Food Conniesseurs (and Kathy)

Meatball Shop: Mercifully, the Ball Puns Were Kept to a Minimum

2011-12-13T21:09:00.000-08:00

Location: Bedford Ave between 7th and 8th St.

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.

Pink Pony: Where Cultural Inferiority Comes to Roost

2011-12-03T12:54:00.001-08:00

Location: Ludlow between Houston and Stanton

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.

Conclusion: Go! It feels right.

Pop's of Brooklyn: the Johnny Rocket's of Greene and 8th Street

2011-10-03T20:13:00.000-07:00

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 dietof 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, likeweight-losing college students, are doomed to death by explosion because theirskins stretch too tight. Plus, they have loans to pay off. Nature is cruel, nodoubt 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.

Do or Dine: Not Your Mama's West Indian Cooking

2011-09-26T20:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Conclusion: Dine or Dine.

Fish: Well, I've Had my Aphrodisiac of the Day

2011-06-03T20:46:00.001-07:00

Location: Bleecker and 7th Ave

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?!!?.

Berlin Currywurst

2011-05-27T22:17:00.001-07:00

...and I'm back! I've had a lot of delicious and not so delicious food since February, but blogging procrastination has gotten the better of me. But now, it is summer, I am unemployed, so what better time than to plunge back into the blogosphere.

A clan of us Estatians finally made it out to Berlin Currywurst in Silverlake tonight, after months of half-heartedly trying to go and re-living the joy that was Curry 36 in Berlin.

Small place, three tables inside and about three outside - nice interior decor, minimalist but warmed by the long wooden tables, huge chalkboard menu, rustic industrial feel.
Both servers spoke German - instant cred. and they were sooo nice. and I'm a sucker for great customer service.
Got the Paprikawurst - couldn't quite taste the paprika and garlic in the sausage itself, but the sauce was delectable. Sausage casing was nicely crisped up.
Got the fries - extremely deep fried, but for some reason I wasn't in love. I think I could've used just a bit more salt, and the fried onions didn't add much to the fry experience. Would probably spend the extra few bucks on upgrading to the extrawurst if I'm looking for a big meal next time.
Will go back and try out another wurst, sans fries, still number 1 heat level.

Also. Question. What is the tipping protocol for places where you order at the counter and they bring the food to your table?

Brad's: The NYU Institution That Does

2011-02-13T20:47:00.000-08:00

Location: Waverly and Mercer

NYU students love to bemoan the absence of a community. We're so not mainstream with our lack of campus and a general unwillingness to reach out to anyone we didn't meet freshman year living on our floor. Sure, there was the brief dalliance with Blarney's freshman year, but then the cops busted them and now it's the narrowest bar in the universe with a slew of sad alcoholics.

But I have a friend with an uncanny ability to believe and commit to things/concepts/people/ideals whole-heartedly. He is just "some kid from the third world," but he is probably the greatest patriot I have ever met. He longs for the days when Bush was in office, thinks that there are places in the US that are more or less American than New York (but Jack Donaghy was wrong), and called "The King's Speech" the "Definitely, Maybe" of 2010 (no connection to patriotism, but that's probably the most generous review that movie will ever receive....Colin Firth you peaked with Bridget Jones).

Ryan is definitely, maybe thinking about the Academy's snub

Anyway, this friend discovered Brad's, the third place to occupy that corner in my 4 years at NYU. And he believed in it, called himself Brad's spiritual son. So, like any conscientious member of our generation, he made a Facebook event, guaranteed everyone toasted subs until 4 AM, lobbied for the creation of American jobs through drinking, and promised a "Brad's of a night." Basically, it was my duty as an American to be there and answer the question Kennedy asked in 1961.

Historic photo of Kennedy wishing he were eating

a toasted sub instead of wedding cake

So to be honest, I don't really remember all the details of Brad's Night Out. All I know is that it has been compared to the Egyptian democratic uprising. Basically, it was a big fucking deal.

Anyway, I went back. I got the promised toasted sub. First of all, the meat and coffee are organic and have all the titles to make you feel like an upright informed liberal college student. Second, they have potato chips as a topping. Third, the sandwich does not fall apart on you as it is tightly packaged. I got an Italian and it had an excellent selection of meats. Not as good as a meat salad, but I have to learn to lower my standards.

More importantly, Brad's actually feels like an NYU spot. It feels like a place where you could just run into people you know. It's like Seinfeld's diner, or HIMYM's MacLaren's, or that place they go in Sex and City where they just eat yogurt during brunch and point at each other with melon at the end of their forks. It feels like a wholesome 1950s America (even though the prices do not match the era the place alludes to) with a 1960/70s soundtrack in the middle of a New York in which you have to be mildly cynical about everything you encounter.

Conclusion: Yes. Feel nostalgic for an era you never lived and might never have actually existed.

Dine LA Week - Starry Kitchen

2011-02-09T01:09:00.000-08:00

... and we're on a roll! Second post of the day!

A quick retro-post on Dine LA week, fueled by the last bit of coffee caffeine-fueled energy from three hours ago, and after hours of staring at this screen and starting to feel like my eyeballs are going to fall out.

Dine LA graced our presences once again these past two weeks, with prix fix menus that gave us quite a bang for our buck. our? Anyways. A friend and I took advantage of the last day of Dine LA week 2, determined to go to a restaurant offering the most exotic fare.

Our choice? Starry Kitchen in Downtown LA. On the lunch menu - appetizers included pandan chicken, crispy kimchi rice cakes, mac & cheese (w/ bacon, shiitake mushrooms, jalapenos & caramelized onions ), entrees - spicy korean black pork belly, braised vn beef, lemongrass tofu, desserts - pandan flan, young banana & warm tapioca, durian flan cheesecake.

Started I believe as an illegal restaurant operation in the apartment of the owner, now they have a nice little spot in the somethingsomething center in Downtown, which is also home to one of the Mendocino Farms locations (had a gruyere and steak melt on a pretzel roll here, it was fucking delicious. I would never normally pay $10 for a sandwich, but this one was worth every penny. Anyways, I digress.) Or so this is the story I believe I heard. It's 1am, delirium has set in, don't take my word for it.

But getting to the meat of the matter. Firstly, ambiance was nice, simple but homey feeling, the owner was even there to take orders and provided recommendations and made sincere small talk (can small talk be sincere?) and told multiple people that they don't fuck around here and mean business with their food. That, I appreciate. Also the ladies working at the counter were so nice and were so nice about giving me water refills (I am a BIG proponent of customer service making all the difference)

I got the mac and cheese (sucker for mac and cheese, and it was "exotic"), pork belly and durian cheesecake. Durian, definitely a polarizing fruit - you'll either look past the horrible stench and appreciate the odd sweetness of the fruit's flesh, or you'll think it both smells and tastes like asshole. I personally, am quite a fan - brings me back to my days in Singapore.

The mac and cheese was alright, a bit of a disappointment to be honest. The cheese part of the mac and cheese is CRUCIAL to get right - and although this claimed to have a 5 cheese sauce, I think it was more sauce-y than cheese-y. The flavors of everything else in it was quite delicious though and made sense in the dish (whowouldathunkit), I think I would have enjoyed it immensely if it were just a bit creamier.

The pork belly was fairly good, although my experience with pork belly is not very extensive and was not totally sure what to expect. Had a pork belly bun from Flying Pig truck once, and that practically melted in my mouth. This, on the other hand, was a little drier, and now thinking about it, not particularly memorable. It was served with an option of spam rice, regular rice & singaporean noodles or brown rice. The singaporean noodles were alright, although I'm not really sure what flavor profile they were going for. The sauce seemed to cover the noodles more than be a PART of the noodles. You know what I mean?

Durian cheesecake. Very intriguing. When you first bite into it, the cheesecake flavors hit, then the durian comes in at the end of it through the aftertaste. I think this dish would have been better as a plain flan, a more jello-y texture. The creaminess of it threw it off a bit for me, but I would definitely order it again.

Other things that were ordered that are worth nothing: the kimchi rice cakes (they were really more rice balls, but technicalities, technicalities) were DELICIOUS. It was just the right amount of kimchi flavor held together with rice and a touch a cheese. By far the favorite thing I tasted in that meal. Also I had not realized until that meal that young banana was distinctly different from regular banana, and that I enjoyed warm tapioca pudding.

Would I go back? maybe...? You can definitely get a meal for less than $10 there and be completely stuffed, and there are definitely things on the menu I would go back to try, but as of now, there are far more places I'd rather try out, and why go back to something if you don't absolutely mouth-wateringly crave and love it.

BU Cafeteria: A Fringe Lifestyle

2011-02-08T22:44:00.000-08:00

Location: Literally, definitely right behind Fenway Park, conveniently located on BU's campus

I first started visiting Boston my freshman year of college because I had high school friends who went to college there. This is not a post about that unmitigated disaster. The first couple of times I visited I definitely looked like a vagrant because I somehow never had the appropriate bag to travel with so always wound up just stuffing my clothes into a plastic bag. I subsequently mastered light traveling with a backpack and things started looking up for old Kathy S.

In my Benjamin Button years...

Anyway, last weekend, my roommate and I braved the Fung Wah (the name that launched a thousand puns) and arrived in Boston around dinner time with a small suitcase and an air mattress in an at the time stately Macy's bag. (Of course, the fact that we got into the city around 6:40 meant that we were stuck in traffic for 45 minutes coming in which prompted Johnny to send multiple texts expressing his anger and puzzlement over the fact that we did not control the speed and time of arrival of the bus. Sample texts include: "Wrap it up!!! Are you still in traf???")

Finally, we got on the T...and promptly headed to a dining hall looking homeless, and, honestly, treating BU like a soup kitchen. Johnny opened the haggling over 1 meal swipe for 5 people with the words, "So you think I could get 3 meal swipes for the price of 1?" After expressing sincere dismay over the worker's refusal, citing precedent, things seemed to be getting worse. The meal-swiper (pretty sure that's the official title) called our friend out on trying to sneak in, he countered with asking that she give us 5 meals for the price of one swipe, and sensing that her resistance was futile and that she was working for Big Dining, she gave in and let us all in for free.

And so we marched in, triumphant, dragging a breaking suitcase and a bag with steadily enlarging holes in it. But no matter. On to the food stations. BU had a nice assortment--some pasta, salad bar, sandwiches, a carving station, burritos (but watch out for who's wrapping them...). Everyone had one or two servings; Johnny decided to go around the world. After a return visit to the sandwich station, Johnny set the sandwich down and concluded that the sandwich would "do [him] dirty" but the man would not be stymied by this fact. In general, Johnny lives like he is preparing for an imminent apocalypse or at the very least total economic collapse. He has stated that he will "eat anything, anytime, anywhere for any reason," and never leaves the dining hall without stealing some fruit. Maybe I'm just myopic, though.

A sandwich like this one could very well do you dirty.

Although Johnny's eating habits are similar to those of a generation that survived WWII, those of his friend are even stranger. While she complained about the fact that he takes forever to eat, Johnny described her eating habits as those exhibited by feral children raised by Asian wolves (she is Asian), and reminisced, like a haunted man, about times when she has gotten 4 or 5 rotisserie chickens and eaten only the skins. They are, after all, where all the nutrients are stored.

Conclusion: Powerplay or be powerplayed.

Le Colonial: Maybe Colonialism Wasn't So Terrible After All

2010-01-22T14:07:00.000-08:00

Location: Kosmo (awesome!) and Taylor, San Francisco

First of all: have you noticed how we've diversified, oh 5 readers of this blog? From San Francisco to Berkeley to London, oh my!

Second: Kosmo will be the name of my second son. I feel like the K gives it a niche.

So it's restaurant week here in San Francisco, an biannual event that I always manage to miss in New York. But we all know that it's the rare occasion on which we can go to places with simple names like Butter or Loft or Bread and afford it. The more basic the word, the higher the price of the entree. Like death and taxes, it's a certainty.

The female components of my family are notoriously bad at managing their time. Like colorblindness but not quite. At one point, we would tell my sister that events started an hour earlier than their actual start time just so she would make it on time. It worked. But then someone blew it and she found out, so the bliss of punctuality was short-lived. Regardless, dinner started late, and by that time, we had already managed to yell at one another and subsequently apologize. Another successful family outing!

Le Colonial is located in a well-lit alley, and it stands alone and apart, like the white man among his oppressed colonial counterparts. Architecture, kids, tells a story. Granted it was dark and rainy (ugh.) but this is what the entrance would have looked like IRL, not this ersatz of what life in California should be like (always sunny, just like Philadelphia).

Since the roof was made of glass in this section, it felt like the Great Hall at Hogwarts if the Great Hall also had the ground mirror the conditions of the ground outside.

Past this pathway was a a tall entry with a giant mirror that they probably shipped in via elephant (What can Grey do for you?). But enough about the decor, although that is the main reason for this post considering I don't think I'm very good at describing food. But it's not like the blog is all about that, right? Anyway, being there just made me want to go to the Africa of the 30s, wear breeches and those round hats, ride an elephant, orientalize, get malaria, and become a rabid racist oppressor. But I need to learn not to dwell on missed opportunities.

We sat down, ordered, and argued about the quality of healthcare in the Soviet Union. A worthwhile debate considering

1. we haven't lived there for 20 years

2. this country is no longer in existence

In the meantime, our food arrived. I got a pork belly (is that a technical term? really?) topped with quail eggs, some caramel sauce, pineapple, I think. The pork was super tender, and quail eggs are surprisingly small. Behold:

Those small bits of cheese in the background should give an idea of the size. Or you could just use your imagination. DAMN.

Then the entrees came, and I made a huge mistake ordering the curry so I refuse to discuss it. The other members of the party ordered a pork chop--delicious, and lemongrass chicken, also excellent. For dessert, we all have flourless chocolate cake, which I would have enjoyed much more had I not had rice with my entrees which mercilessly expanded in my stomach and prevented me from gorging myself. WTF, rice.

Conclusion: order the pork or chicken, or be emotionally stable enough to live with the dissatisfaction of ordering curry.

Annoucement

2010-01-18T23:59:00.000-08:00

I will highjack this account for any posts I would like to make about Buenos Aires. DO NOT TRY TO STOP ME.

cesar: a place for young, urban soon to be snobs. yusnies, if you will.

2010-01-14T10:06:00.000-08:00

Location: 1515 Shattuck Ave., Berkeley, CA

Let me preface this post by saying that Connie is a hypocrite. Complaining that I don't update enough? Really?

Now, you might note that I chose not to capitalize the title of this post. Or not. Whatever, it's your life. This is because the restaurant did not capitalize it in order to communicate the general whimsicalness of this place. God knows that if you disregard rules of capitalization and punctuation, you are not only fun and playful, but also disestablishmentarian.

After a delightful day spent exploring Berkeley's campus. Here is an extremely representative photo of the day.

This is a spot that does not belong to any nation at all. Perfect site for the perfect crime.

Anyway, we watched the sunset, decided to do dinner and a movie. (I think my sister was trying to seduce Amanda. She has mad game) And so, we went to the Gourmet Ghetto (oxymoron, what up?), and stopped at cesar. cesar is a tapas place, and, honestly, the Spaniards have their act together. Not only did they conquer a shitload of countries and master the siesta (for real, what have they been up to since the 1600s?) but they have miniaturized their portions so they don't overeat (although, overeating is extremely conducive to napping. Hmmm.) but still get to taste all the flavors and textures!!!1111 Now if only the prices corresponded to the servings. An upper middle class girl can dream...

This place had dim lighting, stone floors, wood tables, people cool enough to eat dinner by themselves, others sitting at the bar definitely having cosmopolitan conversations. If you walked in, you would recognize the type immediately. Our waitress looked like a happier Maggie Gyllenhaal. We had a spicy tuna and egg (sounds dubious but trust) on baguette drenched in olive oil, manchego and some mysterious "greens" sandwich, likewise dipped in olive oil, and some yellowtail on aforementioned "greens." Everything came out really fast, and was correspondingly gone too fast, so needless to say we had to get dessert. Bread pudding FTW.

Conclusion: attend, even if it is a kinda sorta cliche.

Japanese Canteen

2010-01-08T19:20:00.001-08:00

alas. I have returned.

and now in London, where pub food, sandwich shops and ethnic food reigns. So far I've eaten many a sandwiches, from Pret A Manger - brie with tomatoes and basil baguette? Simple yet delicious. It must be something about Europe that makes their sandwiches taste better. Ham and cheese in Paris anyone?

Anywho. Went to the Japanese Canteen for dinner tonight, right down the street from my dorm (finally the dorm life, co-ed bathrooms and everything. with showers where you have to press the knob in and it slowly releases as it stops projecting water. leaving you hella soapy, unable to see the knob, and terrified to touch any other surface in the bathroom. at least there aren't clumps of hair everywhere. UCSD I'M LOOKING AT YOU.) The canteen looked cute from the outside, very simple, white and red decor, ramen, udon and curries. The curries in a japanese restaurant should have thrown me off. Nonetheless I went with ladiezzzz at UCL, also American (desperately trying to meet some Brits. men, preferably), got the chicken ramen in coconut and lime spicy soup. Where do I even begin.

1) The ramen was overcooked. undercooked? either way it was way too chewy and doughy.
2) The chicken was really dry, and it was in SOUP.
3) the coconut and lime soup looked like it had been diluted with water, nothing like the tom yum soup like depth i had expected
4) the soup was also tasteless, forcing me to add soy sauce. to coconut and lime soup???? no.
so pretty much everything went wrong. it wasn't shitty per se, but hell no i will not be back.

maybe it's because it took literally 3 minutes for my order to be made as the cause to its shittiness. good ramen aint made in seconds baby. it's all about the day long soup process, only a n00b restaurateur would fucking fail at that.

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

2009-08-11T19:36:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-08-02T23:34:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-02T11:20:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-23T12:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-22T13:17:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-04T08:17:00.000-07:00

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

2009-02-03T16:36:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-02T21:36:00.001-08:00

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.

2009-02-01T21:24:00.000-08:00

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.

I NEED TO WRITE ABOUT MIYAKE

2008-11-30T01:49:00.000-08:00

Location: University and High Street (Palo Alto)

OK the time has come to write about the best restaurant in the universe. I choose to write in haiku-like form. No I will not count syllables:

Waiters give me a discount
I know you know I come here everyday
Tools misuse you as a nightclub

Jay's Roll, number 12
Connie still can't decide what to eat
Extra ginger

Elderly Chinese/Japanese waiter
Why do we always get you, when we want the waiter who will offer us Sake bombs?
Teriyake sauce on the side

Nom Nom Nom
Even though your prices have gone up
One day I will eat for free

Perfect place for munchies
Should we get dessert at that Thai place?
Please decide on a ginger color

Inappropriately breaking chopsticks
I must trick someone into taking my own and getting new ones
Convenient parking location

I still don't understand the greeting
I receive every time I patron your dining establishment
Nihao.

Spice: Hella Well-Lit

2008-11-22T10:06:00.000-08:00

Location: University Place and 10th St.

I first wound up at Spice in May of 2003, when I was visiting my brother for his graduation. The restaurant was qualified as "Asian fusion" which made me feel very hip and sophisticated eating there. Obviously, anytime I describe it to anyone, I describe it with that word, although I have now realized that it's as exalted as I had once thought.

Anyway, this place was beyond hip. The interior had a curtain of plastic circles, and the chairs are kind of space-age (?) and everything is white, but not intimidatingly so, as in I feel no compulsion so suddenly speak in an English accent when I am there, or pretend I know everything about the independent music scene and the hopelessly ironic musicians that comprise it. (Both are completely impossible for me: my English accent has been described as just a string of monotonous words strung together--perhaps an attempt at communicating the dry British sense of humor. My knowledge of the indie music scene is only superseded by my ability to do a British accent)

I spent a majority of the first semester of freshman year attempting to persuade my roommates to eat there with me. Somehow, the walk to Spice (less than a block) was insurmountable. Finally, one glorious day, we went. Of course, I had the host jitters: the nervousness you feel when you are responsible for someone's enjoyment of the meal because you've already hyped it up so much that if they don't like it then you are some somehow to blame. Fortunately, it worked out. To the point where we decided to grant it our patronage when we were selecting the place where we would spend our money jar money at the end of the year. (they are eternally grateful)

But really, the reason we chose to eat there was because of their lunch special. Their lunch special is really great, and somehow, even when it is completely packed, I have never had to wait for a table. The service is really quick. Beware of the black noodle--it is lethally spicy. But the Drunk Man noodle is really good. So is the Pad Thai. And the lunch special includes an appetizer for 7.50. No right to complain, right? All the cool NYU students are eating there...

La Laterna: Romantic as Fuck

2008-11-20T17:02:00.001-08:00

Location: Washington Square South and MacDougal.

As the title indicates, this restaurant is extremely romantic. Sadly, I have never dined there in romantic circumstances. Twice I went there with friends, once with my roommate and her dad, and most memorably, once with Connie. That time was probably the only one that qualified as semi-romantic. Connie and I had spent the day engaging in various date activities: I took her shopping, we watched the sunset, discussed our long term plans, and then went out for a dinner.

As is appropriate for such a locale, the lighting is sparse. And by sparse, I mean, practically nonexistent. Consequently, the decor is difficult to comment on. Probably nice, if you have night-vision. Prerequisite for romantic mood. Another nice addition to said mood is the garden in the back of the restaurant. Sadly, although they promised Connie and me a table there, they didn't deliver. Still, Connie and I feasted. We had a a proscioutto plate and four cheese lasagna, and probably something involving cheese, since we're fiends for cheese. Then we split the bill since we figured this meal would be a splurge. Honestly, we figured that for all of the weekened's activities. Some not worth it at all (future post will detail the disaster that is a certain sushi restaurant in Brooklyn) But at least this was a splurge that was well-worth the justification.

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

2008-10-26T19:16:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-26T13:34:00.000-07:00

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.