Posts from the ‘Brooklyn’ Category

Jul 29

Peppa’s Jerk Chicken

It doesn't seem right, but I don't think I've ever had jerk chicken. Real, fake, or anything in between. So, to become acquainted I thought I should start at the top. I really need to dig into that strip of Flatbush Ave. with West Indian everything. Bakes, doubles, roti, I don't know that food well and it's not because I don't want to (I love how doubles is singular like a McGriddles). I'd read about both Danny Express and Peppa's, which are a block apart and used to be one restaurant Danny and Pepper (food feuds seem rampant in NYC). I didn't have the appetite to try both, so I'll have to return for Danny (and the fascinating De Bamboo Express across the street. I thought Chino-Cuban and Indian-Chinese were it, but Trini-Chinese is crazy–they have freaking jerk lo mein on the menu. I'm also curious what "provisions soup" is).

I wasn't sure how to order, as there were maybe five different prices listed for the jerk chicken. James said large, which I think was the $10 choice. I do know that the total bill was $12 and we had two ginger beers and I'm guessing the sodas were closer to $1 apiece than $2, though I could be wrong and we ordered the $8 portion of poultry. You get a round aluminum take out container filled with rice and beans topped with hacked up chicken and a little salad wedged into the corner. Before they pack it up (it's a bare bones take out joint with a counter and no seats) you can sauce your bird. They offer bbq sauce, which is odd and the scotch bonnet sauce, which makes more sense.

I think James went a little wild with the hot sauce, so it's hard to offer a true flavor profile of the meat. Obviously, there was an overwhelming spicy hit at first, but underneath a sweet, peppery woody taste emerged. I'm not sure what I had expected, but the chicken was far tastier than I'd anticipated. We definitely could've eaten more than we ordered. Initially, it looked like too much to eat, but that was because the rice and beans take up the bulk of the container. Normally, I'm pretty so-so on rice and beans but these were particularly appealing with a thick and smooth mouth texture. All I can guess is that there must've been lard or animal fat of some kind in them.

I was recently in a meeting at work and we were discussing our potential client, a chain restaurant that was failing with their Caribbean food concept and I don't have much hope for this pitch because everyone was clueless and asking what Caribbean food is and someone said jambalaya, which is retarded and then another said jerk, which prompted another to wrinkle up her nose and make a disgusted face. And all I could think was why am I in a room with these people (I've had this thought countless times before)? There's no way that someone who had eaten Peppa's jerk chicken would be able to scowl like that.

Peppa's Jerk Chicken * 738 Flatbush Avenue, Brooklyn

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Jul 24

Slurpees Aren’t Even the Half of It

Since there aren’t many 7-Elevens around the city (no, I never got into that brief urban nostalgia craze when they started opening in Manhattan last year), I forget how crazy and full of amazing innovations they are. When I lived in Sunset Park for a few years, I had an On the Run, complete with a small parking lot (atypical for Brooklyn) on the next block. It met the minimal requirements for a convenience store, but they didn’t get too wild with the products (except for the Green Mountain blueberry and pumpkin flavored coffees advertised in the gas station).

I popped in the Bay Ridge 7-Eleven this weekend after a patience trying, but ultimately fruitful Century 21 visit (I’ve really been wanting these green sandals with a cork heel, (they're not jade like in the photo but true color crayon green) but $79 seemed completely overpriced. $59 at Century 21 was still more than I thought was fair, but then I remembered that I had a little birthday pocket cash and all was good). It was a bonanza of bizarre edible inventions. I wish I’d had my camera with me because, duh, a picture is worth a thousand words (and my words aren’t even that worthy). If berry and squash coffees were disturbing, 7-Eleven goes one further with a whole machine devoted to making key lime cappuccino. How did that flavor combo even cross someone’s mind?

Despite not even drinking soda, I was very impressed with their beverage station that was promoting a “flavor blast” concept. You could push a button and choose a squirt of additional flavor like cherry, vanilla or lemon to pep up your Coke, Sierra Mist, whatever. I think vanilla root beer would be nice. It reminded me of how at Farrell’s (I don’t think there are many left in the world) you used to be able to order vanilla, cherry or chocolate cokes that had syrup mixed in.

I did purchase a Cadbury Crème Egg ice cream, if you can imagine. The actual icy confection on a cone doesn’t really resemble the illustration on the wrapper, but my photo didn’t turn out (I’m lame and can’t figure out how to make the object in the foreground in focus rather than the other way around). The top portion is kind of small, smaller than a Drumstick. And there really is a yellow fondant fake yolk in the middle of the vanilla ice cream. It was kind of creepy and incredibly sugary and I loved it.

The P'EatZZa Sandwich is "a marriage made only in 7-Eleven heaven." Well, they said it. I’m more fascinated by the spelling and pronunciation (Puh-Eat-Zuh) of the damn thing than the actual item itself.

There’s nothing novel about selling two-packs of hard boiled eggs, but sometimes simplicity gets you too.

7-Eleven * 301 65th St., Brooklyn, NY

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Jul 19

Cube 63

It recently occurred to me that I never ever eat sushi for dinner. Yeah, I pick up deli (technically Sushi-Tei [they advertise this link, but this particular restaurant is nowhere to be seen on the website] which is no Café Zaiya or Yagura. I’m still mourning both after six months in my not-so-new-anymore job neighborhood) sushi a couple times a week for lunch, but that’s not like real. I know, purists get all grossed out by fast food sushi, but those midtown you pick, they toss, salads make me want to hurl. And fast food sushi is cheaper than a lot of midtown mediocrity.

I picked neighborhood Cube 63 for no reason in particular. I think Osaka is the local higher end fave and clearly Hana Sushi is just plain popular. While Cube 63 was nearly empty around 7:30 on a Saturday, Hana, one block over was stuffed to the gills. I would say that those diners must’ve known something we didn’t if it weren’t for the fact that I don’t trust the judgment of most people in Cobble Hill.

We were fairly restrained in ordering. I picked spicy tuna rolls, spider rolls and yellowtail sushi. James asked for scallop sashimi and the 63 roll (spicy tuna, avocado, lobster salad). Yeah, a bit tuna heavy. All in all it was an acceptable dinner, but there was something flat and perfunctory about the experience. Of course it was more enjoyable than deli sushi, which isn’t saying much.

Cube 63 * Court St., Brooklyn, NY

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Jul 18

Nana

There’s nothing worse than a tipsy, starving, angry meal. Thankfully, I don’t have these too often. The routine goes like this: I’m supposed to go out to dinner, usually on a Saturday night. My dining companion is anticipated to get home around 9pm, possibly earlier (it was their suggestion to go out for dinner since they’d be spending the day with their mother, which was an unexpected weekend imposition). Said companion doesn’t call and time starts ticking. I get bored and have a glass of wine, which turns into two and then I hem and haw over whether or not to just eat something because I’m getting cranky. By 11pm, the supposed dining companion shows up, I’m pissed (in both senses of the word) and my original restaurant choices are closed or closing. Brooklyn is lame that way. All the city does is sleep.

I’m not fond of Gravy, but it came to mind as being open later. If I was going that direction, newer Trout, right next door, would’ve made more sense, but it was too hot to sit outside and I didn’t want total junk food. Well, Gravy’s menu had been pared down since my last visit and was essentially serving burgers and boring sandwiches. I could’ve dealt if we weren’t left waiting for our order to be taken for a good 15 minutes despite a near empty restaurant (the outdoor tables were all occupied, but there are only like four of them). Normally, I’m overly polite about bad service or being ignored. But not when I’m starving, tipsy and angry. After asking for someone to take our order to no avail, we left. And by this point I was even more hungry and angry (though less tipsy).

We headed over to Park Slope since we were going to check out that new bar Union Hall (charming space, hideous crowd. I just don’t think I can go out anymore. Williamsburg is all annoyingly young and looks obsessed, but the rest of gentrified Brooklyn might be even worse. The crowds are also heavily under-30 but they’re all polo shirted and khakied and travel in packs. I mean, the guys. The girls are so nondescript I can’t even recreate their look in my mind). Nana had 20 minutes left before their midnight closing. I hate, hate, hate eating in restaurants that are about to shutter for the evening, but by this point I was desperate and there was still a party lingering in the back garden so I felt like the heat was off of me a bit.

Nana is Asian mish mash/sushi bar style, you know, like chopsticks for everything, a DJ booth and cocktails with lychee in them. Not my typical first choice, but hardly horrible either and the prices were fair. We went with the fusion and sampled roti canai (Malaysian), prik khing shrimp (Thai), and sweet and sour duck (Chinese-y). It’s doubtful that I’ll go back any time soon, but Nana served its purpose in trying to patch up a doomed dinner.

Nana * 115 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Jun 10

Little Bistro

*LB has been replaced by a not-so-promising looking place called Vivir. (1/06)

Famous last words, "it had better not be one of those barbecue sauce restaurants." Oh, but it was. It's starting to get strange, the Bococa (oh yes, I did) affinity for barbecue sauce. (Or possibly more accurately, James's penchant for ordering items drenched in it.)Realistically, the incidents over the past few years have been few and far between, all things considered, but they tend to stand out because they occurred when we first moved into the neighborhood and were figuring out the dining scene. We had bbq sauce trauma at Pier 116 and Village 247, both addresses-in-the-names joints have since faded away. Perhaps rampant bbq saucing is the mark of a restaurant in demise.

I wish I could remember the exact name and description of our appetizer. It was something along the lines of barbecued shrimp summer rolls. I'll admit, barbecue is right in there, but we assumed by context this meant grilled. Wouldn't that make more sense? But no, the Vietnamese style rolls came with a little patch of mache, a pool of creamed corn…and drizzles of barbecue sauce. Good lord. After that, there would be no way to convince James to ever give another Cobble Hill restaurant a chance.

That rough patch was only exacerbated by the excruciating amount of time it took to present our entrees. I'm not one to fuss, but it probably would've irritated an average diner. And it wasn't matter of things being backed up, they clearly messed up our order. We were nearly neck and neck with the table next to us and they received, ate and finished their main dishes before we even saw ours. I suspect there was a problem with the veal special. We're opposite, James often goes for the special and I avoid them.

I was mildly amused that when the panko crusted veal finally arrived it was served with "Japanese Worcestershire sauce," which is like one step away from sweet barbecue sauce. one might imagine would be sweet. It wasn't James's night.

To be fair, I quite liked my entrée, which was a plate of sliced duck, massaman curry sauce, two moo shu duck style pancakes, and two sweet potato fritters. A small pile of baby vegetables in the middle consisted of carrots, pattypan squash and green and wax beans.

It's easy to asses the neighborhood's vibe and restaurant's clientele, from the caveats the waiter gave with practically all orders. "The duck is cooked medium, so it's a little pink in the middle. Is that ok?" Yes, that's fine. The shrimp rolls, "That comes with coleslaw, is that alright?" Ok, not a problem. Both female components of the couples who sat on my right (yes, two seatings occurred during our unintended lengthy meal) ordered the salmon with "Japanese spiced cream sauce," and both asked, "Is it spicy?" The waiter robotically replied, "We can put the sauce on the side." South Brooklyn is infested with fussiness.

Little Bistro * 158 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

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May 20

Schnack

1/2 I go to Schnack more than I mention, maybe once every other month, but I never bother saying so because I almost always eat the same thing and nothing noteworthy ever happens. That's not a bad thing, that's consistency. Fries, cubano and a pint of Schwag are my usual M.O.

My latest visit was a balancing act. After an earlier Room 4 Dessert venture, we had to counter the sweetness and sophistication with something "grubbing," so to speak (I hate that adjective, but it's fitting in this case). There are only so many late night options that fit that criteria in the neighborhood.

This was the first time I'd ever tried the schnackies, and I'm glad I did. They're heartier and saucier than typical sliders, which I suspected and ordered three rather than the four I might have at White Castle.

The weird thing about my last two Schnack experiences has been the cheese fries. The last time we ordered them we ended up with chili cheese fries. I'm not a chili lover, but it was ok and it wasn't a big enough transgression to ask for a re-do. This time we also asked for cheese fries and got regular fries, which we did get rectified. It's feast or famine with the damn fries.

Schnack * 122 Union St., Brooklyn, NY

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May 18

Blue Ribbon Brooklyn

I hate off-kilter weeknights. There are these occasional weird mid-week dining excursions where I simply want to have a satisfying meal and unwind, yet little unimportant things start thwarting my fun and my sanity comes into question. Is this how nervous breakdowns (whatever that means, exactly) begin?

This same evening, I spent almost my entire subway ride home from work feeling like my chest was being squeezed, and I couldn't breathe or swallow. I'm convinced that I'm on the verge of a stroke, or more likely, a nice panic disorder that seems to have set in with age.

Even though we only had to wait at the bar for about five minutes, there was still aggravation with where to stand when you're the only one not seated. Since everyone is sitting except for you, it feels like you're hovering even when positioned a good foot behind someone's stool. I also have this issue when for some bizarre reason, I'm the first person who has to stand on the subway (this really only happens on the end of the G in Queens when the train sits and waits for like five minutes) Like I said, I wonder if these non-problems are the first steps towards mania. Standing dilemmas really shouldn't make you jumpy.

On the opposite end of the potential problem spectrum, we got a nice spacious, squishy corner booth in the back. None of that squeezing you ass through the three-inch clearance between table rows. We decided on salt and pepper shrimp as an appetizer. I'd finished about 80% of my pricey gin and tonic (that's one thing I'd forgotten about Blue Ribbon–the drinks seem a buck or two higher than need be) by the time the waiter came over. I don't know what happened but my hand totally smacked the glass over and the clear liquid ran down the table, onto James and completely soaked the red velvety fabric we were sitting on. I had no one to be annoyed with except myself, and yet I was still annoyed. I was hoping my duck club sandwich with sweet potato chips would set the course back on track. Meanwhile, I picked up the spilled vessel and put it far from my spastic reach.

When our waiter came back with my sandwich and James's spicy steak (that's what they called it, I think it was their way of saying steak au poivre), he managed to re-knock over my glass onto the floor and underneath the table of the two loudly inebriated young women seated next to us (I couldn't figure out why you'd go to Blue Ribbon for cocktails, because like I said they're not cheap, and these girls seemed mildly on the prowl and it was only families and couples as far as the eye could see. If I was their age, I would be drinking at a proper bar. I would've continued our evening next door at Great Lakes, but James is no Thursday night boozehound and put the kibosh on my plan). I was like what the fuck is going on. And everyone looked at me like it was my fault–or is that just the paranoia of a mentally ill mind in the making?

I half-heartedly slogged through my food since the spirit of the meal had been crushed. I did amuse myself by ordering a Hefeweizen, which comes in one of those tall, skinny, top-heavy beer glasses. Talk about precarious. But that's me, living on the edge.

Blue Ribbon * 280 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Image borrowed from The Small Object

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May 6

Pacifico

1/2 There are moments made for mish mash. And those moments tend to involve alcohol impaired judgment. Pacifico, it turns out, is great for what it is: drunk food. Unfortunately, it almost became puke food after swilling mint juleps and bourbon slushes for five hours straight. Despite the burgoo and derby pie consumed earlier, I still needed a little padding of the stomach lining.

Beer and a carnitas quesadilla did more harm than good. The cheese and grease backfired and I was only able to eat one of my four stuffed tortilla wedges. It wasn't half bad, I just wasn't primed for eating. But I was happy the next day to have hefty leftovers as hangover food.

Pacifico * 269 Pacific St., Brooklyn, NY

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Apr 20

The Good Fork

I didn't go in expecting my socks to get knocked off–I just wanted to try a new nearby restaurant, hype, be damned–and well, my socks are still on. Not to say there was anything amiss with my food. I wanted it to be more distinctive. I think a lot of the appeal of places like The Good Fork stems from the quirk and trek factor. The same attention probably wouldn't be paid to a similar eatery in say, the West Village.

I started with a glass of Malbec and a salad of bitter greens, cubed beets and an apple-potato latke type wedge, topped with goat cheese. These are the types of salads I enjoy, yet never make at home because there are too many components for my weeknight patience. Then I moved on to the roast chicken, which I know is usually the most boring thing on the menu, but I'd been eating pork all week thanks to Easter leftovers, and it was so hot out I didn't feel I should eat go too meaty.

The mashed potatoes seemed awfully sweet, and now I realize they were pureed with parsnips. Very nice with the carmelized, braised leeks. The black bean sauce was a touch salty, but it did punch up a potentially bland dish. The chicken was chicken, despite being from Cloonshee Farms. I'm sure if you put a plainly prepared Tyson drumstick and a free range hormone-less leg in front of me, I'd be able to detect a difference in flavor, but frequently fresh, organic meat is lost on me.

Surprisingly, we were seated promptly at 8pm. I got a little nervous when asked if we had reservations. The thought had crossed my mind, but I didn't call ahead out of principle–um, which principle, I'm not sure. Maybe the neighborhood joint principle. The staff seemed a little frenzied, though everyone was pleasant and accommodating. There was a slight insidery vibe, which is only to say that the host (owner?) seemed to know everyone. Maybe I'm just jealous because I'm not a regular even at places I go regularly.

$74 was a touch more than I'd typically spend on a Thursday night dinner for two, and I don't mean that in a Brooklyn should be cheaper than Manhattan way. People get up in arms if you complain about prices in the outer boroughs. I'm just thrifty. I wouldn't say The Good Fork is a prime destination spot (at least not yet–hasn't Red Hook been on the verge for the last decade? Who knows Fairway and Ikea will bring to the mix) but it is a nice option if you live in the general environs and are sick of the Smith St. offerings.

The Good Fork 391 Van Brunt St., Brooklyn, NY

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Apr 7

Lazy Catfish

There's a bizarre scene lurking in Williamsburg, and it involves Asians slinging southern food for hipsters. Well, primarily neighborhood residents, but the back room, where a friend threw a party, was also serving as a celebratory space for two other groups, both Asian (I don't know which ethnicity, though I'm leaning towards Chinese).

While service was sweet when we could flag it down, it was scattershot, to say the least. Menus were tough to get a hold of, we ultimately wrote down our orders on a piece of notebook paper to aid the lone waitress (I thought that was odd and it totally wasn't my idea) and the food arrived in starts and fits.

Actually, I was the one who started throwing a fit. It's unwise to drink excessively on an empty stomach, but I wasn't slamming beers by any means. The fact that I was on my third drink and still food-less was a testament to their pace rather than mine. What would be the odds that out of 13 people, I'd be the 13th served? (At last Christmas's gift exchange I also drew 13 out of 13 numbers–so I think I'm just lucky.)

By the time my simple bbq chicken with marshmallow topped yams and mini corn on the cob appeared, half the table was already finished eating and I was sloshed and disgruntled. Fortunately, they happened to have one of my favorite foods in the world on the menu, cheese wontons, a.k.a. crab rangoon! Awesome, yet not quite awesome enough to salvage the meal.

The food was really neither here nor there. It wasn't wretched, but reminded me of what you'd probably get in Hong Kong. Not that I experienced that first hand–I steered clear of anything Southern or Mexican when on vacation. They do have a Tony Roma's in HK (which I realize isn't quite Southern, but it's ribby, saucy and American).

I did perk up a bit when the karaoke kicked in, alas; it was time to move on to a new venue. They did give out free cake and a cocktail for the birthday girl, nice touches, but all in all it was a bit of a freak show. That's why I don't attempt large birthday dinners.

Lazy Catfish * 593 Lorimer St., Brooklyn, NY

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Posts from the ‘Brooklyn’ Category

Peppa’s Jerk Chicken

Slurpees Aren’t Even the Half of It

Cube 63

Nana

Little Bistro

Schnack

Blue Ribbon Brooklyn

Pacifico

The Good Fork

Lazy Catfish

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