Motolicious
Eat This New York is the story of two buddies, John McCormick and Billy Phelps, both from the Midwest, both trying to live the New York City dream by opening a restaurant. For reasons unbeknownst to us?they have neither food nor restaurant experience?the two decide on a tiny sliver of a place in Williamsburg. Unfortunately, Phelps emerges as the center of the film, even though his commentary consists of self-conscious ramblings and indulgent self-pity; he pretty much overshadows the potential substance that could have come from the plight of Moto.
This, I later learned, occurred at the expense of what is quite a charming little place. Usually, restaurants that show up on the big or small screen?take Rocco's?get more credit than they deserve, simply because they have received the benefit of the camera's gaze. The reverse seemed to occur with Moto. After seeing Eat This New York twice?the first time at a private showing, the second time at a screening?I had zero interest in visiting the restaurant/bar. What I now understand to have been the shortcomings of the film?the focus on whining and wussy naiveté, not the care and style that went into making Moto what it is?made the place itself seem unworthy of examination.
But after my second viewing, held at a restaurateur friend's apartment, I decided that I must go to Moto that very evening to see it for myself. Pulling up to Broadway and Hooper St. was a bit surreal. There it was?that little triangular building that had been the subject of the movie I'd just cursed for the last 90 minutes. I'm as jaded as the next person, but walking into a place that I knew intimately from a movie did carry a certain awe-inspiring quality.
At 2 a.m. on a weeknight, Moto was just about empty. And it was beautiful. Inspired by pre-mid-century Bohemian bars and cafes (as further evidenced by Moto's web address, circa1938.com), the décor features antique exit signs, original metalwork, broad plank floors, antique beer taps and other such particulars that when itemized can't convey the charm that we were so surprised to encounter. Even when empty, the atmosphere was thick with ambience.
Since the kitchen was closed, we returned a second time for dinner?Thursday night at eight o'clock. With a jazz band playing and the place packed, it was impossible to have a conversation, but that's to be expected. People listened to live music (a different band plays every night of the week), hung out with artists (we spied a dancer and a couple of photographers) and drank red wine served in water glasses. I had two?a rioja ($7) and a shiraz ($7).
In a peculiar twist, practically the entire cast of characters showed up that night?both owners as well as the film's perky blond bartender were there. True to his new movie star status, Phelps walked in later that evening, head averted like a celebrity's, a woman with starlet-caliber looks by his side. He had on a bomber jacket, cap pulled down low and a scarf wrapped high around his neck. As if on cue, a woman shouted "Billy!" and planted a kiss on his mouth.
Doing most of the grunt work that night was Phelps' true-blue partner, the soft-spoken McCormick, our waiter for the evening. Although the place was a zoo, McCormick was as solicitous as they come, to the point of sitting down at our table to discuss his concerns about our having ordered "too much food" (portions here are pretty generous). So as not to blow our cover, my companion and I placed two appetizer and two entrée orders. The menu is mostly bourgeois basics with off-the-boat twists?marinated beets with boiled egg, herring and sour cream ($7) and fresh fennel with parmesan, olive oil and vinegar?and mostly everything sounded appetizing.
We had the Bulgarian feta with sopressata, cucumber, olives and tomatoes ($7), a basic plate that features incredibly fresh and mild cheese from Joe's Dairy in the village. Likewise, the sopressata from Pino's was of an equally high grade. Our other appetizer of warm lentil salad with fresh cheese, a fig and walnut croutons ($7) was rather underwhelming; the lentils had no flavor or textural character, and tasted like any other bean stew.
Our two entrees were far more interesting, and both made for great winter meals. A special of pork stew with hominy and cilantro ($13) came in a nice spicy broth. The pearl-sized grains were toothsome and chewy, and the pork was soft from slow cooking. I chose the second entree, the unexceptional-sounding chicken dijonnaise with mashed potato and cabbage ($13), on McCormick's recommendation. It came with a leg and a thigh, which were incredibly moist, almost succulent, and the cabbage, which is cooked with the chicken, was squelching with its juices. Both entrees were very good, reason enough to return.
For dessert, we shared a date cake with toffee sauce and fresh cream ($5), a sufficiently rich follow-up to the humble entrees. The dessert, sticky with toffee and with a spongy warm cake, was sugary and delicious.
After having had two very pleasant visits to Moto, I was almost ashamed that my bad impression of the restaurant had been based on something as detached as a film. It just goes to show that nothing, not even an exhaustive documentary, can replace experience.