gives lie to the notion that the males of that culture are all zesty, plate-smashing Zorbas. Indeed, his response to this award is likely to be a curt, "What the fuck do I care?" Still, we'd like to think his background is in part responsible for the truly hospitable feel of the place. (The consideration he shows to dogs, proffering treats and water on hot days, being a special favorite of ours.) Yes, there are those occasions when his stridency is too much even for us to bare. Fortunately his partners-two juicy Italian women of supple skin and iron fist-are available to summarily shut him up. This, too, makes for good viewing and at $2 a cup, value entertainment.
Our favorite exception is at Acme, where they've cleverly added the blackened calamari appetizer to their specials. It's really a great idea. After all, what's been the benefit of breading those little bits of squid? All you get is an ugly crust that emphasizes the creepy nature of those little tendrils.
Acme's calamari leaves those cephalopods looking pretty healthy and happy, just like when you see them nestled in pasta. They don't overdo the blackened experience, either. These calamari are just spicy enough to invoke new respect for how much flavor those rubbery little squids can pack.
Sadly, other restaurants have been slow to rip off Acme's triumph, but that's okay. We're also still fond of the place as a comfort-food set-up where you don't feel like you're going back home to Mommy-who, of course, has never blackened anything on purpose.
Imagine our surprise when Time Out named seltzer a New York vanishing act and claimed that only Gomberg Seltzer Works was left to supply the city. Nothing against the Brooklyn-based Gomberg, but we're loyal to the Connecticut boys at Castle Seltzer.
Concerned that we were the last to hear the bad news, we called up our pushers to make sure they were on the case. Rest assured, we were told, it was a false alarm. Castle still delivers to the tri-state area. At $12 a case-that's a buck a bottle-our weekly purchase of nostalgia is packaged in a wooden crate held together with metal joints; the blue, green and clear glass bottles are outfitted with plastic or metal spouts. There's a $25 deposit, but no minimum case order and no start-up fee. There are no strings attached at all, just like the good old days. Just return the empties when the new ones arrive.
We order every Monday afternoon and greet the deliveryman at the ungodly hour of eight the next morning. (East Side deliveries are Thursday.) Occasionally, when we can't drag ourselves from bed, he's nice enough to leave two cases just outside our front door, rather than abandon us to suffer with Brita.
For the same price as a can of Coke at the bodega, you can shoot an entire bottle of seltzer into someone's mouth from a few feet away. Two can engage in water fights; three, in all-out warfare. Or, when that thrill wears off-which it will, but quick-fill a glass and greedily gulp-never sip-the salt-free, super-carbonated liquid.
Seltzer delivery, a thing of the past? Hardly.
Then, as now, one of the staples of its menu of simple regional-Sicilian cuisine was the vestedda (plural vesteddi). Boiled beef spleen is sliced thin and heated for several minutes in a pan of melted shortening with a dollop of spiced ricotta and slivers of hard caciocavallo ("horse cheese"), all of which is then ladled onto a seeded roll. Rich, filling, tasty and cheap.
Maybe we've given away too much. We've observed that the description "spleen-on-a-bun" can be enough to get prospective initiates shaking their heads hard enough to cause whiplash. We seem to recall that Badalucco had ordered our vesteddi and waited until we'd finished them and downed two bottles of Manhattan Special coffee soda (still served) before letting us in on the sandwich ingredients. By then we were basking in that warm, full, cheese-and-sweetbread, artery-hardening glow coursing through our system. The rest is gastronomic history.
By our estimate, we've consumed several hundred in the 20-plus years since. At just $2.75 each, they're still among the best bargains in the city. While you're there, try the rice balls.
Good for them, we suppose. They've figured out that having a kid is the easiest way to have an impact upon as many lives as they can while doing as little as possible, and that's just about where their wisdom ends. These idiots park their strollers in the center aisle; they allow their spawn to toddle free amongst drunkards. We get dirty looks for swearing in their presence or accidentally stepping on them when they get underfoot. Now they're thrilled that they can drag their babies to a smoke-free environment (leave it to a clueless schoolmarm of a mayor to ban cigarettes from a tavern while still allowing children).
We pray that at least one of them will read this: Squeezing out a baby doesn't automatically make you a parent. You're supposed to take care of it after that. Having been one ourselves, we can tell you that a child needs a real place to play, interaction with other children like itself and attention from a capable parent-not a selfish, neglectful pet-owner like you. It's obvious that none of your friends have the nerve to break this to you, or maybe they're just as self-absorbed as you are. That's why we love bars that won't let you in with your kids.
Daunted by the myriad options that shine through the dyed-plastic, strip-mall menu hanging over the counter, we quickly became a creature of habit. We always choose "to go," but take-out isn't the only option either; customers are welcome to get comfy in the Western-style swivel stools and munch on tortilla chips. The decor resembles a prop assistant's first day on the job, with gumball machines on one counter (out of reach of children never seen inside) and a plastic clock near the register, next to a small, black sombrero (not to be outdone by an oversized yellow version). The massive rice cooker is just one of many clues that the employees haven't all gone entirely south of the border. Stalks of lucky bamboo grow in a porcelain dish, tucked almost out of sight-but surely in view of the employee who lumps dough into the tortilla maker.
We always leave with a feeling of shame for being so predictable, but sometimes you don't want to take chances. Especially in a place that's so mixed up about its identity.
Four blocks later, we arrived at Christie's/Juniors on Flatbush. Shaking ourselves dry while standing on line, we ordered two beef and two jerk chicken patties. While we waited for our patties to reach molten temperatures, we flattened out a few soft, wet bills from our pockets, noting for the future that a healthy handful of change would cover the entire bill.
At a friend's nearby apartment, we had a picnic on the floor, with pruned hands and hair still dripping. The jerk chicken patty was intense, leaving us with tears for 30 minutes after admitting defeat. We loved the beef, even taking tiny bites near the end to make it last longer. At the end of the meal, we regretted not having another.
Deep down inside, we still hold foggy but fond memories of artificially yellow patties served in our high-school cafeteria, but another trip or two to Christie's should be the beginning of a new Jamaican patty legacy.
Because of that, we hadn't touched German chocolate cake since we were 13. Until, that is, the last time we had dinner at Rolf's. Of course, you expect a German restaurant to take their German chocolate cake seriously, but this was insane. The cake itself is excellent, but what holds it together bears absolutely no resemblance to the peculiar substance that covered those cakes of our childhood. The frosting at Rolf's is like a form of slightly more malleable macaroon-thick and chewy and packed with real coconut. It was more like candy than frosting-and it nearly brought tears of joy to our eyes.
Funny thing is, we were kind of dreading dessert at the time. After a meal of sausages and potatoes and ham and sauerkraut and beer, we were already painfully stuffed when it arrived. After that first tentative bite, however, we decided that next time we went to Rolf's, that's all we would order. Well, that and the beer.
That's right-we can handle the amputee sailor at the bar informing us we're "not good enough to be here," or the dotcommers drinking with their shirts off, or that drunk bitch Stacey pouring margarita mix all over the place and moving people's pool balls around when they're not looking. So when we noticed a small insect on our husband's face while sitting at a table by the window, we brushed it away lovingly, and reveled in the authentic old-man bar "atmo."
The next morning, when we noticed a dark, flying beetle emerge from the crotch of our Levis, which we'd very authentically left in a sweaty wad on the bathroom floor the night before, we knew with a sinking feeling we'd drank our last $2 Pabst. Ah, what the fuck-it's time to start having kids, anyway.
Normally, we're wary of anywhere quite this fancy, especially within the 11211. Everything in the place is intentional, down to the sideways spigot on the bathroom sink. If it weren't for the owner's attention to detail, however, the illusion might not be so complete. The grub is cheap and plentiful, from the rich mussel soup, to the portobello panini, to the herb-crusted ribs. The lighting stays low; the band plays and plays; wine bottles keep coming. The walls shake every time the JMZ roars by upstairs, shadows flickering over the glazed windows. Sometimes, you can even stick around with the owners and musicians after they close at three o'clock, doors locked and lights off, conversations still going.
We will get out of this country again, and soon. Until then, we'll sneak some time at Moto and imagine that the most recent stamp in our passport came from a foreign hand.
All that shit's cool. But what makes Kinoko the silliest sino-spot in the city is the sushi special. First rule: all you can eat, $19.95. Second: unlimited custom ordering. That means if you want 15 spicy tuna hand rolls, you get 'em. The third rule: you must eat everything you order-including the rice-or pay for each uneaten item a la carte.
The third rule is the real draw. Our gluttonous, cheapskate friends are suckers for all-you-can-eat joints and never admit defeat when faced with food. They order plate after plate of sushi, with each choice of fish more bizarre than the last. By plate five, they've gorged on octopus, sea urchin and clam-and start to turn green. Still, they soldier on, ordering again and making the table into a spectacle by engaging in vigorous stomach stretching lunges learned from master glutton Takeru Kobayashi. Once it's time to pay the bill, they waddle to the counter, humbled by the might of Kinoko.
Of course, the a la carte trap and the question of tomorrow's lunch could both be solved by deep pockets, plastic baggies and quick hands. But that wouldn't be sporting.
Recently, for whatever reason, we checked back in and found that the new guy is trying. Notably, there's the quite-ridiculous offer of unlimited drinks during brunch. Read that again: unlimited drunks during brunch. Sure, the mimosas are more orange juice than champagne (and then, more orange drink from the gun than orange juice), but who actually serves strong drinks at brunch? Just drink more. And no matter how sharply we turn tail at the first mention of it, Stingy Lulu's persists with the city's oldest drag show on most nights.
The real turn-on is the menu, though you might not have noticed unless someone told you about it. The chefs here aren't the most consistent collection in the business, and the waitresses are clearly hired on their ability to smile politely, but somehow the old boy has put together a solid line-up that's brought us back a few times.
In a patch of the East Village that's sometimes difficult to frequent, Stingy Lulu's has persevered and come through the other side. Keeping in mind that all-you-can-drink thing, though, we wonder how long it'll last.
So, no, we don't have an all-consuming problem with Williamsburg. One of our favorite bars happens to be there, out at the third stop on the L. Blue Lady Lounge opened after we left the 3rd/4th stop corridor for another small town far, far away. When we came back and set up shop on a friend's Devoe St. couch for a month, we were pleased to find an alternative to the Pourhouse.
elvetica, sans-serif" size="3">Blue Lady is chill and unpretentious. With a long, comfortable bar, a couple of couches in the back area and a back patio that's open during the nice weather, it's worlds superior to the self-conscious pose of the Pourhouse. Owner Lou is a local boy, and many of his regulars are friends and family stopping in for a quick coupla and a howdy-do to the crew.
The jukebox is up and down, but acceptably so; it matches the clientele in its variety and friendliness. Bartender Dawn hosts movies on Sunday night and has been booking DJs and bands during the week. Blue Lady even offers internet access on two spankin' new iMacs.
She's absolutely filthy-looking. Her picture looks like it's been run through Photoshop's skank-ho filter about three or four times. She does not smile. And she has a gut. Posed in slothful recline against a motorbike, she's darkly resplendent in a leather vest and miniskirt, pink bargain-basement camisole and a come-hither gaze that promises a crippling cross-sample of venereal diseases. She makes Miss Rheingold 2003 look like June fucking Cleaver.
We can only imagine the sort of ad- agency meetings that spawned her, and we'd prefer not to. But we will try her beer, soon. We just need to drink a few others first.
Here's what you won't find at Olive's: Nasty, wilted leaves caked with gooey, black gobs of decomposing vegetable matter; rinse water; anything that looks like it's been dredged out of someone's rain gutter; aged stems so tough and fibrous that a starving rabbit couldn't gnaw its way through them; grit; dressings composed entirely of soy oil with some sorry bits of unidentifiable seasoning floating at the bottom.
Here's what you will find at Olive's: Tender baby spinach with grape tomatoes; crisp Romaine with toast and shaved Parmesan; maybe even a special salad-of-the-day if you're lucky, and if not, they'll whip up one to order. Each of them is excellent in its own way.
Far too many local eateries serve garbage, whereas Olive's serves salad. Learn from them.
Reid is a brown-and-white hound and terrier type of the love-sponging variety. He's greeted us at the door on more than one occasion. He escorts us to our table in the back, presses his solid weight against our calves, and when we return the affection, he rolls right over. Then, when the next guest comes in, the cycle of love begins anew. We thought we were special. But, no-it's him.
Mind you, this is not an open invitation to tug ears and rub belly. Reid needs to choose you. Just don't be surprised if he does.
"It's really good," promised our waitress, in what would turn out, in our minds, to be the greatest culinary understatement of the year.
Sweet Jesus, that flan. It was placed before us, plain and unassuming in its light dusting of cinnamon. Upon the very first taste, we learned that we'd sorely underestimated it. Our pupils dilated, our heart fluttered and our cholesterol levels rose instantaneously. The flavor and texture spoke of more than eggs, milk and vanilla-there was careful, patient, skillful preparation in that little pudding, and perhaps a secret ingredient. While easily rich enough for two, a slow but cutthroat spoon-duel soon ensued between us and our dining companion.
We have experienced both the regular and the white-chocolate flans, and have heard only legends of a passion-fruit variety. Don't be one of those stuck-up purists. Try them all.
Dom's offers an eyepopping 31 varieties of house sandwich, from the simple meatballs on hero to the daunting bresaola, parmesan, arugula, tomatoes and balsamic vinaigrette on focaccia. The eight or nine kinds we've sampled have been formidable in size and invariably delicious. There are also some cheese-, fish- and veggie-centric sandwiches for the lightweight luncher, and many unique, inventive salads as well.
Most menu items are under six bucks, and all come without the madding crowd or the frequently nasty attitude of Katz's. Browse the impressive shelves of imported gourmet foods while you wait; maybe pick up something for dinner, later. The one downside is, no seating, unless you want to park it on the bench outside.
Lacking flashing Christmas lights, entertainment, a flashy name or insane dinner deals, they boast well-priced authentic South Indian vegetarian cooking. It's never crowded, and customers are seated immediately and presently with perfect papadam. Our sensitive tongue usually saves us from filling up on the spicy bread, leaving plenty of room for our favorite dish, masala dosai.
We keep a yogurt lassi on hand to counter any surprise spice attacks, and tackle the hearty meal head-on. The pea and potato mixture is wrapped in a thin, crispy oversized crepe and fully infused with just the right amount of curry. Forgoing the fork, we use our hands to shovel the mess into our mouth. After succumbing to the dosai's sheer mass, we waddle back to the train through colorful huddles of bustling shoppers, proud of the wee bit of culture we've sought out.
A week later, lines were forming outside the corner restaurant that was once a Blimpee, with veteran customers describing dishes as though no one had ever eaten Chinese food. We were stubborn and skeptical of the hype, but eventually went on a fact-finding mission and sampled a few Caucasian favorites: beef and broccoli, fried dumplings and spare ribs. They were fabulous, offering complex and distinguishable flavors underneath unusually grease-free ingredients.
Recently, we discovered a dish called Green Parrot when a friend requested it (after some hesitation). We were in luck when we found a pile of sweet and tart bok choy/spinachesque vegetables that was as good as anything else we'd eaten there. Curiously, Green Parrot is not always available. We'll attempt to make it on our own, one of these days, sure. Until then, we cross our fingers when placing an order.
Owners Walter and