Freshman year of college we were on our way to Vermont with my roommates, and I was scrolling through her iPod. Usually, this is a stressful activity for me because my musical knowledge is limited to top 40 hits and dance tracks of dubious quality--specifically reggaeton. I love reggeaton. But then, I stumbled upon gold. I didn't hesitate because I knew this would be an instant hit. That's right: I had found Ja Rule's "Always on Time." And so, we were bopping (is that the appropriate verb for Ja?) along for all of twenty-six seconds when the song just ended. I was living the dream, and then I faced a rude awakening. As it turned out, my roommate had gone through a phase when she was in high school where she cut all her songs to about that length because she knew she had music ADD and wouldn't listen to more than a few seconds of them anyway. If anything, I admire her follow-through. But anyway, Ja Rule has been on my mind ever since.
Fortunately, on Friday night, while driving to the Meatball Shop, we realized that Ja Rule was the perfect artist to listen to--in that he was a rapper from when we were in middle school (the time inaccurately referred to as "the nineties")--would be appropriate. Basically, the night devolved into my friend intermittently yelling "MURDA," and everyone else dissolving into a fit of giggles. It never got old. Later, when we were pulling out of our spot and the song wouldn't load, the need for Ja became more urgent. But apparently, we're not the first to go through this:
But IS there such a thing as a question to which
Ja Rule might not have an answer?
But, oh yeah, this post is about a restaurant, and not a rapper. Finally, we arrived at Meatball Shop at two in the morning. it's strange thing to be telling a hostess that you have a party of four at that hour. The decor, as in all the eateries I attend, was superior--there were old-timey photos on the walls of Mr. and Mrs. Meatball, those lamps in which you can see the filaments that are so popular these days, a long bar, and just a cozy atmosphere. I'm not an interior decorator and my vocabulary is limited, but I hear a picture's worth a thousand words:
Obviously, this lighting is irresistible.
The menus are laminated so you mark your selection there--on one hand it's awesome because you feel empowered, on the other hand, I'm empowered enough in my own kitchen (move along. No gender rights catastrophe to see here). In any case, apparently our selections weren't clear because we had to reiterate them anyway. The selection process was rough--I just went with the classic meatball with tomato sauce, but others had the bacon, pork, and cheese meatball, the spicy pork, and all uniformly ordered spicy meat sauce. You know, meat with a side of meat. We actually got a good sampling of their products--the slider, forever alone meatball on a bun; the naked balls, meatballs in a bowl; and the hero, which came with a salad, because greens are an important part of one's diet at two in the morning. The meatballs were good, which is to say, they tasted like quality ground meat; the bread, fresh; the parmesan, just right. Basically, there's a reason they're open until four in the morning. They know their product's audience.
When I come home from New York, after my parents' friends ask me, "so, how's New York" (seriously, though, what is the appropriate answer for that question?), they ask me about what cultural activities I've been attending. I haven't. In college, my cultural calendar was too full with other important activities: whining about the cold, lounging on the pullout couch watching countless episodes of "Chopped," attending warehouse parties with marching bands, tiny pianos, and midget couples. Still, the guilt persisted, and I'm getting better. I saw a Shakespeare play (I slept through half of it and people watched through the other half) and I've been listening to NPR. Yesterday, I went and saw "Nutcracker in the Lower," which was an "urban" rendition of the Nutcracker--Tchaikovsky having a dance battle with "America's Best Dance Crew." We sat in the front row and I spent all the time the rat king was on the stage wondering if this tights just had massive holes up his outer thigh or if they'd found the most translucent tights ever.
Afterward, my friend and I were left to wander the Lower East Side in search of a place to eat, which is really not a challenge at all, although it's definitely easier to feed the soul (beer) than the stomach, there. We passed by a club called "Dark Room," where, once upon a time, the bouncer had asked me to break it down, and when I showed him my moves, he said, "No, but, seriously," and we were approaching Katz's beacon light--
Puritans need not apply...for a sandwich here.
When we walked by Pink Pony. I don't know why, but, for some reason, I was absolutely convinced this was a lesbian cafe. I'm sure my thinking was something along the lines of pink+animal=lesbian reference. The numbers speak for themselves!
In any case, it was cold and we were indecisive, but Pink Pony was right in front of us, so we walked in. There were some bearded hipsters sharing a bottle of wine, hip twentysomethings, tall ceilings, and literally linens that separated the kitchen from the tables. I was smitten. We waited for maybe two minutes, then we went to the back, through tall, open, medieval wooden doors, and into quite possibly the best decorated restaurant I have ever been in. There were bookshelves haphazardly strewn with books and decorations, booths under said bookshelves, music that wasn't too loud, a great low level amount of white noise, and warm lighting.
We ordered a bottle of wine (because we're not plebes, we ordered the cheapest white they had), beet mesclun salad with goat cheese, and a salami panini with olive tapenade. While we waited, my ear quickly caught the presence of French people. The "ouias, baah, euuuuuuuuuuh" sounds gave them away immediately. Now when I type these out, the French sound like drunk barbarians, but in my irrational mind these are the sounds of cultural sophistication. I have relinquished all critical thinking skills when it comes to France. If I have a blind, unthinking faith in anything, it's in the fact that they live a better life and are better people than we are. I imagine that all their conversations are deeply meaningful.
These are a few of the pictures that came up on Google images when I searched "french superiority." Now, presented with commentary, clockwise from top left: Nike dunks (?), Medieval armor (the last time the French excelled in warfare haha so original), a corner (preach!),Casablanca Police Chief Renault (a corrupt officer who was into married women), a bakery (fact), fighter jets (things the French Army
probably doesn't have because hahahaha they are terrible at war)
In the mean time, the food arrived. My panini was excellent--simple, but the tapenade was just right, there wasn't an overwhelming amount of salami, the cheese was nicely melted, and ultimately, you can't really screw up a sandwich with only three elements. The French sitting behind us were replaced by another group of them, this time bigger, and in the company of some Americans, one of whom was wearing a baffling leopard print jumpsuit and furry vest...basically if Connie could have something like Skeeter's wardrobe, this is what she would pick.
By then, though, my attention was diverted to the guy sitting to my left. He came in, read the newspaper (but really the ads for Broadway plays in the Times) got a glass of wine, ate dinner on his own on a Friday at 10:30 like a boss. What a good attitude. Unfortunately, I was just shy of the right side of inebriation to tell him I liked his style. But then again, hopefully my staring communicated that message.
Location: Please apply your reading comprehension skills.
Back when we were freshmen, and it was welcome week, and everyone was desperately trying to get black out drunk, there was a magical place called BBQ on the corner of 8th Street and University Ave. BBQ was a place without pretensions--just a little restaurant that dared to dream that impossible dream: financial success through ridiculously sized drinks sold to underage kids. Life was simple, then. They ignored the terror in our eyes, the furtive glances we cast at each other as we prayed they wouldn't ask for IDs, and we, in turn, ignored the infestation of rats and cockroaches. Unfortunately, the Department of Health got nothing out of this deal, and so BBQ shut down. Of course, there are two within a three block radius, but we were freshmen and our legs were really short.
Fact: all college freshmen are the human equivalents of dachshunds (Fig. 1 on the left). Like the canine, they are great hunters. After gaining the freshman fifteen and realizing that a diet
of garlic knots is not a merciful one, they shed weight over the summer, and start to resemble the shar pei (Fig. 2 on the right). As everyone knows, however, shar peis, like
weight-losing college students, are doomed to death by explosion because their
skins stretch too tight. Plus, they have loans to pay off. Nature is cruel, no
doubt about it.
In any case, BBQ at least had the excuse of having cheap drinks. Johnny Rockets, on the other hand, had nothing going for it. Overpriced, mediocre burgers in a city where it's easy to do much better than that. Basically, it's like going to Olive Garden in Times Square: $15 for romaine lettuce!?! Steal!
Ultimately, however, Johnny Rockets faced the same fate as BBQ, and the land lay fallow, until Pop's came along. Pop's has great, sturdy wood tables, a rustic feel, it's legitimated by its connection to Brooklyn, and it's avoided the curse of fluorescent lighting. More importantly, the presence of a group of men who were so manly as to be borderline gay only served to emphasize eatery's virility--the number one quality I look for in a restaurant. I went there with two friends who are starting a beef blog (Shut Your Beef Curtains is the name, and yes, the double entendre is beautifully subtle).
Sam got Pop's burger, which is just a basic burger, and Adrian got the Cholo burger (with no vegetables. All meat, no nonsense. And no, the meat was not lean) Adrian and Sam then proceeded to film themselves eating their burgers with a fish eye camera that you could wear like a headlamp. Sam basically had to put the camera over his eyes, and spent about five minutes griping about the fact that he couldn't see his food. The quality of the meat was amazing, and Adrian's had such an unexpected array of flavors that we had to have a long discussion about the logistics of their meat ratings system, and finding a control for a burger that does not fit the standard type.
Oh scientific method! How did
you get so hilarious!?!?
Because I'd eaten Swedish meatballs for lunch, I decided that I didn't want to get a burger, so, of course, in an effort to avoid eating meat, I ordered a crispy chicken sandwich. (This is reminiscent of the time I was going to get lunch with a friend and loudly proclaimed my desire to eat healthy and get a salad or something. We wound up going to a Chinese restaurant where I got fried rice with a side of fried egg rolls.) Regardless, the fried chicken was both spicy and sweet, and the sauce on the bread definitely had some mango in it--this shit was layered.
Conclusion: I should probably start taking notes on what I'm eating while I'm eating it because most of this entry was dedicated to a defunct restaurant that employed, in the eyes of the law, criminals, and to drawing parallels between dogs and college students.
Location: Bedford Ave between Greene and Lexington
I've relocated to Brooklyn, and so have my gastronomic adventures. Generally, I haven't ventured farther than a close-by beer garden, the hottest Caribbean take-out place ever, and a Chinese place that delivers classic Chinese fast food and neglects to offer a fortune cookie (!). If you're going to be a stereotype, at least do it right.
Fortunately, I have friends who are not chained to the three block line extending north-south from their houses. Thus, I made it to Do or Dine.
Reservoir Dogs started out with a conversation
about what would happen if you named
a restaurant "Do or Dine." True story.
A word of warning: DO NOT, do not, fall for the awning. This is not a West Indian/African restaurant, believe it or not. The trick is to look at the bottom of the awning--the most obvious of places--to find the name of the restaurant.
Inside, it looks like a retro diner: not like a diner from the 50s, mind you, but a diner that is designed in 2011 and harkening back to the 50s, with the inevitable 70s tinge (see: disco ball), just to even out the average of the years. (I may be an English major, but everyone knows that the midpoint between 1950 and 2011 is 1980 minus ten because the 80s were awful). That said, I've only sat on the patio, which has a vine hanging down the middle and wood flooring with long wooden tables.
The menu is one page and divided into snacks, small plates, and proteins. Nothing is simple here--the nachos aren't made with chips, the jalapeno popper has goat cheese and bacon, the foie gras comes in doughnut form, and the deviled eggs, cleverly titled e666s, are deep-fried. So basically a stoner opened his fridge, but instead of being in college and broke and making do with spaghetti and bread crumbs and random cheese that he shoved into the oven and then eagerly watched bake, he found out he was a millionaire and his caring (and enabling) butler had stocked it with octopus and exotic cheeses and salts (plural!) and something called nippon and clams, but also understood that a stoner has base cravings like tortillas and frozen Snickers bars (a real desert offering, but topped with strawberried) and deep fried foods.
This clip is not related to this post but
Archer's abusiveness toward Woodhouse
brings joy to my schadenfreude heart.
For now, this place is BYOB and they treat the drinks you buy from the corner bodega across the street like royalty--frosted glasses, glasses that match the drink you're having (not, like, mugs for anything from tea to sweet tea vodka), ice buckets. It makes me feel important, and, consequently, fills me with the desire to trash the place.
The wait staff are all extremely friendly and supportive through the arduous process of ordering. My favorite waiter seems to be perpetually stoned. He poured our wine extremely slowly and carefully because, he claimed, "I am a committed alcoholic and don't want to see any alcohol go to waste." Let's be real, though, he got couch-locked watching the pour. When we came in and said that there were two of us, he repeated it: "there are two of you," in such a way as to transform this declaration of number into a existential statement. It was disconcerting and endearing.
Ahh, unemployment and the imminent existential crisis of the recent college grad. Somewhere between browsing the new additions to Netflix instant, reading sentimental statuses on Facebook, and fielding questions about my future, I found time in my busy schedule to post.
Connie has a well known and documented love of oysters--she got food poisoining from them at Borough Market in London, and then came back the next week for more. Live and don't learn.
This is a collage of photos of oysters I found on Facebook that Connie either took or was tagged in.
I, on the other hand, was much more apprehensive. But the problem with being a loudly self-proclaimed open-minded person is that you have to walk the walk and in this case, eat the oyster. Honestly, though, who could resist: Fish has a deal where you get 6 oysters and a beer/white wine/red wine for $8. Bargain (unless you get food poisoning, but as the Russians say, "those who don't risk, don't drink champagne"...or PBR as the case may be).
So as it turns out, oysters are good! I can't tell you too much about their flavor, since right before eating one, I black out with fear and nerves and only come to in time for the next one. They are flavorful and meaty, should not be overexamined, and are better with sauces. At Fish, they come with the onion/vinegar sauce, cocktail sauce, horseradish (underrated condiment), and bay seasoning. As you would expect, they are served on ice, although I think an upscale oyster bar should invest in dry ice plates and force the customers to wear later gloves. For the scientist who likes luxury.
A luxury scientist's pipette tips would be made of Swarowski crystals
Besides the oysters, the T-shirts are awesome. They say, "sex, drugs, and lobsters rolls." Connie and I debated what color to get them in for probably half the meal, before we found out they were sold out. (I wonder how much time I would save in life if I had no freedom of choice. Of course, if that were true, I would be living in a dictatorial regime, where the odds of me getting killed would be much higher, so the time I saved on not having choice would be cancelled out by the time I lost...not living).
Regardless, the ambiance is great--low lighting, pictures of fishermen, Bob Dylan songs, wet floors due to the lack of dry ice plates, and just the right amount of limited square footage to make you feel like you're in a real New York restaurant.
Conclusion: low-cost decadence, for the privileged college student who wants to look even more privileged! Also check out Hog and Rocks in San Francisco.
P.S. I tried finding this hilarious New Yorker cartoon about Moby-Dick where Ahab finds the whale in the lookout tower, and caption said, "it's always in the last place you look." Sadly when I googled it, all I found was a picture that said, "find the clitoris." The connection is obvious, amiright?!!?.
