Imperial Woodpecker Sno-Balls
145 7th Ave S.
(between 10th St & Charles St)
Manhattan, NY 10014
On hot summer days, a friend of mine who used to live in the West Village used to bemoan that there were no sno-balls to be had in NYC. A delectable treat from our childhoods, this fruit-flavored, icy concoction was more addictive than the crack cocaine that ravaged neighborhoods in our hometown of Baltimore.
For those not initiated, a sno-ball is a dessert made from finely shaved block ice, with the consistency halfway between an Italian ice and a snow cone. Various fruit-flavored syrups (made from artificially flavored sugar-syrups) are placed on the sno-ball, and the resulting mixture is eaten with a plastic spoon and/or a straw.
The Yelp directory incorrectly lists this place as "Imperial Woodpecker Snow-Cones"; on their business card, they are officially called "Imperial Woodpecker Sno-Balls." In fact, a sno-ball is texturally different from a sno-cone: the former is made from milled ice with a rougher, larger particle, while the former is from shaved ice, and compacted to form a snowball (hence, the name). It is also not halo-halo: besides marshmallow fluff or chocolate syrup, there are no other toppings placed on it.
Apparently, sno-cones aren't just a Baltimore thing, but also a New Orleans thing. Nessa Peterson, the plucky owner of Imperial Woodpecker Sno-Cones, thought it a good idea to import the sno-cone along with other great Nawlin's contributions (the Sazerac, Dixieland jazz, Emeril Lagasse). I'm a purist and prefer my sno-cone out of a styrofoam cup, but she serves in in various sizes of Chinese takeout container. There are about 30 flavors to choose from (yes, Tiger's Blood is one the menu), which are made from simple sugar syrup and concentrate by two sno-cone companies in the Southern US. The flavors weren't revelatory by any means, but when you have one on a hot, humid summer day, I'll swear you'll swear by them.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Thirstbaravin
Thirstbaravin
629 Classon Ave
(between Atlantic Ave & Pacific St)
Brooklyn, NY 11238
With people, lofty arrogance often belies latent insecurities. With restaurants, it is a warning sign for a bad meal.
I've been a fan of Eric Asimov's NYT wine column for several years, and upon reading his recommendation of this desolate outpost of a restaurant in Crown Heights, I made it a point to go here. Also, the restaurant's elevation of the underappreciated French wine-producing regions of Provence, Languedoc, and Rousillion, beckoned me to go here.
The wines by the glass list initially turned me off given the small number to choose from (3 whites, 3 reds, 1 rose, and 2 dessert wines) and their relatively high price points ($8-11) given what the bottles sell at retail. The waitress/owner initially tried to sell me a glass of red from a half-empty bottle with a rubber stopper, a clear signal that the restaurant is trying to dump a bottle opened one or two nights ago. I passed and demurred for a Domaine de Fontsainte Corbieres Rose Gris de Gris ($8), which was from an unopened magnum and a reputable distributor. I asked why the wine was called "gris de gris," and got a harried answer about how the wine was halfway between a red and a white wine (hence the 1st gris), and after further prying, that it was made from "Grenache Gris" (thus, the 2nd). After my glass was half full, I was asked if I wanted another glass of wine. (Not yet.) Mid-way through my meal, I was asked if I still wanted another glass of wine (No, not for that stingy 4 oz. pour.) After my rillettes, I was then asked again (No, because you are annoying me with your upselling.)
The meal started on a good note and gradually wended downhill. The cold beet soup with sheep's milk cheese ($8) was a delectable dish on the longest day of the year: the creaminess of the beet soup married well with the tanginess of the sheep's milk cheese and earthy drizzle of olive oil on top. The dandelion green salad was an exercise in ingredients not handled well; the bitterness of the dandelion greens was underlined even more by the lemony, acidic vinaigrette that dressed them and the slightly burnt croutons that topped it. Following these two dishes, the chicken rillettes ($12) were a slimy disappointment, with the minimal mound of seemingly leftover chicken made even more insignificant by the stale, oxidized baguette slices that were served along with it. After having two poor dishes, I should have called it quits, but I decided to order the Macaroni Gratin ($14). Upon seeing the dish, I knew I would be disappointed; upon biting into it, I became morose. The turgid cylinders of rigatoni looked as if they were taking limpid bath in a wan cheese sauce. With gratin, there should be an incorporation of the bread crumbs, the sauce, and the starch, but since the bread crumbs had been too liberally sprinkled and added to late, the little bread pieces became like small pieces of gravel while gnoshing on my pasta. After the pasta was half-eaten, I became fully dejected, and asked for the check.
My first (and last trip) to Thirstbaravin was an unmitigated disappointment. From the pushy wine service, to the poor quality of food, to the lofty price points, this is a restaurant that has severely become complacent since Eric Asimov's glowing write up. For someone who works in the industry, I would never tell anyone to not eat at a restaurant, but for someone thinking about Thirstbaravin, I would go out of my way to make an exception.
629 Classon Ave
(between Atlantic Ave & Pacific St)
Brooklyn, NY 11238
With people, lofty arrogance often belies latent insecurities. With restaurants, it is a warning sign for a bad meal.
I've been a fan of Eric Asimov's NYT wine column for several years, and upon reading his recommendation of this desolate outpost of a restaurant in Crown Heights, I made it a point to go here. Also, the restaurant's elevation of the underappreciated French wine-producing regions of Provence, Languedoc, and Rousillion, beckoned me to go here.
The wines by the glass list initially turned me off given the small number to choose from (3 whites, 3 reds, 1 rose, and 2 dessert wines) and their relatively high price points ($8-11) given what the bottles sell at retail. The waitress/owner initially tried to sell me a glass of red from a half-empty bottle with a rubber stopper, a clear signal that the restaurant is trying to dump a bottle opened one or two nights ago. I passed and demurred for a Domaine de Fontsainte Corbieres Rose Gris de Gris ($8), which was from an unopened magnum and a reputable distributor. I asked why the wine was called "gris de gris," and got a harried answer about how the wine was halfway between a red and a white wine (hence the 1st gris), and after further prying, that it was made from "Grenache Gris" (thus, the 2nd). After my glass was half full, I was asked if I wanted another glass of wine. (Not yet.) Mid-way through my meal, I was asked if I still wanted another glass of wine (No, not for that stingy 4 oz. pour.) After my rillettes, I was then asked again (No, because you are annoying me with your upselling.)
The meal started on a good note and gradually wended downhill. The cold beet soup with sheep's milk cheese ($8) was a delectable dish on the longest day of the year: the creaminess of the beet soup married well with the tanginess of the sheep's milk cheese and earthy drizzle of olive oil on top. The dandelion green salad was an exercise in ingredients not handled well; the bitterness of the dandelion greens was underlined even more by the lemony, acidic vinaigrette that dressed them and the slightly burnt croutons that topped it. Following these two dishes, the chicken rillettes ($12) were a slimy disappointment, with the minimal mound of seemingly leftover chicken made even more insignificant by the stale, oxidized baguette slices that were served along with it. After having two poor dishes, I should have called it quits, but I decided to order the Macaroni Gratin ($14). Upon seeing the dish, I knew I would be disappointed; upon biting into it, I became morose. The turgid cylinders of rigatoni looked as if they were taking limpid bath in a wan cheese sauce. With gratin, there should be an incorporation of the bread crumbs, the sauce, and the starch, but since the bread crumbs had been too liberally sprinkled and added to late, the little bread pieces became like small pieces of gravel while gnoshing on my pasta. After the pasta was half-eaten, I became fully dejected, and asked for the check.
My first (and last trip) to Thirstbaravin was an unmitigated disappointment. From the pushy wine service, to the poor quality of food, to the lofty price points, this is a restaurant that has severely become complacent since Eric Asimov's glowing write up. For someone who works in the industry, I would never tell anyone to not eat at a restaurant, but for someone thinking about Thirstbaravin, I would go out of my way to make an exception.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Hospoda
Hospoda
321 E 73rd St
(between 2nd Ave & 1st Ave)
Manhattan, NY 10021
Count on the Czech consulate to set up an after-work beer bar next to their offices.
Hospoda is a cosmopolitan take on the traditional Czech beerpub. Hardwood dominates the layout, but accents of glass are included in the bar (to display their modern draft system) and embedded in the floor (to show off their cellar/beer locker). The hardwood walls are decorated with narrative scroll-work from a popular Czech graffiti artist that loosely documents a man's descent into darkness after drinking.
Purists at heart, Hospoda only serves one beer, the nationally revered and internationally renowned Pilsner Urquell. With the traditional golden Czech session pilsner, the bar serves it four ways, which vary by the amount of creamy foam you want in your glass: sweet/mliko (all-foam), slice/snyt (half-foam), hladinka/creme (quarter-foam), and neat/cochtan (no foam). I'd suggest the slice/snyt version which has enough foam to provide a soft, delicious balance to the bitterness of the Bohemian Saaz hops that drive the flowery, spicy taste of Pilsner Urquell.
All the glasses are cleaned according to strict draft quality system procedures, so rest assured the taste of your beer will be consistent throughout.
I started off with s small tulip glass of the berechkova, the traditional Czech apertif. Although not as complex as many Italian amari, it had a lovely honey and cardamom taste redolent of Atomic Fireballs that stimulated my appetite. Following this was a slab of rye bread slathered with cottage cheese and garnished with julienned radishes. As another complementary amuse-bouche was a steak tartare between two circular rye crisps. Almost like a meaty Oreo, this was solid food pairing with the crisp and hoppy Pilsner. Lastly, I had the pork belly with grated horseradish and mustard. All in all, this dish was a disappoinment, as the pork belly tasted like fatty roast beef and the the dijon overpowered the belly and even the horseradish.
Hospoda is one the rare places that I would go out of my way to check out in the Upper East Side. Don't take my word for it; Czech it out yourself.
321 E 73rd St
(between 2nd Ave & 1st Ave)
Manhattan, NY 10021
Count on the Czech consulate to set up an after-work beer bar next to their offices.
Hospoda is a cosmopolitan take on the traditional Czech beerpub. Hardwood dominates the layout, but accents of glass are included in the bar (to display their modern draft system) and embedded in the floor (to show off their cellar/beer locker). The hardwood walls are decorated with narrative scroll-work from a popular Czech graffiti artist that loosely documents a man's descent into darkness after drinking.
Purists at heart, Hospoda only serves one beer, the nationally revered and internationally renowned Pilsner Urquell. With the traditional golden Czech session pilsner, the bar serves it four ways, which vary by the amount of creamy foam you want in your glass: sweet/mliko (all-foam), slice/snyt (half-foam), hladinka/creme (quarter-foam), and neat/cochtan (no foam). I'd suggest the slice/snyt version which has enough foam to provide a soft, delicious balance to the bitterness of the Bohemian Saaz hops that drive the flowery, spicy taste of Pilsner Urquell.
All the glasses are cleaned according to strict draft quality system procedures, so rest assured the taste of your beer will be consistent throughout.
I started off with s small tulip glass of the berechkova, the traditional Czech apertif. Although not as complex as many Italian amari, it had a lovely honey and cardamom taste redolent of Atomic Fireballs that stimulated my appetite. Following this was a slab of rye bread slathered with cottage cheese and garnished with julienned radishes. As another complementary amuse-bouche was a steak tartare between two circular rye crisps. Almost like a meaty Oreo, this was solid food pairing with the crisp and hoppy Pilsner. Lastly, I had the pork belly with grated horseradish and mustard. All in all, this dish was a disappoinment, as the pork belly tasted like fatty roast beef and the the dijon overpowered the belly and even the horseradish.
Hospoda is one the rare places that I would go out of my way to check out in the Upper East Side. Don't take my word for it; Czech it out yourself.
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