Cha-An

A real authentic Japanese tea house has such a pleasant and reassuring atmosphere you feel like you're in the pages of a Murakami novel. Minus the man with the mid-life crisis ruminating about all the crazy suicidal beauties in his life.

We strode into Cha-An tea house for some late night light fare in the East Village tonight. Tea is obviously the thing to come here for. They have dozens of varieties, from woozy oolongs to stinky pu-ehrs to jasmines, which once I declared "tasted like girls". That sounds weird and perfect at the same time. I am especially a fan of the gorgeous Jasmine Pearls that bloom in your cup. (You can get six pearls for $8.)

But the bites were fantastic too: the six appetizer plate (small bites of six flavors) included bean skin with seaweed, roasted and salted burdock root, tea-smoked sashimi salmon with radish and mustard sauce, roasted shrimp, basil marinated cap mushrooms and a fish cake for $11. Take a peek into the meticulous kitchen and you'll notice something different for a Japanese restaurant: the chefs are all women. And there is - without getting stereotypical - something very feminine and lovely about the food choices and preparation. For dessert I had a green tea macaroon and a sake mojito ($7).

I can't imagine a more charming place to steal away with a book alone or to go on a mellow date. Or for the three of us tonight, a place for a nibble. Noriko, our waitress, was ebulliently sweet. Go Japan, go! Take me to your leader!

Where: 230 E. 9th Street, East Village, 212-228-8030

Eating on the UWS

I have been remiss in the past 10 days and have provided you nothing to feast on, but don't worry, I have still been eating. For some imprecise reason I have been eating a lot in my neighborhood, hence the good, the bad and the ugly below.

Kefi

I loved Onera, I love Anthos, I love Kefi. Chef Michael Psilakis as I wrote once in a Metro review is the George Harrison of cooking. It's a charming, delicious, and affordable family-style Greek cafe. Crisp Greek white wines are around $6/glass; meze are under $10 and entrees around $15. Recommended: Cuttlefish Stuffed With Spinach & Manouri ($8.95) and Flat pasta, Pulled Braised rabbit, Graviera Cheese ($10.95)

Where: 222 W. 79th St., 212-873-0200

Hudson River Cafe

It's Buppie central on this sleek and charming patio cafe and restaurant under the bridge with amazing views of early 20th century riveting. While the food is ok, the place is definitely more about the ambience and cocktails ($10). The food advertised as "local" didn't seem all that local to me (horseradish crusted salmon and tostones?) - the portions were ginormous, and all suffered from a little too much of everything (sauce, salt, fat, etc...) But the package - and live jazz on Sundays and Wednesdays - all together makes this a great destination place.

Where: 697 W. 133rd St., 212-491-9111


Wine & Roses

I'm just going to say it: the Upper West Side is filled with annoying d-bags and the women who chase after them. And so when a wine bar opens up (this is one of several new ones), they all come running in their effort to be "classy" for their $18 glasses of Barolo while listening to "Crazy" at a too-loud -to-talk volume and zoning out to a flatscreen tv. This is "Time Out" sports bar in a different disguise. In sum: too many cougars; cheesy people; overpriced wine. Can someone please get it right up here?

Where: 286 Columbus Ave., 212-579-9463

Sidecar

An oasis has opened up in the culinary desert (ok, maybe that's an overstatement) of South Park Slope (the actual South Slope, not Catherine's warped definition). On 5th Ave between 15th and 16th St. just down the street from Buttermilk, one of my favorite bars in New York, is Sidecar, a classy joint specializing in classy cocktails, and with a very solid menu heavy on comfort food. Under the irrestible heading "elixirs" on the menu is a list of specialty mixed drinks that I had never heard of, except for the titular sidecar, which I ordered and was delicious. My friend opted for the Old Cuban Bruggal, which consists of rum, mint & bitters, topped with champagne. There's a cocktail called "Dr. Tucker's 59", and the description on the menu simply reads "for all pain." The bartender told me that a poster with these words was found during the renovation of the building, and they decided to use the phrase for a cocktail. Cool. Hey, if you're gonna have a hook to your restaurant, this is a pretty good one. And it was fun to watch our heavily tattooed bartender expertly mix the drinks.

As for the food, apparently the chef used to work at Blue Ribbon, and he makes almost everything himself, including the mayo. Impressive, no? My friend got a solid cheeseburger and fries, and I opted for the fried chicken with root mash and bacon succotash, which was delicious. I had not eaten non-Popeye's fried chicken in ages, and this hit the spot. The only negative, which was not really a negative, was that a photographer was snapping pictures of my friend and me eating. Finding this a bit odd, I approached her and found out she worked for the Park Slope Reader, and that she was using us as her "foreground" for photos of the establishment. So if Sidecar gets more publicity, I won't mind that readers of that venerable newspaper (aka the "Paper of Record") will get an eyeful of my messy chicken bone-eating style.

Where: Read the second sentence of the post.

Pacific Standard

A love letter to the west coast

Once upon a time the living was good. Deep into the autumn season we still enoyed seeing our tans arms, casually hanging outside the car window, as we drove down the 280. Maybe Sublime was in the car stereo. If the evening got chilly, we threw on a cardigan sweater and went over to a friend's house to smoke bong hits. On the weekends, there was a show at Bottom of the Hill or some flick at the Roxy, followed by beers, cebollitas and carne asada burritos at El Farolito. Oh yeah, the boys were nice to look at too.

Now, it's fucking hot as hell and the subway feels like feverish cess pool. The streets smell of urine and more than 50 percent of the boys are just plain out ugly. I have doled out The Finger at least twice today. A wannabe Black Elvis is singing me a love song. Except he's singing a Stevie Wonder tune; and behind him there is a small Latin man salsa dancing with a blow up doll. Man, I love me some New York City.

But sometimes, I just want a small hit of that west coast pipe again. Just a wee bump to tide me over. So I am happy to say that I was introduced to Pacfic Standard last night. They are Cal people. It's west coast microbrews, some of which are good and some taste like a leftover skunk. And it's located in the dirty heart of New York's own version of Oakland, South Park Slope.

It's campy and rec roomy. I especially enjoyed the owner's very own early 80s era baseball collection in the "Atlantic" loo; they also have a pretty awesome book collection for browsing. But the piece de resistance? On an altar-like table under the big screen (playing the Oakland A's game last night, who were slaying Texas) is the complete OED, small magnifying glass and all. MIMP: noun, a pursing of the lips. I did not know that.

Where: Pacific Standard, 82 Fourth Ave.

Prince St. Cafe

UPDATE: Today on our fourth or fifth visit now, the chef was like "I see you guys in here a lot." It's true. It's become our lunch spot of choice. Today: the Tahitian coucous salad with roasted vegetables over greens ($10) and Axel had the sandwich/soup combo ($8) with wild mushroom soup and ham sandwich. I stole bites, it was delicious.


The great thing about catching a restaurant in its opening throes is that you can watch it either get better or watch it simply face plant. Yes, I am that sadistic. Prince St. Cafe opened two weeks ago and it appears to be accelerating in the former category.

Axel, nee Ben, and I found this cafe the day after it opened. Located in a long slot-like space on Prince and Elizabeth, it was opened by Gary Volkov, formerly of One if by Land...(which is overrated I think). The place is comfortable, benefits from two high-def TVs quietly playing baseball on one and NY1 on the other, and the service is awkward and European and refreshingly sweet.

And the food is good! And the prices very good (for Nolita)! We like it! Axel likes sauteed shrimp quesadilla wrap ($8) and I've made a running start on the sandwich board (all $7.50): grilled chicken with avo and cilantro aioli one week, and a grilled cheese on baguette with fig confit and pancetta the next.

They have other tempting things: Homemade gnocchi with wild mushrooms; Ukranian borscht and red velvet cupcakes. In addition to being comfortable it's un-prententious unlike the other neighborhood haunts Cafes Gitanes and Havana.

Prince St. is your basic upscale cafe and feels gourmand without feeling bourgeois. It's perfect for eating alone or with others. There is a great backroom where you can escape from the street and is illuminated with massive skylights. I like it. Go there if you are in the neighborhood.

Where: Prince/Elizabeth Streets

Mullane's

You know what I like more than the average guy? A juicy, delicious burger. And lemme tell you, a good burger in Brooklyn is hard to find. Great, sophisticated New American cuisine? Sure. A workingman's cheeseburger? Not quite so easy. Despite its considerable charm, Bonnie's on 5th Ave. in Park Slope doesn't quite deliver for me--its burger is simply too large and charred, and usually falls apart before the consumption halfway point. DuMont Burger in Williamsburg, despite ludicrous lists like this one, I found to be overrated, delivering a slightly better than average burger in a fun. outdoor setting.

It was with great surprise and pleasure, then, that the folks over at Chowhound guided me to Mullane's on Lafayette Ave. in Fort Greene (near where my Ipod was recently stolen) for a pre-theater dinner on Saturday night. Mullane's is an Irish bar and restaurant where some of the waitstaff actually appear to be Irish. It's more suburban in its setup and execution than many Brooklyn eateries, and you know what? I like that. Sometimes I miss big, free-refillable cokes, space between tables, and TV's on in the background. Because I yearn for Chili's weekly, does that make me a bad person? I don't think so. I think it means that I want to have my burger and eat it too (I want an occasional taste of the suburbs in the city, in other words), and at Mullane's I can do that--before catching me some Chekhov (aka culture) over at BAM.

Like at Chili's, the burger at Mullane's seemed almost perfectly calibrated to my eating potential (meaning that when I was done I felt very pleasantly full). I chose the "Bamburger," which came with cheese, bacon, and mushrooms, and a pleasantly soft (but not soggy) bun. What else can I tell you other than that it was tasty and just what the doctor ordered? People on contentious message boards would probably want to shoot me for saying this, but I'd probably put this in the top niche of burgers I've eaten in New York.

Mullanes--71 Lafayette Ave., Brooklyn

Duryea Lobsters

Lobsters are one of the most misunderstood sea creatures. They are, to be frank, giant sea bugs that comb the sea’s surfaces for tasty eats. They eat dead stuff. They were once upon a time, quite literally, junk food – victuals for the workingman, according to my favorite lobster meditation by David Foster Wallace.

Then someone got the bright idea to make them fancy and they are ubiquitously served at every fine restaurant in New York City. I believe Le Bernandin serves them at least six different ways, always under some light foamy sea urchin sauce or whatever. At some point in culinary history, the lobster became the food that signaled that you had arrived. For some communities, it’s shrimp. For the upper middle class, it’s lobster. The luxury lifestyle explosion and climate change in the past 10 years have nearly drained the east coast dry of them. Prices are soaring; catches are pathetic, according to the New Haven Register.

However, it’s a fine food, don’t get me wrong. But I also don’t think it’s all that. Chances are it’s overcooked and tough and lacks all the delicate buttery-ness that crab has. Anyway, the only real dishes I think lobsters are suited for are bisque (served with a nice shot of sherry) and lobster rolls.

And that brought me to Duryea Lobsters, at the tip on Long Island in Montauk this weekend. It has a legendary reputation; locals, including the Barefoot Contessa herself, were shoulder to shoulder on the deck with their BYOB of pink zin and yellow chards getting busy with the sea beast. Our group, six in all, also tucked into lobster rolls ($17.95). They were served on a toasted sesame roll, cole slaw and potato chips and we washed them down with lemonade. Duryea makes a damn good lobster roll: the lobster filling is a plentiful; meaty chunks well-covered in mayonnaise, seasoned amply with dill and black pepper. The roll buttered and each bite was a delicious bite of sweet meat, salty butter and mayonnaise and the tickle of spices.

We ate silently, wiped our lips and trekked home. A lobster roll like that has only one kind of dessert: a long-nap in a shaded hammock. Done and done.


Where: 65 Tuthill Road, Montauk, NY, (631) 668-2410

West Taghkanic Diner

Road tripping – for New Yorkers – is a past-time that comes far too infrequently. The challenges are many; the rewards far away. But if you have the wanderlust, as I do, you find a way to hit the open road every now and then and make, ideally, an escape upstate. In which case you need to know about the best kept driving secret in all of New York: you take the Taconic, not I-87. It’s scenic, winding and was purposefully made for picnicking drivers headed to Bear Mountain.

Parkways also do not have a lot of roadside crap. There are no Sbarros or fossilized Roy Rogers for your cartripping pleasure. They have diners instead. The old-school kind, made with aluminum siding and barstools. Take the Exit at Route 82 and you will find the West Taghkanic Diner, with a neon lit Indian chief sign offering respite in the otherwise dark wilds of the New York City frontier.

I could offer you a treatise on diners. But today, I’ll offer you pie instead. When you sit on a barstool in a diner, or in a pleather banquette, you must drink coffee and eat pie. The Taghkanic offers seven flavors, four of which are the fruity variety. It is $3 a slice and a buck for endless refills of coffee. They also offer rice, tapioca pudding and delicious caramel flan.

Frankly, the pie – blueberry – sucked. It was cold; the crust too dense and not flaky and it was factory-made with generic canned filling. But I kind of didn’t care. The open road; the diner and it’s $4.99 meatloaf special s and 99-cent coffee; the pregnant teenage waitress: this is what I really love. That’s what I came to the diner for. A big serving of red, white and blue. They know that; they sell tee-shirts displaying as much. Diners weren’t ever really meant to serve good food; their selling point is location and convenience and streamlined good looks. On that front the West Taghkanic wins. Maybe next time I’ll try the chocolate cake and a glass of milk.


Where: Exit Route 82; West Taghkanic, NY, 518-851-7117