"one ass-buri, and some sake, warm."

If you ever decide to order uni (sea urchin) at Village Yokocho, think again, and then...just don't. The limp, diarrhea-colored plops laying on top of my sashimi bowl looked odd, but not being very experienced with uni gonads, I ate a piece anyway. Just like that, I suddenly had a slimy piece of someone's rotting asshole filling the crevices of my mouth.

I could not believe that I had actually put something so foul between my lips. When I fished out the other pieces and laid them aside, my dining companion started poking and stabbing at them with her chopsticks...and the fucking things instantly liquified, spreading their ass-flavored goo over the plate. It is miraculous that I did not vomit or suffer food-poisoning later.

bon fucking bons

so we busted it to chambers street (humidity is a motherfucker) and stepped in the place, 3 minutes to closing. "watchoo got?" we asked the cashier and they only had a small combo left, and a medium drumsticks. "no more wings? that's it?" I knew the drumsticks would be shite (they kinda sucked at bon chon in k-town) since its crap meat but, when shit goes down and things get desperate, drumsticks it is.

for about $20 bucks (and 7 minutes of waiting time), we had ourselves the last 6 wings and 8 drumsticks, plus a couple buns. we got the hot and spicy and asked for extra sauce (because the shits tend to be dry, e.g. cheap on the sauce) but the cashier refused, ("It comes sauced"). I know motherfucker, that's why I asked for more, because technically it's sauced, but not super-sauced. anyway, the restaurant was shit hot and he was dying to go home (he looked like he had summer school tomorrow) and the last thing a cashier wants to see is two fools busting in at 9:57, especially when store hours are until 10.

dip up the block to one of new york's lovely greenspaces (corner of duane and hudson basically) and found us some lovely steps. first off, the buns were good, tasted like the chinese roast pork bun bread, even glazed on top. I made myself a drumstick sarnie (split open bun, put meaty part of drumstick in said bun, clamp shut and hold tight, and do a twisting motion separating the bone from the meat. bone removed, and you've got yourself [or myself] a drumstick slider) and dug in. good stuff, sorta, but since its such crap chicken (19¢ a pound, I wouldn't be surprised) all I tasted was crust, no chicken. the wings fared better for some reason; better ratios I think, but overall still weaksauce. there was some heat, yes, but the crust wasn't good, the ratio of sauce to crust to meat wasn't balanced. and yes, it needed some dippin' sauce. told ya.

had much better chicken at bon chon and in a much nicer, albeit mismatching setting although I still haven't found my chicken fried manna yet. ever on the hunt though.

Really? A free gift certificate?

(Caveat: This is a cheap shot, but I've been broke and not eating out so I'm digging back into the archives for a classic. And it's a chain.)

Break yourselves fools.

I used to think that Pizzeria Uno was the bomb.com. That is, to say, until one fateful Sunday in 1996.

It all began with a one-knee back in Uptown Minneapolis. Whilst the former old lady was not into smoking she was into buttery crusts. Now, I probably just used to have more of a base palate back in the day but I swear, before they were huge, that Pizzeria Uno used to be grubtastic I can hear the eyeballs collectively rolling around every one's heads here in NY but there you have it, I said it, I used to mack on Uno's. That is to say, until one fateful Sunday in 1997.

I had gone with my favorite, the Spinoccoli, a toothsome combination of spinach, broccoli, and feta, and old old lady was having the sausage. They were the personal pan numbers so they came out hot and fresh, right in the pans. We had each had a piece and were going for a second slice when it happened.

Old old lady was bringing the fateful slice to her plate when she lost control and dropped the slice. It flipped, doing a 180 and landed with a splat on the table. And lo, what should be winking back up at us but a plastic landing strip in the form of a band-aid.

A dirty motherfucking band-aid.

Needless to say it got all Fear Factor at the table toot sweet. I recoiled and spit out my pizza on the plate, took a huge sip off of my Coke, and then gave the cup the stink eye; who's to say there wasn't a damn clot or some shit all jammed in the corner?

Old old lady, immediately started scanning the room for our server. Having detected her a scant 20 yards away, started summoning her. "Miss? Miss? Excuse-me?" The waitress replied that she would be right over, in a semi (understandably) -rude manner. And that's when old old broke her off with the winning hand of all statements whilst in a tete-a-tete with a server, aloud, to the whole room.

"THERE'S A USED (no doubt, I swear she included that crucial bit of gore) BAND-AID STUCK TO THE BOTTOM OF MY PIZZA!"

A collective gasp escaped from the room, straight hoover. The server came over and it was a big freak out. From there on out it was S.O.P. backpedaling. They ended up giving us a bunch of gift certificates. Yeah, thanks for all of that free band-aid flavored pizza.

To this day I can't look at the south street seaport Uno's and not throw up in my mouth. Just a little.

Bubbie's Sauerkr-OW!-t; So Good (for you) It Hurts

It began with a trip to The Queens Health Emporium, a humble place I love because it is a cage-free, organically-raised middle finger to Whole Foods, which only serves the rich jerkbags of Manhattan, who I hate.

My partner, a hippie-dippy love-monger who drives a crystal-laden 30-yr-old van (Om my God, like for real?) buys some all-natural Bubbies Sauerkraut. It's fermented, he says, so much better for you than the kind that is made in vinegar. Let's have some with every meal.

Do you see where this is going? Down my throat, through my stomach, and into my intestines, where the Bubbie burst and unleashed its fury. Pain, endless, searing, gut-wrenching pain. Terrible healthy bacteria, destroyer of duodenum, incinerator of ileum, something negative that begins with J of the jejunum!

Suffice to say, like the Buddha, I will still tell the hot dog cart man to "Make me one with everything." Only now, I will add, "Just hold the Kraut."

Man-Doo's and Don'ts

o Mandoo Bar, you've been on 32nd street for so long, and somehow manage to survive serving thick-skinned dumplings like you would order from the local chinese chicken wing palace. thank goodness we got the joll-myun (another korean cold noodle preparation that tastes like bean sprouts mixed with cabbage, cucumber and go-chu-jang, the bean sprouts being an especially starchy and al dente clear noodle and the whole thing topped with half a hard-boiled egg. not bad) otherwise it would just be dumplings prepared 4 ways; 4 ways badly.

so on the list of Don'ts:

+ don't serve the mandoo soup; looked like a pack of ramen seasoning (the kind that comes with dried egg and seaweed) with 8 thick-skinned dumplings, nothing like a chinese won-ton. my friend ate the meatballs (pork and chive) and left a big pile o' skin on her plate.

+ don't serve the seafood dumplings unless you put actual seafood in. the ones we had (orange thick skin) were filled with a combination of fake crab meat, minced baby shrimp and maybe fishcake. not a go.

+ don't parboil all your dumplings; piled up in tupperware by the window so they develop a nice thick skin, these should be boiled to order and not left to dry.

+ don't charge $8.99 for 10 dumplings when the boiled dumplings at super taste are infinitesimally better, at $3 for a dozen. yes, that is almost 4 times more expensive for a dumplings that has skin which is at least 4 times thicker... wait, so maybe it is a good deal!

+ don't bother coming here for dumplings; if you want good mandoo, just go to the korean-chinese joint 3 blocks north, Hyo Dong Gak. Both their fried and boiled dumplings are amazing; not your typical chinese guo-tie dumplings, but big fat purses of delicious meat, wrapped almost like overstuffed tortellini.

+ don't believe the stagecraft at the front; just because they have a bunch of old korean ladies making them in the window doesn't mean the dumplings are any good. I've had Mrs. T pierogies with a finer skin than these warhorses.

so anyway, that's it; all Don'ts. granted, every culture has their dough-wrapped meat, but if korean mandoo continues to be represented by this place, then ya'll need another representative. otherwise, the samosas and empanadas of the world, the pelmini and the samsa, the gyoza and guo-tie, even the ravioli or agnoletti will kick its ass.

cold ramen a no go

try as I might, just can't get enough satisfaction from a bowl of cold ramen. no, not left over from last night and sittin' bloated in the styrofoam container but intentionally so, dressed with salad-like ingredients and the antidote to summertime heat. saburi is supposedly tops, so off we went.

they offer not one, but 3 kinds: hiyashi-chuka (the classic, with chicken, various veg, etc.), a hiyashi-goma (sesame noodle, also with chicken and veg) and kamo reimen (cold noodle with more broth, sliced duck breast served cold). at this point, I actually went for the hiyashi-goma while my two companions went w/ the duck, all of us thinking the classic wouldn't be much different. for myself, the noodles were forgettable, the sauce non-existent (maybe a droplet of tahini but nothing sesame-like at all), the chicken not shredded, but rather hacked slices off of an overcooked chicken breast. likewise, my companions noted their dry-ish duck slices over what is actually a nice refreshing mix of veg (cucumber, lettuce, pickled ginger, shiitake, maybe some herbs).

unlike the slick b/w layout of the website, the restaurant itself seems dated; blond wood for an unused sushi counter, random angles and corners; and the 4 steps down into the restarant made me think that murakami himself opened the restaurant, what with the light jazz playing out of the tinny speakers, the lone male proprietor at the helm.

we had some apps: simmered beef tongue not simmered long enough, and fried chicken with special herbs (where the herbs was actually lettuce, I think, with a single McDonald's McChicken patty sliced into 1/4" julienne, doused with generic japanese dressing). bad call. also had a bowl of japanese wintertime comfort food (white rice topped w/ basically a seafood stew) which was actually kinda nice and hearty, but bland, and probably negated the effects of the cold ramen specials. again, bad call.

with dessert (ice chips in my adzuki ice cream, and a donga which turned out to be your typical dim sum-style fried rice ball with red bean filling, but not good) plus a drink or two, our bill was about $40 each, a bit steep for what we had, considering I've had a perfectly satisfying hiyashi-chuka at rai rai ken and dropped maybe $20, $30 max with drinks and apps as well. surroundings were generic although we did have an unhurried meal; if memory serves me right, Iron Chef Chen Kenichi has a hand in this joint's version of wafu-chaku (chinese-japanese food) but apparently, not last night.

Hatin' the Waitin'

Monday night I make plans to eat with two friends. C calls asking me where I want to go. I hate this question. Naturally, I always have some vague idea but prefer to have another party to blame if the food is bloody awful. Ha. She wants to go to Freeman's but knows that B and I have been craving lobster rolls recently. "Freeman's?!" I question her. Does anybody really think the food is good there? She explains that she never liked the food until her last visit where she had a delicious salad and fish dish. Toss a coin, I say. Heads we go to Freeman's, tails is Pearl.

Heads. My stomach growls.

I arrive at the appointed time and put my name on the list. The host tells me the wait will be an hour and a half. I refrain from rolling my eyes in outrage. I go stand in the alley and wait for my friends. All the ladies in what must be the trend-of-the-moment-once-again plaid flannel shirts and their dandy counterparts are smoking. I hope I don't have to kill the wait-time in this ashtray.

Friends arrive. I tell them it'll be an hour and a half. Group huddle time. The unanimous decision is to take a cab over to Pearl. Hooray.

We wait for less than half an hour to be seated at Pearl. I stupidly scarf down too many steamers and leave my delicious lobster roll half uneaten. But Pearl is reliably good and I'm happy we ended up there.

Why are there so many suckas in NYC? I hate that in a town with so many great restaurants that end up shuttering, there are places like this that I'm sure serve a purpose if you are that enviable combination of cool and beautiful and need to be surrounded by similar folks. As for me, I'd much rather eat good food. Okay okay, maybe the food at Freeman's has improved and is perfectly decent now, but I've given it enough chances and would rather not wait 90 minutes to give it another.

the folly of falai

yes, the new darling(s) of clinton street on the lower east side have problems yet, despite the pedigree of Iacopo Falai, former pastry chef at Le Cirque 2000. Falai the restaurant proper sits catty-corner to the more casual Falai Panetteria and getting 8:15 reservations on a thursday night at falai proper meant we were gonna be dining in high-style, as opposed to the BYOB cafe feel of the panetteria. I won't get into how much I enjoyed our meal of perfectly cooked gnudi, truffled pasta with spring vegetables, a vegetable plate unlike any I've ever had, the best grilled octopus I have ever had, potato-crusted sea bass, some deliciously oozy appetizers, and a great set of desserts, but instead, focus on only on their horrible bread.

each table came with a cute lil' bread menu (kinko's copied and trimmed) with a description of the breads that we'd be having during our meal. not content with a simple bread basket assortment on each table, the servers instead came around periodically with large trays of mini-breads, and we would have one or two at a time, our choice. if a fresh pan was coming out of the oven then I guess everyone in the restaurant would get one, e.g., a full tray of foccacine. this never happened, because we didn't have any fresh bread, and it makes me wonder where exactly do they bake these stale, room-temp balls of dough? it couldn't be from right there in the oven because they all tasted like day-old bread, the kind that sells in big bags at the end of the day for half-price, if this was a chinese bakery.

+ foccacine (mini foccacia, greasy and hard, no crunch, nothing good)
+ plain baguette (none of us had it, looked bad)
+ black cabbage bread (hard roll filled with cooked cabbage, reminds me of a spinach roll at a typical pizzeria)
+ rosemary and raisin bread (tasted like jamaican hard-dough bread but dark, with a couple raisins)
+ onion loaf with fennel (a hard little twist, au bon pain could do better)

so how does a restaurant that prides itself on the baking pedigree of its chef/owner send out tray after tray of these inedibles, night after night? we stepped across to the panetteria afterwards to check out the goods there, and although it all looked better (decadent croissants, pastries and donuts) all the product was stacked on top of one another in the glass cases, as if it they were bins of bagels, instead of arrayed across trays. the grease marked all over the glass, and either heat lamps or just very hot lights made the pastries look congealed and greasy. we did split a custard-filled donut on the street, and it was pretty bananas, but, not so great.

anyway, work on your bread man! it sucked! it takes away from the rest of the meal!

Bagels and Schmear Campaign

What is up with The Bagel Club on Park Avenue in Long Beach? True, their sumptuous chewy rings bathed in everything seeds or raisins are perhaps some of the best bagels this bubbala has ever bitten into. But this isn't a Jamaican joint, so what's up with all the jerk?

On a recent afternoon trip, we ordered half a dozen, an everything with lox cream cheese, and an elaborate sandwich of chicken, BBQ sauce, and various cheese. We wanted it on a hero, long, lean, easy to share and clutch in one hand. The hero option was prominent on the menu. The dough boy behind the counter gave us a withering look and informed us there were no heros. We asked what our choices were. Call us naive for thinking there may be other breads, if after all, there were supposed to be heros. It was just a question. But dripping like curdled butter in the nooks and crannies of our souls he condescended: "Bagels."

Fine. We got a sandwich on a bagel. Not ideal, too big of a mouthful, but fine. Do we hate this place? Almost, but then maybe the dough boy is having a bad day. Then we overhear a conversation between a man buying a chocolate muffin and the register boy. "Um, excuse me, but you rang me up for $1.95 but the price board says $1.75." The register boy rudely replies, "We changed the prices. It costs more now." Twenty freaking cents?????

C'mon Bagel Club employees. Get with the program. We like our lox salty, not our waitstaff.

free lunch, not free of indigestion

Granted, I didn't have to pay anything. And no one made me eat it. But when the best part of your lunch is the bag of Sun Chips that came with it, I think you have a strong case for concluding you've just been served a crappy meal.

To publicize one of our books, radio station XXXX hosted a luncheon at the China Club for one hundred "lucky" listeners to dine with the author. Several of my coworkers and I agreed to attend. After I entered and my eyes adjusted to the sad horror that is China Club in the daytime, I realized that a suspicious number of people were carrying paper plates and plastic cups back to their seats. With a sinking heart, I went to investigate what was on the platters lined up along the bar:

+ Ham and cheese on croissant
+ Roast beef and cheese on croissant
+ Potato salad
+ Sugar, oatmeal raisin, and chocolate chip cookies
+ Sun Chips (assorted flavors)
+ Miss Vickie's potato chips (assorted flavors)

I went with a roast beef croissant, an oatmeal cookie, a spoonful of potato salad, and a bag of Sun Chips. The croissant was soggy, pale, and cold; inside, two small gray slices of roast beef were clumped up against a single slice of pale, waxy cheese. I added a dollop of mustard, hoping that by the time the combination reached my mouth it would have somehow transformed into a delicious sandwich. 'Course, we all know how that one went.

I only needed to place one experimental forkful of potato salad in my mouth to conclude that it wasn't worth eating; it could have (and probably did) come straight out of some industrial-sized plastic tub with a foil seal. The cookie was okay, though very sweet and heavy. I called it quits and opened up my bag of Sun Chips. There's one thing to be said for processed snack food, and it's that the stuff is at least generally tasty. And when you're stuck sitting at a table in a club way past its prime, trying to resign yourself to the queasiness you'll feel later from eating a meal that doesn't contain a single fresh ingredient, it somehow turns into the only saving grace of a truly terrible lunch.