Piccolo: A second post that comes so quickly only because I'm still so enthusiastic about having a blog

Location: 19th St and 3rd Ave.

So my roommates and I are disgustingly cute sometimes. Like we celebrate every month since we moved in and met each other. For our 13 monthiversary (ha! aren't we clever), we went to this restaurant a couple of blocks from where we live (have you figured it out yet? a. where we live and b. that we're lazy) called Piccolo.

In the sunshine- and resolve-filled days of the beginning of the semester, we walked to class and consequently walked by this restaurant everyday. With its outdoor patio and constantly dim to completely dark interior, we figured this would be the ideal location to commemorate the beginning of the year.

We walked in and it was very intimate in a look! we've discovered a hole in the wall that maybe is a hidden gem no one knows about. Highlights of the interior included several vintage-looking posters that detailed various varieties of various things. Vague enough? One of my roommates was seated in front of a poster of mushrooms that were all very phallic. Hilarity ensued. Needless to say, we documented the incident. (Side note: I forgot to mention that we are all idiot savants that are actually 12 and in college.)

But we did not go in there simply to sit around (as I once did with my friends: we walked into a Jennifer Convertibles and just sat on one of the display couches for an hour.) We came there to eat. Suffice it to say it was a disappointment. All I remember from my meal was that I had the most inedible chicken ever. I had a secret hope that my roommate that isn't vegetarian would like the chicken so perhaps the food could be salvaged, but no such luck. I didn't even finish what was on my plate, which is very uncharacteristic for both Connie and me: it is a well-known fact to all our friends that our plates will always be cleared. I know, we have very healthy eating habits. I think it all stems from my grandma for whom gastronomic satisfaction is unfathomable. When I tell her I'm not hungry, she offers me fruit. When I reiterate my satiation, she tells me that fruit isn't food, apparently belonging to some mysterious category of items that look like food, and taste like food but aren't. I dont know.

Conclusion: We all left feeling sick. Avoid, unless you are a glutton for punishment.

Inaugural Post: Sea King

Location: 23rd St. between 2nd and 3rd Ave, NYC

To be honest, this place is not actually called Sea King, but it is at the same location as the restaurant I'm actually trying to review. Let's call it Sushi King.
I spent most of my freshman year, and a portion of my sophomore year in pursuit of a replacement for Miyake-- a restaurant that I, at one point, frequented on a bi-weekly basis, minimum. (Some people I know--Connie--were known to go there more than once a day.) Despite the fact that all the waiters clearly recognized us, and could predict our orders, we never managed to get a discount there. Moral: There are no free lunches.

Anyway, Sushi King is my new Miyake. One fine day, our beginning-of-the-year-it's a fresh start resolve finally flagged. We had no food to eat, and no desire to lug bags of food for 12 blocks. We caved and went out to eat, and landed at, you guessed it, Sushi King. (Conveniently, it's a 3 minute walk from where I live. FFFL) It's small, but the lunch special is great: 2 rolls, a soup and a salad for 6.50. The vegetable rolls are definitely preferable to the fish, but for the price you're paying, I really didn't have the right to complain.

Bonus feature! When you call them to order pick-up, they write it down and call you by name the next time you order (guess how often we get groceries now?). Some would call this creepy and Big Brother-ish (envision a small Japanese lady following you around taking notes on what you're doing ). I call it great customer service. Tomato, tomahto.
Double Bonus! They played Cash Cab last time I was there.