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.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
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.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Branded Saloon
Branded Saloon
603 Vanderbilt Ave
(between St Marks Ave & Bergen St)
Brooklyn, NY 11238
Neighborhood: Prospect Heights
When someone in the hospitality industry goes out of their way to tip 10%, you know your service is messed up.
Branded Saloon was not my first choice for restaurants to check out after my double shift ended at 11pm. Neither was it my second, third, nor fourth choice. (These honors would go to The Vanderbilt, Eton's Dumplings, Soda Bar, and Cornelius respectively). Like a booty call at two in the morning or a trip to Alphabet City 10 years ago, I simply hit up to the location that would give me the best chance of scoring.
With ravenous hunger setting in and expectations already low, I venture to Branded Saloon, the only place in Prospect Heights whose kitchen is open after 12am on weekdays.
The late night dinner started promising enough with a La Trappe Quadrupel, whose malty, toffee, and caramel notes were emblematic of this style of Belgian beer. Branded has a surprisingly decent beer selection by bottle; other highlights include Innis & Gunn, a mild ale from Scotland matured in oak casks, which give it a roasted, vanilla flavor very much to what you see in bourbon.
The burger took about 30 minutes to come out. While I patiently read my recent issue of Food & Wine Magazine, I mentally compiled the following service issues which played out like a bad Health Inspection examination.
- Order Belgian quadrupel; bartender does not offer glassware of any kind
- Burger took 30 minutes, despite my order being the only food order sent to the kitchen
- Bartender mentions burger will come out in 4 minutes after waiting at the bar for nearly 20 minutes; said burger takes 10 minutes to finally reach the table
- Requested side salad instead of fries with burger; order comes out with fries
- Failure by bartender to apologize for messing up order
- While order is outstanding, bartender spends time adjusting volume level and tracks of personal iPod list and ventures outside for 5 minute smoke break
- Bartender clears food from previous customer with hands into bus tray; proceeds to handle my plate from kitchen with cigarette-smoke laden hands without washing
I begrudgingly add an additional star due to the fact that the bartender offered a shot of Jameson while I was waiting; although I suspect that it was to get him lubricated rather than as a comp for how long the burger took to cook.
603 Vanderbilt Ave
(between St Marks Ave & Bergen St)
Brooklyn, NY 11238
Neighborhood: Prospect Heights
When someone in the hospitality industry goes out of their way to tip 10%, you know your service is messed up.
Branded Saloon was not my first choice for restaurants to check out after my double shift ended at 11pm. Neither was it my second, third, nor fourth choice. (These honors would go to The Vanderbilt, Eton's Dumplings, Soda Bar, and Cornelius respectively). Like a booty call at two in the morning or a trip to Alphabet City 10 years ago, I simply hit up to the location that would give me the best chance of scoring.
With ravenous hunger setting in and expectations already low, I venture to Branded Saloon, the only place in Prospect Heights whose kitchen is open after 12am on weekdays.
The late night dinner started promising enough with a La Trappe Quadrupel, whose malty, toffee, and caramel notes were emblematic of this style of Belgian beer. Branded has a surprisingly decent beer selection by bottle; other highlights include Innis & Gunn, a mild ale from Scotland matured in oak casks, which give it a roasted, vanilla flavor very much to what you see in bourbon.
The burger took about 30 minutes to come out. While I patiently read my recent issue of Food & Wine Magazine, I mentally compiled the following service issues which played out like a bad Health Inspection examination.
- Order Belgian quadrupel; bartender does not offer glassware of any kind
- Burger took 30 minutes, despite my order being the only food order sent to the kitchen
- Bartender mentions burger will come out in 4 minutes after waiting at the bar for nearly 20 minutes; said burger takes 10 minutes to finally reach the table
- Requested side salad instead of fries with burger; order comes out with fries
- Failure by bartender to apologize for messing up order
- While order is outstanding, bartender spends time adjusting volume level and tracks of personal iPod list and ventures outside for 5 minute smoke break
- Bartender clears food from previous customer with hands into bus tray; proceeds to handle my plate from kitchen with cigarette-smoke laden hands without washing
I begrudgingly add an additional star due to the fact that the bartender offered a shot of Jameson while I was waiting; although I suspect that it was to get him lubricated rather than as a comp for how long the burger took to cook.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The Vanderbilt
The Vanderbilt
570 Vanderbilt Ave
(between Pacific St & Dean St)
Brooklyn, NY 11238
I don't dine in Brooklyn.
With the exception of Williamsburg (Roberta's, The Commodore, Pies n' Thighs) and Park Slope (Al di La), I consider my borough, as Gabrielle Hamilton would quip, "a minor league stretch" that simply disappoints culinarily.
I don't consider the farm-to-table restaurants that have sprouted up in Brooklyn legitimate concepts. To quote the man David Chang himself: "How else are you supposed to cook? You're supposed to get the best ingredients possible. Do you want a [expletive deleted] pat on the back?"
***Rant ended***
The Vanderbilt is one of the few restaurants that get a personal pat on the back. Started by "that dude who runs Saul," it's an American-style gastropub that's major-league with its execution.
Like a French brasserie, the meats, sausage, and charcuterie shine. The grilled merguez sausage was smoky and spicy, delightfully offset by the lactic tang of lemony raita. The butter-brushed, homemade pita that accompanied it provided a soft, pillowy cradle to slather the yogurt sauce and stray pieces of merguez that fell off my fork + knife. The German bratwurst was juicy and well-cooked; the meatiness complemented by acidic bite of fermented sauerkraut and horseradish dijon musatrd. The (rare) hamburger included a nice blend of funky dry-aged beef that went well with my equally funky Monk's Cafe Flemish Red Sour Ale. The only disappointment was the country pork pate: the lack of meatiness/smokiness was compounded by the small hunks of fat and tendon strewn throughout the meaty slab.
Where the Vanderbilt shines is the beer list. Personally selected by the head bartender, it includes an solid domestic draft and eccentric international bottle list. On draft are solid domestic selections available at any high-end craft beer establishment (Allagash, Dogfish Head, Pretty Things. The bottles are more interesting with international selections from Belgian brewery Van Steenberg (Piraat Ale, Monk's Cafe Flemmish Red Sour Ale) and other weird stuff from Germany (Schlenkerla Marzen Rauchbier) and Spain (Estrella Damn Inedit).
At least that dude from Saul is doing something right in Brooklyn.
570 Vanderbilt Ave
(between Pacific St & Dean St)
Brooklyn, NY 11238
I don't dine in Brooklyn.
With the exception of Williamsburg (Roberta's, The Commodore, Pies n' Thighs) and Park Slope (Al di La), I consider my borough, as Gabrielle Hamilton would quip, "a minor league stretch" that simply disappoints culinarily.
I don't consider the farm-to-table restaurants that have sprouted up in Brooklyn legitimate concepts. To quote the man David Chang himself: "How else are you supposed to cook? You're supposed to get the best ingredients possible. Do you want a [expletive deleted] pat on the back?"
***Rant ended***
The Vanderbilt is one of the few restaurants that get a personal pat on the back. Started by "that dude who runs Saul," it's an American-style gastropub that's major-league with its execution.
Like a French brasserie, the meats, sausage, and charcuterie shine. The grilled merguez sausage was smoky and spicy, delightfully offset by the lactic tang of lemony raita. The butter-brushed, homemade pita that accompanied it provided a soft, pillowy cradle to slather the yogurt sauce and stray pieces of merguez that fell off my fork + knife. The German bratwurst was juicy and well-cooked; the meatiness complemented by acidic bite of fermented sauerkraut and horseradish dijon musatrd. The (rare) hamburger included a nice blend of funky dry-aged beef that went well with my equally funky Monk's Cafe Flemish Red Sour Ale. The only disappointment was the country pork pate: the lack of meatiness/smokiness was compounded by the small hunks of fat and tendon strewn throughout the meaty slab.
Where the Vanderbilt shines is the beer list. Personally selected by the head bartender, it includes an solid domestic draft and eccentric international bottle list. On draft are solid domestic selections available at any high-end craft beer establishment (Allagash, Dogfish Head, Pretty Things. The bottles are more interesting with international selections from Belgian brewery Van Steenberg (Piraat Ale, Monk's Cafe Flemmish Red Sour Ale) and other weird stuff from Germany (Schlenkerla Marzen Rauchbier) and Spain (Estrella Damn Inedit).
At least that dude from Saul is doing something right in Brooklyn.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Brooklyn Beer & Soda
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.)
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 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.
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