Posts from the ‘Williamsburg’ Category

Dec 24

El Almacén

3/4 I’m not crazy about dining in my own neighborhood because the food is overwhelmingly mediocre. I’m not crazy about dining in Williamsburg because the service is always comically aloof. But sometimes I have to make allowances and lower expectations because I’m either too lazy to leave Carroll Gardens or I’m visiting friends who seem to live disproportionately in North Brooklyn.

Due to the snowstorm, I was trying to come up with someplace no more than a block or two from my friend’s apartment where she was throwing a party Saturday night. I am lame in snow and ice and wanted to lessen chances for potentially falling on my head. I didn’t actually think I’d find anyplace worthy that close to Driggs and Sixth until I remembered brand new El Almacén, which I had genuine interest in.

I found a warm room adorned with cast iron skillets and antique seltzer bottles (I’m still not sure why seltzer is an Argentine obsession but it’s one shared by me. Sunday, I found Bariloche, a product of Argentina at Wegmans and snatched up four plastic containers) that while small, wasn’t cramped, and even had a few empty tables. No ridiculous wait time necessary. Rare for a Saturday night and I blame it on the holidays compounded by bad weather.

Of course being 11231 there was minor weirdness with getting any acknowledgment or eye contact after walking in the door. After a baffling minimum full minute (hey, 60 seconds feels like a long time when you’re actively trying to engage numerous individuals to no avail) we just sat ourselves. No sense in getting annoyed over something that’s no surprise. (I dined at an NJ Cheesecake Factory the following night and you couldn’t get more freakishly chummy, attentive service, duh, it was the Cheesecake Factory. My point being that you’re crazy to not know what you’re getting into wherever it is you choose to eat.)

I was curious about an Argentine restaurant that wasn’t all steak and pasta because that’s really all we have in NYC and well, that kind of dominates in Buenos Aires too. It turns out that the menu is rife with classics: parrillada, choripan, milanesa and empanadas, but the overall feeling is Argentine-inspired with a pan-Latin influence. The first tip off is the use of salsas and spicy sauces. Argentines are notoriously heat-averse and I don’t know if it’s an urban myth but I had heard that they don’t even put pepper on the table and now that I think about it peppermills might’ve been absent during my Buenos Aires trip this spring. Argentine touches show up in things like mate-infused sauces and chimmichurri mayonnaise, but many ingredients hail from other parts of South America. And for the most part the hodgepodge works.

Fried cubes of Manchego are much more pungent than a mozzarella stick, and considerably lighter despite being battered. The tomato sauce played off of Argentina's Italian influence, though as I noted earlier, it was spicier than a typical marinara or anything you would traditionally find in Buenos Aires. These went way too fast.

The weather called for hearty. I’ll save ceviche and salads for a warmer time of year. Short ribs are the ultimate snowstorm food. I’m not sure that I detected any purported mate flavor but the beef was wonderfully rich without being too fatty. The tender meat sat atop thick slices of boniato, perhaps a touch too mealy and dense but that’s just nitpicking. The sauce looks wilder in the photo than I realized at the time. Interestingly, they call these costilla de res but I found out the hard way in Buenos Aires that costillas aren't ribs like in NYC but massive pork chops.

There’s was nothing Argentinean about lechon with black beans and salsa. I stayed away from this because I feared the pork would be dried out. For some reason, moderately priced restaurants tend to ruin pork. You expect a Dominican hole in the wall to get it right, same with a dish that costs $28; it’s the in-between I worry about. It wasn’t tough or stringy at all, and I kept wanting to pick at the dish even though it wasn’t mine.

Fiambres (salumi) and quesos headline the menu and would be a great accompaniment to a glass of Malbec or Torrontes. But as it stands, there is no liquor being served and I hesitate to say it’s BYOB either. I don’t know the laws in NYC but I was always under the impression that if a restaurant didn’t have a liquor license it was ok to bring your own. I brought a bottle just to be safe (also because I’m a cheap lush, and yes, I'm drinking rosé in December–pink wine in winter will be all the rage for 2009), left it in the car and asked if it was ok before toting it in. They didn’t seem to have a problem with this, others were doing the same, but alluded that the practice was illicit and kept the bottle hidden behind the bar and served the wine in coffee cups. It certainly lent a speakeasy flair (so à la minute) that I could go along with but I’d never encountered a similar situation before.

I don’t say this very often but El Almacén is the type of place that I wouldn’t mind having in my neighborhood, especially on a weeknight when I’m stuck for a satisfying meal that’s a notch above takeout. I would take creative Latin over the so-so Italian, sushi and Thai that plagues so many pockets of the city, any day.

El Almacén * 557 Driggs Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Mar 26

Huckleberry Bar

After years on hiatus, the joint birthday celebration was re-established. James the boyfriend and Jane the friend are both March 22ers (so was my sister’s ex-husband, which has nothing to do with anything). Since the date fell on a Saturday this year, there was no shoving it under the rug. Newish Huckleberry Bar seemed appropriately classy and we early-birded it at 5pm, mostly to take over the seating in the back before prime time but also out of senior citizen spirit.

For obvious reasons, birthdays have a way of bringing out aging insecurities and fixations. I always thought things like lying about your age and plastic surgery were bougie crutches. But I’m seeing the folly of youth, you can’t say what will happen until it does (I’m seriously down on medical procedures, though).

Jessica mentioned setting her age to 31 on Nerve, hardly young enough to raise suspicion. I totally understand how there’s a psychological dating threshold with men; once you hit 34 you become repellent no matter how great you look. Then James, who’s never shown any concern about these girly matters, agreed that shaving off five years sounded wise. From now on he’s claming to be 33. I haven’t decided if I’ll feign 31 come July.

Guests of honor

Specialty cocktails were the first order of business (the second and third was two-for-one happy hour red wine. I may be old but I’m still not at a point in life where I’m willy-nilly with the $10+ beverages). I was sold on the Montresor containing Maker’s Mark, Lustau Amontillado Sherry and a splash of orange juice. Does that make it kind of Spanish? The emphasis was on the sherry, very forward and kind of nutty.

Not my drinks. Article 57 (citrus infused vodka, ginger juice and Q Tonic—I had to look that one up, it’s one of those fancy tonic waters that seemed to storm the scene last year) and the Tina Modotti (Herradura silver tequila, Del Maguey mezcal, spiced pear syrup and chili salt).

Then came the food. We ordered a little bit of everything to share but about fifteen guests had amassed by this point so I snapped quickly and sampled sparingly. I think I had a taste of everything except the sandwiches because individuals ordered those and I’m off bread at the moment.

Boiled peanuts were a gratis snack. I guess the mushiness in an acquired taste. I’m not opposed to them because I generally hate the dull dryness of peanuts.

Gin-pickled beet salad with Stilton and pecans

I could’ve eaten the whole cheese plate myself but that wouldn’t be polite. I’m positive that Humboldt Fog is in the center and that the upper left is Shropshire Blue. I’m not entirely sure which ones are Petit Frere, La Serena and Beemster Classic, but I should find out because I loved the semi-soft one in the bottom left corner. I want to say that it was nutty but I already used that word once in this post. It really was nutty, though, like a creamier gruyere.

I didn’t try all of these so I can’t say much about the charcuterie except for what’s on display: Baby Jesus (I did not previously know that was a Lyonnais sausage but I’d just seen it a few hours earlier at Stinky Brklyn so it stuck in my head), Bresaola, prosciutto Biellese, pancetta and cacciatorini.

I would never order hardboiled eggs but I must admit they were incredibly tasty drinking food. I preferred the mayonnaise spiked with grainy mustard. We also had two with hot sauce and another duo with a mystery pickle that was kind of like sauerkraut.

Candied pecans, simple and sweet

I consciously avoid people photos (posting, not so much taking them) because it’s too MySpacey self-indulgent (as if blogging about yourself isn’t) for my taste. I don’t have anything to prove and fun still happens even if it isn’t documented in pictures. But I must include this shot because I accidentally captured the interloper in the corner.

Ok, and I’ll include a picture of myself because I rarely do.

This bald, turtlenecked gentleman set up shop at the couches across from us, pulled out a notebook and periodically stared without expression for what felt like hours. I was convinced he was bitter, seething and plotting our demises (or maybe I was projecting because I hate being out and about when an obnoxious party takes over, but he chose to sit nearby in a half-empty room). Eventually, he got squeezed out and no one got hurt.

We eventually dispersed, ourselves. The problem with early-birding is that if you don’t turn in early enough, it translates into a surprisingly long night of drinking. I certainly felt elderly on Easter Sunday. Even though I called it quits by 2am (and ended up at a Kennedy Fried Chicken) it was still nine hours of non-stop imbibing. The Montresor, a couple glasses of red wine, a few Manhattans, then onto gin and tonics at Bushwick Country Club a few doors down. Never mind the irony of the bar’s name, it’s not even in Bushwick.

But they do have cheap drinks and a photo booth. Despite what I just said about hating people photos, I do have a soft spot for these self-serve machines. In my intoxication, I became hell bent on celebrating rat-ness with my fellow born-in-1972s. But no matter how hard we tried, it was impossible to squeeze three heads prettily into the frame.

Huckleberry Bar * 588 Grand St., Brooklyn, NY

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Jul 13

Dressler

M.Y.O.B. shouldn’t be an acronym flitting through your mind while dining. I was off put and on edge during nearly my entire meal at Dressler and it had nothing to do with the food or service.

Sometimes context is everything. Dressler is the second venture in my recent mission to try brand new and no longer new but avoided-by-me restaurants. Momofuku Ssam has yet to be braved. The modly ornate room (I did appreciate the streamlined metalwork chandeliers and backlit curlicues) was only about a third full at 9pm on a Saturday. Hardly jumping. Maybe that’s why being seated one foot from two human irritants felt more pronounced.

If you think I’m about to embark on an anti-hipster tirade, you would be wrong. Sure, that ilk can be a nuisance but they’re too self-absorbed to concern themselves with others in the manner of the unpleasant middle aged New Jersey couple (or Brooklyn Brooklyn or Staten Island. I can’t tell my regional accents apart—or certain ethnicities. This implies deep idiocy on my part but I find a lot of crossover between vaguely suburban Italians and Jews. Think of the Costanzas. These two could’ve been either) I was saddled with. The male half wouldn’t stop staring at us and the definitely-not-his-better half couldn’t stop commenting on everyone around us, particularly the couple on our other side with a similarly strong accent. The second we sat down my mood started darkening.

I’ve always attributed staring and speaking disparagingly of other diners as a French trait (it’s happened more times than you’d ever imagine). Who else would have the audacity to pen a book about why they don’t get fat. Keep ze eyes on ze own plate, n’est pas?

They clearly weren’t thrilled to have me squeezing my ass past their nearly touching table (and I made quite a point of scrutinizing the female’s derriere when she uncomfortably squeaked through the same narrow space when leaving). But the woman really couldn’t contain her horror when the easy going forty-something couple on my left began splitting three desserts. In between the not-so-stifled grumbling I made out, “she needs to work out.” The dessert-and-a-half eater was tall and large but definitely not fat.

My blood start boiling. It’s creepy to see grown women who so clearly deprive themselves on daily basis (and no one cares) to look “good” i.e. skinny, haggard and old (taking butterface to a new level) get obviously unraveled at a female of a similar age having fun with no thought to their figure.

I’d had a few drinks before arriving, started off with a mint julep-esque Coal Miner’s Daughter (Old Grand Dad Bourbon, mint, lemon), and consequently wasn’t doing a good job of hiding my own disgust. I really don’t like confrontation, and James hates it more than anything, we’re a great passive couple. But it was all I could do to keep from asking the petty clientele to please shut the fuck up.

James and I both ended up ordering uncharacteristically. Heirloom tomatoes with tapanade? So not him. I never ever order greenmarket porno dishes like the halibut with fava beans, sugar snap peas and asparagus. Light, girly, a bit too springy for July. Even my glass of Gruner Veltliner felt strange—I tend to drink darker, heavier wines. Subconsciously, I was scared of the wrath on my right side if I’d ordered the fresh bacon like I normally might. That’s how distracted I was by our gauche neighbors.

My rich smoked salmon and crème fraiche salad did remedy things a bit. Our shared peanut brittle ice cream, chocolate cake mélange was straight desserty. I needed something soothing (I also had a glass of sherry) and it wasn’t the evening for black pepper ice cream or rhubarb rose soup. Thankfully, the too concerned twosome had left by this point so there was no need to avoid evil eyes and barely audible chiding.

I left feeling like something was amiss. The food was solid but when I dine at this price I want that intangible extra. There must be a reason why Dressler was sparsely populated when Diner and Marlow and Sons down the street were at full capacity (not that it’s a good reason—I don’t feel inclined to tap into that whole unfancy fancy schtick…yet). They suffer from a bit of an identity crisis. What do you do with the older crews who dismissively proclaim aloud “next time I’m reading the reviews first” and the clueless youngsters who sit, see the menu and promptly leave?

Dressler * 149 Broadway, Brooklyn, NY

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Apr 10

Surf Bar

Surf Bar is a nearly neutral restaurant with nothing breathtaking or offensive to set it apart in my mind. Sure, there’s sand on the floor and more tchotchkes than an Applebee’s, plus the owner once threw down with Bobby Flay. No complaints or raves, I was merely there for a friend’s birthday, which I suppose was an improvement over last year’s Lazy Catfish strangeness. Molten cakes don't scream happy birthday to me, but it wasn't my celebration. I didn't even have a birthday party last year, which is probably why I'm so bitter now.

I shared some clam strips, battered fried conch, had sip of clam chowder and ordered the lobster roll with fries for myself. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve never had one of these iconic sandwiches so I can’t even weigh how it stacks up against the real deal. I don’t hang out at Pearl Oyster Bar or Mary’s Fish Camp, it’s not my thing. Minus a brief, long ago two-days in Boston, I’ve never set foot in New England. I don’t know the first thing about clam shacks and I’ve always been so turned off by the old-timey weather term n’or easter that it’s clouded my open-mindedness towards the region. Plus, I imagine the area being inhabited by a bunch of bespectacled, bow-tied Christopher Kimballs (yes,I know I just mentioned him the other day, but America’s Test Kitchen seems to always be on).

My lobster roll seemed correct, a simple to the point hot dog bun (not sure if it was buttered) stuffed with mayonnaise dressed chunks of lobster meat. There wasn’t any distracting celery tossed in. I liked it and didn’t think it was wildly priced at $14, though I swear I heard someone at the table complaining about the menu being expensive.

Then came the bar progression, who’s meeting up where and so on. I know I’m an out of touch cell phone-less crank but I still don’t understand the intermittent calling and texting that occurs when hanging out with large groups. Like you’re already with people, not to be all touchy-feelie, but why not live in the moment and enjoy where you are and who you are with rather than coordinating a nebulous near future. Ew, enough of that talk.

First, we went to weirdo nearly suburban, quiet-for-a-Saturday Hope Lounge. I’ve always used Nu Shooz to sum up what’s wrong with the youth of today, Williamsburg in particular, and like clockwork the DJ whipped out my favorite tune. Really. I’ve always thought if you’re going to embrace the silly poppy funky ‘80s, you may as well go whole hog with the decade and delve into ickiness like Mike and the Mechanics or Traveling Wilburys. (If you haven’t noticed, I’ve capitulated and now completely see the beauty of YouTube but Twitter I’m totally not getting. Why the hell would anyone care about what anyone else is doing capsulated in 140 characters or less? This is worse than Nu Shooz.)

Next was Larry Lawrence, where despite playing music from the here and now (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, of course) was a jam-packed nightmare (though not completely fruitless because I found a treat out front, which I’ll get to in a minute). I ended up across the street at creatively named The Pub, an even weirder, emptier out-of-place bar than the first one, but when you’re drunk enough that playing with a gag gift plunger and watching an extended infomercial for the Sonic Blade on a big screen is a total blast, the surroundings cease mattering.

To some degree, that is. Even when I’m having fun I can only block out so much of the world around me. And I discovered this new level of wrongness seconds after stepping into Savalas. The sweet strains of "I’ve Got My Mind Set On You" blasted my ears. My eyes almost started bleeding watching kids bopping around to that atrocity (most definitely more disturbing than having a Say Anything poster in your dorm room in 2001 click on 7). That ubiquitous song and video didn’t please me when I was fifteen, and it hasn’t gotten better with age. It was my signal that I needed to call it a night.

Fried seafood plus seven drinks (over a span of five and a half hours in case you’re concerned about my health) plus George Harrison might look something like this:

A puzzling yet reassuring combination of chicken bone, pork chop bone and a pool of vomit, all inches from each other on Grand Street, between Roebling and Havemeyer. Sidewalk bones always cheer me up.

Surf Bar * 139 N. 6th St., Brooklyn, NY

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Mar 27

Silent H

1/2 Silent H? It’s a cute conceit and a welcome restaurant. But my first thought when I heard the name was the word pho and you totally use the H in that (though there’s no American consensus on how to pronounce the soup. I’d heard like foot without the T and far without the R but if you don’t say it like faux then half the time people have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s a fine line with native English speakers going overboard in the name of authenticity. I feel kind of retarded saying Chee-lay for Chile, so I don’t). It’s definitely not po.

I’ve never understood why Thai food so dominates gussied up parts of Brooklyn while Vietnamese has been relegated to ethnic status. That’s not the case in Manhattan. I would think that Vietnamese has broader appeal; it’s not spicy, it’s lighter than a lot of popular S.E. Asian food, relying on steaming and grilling (never mind the deep fried spring rolls—I’ve always been most fond of cha gio as far as the wrapped, stuffed and fried Asian canon goes).

We waited about 15 minutes around 9pm, not bad for a Saturday night in a small new restaurant. Within an hour the room was jammed up. Oddly, we were the only ones who’d brought beer (it’s BYOB for the time being). Apparently, Williamsburg is a wine-loving crowd. It did feel a little funny sitting at a bar, drinking your lugged in beverages.

The décor is sparse, woody and muted–nice on the eyes but a bit stiff in execution. The older I get the more I notice comfort, not that I’m ready for a pair of Rockports but awkward seating seems more glaring lately. To be fair, I’m abnormally imbalanced and stools always traumatize me. But I’m tallish for a female and I had a hell of a time hopping up on my perch. It was like being up on a horse and I hate horseback riding. After being seated, I had a view of all the low-rise exposed asses, one with non-offensive floral underwear (not thong) sticking out, and one full bare butt flash with a good three inches of crack hanging out (you could practically fit a kielbasa banh mi in there). Another downside to stools, if you ask me. Amusingly, I just found a Flickr photo of the setup but they've featured guy asses, which tend to remain covered for some strange reason.

We were eventually given an end table for two, which was lucky because two-seaters bookend a four-seater that is impossible to get in our out of without making a huge production. One long bench lines the wall, while backless, stubby stools face the table. The distance between tables is NYC narrow, so even the world’s skinniest human can’t squeak by and pulling the table out barely helps matters. It made me nervous that they were seating two parties of two at one table for four Chinatown style. (I was very disturbed on my first visit to Chicago last month to see that they have side-by-side seating on their subways, like a movie theater. That’s totally insane to expect that during rush hour people are going to get up to let people off and on. And as human nature goes, when it was less crowded singles invariable sat on the aisle seat so it felt nearly confrontational to try and take the inner seat.)

Looks are one thing but practicality has to be taken into account with restaurant design. I really enjoyed the place, awkward seating was my one non-food beef. James’s was the price. I didn’t think they were outrageous but I could agree with his assessment that two bucks could be shaved off of most items and you’d feel better.

Our beef carpaccio was skimpy for $9 (forgive my messed up camera setting–I'm still figuring out this camera). I thought $6 for three taro, pork and shrimp stuffed spring rolls was fair, though. The raw beef strips were very limey, maybe lemongrassy, and nicely spiced. Both appetizers were likeable enough but my pork chop over broken rice was amazing. Maybe I was hungry because initially it seemed like a lot of food, then I managed to eat the whole thing. I wasn’t expecting hardboiled egg and cucumber, that seemed very Malay in a good way. The complex tasting caramel sauce is what makes the dish. The amber liquid is essentially a shit load of sugar cooked down with garlic, fish sauce and lots of black pepper, and sums up all that’s rich, pungent and homey about Vietnamese food.

James had the crepe with chicken and shrimp, which nods more to the fresh, herby side of the cuisine. He was smarter because I was so full of beer and pork by the end of the meal that it took me a few hours before I could drink properly. That’s when gin and tonics seem to work magic.

Silent H * 79 Berry St., Brooklyn, NY

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Dec 28

Snacky

1/2 I hadn’t planned on going out the eve before Christmas Eve but somehow ended up meeting a couple of friends in Williamsburg (like it or not, whenever I’m home alone during holidays I seem to end up in Williamsburg) for drinks. I was hoping that no one brought gifts because I’ve been bad since the early ‘00s and have bowed out of exchanges. But I was bestowed with a handmade stocking filled with a bottle of Poochi-Poochi, anyway. Appropriate for a sake bar. I ultimately ended up breezing through two medium servings of a sake whose poetic name I can’t even recall.

It’s kind of hard to not order at least one plate when a place is called Snacky. The menu is larger and wider ranging than what you’ll find from searching online. It might be over-ambitious for the tiny kitchen but we didn’t experience any mishaps. There was no way I could pass up the cheese wontons, a.k.a. crab rangoon, a particular obsession of mine. I will try this silly east-west masterpiece on any menu where I find it. I also tried the takoyaki, because why not? I kind of liked the mushy texture with octopussy bits hidden inside, but the raw ginger strips were a little too zingy for me. The mini Popsie burgers looked appealing and I’m intrigued rather than scared by the pizza with Chinese sausage. Dairy can definitely work with Asian food. Just think of those mayora going nuts…ok, mayonnaise isn't dairy, is it?

Deann got two orders of two different types of dumpling, which I thought was odd considering the numerous choices on the menu, but whatever. Everyone’s entitled their own eating ideas and I try not to impose my food beliefs on others (though I did have to pipe up with a resounding “no way” when she espoused the charms of nearby My Moon).

I noticed a friend of a friend at the bar and being full of the holiday spirit (as well as spirits of another nature) I said hi because he’s a food/music person with taste I generally agree with. I swear I’m not persnickety but I don’t always see eye to eye with others. Plus, I called him a foodie or some such horror earlier this year in a post about Belle and Sebastian of all things, and I can’t be known as a meanie even though I am 70% the time. I’m just wary of food-obsessed folks because they’re usually annoying and/or humorless. I’m not naming names but it’s fair to say I find few food blogs entertaining (this isn’t a food blog, so there).

I don’t know why I’ve never been to Snacky before. Ok, I know why, because I rarely eat in Williamsburg (I just looked it up and my last meal in the nabe, yeah nabe, was at bizarro Lazy Catfish way back in April. They did have crab rangoon, I must add) but it’s as cute and breezy as its name implies.

Snacky * 187 Grand 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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Mar 23

Mug’s Ale House

Mug's is weird because it exists with such little fanfare, kind of like nearby Teddy's. I'd almost forgotten about Mug's, myself, until I was at relatively nearby Western Beef on a weeknight and dying for a cheeseburger. Yes, there's the respectable DuMont Burger, but I wasn't feeling up to the woody, zen smallness of the whole thing. I wanted noise, beer and space. The kind of place you should be able to smoke in, but can't.

I hadn't been to Mug's in nearly eight years, which is a frightening fact. Not because the establishment is any great shakes, but because Mug's is where the near strangers I stayed with when I first moved to NYC used to hang out (which seems odd now). I associate it with the scared but eager greenhorn me, which honestly doesn't feel like eight years ago. Now I'm more scared and anxious and jaded, and strangely, the only person who's remained in the city from that crew of people. I don't know if that's because I'm resilient or dumb.

But the food…yes, it was fine. No brioche or gruyere or parsley sprinkled frites. The burger and fries are standard burger and fries, just what I'd been craving. Maybe I'll go back again in another eight years, if I'm still in NYC when I'm 41. Jesus, just typing that number makes me feel nervous. See you in 2014, Mug's.

Mug's Ale House * 125 Bedford Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Mar 17

Dokebi

There's nothing Irish about Korean bbq, but then there's nothing Korean about Echo and the Bunnymen, either. Why not spend St. Patrick's Day evening grilling meat, getting drunk on Sapporo and sake and listening to late '80s alternative hits?

For no reason at all, I seem to be dining in Williamsburg with alarming frequency lately. The food scene isn't the most impressive. It's like Portland in the sense that there are lots of thrifty vegetarians with low expectations who throw it off for anyone seeking exquisiteness or authenticity (fish sauce-less Thai food with brown rice is wrong beyond words). But to be honest, Korean and Japanese cuisine aren't my strengths, so I can only be open minded.

So yeah, the food was perfectly satisfying. I tried japchae (which was amusingly described on the menu as Korean pad thai. Has pad thai become shorthand for stir-fried noodles?), seafood scallion pancake, kalbi, pork and assorted mushrooms and vegetables for grilling (three single servings–choices come single or double with a slight discount) and the kim chee sampler (cabbage, radish, cucumber) but you don't really need it because you do get panchan like pickled bean sprouts and a few other little dishes.

There aren't a lot of places (if any) in Brooklyn where you can do the table top Korean barbecuing (there's an odd little shabu shabu joint in Sunset Park, though) so it's definitely filling a void. As an added bonus, you can get pitchers of beer and pretend you're at a suburban pizza parlor. Then you can head down the street to Tainted Lady Lounge and try to figure out why kids are shamelessly dressed like Tennenbaum tennis players complete with terry cloth headbands. Good times.

Dokebi * 199 Grand St., Brooklyn, NY * 125 Bedford Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Jan 13

My Moon

Raw poultry in a Turkish restaurant? I'm totally an avian flu case waiting to happen. Ok, it's not all that Turkish (manchego-stuffed pequillo peppers and tuna tartar with roasted beet vanilla vinaigrette?) but one of my chicken kabobs was pink and translucent in the center, and due to the moody lighting I know I ate more than a few nibbles before noticing the accidental sashimi. I really don't understand the fairly recent Williamsburg propensity towards clubby theme park dining. My Moon had already given me pause based on its unnecessary sprawl and awkward atmosphere. They have a huge useless-in-winter front patio, lots of exposed brick, cavernous ceilings, generous space between tables and big colorful art all over the walls, which gives the impression of a Cincinnati, Portland, Tucson…I don't know, some mid-sized city in 1996, trying to emulate NYC. Instead of pizzazz it simply evokes suburban and middle aged.

I might've reserved my judgment if it wasn't for the frightening free jazz combo fronted by a scatting songstress. They had inexplicably mesmerized a good proportion of the patrons that included plenty of youngsters in addition to the middle aged couples (straight and lesbian) and giant non-white men in XXL leather jackets that seemed out of place not guarding someone's velvet rope. I hadn't heard music like that since I paid a visit to the 70th story lounge at the Swissotel in Singapore this past summer.

So, all I ate was a very garlicky rice pilaf with a yogurt sauce and a few chicken cubes, and if it weren't for the underdone chunk, I would've described the food as acceptable if not overpriced by a dollar or two (kebabs were $13). Though I suppose you're paying for the ambience, which I would've gladly given up for a cheaper fully cooked combo plate from Waterfalls.

My Moon * 184 N. 10th St., Brooklyn, NY

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