Stout. Hmmm.

A couple weeks ago, NR, LM, the bro and I hit up MSG for the Bruins-Rangers game. Jonesin' for some food and drink beforehand, we convened at Stout, just across the street, for some pre-game fuel.

First of all, let me say that Stout is HUGE. It's got two floors, and even just the top floor is larger than you could even conceive of. We were seated in the far, far back, the farthest table from the entry (literally), amidst a crowd of people scarfing chicken fingers and pounding beers.

The fact that Stout is huge is actually really relevant to this review, because on the night we were there, they were not only huge but apparently painfully understaffed. Sure, there were servers running around, but getting served was a challenge at any point during the night. Fortunately, the bro and I, acting as Advance Team and arriving at the table first, decided to order ASAP to get things rolling. A beer and a Magner's, along with a house salad and a Reuben pizza, were delivered in a relatively timely manner.

The salad, a bowl of mixed greens with matchsticks of green apple, some walnut pieces, and a few dollops of goat cheese, was decent, if small. Once I had finished I was still ravenously hungry and debating ordering a second salad. (I didn't, fortunately... you'll see why.)

Decently fresh

When the pizza arrived, NR had joined our crew, and he and the bro split the pizza. It was a thin-crust pizza topped with Swiss cheese, some sauerkraut, and small chunks of pastrami. While ordering the Reuben pizza was a gamble, it paid off-- both NR and the bro enjoyed this concoction. They planned to finish their meal with a chicken pizza, to be ordered the next time we could flag down a server.

Reuben on a 'za

Our first server (ostensibly the one assigned to our table), passed by in a rush-- the bro flagged her down and said we'd like to order some more food whenever she got a chance. She said she'd be back and then promptly disappeared. We did not see her again. Around 15 minutes passed, and LM joined us; finally, after significant effort and frantic glances at the clock, we were able to order some more drinks, the second pizza, a spinach and artichoke dip, and an order of chicken fingers for LM's meal.

Cue another 15-minute lapse; a manager came over at one point to ask how things were going, and we mentioned we were still waiting for our food while trying to make the start of the Bruins game. He disappeared and returned a few minutes later to tell us the food was on its way. Sweet.

Soon a chicken pizza graced our table. In a moment of group foresight, we'd thought to ask for the check at that point so we could pay and dash whenever the food was done. The check arrived, we paid, and a couple of minutes later the spinach and artichoke dip came. Still waiting for the chicken fingers, we mentioned to the passing manager that they'd never arrived. He left and returned a few minutes later to say that the kitchen had run out of chicken fingers. Yes, really. About 30 minutes after we'd ordered them, they had "discovered" there were none left. Oh, and we'd already paid for them, of course, given that we'd paid the bill in advance.

Pizza #2

Not as good as last time, apparently

To his credit, when we informed the manager of this, he was incredibly apologetic, told us he'd take the dish off the bill, and offered us a round of drinks. Since we were under incredible time pressure at this point, we opted for a round of shots. A bit of Patron in our bellies, the bro and I dashed across to the Garden to work out an issue with our seats while LM and NR finished their meals (such as they were).

But that's not all--apparently after the bro and I left, the manager had returned because he had made some mistake on the bill and was trying to get our party to pay more than we had (we'd paid the right amount for the total bill, minus the chicken fingers, including tip). Really? At that point, given our experience, as a restaurant manager, don't you just let it go?

So I'm really mixed about Stout. The service, obviously, was atrocious, but the manager did make a good-faith effort to fix things... until he came back with the bill issue and further mired himself in bad-service purgatory. The food was decent, however, and not overpriced, and the ambiance is enjoyable if you're looking for an Irish pub/sports bar atmosphere. And if you're in the MSG area, your food and drink options are sorely limited. Would I go back to Stout? I'm not sure-- even with our bad experience, I wouldn't rule it out; the bro has been there several times before and has had good experiences previously. So I'll give Stout two Offset Spatulas rather than one, with hopes that if we do ever return, it will redeem itself.

Stout
133 W. 33rd Street, between 6th and 7th Avenues
212-629-6191

Disappointed by the service at Kyotofu

This past Tuesday, Mom got out of work early, so we arranged to meet up for food and drink at Kyotofu. Now, I've written about how much I enjoy Kyotofu's soft serve; I've had their plated desserts once or twice before as well, but I hadn't been back recently for the dine-in experience. Well, turns out I wasn't missing much... at least experience-wise.

I arrived before Mom did and asked for a party of two in the dining room, which is shaped vaguely like a spaceship and is tucked behind the kitchen and take-out area. The waiter showed me to a table in the corner, separating a four-person setup into two two-person tables, one of which was for me. There was maybe one other occupied table in the room; the rest was empty. Seems reasonable, no?

Well, after I had settled in and removed my eighteen layers of outer garments, the same waiter came in and told me that table was reserved, so could I move to THAT table (points across the room to the opposite corner, which looks pretty much 100% identical to my table, only across the room). I actually laughed. Sure, I'll move, what the hell. So I started the rather laborious process of gathering my things, during which the party of two who had "reserved" my table told the waiter they didn't care and would sit in the other corner. So I was ALLOWED to keep the table. Woohoo.

That pretty much set the tone for the service that evening. Mom arrived and after a delay we were able to place our orders. I asked for a pot of genmai matcha green tea, which came in a beautiful setup, albeit with no place to put the basket of used leaves once I pulled them out of the tea to stop the steeping. Oh, and I was about two cups in before my requested sweetener arrived.

All very delicate

Mom's food finally arrived after I'd consumed nearly all of the tea. Kyotofu's savory menu is a bit confusing-- it's hard to tell how big the portions are, so it's difficult to judge how much food to order. Insider tip: they're small, get a lot. Mom went with three choices, and that was right for her. The first, chamame, was enjoyed; when the diners at another table asked the waiter what made it different from regular edamame, our waiter said "it's the same." Way to sell it, brother! Regardless, Mom claimed there was an interesting flavor-- not just regular salt-- atop the beans. Some sort of cheese? Who knows?

Beans in a bowl

She also ordered the warm Japanese mushroom salad. She liked this quite a bit as well, noting that I would probably like it too. I do like my salads, so I trust her judgment on this.

Greens 'n' fungi

Her final choice was the house-cured snapper nigiri. She took one bite and noted that she had expected the dish to have much more flavor. Too bad. From the other waiter roaming the room, I requested some soy sauce, which mercifully arrived quite promptly. I think the soy sauce rescued the dish to some extent.

Flavorless, but pretty

While Mom packed away her "real" food, I went straight for the dessert. Intending to get the soft serve sundae, I inquired as to what the soft serve flavors were that week and was told that the soft serve machine was out of commission. Wah-wahhhhh. On to plan B. I ordered the sorbet sampler, which I requested with one scoop of white peach and an extra scoop of coconut rather than the mandarin orange that completed the trio. The white peach was rather astringent, but the coconut sorbet was sublime-- preternaturally creamy with a texture like velvet and the strong and pure taste of coconut. There were three mini cookies on the side; two chocolate chip, which were forgettable, and one of an unidentified nature studded with what looked like white chocolate chips, which was actually quite good.

Strangely hypnotizing

At this point, dinner finished, my mom naturally wanted dessert. It took a good ten minutes or so for her to track down our waiter to request the dessert menu; a hasty order was delivered, and we eagerly awaited the conclusion of our meal. And a-waited. A solid half hour passed before she finally asked our server once again where the dessert might be. He said that the kitchen was "baking" the chocolate cake, so it takes a longer time. Uhhh, sure. Well, a few minutes later the cake emerged-- perfectly room temperature, of course (so maybe they had baked it and then the exorbitant wait was simply the time while it was cooling to room temp? Riiiight). No matter. What's important is that the cake was delicious. My mom particularly swooned over the pool of caramel in which it sat, and I took care of the dollops of "cream" on top-- I swear it was a dead ringer for the middle layer of an Oreo. Truly well done.

Worth the wait. Sort of.

We had wisely requested the check when the dessert arrived, and it came promptly, along with two heavenly finishing bites of complimentary mini chocolate souffles. Mmmm.

Final bites

As soon as our last bites were dispatched, we shipped out of there. I must say, while the food was quite good overall, I was pretty disappointed with the overall experience of Kyotofu. The service was bumbling and awkward, with terrible pacing and long stretches of inattentiveness. And have I mentioned that there are only about eight tables in the entire restaurant? Perhaps they simply need another server or two to staff the dining room. Let me be clear-- the food is good, but it's expensive, and for those prices, the service needs to be there as well. So the question is, would I return? I'll definitely be back for the soymilk soft serve when the machine is back in action, but I'll think twice before paying the price for the dining room. I guess that means Kytofu ends up on the wrong side of the two/three Offset Spatula divide.

Kyotofu
705 Ninth Avenue, between 48th and 49th Streets
212-974-6012

A final trip to Five Napkin Burger. I promise.

You ever have a place that you really really want to like? So much so that you keep coming back, even when it's clearly against any sense of reason to do so? Well, I realized I'm that way with Five Napkin Burger. I really want to like 5NB, even though I've been a number of times before and haven't really been impressed. Well, last Friday I took AV there-- he loves burgers, and there's been a vegetable roll on the menu I've wanted to try. So we showed up at 7 to a 30-minute wait; we crowed in the corner of the bar, shouting over the cacophony and nursing drinks for 30 minutes, then 40 minutes. I was starting to lose it. But suddenly our coaster buzzed and we were on!

We were squeezed into a two-person table on the end of a banquette, which meant we were basically right in the path of traffic. Runners and waiters and managers and hostesses all fled by, brandishing burgers, bumping into each other, and generally contributing to a pervasive, incredibly hectic atmosphere. Being in 5NB raised my blood pressure.

We sat for several minutes, heads turning back and forth, without anybody visiting. Finally, a harried server stopped by to greet us-- at this point, having had nearly an hour to look over the menu and decide what we want, we seized our chance to order. We also asked for bread to tide us over. The waitress looked sort of confused, and a few minutes later we understood why. Behold, the Saddest Bread Basket in the World. Four pieces of dry, nearly inedible bread, devoid of either butter or oil. Truly gross.

Ick.

Clearly unsatiated by the bread course, we hunkered down to wait for our food. And hunkered. Finally, as we teetered on the point of drunk and ravenous, it arrived. AV's bacon-cheddar burger, with onion rings instead of fries (for an extra charge), was gobbled down appreciatively. I'm happy to say he really, really liked it-- that was the point of us going to 5NB, after all-- and my few (okay, maybe more than a few) bites of the onion rings were swoon-worthy.

Superlative onion rings

My choice, the vegetable roll, was tasty but small and overpriced. Instead of seaweed, there was a soy wrapper, which was a curious choice as it really didn't add (or subtract) much. The roll was well-executed, but $10.95 you could get three times as much food at a sushi restaurant. When I finished, I was still hungry, which is a pretty impressive achievement when you're dealing with a stomach as small as mine. I would definitely not return for this dish.

Almost looks like salmon

After we finished, we fled to the Tasti D next door for dessert. My final verdict on 5NB? It's loud and pretty unpleasant to be in. The food is overpriced. But the burgers, alas, are great. So if you're in the mood for an expensive burger and don't care about a wait, frenzied service, and having to shout to your dining companion, by all means check it out. If any of those matter to you, steer clear of this two Offset Spatula place. You can get good burgers-- and good other food as well-- at a better price elsewhere.

Five Napkin Burger
630 Ninth Ave, between 44th and 45th Streets
212-757-2277

Damn you, Sfoglia

Occasionally, I come across a restaurant that is too big for its britches. You know the kind-- a place that's gotten great buzz, has a constant stream of eager patrons waiting at the door, and has the extensive attitude, arcane reservation policies, and "holier than thou" touches to match. Well, I'm sad to report that AV and I just stumbled upon another one of these delightful gems: enter Sfoglia.

We've both been wanting to try Sfoglia for a very, very long time. But call their phone number and you're politely informed that they're currently "booking six weeks out" but might be able to accommodate you in the intervening weeks at the much sought-after dining times of 5:30, 9:30, or 10:30. Yippee. So to surprise AV, I dutifully booked a Sunday evening dinner many, many weeks in advance, and this past Sunday was the lucky night.

We entered the rustically charming storefront at the corner of 92nd and Lex to find nobody. The hostess stand was empty; we were standing in a long hallway with nobody else in it. Fortunately, the hostess emerged a few moments later to take my name... and then disappeared again. In the meantime, as we waited, some lady carrying a bag of takeout food (let's call her Rude Woman) bustled through the doors and pushed past me to be front-and-center at the hostess stand. When the hostess emerged once again, Rude Woman proceeded to request a reservation for a few weeks later-- and the hostess, ignoring AV and me, had a lengthy conversation with her, booking the reservation and discussing important details such as RW's desire to have candles in her dessert since it would be her birthday. Fantastic. Once RW had left, the hostess turned to me and delivered the news that she would seat us in a few minutes.

AV and I sat on a tiny couch at the end of the hallway. We discussing how we assumed an earlier reservation was likely taking longer than anticipated at the table we'd booked and how we're sympathetic that it's difficult for restaurants to control such things. We discussed how it might have behooved the hostess to tell us "I'll seat you shortly" before dealing with RW. We talked about other things too (we were there for a solid chunk of time). But then-- lo!-- we were summoned.

We passed through the small dining room that I had assumed was the entire extent of the restaurant and emerged into a lovely, dark, intimate back room. Well, intimate except for the 10 or so EMPTY tables there, including several two-tops, which the hostess gaily offered us. Well, we thought, it certainly IS lucky that this entire room cleared out as we waited for those 10 minutes or so... it would be a shame if we were sitting out in the vestibule while our table sat empty. (Sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm.) Slightly incredulous, we chose a nice table in the back near the wine storage and settled in for what promised to be a delightful meal.

Annnnd off we went. After the hostess delivered our menus, our waiter, let's call him Dave Grohl from the Foo Fighters, sidled up to the table to take our drink orders. In the mood for a glass of wine and relatively unfamiliar with Italian varietals, I asked him what the Trebbiano was like. His response: "It's white." That sounds good, I'll have that-- and while you're at it, what's the soup du jour? Once it was established that, yes, I could read English and had deciphered that since the Trebbiano was under the "white" section of the wine list I understood that it was, indeed, "white," he offered a lame description and I ordered it anyway. When AV asked about their funky looking house sodas, he told us "We're out of them." But FORTUNATELY they had regular soda, so AV settled for a ginger ale. Phew.

Now for the menu. It's short, and even shorter on vegetarian options (note to all veggies out there: our kind is not really welcome at Sfoglia. Read on for what I ended up with). Most of the pastas are available in a small or large portion, which is nice. When Dave Grohl returned, we placed our order-- for me, an insalata mista; for AV, the papardelle bolognese-- and he told us that there was one pre-order dessert that night, some sort of rhubarb/cherry crostada. AV told him that we'd probably make our decision come dessert time, and DG retorted with, "Unfortunately, you have to order it now. ESPECIALLY with just one course." [How DARE we!] Oh we have to, eh? Thanks Dave-- I think we're going to be okay without your crostada. Although it sounds quite precious.

Our drinks finally arrived. AV's ginger ale was one of those tiny little 10-ounce soda bottles that you find in the Four Seasons mini bar, where it's about $1 per bubble. Sweet. My wine bottle came in a tiny little cylindrical water cup. Really. No wine glass here. Come ON, people, you're a respectable Italian restaurant and you're serving wine in water glass? (N.B., I know some places do this as an informal touch, but glassware is very important to me and this affectation infuriates me.) I took this opportunity to go to the bathroom, and as I passed the bar on the way I noticed they actually did have wine glasses. So on my way back to my table, I asked the bartender for a wine glass. He provided it with a smile. Back at the table, I performed my own wine service and was satisfied.

Their wine glass on right; my wine glass on left

Eventually, Sfoglia's coveted bread arrived on our table (after, it should be noted, the other table in our room, seated well after we were but clearly friends of the hostess, has received THEIR bread). It was everything the restaurant is famous for: warm sourdough, an enviable crackly crust, and good olive oil. However, Sfoglia also committed the cardinal sin of the bread course: three slices for two people. REALLY, people??? (We split the third slice.)

Highlight of the meal

Our entrees arrived shortly after the bread. The hostess asked if AV wanted parmesan with is pappardelle, and he assented. She disappeared, went to talk to her friends at the other table for a good couple of minutes as AV's pasta cooled on the table, and then finally returned with the parm. While she was gone, AV and I discussed how we had seen dishes of olives on other tables but hadn't received any; was it a separate side order? I hadn't remembered seeing it on the menu. But after viewing my salad, I realized I was going to need at least a little something more, so we decided to throw caution to the wind and ask for them anyway. When we asked the hostess upon her return, she said, "Oh, I hadn't noticed you didn't have any!" and then returned with a dish (yes, they were complimentary). Ravenously hungry, I started pounding olives at a furious pace... and about halfway through the dish realized they were coated in bits of prosciutto. Oops.

Non-vegetarian-friendly.

Now down to the food. AV reports that his papardelle bolognese was incredibly delicious. The kitchen is clearly talented; I'll give them that. But based on the size of the dish, I was surprised that it seemed Dave Grohl had defaulted to placing an order for an appetizer portion of the pasta, since AV hadn't specified and DG hadn't asked during the ordering process. That is, until I got the check, and- wait- nope, it was the full portion, for $30. I can't IMAGINE what the appetizer portion looks like.

Note: Objects in picture appear larger than they are

My own selection, pretty much the only thing I could eat on the menu, was just a dish of leaves. They were delicious leaves, I guess, but there were about a dozen pieces of lettuce in vinagrette on the plate, for $7. If I hadn't had the dish of prosciutto'd olives, I would have left the restaurant, walked across the street, and ordered takeout dumplings to create a real meal. As it was, I pounded half a pint of Ben & Jerry's once AV and I returned to his apartment.

One dish of leaves does not a meal make

When we were finished with our food, Dave Grohl made a final surprise guest appearance at our table, informing us, "Sorry, I forgot about you guys back here" before asking us how the food was. Well, it's gone, so regardless there's not too much you can do about it, Dave, old pal. We declined the offer of non-crostada desserts, paid the inflated check, and left.

God damn it, Sfoglia. We wanted to like you so much. Other people like you. Your food is good. But I left there so covered in attitude that I felt dirty. Fine, maybe it was Sunday night and we caught you on a bad day. But really, you weren't even trying. If the bread and pasta hadn't been so good, you'd be slapped with the coveted zero spatula designation. As it is, you "earn" a meager one Offset Spatula. Readers: there are so many lovely, delicious restaurants in New York City where people care about the food, it's reasonably priced, and when you arrive you are welcomed as an old friend (e.g., Aroma, Brown Cafe). Sfoglia is not one of them. Visit those that truly appreciate your patronage, not Sfoglia. This place just doesn't seem to care.

Sfoglia
1402 Lexington Avenue
212-831-1402

Screw you, Kefi: A neighborhood relief at Nonna

On Saturday night, I met BL on the UWS for a catch-up dinner. I had made a reservation at Kefi, since I love Greek food and had been lured in by the Kefi buzz. I fought the crowds at the door, pushed past the bar area of the obnoxiously loud room, and finally reached the front of the line (nay, mob) at the hostess stand to submit my name and redeem the reservation... when the hostess informed me my reservation was actually for Sunday evening. Sweet. I was a combination of pissed and relieved-- pissed that we had traveled all the way up to the UWS for nothing, but relieved because after five minutes in the frenzied Kefi dining room, I had already had enough.

So, peace out Kefi, have a nice life! We pushed our way past the crowds and headed across the street to Nonna, an unassuming little Italian place that looked rustic and appealing. We were seated immediately. Score!

The dining room was full of families eating plates of pasta and drinking wine out of small cylindrical glasses. We were handed the menus and then faced the difficult task of deciding what we wanted. Our waiter cheerfully came back a couple of times before we were ready, at one point reciting the specials in such an indifferent and disconnected way that it was only when I heard him reciting them to a nearby table, as I was halfway through my salad, that I realized I would actually have wanted to order one. Oh well.

After we placed our order, a plate of focaccia arrived on the table. This was good stuff-- nice and oily but not greasy, flavorful and with the barest hint of rosemary. A nice sprinkle of coarse salt on the crust would have made this focaccia transcendent, but as it was it was damn good. I ate two and a half pieces. Oops?

This entire plate was gone rather quickly.

Fortunately, there was still room for our entrees. BL had ordered pappardelle with mushrooms in a shallot butter sauce. The portion was just right, and my small taste revealed a quite tasty mushroom/sauce mixture. BL definitely enjoyed the pasta.

Looks fresh and mushroomy

I had selected the arugula salad. It was a plate of large, intensely peppery arugula, with a few halved cherry tomatoes and a few shreds of ricotta salata on top. The aggressive twist of fresh ground pepper on top made the whole thing overwhelmingly peppery, and the dressing (on the side) that seemed to be entirely oil did little to cut the pepperiness. It was an okay salad; not terrible, not great, but not something I'd go out of my way to eat.

You can even SEE the pepper

After our entrees were cleared, we debated dessert and eventually headed to Pinkberry. Our bill was quite reasonable, and the whole experience was definitely pleasant-- nice because it was unassuming, which was itself especially nice because of all the attitude we absorbed at Kefi. I wouldn't necessarily recommend going out of your way to visit Nonna, but if you're searching for a low-key dinner in the area, you can't go wrong. It's a solid three-Offset Spatula neighborhood place.

Nonna
520 Columbus Ave, at 85th Street
212-579-3194

Final Lunetta Update: Demotion

5:51 PM: Took the subway down to Lunetta; arrived around 4:30. Asked the cordial manager if my gloves were still there. He opened a small drawer (note: drawer located approximately 6 inches away from the phone, which apparently was too much for "Elise" to navigate earlier), extracted my gloves, and handed them to me.

Upshot: One pair of gloves reclaimed and a lot of time wasted. Lunetta, you really failed at this one. I'm demoting you to one Offset Spatula and a firm "don't go there" status. Dear readers, if you can at all help it, just don't go there.

Lunetta Update: This Place Sucks

Saturday, 1:39 PM: Gloves, not surprisingly, have not made an appearance over the past 5 days. Decided to call Lunetta to see if they're even still there, as if they were, I would go pick them up this afternoon. Got "Elise" on the phone; asked if my gloves were still there. She said she'd check and put me on hold. A minute later she came back and said "We're in the middle of a very busy service. Please call back later" and hung up.

Uhhhh....

Auckland Day 2: Worst meal EVER

So, you know how I said I wasn’t awarding spatulas on this trip? Well, now I am, just for this one restaurant. I hereby proclaim: Soul Bar & Bistro is my first and highly distinguished ZERO SPATULA RESTAURANT.
Can you tell I’m pissed? I am. Soul came highly recommended both on the internet and by our hotel’s concierge. I was excited to go there. So the evening of our second night, we braved the rain showers and headed to Viaduct Basin, making our way to Soul.

The restaurant was buzzing when we arrived—the first restaurant so far to have a sizeable crowd. The host asked if we had reservations; we didn’t; he looked perturbed; he led us to a table anyway. He brought us menus.

We were examining the menus when someone who must have been hired from the local clown college to play the part of our waiter came over to tell us the specials. And by “us” I mean “my mom,” because he came to our two person table, planted himself facing my mom, and spoke entirely to her for about three minutes straight. Then when he asked us if we wanted wine and my mom indicated we weren’t sure, he took only my wine glass away. Hey guys! I’m twelve years old! Sweet!

We were ready to place our order, and Bozo the Waiter was nowhere to be seen, so the host eventually came over to take the order. I ordered an appetizer of buffalo mozzarella. My mom ordered the tuna nicoise salad. When my mom voiced that choice, the somewhat nervous host seemed almost afraid of what was coming, and he stammered out that the tuna was “Seared. Rare inside. It’s seared, so it’s not cooked through. It’s rare. Seared. But rare inside. It’s seared. Not entirely cooked. Is that how you want it? Because it’s seared. It’s seared, but it’s not entirely cooked.” GOT IT. THANKS. I am not making this up.

Finally, the orders were placed. We had requested bread to start, and as it seems is New Zealand custom (grrr), you have to pay for bread (the meals don’t come with a bread basket). So we had ordered a $4NZ basket of ciabatta. What arrived is below: two ridiculously paltry pieces of ciabatta, bolstered by two tiny pieces of non-ciabatta French bread. Nice, guys. Great value.

Wow. Extravagant.

Shortly after our bread, our food arrived. My very small dish came with two half-spheres of mozzarella, two pieces of basil, one green tomato wedge, three bits of roasted tomato, and two microscopic cubes of jellied olive stuff. First I tried a bite of the green tomato; it was stomach-turningly sour and astringent. To compensate, I then took a bite of the mozzarella, and what I expected to be creamy and smooth and delicious was hard (yes, hard), stringy, and gross. At that point I actually almost sent the dish back—I’ve never done that—but I decided I’d already given up on the place and just plowed through the albeit small plate to be done with it.

It looks bigger...and better...than it was

My mom’s salad nicoise was also small, but the piece of tuna was generous. We both expected an actual salad, but the garnishes were mostly shaved green beans. I tasted the green beans and they tasted disgustingly fishy. When I caught her showering the piece of fish with salt, Mom admitted that the whole dish lacked any flavor. Any flavor, that is, aside from olives, which were ground up among the green beans to flavor everything. She doesn’t like olives.

Raw and flavorless. Yum.

So, yech. But of course, there’s always dessert, right? That could save the meal! Hurrah for dessert! All of a sudden Bozo was back, and he brought the dessert menus. I immediately fixated on just what my stomach wanted: malt chocolate pudding with honeycomb ice cream and a white chocolate tuile. My mom vacillated but ultimately ordered a chocolate tart, just for a few bites.

I sat and was anticipating my cool, creamy chocolate pudding when our dessert plates swooped down on the table. Her tart looked lovely. My plate held a chocolate cake. CAKE. NOT PUDDING. GAHHHHH. Now, at this point, my stomach was way off anyway, and the smell of hot chocolate cake wafting up was literally nauseating (I know, usually I like chocolate cake, but you know when you’re expecting something and get something else, even if the something else is good, it’s terrible? Yeah. Like that). I was freakin’ pissed, too. My mom called over the waiter, said there was some misunderstanding, that maybe they had meant pudding in the British sense of the word or something… and the waiter had the AUDACITY to try to convince us that it WAS pudding, that if you cracked it open there would be pudding inside. NO. THAT’S NOT PUDDING. THAT’S MOLTEN CHOCOLATE CAKE. My mom encouraged me to order something else, but I was so agitated I just wanted to get the hell out of there. We told him to take the cake away, bring us the check, and when he did we bolted.

I’m not sure if this post really conveys the extent of it, but let’s just say being truly tired, being ignored and treated like crap by waitstaff, being served disgusting food (the mozzarella appetizer was the worst dish I’ve been served in a restaurant in recent memory), and then being bait-and-switched with dessert does NOT make a happy restaurant reviewer.

ZERO SPATULAS, SOUL. Dear readers, if you ever, ever, ever go to Auckland and even contemplate going to Soul, please don’t. For my sake if not for yours. It sucks.

Fortunately, my mom knows when palliative action is needed, and she took me straightaway to White, the Hilton’s restaurant (home of the awesome breakfast buffet), and got me a hot white chocolate mousse. For the record, it was delicious and powerfully sweet, but it wasn’t really mousse either—it was like a hot soufflé with a liquid interior. The desserts are weird here.

This silly little dessert improved my night immeasurably.

Pass by this Nook

Yesterday, I met up with an ex-boyfriend, SSOE, for brunch in my neighborhood. I was tasked with choosing the place, so I chose Nook, a small spot on 9th avenue between 50th and 51st street. I'd passed by there several times and heard good things about its brunch, so it seemed like a good spot.

The outside... looks "cozy," huh?

We were seated immediately, which I appreciate in the cut-throat market that is the Manhattan brunch scene. The place is tiny, smaller than most studio apartments. There are only ten tables or so, if that, and the tables are packed in tightly (at one point I made the mistake of moving my elbow and elbowed the woman sitting behind me. We both apologized, for no apparent reason). You could see partially into the open kitchen in the back, where the chef was hastily plating the usual breakfast favorites. And-- this will become very important shortly-- there was one combination waiter/host/busboy/barista working the entire dining room. One.

The menu, with its annoyingly precious slogan

We sat and chatted and waited a little while for our menus to arrive. And then we waited for a little while longer for our orders to be taken. The waiter brought over a small basket of bread, which we dove into. The crust was crackly but not too hard, and the interior was delightfully stretchy and chewy. The butter was high-quality, as well-- sweet cream with a fresh flavor.

Enjoyable bread basket

Once we had packed away the bread, our dishes arrived. SSOE had ordered the apple pancakes, which came with a side of berry compote of some sort (he guessed there might be some rhubarb in there). The whole thing came buried under a squall of powdered sugar. SSOE enjoyed the pancakes, and with three medium-sized cakes for a $7.50 price tag, the price was right. But he didn't enjoy his cafe au lait-- which, although ordered with the pancakes, never came. More on that later as well...

Apple pancakes, obscured by powdered sugar

Token compote close-up. It wasn't actually cocktail sauce; it just looks that way in the picture

I had ordered the Salade Provencal. It came with mixed greens, diced beets, goat cheese, and roasted red peppers. I asked whether I could have something instead of the peppers, and the waiter informed me he could take things off the salad but couldn't do any substitutions (such flexibility!). So I went with the salad as is, dressing on the side.

Standard salad

As you can see, the salad arrived with the dressing on it, but I figured trying to correct that at the pace we were going would take until Sunday brunch. So I forged ahead. The salad was pretty good; all the ingredients (beets, sun-dried tomatoes, roasted red peppers) were fresh, there was a lot of sweet herbed goat cheese, and the portion was relatively generous for a $7 salad. But, as SSOE pointed out after we left, it was a salad you could find at any of innumerable restaurants around Manhattan.

It was at this point in the meal, once we had finished our food, that things began to degenerate service-wise. First: the water situation. Nook serves water in cute glass bottles left on the table; we rushed through ours shortly after we arrived, and no more water was forthcoming, so by the end of my salad I was seriously rationing my sips. After we had finished the food, the waiter came by with the water jug and slopped water into the glasses, spilling a large portion over the table and onto my (by then thankfully empty) plate.

When the waiter came with the much-needed water, our plates were already empty and we were clearly finished. But then he departed and left our empty plates in front of us for another ten minutes or so. After he finally cleared them away, there was another somewhat long wait for the check. When that arrived, we noticed he had charged us for the cafe au lait that never arrived. We had to verbally flag him down (awkward in a small restaurant) to get that changed; he was very apologetic, saying "I wish you'd told me and I'd have brought it" (well, we wish you had just brought it!), and returning shortly with the amended total.

I put down a $20 bill--the place is cash only, another bummer-- and tried in vain to get change for several minutes. All the while, mind you, the waiter is rushing up and down, back and forth across the small space-- it's hard to go unnoticed in such a tiny restaurant, so I'm not sure why it consistently took so long to get his attention. When I finally did get him close enough to ask for change, he returned-- with change for the entire bill, including the cafe au lait. At this point I almost yelled across the restaurant to keep him from leaving so he could correct the mistake. Again apologetic, he returned with the correct change, and as he put it on the table, he said something to the effect of, "Man, I'm really screwing you guys today, aren't I?" Um, yes.

So, after an hour and fifteen minutes or so, we finally emerged onto the street. I wonder: had someone called in sick that day or was the restaurant always manned by only one person? Even with a small number of tables, providing quality service while trying to do EVERYTHING (take orders, bring water, make coffee, pour orange juice, deliver food, tally the bill, make change, clear plates... the list goes on and on) is impossible, as was clearly demonstrated yesterday. The waiter was certainly trying, but his top-speed movements through the small restaurant only added a harried atmosphere to what should be a relaxing brunch. It's too bad, really; the food at Nook was pretty solid, and it's a surprisingly good value. But even so, I would definitely not return, nor would I recommend Nook to anyone seeking a brunch spot in Hell's Kitchen. So, for the very good bread, decent salad, and value for money, I give Nook two out of five Offset Spatulas. It's a pity so many spatulas had to be deducted for service.

(N.B.: Thanks to the astute comments of several readers, I'll now diligently provide location information for all my posts so it's easier for you to find the places. Not that you necessarily want to find Nook, but, you know, for the future...)

Nook
746 9th Ave
Between 50th and 51st Streets

Nizza-- or, like, NOTza

I pass Nizza, a new French/Italian/Mediterranean-ish restaurant on 9th Avenue, every day on my way to work. I've been psyched to go there ever since it opened not too long ago. There was a short write-up in the Times about the place, and it was mostly positive. What could go wrong? Ahh, funny you should ask.

My brother's girlfriend's mother was in town, and she was kind enough to get the four of us tickets to Young Frankenstein for Saturday night. All we needed was a quick pre-theater meal nearby, and I figured Nizza would fit the bill. I called early in the afternoon to try to make reservations, but they only take them for parties of five or larger. The hostess suggested we arrive close to 6, at which point the wait for a table would probably be about 10-15 minutes. Sounds reasonable.

We showed up at 6 on the dot and put our names in with the host. Now, I live in New York City and have seen my share of apathy, but this man was by FAR the most apathetic person I have ever met. He just BARELY cared enough to take our names-- quite a burden, I know. Once we got past that hurdle, we moved our party outside and stood by the telephone pole on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, watching the crowded restaurant. It was approximately 60 degrees out, but Nizza had the entire front of the restaurant open to the elements and its sidewalk tables out in full force. Now, call me crazy, but that's a LITTLE ambitious in my farmer's almanac.

About twenty minutes later, a hostess came out to offer us an outside table. Um, no thanks, but if I'd like to eat outside in the freezing cold I could buy a slice of pizza and eat it while walking home. We declined the table, and I went inside to ask how much longer it would be for a table inside. Mr. Apathetic Host gestured vaguely to the room and said that there were "a couple of tables" about to finish up. Right.

We waited another fifteen minutes, at which point I went to the host and told him we needed either to be seated or to leave-- we were reaching the point of no return, as it were, in terms of fitting in a good dinner before the show. I wasn't rude, mind you, I just told him, hey man, it's time to fish or cut bait. Fortunately, he pointed to a booth in the corner and told us they were busing the table now. We watched the table be bussed and set up, and since nobody came over to seat us, we sort of walked over to where the host was standing near the free table and loitered nearby. He made some sort of gesture indicating we could be seated. We obliged.

We sat there in the booth, which was wedged in the far corner right next to the entrance to the kitchen, watching servers and busboys buzzing back and forth around us, for several minutes. Nobody came to take our order; hell, we didn't even have menus. Finally, we stopped one of the hosts/hostesses (this restaurant seemed to have several, an excess that seemed actually to diminish the level of service rather than increase it). We asked politely for some menus or a waiter, at which point the hostess said snippily, "The menus COME with the waiter." Wow! Great news! Or it WOULD be great news if a waiter would actually show up with these fabled menus. Needless to say, the hostess disappeared, and a few minutes later she reappeared with some menus. Still no waiter.

We quickly decided what we wanted and waited for another few moments, at which point-- joy!-- a waiter appeared. Now, I'm no expert, but I've been to at least a handful of restaurants in my time, and I've deduced that the usual protocol in these types of situations is for the waiter to introduce himself in some way. There's not necessarily a need for the pseudo-ridiculous "Hi, I'm Megan, I'll be taking care of you tonight," but at least a perfunctory "Good evening" or "Welcome" is usually in order. This waiter, on the other hand, shattered the paradigm. He showed up at our table and said, "We also have [insert specials here]." Seriously. That's all. In Homeric poetry we call this "in medias res"-- that is, "in the middle of things," or starting a conversation as though one had already been going on. Apparently our waiter and we had been talking extensively, likely about what was already on the menu, before he arrived and announced what they also had. Cue my mind exploding.

We did manage to place our order, though, and requested a plate of bread (for those of us in the quest of end-of-passover leavened carbs). We sat and chatted for a while; about ten minutes later, the plate of bread showed up (mediocre-to-decent foccacia with dipping oil). Then about two minutes later the rest of our food showed up, all at once. Well, sort of-- one dish was missing, which we requested and they brought out a few minutes later.

What did we get? My dining companions ordered the butternut and leek soup, the bibb lettuce salad, the focaccette (fried ravioli filled with crescenza cheese), the margherita pizza, and the chicken involtini. I ordered an arugula salad, which had parmesan cheese and pickled onions. The salad was good, if simple. I tried a bit of the pizza, and it was decent, flatbread-style, with a chewy crust and a light hand with the tomato sauce. My companions really enjoyed the rest of the food-- as my brother put it, "everything else sucks, but the food is great." The only sort-of-dud in the group was the one dish that showed up late, the broccoli bruschetta with avocado and walnuts. It showed up as one bruschetta (bruschetto? I don't speak Italian...), with a somewhat unappealing pile of greenish crap on top of it. The bread was grilled but spongy and soggy on top under the pile of... stuff. I ended up putting most of the topping onto my salad and eating it as a salad condiment, if you will, but quite frankly I'm not sure what was in it. It seemed chock-full of leeks, not broccoli, and I was stunned when I checked the menu while writing this post and learned that there was supposed to be avocado in the dish. I think I found one walnut sitting on the side of the plate. Let's just say that if I had been a judge in Top Chef, I would have called the cheftestant out on soggy bread, lackluster plating, and lack of flavor. But then again, I'd also be an asshole and say things like, "Let's just say it's not just his gnocchi that was dense" or, "Please pack your knives and go" while sporting a fakely concerned expression on my face. But I digress.

Overall, the food was okay, but certainly nothing I'd come back for, even if the service had been stellar. Frankly, the restaurant was a pretty unpleasant place to be-- it was noisy and harried, with the servers rushing around the packed tables. Nobody seemed to care much about anything that was happening. Our server brought us the bill as soon as we were done with our meals--no inquiries about whether we wanted dessert or coffee, which we didn't, but it seemed somewhat self-defeating not even to ASK. And while we were in the midst of the payment process, two servers rounding the corner into the kitchen collided, causing one of them to slosh a large dish of soup all over the floor. As she cried, "Shit!" inappropriately loudly, the other one pointed to her and said, "You've got some white bean on you!" Wow. Caring is sharing, people.

It's rare that a dining experience in New York pisses me off, but I left Nizza in a bad mood, and not just because I got a work request on my blackberry in the middle of dinner. Is it too difficult just to PRETEND to care? Apparently so. Nizza, you disappointed me.