e a t e r y R O W

302 East 12th Street
New York, NY 10003
(212) 475-9531

I try very hard to self-police the places where I eat and even harder when I write about them here on my piddling little blog. But, Speeds was adamant and loves, LOVES, John's here. I, much to her chagrin, do not. Because this won't be an especially glowing posting, let's just get it over with.

There are reasons that I don't particularly like red-sauce Italian places and John's manages to exemplify most of them. John's is over 100 years old, which should be a selling point. Using Darwinian logic, if something's been around for a hundred years, it's gotta be good. Despite what Lady and the Tramp might imply, most of these generic red-sauce restaurants are less dark and romantic, with menus full of grandma's secret recipes, than they are dark and old, with menus reminiscent of what pizza places sell when they aren't selling pizza.

In the rear dining room sits a candle display. Over time, the wax from these candles has become a mountain; grown like a volcano. A century of drippings. Some could argue that this is a romanticized testament to the staying power of local, family run businesses. Survival of the traditional in spite of the continuous trend towards newer and younger and trendier venues. But really, it's just creepy. Perhaps if it were one of many peppered throughout the restaurant, but it sits alone at the end of a long table, as though it were honoring a coffin that had long ago been taken away.

John's tries hard to be romantic, with each table having a it's own large white candle. But these candles sit on a tea saucer instead of a sconce, which exudes a cheapness that is automatically unappetizing. Plus, our tablecloth was replete with old wax drippings and the occasional crumb and permastain.

The food. Speeds and her boyfriend had been here a couple of times and they thought it was just the bees' knees. She and I ordered a handful of dishes. I ordered a Margherita Pizza, in part because the waiter talked up how it had this perfect, thin crust. Well, it was certainly a thin crust. Paper thin. But given how soggy it was, I'm surprised it held together at all. And while it wasn't "bad", there is room for vast improvement... like the wet sponge of a crust. I ordered the Stuffed Mushrooms. Five, small (1.5 inch in diameter), seemingly store-bought mushrooms, stuffed with what may as well have been Stove-Top, baked, and then served soaking wet. As if to emphasize the smallness of this appetizer, it was served on a massive plate. Speeds ordered a Mozarella Appetizer Special. I forget the exact name, but it was basically a ball of Buffalo mozzarella with slices of tomato and olive oil. This wasn't bad and she loved it... And for $15, she should.



Entrees. They don't get much more standard than this. Speeds ordered the Baked Homemade Lasagna. My dad makes a better one, but this one was pretty good. She concurred. My entree was the Chicken Parmagiana with Spaghetti. The chicken was heavily breaded and even more heavily cheesed. That's fine, but although the meat was tender, it would have been bone dry without being buried in sauce and cheese. The spaghetti was flat-out disappointing. It was tough, but not al dente. This means that while it could have been undercooked, it was dry and therefore I think more likely that it was made before I placed my order and lingered until bought by yours truly.



I decided to skip dessert, but Speeds ordered the Tirsmisu. And you know what? It was really really good! This, with some coffee, was the best part of the meal. Hoo-rah!



In spite of my own personal opinions about John's thus far, the service was perfect. Every waiter was great and helpful and upbeat. Additionally, while you might expect the customer base to be exclusively of the pensioner set, this was not the case. From twenty-somethings to sixty-somethings, everyone got a piece of the pie, soggy though that pie may be.

For mediocre food sold in a dingy, yellowing setting, John's is far from cheap. How we almost spent $100 on this meal is beyond me. And by the way, John's is CASH ONLY. I was unaware of this at the time and none too thrilled when I found out. Lucky for us, we had hit up an ATM, but should you have your checkbook on you for some reason, they will take personal checks.

5 Carmine Street
New York, NY 10014
(212) 255-4675

One day, while moseying the West Village, my stomach began rumbling as though I bore within it a great waterfall. But despite these pangs of hunger, I could think of nothing that I actually craved. I turned one corner and then the next, looking in shop windows and at menu podiums. Still, nothing. Just then, as I was about to give up and succumb to pizza, my eye spotted something. A pleasant yellow awning that stood out from the rest of the burgundies and hunter greens of the neighborhood. There across the street was Beard Papa's, the cream puff pastry baking brother of the Gorton's Fisherman. Let's have dessert, I said to myself. I figured that it couldn't hurt to give them a whirl.



Beard Papa's, at least the West Village one, is a tiny shop with no seating. This one was run by two girls who were more than happy to put up with my inability to decide which cream puffs to try, and who juggled dealing with me (along with my camera and my ipod falling all over the place) with other customers who were actually ordering things.



I eventually picked three. Chocolate, Vanilla, and Caramel (alas, they were out of the Green Tea one), and took them across the street to Father Demo Square. The benches were all taken, so I sat by the fountain. Sure, I guess that I was pretty much sitting on the street, but with the trees around me and the fountain's mist hitting the back of my neck, it was quite pleasant. I just wish I had more napkins.



So how were the "world's best cream puffs"? Well... uh, they were good. But here's the cold, cruel truth (or my opinion thereof): they pretty much all taste the same. The vanilla and caramel ones were virtually indistinguishable, save that one had been dusted with powdered sugar (see pic). Meanwhile, the chocolate one... was glazed with chocolate. It tasted somewhere between a Boston cream doughnut and an eclair. Ipso facto, if you're an eclair person, you'll love these.

The puffs run about $2 per.



PS - Don't forget to watch the Beard Papa story, a cartoon chronicling Beard Papa's journey from small, neighborhood baker to global confection kingpin. Apparently, Beard Papa started baking cream puffs in large part to quell potential riots by the town's pastry-addicted children. Plus, it would appear that Osaka is in Madagascar. Now bow down before the puff!

5 East Broadway
New York, NY 10038
(212) 732-0732

My walk along East Broadway has to have been one of the smelliest I can recall having ever had. As though in competition for heinousness, each block reeked more than the one preceding it. Come on guys, have a little neighborhood pride. Walking into Dim Sum Go Go was an oasis from the stench of garbage, rotting fish, and God only knows what. In all likelihood, I'd have melted had I stayed outside. I breathed in the recycled, air-conditioned air, and headed over to Mr. Dogz, who was holding a table for a dim sum dinner.

Ah, dim sum. In my mind, it conjures up images of variety, like steamed little balls of surprises. On minute you can be eating pork, the next cabbage, and the next, something you never heard of that you could have sworn wasn't even legally available. Sure, in theory you picked these dishes out. But they all look the same and unless the waiter's hovering over the table as you grill him, or you're a pro, you won't have a clue. And if you're like most people, then you probably don't even care (I have to write about this stuff, so we grilled the waiter).



The tables come with tea and some condiments for adjusting the flavor of your dumpling to best suit your individual taste (ginger, citrus, and something fishy... I am definitely not a pro at this). Almost everything benefited from a little tweaking, but none more so than the Pumpkin Cakes. These square slabs of jelly-like mush were okay on their own, but downright fantastic with some of the ginger. The Duck Dumplings were similarly delicious. I'd label them as the best if for no reason other than that there was no reason to play with them. Likewise, the Green Dumplings, which both myself and Dogz thought were very good. We were less impressed with the Jade Dumplings and the Abbot's Delight, in that order. The Jade Dumpling weren't bad, per se, but they were easily forgettable. Abbot's Delight wasn't very good and isn't worth recommending.



As you might be able to tell from the photos, these are not large dumplings. The dumplings we ordered at Vegetarian Dim Sum House were easily two or three times the size and cost less. Unsatisfied by the first batch of dumplings, we had to order more food. Round two started with some Vegetarian Spring Rolls. Deep fried vegetables wrapped in dough is normally a great idea, but after the searing hot oil tore my mouth to ribbons and I started being able to taste the flavors within, I learned that my local takeout place made better ones. The Chicken Dumplings that followed soon thereafter were way better, especially with some of that citrus sauce. Our final two vegetarian options, the Bamboo Heart Dumplings and the Three Star Dumplings were mediocre. The Bamboo Heart Dumplings were specifically disappointing. While the Three Star Dumplings had a been-there-done-that feel to them, the Bamboo Heart Dumplings were like eating tasteless goop steamed inside of a large noodle.

The service at Dim Sum Go Go was spotty. Our waiter had the habit of vanishing into the misty air and the kitchen forgot about some of our dishes. Meanwhile, the water pitcher guy would alternate between filling my glass after each sip that I took, or not at all. In the end, I was lucky there was tea. The atmosphere was almost like that of a chain. It was cold and impersonal, but not in a crisp and trendy way. While almost everything tasted pretty good and some things tasted great, I don't foresee myself returning when there are so many other dim sum options either in Chinatown or Flushing that I could check out instead.



Mr. Dogz and I left and were still hungry. "We didn't spend all that much," he said. "But we spent just enough to feel that it was too expensive for what we got." I think that pretty much sums it up.

Eight dim sum plates, with three pieces per plate, plus tax and tip, came out to $23 each. That translates into almost $2 per (small) piece.

Coffee shops in Manhattan are like yuppies in BMWs. They're everywhere and they're interchangeable. There are two basic kinds of coffee shops. On the one hand, there are the chains (or the ones that look just like them). They vary by name and color scheme, but not by much else. On the other hand, there are the anti-chains, which are so similar to each other as to be almost a chain in and of themselves. Rebellious, in a conforming sort of way.

Like all the other indie coffee shops, Jack's gives you that warm and fuzzy feeling by being organic, fair trade, and shade grown. The trifecta of that which makes a righteous cup of joe. It's walls are exposed brick, coated in black-and-white photos, and the seating is... limited. There's the requisite bench outside. Add to the schtick the Jack's branded trucker hats that are available for sale, and you have the complete anti-chain package. To be able to differentiate them from the other indies, Jack's refers to it's coffee as "stir brewed", a marketing gimmick that my mind immediately associates with "ice brewed" Bud Ice.

Now here's the thing. I tease. But Jack's makes one hell o' a good cup of coffee.

I showed up with Speeds one Saturday afternoon and, lucking out by managing to get a seat at one of Jack's four (4) tables, ordered a Cherry Almond Scone and a cup of Farmer Dan. The scone was, quite possibly, the best scone I've ever had. It was sweet and moist inside, a pleasant change from the typical scone, which is dry and has the consistency of granite. The Farmer Dan is an Americano with a double shot of espresso. Basically, it has some kick. Speeds chose a Cappuccino, which I tried and liked, and a freshly baked Chocolate Chip Cookie, which I did not try, but which she swears by.

I then tried a cup of that Stir-Brewed Coffee, which was... coffee. Good coffee, but don't ask me how it was better than the coffee I make with my French press at home.

Maybe it was the company, maybe it was the setting, maybe it was the fact that I just got back from Atlantic City shirt intact (maybe it was the coffee), but I had one of the best times just sitting by the window BSing for the better part of an hour. The warm weather, the tree lined street, the brownstones, the happy people wandering in and out, the calm of the day. It was so thoroughly relaxing that getting up and leaving was done only because Jack's lacks a bathroom. If I could go back here every day (and get a table), I would.

PEGU CLUB
• 77 West Houston Street
• New York, NY 10012
• (212) 473-7348 •

Sissy tree-hugging mama's boy liberal pantywaste that I am, a small part of me feels slightly guilty drinking at a venue that celebrates the good old days of sun-never-setting globo-colonial imperialism. A very, very small part. While some bars like PDT and The Back Room romanticize the 1920s speakeasies, when having a drink meant secret codes, knowing the right people, and hiding in plain sight, Pegu Club romanticizes prohibition-era drinking from the British point of view. Here, it's would be high treason against the Queen to allow some temperance-fetishizing Puritan to keep someone from their forty year-old Glenfiddich. Stepping inside turns you into a leisure-class traveler at an upscale officers' club bar full of Brits and Yanks in the exotic locale of Burma.

Somewhat cornball, somewhat politically incorrect, but you know you love it. And it's a great bar with some great cocktails.

After our last outing, Operagirl and I were determined to get a halfway decent drink. And thus did we find ourselves at Pegu Club. One downside to Pegu is their lack of a no-standing rule. Essentially, this means that when they run out of places to sit, you can still come in. So people mill about, crowding the bar and giving it a meat-market vibe. So unless you want to fight for the bartender's attention or are determined to find some arm candy, go during the week or early when it's less crowded.

It seems silly to go to a cocktail lounge and order only one drink when you can order two for just twice the price. So that's what we did.

The first thing I ordered was Pegu's signature drink, The Pegu Club Cocktail, a concoction of gin, bitters and lime juice that was able to be sweet, sour and bitter all amazingly at the same time. Operagirl's first drink was The Old Cuban, a champagne-based cocktail (spiking the price) mixed with rum, bitters, lime and mint. They refer to it as their version of the mojito, and damn if it wasn't one of the best versions I've ever had. If you like minty limeade that tingles on your tongue as you drink it, this would be the drink for you.

One thing that Pegu Club will do is provide your table with vials to adjust the cocktail to your personal liking. Thus, if your drink is too sweet, add some bitters. Too sour, add some sugar. We used them for round two. Having both ordered drinks that were a bit too sweet, those vials came in handy, making a good drink way better. My choice was the Tantris Sidecar, a cognac based drink with brandy, pineapple, lime, Chartreuse, and Cointreau. Keeping in theme with her mojito-esque Old Cuban, Operagirl ordered a French Pearl. Gin, Pernod, mint, lime and sugar.

This was not my first time at Pegu, with her or other friends, and although I can't recall off hand what I've ordered before, I can attest to having never tried anything I didn't like. For those who prefer a beer over a cocktail, Pegu has a short list of beers you could try. Additionally, for those who show up a might peckish, there's a small plates menu. However, while everything on the menu looked good, I haven't ever ordered from it.