The Park: Its Name Alone is Emblematic of the Lifestyle I Desperately Wish I Could Afford

Location: 19th St. and 10th Ave.

Granted, I visited this restaurant more than a month ago for Erin's birthday, and I do have this nagging amnesia problem, but have faith in me. Or don't--for all you know, I've made up all my visits to these places, and my entries are simply fantasies bred of looking longingly into the restaurant windows and perusing their menus. I've thrown the gauntlet!

So, I have given up the set up already. It was Erin's birthday, and even though no one had work that day, we all managed to show up late. Still, Amanda, Val, and I were the first ones to make it. We took the crosstown 14th Street bus to unknown and unvisited locations--past 8th Avenue into the mythical land known as Chelsea/Meatpacking District. Frankly, I have no clue where one ends and where the other begins. I still don't know where Greenwich Village resides as opposed to the West Village. Fortunately, all my visitors trust me blindly. And I, of course, abuse that trust. Regardless, the reason I don't really go past 6th Avenue is because a) in the winter, being outside makes me homicidal, and b) 14th Street to the west of Union Square becomes unwelcoming--no cute buildings, just shady places called Cinderella Palace which blinds anyone who looks in its direction with how pink and cheap it is, or FootLocker, and various two foot wide identical stores that are run by angry, semi-absent owners who pop out of nowhere and try to sell you HILARIOUS shirts that say, "New York Fucking City" or "Fuck you, you fucking fuck" or shorts that have "Bitch" carefully embroidered over the back. You know, the kind of stores that seem really novel when you first move to or visit the city.

So we made it to the other side. That of trendy clubs, and half-empty warehouse-like designer stores where you are guaranteed to find more sales attendants than customers. On our way there, we also passed a place that had a large arc opening with ribbons covering the front door. It looked cavernous and mysterious--my friend ventured a guess that this was the ninja restaurant which is impossible to find, and where one is served by ninjas. So we ditched Erin and went to this place instead. We made great friends with the wait staff, and took pictures.
If you look closely, you will see the school where he trained. I tried desperately to fit in, but something gave me away instantly.

No, but seriously, a real ninja restaurant would never be so conspicuous. And seriously, we did meet up with Erin at The Park, which is a former parking garage cum trendy restaurant/lounge/place where people who wish they lived in Sex and the City land reside. We were seated in the garden area, which, like any good outdoor seating area was secluded, yet airy and spacious. (See previous post for thoughts on seclusion).

This is what it looked like when we went there. The funny (and great) thing about The Park is that money grows on those trees, so this lavish set up was totally affordable.

The prices are in the $15-25 range. They have small plates, but don't bother ordering that unless you enjoy having massive regrets about what you ordered and looking longingly at your neighbors' food. Amanda got some tuna, and it was literally the size of a lemon square. Models, we are not. I got Grilled Atlantic Salmon with Avocado Tomatillo Salsa, Asparagus and Corn on the Cob. (Can you tell I copy-pasted that from their website?). It was delicious, and the corn on the cob was arranged in a pyramid, so demolishing that structure that the chef carefully arranged made the meal all the more enjoyable.

This is what I look like when I eat at a respectable restaurant.

But seriously, these places make you feel quintessentially adult and young--New York already has that effect by default, but the real boon of a place like The Park is that it makes you feel like you are in the thick of the best New York has to offer, like you are really living and experiencing the city as a true city-dweller would. Like you're in on some secret of what constitutes good living in this city. Like you really own the city--or as Holly Golightly says, like it "belongs to me because I belong to it."

Then again, we also split a bottle of wine, so that may be the reason for this sentimentalization. Then we walked around the West Village, Erin told us a ridiculous story about her friend who called her at 4 in the morning, afraid that he had walked all the way to Harlem from Washington Square Park when he was, in fact, only only a few blocks away.

This rambled horribly, so let me be terse: go to The Park. Go to the Highline.

Horus Cafe: More Like Hor-rible Cafe-tastrophe. Hortastrophe. Like This Title.

Location: At the corner of Terrible Service Ave. and Rip-Off Lane, but more precisely, 6th St and Ave. B.

So, as is the wont of all the young rapscallions whose company I keep, my friend decided to get a tattoo one random day when she resolved to quit stalling and start doing! (I have no such ambitions. I am extremely averse to pain, as well as to the retelling of stories detailing painful experiences. Once in a while, the conversation will move toward stories of increasing gore and pain as the storytellers try to outdo each other with the plight they, or their friends, have suffered. Of course I join in, but, having contributed my story, wimp out and ask that we stop this conversation thread. People try to outdo me, so I have to loudly yell over their competing story, but actually listen enthralled. I would argue that this is akin to the horror movie phenomenon--we watch because we like having survived the movie, and we retell because we were lucky enough to emerge from our fall off the roof/rock to the face/collision with falling bomb unscathed and convinced of our invincibility) In any case, there we were at East Side Tattoo ready to watch our friend get some INK. (Posturing is fun!)

Oddly enough, the people there were not at our beck and call when we rolled in 6 deep unannounced (surprise! we all got matching tattoos to commemorate our commitment to COLLEGE! PARTYING! We wanted something that would say, "it's time to party."
Nothing quite captures the spirit of receding innocence like this image.

OK. Enough lies. Eventually, inevitably, I got hungry, and I dragged everyone down with me. Now, we didn't want to go far from where the tattoo place was, we didn't want to spend too much money, and somehow we got stuck choosing between two equally sleazy places. Long story short, we chose Horus, a hookah bar. As soon as we walked in and were greeted by our waitress, I knew this was a huge mistake. The place was awkwardly empty, and had random Ancient Egyptian-like paintings on the walls. We sat at a wooden, extremely phallic table, that, I suppose, was meant to evoke some feelings of luxury and debonair-ness that hookah-smoking generates. All we were missing was Jafar, Raja, an elephant to carry me places, and a servant to feed my grapes and fan me with a giant palm leaf to make the picture complete. Instead, we got an ersatz model of that--our waitress. She was a giant in short shorts. I legitimately see her as a cross between Khloe Kardashian and what I imagine would be Hagrid's wife, proportion-wise. Please see below for a scale model. (Given perspective and depth perception, it's clear. THIS WOMAN IS HUGE.)


The other woman/girl-child working was probably confused because it definitely looked like she was trying out to be the sexy hooker/extremely lubricated/sexually subservient girlfriend/main bitch for a rap video. It was odd.

Anyway, THEY FORCED US TO GET DRINKS, even though we had ordered food. The waitress was snarky. The food took forever to come out. How hard is it to lay out some carrots and hummus on a plate? Mmm? And those sneaky owners realized that their service was atrocious because they were employing a half-giant not fit for Muggle company and another girl that was clearly disoriented, so they include the tip in the price of the meal. Well, surely they would be reasonable and make the tip the standard 15%, you think. Wrong. 18%. Wildly undeserved.

The food was good but that is irrelevant. We ate, disgruntled, and made like trees.

Conclusion: Avoid unless you want to oggle the ridiculous people who pass as service staff here.

Cloisters Cafe: Not the Medieval Museum I thought it Would Be

Location: 9th and 2nd Ave.

This is not where we wound up.

There are pictures of the cafe itself, but sadly, they are way too small to be worth posting, but I'll play it off like I didn't post pictures in order to so intrigue the reader with my description that he/she has no choice but to go to the cafe himself.

This post will be another in the "let's wax poetic about New York series." And so we shall. Some people argue that it's all about location, location, location. I would argue it's all about feeling secluded in said location, location, location. While the actual interior of the cafe is unimpressive, although the stain glass windows would appeal to the lay medieval peasant, the garden adjacent to it was really nice--the walls were lined with ivy, which also hung overhead. I felt like I was in a cove. Obvi, this kind of feeling of safety had to be celebrated with champagne, which, for some reason, today sounds in my head the way that Christopher Walken says it in "The Continental" (the whole video is great, but 2:46 really hits the spot): http://www.hulu.com/watch/4191/saturday-night-live-the-continental (I don't know how to embed, and this interactive entertainment blogpost is really taking it out of me)

In any case, the champagne was not amazing, and the food was fine, but also nothing to reminisce fondly about. I had a portabella mushroom burger. It intrigued me with its jalapeno sauce, but I couldn't really taste it. Bush league. I literally can't remember any opinion I had on the food, other than that Erin's looked like something a college student whipped up in the microwave. Of course, no restaurant would admit that they just heat up frozen food. Unless, of course, the restaurant's name is Sam's or something, and when you ask them what's in their Haddock sandwich, they just say that they heat up frozen fish. Not that I speak from experience; Jim does. And just to round out the story, he ordered it anyway.

So maybe the food was lackluster. The conversation, on the other hand, was the best kind: political and uninformed: nothing like yelling at your friends either in agreement or disagreement about topics that we are woefully underinformed on, and recycle facts and figures we have heard from people who agree with us (usually our parents or some other knee-jerk liberal source). We covered everything from healthcare to poverty to corruption in politics to corn and the Man. Needless to say, no one changed her (singular agreement! grammar roolz) opinion, and order in the world was restored once again.

La Barca: Instigator of Stream of Consciousness Writing

An emphatic and slightly deranged journey into the mind of one Ms. Connie Shao.

Location: 2414 S Vermont Ave in L.A.

SO. We went to la barca, on Vermont - if you didn't look for it while you were driving by you would miss it admist all of its mexicano surroundings, hella local, hella part of the community. It has a huge sign on the outside that says "La Barca," two small windows with bars over it. the moment i stepped inside it was CHAOS. Super loud on the inside, people shouting, laughing, fillllllllllllled with hooomans. and families. and hella people being rowdy drunks.

We met up with two of Traci's friends, who had already begun drinking, alas it was happy hour, and then of course we got drinks for the whole table. Hella margaritas. strawberry, peach, and peach banana. and pina coladas. $2.95 per drink, all quite strong.

Tons of choices on the menu - I decided on the coloso burrito, which had everything you could want in a burrito - guac, sour cream, cheese, lettuce, rice, beans, EVERYTHING. A much more well-rounded burrito compared to the other burritos, which is why I decided upon it. Evan and I both got it. And when it came, it was big enough to feed a small family. I would guesstimate that it was at least 3 or 4 pounds, and there was melted cheese and sauce on the top. huge tortillas, my thoughts. I ate a little less than a third of it. and then I ate it for 2 meals after. I went out to dinner the next night so I didn't get to eat it then, but the next day I had it for brunch, lunch, and dinner. It was great.umm.. That's all. Really long story. The point of the story. This whole burrito cost me $8.95, and it was huge. The size of my head.
[this is the work you get from me when i am not in a funny-woman mood. remember, low expectations, the key to success!!!]

UM OK SORRY THIS WAS LONG. JUST SUMMARIZE IT AND PUT IT ONLINE. OR NOT. NO HARD FEELINGS. CAPITAL LETTERS. NOW I'M JUST RAMBLING. AND IT'S GREAT TO TYPE IN CAPITAL LETTERS.HUGE BURRITOS. HELLA BURRITOS. oh. also there were chips. and salsa.

Summary: huge burrito. family friendly environment. great deals on drinks. strong margaritas. hella good environment, positive vibes. fun times!!!!!!
i would go back. :)

Plug Uglies/Boar's Head: I've Made a Terrible Realization

Location: Three street stretch on 3rd Ave. between 20th and 23rd.

It's summer time in New York! I finally have an ID! And no expendable cash, but whatever! Why not explore the bars in the neighborhood where I will have spent three years of my life? And so I did...

A couple of weeks ago, Val invited me and Erin to come out to a bar where she was hanging out. How convenient, I thought, this bar is only two blocks away. We get there--first of all, there is a SEVEN dollar cover. Fortunately for them, I was so excited that my ID worked that I decided to proceed. Also it was the beginning of the month, and I am short-sighted as fuck, so I just decided to whimsically spend, dance like nobody's watching etc...

Anyway, I can't really tell you how much drinks cost there since I didn't have to pay because of Val's very gracious friends, but I'm assuming that if I had seen the bill, my reaction would have been similar to the following:

(870): This bar receipt from last night makes no sense
(573): You were wasted and got mad that it was too high so you subtracted 50 bucks in the tip line from the total
(870): I wish that would've worked

Regardless, Erin and I stuck out--as Erin said, we did not have shoulder length hair, Ann Taylor-like shift dresses, sparkly clutches, hella lipgloss, and a generally pervasive nostalgic desire to return to college. (That said, later that night, Erin claimed that a really big blanket with butterflies on it was "for the baby who has everything.")

A couple of nights later, Kelly was in town with her friends, and as always, IDs were an issues. Still! we were saved by Plug Uglies, a neighborhood and underage-friendly bar. Also apparently deaf-friendly because the music there was unbelievably loud. Music should only be this loud if Journey or Queen or Britney or NSYNC is playing. Otherwise, it just doesn't make any sense. What also didn't make any sense was the fact that a group of drunken bros with salaries that were hanging out at the bar cut the pant legs off of their friend's pair of Dockers, thereby turning them into peddle pushers. (For the yuppie who has everything.) At some point, a group of people came in dancing what looked like a traditional Greek dance. By that time, we had made up biographies for all the bar's visitors, and decided to leave.

Conclusion: Avoid, unless you don't like interacting with the people you hang out with.

Every Cuban Place in this City is called Cafe Habana or Some Variation Thereof

Location: Elizabeth and Prince St.

I have some preconceptions about what summer in New York is supposed to be like. It should be open to the randomest strings of events that will together compose something resembling a movie montage about New York, from which people get the idea that New York is constantly vibrant, and, despite the fact that it has a reputation for being cynical, somehow romantic. The weather should be borderline Vietnam-like, there should be outdoor cafes all over the place, free events. and going out on random nights of the week to find the streets are filled with people, all figuring out where to go, and winding up at a small, crowded restaurant, where you feel like you have done something to deserve the break that a beer with your dinner affords. Such is Habana.

This place is literally on the corner. We had to wait around 20 minutes to get in, but the wait flew by in the company of (wait for the links. also you're the only people who read this) Valerie, Jim, and Amanda. Soon we were seated, but now before witnessing what looked like the beginning of a fight. Of course, I started a chant, and suddenly a crowd of high schoolers were teeming around me, joining me in my cause. By Jove, I was a leader! Sadly, this was when the hostess called our name, so...I made them disperse.

The place is really cozy, and almost all available floor space is dedicated to tables. Of course, the French windows really opened up the place. The waitress was really friendly: she called us "honey," unlike the owner of this bar we went to for Jim's birthday, who, upon seeing Amanda's full shot glass, said, "Good job," upon seeing Jim's empty one, called him a stud, and upon seeing Mone's empty one, called him a "person." Things really went downhill for him. Anyway, this waitress joked around, and basically was the waitress I could never hope to be. Needless to say, I began planning my revenge immediately. Actually the ordering process began really awkwardly because it was really loud and we kept having the following interaction:

Waitress: Are you guys ready...
Valerie: For drinks?
Awkward silence
Everyone: Uh....
Waitress: So?
Me: I think we're ready to order
Waitress: I'll just come back then.

Anyway, finally, we got our order in. (Also they didn't card. Also, ever since I've gotten an ID, this has become less and less of a concern because now that I have that safety net, I don't get that deer in headlights look every time a waiter asks if we want something to drink.) The waitress recommended some sort of corn thing that everyone was getting, and we are not ones to protest, so we got it. It was corn on the cob with butter galore and some shredded cheese. It was delicious. As we waited, we watched a customer grope one of the waitresses as she sat on his ass. I'm sure the interaction was designed to give us a window into Cuban restaurant culture. Habana's waitresses double as cultural ambassadors.

The food was delicious, and not too filling. The prices were in the 10-20 dollar range. The music was AWESOME. I almost felt like I was in "Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights," arguably the best dance movie ever made, and most likely the best movie ever made. I'm no professional but I know what I like.

They didn't rush the bill, so I could practice my European dinner length regimen. By the end of summer, it will hopefully reach three hours. A girl can dream...

Bagel Bob's: Ironic Chamber of Stress and New York Cynicism

Location: University between 9th and 10th

In the anxiety-filled last days of the summer before embarking on the great life adventure that is college, my brother, an NYU alum, wrote out a list of the places that I should eat when I came to New York. My brother is really into being helpful. And he's really into food. The list was filled with random names like Broadway, University, Washington Place, and Union Square. I only knew that I was living on 10th, but since my brother was no recommending a place to go antiquing (little did I know, I was going ina bustling antique center. Of course, since they're antiques, it was actually really peaceful and tree-filled. Not to mention unaffordable.), that particular street name did not make an appearance on the list. As for Broadway, I thought it was some mythical street in some far-off location in New York filled with muppets and bright lights (can you tell what musical I'm channeling?)

Regardless, move-in day came, which is when it all came together. Here was University! and here is Broadway (muppets not included)! And here is Bagel Bob's. Aha, I thought, I have found a place that none of the other freshmen will know about. God, I'm so in the know, I thought. Little did I know...

You will have to wait the length of that paragraph space to find out the breathtaking conclusion of this tale.

So during that week of punshiment that is Welcome Week, I had to wander the streets by myself sometimes. And I had to eat, and since I did not have anyone to eat with, I couldn't very well go to a dining hall. Of course, starvation was an option, but I didn't think that passing out would make a good first impression on my roommates. Little did I know...

...one of my roommates had Vaso Vega and so is prone to fainting randomly. If I had known then what I know now...

Anyway, I decided to venture into Bagel Bob's to avoid the judgement of others (actually no one cares.) Bagel Bob's was not the oasis I had hoped for. There was a line, so there I was, thinking I had time to make a decision, but no. Within seconds they were yelling, "Next!" and had very high expectations of me--like that I would tell them what bagel I wanted, what cream cheese, whether or not it should be toasted. I was overwhelmed. Hence the chamber of stress. But that is the price of quick service--a state of borderline hysteria.

Regardless, the bagels are delicious, they are very generous with their cream cheese, and most important, a successful trip to Bagel Bob's makes you feel like the first time someone asks you how to get to the subway and you know the answer--it makes you feel like a New Yorker because you're in a rush, you're stressed (probably induced by the shop itself) and the employees never smile at you.

Also, they have 45 cent bagels on Mondays from 5-7 (?) and are open at an absurdly early hour.

VPB: Not an Abbreviation for a Newly Discovered STD, Perv

Location: on the corner of that one cobbled street in downtown Burlington and one of the four other streets there.

So my roommate and one of my friends from my floor went to Vermont to visit my roommate's boyfriend. On Saturday, we went on a thoroughly informative tour of the Ben and Jerry's factory. Sadly a) the video about these "two real guys" did not actually feature them but instead rehashed the same picture 10 times; b) the tour apparently wasn't informative enough since at the end of the tour one girl as the tour guide how ice cream was made; c) it turned me off of Ben and Jerry's for a long time once my greed and munchies got the better of me. Watching my two friends despondently finish their gargantuan cones (to prove their champ status) completely clinched my moratorium.

Still what's important is that on the way to the factory, my roommate's boyfriend made a reservation to the Vermont Pub and Brewery (henceforth referred to as VPB. This is akin to those halcyon days in 2003 when everytime Weapons of Mass Destruction were mentioned, the publication would necessarily write WMD in parentheses.) for 7:30. Needless to say, we left the dorm at roughly the time we were supposed to be there. It was once we got there that Pat's male instinct kicked in and he refused to ask directions for the location of the restaurant. Still it was surprising that we were lost since, as my roommate astutely pointed out, there are roughly 4 streets in downtown Burlington, of which only one is cobbled. Ultimately, we found the restaurant. And though we had obviously missed our reservation, we were seated pretty quickly. I didn't even have time to observe the cautionary display of fake IDs they had hanging. VPB is clearly no Tantra. (I hope you are paying attention to previous posts)

The menu was a newspaper. It was daunting. For some reason, when I had asked Kelly if $12 would be enough for VPB she said it wouldn't, which is why when I read the menu and saw that everything was under $6, I assumed that it would not be filling. I assumed it would be less than an appetizer. I scoured the menu for items of a higher price, convinced that this 50 item menu was the kid's menu. WRONG. It really hindered the decision-making process. I can only imagine the harrowing experience it would have been for Connie who can't even make a decision at Miyake (I feel no need to further elaborate on our relationship to the restaurant. This is another check on whether or not we have good readers). When the waiter came by, anxiety set in. While Kelly had already debated whether or not to get a grilled cheese AND cheese fries (dairy is her life), I brooded over whether or not I should order the lasagna or some mushroom head concotion? WWEAD (The newspaper-menu also had a section on Ethan Allen: yes, he is the furniture maker, and yes, he is the greatest Vermonter that ever lived). Obvi, I settled for the mushroom thing that was called Bird's Nest or something, but that the waiter simply described as mashed potatoes in a portabella mushroom head. Nice euphemisms, VPB.

Sidenote: All the dishes had really odd names. Pat's and Mikael's was called Holes in the Toad or something bizarre like that. Toad for the Ho (perhaps some sort of abstinence message)? I don't remember.

We got some poppers to begin--they were great. I had never heard of them before but there's something about deep-fried sour cream encrusted jalapenos that my heart yearns for. The service was prompt, the waiters friendly, and the food was really good, and just the right serving size. The only thing I didn't love was the dressing for my mini-salad, but I'm a champ so I ate it anyway.

We sat next to a window, enjoying the sign that alerted us to the fact that it was 10 degrees outside. The lighting was almost as dark as La Lanterna, so it was pretty fucking romantic. And the dinner was accompanied by various tales about the drunken mistakes we college students make and a catalogue of the various places UVM students pass out in (the student center, down the hall, in a random guy's bed, under a tree, parents' bed, and perhaps most bizarrely, someone else's parents' bed).

The total came out to $50 which is some sort of Christmas miracle. Or maybe New York is ridiculously overpriced. (I'm trying to think of a funny third option but it's not coming to me) Maybe it's atonement for the fact that it's so miserably cold and snowy in that state.

Regardless, I was very pleased with the chef. This should balance out Connie's tragic account. We shouldn't laugh at her pain.

Triumphant Post: Connie Finally Posts.

So we went to this Indian restaurant called tantra for Cara's birthday dinner, and apparently it was the first night that it was open again after being closed for 5 months. A couple of people ordered drinks, and they did not card. Great for future reference.
We got there at 7:15ish, probably ordered our food at 7:30, and guess when our food came. 8:30. I was literally about to shit myself. All I had had yesterday was an apple and a string cheese. I wanted to stab my knife in my eye.
But given we were a group of 12 so understandably that they wanted to bring all the food out at the same time, but seriously? One hour? What kind of business are you running? And given that they had just opened so there were probably kinks in their system. BUT STILL. I WAS FUCKING HUNGRY. And my hunger trumps all other factors.

But the owner came around and said hello to everyone at the table, and said that drinks would be on the house. LIE. Given he told us after people had already ordered drinks and the waitress probably didn't know. But i totally ordered an apple martini and DID NOT GET IT. Fail.

But. The food was delicious. The Naan was soft and slightly buttery, but not too buttery. Just buttery enough. I got the chicken Tiki Masala, which was also great. The rice that it came with was delicious too. And they had all these lamb choices that sounded scrumptious also. Lamb with apricot curry? As rachel ray would say, YUM-O.
And the place was really nice, they had two flat screen tvs where they were playing some very sensual/erotic bollywood film, which helped pass the ONE HOUR BEFORE MY FUCKING FOOD CAME. But yes. Dimly lit, but not too dark, tea candles in these blue glass things, drapery on the walls, huge as mirrors with nice frames on the wall, and one seating section that was like a huge concrete tube surrounding you. my goal is to be seated there next time.

But yes. The service was OK, the waitress and the owner were really nice and friendly, and the waitress gave Cara a drink on the house and pistachio ice cream with a candle at the end. So basically i want to shit on the chef.