The Glitter Gourmet

Restaurant Weak

2010-02-15T10:21:00.003-05:00

“Restaurant Week” is a phrase that strikes fear in my heart, like “polyester” or “flag football.” Unfortunately, in our current economic climate, I find that New York’s Restaurant Week, still provides a good excuse to get to some of the city’s better places. This go around, I was able to snag a reservation at BONDST, a product of New York’s chic sushi crazy of the past decade. BONDST sits neatly in a category with the likes of Tao, Megu, and SushiSamba. Situated in a plain-looking office building on Bond Street (of course), the crowded front bar had all the makings of sceney hot stop. The tightly packed alcove was filled with mile-high stilettos, overstuffed handbags, and the under stuffed ladies attached to them. We waited along the side after the ambiguously psuedo-Asian host told us it would be about 10 minutes.

After we served our allocated 10 minutes, we were told to go around the corner to an elevator for our table on the second floor. I had braced myself for some trendy, overly complicated ascension; however, we were greeted with a normal almost rickety office elevator. The second floor’s modern décor was lovely, but not compelling and the “scene” was definitely contained to the first floor.

Our party of three was ushered to a table for eight in the corner. Being the divas that we are, the only problem this created was who got to sit in the center. As we gazed out over our fellow diners, we alternated between our dinner choices and the rooms fashion choices. Because this was Restaurant Week we had a limited set to choose from (on both fronts).

To start, we had the traditional choices of miso soup or a green salad with ginger dressing. I had the salad, which came topped with an interesting pile of crunchy tendrils, which some restaurants would surely wrap around skewered shrimp. The crunchy nest was a nice touch, but the ginger dressing was a bit flat.

Our main course was a bento box of sorts, with an array of tiny bites on an oversized plate. One corner was adorned with spicy crispy shrimp in a yuzu calamanci vinaigrette and chipotle aioli. The shrimp were expertly fried with a crunch, tang, and kick that almost surpassed the guilt of eating something that has seen the inside of a deep fryer. A tiny glass dish next to my shrimp held a black shredded stack of sake-braised hijiki. This seaweed pile was a bland oceanic mush that has been out performed by seaweed salads from my college’s student center.

Continuing around the plate’s circumference, the steamed yuba chicken dumpling was minute but pleasant. It tasted fresh and clean but lacked any creativity. Next up were a fairly standard spread of spicy tuna and salmon avocado rolls. And, the plate was anchored with a few small slices of New York strip steak in a caramelized shallot teriyaki with a 12 year old balsamic. While the temperature was room, the taste was excellent. The teriyaki was complex without overwhelming the meat.

For dessert, I chose a lychee panna cotta with strawberry rhubarb compote. The panna cotta was delicate on the border of bland. The compote, however, had enough flavor to save the dish.
While I was pleasantly surprised by a palatable Restaurant Week experience, I was somewhat let down by BONDST’s safe approach. For a kind of chic, sort of tasty, somewhat interesting meal, BONDST is not to be missed.

BONDST – 2 Sparkles
6 Bond Street
New York, NY 10012
(212) 777-2500
www.bondstrestaurant.com

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly – New York City’s Paella Scene

2009-11-08T17:40:00.009-05:00

In a world of fois gras, caviar, and Balthazar, we huddle behind closed doors scraping the burned edges from a brownie pan, searching for the half-popped kernels at the bottom of a bag of popcorn, and licking the beaters after mixing cake batter. While most of us live in snacking shame, there is one dish that embraces the culinary outcasts that we hate to love – paella. This famed dish from the Valencia region of Spain is made of rice traditionally mixed with green vegetables, meat, snails, beans and seasoning in a wide flat cast iron pan. Like the crema that sits atop a good espresso, paella’s excellence is measured by an equally pretentious word: socarrat. Socarrat refers to the heavenly caramelized (read: burnt) bottom layer of the pan. Finally, crunchy burnt little morsels we don’t need to be ashamed to savor. I’ve combed the city for the best paellas and along the way found the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The Good - Socarrat
Just steps away from the Mediocre Mile, on a block known for the Chelsea boy hangout G Lounge, 19th Street between 7th and 8th is also home to the minute Espana nook Socarrat. Socarrat is a true paellan temple. With a smattering of tapas and eight paella options, this restaurant has one clear identity and mission – something I think is often the key to a restaurant’s success. Socarrat isn’t much more than a long skinny hallway with one equally long high top table where guests sit across from each other next to other diners. After sipping on some wonderfully dry Spanish red and munching on some tapas, the Paella de Carne arrived in one traditional paella pan for two. This version had chunks of pork, chicken & duck, chorizo, mushroom soffrito (a combination of olive oil and chopped vegetables used to start many Spanish dishes, like a French mirepoix).

This paella is one of those dishes of which I daydream. The rice was rich and flavorful without being oily or gummy. The chorizo cast a haze of pleasant heat over the rest of the components and the rice was shockingly al dente. However, what really made my eyes roll into the back of my head, was the restaurants namesake. As we ate our way through the first few layers, our waiter came by and scrapped the bottom of the pan freeing a decadent layer of crunchy, luscious, intensely flavored socarrat. I have never had such perfectly executed paella, including a meal or two in the heart of paella country, Barcelona.

News update: For those with a fear of communal dining, Socarrat is expanding with a new wine bar next door.

Socarrat – 4 Sparkles ****
259 West 19th Street
New York, NY 10011
212.462.1000
http://socarratpaellabar.com/

The Bad – Boqueria
Although my luck with celebrity chefs has been less than stellar, it would be remiss to skip a Spanish superstar like Boqueria. Boqueria’s Executive Chef Seamus Mullen is currently on the Food Network for a coveted spot as the newest Iron Chef. Of course, a Friday night visit was so crowded that we could barely make our way to the host stand, but that’s the nature of any New York City hot spot, so I was happy to pay my dues and wait the 45 minutes (which ended up only being about 20 minutes). Again, we munched on some tapas as we waited for our paella. Unfortunately, my sangria never showed – minus one sparkle.

This paella was Paella Valenciana – bomba rice, prawns, mussels, clams, cockles, chorizo, and chicken. This also arrived in a paella pan for two, but was much deeper than that of Socarrat. The shellfish crowning the top of this dish along with the two regal prawns with heads intact made this presentation a wow. However, just like the crown of Miss California, there wasn’t much below. The rice has a similar kick from chorizo, but in this case it seemed to mask the lack of depth of any other flavors. The chicken was sparse and the chorizo heavy handed. The edge were burnt, but they just tasted plain burnt and the bottom slid off the bottom of the pan in a gooey mess that made one think the pan was coated in a healthy layer of PAM. We had half left; I didn’t take it home.

Boqueria – 2 Sparkles **
53 West 19th Street
New York, NY
212.225.4160
http://www.boquerianyc.com/index2.html

The Ugly – Poco
Believe it or not, the Lower East Side isn’t my ‘hood, so it was a big journey for me to seek out the paella at Poco. As we settled into our table for five downstairs, we struggled to pretend that this basement was zoned to serve food, but when in Rome… Soon the basement was filled with several other parties and the atmosphere became lively. As usual, we had several drinks and tapas as we awaited this paella. I must admit, these were the best tapas of the three, but that’s another review.

This paella was Valencia – shrimp, octopus, and calamari with saffron rice and chorizo. The paella came in individual cast iron bowls, which I guess were supposed to look like a paella pan, but it was a stretch. The mound of food was more reminiscent of gruel than paella. The rice was mushy and lifeless. The dish was enrobed in some sort of salsa verde that had a character I can only liken to body odor. There wasn’t an ounce of crunch throughout the dish and instead of adding salt; I wanted to add Right Guard.

Poco – 1 Sparkle *
33 Avenue B, at 3rd Street
New York, NY 10009
212.228.4461
http://www.poconyc.com/index.php

Everything Old Is New Again: Savoy

2009-09-30T21:30:00.003-04:00

It isn’t easy being a New York City restaurant. As soon as you’ve been opened for a year, you are instantly “so last year.” But a lucky few are able to make it past passé to permanent. In another lesson in my gayducation of local and sustainable foods, my papa bears took me to Savoy, and I don’t know why they held out on me for so long. Opened in 1990, Savoy is where it all started. Owner and executive chef, Peter Hoffman, was at the Union Square Farmer’s Market, when the Union Square Farmer’s Market wasn’t cool. Making every attempt to keep as many ingredients as local as possible, the menu is in a constant state of flux, with a laundry list of changes because this ingredient didn’t look right today or that ingredient isn’t ripe yet. This is how all restaurants should work, and luckily for Savoy (and all of us New Yorkers), it’s once again the hot trend in dining. The sexy allure of California cuisine and sushi in the 90’s threatened to snuff out local eating, but luckily it seems that we’ve all come to our senses.

The menu is small, but focused. I had a much harder time deciding here than at a restaurant with Pad Thai, Veal Milanese, and Chicken Pot Pie all on the menu. I was disappointed when I heard that they were out of the duck gizzard I was going to order, but in order to keep things so fresh, Savoy doesn’t keep a backlog of ingredients to use for the next day. Instead I went with a wild dandelion salad that had a black olive bagna cauda (a Piedmontese sauce made of garlic, anchovies, olive oil, and butter), heirloom tomatoes and basil. The salad looked simple, as if the greens were picked, brushed off, tossed in some dressing and brought in directly from a garden. However, the flavors were surprisingly sophisticated and complex. The sweet tomatoes and basil tempered the bitter greens, while the tangy bagna cauda gave the dish enough kick to make it exciting. Don’t let the anchovies scare you, they worked into the dish seamlessly and there was nothing fishy about it.

Word on the street is that Savoy is a master of pork, much like many of my friends, so when I saw pork on the menu, my pious Jewish eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. I had a confit of pork shoulder with braised collard greens roasted apricots and brandy. This pork was unlike anything I have ever had. The meat was succulent and falling apart with a skin so crisp that it snapped when you took a bite. The layer of fat behind the skin had transformed into a velvety layer of flavor. The collard greens and apricots were another play on bitter and sweet that worked just as well as the salad. The pork was one small cube about two to three inches around, but it was so rich, the last bite was a struggle.

As a side, we ordered potatoes roasted in beef fat for the table. It makes me cringe to type things like “beef fat,” but I don’t know if I’ll ever cook potatoes another way. They were salty, crisp, and flavorful without being greasy. If beef fat is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

For dessert I was a bit stumped because nothing really made my mouth water. I ordered a plum upside down cake for lack of a better choice. The cake came with plum kernel ice cream and plum syrup. Plum kernels live inside a plum’s pit and are related to the almond (as I learned that night). I couldn’t have been more pleasantly surprised. The cake was a sweet cornbread with a warm layer of tart plum slices across the top. The cake wasn’t too sweet and seemed to get more enjoyable as I ate. The ice cream was nutty and cleansing alongside the dense cake. Unlike most rich desserts, I was able to (and did) clean my plate – I’m still not sure this is a good quality in a dessert, but for now I’ll consider this a positive.

The staff is knowledgeable and friendly and the décor is simple and homey. Both the upstairs and downstairs have working fireplaces that I would imagine make Savoy that much more cozy on a cold winter’s night. It seems that Savoy was a restaurant before it’s time and is now finally at the forefront of a trend it started almost 20 years ago.

Savoy – 4 Sparkles ****
70 Prince Street
New York, NY 10012
212.219.8570
www.savoynyc.com

Idol Worship: Megu

2009-09-14T13:27:00.005-04:00

I often say that dining is an experience, not just a meal. Whether it’s five different-sized forks splashed across a white tablecloth, a bubbling tableside shabu-shabu, or a four-story wine tower, a restaurant’s aura can make or break a dinner. From the moment you enter the long winding ramps of Megu, you can feel the energy and excitement build as you descend into the dramatic subterranean eatery. Megu is a modern Japanese restaurant with an emphasis on the modern. The dining room is a theatrical scene anchored by an ice Buddha in the center of the room. We were seated at the feet of said Buddha, much to the chagrin of many other diners. This constantly dripping idol is glistening under a spotlight; sitting in a pool of water adorned with floating candles and rose petals. If Moses dined at Megu, he may have thought twice about idol worship.

As we looked over the menus (beer menu, sake menu, wine menu, cocktail menu, and, oh… food menu), we began with crispy fried asparagus in an okaki batter (a spicy Japanese rice cracker) and tuna carpaccio in a spicy miso sauce with a glass of rosé champagne. The asparagus was possibly the best food I have ever had on a stick. It was tender and sweet on the inside with a spicy and salty crust that was crispy and crackled as you chewed. The subtle carpaccio was light and fresh with a tangy sauce and paper-thin hot pepper slices to bring the fish to life. The rosé washed it all down with ease, preparing us for the dramatic parade undoubtedly to follow.

As we continued to peruse, more confused now than before this first course, we were told most dishes were meant to be shared and in traditional Japanese dining sushi comes at the end of the meal. Always being one to do what I’m told, we ordered an array of different dishes and sushi. Then we sat back and watched as our selections arrived one by one.

First was garlic and soy marinated tuna with avocado and a wasabi sauce. The dish came as a stack of cubes of beet-red tuna sandwiched between two slices of avocado. The waiter mashed it all together at the table creating something that looked and tasted like a sophisticated Japanese guacamole. It was savory, tangy, and bursting with Japan’s elusive “fifth taste,” umami. The next dish to arrive was kobe beef croquettes – a cube of fois gras wrapped in ground kobe beef, breaded and fried. These little beefy globes were not only the best dish of the night, but also of my time here in New York. These croquettes were juicy, bursting with flavor and perfectly textured. I would rank these with Momofuku’s pork buns and one of my top five “must eat” dishes in New York City.

Still in the afterglow of the kobe croquettes, our main course arrived. We had slow cooked kobe beef with miso and mushrooms and a side of parmesan French fries with white truffle oil. I’m fairly certain the fries are not indigenous to Japan, but we just couldn’t resist something with truffle oil and parmesan. This was a surprisingly American moment in our evening. The beef tasted like a succulent and rich beef stew and the fries were light and decadent all at the same time. The beef arrived on top of a giant leaf perched on a hibachi and was expertly whisked onto a plate tableside. At this point we were so full, we were cringing as we remembered we still had sushi on the way.

Luckily, we did have the foresight to order one roll for the two of us, which was still two pieces too many. We ordered a spicy scallop roll. I’m used to spicy sushi rolls, but was intrigued by this variation with delicate scallops. It was superb. The scallops were sweet and incredibly fresh and somehow managed to shine through the very spicy mayonnaise. My only regret was that I didn’t forsake Japanese tradition and begin with this roll and devour the whole thing.

To see what makes Megu so special, one only need to look to its competitors. Megu is what places like Tao try to be. It doesn’t try to be hip, it is. It doesn’t try to reinvent traditional Japanese food, it does. And, it doesn’t try to grow with New York’s evolving culinary scene, it will.

Megu – 4 Sparkles ****
62 Thomas Street
New York, NY 10013
212.964.7777
www.megurestaurants.com

Boy Butter

2009-09-02T20:28:00.004-04:00

Every year, I approach my birthday not as a sprint, but as a marathon. In true Glitter fashion, August becomes Glitter Appreciation Month. After an evening soiree at a local bar of the gay persuasion, I decide to have a dinner with my close friends at the ultra chic Butter. As I’m becoming more immersed in the culinary world, I’ve been slowly working through my butter phobia and thought Butter would be the perfect place to do it.

I went with my usual crew of boys/bois/ladies and was lucky enough to also be hosting my cousin from Australia the same weekend. Before dinner, we made a quick stop at my cousin’s favorite bar in New York, Angel’s Share. The entrance is hidden and the best drink isn’t on the menu. Become a fan of the Glitter Gourmet on facebook and I’ll announce the details in a few days – just click the button on the upper right on this page ;)

After some perfect cocktails, we went over to Butter and walked through the long dramatic tubular entryway to the host stand. A well-put together gaysian walked us downstairs to the “more relaxed” Birch Room. I looked longingly as we went past the stunning Great Room, a half-moon shaped room with theatrical lighting. The Birch Room wasn’t without its whimsy. The walls and ceiling are covered with, um, birch, which does a moderate job of convincing you that you aren’t in a basement.

As we sat, our yummy waiter greeted us, but alas, he seemed more interested in my female cousin than the boy battalion, damn. I began my meal with a house-made charcuterie plate. The plate had salami, duck mortadella, and chicken liver on toast with aged balsamic. Overall, the plate was a success with some meat shining brighter than others, just like a walk on the beach at Fire Island. The salami was salty and tangy and the mortadella was a bit bland. The chicken liver came as a loose spread that tasted like an excellent upscale version of the Jewish classic, chopped liver. The other appetizer on the table was a sautéed squid with garlic breadcrumbs, herb pesto and lemon. This squid was tender and crispy and the garlic paired with the pesto worked well with the fried squid, without overpowering the dish.

It was around this time that the DJ started to spin…in the dining room. Butter, much like David Barton, is a place that has a DJ for no reason. Luckily we’re a bunch of young and hip guys who can handle a little loud music.

My entrée was a crispy duck confit with lentils, crispy onions and a chestnut honey gastrique. This dish sounds decadent and it was, but it was just too much on a plate. The duck confit was rich, but the fry that made it crispy also made the duck’s rich fat almost syrupy and gummy. The lentils with honey sauce weren’t light enough to cut through the dense confit. As it turns out, one can have too much of a good thing. I only ate half.

At about this point, we became significantly less young and hip as this sick beat became a little too bumpin’ for our taste. We suddenly became a set of middle-aged housewives at a bar mitzvah, “It’s so loud we can hardly talk. I can’t even hear myself think!” Luckily, by the time our entrees were cleared\, we gave up on speaking all together and just made faces at each other.

Much to my chagrin, our beloved DJ called for the birthday boy to dance. My friends and I all decided to make the best of the situation and made our way to the dance floor just in time to see our waiter walk by with my dessert, candle aflame. We ran back to the table to make sure I didn’t lose my wish. Dessert was raspberry beignets with a vanilla dipping sauce. These were glorified jelly doughnut munchkins and anyone who’s had Cookshop’s ricotta beignets knows that a beignet and a munchkin should have nothing in common.

While I’m getting better at eating butter, I haven’t quite conquered my phobia of Butter.

Butter – 2 Sparkles **
415 Lafayette
New York, NY
212.253.2828
www.butterrestaurant.com

Top/Vers Chef

2009-08-13T11:47:00.006-04:00

Whenever I’m entertaining out-of-town guests, I always hope to stumble upon a few of those “New York moments” that you just can’t plan. Although I can’t ensure we’ll see Sarah Jessica Parker waiting for a latte at Starbucks or that gay guy from Frasier in line at Pinkberry, I can at least put a few celebrity-adjacent pit stops on our itinerary.

When one of my best girlfriends came to town recently (disclosure: she is actually a woman, a real one) we decided to do some celebrity hunting of the culinary kind. As we’re both avid fans of Bravo’s Top Chef Masters, I made us a reservation at Jonathan Waxman’s Barbuto. Barbuto is one of my favorite restaurants in the city and Waxman appeared on Top Chef Masters just a few days earlier with an outstanding performance. To our delight he was buzzing around the dining room for our entire meal. And then, as the Bravo Gods smiled upon us, we noticed he was at the bar chatting with Harold Dieterle, winner of Top Chef season one. Well, my friend’s knees buckled and we made a reservation for Harold’s restaurant, Perilla, the following night.

Perilla is a sliver of a restaurant, long and narrow with a bar and some free standing tables flanking either side of the first half of the restaurant and impressive half-moon booths making up the back half. We arrived at 5:30 for a pre-theatre meal, ordered some white wine and began to peruse the menu. The entire front wall of the restaurant was opened on this warm evening, but New York’s typical soupy summer made for a slightly balmy climate.

I began with spicy duck meatballs with mint cavatelli, water spinach and a quail egg. The plate was lovely and subtle, but everything was a bit under seasoned. The meatball was tender and light, but far from spicy and the cavatelli was handmade and al dente, but far from minted. All in all, a great way to start a meal, but lacking the zing it promised.

If the duck balls were something less than promised, my friend’s appetizer was so much more than promised. She had a crispy calamari and watercress salad with mint, peanuts and chili-lime vinaigrette. The calamari was tender and crispy, the salad was minty and the vinaigrette was tangy with a kick. The amazement, however, was the watercress. Watercress? Really? Yes. It was shredded and flash fried to create an astounding mound of little crunchy watercress chips. This was definitely a “reason to come back” dish.

For my entrée, I had the whimsically named tasting of "Three Little Pigs," a Berkshire tenderloin, crispy wild boar belly and a spicy Hampshire pork booty pate. The tenderloin was served sliced and wrapped in prosciutto. Each little round was a succulent and juicy bite with a salty burst of flavor from the prosciutto wrapper. The wild boar belly was as decadent as ever, a crackling crispy exterior crusting a silky layer of luscious fat and meat. The spicy Hampshire pork “booty” pate was shockingly flavorful. I usually describe pates as “delicate” and “refreshing,” but this one was tangy and bold. This was the second “reason to come back” dish of the night.

My friend had grilled prime Creekstone hanger steak with sunchoke creamed spinach, red shallot puree and natural jus. It was fine. The meat was cooked well and everything was tasty, but just sort of mechanical. I have nothing ill to say of this dish, I just don’t have much to say at all. We also ordered an additional side of farro risotto with artichoke confit, parmesan and chili-grape salad. It was a perfect al dente, if anything, a bit too much so because it was early in the night and this batch had to last at an acceptable texture throughout the evening. The flavor profile was tasty, but somewhat subdued. The starchy dish was so wholesome, however, that I still found I could not stop myself from picking at it long after I was full.

For dessert, we opted for a special that night, a pineapple tart with coconut meringue and pineapple sorbet. The tart was light and tropical with a crunchy crust that could have used just a bit of chew. The sorbet was a bit of a letdown, with a granular and fibrous texture. The flavor was great, but the pineapple puree could have used a strain before it went into the ice cream maker.
Perilla doesn’t have the consistency of an older New York institution, but the dishes that were great, were over-the-top. I would go back in a heartbeat and just order “correctly” next time.

Perilla – 3 1/2 Sparkles ***'
9 Jones Street New York, NY 10014
212.929.6868
www.perillanyc.com

Bon Appétit! Julie & Julia

2009-08-04T13:44:00.005-04:00

I’m not a film critic and I’m far more familiar with mise en place than mise en scène, but when I was invited to an advanced screening of the upcoming movie Julie & Julia, I just couldn’t resist. I have been looking forward to this foodie flick for such a long time that it was sure to either amaze me beyond belief or disappoint beyond repair. With cast of Meryl Streep, Amy Adams, Stanley Tucci, and butter, you can imagine which outcome prevailed.

Julie & Julia centers on the lives of Julia Child (Meryl Streep), the acclaimed chef often credited with bringing French food to the American home and culinary programming to broadcast television (anyone who has ever worked for the Food Network has Julia Child to thank), and Julie Powell (Amy Adams), famed blogger known for chronicling her journey through Julia Child’s first cookbook over the course of one year. The two stories are juxtaposed throughout the movie, consistently jumping back and forth between Julia Child’s formative years in Paris and Julie Powell’s year of what she deems the “Julie/Julia Project.”

Often two parallel story lines in a film can be difficult and jarring, but this one was superb. Director Nora Ephron almost always used one of Julia’s recipes as a way to segue from Julia’s world to Julie’s and vice versa. It gave a humanizing looking into Julia Child’s life, showing her as a driven businesswoman, passionate chef, and loving wife. Julie Powell’s progression shows a woman who finds meaning in her life and finds her self-identity by drawing inspiration from Julia’s own rise to success.

Amy Adams’ portrayal of Powell is adorable and endearing. I often found myself rooting for Powell’s success. During one particular scene Powell has a fight with her husband (Chris Messina), and although he was supposed to be “in the right,” I found it exceedingly difficult to side with him. Meryl Streep, as always, vanished from her first “bon appétit,” as I watched Julia Child appear before my eyes. Her accent was spot on and I left loving Streep’s Julia more than the real one. Stanley Tucci’s performance as Julia’s husband, Paul Child, was excellent and just subdued enough to stay out of the way of the ladies dominating the screen.

Although the performances were engaging and the relationships authentic, the real star of Julie & Julia was the food. The movie shows how food and cooking can bring people together, provide meaning, and become a metaphor for so many life lessons. In a country dominated by fast food, pre-made, ready-to-eat sludge, if Julie & Julia can inspire a handful of American’s to put down a remote and pick up a whisk, then the film is a triumph. So what does this all boil down to (pun intended)? Julie & Julia is, in a word, delicious.

Julie & Julia – 5 Sparkles *****
Opens August 7, 2009
www.julieandjulia.com

The Poo of Tao

2009-07-27T10:45:00.003-04:00

So, the other night my friends and I went to Tao. You know, the Tao from Sex and the City; the Tao with the 16-foot Buddha; the Tao that’s too cool for school… yeah, that Tao. I was skeptical making my reservation at Tao, as I am with any restaurant whose fame is derived from its 15 minutes with the fab four. Now, to put this in a bit of perspective, the girls spent a scene at Tao on episode 51, which aired on Sunday, June 10, 2001. In a city where the new “it” restaurant can hardly hold the title from lunch to dinner, it’s hard to believe that anyplace deemed trendy, can stay as such for 8 years.

We arrived for our 9:15 reservation remarkably on time, slightly lubed from a few cocktails at an LGBT event held at the Metropolitan Museum. As we perused the waiting area it became clear what has happened to Tao. It was still jammed; however, it has now become a haven for menopausal Jerseyans celebrating the big 5-0 and Long Island fraternity boys treating their orange-skinned ladies to dinner on their six-month anniversary. Nonetheless we decided to reminisce about the golden year of Tao and moseyed up to the host stand.

The scantily clad hostess told us our table wasn’t ready yet and handed us a beeper. I tried to explain that beepers were prominent during the Zack Morris-phone years and there must be some error, “you see, we have a reservation and TGI Friday’s used beepers in the 90’s.” She just gave me a blank stare; I don’t think she spoke English.

About 20 minutes later we were shooting the hostess “nobody puts Baby in a corner” eyes, until my friend and I decide to march back over to her. As my friend began to complain, he opened with “I don’t think you understand the definition of a reservation,” (oh no he didn’t, yes he did). She ran down the laundry list of reason’s why they were busy, ending with “and, I mean, it is Tao.” To which, I turned to my friend as she looked on and said “Did she seriously just say ‘well, I mean, it is Tao?’” (oh, snap). Another hostess noticed this feline fight brewing just in time and frantically yelled, “Your table is ready, the best in the house, right this way,” and rid me of that incessantly flashing beeper.

Our table was not the best in the house, but nice enough – a half-moon booth facing the impressive Buddha. The interior is a site to see and the music’s great, but you could say the same thing about Buddakan, Morimoto, or Budda Bar. It was Restaurant Week (hence the high wait and low class), so we had a prix fixe menu from which to choose. We began with a round of cocktails - lychee martinis and Ruby Red Dragons. The lychee-tinis were good, but standard and boring. The Ruby Red Dragon is a mixture of Finlandia Grapefruit, yuzu (Japanese citrus fruit) juice, and a dash of pomegranate juice. It was a multidimensional drink with several citrusy layers that worked in tandem to create something refreshing and surprising.

The appetizers we chose were pork potstickers, crispy tuna sashimi, and jumbo shrimp tempura. The potstickers were slightly better than the typical version, but at best I would say they were “fine.” The tempura shrimp were light and tasty without being greasy. The tuna sashimi was a silver dollar-sized plug of fresh raw tuna coated in panko (Japanese bread crumbs) and flash fried. The sashimi was the clear winner of the appetizer. The fish was excellent quality, with a salty and crispy crust that enhanced the meats flavor. I stole two from my friend’s plate.

Given our limited options from the prix fixe, two of us chose wasabi-crusted filet mignon for our entrée and the other two chose Chilean sea bass. The sea bass was a showstopper. It was thick, succulent and enlivened with sesame oil. The filet came pre-sliced with a bread crumb wasabi crust and a stack of onion rings on the side. The steak came a perfect medium rare and the flavor profile was spot on. The wasabi was tasty without overpowering the dish. I did, however, feel that the crust dried out the steak, but my friend disagreed. The onion rings were at least an inch thick and some of the best I’ve had. They weren’t greasy, but crunchy and salty.

For dessert, we again only opted for two of the four choices. We had three orders of chocolate spring rolls and one order of banana bread pudding. The spring rolls seemed to be a vial of melted chocolate wrapped in a traditional spring roll wrapper. It was crunchy with a creamy interior, rich, decadent, and delicious. The banana bread putting, on the other hand, seemed to be bananas, Cool Whip, and Nilla Wafers. It was refreshing and tasty, but something I can make from one aisle of the supermarket.

Although the food was solid, it was unimaginative and a bit formulaic. It’s obvious that Tao has done nothing to update its once-hip status and the scene is tired. The next time I get a beeper, I’ll be sure to hand it back and run.

Tao – 1 Sparkle *
42 East 58th Street
New York, NY 10022
(212) 888-2288
www.taorestaurant.com

Being Frugal, Staying Fabulous: Craftbar

2009-07-22T10:51:00.007-04:00

I know it seems like every other post these days is about some superchef’s budget bistro. This is in large part due to the growing movement in New York City and in even larger part due to my shrinking bank account. Until I get a monthly dining stipend, I will continue to represent the “everyman” and explore how to dine on a dime. Well, maybe it’s not a dime exactly, but at least the Glitter Gourmet will continue to find ways to be fabulous and frugal. For this venture into glamorous moderation, I decided to turn to one of my favorite New York chefs and headed to Tom Colicchio’s Craftbar.

I arrived at Craftbar at our reservation time of 8:30 on the dot. The hostess opened the door for me, told me I was the first to check in and asked if I’d like to be seated or wait for my dinner guest. This was already better service than many upscale NYC spots and worlds better than other budget bistros I’ve reviewed.

As I sat waiting, I began to compare and contrast as much as I could. The décor has the same modern class as Colicchio’s flagship Craft, without some of the more opulent touches. You won’t find a cooper wall or dangling Edison light bulbs, but you will find a lofted army of wine refrigerators accessed by a suspended iron catwalk – very sexy. My friend arrived earlier than his typical fashionable tardiness and we were taken to our table by a host in Diesel jeans and a Lacoste polo, one of the few indications we weren’t in Craft proper.

As we perused the menu, I began to munch on the rosemary and sea salt grissini that sat on our table. Now I have a weakness for anything with salt and rosemary on top, but these thick, crunchy rods left me wondering how many times I could ask for more before the waitress realized I was stashing them in my bag. Alas, my impeccable class and deathly fear of carbs had me stop after just one.

After answering a barrage of rapid-fire questions, our waitress took our order as she wiped the beads of sweat from her brow. She passed with flying colors and was back a few moments later to deliver our Zweigelt (Austrian red wine) with impeccable wine service technique. Not only do servers whisk away your bottles to be opened at the service stations, but bottles of white wine are kept on ice adjacent to the table.

To start, my friend and I had a smoked pig head terrine with mostarda. The terrine looked exactly like headcheese, a conglomeration of the bits of meat from a pig’s head held together with gelatin. Sounds like heaven on a plate, no? Mostarda is an Italian condiment made of candied fruit and mustard flavored syrup; in this case we had lemon peel.

The smoky pork meat was a delectable reminder of bacon, and it paired exceptionally well with the sweet fruit. As a newcomer to the world of headcheese, the texture of the gelatin gave me pause, but I began to see the light by the end of the dish. The terrine was also accompanied by a slice of the most incredible bread I have had in a long while. The two-inch thick slice was crusty and salty on the outside with a creviced interior of chewy flesh that was just a breath away from being gummy. It seems that I am slowly but surely conquering my fear of carbs.

For my entrée, I had skate wing with fingerling potatoes and sauce gribiche. Skate is a fish similar to a ray and the “wing” literally refers to the wing-like portion of the skate’s body. The skate came lightly fried and was oddly reminiscent of fried clams; other claim that skate tastes like scallops. The pressed and pan-fried potatoes were crispy and divine. This dish was an outstanding upscale play of fish and chips. Sauce gribiche is a French mayonnaise-based sauce that is extremely similar to tartar sauce. I found the sauce disappointing, but also unnecessary. I did, however, get a bit overwhelmed by salt during my last few bites, at which point a cleansing sauce may have come in handy. The dish also had a few slivers of pickled beets and celery leaves that added much more refreshing flavor than I would have thought.

Although I was stuffed, a reviewer’s duties never end, so I forged on toward dessert. Ricotta fritters arrived rolled in cinnamon and sugar with blueberry compote and buttermilk sorbet. The glistening orbs were sugary bites of heaven, putting the freshest of munchkins to shame. Drizzled with blueberry goodness, the fritters would have sent almost anyone into diabetic shock were it not for the soothing calm of the buttermilk sorbet. The sorbet’s light and clean tartness was the perfect counter to the glucospheres.

As we flew out of Craftbar to a movie for which we were unfashionably tardy, I thought to myself, finally a budget bistro that’s more bistro than budget.

Craftbar – 3 Sparkles ***
900 Broadway
New York, NY
212.416.4300
http://www.craftrestaurant.com/craftbar_menu.html

I'm Cooking With Gas: Sour Cherry-Tarragon French Toast

2009-07-19T10:33:00.008-04:00

So, the Glitter Gourmet is primarily restaurant reviews, and being a publicist, I'm terrified to muddle my brand; however, I just created a new dish that I just had to share. If my creativity continues, this could turn into a series, maybe called "Glitter Grub," but I have a well-document fear of committment, so for now, I'll just say this is a one off recipe. Enjoy and leave a comment if you make it!

This dish was born out of my aversion for waste. I woke up one morning to a slew of things wilting and waning around me. As I broke into a cold sweat, I quickly dreamed up a way to use the day-old bread and the last few sprigs from a tarragon bunch. French toast is a great way to make use of old bread. Because it is soaked, it can revive most hardening loaves. Other day-old bread classics like croutons and bread crumbs, dry bread completely, but if you just can’t handle seeing that gorgeous loaf turn to a cracker, than stick with French toast. The flavor profile wasn’t a calculated venture into haute cuisine, but a melding of what was in my fridge. Somehow it worked and delivered an elegant, light breakfast that I’m sure to recreate. The below recipe is approximate, because I only made one serving and eyeballed everything.

Serves 4
4 1.5 inch-thick slices of a sweet bread (challah or brioche work well)
3 eggs
1/4 milk
1/8 tsp cardamom
1/4 cup sour cherry jam
1 tbsp tarragon
4 dollops whipped cream

French toast:
Beat eggs with milk and cardamom and pour into a baking pan that will fit all of the slices of bread. Place the slices of bread into the egg mixture and let it soak for five minutes, then flip and let the second side soak for an additional five minutes. Put the soaked bread into a skillet or griddle over medium-high heat and flip when the bottom is golden brown. When the second side is golden brown, remove and plate. *

*note: the second side will always cook faster than the first, so keep a close eye

Sour cherry-tarragon sauce:
Put the jam and tarragon in a small skillet over low heat as soon as you begin cooking the French toast. The mixture will slowly become less viscous and turn into a sauce. If the sauce becomes too thick, then add water accordingly in tsp installments until it looks like a maple syrup.

To plate:

Cut each slice in half and stack on each plate to give the dish some height. Pour the warm sauce over each plate and add a dollop of whipped cream. I used Cool Whip, but if you have the means and the time, you should make your own whipped cream. I had neither. Serve immediately or the whipped cream will melt and look as if your plate is covered in…well…it just isn’t a good look.

‘Tis A Gift To Be Simple: Barbuto

2009-07-16T10:44:00.003-04:00

The celebrity chef is something that’s always been a part of New York’s fabric. For better or worse, we’re continually bombarded by the latest whim of television super-chefs like Mario Batali, Bobby Flay, or Masaharu Morimoto. While the Food Network has taken a few showy chefs and made them into mouthwatering moguls, Bravo’s Top Chef Masters is giving some of the hardest working and most talented chefs of today their own 15 minutes of fame… and you can bet none of these chefs will show up at your door for a Throwdown or a challenge in Kitchen Stadium.

Chef Anita Lo’s triumphant win last week had me yearning for a meal at her Annisa; however, Annisa being under renovation after a recent fire, left me totally blue tongued. Luckily, in an effort to beat the curve, I just dined at another upcoming Master’s restaurant before his episode has even aired. I wish I could attribute this to exceptional planning and unwavering dedication to my craft; however, the truth is I just happen to be fortunate enough to join some good friends at one of their favorite haunts, which happens to be Jonathan Waxman’s Barbuto.

Approximately 45 minutes late (oops), I called Barbuto as I ran back and forth between West 12th Street and Little West 12th Street, which apparently are not the same thing. Between pants, I tried to describe my friends to the hostess and begged her to send them a round of cocktails on my credit card. To my delight, she was already aware of the situation, new exactly who and what I was talking about, and told me not to worry; she would talk to them and see me in a few minutes. Before I reached the host stand, the hostess knew who I was and whisked me off to the table…I could tell I was in for a treat.

When I reached the table, it was clear from my haggard appearance, that I needed a drink with the utmost expediency. I ordered a dirty martini. The bar has a somewhat odd mix of brands, not carrying my usual Kettle One or Johnnie Walker (my standard choice in Scotch whiskey). I opted for Rain Vodka, which actually may take Kettle’s place as my favorite, smooth and pristine, like…well…rain.

As I quickly skimmed the menu, I began reaching across the table to taste what had already arrived. The calamari fritti came dressed with avocado and chili oil. The oil gave the calamari just enough kick, without overpowering the squid. The calamari was shockingly tender (having suffered years of rubber bands at the hands of culinary criminals like the Olive Garden) and the creamy avocado served as a really pleasing textural foil to the crispy coating on the calamari.

In an effort to get my order in before the other arrived, I made the simple choice and ordered the dish for which Waxman is known, the pollo al forno, a roasted chicken with salsa verde. The truth is that while this decision was rushed, I would have made the same choice if I had hours to ponder the menu. First, I always believe in trying a chef’s specialty on a first visit to see if the hype holds water. Second, as a food critic, roasted chicken can be seen as the great equalizer. It’s something simple, but difficult to perfect, and it’s on almost every menu, making roast chicken a perfect platform from which to compare and contrast.

When our meals came (all at the same time I might add), an entire half chicken landed in front of me, glistening and crackling with an almost celestial aura. While the skin looked more beautiful than Chace Crawford sunbathing, if there was nothing of substance beneath, it was all for not. I dug in to find moist succulent meat that was an ideal companion to the crunchy skin. The “salsa verde” that enrobed the chicken was just fresh herbs and melted butter; on this night it was tarragon. The tarragon leaves seemed to fry a bit in the butter, leaving crunchy little morsels with almost every bite of chicken. I only made it through half of the plate and I can tell you that with a little skillful baking and broiling, you can almost revive the leftovers to restaurant quality the next day… or later that same night.

Barbuto serves most entrees sans side dish, leaving customers to pair sides at will…risky. I chose the barbabietola, braised beets with pickled onions and ricotta salata. While beets are always a visual pleasure, with their astounding purpley red (thankfully I describe food, not art), I was nervous that braised beets and roast chicken might prove to be a ho-hum meal. I already knew that there was nothing boring about my chicken, but I eyed the beets with skepticism. I was again pleasantly surprised; the ricotta snow that dusted the beets and onions was packed with flavor. The salty cheese brought the earthy beets together with the tangy pickled onions for one harmonious savory bite. These were also excellent as a midnight snack.

For dessert I chose a hazelnut semifreddo. Literally, semifreddo means “half cold” or semi-frozen, in this reincarnation it came in the form of an ice cream sandwich. Two chocolate cookies that seemed like 1/8-inch thick brownies flanked hazelnut ice cream. It’s hard to go wrong with the classic chocolate hazelnut pairing and this dish didn’t disappoint. The thin brownie layers still had some chew and the ice cream was soft enough to bite through, while still holding its form. Although I opted for the more elaborate dessert, I must admit that my friend’s affogato stole the show. One of my favorite desserts, this simple finale is a cup of exquisite vanilla gelato with a shot of espresso poured on top. Think of coffee ice cream without the chemicals and preservatives.

By the end of the meal, it was clear that Waxman’s acclaim comes from his skill with the simple and the classic. When I dine on truffles, oysters, or fois gras, I know that I’m in for a treat, but making a roasted chicken into a delicacy of its own takes a true Master.

Barbuto – 3 Sparkles ***
775 Washington Street
New York, NY 10014 @ West 12th Street
(212) 924-9700
http://www.barbutonyc.com/index.html

La Tendance Dangereuse: DBGB

2009-07-08T10:29:00.007-04:00

New York may or may not be the trendiest city in the U.S., but it’s certainly the most trended. Trends on this island spread like syphilis in Chelsea. Among the most rampant is the advent of the budget bistro, recently discussed in my review of Bar Boulud and Frank Bruni’s review of Bar Artisanal. In an eerie foreshadowing of the current recession, New York has seen numerous culinary titans taking their high cuisine lowbrow over the past few years. We have Tom Colicchio’s Craftbar, David Bruke’s David Burke at Bloomingdales, and Laurent Tourondel’s BLT Burger, to name a few others. The best of these may swap out more expensive ingredients only to prove that they can turn the common into the divine; the worst of them let quality and consistency sag in the name of a lower price point.

I recently joined a group of friends at Daniel Boulud’s new ultra-budget bistro, DBGB, which stands for Daniel Boulud Good Burger. Yes, Daniel Boulud, the Lyonnais luminary is now in the burger business. While this may seem like a depressing “sell-out” moment for Boulud, he did make a splash with his short rib and fois gras burger at his DB Bistro Moderne, so I held out hope for greatness. As we walked down the ramp of the glass-encrusted entryway, I spotted the gorgeous welcoming committee behind the host stand and I knew we were in for something flashy if nothing else.

As we fanned ourselves in the balmy dining room, we scanned the floor for our seemingly nonexistent waiter. By the time our drink menus arrived, we were more excited to have something sturdier to fan ourselves with, than the actual drink list itself. I won’t harp on the service except to say that this set the pace for our evening. I quickly ordered up something cold and strong, DBGB’s take on a Manhattan made with rye whiskey. I ordered mine straight up and one of my dinner companions got the same on the rocks, the rest of the table ordered Caipirinhas – a Brazilian cocktail similar to a Mojito sans mint. I won with a delicious and smooth Manhattan that filled my standard-sized martini glass and kicked the ass of my typical Maker’s Mark Manhattan. The Caipirinhas were superb, with a vibrant tangy lime taste that rose just above the sweet pure cane sugar; however, the Dixiesque rocks glasses were a bit laughable for these double digit cocktails.

Taking into consideration both Boulud’s reputation as a sausage master and my table’s juvenile gay humor, we had no choice but to order an array of sausages for the table, with a smirk, of course. The sausages are truly appetizer-sized and most people would need three to safely serve as an entrée. The Toulouse was a pork, duck gizzard and garlic link, served in a small cast-iron pan atop a bed of cassoulet beans. While the link was light, delicate and pleasant, it was out shown by the buttery and rich cassoulet. The dish leaves you pushing bits of sausage out of the way, as you wonder why the cassoulet wasn’t granted the honor of standing alone on the Sides section of the menu.

The Tunisienne was a merguez comprised of spicy lamb and mint with lemon braised spinach and chickpeas. The merguez was fine, but typical and if anything, bland. It became quite apparent that the heat in this dish came oddly from a dollop of compote that wasn’t listed in the description. While some of my fellow diners found this a calming option to avoid the heat of the Moroccan sun, I found any bite without the compote was pointless.

Our table’s favorite was the Viennoise, a pork and emmenthaler cheese kaiserkrainer (Austrian cheese sausage) with housemade sauerkraut. This was finally the balance and flavor for which I had been looking. The sausage itself was full of cheesy goodness, foiled by the sour tang of the sauerkraut. To even out our hors d’oeuvres we had the Rillette de Jamboneau Provençal – pulled ham hock with tomato, zucchini eggplant, basil and olive oil. The dish was well executed and clean, but boring and unmemorable.

As our Francophile chops were just getting warmed up, our burgers arrived and brought us right back to the American dream. The French-style burger, with the gag-worthy cutesy name, Frenchie, is a 6 oz beef patty with grilled pork belly, arugula, tomato-onion compote and & morbier cheese on a peppered brioche bun with cornichon, mustard and fries. With that laundry list of French delicacies, you’d think my mouth would be atwitter with flavor; however, I thought I was eating a mustard sandwich. A completely gauche pop of the pork belly into my mouth revealed that it was a crispy morsel of fatty pig heaven. I know the French love their mustard and this, of course, was top notch mustard, I just couldn’t get past the horseradishy bouquet to enjoy the gestalt of La Frenchie.

The equally poor-named Piggie was the successful mélange of ingredients that the Frenchie wasn’t. The Piggie’s 6 oz beef patty is topped with Daisy May’s BBQ pulled pork, jalapeno mayonnaise and Boston lettuce on a cheddar-cornbread bun with mustard-vinegar slaw and fries. To be honest, the jalapeno mayonnaise was a bit lost and the cheddar-cornbread bun wasn’t the mutant corn muffin top I had imagined, but the pulled pork was strong enough to stand up to the beef without overpowering it. I would be remiss, however, if I didn’t point out that the pork is brought in from Adam Perry Lang’s famed Daisy May’s and isn’t a DB original. Needless to say, the fries were true French frites and almost impossible to resist.

After prolonged waits between each course we were now running late; however, some glowing tweets by Gael Greene the week before told me that I must squeeze in dessert. Ever watching our waists, the five of us shared one sundae. The apricot-pistachio sundae with marshmallows, vanilla cookies, caramel sauce, apricot coulis and whipped cream was transcendent. The pistachio ice cream brought me right back to the Sicilian coast, while the apricot ice cream was the perfect balance to the nutty and almost savory pistachio. In this dish, balance was supreme. It was difficult to detect most of the ingredients, but only because they all work so well together.

A moment of excitement came when I noticed that Daniel Boulud himself was pacing through the dining room for almost our entire meal. While I have yet to love any of his restaurants, my heart was a bit aflutter and I’ll hold final judgment on his food until I dine at the flagship Daniel.

The bar at DBGB is separated from the dining room by a large pseudo-wall that looks like a giant backless bookshelf. Adorned with knickknacks and catechesis, the top shelf boasts a massive collection of copper cookware donated by some of the most prestigious chefs from around the world from their personal kitchens. As I glanced from label to label on this Culinary Walk of Fame, I couldn’t help but wish I could have dined on something from any of those pans instead.

DBGB – 2 Sparkles **
299 Bowery
(Between Houston and 1st Street)
New York, NY 10003
(212) 933 - 5300
http://www.danielnyc.com/dbgb.html

Quality Meat

2009-07-01T15:09:00.004-04:00

Though one could argue that gay men respect and appreciate meat more than any other social, ethnic, or cultural group, the archetypal steakhouse has never been a place where we’ve felt at home. These Old Boys’ Clubs tend to have that cigar-stained, mahogany-paneled, raucous backslapping atmosphere that makes one whisper words like “Barbra Streisand” or “window treatment.” Not being one to give up easily, I waded through the Smith & Wollenskys, Capital Grilles, Peter Lugers, et al to find a place where I could have my meat and eat it too. Enter: Quality Meats.

After eyeing this place for months, I was recently lucky enough to join a friend and his family for a birthday meal at the Central Park south meatery. From the moment you descend to the subterranean host stand, you know you’re not in Kansas (City steakhouses) anymore. The décor immediately puts Ozian minds at ease. Entering passed a plaster cow’s bust opens into a dimly lit dining room adorned with wrought-iron chandeliers illuminated with Edison light bulbs and wine-packed walls. As we looped our way through the ground floor, it seemed a bit too dark; however, we ended up at a table by the window on the upper level, so we had ample light.

As the name would imply, Quality Meats, is, at its core, an homage to meat with the typical American leaning toward beef. While I wasn’t able to convince anyone at the table to opt for fish in the name of well roundedness, we did have a crab & avocado appetizer that was so fresh and delicate that it was hard to believe it was made by the hands of a butcher. The elegant and uncomplicated dish was a perfect preparation for our weighty entrees to come.

A few minutes later, my medium rare 18 oz. aged bone-in sirloin arrived, one of those few rare occasions when I feel like a man. This steak quickly took its place among the best I’ve had; at this level of cooking, choosing the absolute best steak is really a matter of splitting hairs. The most notable triumph was the steak’s textural juxtaposition. The well developed thick crust encased a juicy and tender center that rivaled that of filet mignon. Unlike a filet; however, the fattier sirloin cut and the lingering bone kept this cut full of flavor. As usual, I had a hard time keeping my mouth off that bone. Had I been dining incognito or with a band of Vikings, I would have sucked it dry. Unfortunately, my sense of decorum forced me to save my bone sucking for the bathroom at Splash.

Among our side dishes, all were good and none were exceptional. The buttered edamame with mint salt was fresh and perfectly al dente, but the mint salt was lost on me. The grilled asparagus was simple and well executed, but nothing surprising or outstanding about it. The parmesan fries were almost tooth pick thin and crispy. The texture was perfect, but the parmesan was too understated and left me a bit underwhelmed. As an entire meal, the less than exciting sides didn’t bother me. They were all good and let the steak shine, but it would have been nice if a few made me swoon.

The dessert menu had praise before we even ordered. I was relieved to find that steakhouse staples like crème brulee and New York-style cheesecake were supplanted with more creative options. My “Coffee & Doughnuts” was a scoop of coffee ice cream atop a thin slice of coffee flavored cake (not, “Coffee Cake”) and topped with a half-dollar sized chocolate-glazed doughnut. The ice cream was delicious and the doughnut was rich, but a bit too dense for my taste. As my fork quickly travelled around the table, I discovered that the blueberry tart was refreshing, but bland and the milk chocolate caramel tart was decadent, but too rich to enjoy more than a few forkfuls.

Quality Meats certainly holds its own among the city’s steak havens, and the fruit-friendly feel will keep this Gorgeous Young Boys’ club packed. Oh, and the sexy young executive chef can’t hurt.

Quality Meats – 3 Sparkles ***
57 West 58th Street
New York, NY 10019
(212) 371-7777
http://qualitymeatsnyc.com/

The Sparkle System

2009-07-01T15:07:00.002-04:00

Glitter is made of millions of little sparkles, a particle so easily adhesive that it is almost impossible to remove. Here at the Glitter Gourmet, I’ve decided to institute a rating system of sparkles that will be conversely almost impossible to obtain. The system will be a scale of 0 to 5 sparkles, with 0 being the worst and 5 being the best. Now readers will have an easy and quantitative way to compare and contrast reviews. Sparkle on!

Fried Rice Queen

2009-06-29T12:38:00.008-04:00

I know many New York sinophiles in constant pursuit of China’s finest, but to find the best of the best, put down that vodka soda and march out of The Web. While I feel fairly confident in my restaurant-hunting skills, I decided I might need a bit of help in these uncharted waters. Luckily, as of this publications date, I happened to be seeing a dashing Chinese man who told me where his parents like to dine when visiting New York. Now I’m on to something…just like my mother can discern which brand of chopped liver sits in front of her with a mere whiff, parents born in Hong Kong must know what’s what when it comes to NYC’s Chinese culinary scene.

I was skeptical of this midtown recommendation, feeling fairly certain that the best Chinese meals lived south of Canal Street, but the restaurant’s alternate Chinatown location and the window full of magazine clippings allayed my fears. We walked past the glimmering Buddha, faux marble paneling and went straight upstairs. I took the Hello Kitty-inspired décor as a good sign. As we sat, our waiter ask if we were ready to order, and again every 5 minutes until I satiated him by ordering a Tsingtao (imported Chinese beer) and an order of their famous pork soup dumplings to start. We then proceeded to cross-reference the menu with my manfriend’s e-mail describing what and how to order. I may or may not have had to call him to review my Chinese pronunciation…

When the moment of truth arrived, I went down the list of items with menu in hand, pointing my way through the order. Then, however, I hit a snag. One dish that “is amazing,” wasn’t on the menu. Not only was this vegetable a special order, but I was only instructed how to say it in Cantonese. I took a deep breath and with beads of sweat dripping down my forehead, I tried to sound as nonchalant as possible and said, “Oh, and an order of oong choy.” To my shock and delight, the waiter barely flinched and just kept writer on his pad, whew.

By the time I was done hyperventilating from the ordering ordeal, our pork soup dumplings arrived in a large bamboo steamer. What makes these dumplings standout from the typical American-Chinese variety is the tablespoon or two of rich pork broth that accompanies the pork ball inside each little noodle pod. We stared, unapologetically, as the next table over went through the fragile dumpling-popping process. We were far less successful in executing the dumpling dance, but here’s how it should go: place one dumpling in a large soup spoon and top with a soy sauce and fermented ginger concoction. Delicately either use your chopsticks or your teeth to puncture a small hole in the noodle. Sip the soup as it fills the spoon and eat the deflated remains.

It was easy to see why Joe’s Shanghai is famous for these dumplings, not only were they fun, but delicious as well. The pork was tender and flavorful and the noodle was light and just gummy enough. Not long after, our main courses arrived. The young chow fried rice was a fairly traditional version, made with pan-fried white rice, chicken, pork and shrimp – not that brownish stuff you get at your local Quan’s Kitchen. The beef with green beans was good, but not particularly notable. And then came the infamous oong choy, which reminded me of broccoli rabe with hollow shafts (cue giggle) and no florets. The spears were crunchy, refreshing and salty; an illusion of health veiled in oil. After some online snooping, it turns out that oong choy is water spinach: a semi-aquatic tropical plant grown as a leaf vegetable, yum.

Dinner was going so well that when the dessert menu’s arrived, I decided we shouldn’t push our luck and just asked for the check. I’m not an Asian expert, but I’m pretty sure the flan isn’t indigenous. Instead, we finally succumb to the pressure of being a New York City tourist and sat down to our Carnegie Deli cheesecake.

24 W 56 Street
New York, New York 10019
(between 5 and 6 Avenue)
212-333-3868
http://www.joeshanghairestaurants.com/

Balancing Brunch

2009-06-25T10:03:00.001-04:00

Taking my parents to a hip New York City hot spot is about as stressful as watching Frank Bruni’s face as he takes the first bite of your new restaurant’s Risotto Milanese. My parents are the kind of people that aren’t blinded by the pomp, posh panache that often threaten to fog my oversized Pradas, so when we go out together the food must speak for itself. On our continuing culinary journey over Father’s Day weekend, we went to the much lauded brunch at Jane.

Jane puts the “Ho” in “SoHo,” sitting on West Houston Street, atop the ever-so-hip NYC neighborhood. The high ceilings, clean lines and warm neutral tones give Jane a sleek feel without cold minimalist sterility. We arrived for our 10:30 reservation and the three of us were jammed into a two-person corner banquet inches away from a table of fellow brunchers. Not a group known for biting our tongues, we spoke up and were moved in minutes. Although our waiter undoubtedly lost a chance for a table of four at our new location, he made us feel welcome, noting how much easier it would be to serve us there. After seeing hundreds of sneers when I say, “Oh, tap water will be fine,” it was refreshing to have a server show a little class.

While perusing the menu, we ordered juice in lieu of the complimentary cocktails that accompany brunch after noontime. Damn, no wonder I was able to get this reservation at 10:30; at least the grapefruit juice tasted freshly squeezed. Without any traditional typical standbys, my parents were a bit skeptical, but we all found something and hoped for the best.

My dad ordered the Farm House Scramble - smoked ham, gruyere, and caramelized onions. This amped-up version of a ham and cheese omelette was excellent. It was moist without being runny and flavorful without being salty. The key to a successful omelette is the perfect balance with a seemingly effortless finesse. My mother went the lunch route, which is always a hotly debated issue at any brunch table. She had the BLT & E – a sunny up egg, crisp bacon, bibb lettuce, tomato, and lemon aioli an brioche with rosemary fries. Her plate had me wishing I too opted for the –unch part of brunch. The sandwich was a delightful play on the classic. Nothing too over-the-top to take away from the sense that you’re having a BLT, but the sweet brioche foiled the salty bacon and the lemon aioli cut through the fat making this dish another triumph of balance.

After two well-executed balancing acts, it was surprising that the only issue I had with my dish was the balance. I had the Benedict Johnny -poached eggs, maple chicken sausage, corn pancakes, and roasted tomato hollandaise. Each element was delicious and my dad even noted how expertly the eggs were poached. It all just fell a bit short of coming together. The sweet corn pancakes stood out. Although they were good, they overshadowed the equally well-crafted sausage and delicate egg orbs.

All in all the food was quality and the service good, a rare find that pleased both my parents and me. Next time, however, I’ll be making my reservation when the booze are flowing.

Jane
100 West Houston Street, New York City
212-254-7000
http://www.ctrnyc.com/JANE/index.html

Sticky Fingers

2009-06-23T10:36:00.002-04:00

Father’s Day is a pretty easy holiday for most sons, pick a place that is fatty, greasy, has a flat screen and you’re good to go. Unfortunately, some of us have an aversion to dining in restaurants where our shoes stick to the floor. Luckily this Father’s Day, I had a divine apparition and came up with the perfect place to keep both of us smiling. Blue Smoke is a self-proclaimed “urban barbecue.” It’s the kind of place that is sure to have visiting Texans scoffing at its highfalutin attitude – with hoity toity things like micro brewed beers, infused salts, and napkins – while the promise of authentic regional barbecue has New York crowds cringe at the thought of getting their fingers sticky.

While Blue Smoke has guests skeptical from every angle, this metrocue somehow manages to pull off a successful brand. I think the first reason why Blue Smoke works is a subtle distinction; it is trendy because it’s authentic. Too many New York restaurants end up feeling like an over-polished Disney caricature of a region or cuisine (think Havana Central or anything on Mulberry Street). Blue Smoke’s food is clean, simple and easy to understand – like any good brand.

After arriving early for our reservation, my parents and I were shocked to find that the restaurant was running a 45 minute wait at 6 p.m. on a Saturday. Luckily, they were able to squeeze us in and we sat right away. I kicked things off with an old fashion Old Fashioned (Maker’s Mark Bourbon, bitters, sugar, muddled cherry and orange), definitely a drink that’ll put hair on your chest – which I will later have waxed off. My dad opted for the aforementioned microbrew, Blue Smoke Original Ale, which was a really nice amber ale that could hold its own against the other beers on the menu.

A few minutes after our drinks arrived, we got a few starters (no chichi hors d'oeuvres here) that came highly recommended. Warm barbecued potato chips with blue cheese dip were surprisingly reminiscent of the Lays classic, but the high octane version. The chips were fresh, light and crispy. Alone they were pleasant, but the over-the-top blue cheese dip with chunks of bacon, made the dish really stand out. Our other app was the winner of the night for me. We had chipotle chicken wings with blue cheese dip. The wings were a tangy crossbreed of buffalo wings and barbecue wings. This blue cheese dipping sauce was different, considerably lighter and almost like a ranch dressing.

In preparation for our main course, I ordered another classic cocktail. The Sazerac (Old Overholt Rye, Pernod and Peychaud’s Bitters) was sweeter and considerably easier to sip. Then, in the name of research, the waiter looked at me and said something I never thought I’d hear a man say to me, “Sir, here is your rib sampler.” Two Memphis Baby Backs, two Kansas City Spareribs and one Texas Beef Rib slowly descended on to the table as I made a feeble attempt to save face and said, “Oh, there must have been some mistake. I ordered the salmon, but don’t bother taking them back now.” My dad’s Sliced Texas Beef Brisket came in the same generous portion, but without the side of guilt.

On the whole, my ribs were a bit of a disappointment. They came room temperature and could have used more sauce; however, the salt and pepper crusted beef rib itself was outstanding. It was rich and flavorful without being overpowered by its crust. In any subsequent stops to Blue Smoke, I’d simply get a half rack of these gigantic ribs and avoid the others. My dad’s brisket was simple and delicious. Both my mom’s order of ribs and my own came unaccompanied, so we also ordered a few sides for the table. The macaroni and cheese was decadent and a too heavy to finish and the cornbread was a bit dry and a bit bland.

Blue Smoke certainly had some misses, but the successes were so good, I’d go back as an “educated diner” and just order strategically. I give the restaurant credit for its unpretentious attitude and superior service. If you’re a fabulous fashionista that is a closet spit-roasted, flame-broiled, slow-smoked junkie then don your fake mustache and outrageous alias (Anastasia Beaverhausen?) and head into Blue Smoke.

Blue Smoke
116 East 27th Street
Between Park and Lex
(212) 576 – 2232
www.bluesmoke.com

Coquette’s Cocotte

2009-06-19T15:01:00.004-04:00

In New York City, brunch is so rarely about food; it’s about big sunglasses, big mimosas, and big gossip. I just had one of these big brunches in a small restaurant with an even smaller friend. This fabulous fashionista (check out her http://hauteheaded.blogspot.com) and I both barely break 5 feet and 110 pounds, so we are always “such an adorable couple,” to which I say “seriously?” as a purse falls out of my mouth. For this particularly huge bit of gossip, we decided to tuck ourselves away in the back garden of August on the designer dominate west half of Bleeker Street (disclosure: the staff of Ralph Lauren Kids and Little Marc Jacobs may or may not know me by name).

August’s small front entrance leads to a charming and warm dining room flanked by a wood-burning stove in the back. On a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, however, we walked right past the tables, oven and freshly made array of baked goods, into their equally delightful back garden. The garden has a glass ceiling, which gives the illusion of being outside; however, a well-placed air conditioner makes the experience much more pleasant – this is how I envision gay camping.

August’s cuisine is artisanal and pan-European. While the menu is certainly eclectic, the tone of the entire restaurant is decidedly Provencal. The aforementioned wood oven isn’t only adorable, but also put to good use. Many of the brunch items, from the cast-iron German pancake to the baked eggs en cocotte, are all oven baked. We both chose different versions of the latter. Cocotte is French for casserole and eggs en cocotte traditionally means they have been baked in a casserole dish individually with either cream or butter (is butter a carb?). August does their cocotte in small cast-iron pans.

Being truly pan-European, August offers these baked eggs in several preparations named for the region from which they hail. My friend had the “Roman,” with tomato and mozzarella. I decided to channel my Eastern European roots and chose the “Bavarian,” dressed with Riesling-braised cabbage and smoked ham. One bite of the Bavarian and I was ready to don a pair of lederhosen (again). The dish had an outstanding balance of savory and sweet with perfectly cooked eggs that aptly broke and flooded my pan with yoke. What I found perhaps most surprising was the dish’s uncanny ability to be incredibly rich and yet somehow leave me feeling satisfied without feeling overstuffed.

Our gossip covered and our stomach’s full, we did what any two young recessionista’s would do, shop.

August
359 Bleecker Street
(between Charles & West 10th)
New York, NY 10014
(212) 929-8727
http://0040e96.netsolhost.com/index.htm

Home Is Where the Hearth Is

2009-06-12T11:03:00.007-04:00

I’m the first to admit that enough pomp and circumstance, pretense, or glitter, mask mediocre menus from Brooklyn to the Bronx. And, I’m also the first to admit that, at times, that’s okay. A Grecian waiter, celebrity sighting, or finger bowl, can have the bitterest of queens singing a second chorus of Cabaret (that being said, so can a bottle of pinot grigio and an Adderall). Because of New York’s propensity for flair, I’m always a bit thrown when a restaurant’s excellence is based on its food, not its flash, hm, what a novel idea.

A few weeks ago, I ventured to the Far East, 1st Avenue, for another meal with my Papa Bears (disclosure: they are neither papas, nor bears).They took me to another of their regular haunts, so once again, my assessment of service may be a bit skewed. This time they even sweetened the pot by bringing some fresh kumquats, limes and calamondin (a cross between a tangerine and a kumquat) for the kitchen.

From the team that brought quality Italian food to midtown with Insieme, Hearth centers on modern American food with an Italian sensibility. The décor is warm and homey with a feel that somehow pulls off sleek contemporary colonial American. I was a bit unnerved to find an empty restaurant at 7 p.m. on a Sunday, but in true New York fashion, 7 is just too early for dinner on any night and the place was packed by the time we hit our second course.

As I perused the menu, I sipped on a Kettle One dirty martini, which made the rest of the meal warm, fuzzy, and hard to remember. I began with roasted frog legs with spring garlic, parsley and garlic confit. The legs were, much like my own, heavenly. They were crispy and tender and covered in an incredible garlic flavor that wasn’t too over powering. Both spring garlic and garlic confit have a mellower flavor than the pure stuff. Before our entrees arrived, we were surprised with the first of our gratis extras – the perks of dining with a “regular.” They served a wild mushroom tagliatelle with red wine, rosemary and parmesan. This was a showstopper of a dish – tender al dente pasta with a deep, rich sauce and sharp salty parmesan (my mouth is watering as I type).

As I lapped up the last dregs of my red wine reduction, another dirty martini appeared and I cleansed my palate for the entrée. With several choices that were equally tantalizing, it was difficult to zero in on a main course, but I finally chose a braised veal breast with sweetbreads, morel mushrooms, and spring onions. This dish was both dynamic and harmonious. Like any great dish, each element held it’s own, but also enhanced the others. The breast was tender and succulent, surrounded by al dente morels and decadent sweetbread nuggets with a lightly fried crispy exterior encrusting a creamy center. Our main courses were supplemented with a complimentary plate of gnocchi. The gnocchi was light, fluffy and delicious, prepared simply with butter, salt, pepper and some parmesan cheese. This second pasta success made me begin to understand the Italian heritage that Hearth promotes.

Before our dessert arrived, Hearth decided to show off and delivered our kumquats in a muddled concoction with soda and bourbon. Not only was the cocktail delicious, but also a testament to Hearth’s creativity and improvisational skill. A few sips in, my dessert arrived – a rhubarb crumb cake with poached rhubarb and brown butter ice cream. The cake was moist and the rhubarb tangy, but the highlight was the brown butter ice cream, evoking memories of shoofly pie.

Even among the best meals throughout my journeys, it’s pretty rare to have a meal without a single misstep. Hearth’s food is not only complex and well-executed, but also warming and welcoming, something that has become increasingly rare on New York’s culinary scene.

Hearth
403 East 12th Street
New York, NY
(646) 602-1300
www.restauranthearth.com

Pig Play: My Foray into Offal

2009-06-03T14:37:00.007-04:00

There are certain words that can make a person tingle, for air-headed fashionistas, it’s “couture,” for pig-headed frat boys it’s “double fisting,” and for boy-headed pigs it’s, well, also “double fisting.” And for adventurous foodie’s it’s “offal.” Offal is an umbrella term referring to all of the gross bits of an animal - entrails and internal organs. Yum! Inspired by great culinary explorers like Anthony Bourdain and Andrew Zimmern, I’ve decided to move past any of my food fears and try anything and everything at least twice (one of Zummern’s steadfast rules). I got my chance about a week ago when I suggested Craft’s “Damon Frugal Fridays” for a date I had.

This was a second date, so naturally things were getting pretty serious and I wanted something fun and impressive that wouldn’t break the bank. I thought Craft’s FF would be perfect for this fellow foodie and me. Craft is the flagship restaurant of celebrity chef Tom Colicchio (head judge: Top Chef, owner: Craft, Craftsteak, Craftbar, ‘wichcraft). Colicchio’s FF is a cost-effective tapas-style recession special that takes place in the private dining room of Craft every night except Tuesday (I guess “Frugal Every-Night-Except-Tuesday-Nights” didn’t have the same ring to it). While many celebrity chefs have let me down, I have been consistently blown away by Colicchio’s food in the past and decided that anything Craft-ed was a safe bet.

FF doesn’t take reservations, but we arrived around 8 p.m. on a Friday night and were seated right away. It was pretty busy and I think we nabbed one of the last open tables for two. The décor is notably more casual than the adjacent Craft proper – waiters in jeans with teal t-shirts – but an air of relaxed elegance still prevails. We kicked things off with the 19th Street Headache ($4), a perfect pre-meal cocktail of Aperol (an Italian aperitif similar to Campari) and champagne. As we sipped our Headaches, our waiter came over and we start listing anything that sounded good. When we finally paused to take a breath, he jumped in and suggested that we “start with that and see if we’re still hungry.” I guess we were a bit over zealous.

The parade of food began to arrive and we dug in, judging as we went. The overall lineup was a hit, with a few misses here and there. One of the first to arrive was a delightful starter, from the “Food in a Jar” section of the menu. The Elysian Fields Farms lamb rillettes was light and pleasant on thin, salty baguette toast points. A rillette is extremely similar to a pâté except the meat is shredded as opposed to smooth or chunky. Other successes included pork belly lettuce cups & hibiscus, raw Spanish mackerel with furikake (a dry Japanese condiment) & ramps, and fried quail with rhubarb chutney & roasted garlic puree.

From the offal section, we had two dishes of the four choices. The first was salt-baked bone marrow with a stew of mushrooms and tail. Bone marrow isn’t technically offal, but I guess the tail in the stew keeps this dish on the list. The marrow was savory and buttery and the stew was fantastic. My only possible critique of this dish was that the stew might have overshadowed the marrow itself. The other offal unfortunately forced me to crack some very lame jokes about “awful offal.” We had crispy pigs’ ears with deviled egg salad and celery. If you’ve ever fed your dog a pig’s ear, then you know the consistency of this dish. The ears were flavorless and rock hard (making for some very embarrassing crunching on my date). The egg salad was fine, but boring and barely worth mentioning. This dish was a particular disappointment because it’s a clear publicity stunt without any culinary backing. As a publicist, Lord knows I endorse these kinds of stunts, but any good publicist knows that a gimmick won’t take you very far unless it also is worthwhile.

Despite my ear drama, I still think that Tom Colicchio is a master chef, and I believe in his brand. The Craft Empire is one of few that deserves it place among New York’s restaurant elite.

Craft
43 East 19th Street
New York, NY
212.780.0880
http://www.craftrestaurant.com

Everyone Loves An Opening

2009-05-26T14:49:00.005-04:00

If there’s one realization that the Glitter Gourmet could impress upon any restaurant, chef, or foodie, it’s that dining isn’t a meal, but an experience. Monday night, I set myself up for one hell of an experience and had been counting down the days for over a month. A good friend of mine was able to nab us tickets to this year’s opening night of the American Ballet Theatre. I’m a moderate fan of ballet, but a major fan of openings (theatrical and otherwise), so I dusted off my tux, shined my shoes, and made my way to Lincoln Center.

The evening and performance were spectacular in every sense of the word, the red carpet entrance, the champagned intermission, and ballet boys. There is something so beautiful and classic about the male dancers that make me appreciate the form as art. Don’t get me wrong, I still want to peel off those tights like a banana, but you know what I mean. I know this is a food blog and I promise I’m getting to the food portion of the evening, but it’s also a gay blog, so I would be remiss if I didn’t dedicate a few moments to all the celebrities in attendance.

We arrived to the Metropolitan Opera House (home of the ABT) early, grabbed a glass of champagne and stood on the balcony to watch the red carpet from above. There was a train of D-list celebs like Iman, Ivanka Trump and Kelly Rippa, but a few notables as well. Renee Zellweger, an honorary chair of the event, came down the carpet in a gorgeous full-length strapless gray gown and posed for a few publicity shots. The best entrance of the night had to be that of the diva to end all divas, Vogue editor-in-chief, Anna Wintour. Wintour strutted down the red carpet donning her trademark black shades in this invisible sphere of fear that kept everyone at least 10 feet away from her. She paused for half a second to make sure that just a few photogs could grab her image and then kept walking. None of the paparazzi even dared to attempt interviewing her. They’ll drive Britney into the bushes, but they know not to mess with Anna.

The highlight of the evening, other than the performance itself, was when Caroline Kennedy introduced Michelle Obama to say a few words as an honorary chair of the evening. She was, as always, stunning and eloquent, singing the praises of arts education in her black cocktail dress. My friend noted she was a bit under-dressed for the occasion, but if she can wear a sweater set to meet the queen of England, she can pull off a cocktail dress here.

Okay, okay, okay – food. So after the performance, we walked right across the street to the budget bistro of Daniel Boulud’s army of New York City success stories. Bar Boulud is the most casual and cheapest among his restaurants: Daniel, db bistro moderne, and Café Boulud. Walking into Bar Boulud is like walking into the bustling kitchen itself. The space is one long dramatic cylinder packed with wooden tables from end to end. The space is crowded and noisy, but just enough to buzz with excitement. We were greeted by a pretentious French maitre’d, then approached by a pretentious French waiter, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

After our waiter dropped off our menus and wine list, we waited a healthy 10 minutes before a manager finally came over to take our order. It was pretty obvious we were forgotten, but at least the manager noticed the flub before we had a chance to complain. When our first course came, my friend’s fennel soup came without a spoon. I chalked it up to an innocent mistake; until I noticed that same thing happened to the table next to us a half hour later. Luckily, my first course came with the fork it needed. I had a sausage from Lyon with pistachio and black truffle in brioche. It had a nice flavor; however, the truffle was completely undetectable and the whole thing was dry as a bone.

For my entrée, I opted for Boulud’s version of the classic Coq au Vin - braised chicken with hand rolled pasta, lardons, onions, and mushrooms. The chicken was moist and the sauce was savory and delightful. The hand rolled pasta was fine but was a bit of a disappointment. While the first few pieces of lardon (thick cut pieces of bacon in this case) were heavenly, by the third morsel, I was overwhelmed by the salt. Unfortunately, my friend felt a bit under-the-weather, so we left before dessert.

I realize that Bar Boulud isn’t Daniel Boulud’s pride and joy and it isn’t his priority, but the slips we noticed were inexcusable from any restaurant associated with a celebrity chef. Culinary excellence isn’t measured by dollars spent or rarity of the ingredients used, but by the quality of your experience. The next time I’m at the ballet, I’ll just double up on the champagne and skip dinner.

Bar Boulud
1900 Broadway
New York, NY 10023
212.5950303
http://www.danielnyc.com/barboulud.html

What’s In a Name: Good

2009-05-12T11:31:00.004-04:00

In New York City, every restaurant scrambles to be more chic than the next. Whether it’s menus on a CD case, chairs hung from the ceiling, or a hidden entrance that’s about as secret as Lindsey Lohan’s lady bits, it seems that the harder a restaurant tries, the harder it falls – into phrases like “tacky,” “over,” and the dreaded “that was so Summer ’07.” And some restaurants try to nail it with a sleek, minimalist name, something simple, clear and obvious, like Good.

For months, Good Restaurant has been giving my friends and me hours of witty banter and bitchy quips, muttering things like, “Ya know, I heard this place was good” every time we passed by. A name like Good immediately sets the place up to fail, much like a slightly exaggerated adam4adam profile. When you walk into Good and realize it isn’t the metaphoric CollegeJock85 you were promised, you sigh, shrug your shoulders and pray that at least its menu is huge. I’ll stop the metaphor here, before I have you telling Good you’ll call him “sometime” as you hail a cab at 8 a.m.

This year for Mother’s Day, I decided to give my mom the best gift I could think of, me. I invited my parents to stay with me for the weekend, so we could do all sorts of motherly things. Of course, the cornerstone of any Mother’s Day weekend is the proverbial brunch. I searched high and low for the best brunch in the city and finally settled on Good, because it had the one distinctive quality for which I was desperately seeking, availability.

We arrived at 9:55 for our 10 a.m. reservation and walked in to announce our arrival. When I got to the host stand, I glanced down and saw one name on the reservation list. I couldn’t bring myself to say, “Hi, we’re the Marty party,” so I told the truth as she told me they didn’t have our reservation. She followed up by saying “we only take reservations for 10 a.m. on Sundays.” I bit my tongue, because it only would have made matters worse to say, “It IS 10 a.m. on a Sunday you brainless airhead.” Because the restaurant opened at 10 a.m., the reservation snafu didn’t hinder our seating anyway. This is just a very important and telling indicator of a restaurants quality.

Anywho, we sat down and ordered. The menu was pretty well rounded, with an array of options from the standard to the creative. I ordered the breakfast burrito - eggs scrambled with house-made chorizo sausage, peppers, onions & jack cheese rolled in a flour tortilla with a side of spicy salsa. While the burrito as a whole was pleasant enough, there were a few letdowns. The biggest issue I had was with the “house-made chorizo” which tasted much more like plain old hamburger. My other criticism was with the “side of spicy salsa,” which was much closer to a salsa fresca without a hint of heat. My meal also came with cheddar cornbread and a “Chipotle Mary.” The bread was delicious, although too greasy and not cheesy enough and the Mary tasted like all of the other Marys I’ve tasted [insert crude gay joke here].

With misnamed Marys, sausage and salsa, it seems like Good’s biggest problem is clearly identifying what is serves. To offer some advice to Good, I turn to Hamlet and say “To thine own self be true” and put up a new sign that says “Tolerable.”

Good Restaurant 8
9 Greenwich Avenue
New York NY 10014
212.691.8080
http://www.goodrestaurantnyc.com/

A Fire Island Fast

2009-04-29T12:51:00.007-04:00

The Glitter Gourmet loves food almost as much as he loves a happy trail, but with summer and Speedos fast approaching, even GG himself needs to skip a meal or two. Although I’m happy to skip meals left and right, I do like to have as many reasons to fast as possible – in order to ward off any accusations that I’m going down the same path as Ms. Olsen or Ms. Richie. While I spend most of my philanthropic money on queeny things like AIDS research and marriage equality, I found a new charity event appealing to my vanity and my waistline that I just couldn’t pass up.

City Harvest’s Skip Lunch Fight Hunger campaign is the best way to warm your heart and shrink your stomach. City Harvest is the New York City-based food-rescue organization that assists 350,000 local children and their families, who otherwise don't get enough to eat. The idea behind this campaign is to gather a team, skip lunch for one day, and donate the money from one lunch to City Harvest (of course, the bears can donate and still eat lunch). The event will be held this year on Wednesday, May 6 and you can register your team at www.skiplunch.org.

Once you’ve registered, City Harvest will send you a kit of goodies containing paper lunch bags to distribute on May 6 for money collection. For any loners out there that don’t have what it takes to rally the troops, you can fly solo and donate individually here.

Now if Yom Kippur was in June, I’d have all the excuses I’d need to get my summer six pack.

Confessions of a Dineaholic: David Burke at Bloomingdale's

2009-04-22T12:33:00.006-04:00

With a new apartment full of furniture and a credit card full of charges, the Glitter Gourmet has had to start cutting some corners. While he may slip to one pedicure a month or begin perusing the sale rack and Barneys, that doesn’t mean his meals need to suffer. While many restaurants in the city have jumped on the bandwagon of the “recession special,” there is one great find that has been serving great food at an even better price from day one. David Burke at Bloomingdale's, the wallet-conscious café from NYC superstar chef, David Burke, is the easiest way to stay fabulous on a budget.

Speaking not only as a publicist, but also as a self-proclaimed trend-setter, I know all too well that fabulousity is a matter of spin. Picture this – you roll into Bloomingdale’s around three or four with giant sunglasses and your man-bag hanging from your elbow, hoping a bit of retail therapy will cure your hangover. You bounce around the store with your friends for an hour or two, trying on everything from D&G suits to M.A.C. Lip Glass. You finally grow weary, muttering something about how disappointing the new DSquared line is and flop down for an early dinner at the cute celeb café on the first floor. (Little does anyone know, so far you’ve spent $0).

Unlike other “budget bistros” from New York culinary titans like Tom Colicchio’s Craftbar or Daniel Boulud’s Bar Boulud, David Burke at Bloomingdale's isn’t “less expensive” than the famed Davidburke & Donatella, it’s downright cheap. Every night of the week, David Burke at Bloomingdale's offers a three course prix fixe dinner for $20.09 that allows guests to choose anything from each section of the menu. (There is a $5 supplement for lobster or steak, but who can blame them?) And, as long as the food lives up to the name, then this deal can’t be beat.

It does. Every table starts with a round of cheddar popovers. This savory, buttery morsel puffs with steam as your break open the shell. It’s one of those warm delights you wake up a week later dreaming of. My first course was an east-meets-west duo of dumplings. The left side of my plate paid homage to down-home all-American grub with chicken and jack cheese dumplings and a swirl of barbecue sauce, the right side brought the delicate, refined flavors of the orients with shrimp dumplings and a tahini-like sauce. While this dish may sound like a faceoff between a backwoods Barbie and a gaysha, it actually came together as an elegant and interesting pairing.

My entrée wasn’t quite haute cuisine – a grilled chicken sandwich with provolone, bacon, arugula, cherry tomatoes, and whole-grain mustard with a side of house-made potato chips - but I find while good chefs can create dishes of a complexity most home cooks can’t fathom, a great chef is one who can elevate a staple to something more delicious than it’s namesake. This sandwich had crisp bacon that wasn’t overdone, moist chicken, fresh vegetables and soft sweet pretzel bread that would make any filling taste like heaven. Also, I typically roll my eyes when a sandwich comes with potato chips, but these were irresistible. If they made a version with Olean, I’d buy them by the pound. While I did love my meal, I do want to mention there were several other, more upscale options like short rib ravioli, salmon with shrimp and asparagus risotto, and of course, the aforementioned lobster and steak dishes.

Dessert was an Oatmeal cookie parfait, layering the cookies with apple caramel, vanilla gelato and cranberry sauce. The cookie bits tasted a bit more like breakfast granola, but the gelato was decadent, so an overall nice ending (for a $10 supplement, you can have a happy ending instead…). My whole meal was paired with the Malbec on special that evening ($8). Of course, it didn’t pair well, but the name of the game in a place like this is to enjoy your meal without pretense, so I picked my favorite wine and drank up.

It’s important to remember in times of trouble that you don’t have to give up the important things like keeping up appearances and maintaining a glamorous lifestyle. With a bit of savvy and a lot of bronzer, you can fly through this recession and land on the other end with more glitter than you started with.

David Burke at Bloomingdale's
1000 Third Avenue (Entrance on 59th Street)
New York, NY 10022
(212) 705-3800
http://www.burkeinthebox.com/

Mediocre Mile: Intermezzo

2009-04-16T10:56:00.005-04:00

If there’s one thing that gets the Glitter Gourmet in the door of any restaurant, it’s a sidewalk sandwich board with two words: open bar. Last Sunday I was taking my usual strut up 8th Avenue with Prada sunglasses, glossed/pursed lips, and hangover in tow, all the while scanning for somewhere moderately acceptable to brunch on the mediocre mile. When my friend and I passed Intermezzo’s ad touting a two-hour open bar for $15, I thought it may be just the thing to ease the pain of Manhattan’s culinary arm pit, so we went in.

Intermezzo is by all accounts the definition of Chelsea’s mediocre mile – a hopeless attempt at chic with nothing going on in the back, which happens to double as the definition for Chelsea men. The décor is contemporary America high-gloss bitch and the Italian menu draws its influence from the same small Italian village that gave us pasta roni. Before I continue, I must admit that I’ve been to Intermezzo several times before and it does have a place in my Sunday brunch routine. Whenever I get sick of my egg-white omelette and instead have a craving to judge people based on how the look, Intermezzo it is.

When the door opens at Intermezzo, you find yourself at the foot of a long catwalk flanked by the bar to your left and a single column of tables to your right and you’re left wondering why you wasted your tightest jeans on Mr. Black last night when you should be wearing them now. Nonetheless, I hitched up my pants, looked down my nose, put the bass in my walk and went straight back to our table. My runway performance was aided by the DJ spinning from on high, peering down at diners from a window on the second floor.

When we finally sat, I knew I’d be fine, because my bar was about to open, whew. The open bar includes Bloody Marys (which are actually pretty good), Mimosas, Champagne, Screw Drivers, and Raspberry, Mango and Peach Bellinis. Choosing a drink is difficult because the Mimosas come quickly, but watered down and flat from a pitcher, and the Bloody Marys come tangy and spicy, that is if they come at all. As a man who always chooses quality over quantity, I chose the Bloody Mary.

As I threw back my Marys [insert tasteless gay joke here], I decided to go for the unch side of brunch and got a sandwich. I ordered the grilled chicken sandwich with arugula, tomatoes and Dijon mustard. The peasant French roll my sandwich came on was good, and that’s where my compliments end. The chicken was bland and the whole thing was completely over-Dijoned. With a thick layer on both the top and the bottom, the horseradishy mustard had me feeling like every bite was either a glob of wasabi or red–stained gefilte fish. I, of course, should have sent it back, but the last thing that place needed was an ounce more drama, so I ate half and pretended like I was on some new diet about limiting my intake of yellow-colored food.

I must admit that I did have a visit to Intermezzo in the not-so-distant past when I had a great time. I remember looking down at my fourth empty Bloody Mary and saying something to the effect of “I love Intermezzo, it’s like clubbing and eating at the same time!” That it is. If you’re looking for a good meal or a friendly staff, then keep walking, but for those times when you’ve just got to glitter, slam open that door, bounce down that runway, and let your whole body talk.

Intermezzo
202 8th Avenue
New York, NY 10011
http://intermezzonyc.com/media/websiteintermezzo.html

I ♥ My Two Daddies

2009-04-08T10:50:00.007-04:00

For every gay, no matter how great their real parents are – I have a killer set myself, no complaints here – it just isn’t the same as some sage wisdom from the gays of yore (“yore,” of course, being anything before 1980). I’m lucky enough to have found myself a pair of such fabulous fruits to guide me through the trials and tribulations of husband hunting. These gentlemen started with the cornerstone of gay culture, the dinner party, teaching me how to perfect the gay equivalent to tailgating. After countless courses at countless meals, we’ve finally graduated to fine dining. Last night, the couple, two other friends, and I ventured a few blocks from the mediocre mile to 10th Avenue to dine at Cookshop.

Cookshop is one of an emerging new breed of restaurant that is not only green, but dedicated to local food as well. My mentors being fervent localvores, it’s no surprise Cookshop tops their list as one of the best meals in the city. I won’t go into the array of things that make Cookshop the Mother Teresa of 10th Ave, but suffice it to say that everything you touch was made out of recycled tires and grown on the roof. When I arrived, I was whisked off to the table to join the duo, who, it became quite clear, have been to Cookshop more times than they can count. Now, I have to stop here and note that my review can’t really be unbiased, because we all know that any VIPs don’t get normal service at a restaurant. However, since I plan on becoming a VIP myself as soon as the Glitter Gourmet goes national and I host my own show on Logo, I was more than happy to get used to the royal treatment.

Once we all got settled, we started our meal the way every good meal should start (especially breakfast at the office), with champagne. A common misconception among uncultured gays and straight people is that champagne is a dessert drink. With rare exception, it is the antithesis. Dry, light and effervescent, it is almost always a smart choice to begin a meal. (If you’re dead set on having some pop and fizz with your dessert, grab some Asti and pop away.) Anyway, back on track… so, I began my meal with a rabbit rillette (fighting the urge to go on second tangent in the same paragraph, I will simply say that I believe ugly animals suffer just as much as cute ones when you kill them, so I eat everything) okay, back to the rillette – similar to a pate, this dish has a similar texture to a whitefish spread and was served with the traditional pate accoutrement – toast points, whole-grain mustard and cornichon. Light, delightful, and perfect with the champagne, it was a great way to start a meal. I wouldn’t say a showstopper, but it put a smile on my face.

After a surprise perfectly-pan-seared sea scallop and a taste of some new white, we moved on to our entrees. Being the pious Jew that I am, I had pig. To be more specific, it was Vermont suckling pig “Porchetta” with refried black beans, sautéed spinach and grapefruit mojo (“mojo” is apparently the culinary term for slices). This dish was the showstopper for which I had braced myself. Deep fried for just a few minutes, the meat was tender and succulent and the skin was crispy, crackly, and crunchy – in a word, heaven. The beans and spinach were nice, and the grapefruit mojo actually did give a really great flavor to the meat. Through careful observation and a few swift moves from my fork, I can tell you that everyone else’s meals where great as well. Oh, also to note, we had a medium-bodied red from Alto-Adige, which went well with the pork.

The desserts at Cookshop were, like any good finale, whimsical. Most of the sweets are an haute interpretation on something traditional – donuts, a creamsicle sundae, candy bars, and chocolate pudding to name a few. I had the candy bars, which were devil’s food cake, gianduja (a type of chocolate containing hazelnut paste) crunch, praline ganache, frozen peanut nougat, and a chocolate shell. They were not only tasty, but also adorable. The bars came as a trio, each about two inches long on a little wooden stick. In another growing dessert trend, they were topped with a sprinkling of salt, which really enhanced the dish much more than I would have thought. With the exception of a somewhat lackluster chocolate pudding, all of the treats were a hit as we passed them around the table.

Just like a good dinner party, the food may have been outstanding, but the company made the meal. It may have been the VIP service, or the rounds of champagne, or the warmest Sunday since last summer, but Cookshop has me hooked. The next time you need a break of the high octane, low caliber cuisine of 8th Ave, make sure to head west for some of the best conscious-friendly fare in New York.

Cookshop
156 10th Avenue
New York, NY 10011
www.cookshopny.com
212.924.4440

Mediocre Mile: Lasagna

2009-03-11T16:14:00.001-04:00

Much like his ancestors, the Glitter Gourmet has immigrated to the land of Lady Liberty from a dark and oppressive place – Brooklyn. About a week ago I grabbed a tube of chapstick and my dance belt and moved to the glimmering Emerald City - Chelsea. Chelsea is known for many things – cute boys, expensive drinks, syphilis – but good food isn’t one of them. 8th avenue from 24th to 14th is known to be a veritable who’s who of faux-trendy restaurants severing up faux-haute-cuisine. However, in my new digs I will undoubtedly be spending plenty of quality time at these stops, so I’ve decided to start a new series to find the haves and the have-nots of what I loving call New York’s Mediocre Mile. I’m going on a search for the good, the bad, and the ugly of Chelsea restaurants. I’ll be doing the same for Chelsea men, but that’s a different blog…

My first venture out on the town as a resident of Chelsea was the aptly named Lasagna. Weary from hours of painting, with my equally paint-splattered parents in tow, we started trekking up 8th avenue in the antithesis of my usual high-gloss strut down 8th on a Saturday night. As I wasn’t feeling very pretty and was feeling very hungry, I suggested we checkout the hearty, down-to-earth Lasagna (a place guaranteed to have no “scene”). As we scoped the menu, a well-built, well-plucked, and extremely well-…mannered host came outside to sell us on Lasagna. As he rattled off the laundry list of meats they wrap in pasta and cheese, my mother mouths “he’s very handsome” to me. She says that now, but I’d like to see her face if I showed up for Rosh Hashana with a 22 year-old Latin restaurant host/actor/dancer, but I digress… The prices were reasonable and the typical America/Italian fare made my parents happy so we took a table for three.

As we walked by the staff of plastic pretty pansies, we sat down to find the only female waiter in the entire restaurant. When she asked what she could get us, I thought to myself, “a waiter with limp wrists, swooping side bangs, and an ass the just won’t quit,” but instead I said “tap water is fine.” After we placed our order, a basket of glistening garlic bread came swooping into our table. It smelled and looked like the fantastic stuff I grew up on in suburban Italian joints, but I decided to save my calories for a glass of Chianti ($6.95 – I asked if they had “to go” glasses).

While we waited I took note of the clientele, which wasn’t the typical tank-top-in-December Chelsea boys of G lounge, but by no means were the “you do know you’re in Chelsea, right?” crowd of Chipotle. It was a pretty eclectic mix of mostly gays that seemed to be a bunch of moderately attractive down-to-earth guys. I felt pretty comfortable with my parents, but would also head in for a gab session with some good friends.

The food came just in the nick of time, as I stared at the last few drops of my Chianti. My mom got a bowl of minestrone soup, which I wasn’t allowed to taste because she was sick and I might catch her cold, oy, but she said it was very good. My dad got his old standby, veal parmesan. This I was able to taste and, I must admit, although I could feel my arteries clog as I chewed, it was a really fantastic version of the dish – crisp chicken, moderately cheesy with a really flavorful marinara. With my meal, I did the impossible. I ate something healthy in an Italian restaurant. I got grilled rosemary chicken, which came on top of arugula with a side of whole wheat pasta and marinara sauce. It was the perfect fit to satisfy an Italian craving while maintaining a Chelsea waistline.

Lasagna
196 8th Ave.
(Corner of 20th St.)
New York, NY 10011
Tel: 212-242-4551
Fax: 212-242-4690
Lasagnarestaurant.com

Breaking and Entering – Getting Into Momofuku Ko

2009-02-25T11:09:00.008-05:00

Like many other gay men, I spent my childhood being told by my little league coaches that I have poor motor skills, later in life only to have men (often dressed like coaches) say that I’m fantastic with my hands. Well the proof is in the pudding, and when I got a reservation recently at the highly-coveted Momofuku Ko, I found out that I am, in fact, quite dexterous.

Momofuku Ko, which means “son of lucky peach,” is everything one looks for in the hottest new NYC restaurant – incredibly inventive food, famous new superstar chef, quirky rules that don’t quite make sense, and absolutely no way to get in. Ko is the upscale flagship in David Cheng’s growing Momofuku empire. The James Beard award-winning chef plays primarily with Asian-fusion food, has an affinity for small minimalist restaurants, and deplores all of the pomp and pretense surrounding traditional fine dining. Ko is no exception. The restaurant is one stark, long wooden bar with 12 stools (without backs), overlooking the kitchen. Ko’s chef’s cook your food and pass it right to you, explaining as they pass. Before we get into any more detail about the dining experience, first we need to find a way in…

In a world still full of racism, sexism, and homophobia, Ko has risen above. It knows no color, no race, no sexual orientation, Ko excludes all. In all seriousness, the nice thing about this system is that Momofuku Ko is tough regardless of who you know, how much money you make, or what movie you’ve been nominated for. The restaurant has a very strict and somewhat complicated online reservation system that allows guests a chance for reservations up to a week in advance. I’ve been lucky enough to eat at Ko twice now, so let me share some helpful hints to getting in.

First, you need to visit Ko’s website to create a profile here: https://reservations.momofuku.com/login.aspx?unit=1 (no, really, I’m not making this up). Once you’ve filled out your information, including your credit card, the dance can begin. Everyday at 10 a.m. Ko opens it’s website to accept reservations for lunch and dinner 6 days in advance. That is, if it is a Monday then you’ll be fighting for next Sunday. And a fight it will be. Without a doubt, by 10:01 a.m. all the reservations are gone and most likely, they’ll be gone in the first 30 seconds.

There is no secret backdoor or promotional code that I can give to ensure you’ll make it, but a few simple ways to increase your luck. First and foremost is persistence; it took me three weeks to schedule my first dinner. If you spend your day bound to your computer as I do, set a reminder everyday at 9:55 and take a moment to log in. When the moment comes, give the website your undivided attention, no one is so busy they can’t sit and hit refresh from 9:59 to 10 and then get back to work. Second, there is no room for decision making. You don’t ask your friends what nights they’re free; you find the night and see which friends are free. The same applies to the time of the reservation, any hesitation while you think and it’s too late. I know this all sounds crazy, but take it from someone who’s tried on countless occasions - when you see that green check (indicating an opening on a calendar grid) you click, end of story. It’s also worth noting that reservations come for 1, 2 or 4 in a drop down menu.

Once you're lucky enough to get through the system there is a whole process of e-mails and verifications and charges if you don’t show, but nothing that isn’t simple if you follow the (“quirky, don’t quite make sense”) rules. I won’t try to take you through the food or experience of dining and Ko other than to say it is unparalleled. The dishes were so complex and foreign, that I would assuredly butcher (pun intended) most ingredients, and I also don’t want to ruin the mystique.

Below are just some of the stats and facts about dining at Ko as well as a few of the superstar dishes you may get to sample.

Dinner is 10 courses for $100 dollars with an optional wine pairing and lasts about 2 hours.

Lunch is 18 courses for $160 dollars with an optional wine pairing and lasts about 3 hours.

Showstoppers:
Lychees, Riesling gelée, and pine nut brittle, topped with a powdered frozen fois gras terrine

Duck tongue confit atop a rice cake

Daikon soup with sautéed mustard greens, lamb belly and fried lotus bulb chips

Momofuku Ko
163 First Ave., NYC 10003
Btwn 10th & 11th
http://www.momofuku.com/ko/

The Best Little Rib House in Texas

2009-02-23T22:46:00.015-05:00

I’ve decided to kick off the Glitter Gourmet with one of the most surreal and unexpected gay dining experiences in New York City, a brand new restaurant called Marfa. Named for a town in “the high desert of far West Texas,” this place had “tar & feather” written all over it. This past Valentine’s Day my fabulously single (read: bitter and jaded) friends and I decided to toast our freedom somewhere with virtually no chance of seeing the love that dare not speak its name and thought the pulled pork and finger-lickin’ ribs of Marfa would fit the bill.

After a few vodka-sodas and some champagne (we needed a little fabulousity and a lot of booze to get us in the door), we bounced into Marfa around 9:30. Seeing the dingy concrete walls and eclectic clientele, we knew we were in the right place and moseyed up to the bar to wait for our table. After skimming the drink options, we figured “when in Rome…” and ordered some Marfa Specials. I hate to admit this publicly, but a Marfa Special is a shot of tequila with a PBR for $6. After the shot and the beer, I was able to convince myself I was in some fab homo country-western bar and began to enjoy myself. And then we saw it, at the other end of the bar - intertwined legs, fitted t’s, True Religion jeans….it was a happy gay couple. I would have turned on my heels and ran, if I hadn’t been so bloated from drinking beer.

Luckily, just before we started throwing our chewed up limes at the couple, our table was ready. We wasted no time and ordered a big fat platter of big fat “I eat my emotions” food including things like chipotle chicken wings, mini corn dogs, barbecue shrimp, macaroni and cheese, and chicken pot pie. However, when our spunky waitress came back to take our entrée order, there was still no platter. She sized up our table with one long glance, smirked and knew exactly what would turn our frowns upside down – free round of drinks. Within minutes, we were happily sipping our new cocktails, still foodless. This time we needed something in a martini glass, so we opted for the Marfarita, which is essentially a margarita with just enough chili to make your lips tingle. Unlike my Premier Cru PBR, the Marfarita was fantastic, inventive, strong, and well, free.

The moment of truth had arrived and we got a platter. The mini corn dogs were to die for (we’re not size queens), the chipotle chicken wings were crispy, tangy and just spicy enough and the macaroni and cheese was one of the best I’ve had in a long time. It was cheesy, but not heavy with a crunchy breadcrumb crust. Now, you’ll note that a few things were missing from that list – bbq shrimp and a chicken pot pie. I caught the eye of our forlorn waitress and we had another free round before I got through my weak attempted at a complaint. As the service got worse, our night got better and better.

Eventually our entrees arrived and I was faced with dry rubbed baby back ribs with coleslaw and more mac and cheese (it was that good, and the baked bean option wasn’t happening). While I do prefer my ribs, like my men – wet, these ribs were delicious and somehow seemed healthier because they weren’t dripping in sauce. They were moist, flavorful and, yes, they had the quintessential “fall off the bone” texture.

Finally full, drunk, and happy, I thought our night couldn’t get better when a drag queen/tranny fluttered by. After a quick double-take we found out that these ladies often flow through from the transgender bar, Lucky Cheng’s, which is right upstairs. I knew this place wasn’t as straight as it seemed! Feeling a little ballsy partly from the Marfarita, partly from the tranny, I marched up to the bar to “get some change” and as I’m waiting, I look over that the love birds and blurt out “my friends and I hate you.” As I waited to get my ass kicked, they just laughed and started chatting with me – fuck, they were cute, happy, AND nice. As I sat back down with my swallowed pride and my 10, 5, and five 1’s, the happy couple walked over to our table with a tray of shots for all of us.

As I downed my red-headed slut (never thought I would say those words), I inexplicably lost my animosity, bitterness, and sass. I looked up at those guys, was genuinely happy for them, and ready to tackle another gay bar for another shot at finding love. Of course, I didn’t find “the one” that night, I didn’t even find “the one night stand,” but after a night of great food and good company, it was a pretty great Valentine’s Day. The culinary moral to this story is that every restaurant has its issues (especially in its first few days), but if you make sure your patrons are having fun, you can get away with murder. I walked away from Marfa with a smile on my face and I will definitely walk back in.

Marfa
101 E 2nd St
New York, NY 10009-7943
(212) 673-8908