Park Ave. S. (betw. 28th & 29th Sts.)
the Snail Right on the Head. The French, for all their faults, have one
endearing quality, and that’s their ability to make little garden animals
taste good. Properly sauced, muddy frogs become a national delicacy. Cute ortolans
are gobbled in a single bite. And of course only a Frenchman would think of
taking a snail and make it walk the plank into a boiling pool of butter, leaving
him to drown among a flotsam of garlic, shallots and parsley. When done right,
the results are rapturous.
In New York, We’ve
snails are done right rarely, except at the meat-and-french fries bistro Les
Halles. Their escargots would make a believer of even the most squeamish eater.
Les Halles is the flagship restaurant in the Anthony Bourdain chain of French
facsimiles. Bourdain tries to keep the food and atmosphere as authentically
Gallic (not galling) as possible. We come here for the steak frites, which is
superb, and always order the snails to kick off the flesh-fest. Every time,
the snails are reliably plump and juicy.
had disasters elsewhere. Some restaurants serve up nasty, shriveled lumps of
brown boogers dunked in some flavorless grease, or else they pawn off a sanitized
version of the classic that replaces the butter with something else, usually
some runny coagulant that tastes like Lubriderm. Les Halles’ snails are
a marvel. They’re not too chewy–we’d say they come perfectly
al dente–and wear their coat of garlic with so much pride and style we
half-expect them to sit up and sing the "Marseillaise." Each mouthful
tastes like France itself. As a bonus, you can enjoy these sweet morsels as
yellow cabs zoom past on Park Ave., reminding you it’s beautiful New York
outside and not some city full of toxically annoying Parisians. Get plenty of
bread to soak up the leftover butter puddles.
In New York,
Reason To Get Out of Bed
8th Ave. (21st St.)
Me This. You could stay in your cotton blanky cocoon, propped up on pillows,
with the endless September Vogue and W close at hand. But if you
consider the thick batter rising on Bright Food’s griddle while you lollygag,
you probably won’t. Their eggy cornmeal pecan griddlecakes ($7.50) might
hide hot exploded blueberries, depending on the season, and are served with
pitchers of real maple syrup.
If the three
huge high flapjacks are too much for you, a side of just one may be ordered.
The waiters will come over and smugly ask you, "How is it?" They already
know. The many coffee refills will bring you out of any residual fog. Of course
there’re other generous and tasty breakfast options at this cool Mexican-Asian;
we also like the smoked whitefish "maki" with wasabi cream cheese
and green-chile scrambled eggs on a nori-wrapped spinach tortilla, served with
black beans and cucumber salad ($8.25). And there’s a shareable bread basket
($5.50) of muffin, scone, corn bread and both flour and corn tortillas, with
ancho honey butter. The hustle of the cooks seen through the open kitchen might
even inspire you to actually do something with your day.
If the three
New Tribeca Restaurant
Reade St. (W. B’way)
Institution. It’s a stark reality that any number of restaurant venues
in Manhattan are haunted. Every year, a hopeful and ambitious entrepreneur tries
his or her luck in a spot that’s known nothing but failure. Most don’t
On occasion, Lightning has The menu changes Also recommended We’ll
however, someone breaks the hex. People forget that before Nobu opened to instant
acclaim at 105 Hudson St. several years ago, the large space had a disastrous
track record, despite its prime location.
struck again in Tribeca, this time with Martin Burge’s Fresh, an all-seafood
restaurant that opened just a few months ago and has already received a glowing
review in The New York Times. Burge, formerly of Gotham Bar & Grill,
bravely ignored the lack of success at previous losing enterprises at 105 Reade
St., fashioning a unique option for Tribecans (and "foodies," to slip
into that awful cliche, throughout the city) who are already glutted with any
number of two- or three-star establishments.
weekly, according to the availability of fish, but never varies in quality.
Late in the summer we had softshell crabs–which will soon disappear from
the long list of selections–that approached those served in Maryland kitchens.
Better yet was the box of fried Ipswich clams, fat bellies and all, that would
meet approval with the most critical New Englanders. We also devoured a lobster
roll–described as "a JFK favorite," which is typical of the restaurant’s
preciousness, a tic that’s overcome by the sheer quality of the food.
are the steamers, clam chowder, a sensational gazpacho with chunks of crabmeat,
gravlax, roasted blue tile fish and a simple flounder with jasmine rice in a
ginger soy broth.
see what winter holds for Burge, but if Fresh’s stunning opening is any
indication, Tribeca has added yet another outstanding restaurant to the neighborhood.
The menu changes
British Dessert to Go
"A Salt & Battery"
80 2nd Ave. (betw.4th & 5th Sts.),
a Shit-Eating Grin. Remember the floating log from Caddyshack? That’s
exactly what this thing looks like. Disgusting? Yeah, disgusting. How disgusting?
Like-it-backed-out-of-your-ass-and-turned-fuzzy disgusting. True, that doesn’t
really help sell the product’s good points. But with a cheeky name like
"A Salt & Battery" we can’t imagine the joint’s owners’ll
mind. Besides, you could scream "dung sandwich" 10 times in a row
and we’d still gobble down one of these deep-fried suckers. We’d even
ask for seconds, they’re that good. Imagine a crisp, steamy hot exterior
encasing rice krispies and soft melted chocolate with a stiff inner core…oops,
there we go again. Suffice it to say only the Brits can invent a desert this
disgustingly good. We can’t wait to try the deep-fried Mars Bar.
In Which to Be Wary
Of the Term "Jumbo"
Stuyvesant St. (3rd Ave.)
Eat a Whale. Some, if not most, sushi bars offer what they often call a
"deluxe" platter, which is the same as your generic "sushi platter,"
but with more pieces. Sharaku used to offer this, and it was very good. But
earlier this year there were some minor changes in their menu, and suddenly
when we tried to order a "sushi deluxe," we were informed it was no
longer available. What they had now was something called a "jumbo sushi
platter." It sounded like the same thing, pretty much, so we ordered it.
That’s It felt like In the end,
why we were a bit taken aback when the waitress showed up, not with a plate,
but with an entire mini-table that took two hands to carry. A mini-wooden
table that just barely fit atop the table we were sitting at. And atop that
wooden table sat a collection of absurdly massive cuts of sushi. Pieces a full
five or six inches long–almost too large to manipulate with chopsticks,
and certainly too large to fit in your mouth. What’s more–though we
guess it makes sense–you don’t even get a shrimp.
we were in Land of the Giants.
after battling our way through it, there was nothing wrong with it. It was still
quite tender and good. But for the unwary, it can be quite daunting (and a little
It felt like
In the end,
New Mexican Restaurant
Cafe El Portal
174 Elizabeth St. (betw.
Spring & Kenmare Sts.)
Cafe El Portal
Room to Swing a Chihuahua. Glance into this tiny basement restaurant and
you might think it’s just another Tortilla Fresca Bueno Taco Loco outpost,
but look past the plain diner tables (only about 10 of them; and maybe telling
you about this place is shooting ourselves in the foot) and the teeny, festive
little bar–look at, and taste, what’s actually on your plate, and
you’ll find that Cafe El Portal, despite appearances to the contrary, is
serving up a most interesting hybrid of city Mexican styles: fancy, upscale,
"real" Mexican (Zarela and Mi Cocina and the like) crossed with the
fare of more typical taco/burrito shacks. So, yes, you can get burritos at El
Portal, but they’ll contain roasted chili-rubbed pork (our favorite), or
nopales or spinach sauteed in onion and chipotle. And, sure, they have tacos,
but here they’re filled with ground chorizo, or epazote-spiced mushrooms.
Quesadillas are much more than beans/rice/cheese turnovers–the Calabaza,
for example, stuffed with green and yellow squash, or the Huitalcoche, with
that earthy, truffly yet delicate corn fungus.
Some of the
house specialties sit smack in the middle of the hybridization–chiles rellenos,
chicken mole–while others tilt toward the ritzier branch, like the Adobo
de Puerco–pork in guajillo pepper and roasted garlic sauce. But everything
on the menu is fresh, and savory or delicate or zingy as recipes dictate. Pair
your meal with a beer from El Portal’s extensive selection of Mexican brews,
or one of the Jarritos sodas. Que bueno.
Some of the
280 5th Ave. (betw.
1st St. & Garfield Pl.)
in Blue. There are lots of fantastic restaurant experiences to be had in
Brooklyn. We greatly appreciate the borough’s ample opportunities for cheap,
ethnic dining–Middle Eastern, West Indian, Italian, Russian, Latin and
so on. We love the established Brooklyn greats like romantic River Cafe and
reliable Peter Luger. The clam bars in Sheepshead Bay are, for us, a summertime
must. We’re enamoured of the efforts young restaurateurs such as the owner-operators
of Park Slope’s Convivium Osteria have made toward one-of-kind eating experiences.
We feel more assured of a well-cooked meal at A Table or Rose Water than at
some of Manhattan’s famous destinations. And we delight in regularly visiting
neighborhood treasures like Park Slope’s Chip Shop, Red Hook’s Hope
& Anchor Diner and Cobble Hill’s (or Clinton Hill’s) Zaytoons.
There’s good eating from Bay Ridge to Bed-Stuy, Greenpoint to East New
York. All the borough’s flavors seem to us improved by that of Brooklyn’s
Blue Ribbon Which makes The raw bar It feels fantastic The restaurant’s
is in many ways more like a Manhattan restaurant. It’s not as laidback
as its company on 5th Ave., nor is it as quirky as the places along the Smith
St. strip. It doesn’t feel very old or very new. Blue Ribbon’s busyness,
classic decor, long waits for tables and occasional crowds of fabulous people
dressed to be seen contribute further to the sense that the bistro is decidedly
rather inconvenient the facts that the restaurant has the best menu, the best
service, the best hours and much of the best food in Brooklyn. All things considered,
the borough’s spectacular array of old standbys and dashing up-and-comers
can’t claim to top what guests get at Blue Ribbon.
could hold its own with any in the entire country. Skipping it, now and then,
in favor of one or two items off the appetizer list is also advisable. It’s
win-win. But that appetizer menu is win-win-win-win-win, etc. Grilled shrimp
remoulade or sweet soppressata? Pierogies or grilled sardines? One of the delectable
smoked fish options or the pu-pu platter? Maybe just some perfect vegetables–asparagus
vinaigrette, mixed olives, steamed artichoke or crudites? Staying the bistro
course is rewarding, by way of escargots (traditional or Bourguignon), country
pate, foie gras terrine or the exceptional steak tartare. But the chicken wings,
garlic shrimp with chorizo and barbecued ribs also rock.
to be presented with so many great choices, knowing you’re going to have
a great meal no matter what. Blue Ribbon’s soup and salad list continues
to pile it on. The $24 clam stew? We’ve never tried it, but we’d bet
it’s worth every penny. And the fact that the place keeps excellent matzoh
ball soup on hand every night somehow says it all. The smoked trout salad is
another dish that could compete for all-city honors.
hosts and servers are highly efficient and always make us feel comfortable.
Factor in that all of the above is available until 2 in the morning and–oops,
we didn’t even make it to the entrees. Superb steaks, grilled fresh fish,
the lobster, the pigeon, a hummus platter with couscous, tofu ravioli, roasted
duck, burgers, fried chicken, paella–you simply can’t lose. The abundance
of quality astounds. Blue Ribbon Brooklyn transcends borough to evoke a sense
of New York City at its peak.
The raw bar
It feels fantastic
at Burp Castle
7th St. (betw. 2nd & 3rd Aves.)
Among the Lotus Flowers. We didn’t think much of it when we had to
wait a bit to get a refill at Burp Castle. The monk behind the bar (though it
was too hot for the robes that day) was out front talking to his Japanese girlfriend.
We understand. But 10 minutes after that first Japanese girl left, another one
showed up. In fact, every time we’ve been in that bar, he’s been chatting
it up with a different Japanese girl. Beyond that, we’ve watched
him stare longingly after any Japanese chick who strolls past the bar (and in
that neighborhood, there are quite a few).
On the bright
side, though his well-focused hormones might slow our alcohol intake, it is
at least nice to know that in this day and age, where every clergyman in America
is a suspected pederast, there’s at least one who still likes girls who
are of age (the way God intended).
On the bright
Place to Have a Hooker
Take a Bite Off Your Dog
Bar & Grill
9th Ave. (betw. 44th & 45th Sts.)
All She Could Chew. It was late and we were wandering drunk in the boondocks
of Hell’s Kitchen when our drinking pal suggested we settle our stomachs
with some solid nourishment from Rudy’s. We ordered a couple of beers and
two of the free dogs each, both lacking in flavor (though most folks are too
wasted to care). We inhaled the first dog and were attempting the same of the
second when a towering black transvestite hooker, scantily clad in red patent
leather, asked if she could have a taste. Before we could utter a rational response
to such an irrational request, she wrapped her bony red-tipped fingers around
our dog, lifted it to her who-knows-where-that’s-been mouth and took a
massive bite, returning a massacred bun casually to our plate. Then she took
a stranger’s arm and strolled out the front door.
(betw. Roebling &
Sure, there are lots of tapas places around the city, and several really fine
ones, some with smoky, romantic atmo, some more businesslike and elbows-to-the-counter.
But none resonates the simple joie de vivre Allioli does. It’s a very warm,
friendly, fun place. Everyone always seems to be having a good time at Allioli–and
it’s not just because of the big pitchers of excellent sangria, though
they surely help. It’s more a reflection of the good intentions of the
owners and staff, who seem genuinely to care that their customers really enjoy
their night out with them. We’ve been to Allioli with large, rowdy crowds
or small, quiet ones, and been treated with the same good-natured grace and
deference by the staff either way. That Allioli pioneered a fairly downbeat
strip of South Williamsburg earns it extra credits as a beacon and destination.
Then, of course,
there’s the tapas itself. No place in town does it better, or in larger
portions. (Which is not quite the oxymoronic statement it might seem. Tapas
is supposed to come in small bites, but some places really skimp. Not Allioli.
You always leave having had your fill.) We’re completely crazy for chef
Diego Gonzalez’s "dados da datil envuelto en Serrano"–fried
dates wrapped in Serrano ham, a sweet-fruit-bacon combo of tastes that makes
our tastebuds dance a tarantella. But we like all the usuals–the little
bowls of olives, the plate of simmering chorizo, the huge helping of skewered
chicken livers, the Spanish anchovies, the small toast wedges topped with artichoke
and thinly sliced filet mignon… ¡O dios! And at $5 to $9 per, it’s
a deal, too.
Then, of course,
That You’d Never Suspect
Was a Great Bar
at B.B. King Blues Club & Grill
237 W. 42nd St. (betw. 7th
& 8th Aves.)
Really Hang Out There, You Know. There are still a few great bars that have
gone untouched in the Times Square area. You can recognize them by how full
they get of people who wouldn’t be caught dead in the other bars in Times
Square. But there’s one happy secret place for drinkers who want to hide
out amongst all the touristy chaos. Just enter B.B. King’s Blues Club &
Grill and head down the stairs.
turn to the right, though. That leads to the concert area where nobody–even
someone on the list–leaves without shelling out way too much money. To
the left, though, is the restaurant they call Lucille’s. You don’t
want to be there between noon and 2 p.m., but the cavernous dark bar is very
pleasurable at other times of the day. The drinks are pricey, but you’ll
only stay an hour when you start drinking at 11 a.m. each day. Then you’ll
disappear, and return to hang out between 3 p.m. and whenever people start showing
up for the night’s concert. It’s cool in the summer, warm in the winter,
and fans of public sex will find some very interesting niches to explore.
Pageantry Of the Louche
(betw. Houston &
Prince Sts.), 625-2002
con Papas! The withering glances say it all. We’re talking about Cafe
Habana’s otherwise angelic countergirls, the Latinas at the takeout annex
who regard New York’s most preening with the bemused intensity of pitbulls
moments before the engagement. Once, just once, it’d be cool to see them
strike. As for the scene itself, we’ve given up on trying to determine
what it is that draws the aggro-fey and parlor tans to this place. Yeah, Cuba’s
cool and all, but like, who here is Cuban?
certainly no disparaging Habana’s porkchops or Cubano sandwiches. The grilled
corn on the cob is good, too, though the bench lizards who burn away the hours
on the Elizabeth St. sidewalk only ever seem to go for iced coffee. So like
we say, no use trying to figure it out. Better to enjoy the scene at Cafe Habana
for the picture it provides of the future. Like this one day, we spotted our
first sagging ass-crack tattoo. It was all wrinkled and craggy, had gotten way
too much sun. The countergirls saw it too. Ay, mami! You should’ve seen
the face they made.
Place to Stop Off When You’re on the 7 Train
Heading to Manhattan After Refusing to Eat the
Food at the U.S. Open Or Shea Stadium
Blvd. (betw. 42nd & 43rd Sts.)
Delights. The food at those places sticks in your throat at the identical
moment it empties your pocketbook. So you’re on the 7 looking longingly
at the intricate ethnic mix on Queens Blvd. A good bet is to alight at the 42
block in Sunnyside and go to Nazar, which proffers delicious and soignee Turkish
cuisine. Really well presented, undercurrents of riverine taste, exceptionally
pleasant staff. Modest tab, luxuriously exotic grub.
to Ruin Your Eyesight In
Cafe Pick Me
145 Ave. A (9th
Cafe Pick Me
Clear to Us. When fuzzy golden leaves begin to waft down from the oaks,
we know it’s time for our fall ophthalmologic exam. Which means more bad
news. Last year, on receiving our (increasingly) negative prescription, we welled
up a few frustrated, blurry tears. "What about laser surgery?" The
doctor glanced up, replied, "We can discuss that when your vision stabilizes,"
and chiseled our sentence in stone with his click-pen. "Isn’t surgery
for exactly this–a condition that won’t improve? Can’t lasers,
you know, uh, fix it?" We were flashed a gentle smile, but without capitulation–no
lasik for us. Fuck us for going to a responsible practitioner
We stumbled Pick Me Up
down to Cafe Pick Me Up, where we took up a table in the rear of the second
room. We bought a Corona and pulled out that copy of Gravity’s Rainbow
we’d been lugging around like the ball on our messenger-bag chain. We like
Pick Me Up for all the reasons we’ve given up on most coffee places. We
don’t want to go to some chain, but we also don’t want to feel out
of place without smeared kohl eyeliner, 20-grommet docs and a Leftover Crack
ass-patch. We rarely want to go out of our neighborhood to skulk amongst daringly
lopsided attire and strategically placed copies of Camus. We don’t want
to make conversation. We want to blind ourselves.
provides us with the uppers (decent coffee, bag and loose teas) or downers (both
beer and wine) we need to get through the night, or the next hundred pages.
The music varies from what we’d consider good–someone’s been
playing Manu Chao a lot lately–to what we’d consider morally reprehensible
(Seal). The art sucks, but they’ve got a laminated sign that reads "Smoking
and breathing second-hand smoke is hazardous to your health. (Smoking permitted.)"
The outdoor tables are great for people watching, and if reading Pynchon gets
to be a pain in the ass (which it probably will), there are always the bathroom
walls. But most importantly, at any hour, that back room is cozily doused in
shade, with a mismatched table almost always available. We think of those extra
75 cents a cup as cover for the hours of quiet solace. And who cares if votives
aren’t sufficient reading light? The world didn’t make much sense
back when we could see it clearly, anyway.
Pick Me Up
Queens Greek Restaurant
30th Ave. (37th St.)
Ralph Emerson once said something to the effect that great books manage to present
ideas that are, at the same time, both original and instantly recognizable.
Great restaurants can pull off a similar trick. At Esperides you may not be
familiar with the dishes on the menu but you will take to them quickly. "We
like a good taste," says owner Gregory Soldatos, "but light, not greasy."
One need hardly stray past the appetizers: order two per person and share. The
eggplant mousse is exquisite, as are the saganaki, the cod, the octopus and
the pan-fried smelt–a small fish that is eaten whole and that tastes like
a happy improvement on french fries. Esperides is good at both the simple things
(excellent bread and salads) and the more complex (a roast suckling pig available
on the weekends). Wash it all down with a glass of retsina, a Greek wine with
the faint taste of dishwashing liquid, and you’ll leave feeling fresh as
Who Don’t Like Olives
Garden of Eden
W. 23rd St. (betw. 6th & 7th Aves.)
Garden of Eden
More! For many years, we’ve watched incomprehensibly as Mrs. Baker
ate around her olives or flicked them out of the way. But since we’re the
type of hostess who thinks that guests should bend to our likes (that vegetarians
should suddenly want sausages, that Pepsi drinkers on entering our place should
now appreciate Diet Coke), we put out no crudites, only two bowls of olives
to go with cocktails. Everyone else likes them, but then we see Mrs. B indulge
in one. And then another. Well, she’s probably just being polite, everyone
knows that Mrs. B. is a master of diplomacy (she used to teach Dale Carnegie
classes), and she’s probably practicing the good-guest rule that you should
always at least try what’s set before you. But then she had another. And
many others. Hey Mrs. B., leave some for the rest of us. Later, she told us
that she had never liked olives before that very moment. A conversion right
in our humble abode.
that caused Mrs. Baker to see the light were big and green. Some were stuffed
with blanched almonds and some with whole cloves of garlic (whahooowAAH). But
we would expect similar results from most of the offerings at Garden of Eden’s
olive bar. You could easily substitute the smaller French Niçoise olives
with herbs de Provence, which are eaten as quickly and automatically as handfuls
of M&M’s. Or the combo of unembellished black, purple and green ones.
About 20 varieties include manzanillas, arbequinas, kalamatas and so forth.
A lot easier than cutting up cauliflower.
W. 40th St. (9th Ave.)
We’ll spare you the pretentious if-you-have-to-ask-you-don’t-belong
snobbery that Tracy Westmoreland’s relocated bar has generated among New
York Observer types. Hidden behind an unmarked black door just east of 9th
Ave., facing the south wall of the Port Authority terminal, Siberia attracts
as many slumming young socialites and hipster wannabes as the rest of the block
does hoze and crackies. On a bad night the clientele can be unbearably In Crowd.
On a good night,
however, this joint is hopping in the very best way. There may be a local rock
band playing downstairs, while upstairs the hot jukebox, pinball machines and
projections of sexy anime keep the drinkers and posers well entertained. The
super-affable Westmoreland is one of the city’s best-loved hosts; if the
party hasn’t started when he arrives, it will within five minutes. The
place stays open well into the wee hours, making it the best after-hours haven
within many, many blocks. For the serious drinker Siberia is kind of a joke,
with its eccentrically short shelf of bottled beers and rail liquors; also,
the equally oddball no-profanity rule, somberly enforced by the barkeeps, can
be an annoyance. But if you want to go drink and cuss, you can do that around
the corner; Siberia is as much a see-and-be-scene as a bar, and well worth the
drop-by late nights to see what’s (and who’s) shaking.
On a good night,
Macaroni and Cheese
Union Ave. (betw. Metropolitan Ave. & Devoe St.)
Kraft. Instead of "What’s your major?" we think a better
standard college query would be, "Macaroni and cheese or ramen noodles?"
Almost everyone we knew in school fell firmly into one of those groups when
it came to kollege kuisine. We were a macaroni and cheese girl all the way.
We can still remember excitedly telling someone we’d found it on sale,
six boxes for a dollar. A friend clued us in that you could just sprinkle the
orange powder on, omitting the milk and margarine, and save even more money.
We also think that old saying about sex, that even when it’s bad it’s
still pretty good, definitely applies to this dish.
That said, As for the
we must add that when macaroni and cheese is made well, it can be downright
heavenly, and our new holy grail for this casserole is DuMont. Their version
comes piping hot to the table in a ceramic ramekin or firkin or gratin dish
(we’re not sure of the correct terminology), with corkscrew pasta and a
lovely topping of breadcrumbs. (They will even throw in some bacon, if you ask.)
We have not quizzed them on the recipe, how many cheeses are involved, where
the cows were born, etc., but trust us: you will love it, no matter what you
restaurant itself, it is properly cozy and has a great neon sign. Colin Devlin,
the owner, said that DuMont was once a television station, and that Dr. DuMont
made a picture tube. Perhaps one day devotees of macaroni and cheese will speak
in reverent, hushed tones of Mr. Devlin. We, for one, think he should apply
for a patent right now.
As for the
127 Greene St.
(betw. Houston &
Disrespect the Ping. Our visitor from Seattle wanted to eat "pan-Asian."
This annoying coinage we took to mean a place that wasn’t Chinese or Japanese
or Thai or Korean but that did serve something with vegetables with rice. What
she probably had in mind was a place like Kelly & Ping on Greene St. in
Soho, a fashionable-enough place that serves a mishmash of foods plucked from
different Asian cuisines. We assume this high-concept menu is the work of a
marketing-savvy Westerner; we’re waiting for payback day when some Chinese
restaurateur opens a "pan-Euro" place serving paella, bangers and
mash, cavatelli and wiener schnitzel.
But so what Kelly &
if the cuisine as presented is as culturally impure as Disney’s "Small
World" animatronics? Some of Kelly & Ping’s dishes are terrific,
and none of them more so than the humble Korean kimchi. This funky-smelling
stuff is pickled cabbage seasoned with pepper and garlic and the like, and left
to ferment. It stinks to anyone not eating it, but a dish of spicy, salty kimchi
is a perfect low-fat afternoon snack. We’ve had kimchi elsewhere, and been
disappointed, if not with the slime quotient then with the weird odor of cheap
Ping only serves kimchi twice a week during the day, on Thursdays and Saturdays,
probably so the reeking garlic doesn’t turn off the clientele. The place
gets a fair share of tourists and celebrities–we saw Gwyneth Paltrow, Meg
Ryan and Russell Crowe there on the 4th of July last year–but don’t
let that stop you from enjoying the eclectic but delicious food.
But so what
Feminist Burger Joint
131 2nd Ave. (betw.
7th St. & St. Marks Pl.)
The problem with being a single gal-on-the-go in the city is this: no matter
how liberated we are, or profess to be, we are still a little bit shy about
eating alone in public. We don’t mean "dining" alone–nibbling
salad or a sandwich and a bottle of water is not the issue here. We mean eating–gut-busting,
belching, satisfying consumption. This means, to us, burgers, loaded with everything,
a side of fries, a bottle of beer, an hour’s peace and quiet. This mean’s
Paul’s, the best damn burger in the East Village. Our build-your-own-cheeseburger
deluxe ($6.35, including pickles and onions) is brought to us by Robin, the
coolest waitress in the Tri-State area. She knows what we want, she knows we
need it, she doesn’t disappoint. The lettuce is crisp, the half-pound of
beef is perfectly seared, the ketchup is on the table. We lift, bite–and
the juices dribble down our dainty chin. She provides us with extra napkins,
a little mayo on the side for dunking our fries. No one looks askance at us
in our Prada knockoff and Jimmy Choo wannabe shoes, not even when we smear mustard
on our cheek. No one tries to sidle up to us with a "Hey, baybee"
line. Feminism is the freedom to be female. Paul’s is the most feminist
burger place in the city. At Paul’s, we are all equal in our wonderful
St. (betw. Ludlow & Essex Sts.)
Sure, there are plenty of those fancy, upscale "confectionary" shops
around–those places where some snooty Frenchman will carve you an elaborately
detailed iguana out of white chocolate and marzipan–but who the hell needs
that? If you’re looking for candy, plain and simple, just some candy–gum
drops, licorice, Turkish Delight, malted milk balls, nut clusters–the answer
today is the same as it has always been: Economy.
The place just
feels right. It’s cramped, and it can get awful crowded in there,
but you’ll find candies you thought had disappeared 20 years ago. You can
mix and match pounds of your hard cand
The place just