Brooklyn Beer & Soda
648 Washington Ave
(between Bergen St & Dean St)
Brooklyn, NY 11238
Brooklyn Beer & Soda is a local, well-kept secret in Prospect Heights.
It's at least a 10-15 minute walk from the nearest subway; suffice to say, this place doesn't get a lot of foot traffic from tourists across the river.
A hybrid between your well-stocked bodega and your specialty craft-beer store, Brooklyn Beer & Soda reminds me of a suburban Costco. Pallets of well-known domestic brands (Coors, Bud, Natural Light) are lined up in pretty little rows on the left hand side of the store; decent East and West Coast domestic brews (Saranac, Smuttynose) guard the center; imports sold by the big multinational beer companies under the guise of craft beer (Grolsch, Stella Artois) flank the right.
But if you're not a frat brother or someone who deludes themselves into having good taste in beer, the good sh*t is in the fridge on the far left and on the shelf behind the front counter. Highlights include the entire range of Unibroue (North America's finest brewery), big bottle formats of Belgium lambics and "Grand Cru" ales (Cantillon, Fantome, Girardin, Oud Beersel), and obscure domestic labels that one would struggle to find in any retail store. They also have a decent selection of 10-12 beers on draft that you can carry out in a 32 or 64 oz. growler format.
I have no problem with the service at Brooklyn Beer & Soda (I know what I want, and how to get it), but I could see someone being frustrated by the lack of beer knowledge among the staff. This is not Bierkraft: the staff doesn't look like it literally eats, sleeps, brews, and drinks beer.
As a side note, they do stock a fine range of obscure carbonated sodas (Ting, Manhattan Espresso Coffee Soda), malt liquors in 40 oz formats, as well as most of the wine (cooler) portfolio of Bartles & James. (Pomegranate is my favorite.)
Friday, April 29, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Marea
Marea is the closest thing you will get to an perfect seafood-centric Italian meal in NYC.
The key to great seafood are purveyors that are committed to quality product: there are about 15 who deliver to Marea, and it is these privileged relationships that separate your Michelin-starred restuarant from your run-of-the-mill Red Lobster. With the exceptions of Sushi Yasuda and Le Benarding, I haven't had seafood this fresh since I picked a live oyster from a canoe off the bottom of a shallow Chesapeake-bay estuary when I was in grade school.
The interior dining feels light and airy, and with the dappled light from a north-facing Central Park exposure, you truly feel like your are on a breezy yacht on the Adriatic Sea.
The trio of crudos (Maine rock shrimp/mackerel/big-eye tuna) were simple elegance on a plate. The Pacific mackerel didn't taste oily at all - it was a full-bodied, fleshy piece that was complemented well by a garnish of squash caponata and pine nuts. The big eye tuna was a ruby red cube whose fattiness was delicately offset by a bright-green parsley and basil coulis and crispy garlic chip. I couldn't help but having an gustatory orgasm after biting into the supple rock shrimp dressed with extra-virgin olive oil and black lava salt: the shrimp were buttery, creamy, and supple, tasting fresh of the cold, North Atlantic waters from whence they came.
The lobster with burrata was probably my favorite dish. Several ounces of Nova Scotia lobster were surprisingly paired with a caprese salad of creamy burratta cheese, cherry tomatoes, and basil chiffonade and seeds. Cheese and seafood rarely mix, but the hunks of poached lobster seemed to integrate well with the saltiness and creaminess of the burrata, the acidity and sweetness of inexplicably ripe cherry tomatoes and pickled cucumber. This is the dish that I feel is Michael White's signature dish, and not the much vaunted fusilli with bone marrow and octopus.
The spaghetti with sea urchin, crab, and cherry tomatoes further proved Chef Michael White's expertise with deft contrasts. The sea urchin didn't overpower the dish, but rather created a sauce that was deftly highlighted by crab, tomatoes, basil, and garlic bread crumbs tossed in. The hand-made and hand-cut spaghetti provided a toothsome texture to the silkiness of the saucing for this dish.
Herb-crusted halibut with broccoli rabe, pancetta, and trumpet mushroom was a panoply of flavors. The halibut looked like a blonde ice-cream sandwich, with the tender hunk of halibut absolutely pristine from the cold waters of Alaska. The broccoli rabe, trumpet mushroom slice, and funky pancetta stood up well to the meatiness of the halibut, and the roasted lemon sauce that accompanied tasted as bright as the filling of a lemon eclair.
Post-course, there was a trio of individual oysters: Quilcene, St. Peters, and Beau Soleil. Served on a lucite-colored ice plate bedded with pellet, you could slurp the bodies of water the aforementioned fish came from.
The fusilli with bone marrow was by far the most disappointing dish. There were no trace of bone marrow in my dish, which really hindered any integration among the pasta, bone marrow, and red-wine braised octopus. The dish seemed like it was oversauced, with a pool of tomato-based sauce pooling in my plate.
The dessert course was hazlenut) was an elegantly composed dish of two after the meal. The lobe of hazlenut ice cream placed an excellent foil to dark chocolate mouse and crumble. Hazelnuts abounded with gelato, matching the flavors of the hazlenut crus. Both were served with a garnish of candied mint.
Marea was a perfect splurge meal, with service attemntive but not obsequious.
The key to great seafood are purveyors that are committed to quality product: there are about 15 who deliver to Marea, and it is these privileged relationships that separate your Michelin-starred restuarant from your run-of-the-mill Red Lobster. With the exceptions of Sushi Yasuda and Le Benarding, I haven't had seafood this fresh since I picked a live oyster from a canoe off the bottom of a shallow Chesapeake-bay estuary when I was in grade school.
The interior dining feels light and airy, and with the dappled light from a north-facing Central Park exposure, you truly feel like your are on a breezy yacht on the Adriatic Sea.
The trio of crudos (Maine rock shrimp/mackerel/big-eye tuna) were simple elegance on a plate. The Pacific mackerel didn't taste oily at all - it was a full-bodied, fleshy piece that was complemented well by a garnish of squash caponata and pine nuts. The big eye tuna was a ruby red cube whose fattiness was delicately offset by a bright-green parsley and basil coulis and crispy garlic chip. I couldn't help but having an gustatory orgasm after biting into the supple rock shrimp dressed with extra-virgin olive oil and black lava salt: the shrimp were buttery, creamy, and supple, tasting fresh of the cold, North Atlantic waters from whence they came.
The lobster with burrata was probably my favorite dish. Several ounces of Nova Scotia lobster were surprisingly paired with a caprese salad of creamy burratta cheese, cherry tomatoes, and basil chiffonade and seeds. Cheese and seafood rarely mix, but the hunks of poached lobster seemed to integrate well with the saltiness and creaminess of the burrata, the acidity and sweetness of inexplicably ripe cherry tomatoes and pickled cucumber. This is the dish that I feel is Michael White's signature dish, and not the much vaunted fusilli with bone marrow and octopus.
The spaghetti with sea urchin, crab, and cherry tomatoes further proved Chef Michael White's expertise with deft contrasts. The sea urchin didn't overpower the dish, but rather created a sauce that was deftly highlighted by crab, tomatoes, basil, and garlic bread crumbs tossed in. The hand-made and hand-cut spaghetti provided a toothsome texture to the silkiness of the saucing for this dish.
Herb-crusted halibut with broccoli rabe, pancetta, and trumpet mushroom was a panoply of flavors. The halibut looked like a blonde ice-cream sandwich, with the tender hunk of halibut absolutely pristine from the cold waters of Alaska. The broccoli rabe, trumpet mushroom slice, and funky pancetta stood up well to the meatiness of the halibut, and the roasted lemon sauce that accompanied tasted as bright as the filling of a lemon eclair.
Post-course, there was a trio of individual oysters: Quilcene, St. Peters, and Beau Soleil. Served on a lucite-colored ice plate bedded with pellet, you could slurp the bodies of water the aforementioned fish came from.
The fusilli with bone marrow was by far the most disappointing dish. There were no trace of bone marrow in my dish, which really hindered any integration among the pasta, bone marrow, and red-wine braised octopus. The dish seemed like it was oversauced, with a pool of tomato-based sauce pooling in my plate.
The dessert course was hazlenut) was an elegantly composed dish of two after the meal. The lobe of hazlenut ice cream placed an excellent foil to dark chocolate mouse and crumble. Hazelnuts abounded with gelato, matching the flavors of the hazlenut crus. Both were served with a garnish of candied mint.
Marea was a perfect splurge meal, with service attemntive but not obsequious.
Stone Rose Lounge
10 Columbus Circle
Time Warner Center, 4th Fl
(between W Central Park & Broadway)
"Every rose has it's thorn." - Poison
There is that one bar in every major city that caters to six-figure salarymen and tourists who have too much discretionary income with too little knowledge about what's actually cool in NYC. That is Stone Rose Bar to a custom-fitted T.
If Jane Goodall were a nightlife anthropologist, she could spot a Randy Gerber bar by several distinguishing factors: 1) overpriced beer, wine, and cocktails; 2) slung by attractive, black-clad early to mid-twenties female bartenders; 3) with an over-30, finance-skewing male crowd unwittingly thinking it is cool to shamelessly hit on the hired guns; 4) in a sleek, stylish, masculine environment. It's a successful bar business model he's honed to perfection at Whiskey Blue, Whiskey Park, Underbar, and parlayed across other major US cities like Los Angeles, Ft. Lauderdale, and other meccas of US nightlife, Scottsdale, AZ.
Stone Rose is a beautiful bar, especially during sunset with the stone, rosewood, and glass accents throughout the barframing the sunset as it falls over Central Park. But at night, it becomes a veritable urban nightlife safari, not with lions, tigers, and bears, but rather Botoxed cougars, fresh meat of young, supple, female bartenders, and those with corporate accounts that hunt and pounce on them. It makes for an slightly amusing ambience for about 15 minutes, and then becomes gratingly annoying.
I wouldn't have any problem with this menagerie of NYC animals in this pristine urban environment, if the drink list weren't full of poorly made cocktails and a poorly selected wine by the glass list. The bartender (who looked fresh out of college) made me an Islander, a cognac based drinks that ended up inexplicably tasting like a well-brand Long Island Tea. My friend had the Stone Rose, their version of a Manhattan with Woodford Reserve, which tasted almost medicine-like. The wine list include such classic brands as Sonoma Cutrer, a California brand owned by a multinational corporation, that is pretty much regarded as garbage by anyone familiar with wine.
Time Warner Center, 4th Fl
(between W Central Park & Broadway)
"Every rose has it's thorn." - Poison
There is that one bar in every major city that caters to six-figure salarymen and tourists who have too much discretionary income with too little knowledge about what's actually cool in NYC. That is Stone Rose Bar to a custom-fitted T.
If Jane Goodall were a nightlife anthropologist, she could spot a Randy Gerber bar by several distinguishing factors: 1) overpriced beer, wine, and cocktails; 2) slung by attractive, black-clad early to mid-twenties female bartenders; 3) with an over-30, finance-skewing male crowd unwittingly thinking it is cool to shamelessly hit on the hired guns; 4) in a sleek, stylish, masculine environment. It's a successful bar business model he's honed to perfection at Whiskey Blue, Whiskey Park, Underbar, and parlayed across other major US cities like Los Angeles, Ft. Lauderdale, and other meccas of US nightlife, Scottsdale, AZ.
Stone Rose is a beautiful bar, especially during sunset with the stone, rosewood, and glass accents throughout the barframing the sunset as it falls over Central Park. But at night, it becomes a veritable urban nightlife safari, not with lions, tigers, and bears, but rather Botoxed cougars, fresh meat of young, supple, female bartenders, and those with corporate accounts that hunt and pounce on them. It makes for an slightly amusing ambience for about 15 minutes, and then becomes gratingly annoying.
I wouldn't have any problem with this menagerie of NYC animals in this pristine urban environment, if the drink list weren't full of poorly made cocktails and a poorly selected wine by the glass list. The bartender (who looked fresh out of college) made me an Islander, a cognac based drinks that ended up inexplicably tasting like a well-brand Long Island Tea. My friend had the Stone Rose, their version of a Manhattan with Woodford Reserve, which tasted almost medicine-like. The wine list include such classic brands as Sonoma Cutrer, a California brand owned by a multinational corporation, that is pretty much regarded as garbage by anyone familiar with wine.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Mile End
Mile End
97 Hoyt St
Brooklyn, NY 11217
Just as Canada did against the United States in South Park: Bigger, Longer, & Uncut, recent Canadian entries Mile End and M. Wells have held their own against the rapaciousness of the NYC dining scene.
M. Wells was like the Lawrence Taylor of NYC Dining 2010: it slipped past the offensive line of dominant food critics and became a disruptive culinary force that blurred the lines of diner food and fine dining. Mile End was as celebrated, if not more, for its take on in-your-face Canadian Jewish dining. I've been to this location for both lunch and dinner, and despite my thankfulness for having a very good Jewish deli in my neighborhood, it ain't M. Wells, and its reputation is more vaunted than the actual food.
The smoked meat and the Ruth Willensky have been much reviewed. The smoked meat that I had on several occasions was smoky and dry, but lacked the necessary moisture to bind the spiciness and meatiness of the brisket together. The Ruth Willensky was my favorite, but I am a sucker for layering pungent meats like salami, and condiments like onions and mustard together.
On a rainy night, I snuck in as a one-top for dinner. Instead of ordering from the entree section, I decided to order a quartet of appetizers. The pickle platter might be the best appetizer for $6 in the entire city: it was like a Celine Dion tribute to acidity, with the medley of pickled new and sour pickles, mushrooms, fennel, red peppers making my heart go on about the miracles of brining.
Pea leaf kreplach was solid: fried dumplings filled with ricotta and pea leaves smothered with creamy onions, mint, and chili went well with a Sixpoint Harbinger Saison. The onions smothered the fried pastry nicely, but a larger contrast between the pea leaves, mint, and chili would have significantly brightened the dish.
The sweet and sour lamb's tongue was unforunately buried in field blend of chopped cabbage, sliced carrot, and a thin slick of sweet and sour sauce. The lamb's tongue tasted like funky salami chopped into small antipasti-like pieces, but the crop of offal was overgrown by the C&C combo. Chopped liver with onion relish and chopped egg white was really disappointing with its lack fo schmaltziness, although the stir-fried vegetables provided a garnish to the pletzel triangles served with the dish.
97 Hoyt St
Brooklyn, NY 11217
Just as Canada did against the United States in South Park: Bigger, Longer, & Uncut, recent Canadian entries Mile End and M. Wells have held their own against the rapaciousness of the NYC dining scene.
M. Wells was like the Lawrence Taylor of NYC Dining 2010: it slipped past the offensive line of dominant food critics and became a disruptive culinary force that blurred the lines of diner food and fine dining. Mile End was as celebrated, if not more, for its take on in-your-face Canadian Jewish dining. I've been to this location for both lunch and dinner, and despite my thankfulness for having a very good Jewish deli in my neighborhood, it ain't M. Wells, and its reputation is more vaunted than the actual food.
The smoked meat and the Ruth Willensky have been much reviewed. The smoked meat that I had on several occasions was smoky and dry, but lacked the necessary moisture to bind the spiciness and meatiness of the brisket together. The Ruth Willensky was my favorite, but I am a sucker for layering pungent meats like salami, and condiments like onions and mustard together.
On a rainy night, I snuck in as a one-top for dinner. Instead of ordering from the entree section, I decided to order a quartet of appetizers. The pickle platter might be the best appetizer for $6 in the entire city: it was like a Celine Dion tribute to acidity, with the medley of pickled new and sour pickles, mushrooms, fennel, red peppers making my heart go on about the miracles of brining.
Pea leaf kreplach was solid: fried dumplings filled with ricotta and pea leaves smothered with creamy onions, mint, and chili went well with a Sixpoint Harbinger Saison. The onions smothered the fried pastry nicely, but a larger contrast between the pea leaves, mint, and chili would have significantly brightened the dish.
The sweet and sour lamb's tongue was unforunately buried in field blend of chopped cabbage, sliced carrot, and a thin slick of sweet and sour sauce. The lamb's tongue tasted like funky salami chopped into small antipasti-like pieces, but the crop of offal was overgrown by the C&C combo. Chopped liver with onion relish and chopped egg white was really disappointing with its lack fo schmaltziness, although the stir-fried vegetables provided a garnish to the pletzel triangles served with the dish.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Paulie Gee's
Paulie Gee's
60 Greenpoint Ave
(between West St & Franklin St)
Those who can't, write; those who can, build.
Enter Paul Giannone. A former computer programmer, with an ardent passion for pizza that had developed over 15 years, decided to switch careers and start a pizza joint in Greenpoint. Paul put the money and the mozz where the mouth and rebuilt an old bar on Greenpoint Ave. into one of the best pizza spots in all of NYC.
I had the Cherry Jones (fior di latte/gorgonzola/proscuitto di parma/dried bing cherries/orange blossom honey), and the Red, White, and Greenberg (fior di latte/guanciale/pickled red onions/baby arugula). The latter was my favorite, with the acidic kick of the pickled onions and slightly bitter arugula paired beautifully with the crispy, fatty guanciale and creamy, rich mozzarella. The Cherry Jones was a mirror image of RWG: the sweetness of the bing cherries and orange blossom honey complemented the fattiness of the prosciutto and mozzarella. The crust on both pizzas had the nice, pliant softness of a Boboli and the slight char and texture of a coal-fired pizza.
Paul Giannone chatted with our table with the conviviality of an expert maitre'd. With his Martin Scorsese glasses and G train baseball cap, he asked us where we were from. After telling him our respect neighborhoods, he told us about a new pizza place that was opening up on Franklin Avenue. This was completely unnecessary and cool: although he made a referral to his competitor's business, Paulie still has the warm appreciation for the pie that started him on this wonderful journey 15 years ago.
60 Greenpoint Ave
(between West St & Franklin St)
Those who can't, write; those who can, build.
Enter Paul Giannone. A former computer programmer, with an ardent passion for pizza that had developed over 15 years, decided to switch careers and start a pizza joint in Greenpoint. Paul put the money and the mozz where the mouth and rebuilt an old bar on Greenpoint Ave. into one of the best pizza spots in all of NYC.
I had the Cherry Jones (fior di latte/gorgonzola/proscuitto di parma/dried bing cherries/orange blossom honey), and the Red, White, and Greenberg (fior di latte/guanciale/pickled red onions/baby arugula). The latter was my favorite, with the acidic kick of the pickled onions and slightly bitter arugula paired beautifully with the crispy, fatty guanciale and creamy, rich mozzarella. The Cherry Jones was a mirror image of RWG: the sweetness of the bing cherries and orange blossom honey complemented the fattiness of the prosciutto and mozzarella. The crust on both pizzas had the nice, pliant softness of a Boboli and the slight char and texture of a coal-fired pizza.
Paul Giannone chatted with our table with the conviviality of an expert maitre'd. With his Martin Scorsese glasses and G train baseball cap, he asked us where we were from. After telling him our respect neighborhoods, he told us about a new pizza place that was opening up on Franklin Avenue. This was completely unnecessary and cool: although he made a referral to his competitor's business, Paulie still has the warm appreciation for the pie that started him on this wonderful journey 15 years ago.
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