Greenpoint Gazette

I've been writing restaurant reviews for the Greenpoint Gazette, lately. Here are the links to reviews of two of my favorite Brooklyn Restaurants, DuMont and Applewood.

And that's a picture of the best sandwich i've had in awhile, from Moto in South Williamsburg. Moto has the tastiest paninis.

Dining in Brooklyn Week Has Begun

It's finally here!! Some tips I'm making myself remember this time around:

1. Look at a the restaurant's wine list before you go. You'll cancel out the euphoria of three courses for $20 if you're washing it down with a hundred dollar bottle of wine.
2. Research. Just because a place is on the list doesn't mean it's worth your $23. (Los Pollitos, seriously? Shouldn't you be able to get three courses there for cheap, anyway?)
3. Commit to the prix fix menu. Sometimes, you can look at the Dining Week offerings online, so you won't get there and realize the only thing you're craving is a $70 cut of steak that doesn't come with dessert or an entree.

I highly recommend Applewood, Blue Ribbon and A Di La from this year's list-- although none of those are particularly inexpensive wine-wise. I'm hoping to try some of the places in Williamsburg, as well as Chez Oscar in Fort Greene.

Beer Garden Opening in Ft. Greene!

Auspicious news for summer... Clinton Hill Blog says there is a beer garden coming to Fort Greene in June! Schneider-Weisse on tap and meals under $10! It's going to be at Fulton and South Oxford-- just a block from Habana Outpost. Think I'll be spending a bit of time in that neighborhood once it gets warm.

Please Don't Tell

The other night, I went for the first time to PDT, the speakeasy annex to Crif Dogs on St. Marks (113 St. Marks, at Ave. A). I was pleasantly surprised, once seated, to find that “Please Don’t Tell,” accessed through an old-timey telephone booth and staffed by achingly beautiful people, isn’t nearly as inaccessible as it wants to be. The soft light and friendly service is a welcome contrast to the insanely formal speakeasy pretensions of Milk and Honey (You’ll get reprimanded for knocking on the door if you haven’t texted a reservation in advance—so much for a prohibition-era feel), and PDT actually embraces its association with the grimy hot dog joint next door. On the menu, alongside inventive cocktails with names like ‘Falling Leaves’ and ‘El Burro,’ were five “specialty” dogs, including one apparently engineered by David Chang—a deep fried, bacon-wrapped frankfurter topped with ample kimchi. I actually drooled a little bit. This spicy, daring, perfect little thing had such an enthralling texture, I almost didn’t realize that someone near me was ordering “bacon-infused” whiskey. Wow on all counts.



Not forty-eight hours later, I returned alone during the day to Crif, hoping for another taste of the Chang Dog. Surely, I thought, PDT shares their kitchen. If I asked nicely enough, someone would fashion me another kimchi dog. But the tie-dye clad kid working at Crif was decidedly uncomfortable when I asked for something special. “Uh, they only do that…” he shiftily looked for his manager, then whispered “next door.” Okay, I wouldn’t push it. He looked like acknowledging PDT’s existence was punishable by firing if not death. I ordered a Crif bacon/chili dog out of desperation, which was unsurprisingly very gross. If the only way to get the Chang Dog again is to have it with a $13 cocktail, then so be it. I’ll go back very soon.

Tailor Made Hot Wings, Not So Hot....

I raised my eyebrows more than once reading the food picks in New York Magazine’s Best of 2009 Issue (Best Bargain Noodles at $14? I’ll stick to Top Ramen, thanks…). It’s easy to pick apart something that strives to be as authoritative as a ‘Best Of,’ and in any case I can’t begin to offer a point by point rebuttal. But there is one thing on the list that is just flat-out egregious. That the bar at Soho’s Tailor lays claim to the cities best chicken wings is as false as to say that the bar at Soho’s Tailor serves chicken wings. These things were not wings; the weird chemical aftertaste of them, the cube shape, it belonged nowhere in the realm of wings. I don’t even know if the rehydrogenized, melded product placed before me was still chicken. The sauce was certainly not Buffalo, or even hot sauce—it was something buttery and bland-- and the little top sprinkles of blue cheese were a far cry from the gooey dripping dip I’d been dreaming of. And I had been dreaming. Because when I read what Adam Platt wrote about these Tailor Made boneless wings, I was instantly transported back to a late night four years ago when I drunkenly stumbled upon a now closed spot on Fourth Ave and had the most juicy, delectable, hot as hell, and still entirely boneless chicken “wings” imaginable. I’ve been searching for something like that for ever. Boneless is definitely not a bad thing, but Tailor’s were an entirely different animal, and at an ungodly $15 for five wings, not one I think I’ll try again anytime soon.

Brunch -- Cafe Charbon

Finding a good spot for Sunday brunch in NYC can be a challenge. You wake up hungry and hung over, and the last thing on earth you want to do is waste precious time perusing Citysearch for an auspicious find, only to discover it packed to the gills. You could pout outside of whatever hipper-than-thou brunch spot you picked with the rest of the starved, or you could mosy downtown to the lovely and spacious Cafe Charbon.
When considering brunch, remember not to be deterred by the disappointments. Sunday brunch is the get-out-of-jail-free card of meals. Its great, because you can pretend like you haven't wasted your whole day (even if you woke up at 1 p.m.) by eating breakfast food in the mid-afternoon. Note that at brunch, the earliest drinking of the week is permitted and encouraged, thanks to mimosas and bloody-marys. Sunday brunch is the last hurrah of the weekend, so you are encouraged to indulge whatever cholesterol level raising, alcoholic tendencies you might harbor. At the same time, the veneer of Sunday Brunch is decidedly upstanding. People who brunch are hedonists by nature, but they have been able to get out of bed, if late, and therefore they will be okay. Its the righteous's gift to himself for surviving the weekend.
Thus, with the enthusiasm of a zealot, I brunch every Sunday.
This Sunday, my party first tried Clinton St. Baking Co., on Houston and Clinton. I've heard that Clinton St. offers that incomparable combination of "cheap and good," which some of us spend our lives in search of. Unfortunately, the wait was a whole hour-- one hour out of the question for brunch. We wandered further downtown, and landed at Cafe Charbon, on 170 Orchard St.

We had a bit of trouble finding the proper entrance. The exterior is adorably French, advertising oeufs and buerre. I wanted to get inside to catch a better view of the whimsical interior, but the main doorway was blocked off by a table. Being as there were hardly more than a dozen people seated, this extra table seemed nonsensical, as we had to shove around other empty tables to get through the door. When we got inside, I was pleased to find things get even cuter. The walls are lined with French grocery products, from laundry detergent to kids' toys, and none of it appears to have moved since the fifties. I'm sure this isn't true, and maybe if I were French I'd find Charbon's decor as nauseating as any American mock malt shop's ( a la Ruby's Diner), but I'm not French. Cafe Charbon is categorically adorable.
Right away we were given orange juice, which tasted fresh and just sweet enough. I ordered an immaculate Egg's Florentine. The amount of succulent Lemon Hollondaise sauce was perfectly proportionate to the spinach and poached eggs. The English muffin was soft enough not to interfere with the perfect bite, but crispy enough to deliver the heavy toppings without a mess. My plate came with a small salad in a vinaigrette and some fried potatoes, which were amply and deliciously spiced. I also tried a bite of the croque monsieur, which was satisfying, but which came, sadly, on a rather desolate plate. My date was duly allowed to share my potatoes.
The service at Charbon was quick, but completely apathetic. Our waiter seemed to begrudge us interrupting his own mid-morning hangover cure. Still, I look forward to returning to Cafe Charbon, though not for Brunch next week. I'll be busy surveying another spot, so that someday in my mid-fifties, after many many Sundays, after I've tried every brunch in Manhattan, I can settle in as a regular at some divine spot. For now, Charbon will rest on the top of my list.

S'mac NYC

Ethnic food is one thing, but when restaurants specialize down to the entree, the end result can go one of two ways, depending on the chosen food. Cuisine with a restricted scope can make for an irreversibly boring experience -- the blandness of a dish multiplies itself with only slight variations across the menu. Yet at their best, single entree restaurants will infuse the chosen food with savory details that only could be achieved through a narrow lens.

The overpriced Peanut Butter and Jelly & Co boasts no further variety than the name would suggest (aside from the occasional dollop of Fluff or Nutella), and the long lines and limited seating make for a merit less dining experience. What is cute and nostalgic in theory is rendered pathetically kitschy.

On the other side of the spectrum is the East Village eatery S'Mac, (345 E. 12th St.), short for Sarita's Macaroni and Cheese.

Macaroni and Cheese is literally the only thing on the menu here, in every way. The decor invokes gooey Cheddar, with yellow walls, orange macaroni-esque plastic chairs and tables, and lighting which tints everything slightly redder. Over the top it most certainly is, but Macaroni and Cheese is the comfort food to top all comfort foods, and those who step into S'Mac can have no qualms about succumbing to the soothing warmth of cheese soaked noodles. If you aren't completely prepared to overindulge, you could find the serving sizes inexcusable, the skillets more slimy than gooey, or the atmosphere frankly cheesy.

Upon my first visit to S'mac, I tried the Gruyere, in size "major munch" ($9.00; for some reason S'Mac tests the customer's devotion to comfort food by forcing us to order the embarrassingly named sizes Nosh, Major Munch, or Mongo) with bread crumbs on top. The skillets in which the Mac is served are deceptively deep. I couldn't finish my Major Munch and I'm not sure what use anyone could have for a Mongo, other than for sharing. The bread crumbs option is a must. The cheese can be a tad liquidy so the crust gives a needed crunch to every bite. I thoroughly enjoyed the amount of Gruyere that I could stomach. The dish comes with ample slab bacon mixed in, which adds an interestingly chewy dimension to the otherwise gooey globs.

I left S'Mac content. The flavors aren't delicate, but it takes a certain type of person to love Mac and Cheese. We don't associate daintiness with satisfaction. A week later I was craving more, and I returned to S'mac for a Nosh Four Cheese ($5.75), again with bread crumbs. This dish is comprised of Muenster, Gorgonzola, Sharp Cheddar, and American. The size was just right. Although I couldn't taste all the distinctly advertised cheeses, the overall effect was delicious. I found myself scraping the cheese off the bottom of the skillet. Also recommended are the Mozzarella and the Goat Cheese flavors.

S'mac is an entree-themed restaurant done right. Perhaps this is only because they picked the right entree-- one with ample nostalgia but plenty of potential for improvement, and something of a cult following. Next time I'm yearning for comfort food, I won't settle for less than S'Mac.