Blueprint
196 5th Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11215.
The Source and Vibe magazine initially gave Jay-Z's Blueprint 5 stars; I'll be the first to review the Blueprint in Park Slope and give it 2 stars.
Blueprint attempts to be an elegant cocktail bar, but its execution falls off the mark. It adopts Weatherup's philosophy of sticking to the basic cocktails and listing the primary ingredients; however, for the cocktail enthusiast, although the menu reprises many cocktail classics, they aren't particularly inspired, nor are they any good.
For a bar that recently opened, I want to give it the benefit of the doubt. However, all the cocktails I had on the menu lacked balance and had noticeable faults. I would attempt to attribute it to an off night, but my drinks were made by two separate bartenders.
The Oaxacan (Los Nahaules mezcal, buckwheat honey, fresh lime, cinnamon) left my mouth with an acidic tang: too much lime juice overwhelmed any smokiness of mezcal, spiciness from the cinnamon, and earthy sweetness from the buckwheat honey.
The High and Dry (Rittenhouse Rye, Vya dry vermouth, fennel bitters, Ricard, burnt orange twist) was even worse, with the spicy, alcoholic sweetness of the Rittenhouse rye whiskey left as an initial afterthought the old cocktail stand, Rittenhouse Rye, overpowered by the bitter herbalness of too much Pernod Ricard and fennel bitters.
The Swedish Monk (Beefeater gin, Kopparberg pear cider, Chartreuse, soda, and lime was the worst of all. Too much soda water stifled the delicate interplay of sweet pear cider, delicately pungent Beefeater 24 gin, and herbal chartreuse.
As an afternote, they have a modest, but ridiculously overpriced selection of wines by the glass. Do as one should do in Park Slope, and stick with the bottled and draft beer.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Dogfish Head Brewery
Dogfish Head Craft Brewery
6 Cannery Village Center
Milton, DE 19968
As much as I have great respect for the off-centered, hop-driven ales that Dogfish Head produces, I have a little more respect for Sam Calagione, founder and head of the 11th largest craft brewer in the United States.
Sam Calagione’s ascent to Brew Master was more fortuitous than engineered. After being inspired by the craft beer selection at the now-defunct Mexican restaurant he used to waiter at near Columbia University, he started a brewpub/restaurant in Rehoboth Beach, DE without knowing that it was illegal to start a distillery under Delaware State law. At the last minute, he single-handedly got legislation changed before it opened.
Dogfish Head’s reputation has always been driven by using innovative ingredients in their beer, but unfortunately, the selections on tap on my brewery tour did not reflect this. After the didactic and somewhat stultifying half-hour brewery tour, the bar only offered samples of four beers -- Shelter Pale Ale, 60 Minute, 90 Minute, and 120 Minute IPA – as refreshment for enduring a dull lecture. This was even more disappointing given the fact that these beers are readily available year-round at most East Coast bars.
Nevertheless, it was fascinating to see a horizontal flight of their hopped-beers. While the Shelter Pale Ale and 60 Minute IPA were good session beers, and 90 Minute a robust, but quaffable IPA, the 120 Minute IPA was in the infamous words of Brooklyn Brewery brewmaster Garrett Oliver “unbalanced and shrieking.”
If you want greater exposure to their more limited-edition beers, you need to travel to their brewpub/restaurant in Reboboth Beach. There you can get customizable samplers of their regular and limited edition beers such as Festina Peche (peach-flavored Berliner Weisse) and Namaste (lemon-grass flavored witbier). No Dogfish Head experience is complete without a hit from Randall the Enamel Animal, a stainless steel water filter that adds an extra dose of hoppiness to an already hoppy 90 Minute IPA, which strangely enough is absent from the brewery tour.
6 Cannery Village Center
Milton, DE 19968
As much as I have great respect for the off-centered, hop-driven ales that Dogfish Head produces, I have a little more respect for Sam Calagione, founder and head of the 11th largest craft brewer in the United States.
Sam Calagione’s ascent to Brew Master was more fortuitous than engineered. After being inspired by the craft beer selection at the now-defunct Mexican restaurant he used to waiter at near Columbia University, he started a brewpub/restaurant in Rehoboth Beach, DE without knowing that it was illegal to start a distillery under Delaware State law. At the last minute, he single-handedly got legislation changed before it opened.
Dogfish Head’s reputation has always been driven by using innovative ingredients in their beer, but unfortunately, the selections on tap on my brewery tour did not reflect this. After the didactic and somewhat stultifying half-hour brewery tour, the bar only offered samples of four beers -- Shelter Pale Ale, 60 Minute, 90 Minute, and 120 Minute IPA – as refreshment for enduring a dull lecture. This was even more disappointing given the fact that these beers are readily available year-round at most East Coast bars.
Nevertheless, it was fascinating to see a horizontal flight of their hopped-beers. While the Shelter Pale Ale and 60 Minute IPA were good session beers, and 90 Minute a robust, but quaffable IPA, the 120 Minute IPA was in the infamous words of Brooklyn Brewery brewmaster Garrett Oliver “unbalanced and shrieking.”
If you want greater exposure to their more limited-edition beers, you need to travel to their brewpub/restaurant in Reboboth Beach. There you can get customizable samplers of their regular and limited edition beers such as Festina Peche (peach-flavored Berliner Weisse) and Namaste (lemon-grass flavored witbier). No Dogfish Head experience is complete without a hit from Randall the Enamel Animal, a stainless steel water filter that adds an extra dose of hoppiness to an already hoppy 90 Minute IPA, which strangely enough is absent from the brewery tour.
Flying Dog Brewery
Flying Dog Brewery
4607 Wedgewood Blvd.
Frederick, MD 21703
Since seeing Flying Dog Brewery's gonzo, post-apocalpytic art festooned on the walls of Bierkraft, my favorite specialty beer retail shop in Brooklyn, I have been intrigued by the brand and its beer. I decided to take advantage of a recent change in Maryland state beer laws, and visited where the method meets the madness.
After touring several breweries, you realize they are one-in-the-same, and it is more about connecting with the philosophy of the individual brewery than anything else. (Also drinking good beer is a primary motivator.)
The tour of Flying Dog followed a similar routine: views of mash tun where they seep the barley, the lauter tun where they separate the wort, the fermentation tank where the yeast is added, and the bar where they serve the beer.
For $5, they allow you five different 3-4 oz. samples from the taps on hand. Fortunately, Flying Dog had most of the limited releases that are hard to find at retail and on taps: Gonzo Imperial Porter (regular and barrel-aged versions), Double Dog Double Pale Ale, Raging Bitch Belgian-Style Imperial IPA, DOGtoberfest, and Centennial Single-Hop IPA.
I found the history of Flying Dog considerably more interesting than the tour itself. George Stranahan, bon vivant and heir to the Champion spark plug fortune, gets the inspiration to start a brewpub in Aspen, CO upon seeing an image of a dog with wings at a Pakistani hotel bar after an ill-advised, ill-fated, and marijuana-induced climb of K2, one of the most dangerous ascents in all of the Himalayas. Several years after starting the brewpub, through his equally gonzo friend Hunter S. Thompson, he connects with artist Ralph Steadman, illustator of Thompson's literary works and soon-to-be demented genius behind Flying Dog's art.
The tour was passable, and the beer was decent. But if I had a single takeaways from my Flying Dog tour: sometime you (literally) have to get high to get inspiration for a truly great idea.
4607 Wedgewood Blvd.
Frederick, MD 21703
Since seeing Flying Dog Brewery's gonzo, post-apocalpytic art festooned on the walls of Bierkraft, my favorite specialty beer retail shop in Brooklyn, I have been intrigued by the brand and its beer. I decided to take advantage of a recent change in Maryland state beer laws, and visited where the method meets the madness.
After touring several breweries, you realize they are one-in-the-same, and it is more about connecting with the philosophy of the individual brewery than anything else. (Also drinking good beer is a primary motivator.)
The tour of Flying Dog followed a similar routine: views of mash tun where they seep the barley, the lauter tun where they separate the wort, the fermentation tank where the yeast is added, and the bar where they serve the beer.
For $5, they allow you five different 3-4 oz. samples from the taps on hand. Fortunately, Flying Dog had most of the limited releases that are hard to find at retail and on taps: Gonzo Imperial Porter (regular and barrel-aged versions), Double Dog Double Pale Ale, Raging Bitch Belgian-Style Imperial IPA, DOGtoberfest, and Centennial Single-Hop IPA.
I found the history of Flying Dog considerably more interesting than the tour itself. George Stranahan, bon vivant and heir to the Champion spark plug fortune, gets the inspiration to start a brewpub in Aspen, CO upon seeing an image of a dog with wings at a Pakistani hotel bar after an ill-advised, ill-fated, and marijuana-induced climb of K2, one of the most dangerous ascents in all of the Himalayas. Several years after starting the brewpub, through his equally gonzo friend Hunter S. Thompson, he connects with artist Ralph Steadman, illustator of Thompson's literary works and soon-to-be demented genius behind Flying Dog's art.
The tour was passable, and the beer was decent. But if I had a single takeaways from my Flying Dog tour: sometime you (literally) have to get high to get inspiration for a truly great idea.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Boulud Sud
Boulud Sud
20 W 64th St
(between W Central Park & Broadway)
Manhattan, NY 10023
Besides Daniel Boulud, DB stands for doing it better.
In recent years, DB has adapted to the economic times and has adopted the upscale, casual dining concept that Keith McNally had perfected (Balthazar, Schiller's Liquor Bar) with Bar Boulud and recently, Boulud Sud. Unlike McNally, the food at Boulud's brasseries are not merely an afterthought to the location and ambience.
The dining room feels like being on a cruise liner on the Mediterreanean: gently curving whitewashed ceilings, recessed lightning, and the primly dressed waitstaff provide a light and airy background for the meal-at-hand.
I promptly skipped the overpriced wine-by-the-glass list and I started out with a Jenlain Biere de Mars, a versatile French saison whose hints of malt and peppery notes blend well with land, sea, and garden-driven menu.
Although slightly overcoooked, the pan-seared Octopus a la Plancha was seasoned well with some paprika and harissa oil. The chickpea paste, marcona almonds, and sherry vinegar all provided good textural contrasts with the meatiness of this dish.
More a nod to Bar Boulud next door, the Rabbit Porchetta gives rise to my theory that the Lyonnaise find it next to impossible to mess up charcuterie. Unctuous, gamy, and meaty, this wonderful dish was brightened by some thinly shaved pencil asparagus and a couple dots of basil oil.
The Harira Soup would be what the Moroccans would envision chicken soup, but replacing the pieces of poulet and shards of noodle were little fideos and dabs of cinnamon- and cardamom-spiced meat balls and little fideos in addition to the mirepoix-ed vegetables. Homely, satisfying, but brilliantly complex, I cannot look at matzo ball soup in the same way again.
As a palate cleanser between savory and dessert, the bartender offered me a cocktail that he was tweaking for the menu: Watermelon, Rum, Lime Juice, and a bit ouzo. Although it could have used a savory component, the drink takes ice sculpture to a new level, with a 2" spherical ball comprised of frozen and strained watermelon puree, watermelon rind, and ice. Besides being beautiful to look at, it keep the cocktail cool, and adds another fruity element to the drink with the melting of the watermelon puree.
For dessert, I started off with a Macvin du Jura, a dessert wine from the oft-neglected French region made from Pinot Noir. It's one of the few dessert wines that has the acidity to play off citrus-dominated dessert dishes such as the Grapefrui Givre I ordered. I hardly recommend going to a restaurant to only order dessert, but this is one of sheer pastry genius. A grapefruit half is scopped out, filled with grapefruit sorbet, piped with sesame mousse, mixed with grapefruit segments and rose louloum, and garnished with an almond tuile and halvah cotton candy. Like a Ferran Adria dish, you'd expect the contrasting textures and flavors to deconstruct, but somehow the acid from the grape fruit harmoniously blends together with the savory sesame, halvah, and loukoum.
Screw Josephina and Cafe Fiorello: DB just conquered the Lincoln Center restaurant scene by doing it better.
20 W 64th St
(between W Central Park & Broadway)
Manhattan, NY 10023
Besides Daniel Boulud, DB stands for doing it better.
In recent years, DB has adapted to the economic times and has adopted the upscale, casual dining concept that Keith McNally had perfected (Balthazar, Schiller's Liquor Bar) with Bar Boulud and recently, Boulud Sud. Unlike McNally, the food at Boulud's brasseries are not merely an afterthought to the location and ambience.
The dining room feels like being on a cruise liner on the Mediterreanean: gently curving whitewashed ceilings, recessed lightning, and the primly dressed waitstaff provide a light and airy background for the meal-at-hand.
I promptly skipped the overpriced wine-by-the-glass list and I started out with a Jenlain Biere de Mars, a versatile French saison whose hints of malt and peppery notes blend well with land, sea, and garden-driven menu.
Although slightly overcoooked, the pan-seared Octopus a la Plancha was seasoned well with some paprika and harissa oil. The chickpea paste, marcona almonds, and sherry vinegar all provided good textural contrasts with the meatiness of this dish.
More a nod to Bar Boulud next door, the Rabbit Porchetta gives rise to my theory that the Lyonnaise find it next to impossible to mess up charcuterie. Unctuous, gamy, and meaty, this wonderful dish was brightened by some thinly shaved pencil asparagus and a couple dots of basil oil.
The Harira Soup would be what the Moroccans would envision chicken soup, but replacing the pieces of poulet and shards of noodle were little fideos and dabs of cinnamon- and cardamom-spiced meat balls and little fideos in addition to the mirepoix-ed vegetables. Homely, satisfying, but brilliantly complex, I cannot look at matzo ball soup in the same way again.
As a palate cleanser between savory and dessert, the bartender offered me a cocktail that he was tweaking for the menu: Watermelon, Rum, Lime Juice, and a bit ouzo. Although it could have used a savory component, the drink takes ice sculpture to a new level, with a 2" spherical ball comprised of frozen and strained watermelon puree, watermelon rind, and ice. Besides being beautiful to look at, it keep the cocktail cool, and adds another fruity element to the drink with the melting of the watermelon puree.
For dessert, I started off with a Macvin du Jura, a dessert wine from the oft-neglected French region made from Pinot Noir. It's one of the few dessert wines that has the acidity to play off citrus-dominated dessert dishes such as the Grapefrui Givre I ordered. I hardly recommend going to a restaurant to only order dessert, but this is one of sheer pastry genius. A grapefruit half is scopped out, filled with grapefruit sorbet, piped with sesame mousse, mixed with grapefruit segments and rose louloum, and garnished with an almond tuile and halvah cotton candy. Like a Ferran Adria dish, you'd expect the contrasting textures and flavors to deconstruct, but somehow the acid from the grape fruit harmoniously blends together with the savory sesame, halvah, and loukoum.
Screw Josephina and Cafe Fiorello: DB just conquered the Lincoln Center restaurant scene by doing it better.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Imperial Woodpecker Sno-Balls
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.
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.
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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