If you haven’t read it I ask you to do so now — it’s riveting and you won’t want to put it down. We’ve all seen the protesters outside Saigon Grill. I, for one, have never bothered to look into the specifics of the dispute too much. I’m glad New York did, as it’s one of the most revealing and important situations we’ve recently faced in our food-obsessed city. This isn’t some run-of-the-mill labor dispute. These guys, and several others from several other restaurants around town, are routinely verbally abused, stiffed on their pay (some earning a shocking $1.70 per hour), forced to pay their own medical bills when they’re hit by cars, and forced to pay for their own meals while at work which takes a big cut out of their meager tips.

And yes, I know there’s not much you can personally do about these modern robber baron restaurant owners besides boycott the joints. That’s why I’m writing here today, to talk about what we can do, and that is to aggressively, immediately address the tipping situation.

I find that New Yorkers have a disturbingly inhumane and ignorantly flippant approach to service tipping. Our high-minded and cynical tipping philosophies revolve around an antiquated nostalgic view that we tip to reward good service. This is incorrect. As we all know, tipping is our way of paying for the cheap food and incredible service we have available to us nearly around the clock. That cheapness and availability comes at a cost we never see — the low wages of undocumented restaurant workers. Owners pass on those savings to us, and we greedily accept it while rationalizing our way out of acknowledging and supporting the very people that make it possible.

I know it’s unpopular to think of delivery people as people — they’re faceless, they come and go in the blink of an eye, we see them more often than we see our own families but we never want to know their names. That’s because if we did we would be embarrassed that we give them 10% tips, or just a dollar per delivery, or sometimes nothing at all, and we would be mortified at the excuses we come up with: they make enough money from the restaurant, they don’t do as much work as a server in-house, they didn’t smile, the food was a few minutes later than they promised on the phone.

But when you have an economy that is entirely supported by people who make less than $60 per shift and who literally risk their lives to make it possible for us to have Thai food with our Sopranos DVDs at 1AM, these excuses are exposed for their blatant thoughtless immateriality.

Delivery people work hard — harder than anyone should have to to get by. As a former bike courier I know how taxing that constant up and back is on the body, the knees and back especially. I know how much worse it gets when the weather is bad or when you hit a deep pot hole at full speed, or when you’re doored by some oblivious jerk. But I made solid money at that job — constant work, often with a guaranteed salary from the company if it got slow. These guys however, go through all of that pain with only the hope that they’ll make more than $8 after the 3 miles of biking the next hour will bring.

I also never had to risk being beaten up and robbed. I never had cash on-hand. Delivery people, however, carry hundreds of dollars with them at any given moment and opportunistic muggers know it. The smart delivery guys just hand over all the loot (and the food), and then watch their already hanging-on pay get docked by the robber barons when they luckily make it safely back to the restaurant.

The culture will never change. That’s a guarantee. As long as we want this level of luxury without paying $50 for take-out entrees, then our eating industry will be built on the suffering of others whom we consider less valuable. The least we can do is add that extra dollar to the bill that makes it all bearable for the others. If you put it in perspective, the ratio of the sacrifices is very out of proportion. But it still helps.

I know I will never tip a delivery person less than 20% ever again. I think we all have a responsibility to do the same.

When I think about the hamburger renaissance taking place in New York at the moment I get emotionally crumpled. On the one hand I want to send up a little smile of thanks to the Fates for bringing me back home at the exact moment my favorite kind of food is finally getting the treatment it deserves. On the other hand I wonder if this spotlight is just taking all the fun out of it.

I’m simultaneously intrigued and repulsed by all these trendy burger joints. (You know it’s bad when “trendy burger joint” becomes a real, commonly used phrase around town. And it has.) As much as I want to try a burger made by Laurent Tourendel or someone like him I also know that these guys are missing the whole point of the burger joint culture. It’s not that it’s no frills. It’s not that it’s your high-falutin’ corruption of no-frills. It’s that it’s down-to-earth, cheap, and good. The ideal burger joint is the first place you think of when you want to just hang out for a little while, and let the day pass you by. This is a kind of atmosphere that can’t be manufactured — it’s an act of spontaneous evolution that happens when the right burgers meet the right neighborhood. Though I wasn’t expecting it, that’s exactly what I’ve found at Stand, trendiness and all.

One might be suspicious of the place on sight, with its slate gray minimalism and swanky mirrored bar. But if you spend more than five minutes there it becomes clear that this isn’t your burger joint from Small Hometown, USA, but it is the burger joint of Union Square, with all of our young professionals, graphic designers, and downtown aesthetes. In other words, it makes sense here. And I wouldn’t be saying that if the food wasn’t note-perfect. Burgers are burgers, after all, and that’s why everyone is here. And you’ll find no truffle sauce or caviar or other insanity — just burgers, perfectly done, arranged simply across a thin column on a sans-serif menu. After a quick scan of your scant few options you’re on your way to lunch, thank the gods.

I’ve heard complaints that the burgers at Stand are too salty and I’d like to go on the record and say this is slander. That’s just the wholesome taste of char that any good burger fresh from the grill should have. Depending on how you like them cooked, Stand’s burgers are crispy and flavorful on the outside, velvety soft on the inside, always on a fresh-baked poppy seed bun. Actually, everything here is either freshly baked or organic or local or just delivered that morning from some guy down the street. Stand’s trademark feature isn’t style. It’s freshness.

Ack, caught myself! It’s easy to wax philosophic about such a philosophically sound burger joint but we need to spend more time talking about the food. Let’s continue.

I would normally stay away from such boring frozen supermarket fare as turkey burgers and veggie burgers, but Stand just wouldn’t serve you anything sub-par. These are made fresh on the premises like everything else and their surprising tastiness blows away your regret over not ordering a cheeseburger. To go along with everything you can have the expected fried accoutrements as well as an array of pickled cucumbers as well as a bowl of pickled everything else, and to round it out there’s Stand’s signature cole slaw which has a nice surprise that we’ll leave as a surprise for now.

And the sweet stuff — I’ve had it all before and I’m still astounded whenever I try their artisinal milkshakes and the soda floats with their homemade sodas (one tastes like dandelions!), even the freshly squeezed juice elixirs that make you feel a little bit healthier. On that note, I have to say I’ve often tried to eat healthy here because it’s so darned possible — a burger salad, some pickles, a nice lemon seltzer water and I’m on my light-footed way. But something fun sort of deflates from the experience whenever this happens. And I’m not trying to say healthy food can’t be fun. I think I’m trying to say that ever since a neighbor of mine last week pointedly asked me if there was any room in life for enjoyment I’ve been pondering the point of choosing not to experience these things that make us so happy.

It was pouring a few nights ago — drenching sheets of rain pounding the side of the house. It was getting late and I was in the thick of a Ridley Pearson book by the flickering candlelight. I had to go to bed soon. I knew this. But then I decided to just keep reading, because I wanted to know what would happen next, and it was fun, and I felt like it. And it hurt a little bit when the alarm went off the next morning, but I just hit the snooze button anyway. We’re adults, after all, and it’s up to us to decide if, indeed, there really is a way to declare an oasis of pleasure in this routinely ordered existence we’ve created for ourselves.

The last time I went to Stand the lucky girl sitting at the next table had a toasted marshmallow shake, and when the waitress saw my eyes light up she just brought one out to me, no questions asked. I chatted with the guy dropping off their daily supply of seltzer while that icy sweetness settled my mind for an all-too brief moment, and my only thought was that, yes — profoundly yes — these are happy times.

Dok Suni
119 1st Avenue
(betw’n 7th Street and St. Marks Place)
East Village
(212) 477-9506

by Kelly Sipos

My preamble:

I am neither Jesse Post nor Rachael Parenta. By that I mean I’m not some renowned Internet food critic or your run-of-the-mill finicky eater/stand-up comedian from Brooklyn. (See in-joke here.) Now, I don’t usually write about food. I’m more of a bar critic or hockey enthusiast. But I couldn’t resist the lure of All You Can Eat NYC any longer, and today I would like to tell you about my favorite restaurant in all of New York.

I am a native New Yorker who grew up in an Irish/Hungarian household in Washington Heights. My Irish mother did her best with the cooking but really, it was just meat and potatoes — boring except for the few “exotic” dishes (the two Hungarian dishes she attempted to make for my father). My father, regardless of what he was eating, always had a jar of hot peppers by his side. I think it was this jar of hot peppers that scared me from trying the spicier side of the dinner menu for most of my life. So that’s how I grew up to be a boring meat-and-potatoes girl.

That all changed in the fall of 1997 when I first walked into Dok Suni and my friends Holly and Jon introduced me to Korean food. Well, that’s actually a lie; my friend in high school, Chu, introduced me to Korean food back in 1988. But to be honest, we only ever went to this one place because they served underage kids piña coladas. In ’88 I was only interested in girly drinks with umbrellas, not delicious spicy food. I can’t even remember the name of that place anymore, but I’m not here to promote underage drinking anyway.

Now where was I? Ah yes — the fall of ’97. I must admit I wasn’t very adventurous when I first went to Dok Suni. I picked the safest thing I could find on the menu (a lovely noodle dish called Japchae) because I thought it would be like vegetable lo mein. Boy, was I wrong. Japchae is made with potato noodles sautéed in a sesame sauce, neither of which I like too much. Nevertheless, it was the only thing I was willing to order from Dok Suni for the first few months. Holly ordered this appetizer called D’uk-Bo-Ki; traditional sticky rice cakes sautéed in a spicy red pepper and garlic sauce. I later found out from the Dok Suni cookbook that this dish is cooked with brown sugar — no wonder I love it. This is the dish that opened my eyes to what I was missing, and has brought me back to Dok Suni again and again and again. And again.

It wasn’t until the spring of ’98 when I decided to try something different. My next venture was Dok Suni’s Gui — thin steak strips sautéed with broccoli, red and green peppers, whole garlic and mushrooms. This dish became my next months-long obsession even though the garlic breath didn’t help my social life.

I can’t remember when I got out of my comfort zone and started trying everything on the menu. Suffice it to say that eventually, I couldn’t get enough of this place. I started bringing all my friends and out-of-towners in for the D’uk-Bo-Ki alone. Almost everything here is exciting and new and, dare I say it, “exotic” to my meat-and-potatoes palate.

However, if you’re a big chicken like I was the first time, you will want to start with the Kim-Bohp which is like sushi only it’s filled with rice, spinach, egg, carrot, marinated cooked beef, and pickled daikon. Follow that with the Kalbi — grilled prime beef short ribs marinated Korean style (a little sweet but OH SO delicious) or the Bulgogi (also prime beef marinated Korean style but without the bone). Other “safe” options would be the dumplings, spring rolls, kimchi, or potato pancakes. I’m not a fan of pancake dishes as they tend to be greasy (but they are probably good for a hangover).

If you’re willing to jump in head first (and are not afraid of garlic), try the D’uk-Bo-Ki or the Seywoo Bokum (shrimp with asparagus) for appetizers. Follow that up with Spicy Broiled Pork Ribs or Deji-Bulgogi (thin slices of pork marinated in a spicy chili pepper sauce).

If you happen to be vegetarian then you might want to try the Bibimbop. This traditional Korean dish has rice, spinach, daikon, zucchini, carrots, sprouts, red pepper sauce, and an over-easy egg. You can get it hot or cold and with or without beef (and with or without the egg). I like this but it is a little bland — the secret to making it great is to add the sauce from the D’uk-Bo-Ki appetizer. In fact, that’s the secret to making anything taste great. Hell, I would eat my shoe if it were covered in D’uk-Bo-Ki sauce. Other vegetarian dishes include Jesse’s pick, the Kimchi Bo-Kum (kimchi and tofu stir fried in sesame oil).

The only downfall of this great little place is that it doesn’t do dessert (and if you know me at all, you know I love my sweets). They do offer a lovely ginger and cinnamon shot at the end of your meal. Oh, the other downfall is that it tends to get busy by 7:30 pm. If your party is four or less you can usually get a table within 20 minutes.

So that’s how I further matured to be an exotic, spicy, adventurous girl (though meat and potatoes still have their place, of course). For the past few years I’ve gone to Dok Suni every week. Dok Suni night has replaced my childhood pizza night — what an upgrade! Pizza and beer is always a staple but how can that ever compare to pork ribs and a saketini? This cozy little place has become a second home for me, where everyone knows my name. Well, maybe not my name but they do all know I like the orange saketinis.

Café Moutarde
239 Fifth Avenue
(at Carroll Street)
Park Slope
(718) 623-3600

Café Moutarde almost doesn’t fit the surrounding scene — even though this stretch of Park Slope is full of excellent places to shop, dine, and drink yourself silly it still all looks like . . . well, Brooklyn. But Moutarde is a gleaming, bejeweled European bistro, with shiny copper fixtures and mirrors in all the right places. I walked past it dozens of times thinking I couldn’t afford it before I actually looked at the menu. It turns out that, not only can I afford it, but in a way I need it.

I don’t think we New Yorkers are particular enough about the quality of life in our city, the simple aesthetic value of our living spaces that’s so often overlooked. We live in drafty, windowless, leaky dives in order to keep our rents below $1,000 per month. We allow our refined cityscapes to be marred by garish modern high-rise condos, parking garages, and anything else the non-residents who build this place dream up. We flock to every new Dunkin’ Donuts or American Apparel or Starbucks rather than boycott them out of the neighborhood so regular, less fluorescent establishments can open in their place. In our constant search for the deal and the trend we forget the importance of beauty and a slow comfortable pace, how those things can stimulate our emotions and thoughts and make us feel less automated. We lose that certain . . . je ne sais quoi that they capture so well in Europe. I think of Moutarde as a little way to regain it, even if only for a few hours over breakfast.

What they consider their brunch menu isn’t really. Brunch is meant to offer the special, the unusual, even the experimental on occasion. Here they serve up the expected pancakes and omelettes and eggs benedict. But that’s OK! There’s nothing wrong with plain old breakfast, New York! And at Moutarde, everything is so right with breakfast. The poached eggs are perfect, the omelettes are . . . well, the French invented omelettes after all. Everything comes with the lightly dressed mixed greens and the reasonable handful of home fries seasoned just so that you wish came with all of your breakfasts all the time. French women don’t get fat, remember?

I never order pancakes because they seem so low and off-putting. But the pancakes at Moutarde are sweets prepared with as much panache as any fine dessert. The first time I tried them out I took a couple cautious “that’ll be enough for me” bites and when I came to I had thoughtlessly eaten almost the whole damned plate. I think their fluffy not-so-sweetness recalled a time in my life when I earnestly set out to invent the perfect pancake recipe, believing rightly that pancakes — historically a pre-Lent celebration of all things glorious and bad for you — should actually be glorious as well as bad for you. I didn’t succeed (although I did enlighten many a roommate about the culinary sin that is buying a box of Aunt Jemima). Moutarde has succeeded, though — so much so that I was almost inspired to give up some other pleasure in return. Almost.

There are some caveats here, which I provide not as a deterrent but us advice on how to get through a meal pleasantly. You French fans will be tempted to order the house-baked pain au chocolat, but I wouldn’t — they are literally bite sized (a little smaller than a piece of Shredded Wheat cereal) but cost as much as regular-sized ones elsewhere. The servers, though exceedingly polite, often don’t know how to answer your questions or give menu advice, so don’t be surprised if your request for a side salad becomes a huge dinner salad or vice versa, and don’t be shy about sending the unwanted things back.

Armed with such awareness you’ll be free to enjoy the manifold pleasures, and maybe open up to all the other pleasures you could be having. The French, despite how much we like to make fun of their nit-picky attention to details when it comes to language and culture and architecture, understand this joie de vivre more than most. There’s a surge afoot in Paris to prevent the Champs-Elysee from becoming a huge outdoor strip mall. I can hear the American sneering already, but what we might see as backwards is actually very forward thinking. No, we won’t surrender our niceties, our cozy cafes and bakeries and bars that make an afternoon walk so picturesque and alive with inspiring human bustle. We appreciate the way our neighborhood looks and no sir, whether you are Frank Gehry or not, we simply don’t want it to change.

We could use a bit of that resistance here. And it’s essentially a bistro philosophy: The good life found in simplicity. Take a tried-and-true crowd pleaser like a hamburger, give it a little extra TLC, present it lavishly, and you have a smitten customer.

Whether it’s the sunlight pouring in and glinting off the coffee urns, or the fresh fruit cascading off your French toast, or the mosaic work along the walls, the little things at Moutarde make you feel unique again, which you are.

Puebla
47 First Ave.
(btw’n 2nd and 3rd Streets)
East Village
(212) 473-6643

by Rachael Parenta

My preamble:

I am not Jesse Post. By that I mean I’m not some renowned Internet food critic from Brooklyn. Rather, I’m just your run-of-the-mill finicky eater/stand-up comedian from Brooklyn. Well, I was born in New Jersey but I live in Brooklyn now, just a few blocks from where my Great Aunt Ester and Great Uncle Jack resided a half a century ago. So am I gentrifier or am I merely reclaiming my roots? Exactly.

My point is that I don’t usually write about food. Usually, I date people for four to five weeks then spend two to three years telling jokes about them. The only time I write about food is when I use food in my poignant yet hysterical extended metaphors. (I have a great example where I talk about my relationship with the Chipwich.) However, there is a tiny eatery in the East Village that I enjoy so much it has inspired me to write and share with you.

My other preamble:

It seems that food critics are mostly uncaring snooty bastards. They go to an eatery, they tell you how marvelous it is, and then you go there, spend money, and wind up hating it. Yes, I suppose you could wind up enjoying it but there’s really no way for you to know for sure. Food critics don’t tell you what kind of food they enjoy or what they dislike, so how do you know if your tastes line up with the critic’s? I, not actually being a critic, would like to give you some of my food preferences and background. If your preferences match up with mine you’ll probably want to check out the place that I focus on in this blog post. If not, you probably won’t want to go there. I think that’s fair.

I grew up in a household that did not cook TV dinners. We ate home-cooked meals made mostly from scratch by my father. Dad cooked mainly central and southern Italian food with a little Americana thrown in. It is said by my parents’ friends that my father is an outstanding cook. We also had Chinese take-out on Sundays. As I grew older my tastes broadened to include other ethnic foods such as Thai, Mexican, Cuban, Louisiana Creole, and Caesar Salad. I do eat Indian food on occasion, but it is almost never my first choice. I continue to abstain from frozen dinners except when I’m very drunk and did not satiate my appetite with nachos at some point. I love nachos when I’ve been drinking. Love’em! And those frozen dinners, when necessary, are always Amy’s brand.

Other food-related things you should know about me follow this sentence. I don’t eat cheese and lettuce together, which means no cheese on salad. (That’s right — I order my Caesar salad without Parmesan.) Also, I do not put lettuce on my cheeseburgers. I don’t like mayo, but I love garlic. In fact, I think mayo and garlic are opposites. (I don’t have room here to expound on that theory.) I don’t like humus despite its popularity. I don’t drink beer but I do enjoy hard cider, wine, and vodka. I only eat apple pie when it’s accompanied by ice cream. I will eat ice cream unaccompanied. I love shellfish. I often take semi-sweet chocolate chips and dip them in a jar of peanut butter with my finger, consume the peanut-butter-smothered chocolate chips, and then put the jar of peanut butter back in the fridge.

If you relate to any or all of My Other Preamble then you might want to check out my favorite Mexican food place in New York City.

The Burrito Place is cozy. It’s what someone from my parents’ generation might call, “a hole in the wall.” The whole restaurant is about as big as an East Village studio apartment. The kitchen sits behind the glass counter where you place your order. On the patrons’ side of the glass counter stand three small black tables, each of which seats two. I refer to this eatery as “The Burrito Place” because I don’t know its actual name. I blame my ignorance on the blue scaffolding that has covered the sign for the year I’ve been patronizing the tiny restaurant. I call it that because I always order the spinach burrito, but don’t let the nickname fool you — The Burrito Place offers many other dishes besides the spinach burrito. I just haven’t had any of them. Except for that one time.

After performing at some Lower East Side comedy show with my friend and fellow comedian Charles Star (who originally introduced me to The Burrito Place) I did order a chicken spinach burrito. The burritos are pretty big. I stand about 5 feet 1 inch tall, and the burritos are approximately 5/6 of my torso measured lengthwise and 2/3 of my torso in thickness. In an attempt to save money I suggested that Charles and I split a spinach burrito. Charles thought that a great idea, except he wanted to add chicken. That makes perfect sense because a burrito is not 5/6 of his torso measured lengthwise, nor 2/3 of his torso in thickness. Adding the chicken added cost, and of course we had to get guacamole. What is the point of Mexican food if you’re not going to get guacamole? And that’s why Mexican restaurants charge extra for it — they know people will pay. So on this day when I ordered something other than the spinach burrito in order to save money, I did not save any money. I did, however, gain a new experience.

The chicken spinach burrito was just as delightful as the spinach burrito. Both burrito types include beans, rice, and cheese wrapped in the tortilla. But what makes a Burrito Place burrito special is the green hot sauce The Burrito Lady puts on top of the burrito. I call the woman who takes the food orders, “The Burrito Lady,” because I don’t know her actual name. Don’t worry, though, I don’t call her that to her face. I don’t call her anything to her face. I walk in smile, say hello, and place my order. Don’t judge me — she doesn’t know my name either. She doesn’t even know what I do for a living. At least I know what she does for a living — she owns The Burrito Place. Yes, the small woman behind the counter, whose torso is probably equivalent in size to her burritos measured lengthwise, owns the joint. I know this because one day I asked her if she did and she said yes. Or she said, “si.” I can’t remember.

I think this is where I should tell you that The Burrito Lady used to hate me. She always looked at me with a hint of disdain. I’d walk in and order my spinach burrito with guacamole. The Burrito Lady would nod, turn around, and go make the burrito or tell the other lady who works there to make the burrito. Despite the cold reception I kept eating there because I really liked the spinach burrito. My relationship with The Burrito Lady took a turn for the worse when I went through my “no dairy” phase. I had decided that if I stopped eating dairy my complexion would clear up, and this phase heavily complicated my burrito ordering. I’d say “Hello.” She’d just look at me, and then I’d place my order.

“Can I have a spinach burrito with no cheese, no sour cream, a little hot sauce, and guacamole?” I’d ask.

“Guacamole is extra,” she’d stoically inform me.

“Yes, I know,” I’d respond. Then The Burrito Lady would proceed to fuck up the order. She’d bring me a burrito with no cheese but with sour cream and no hot sauce and no guacamole. I’d have to ask for guacamole again and some hot sauce on the side. I’d scrape off the sour cream. Those few non-dairy months really put a strain on our already unpleasant relationship. I kept going anyway. I was like a dude who keeps dating the crazy girl because the sex is so good. He hates the crazy but loves the sex. In this case I hated being hated but I loved the burrito.

At some point I stopped the non-dairy nonsense. And then, one day, The Burrito Lady smiled at me. Then she said, “Spinach burrito with guacamole?”

“Yes,” I cheerfully responded.

“Hot sauce?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am.”

I have no idea what changed. I could now enjoy the sex and the girl. But I’ve interrupted my description of the hot sauce, which is why the burrito is good.

The green hot sauce is spicy. So much so that your nose might run, but not so that your eyes tear or you need a gallon of milk to cool your mouth. The Burrito Place also offers a spicy red salsa. You have to ask for it, but it doesn’t cost extra. Now that I’m in with The Burrito Lady I don’t bother asking for the red salsa. I’d rather not make waves. Who cares anyway? Green. Red. I’m no racist. It’s all the same when you flush the toilet — am I right?

So, if you are ever in the East Village looking for Mexican food, check out The Burrito Place. They’re open until 11pm and deliver in the neighborhood until 10pm. And if The Burrito Lady isn’t nice to you at first, just give her six or seven months and she’ll warm up to you. Or maybe not — I’m very charismatic.

Without the right information at your disposal it can be very difficult to find the spot that perfectly suits your mood, or your date’s mood, or even what you’re hungry for at the moment. Your present procedure probably goes something like this:

1. You visit All You Can Eat NYC, your favorite food blog, to get some tips.
2. You have fun reading our lively ramblings but realize quickly that none of these recommendations are quite right.
3. You try to look for places in CitySearch or (gasp!) the Zagat guide.
4. You become frustrated because, while recommendations are made, you don’t quite have a feel for what it’s like to actually be in one of these joints.
5. You flip a coin, pick a place with a few stars, cross your fingers, and hope for the best.

Your woes are over! Blog Soop is a clearinghouse for New York City food blogs (and we are legion). It’s as simple as can be:

1. Search by neighborhood, restaurant name, or type of cuisine.
2. Sort your search results by price, average rating, or number of reviews.
3. Select a place you’re curious about and read through the plethora of hand-picked blog posts on the subject to your right.

The posts really are hand-picked, so you can rest assured that there is a good amount of quality control. You’ll find only the best, most informative NYC food writing here, at your fingertips in a few seconds flat. After a few posts you’ll know for sure whether that place is right for you. I’ve used it myself at least thrice since I discovered it a couple weeks ago, to great effect each time.

Thanks to Blog Soop for a great service, and thanks to you for visiting us and other area food blogs for your culinary informational needs — we’re here for you!

Beast

In Brooklyn, we treat brunch as if it were a high holiday. In other parts of the country (even other parts of the city) brunch is kind of a novelty — maybe something to do on Mother’s Day or a pre- or post-birthday party. But here in America’s fourth-largest city it’s a birthright.

The basic tenets of the meal are just — sleep late, eat a big meal, maybe get a little tipsy, certainly work up a good caffeine buzz, read the paper slowly, talk loudly. It’s an elaborate and secular way to worship something we highly value: our day of rest.

But the execution of the meal fails often, probably because of the overkill. Though they shall remain nameless here, I’ve been burned by bad Brooklyn bruncheries who rush you along, skimp on the coffee, over-poach the eggs to the point where they fall off the plate and bounce, and generally treat the food like a no frills Restaurant Week version of their regular offerings.

This is all why I’m so attracted to Beast on the weekends. Not only do they offer up great food during brunch but they understand why we like brunch to begin with.

The food at Beast is top-flight, with a sense of creativity, attention to detail, and market-driven freshness usually found in more lauded Manhattan destination spots. In fact, this really is a Manhattan destination spot in the guise of a Brooklyn neighborhood hangout. Both aspects are essential to the Beast experience — you can enjoy some of the best culinary surprises your jaded New York palate is likely to find in a place where folks meet up to watch the playoffs or play a game of Scrabble or coo at each other’s babies.

I’ve heard some call this a tapas bar though I’m not sure why. The portions may be on the small side but each dish is just about right for dinner, especially if you tack on some grilled flat bread and hummus or what have you. It is true that, given an empty stomach and a good amount of room on your credit card, one could order an overwhelming tasting menu here and be on cloud nine for a few solid days, especially if you throw in some of their excellent selections of port. The menu is divided into “Earth,” “Land,” and “Ocean” sections. This may seem cliché but it draws attention to the simplicity of the food and the little touches that make it sublime. We are eating of the earth, after all, so let’s take a moment to respect the fact by noticing it. These selections are meant to recall rustic pub food in a centuries-old farming town, but each has its distinctly modern flair.

I, for one, tend to stick with the hamburger. I don’t bestow superlatives lightly here, but I will hereby officially declare that Beast serves the Best Hamburger In the City. And yes, that means you should venture away from the comfort of BLT Burger this week — just once is all I ask. In my initial visits I was distracted by their roasted chicken, the citrus-marinated skirt steak, and the potatoes baked with mozzarella, parmesan, and breadcrumbs. With all of that why would I order something I can make at home while I watch TV? But that’s why this burger wins the gold — it’s prepared exactly how anyone would at home. It’s seasoned intentionally but simply, topped with good cheese, soft lettuce, and tangy housemade ketchup all on a fresh crusty dinner roll. I mean, it’s a hamburger — must we always ruin such glory with fried eggs and chili and pineapples?

The best part is that they offer this treasure at brunch (you thought I forgot about brunch, didn’t you?), though it’s hard to pass up the unique daytime menu. It’s especially hard for me to resist their chorizo hash — mashed up sausage and potatoes in a spicy, sticky redness, topped with perfect poached eggs (no matter how busy it is) all bound together with a not-too-heavy hollandaise. And if you’re lucky enough to come on a day when they are inspired, order the specials. The reuben benedict kind of blew my mind, with the sauerkraut, pastrami, poached eggs, and stone-ground mustard hollandaise. Geez.

Eating here puts the brunch phenomenon into perspective — Brooklynites thrive on brunch because we thrive on the neighborliness of our neighborhoods. We celebrate where we live with this restful ritual so often that we have come to anticipate it. It can’t be sullied with food snobbery or miserly rip-offs. It has to be here, with the tin ceilings, the dark wood, and the stained glass, where they make the food with humble exuberance and bring it over with a refill on the coffee and a welcoming smile, perfect every time.

The Bourgeois Pig
124 MacDougal St.
(btw’n Minetta Ln. and West 3rd St.)
West Village
(212) 254-0575

In high school, my friends and I wasted many a weekend afternoon wandering around Greenwich Village trying to be cool. I don’t think any of us knew what we were looking for, but we were sure that this neighborhood was, for one reason or another, cool. It never occurred to us that, being underage, much of what might have been cool at that point was beyond our reach. After enough Saturdays walking up and down Bleecker Street, stopping into the same bookstores and drinking the same lattes and sitting on the same benches in Washington Square, we moved on. The punchline came when we turned 21 and found only abject lameness behind the now unlocked doors of downtown.

It’s a shame that this storied corner of our city has become a sort of French Quarter of backwards baseball caps and halfhearted debauchery. Real debauchery, after all, would come with a nice sense of style.

Considering the fact that I largely stay away from these parts, I’m especially grateful for accidentally finding what I was always looking for — a blink-or-you’ll-miss-it wine bar in the middle of MacDougal Street’s chaos. It was an astonishing Happy Hour that brought me in, but it’s the snacks that keep The Bourgeois Pig alive in my workday-hardened heart.

Despite their price gouging, the swankier lounges of New York City usually win me over for their comfort. My fondest drinking memories are of the Holly Bush (and other such pubs) in Olde London Towne. Its cozy corners soothed my achy muscles after a hard day’s toil, but for all its comfort it was certainly not expensive, nor pretentious. It was just a simple room that grasped the basic human need for atmosphere, for a warm place to vent and drink and hopefully laugh. Not being used to this treatment in New York, The Bourgeois Pig’s overwhelming softness is a real surprise considering the prices they let you get away with.

Everyone is beautiful in its red-hued darkness, and everyone is sleepy in its plush loveseats and vintage, pillowy chairs. Where better to normalize than here, with their evolving, carefully selected wine list at half-off until well into the evening? Oh, but we’re not here to talk about the wine.

A glance over the menu reveals the usual suspects — the cheese plate for one or two, the fondue, the wedge of brie. Is there really a unique way to deliver these goods? Well, you can try baking the brie in a thin, flaky philo and present it soaking in a plate of maple syrup, for one. Or you could offer a generously sliced 10-selection cheese plate (for the price of four tiny samples anywhere else in town) served on a board that groans under the weight of the fruits, breads, chutneys, and tapanades that accompany it.

In other words, The Bourgeois Pig offers a curious bar-snacks-as-dinner menu, served with pride, friendliness, a humbling sense of humor, and a bit of panache that only gets better as you work through a bottle and become ever more engrossed in your conversation. Ahh, but we’re not here to talk about the wine.

I’m so rarely satisfied with typical wine bar fare that I’ve stopped ordering it. Anyone can cut a few slices of cheese, after all, but few understand the nuanced art of how to store the selections so they arrive at the table fresh with no cross-contamination of taste, or how to pair them with other noshes, or even how to describe them in the first place. Here, however, their respect for the food is tantamount. During one recent visit the chef was on an errand and our server wisely advised us to wait for him. “I can certainly bring you some food,” he said. “But he really knows what he’s doing and it just won’t be the same.” Bravo for that. Patience paid off in a sublime brie experience I won’t soon forget, or try to replicate.

While he may not know what to do in the kitchen, he, like everyone at The Bourgeois Pig, knows that everything needs to be just right if anything is to matter at all, and that there isn’t any point to tipping one back in this part of town if it isn’t done with elan. And it always is, right down to the pour, the arrival of the second or third bottle (OK, fine — we’re talking about the wine), the open-armed embrace of the night ahead, and a classy adieu to the day left behind.

As you sink sumptuously away, it may occur to you that this whole thing is very, very cool. But it will be an afterthought at best.

Photos by Hannah

Amorina Cucina Rustica
624 Vanderbilt Avenue
(betw’n Prospect Pl. and Park Pl.)
Prospect Heights
(718) 230-3030

I found my one true love on Viale Trastevere a few years ago. She had all the main requirements — curvy, brunette, and holding a freshly baked pizza from the ancient brick oven beside her.

My lady adorned every box that came out of Pizzeria ai Marmi in that old and moody corner of Rome. Marmi (known as “the morgue” around town for its garish lighting and marble tables) was only one happy moment in a lifelong connoisseurship of Neapolitan pizza, but it was the most profound. The neighbors knew it well, and we bumped elbows every night as we crammed in for dinner. The wine was cheap. The pizza (as it often is in such places throughout Italy) was perfect. But it was the skill that captivated me. I ignored countless hours of conversation while watching the overstressed pizzaioli shape the dough, top the pizzas, load them in, and take them out, never missing a beat in their practiced rhythm. To eat something so fast and cheap yet so flavorfully nuanced seemed to typify life there — where simplicity breeds contentment and an attention to detail that elude us as we continue to evolve and automate.

When I moved back to New York a couple years ago I held out hope for the triumphant return of Neapolitan pizza to my weekly pleasures. I thought it would take some effort, some trial and error, and not a small number of Metrocards and wasted time. It turns out that all I had to do was look around the corner.

I’d like to start telling you about Amorina at this point but it’s difficult to do so without talking about pizza first.

Before visiting Italy for the first time many years ago, my experience with pizza was that of any typical New Yorker: hanging out in Do the Right Thing-style pizzerias along the avenue, debating the price of garlic knots and free-soda specials with the always pissed-off pizza chefs. That experience, and the heavy, greasy, off-the-assembly-line familiarity of the slices, is certainly beautiful in its own gruff way.

But pizza has more pleasant and artistic origins along the Golfo di Napoli, where people have been baking wood-fired flatbreads topped with the freshest, tastiest local ingredients throughout recorded history. Rosario Buonassisi, in his devotional history, Pizza: From Its Italian Origins to the Modern Table, posits that pizza was essentially peasant food; basic and cheap by necessity, healthy and satisfying by nature. In that region today you are still hard-pressed to find a bad pizza. There is no pre-making or freezing of pies in the pizzerias of southern Italy, but there is plenty of mozzarella made that morning, just-picked zucchini blossoms and arugula, the spiciest meats, the juiciest fruits and vegetables. And I can’t think of any other comfort food that recalls the warm feeling of the hearth as well as pizza — it is, after all made within the hearth itself.

It’s not true that walking into Amorina is like walking into a windswept pizzeria down by an Amalfi Coast marina. They’re smart enough to keep the place American for the Americans — complete with the checkered tablecloths and 1950s advertising art along the walls. But it is true that Amorina’s own pizzaioli not only know exactly how to make a perfect pizza but have great respect for it as well. The crust is the dead giveaway here. You know you’re in for the real thing when you feel like you could eat the bread unembellished and still be content. Here it’s cooked just to the point of golden perfection with no bubbles or burns. The authentic taste of sea salt and char serves as the first clue that you’ve come to the right place. I usually order the diavola pizza for its savory heat but that doesn’t stop me from ordering another (with anything from figs to pesto to gorgonzola) for nibbling now and devouring later. This is the most important part, for as much as I love the soft light and good company inside Amorina, it’s the pizza and what it recalls that I’m looking for.

When I open that box (not as enticing but it still does the job) in my decidedly present-day New York apartment I’m momentarily in another place, where the best food, and our best selves, is found in the truly finer things.

Bus Stop Coffee Shop
542 Ninth Avenue
(at 40th Street)
Midtown West
(212) 560-9030

I spend so much time running around, beneath, and through the Port Authority Bus Terminal that I feel it is in some ways my third home (right after the office, which is right after my actual home if anyone is counting). In another era I might have said this with a certain amount of satisfied relish — transit hubs are truly magical places and I used to feel that I could measure my life’s success by how much time I spent at the start or end of some adventure on the road. But these days it’s hard to manage that point of view when the frequency of my visits there starts working on my nerves, exposing the truth that running for a bus is one of the roughest stresses life can offer. The fear of being late — hours late — and the self recrimination that inevitably follows is an anxiety that’s really hard to beat no matter how many deep breaths I take.

Another reason for this change in perspective — this hurry-up-and-wait kind of travel that hovers around the BT — is the fact that there really isn’t anywhere to sit back and relax. My favorite train stations of the world have that one particular bar or café down the block where you can sit and watch the bustle and wait for the whistle to blow while you think about where you’re going or where you’ve been. Even airports with their synthetic mall-like food courts have a few gems with a view out onto the tarmac. My best memories of being driven to the starting point of a trip as a kid were always that stop for a bite along the way.

There’s none of that here. At least, that’s what I thought until I showed up early one day and had the odd thought to go snooping around the back of the building.

The Bus Stop Coffee Shop is exactly what it claims to be — a coffee shop in the old Route 66 sense of the word (or I guess we should say Route 17 around these parts). It’s a diner. They serve eggs and hamburgers and good coffee and giant pieces of chocolate cake. The wait staff are sweet and the counter guys are gruff. The steamy windows beckon travelers in from the noisy diesel-choked air outside. The sign outside glows red neon through the early morning gloom.

You may have noticed that I don’t write about diners in this space. That’s not because they aren’t worth noticing, but because the diner experience is so intrinsic to our lives that it doesn’t really need exploring. Eating cheese sticks with a cherry lime rickey chaser at 2AM is such a divine pleasure, such an essential American experience, that writing about it would be akin to writing about how much I love baseball. Nothing more can be added to that dialogue.

The Bus Stop Coffee Shop gets a special nod partly because the food is great but mainly because it masterfully captures a small town essence so needed in the city and in this neighborhood in particular. All New Yorkers know and love the heavy, laminated, eight-page menus of our favorite Greek diners. We expect to be able to order anything from pizza burgers to swordfish at any given hour when we’re in one of those places. The menu here is much closer to the simple fare you’ll find along the blue highways of America — the soups and sandwiches, meatloaf and mashed kind of meals that are fast and cheap and hearty.

It mainly gets a special nod, though, because it’s a celebration of being in-between — a place to catch your breath before running off again, to slowly caffeinate while reading the paper and filling up for the long journey ahead. Traveling blessedly takes us out of our regularity but without the stop along the way the transition would be too jarring. And without the Bus Stop Coffee Shop the BT would just be a place to run and sweat and pant and swear.

I noticed one recent morning while I latched my suitcase and headed out, that I had subconsciously yet specifically allowed an extra hour to grab an omelette and catch up with the news. It was a slower than usual travel morning, and I dozed lightly while the bus pulled out into the blaring city, a coffee cup in my hand, the road rising up to meet us.