Is that Alder is?

“Is that Alder is?” A review of Alder.

By, Wolf

So, I took Yutzi’s son, Robbie, out for his 50th birthday.  Why it was up to me instead of Yutzi is another story for another time…though I can tell you Aqueduct was involved.

Anyway, much to my dismay, the kid cancelled our reservation at Benihana.  Which is too bad, because I had a slew of new material involving Dr. Wang, the fastest circumcision doctor in the Orient.  Instead, the ingrate re-booked us at some “gastropub” named Alder. First off, what’s a “gastropub?”  That sounds like something I need a helmet for.

Actually, what I needed was to pack a lunch.  You know why this place is called Alder?  Because you’ll look at your plate and ask, “is that all-der is?” I’ve had more generous portions at Prison Camp #4 in North Korea.

Let me finger paint you a picture- we started by ordering the $24 halibut to share, “One of the larger dishes,” our sweet little waitress assured us.   What arrived was a tiny portion of halibut, about the size of two of Robbie’s ladylike fingers, served *in* one of their larger dishes.  Maybe I misheard?  Robbie thought it was “cute.”  Kid, if cute fed the world, we’d all be eating panda cubs and babies’ butts.

Next up was the rye pasta. “It tastes just like pastrami on rye but it’s pasta! It’s fun,” exclaimed our waitress, who I was beginning to think might be stupid. If I wanted pastrami on rye, I’d go to that place in the Lower East Side where the old lady rubbed one out in that movie. But Robbie insisted, and whatever the birthday boy wants, the birthday boy gets- so I farted. It’s the gift that keeps on giving!  The gas passed just as the busboy dropped off what was by far the largest dish on the menu, a fistful of pasta resting on three pieces of shaved pastrami. We slurped and fought over the third piece of meat like animals with forks.  And guess what? It tasted just like pastrami on rye. Except it was smaller and more expensive.  I’m waiting for the restaurant that serves you an empty plate for 50 semolians.  Mark my word, the day is coming!

I contemplated turning the chef in to the The House Committee on Un-American Activities for devising a menu of American food with Communist ingredients, such as ‘pigs in a blanket’ made with Chinese sausage.  Good thing for him the “Bay of Pigs in a Blanket” were delicious, unlike the most insipid dish of the evening: pickled beets. Even the waitress’s enthusiasm waned when we ordered it. There’s nothing much to say about this dish… other than charging $14 for half a beet, a dash of ricotta, and some freeze dried green thing takes balls.   Remember that guy that just free-fell twenty thousand feet out of an airplane recently?  Those sized balls.

We ended our meal with a dessert, the peanut butter cake with black grape sorbet. I can feel my dick going limp just describing it.  The cake was a gussied up version of a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup surrounded by a satanic circle of grapes and marble-sized scoop of ice-scream. But what did I care? Robbie was happy. He blew out his birthday candle and I farted- hey, it’s a gastropub.

Address:

157 Second Avenue
Between 9th and 10th Streets
New York, NY 10003

212-539-1900

Beauty and the Beef

BEAUTY & ESSEX
by WOLF

I’d picked the Actress up at LaGuardia – she had just returned from her bi-annual exhaustion retreat  – and she said there’s a place she simply insisted on trying.

We arrive in the Lower East Side to a big sign reading “Beauty & Essex” in bright bulb lettering that looks like it was previously on the set of “The Price Is Right.”  So, already, I’m thinking “classy joint!”

With my date by my side we stride in and see… a wall of guitars?  I look around and notice a bunch of jewelry in the window.  How on earth did we end up at a pawn shop?  I think Yutzi previously sold a sword at this place.

The lady behind the counter quickly sensed my confusion and asked if we have reservations, and pointed us to a back door.

We walk in, and man is this place swank.  Luxurious chandeliers, spiral staircases, lovely…what are those couches called… banquets?  Ah, that doesn’t sound right.

Anyway, whatever they’re called, they’re filled to the brim with dames in short skirts and high heels, surrounded by strapping men in fine blazers.  I can already feel my wallet crying in agony.

Before getting sat, I take a gander at the drink menu…14 dollars for a cocktail!  I order up an “Old Dirty Bramble”, whatever that means, as the Actress goes downstairs to powder her schnoz.  The bartender was friendly, and makes a mean drink.  Mulled smoked blackberries?  I’m loving life.

We get sat, right as my date returned from the can with a glass of pink champagne, which she said was handed to her by a bathroom attendant.   I ran downstairs to see if they were doling out bourbon in the little boy’s room, but nothing doing.

Anyway, this was also a bit of foreshadowing, because I’m pretty sure most of the food came from the toilet too.

Godammit! Wrong photo…

First let’s talk about my appetizer.  I had no idea Hormel made carpaccio.  This flavorless batch of commodity meat was enhanced with what I think was crunched up Funyuns and leafy greens from a Chia pet, and served up to a sucker like me for $15.

Then came the Thai-influenced lobster pot pie, which was served in a crock pot that looked like a poodle’s dog bowl.  I dig in and the whole top crust comes off like it was a manhole cover.  Now, I admit they were generous with the chunks of the good stuff, but for 25 smackaroos, I want to see a lobster doing a goddamn backstroke in here.  Instead I’m trawling through bisque like the Gorton’s Fisherman for any meaty morsel I can find, even though its so heavily infused with lemongrass, you’d think the recipe called for Pledge.  Cheapskates didn’t even put crust at the bottom of the pie, just the giant confessional wafer at the top.  Meanwhile, the Actress made about 7 trips to the bathroom.

Walking out I finally ask The Actress how we ended up at this ridiculous place.  She said it was recommended to her by the stewardess on her flight.  She said it was “trendy” and that Kim Kardashan likes to go here.  Is that that broad with the big ass?  Ay yi yi, I’d let her pound my carpaccio.

Anyway, the lesson here, folks: don’t take advice on restaurants from a person who passes out bags of peanuts for a living.

Beauty & Essex, 146 Essex St., New York, NY

Springtime for Spätzle

by; Wolf

Edi and the Wolf is to NY dining what Jerry Lewis is to French culture: a national treasure! Hidden in a forlorn corner of NYC called Alphabet city, which is not to be confused with Coop City despite what your nincompoop cabbie says, Edi and the Wolf is not the easiest spot to find so bring a fold out map – but keep it low because you don’t want the locals to think you are a tourist and rob you blind.

As I was seated at a bustling communal table inside what looked like an abandoned WWII bunker, I  experienced a flashback. Grabbing the bloke seated next to me, I put a butter knife to his throat and demanded to see his superior officer. I was brought back to reality by the sound of my date – none other than the Actress – clapping and yelling bravo.  Sheepishly, I offered the POW a bread roll as a peace offering,  he asked the waiter to be reseated. Not for nothing, it gave me and the dame some privacy.

Once we were alone,  I sensed her discomfort. She leaned in and complained about the strange decor; why were the flowers dead and  arranged in a Victorian military boot; why was the furniture hanging upside down from the ceiling; how come the lights were hidden under the rafters; and, why were we dining inside a Baba Yaga hut? A Baba what? A witch’s hut you boob!   Were we planning on eating children? She was becoming hysterical, so I waved down a waiter and ordered a martini for the lady and double gin and tonic for old Wolfy. The waiter informed us that they did not have a liquor license but did serve beer and wine.

No spirits?! Perhaps she  wasn’t having a senile moment after all, and we were dining in a bunker full of satanists!  Upon hearing there would be no schnapps, the actress crawled under the table  and placed  one hand on each of my knees. I thought to myself, oh yeah, looks like old Wolfy’s gonna get an A P-59 jet propelled Airacomet in public!  But she reappeared almost as quickly as she disappeared  and declared  “No chicken legs. We are safe.”  She then grabbed the menu and ordered  two glasses of BLAUFRÄNKISCH, SPÄTZLE, and DUCK TWO WAYS in flawless German.

The Spättzle arrived under a bed of spring lettuce leaves.  I took a bite and it was the most delicious, cheesy, goodness. It had the right spring -not over boiled or soppy or hard. Springtime for spätzle, I declared between mouthfuls.  It was so good that I forgot to share with my date who had disappeared to the ladies room and  returned  twenty minutes later when the duck- two-ways arrived. That duck was divine and brought a tear to my eye.. Unfortunately, I had to share. With a menacing forkful of dark meat, I questioned the young lady about her disappearance during the spätzle course. Apparently there is a confessional bench in the bathroom, and she had a lot to confess. Well, hotcakes, I have something to confess too: Edi and the Wolf  is delicious!

http://www.ediandthewolf.com/

102 Avenue C, New York, NY (212) 598-1040 ‎

MANHATTAN INN

by WOLF

Okay, first off, why is every restaurant in this town so damn narrow?  I can barely get past the front door of this place, when I’m set upon by the white version of the black nerd from that one show, goddamnit, what was that show?  Anyway, it turns out Four-Eyes is the host.  Shouldn’t a classy-looking joint like this have a host-ESS?  Give me something with gams if I’m going to pay these prices.  I tell this schmendrick “party of one” and I thought he was going to have to whip out a sliderule, by the looks of it.

I’m whisked to the back room, where, the first thing I see is a big white piano…and a big white guy playing it!  I couldn’t believe it but there he was, boogieing and woogieing non-stop, stomping his foot on the floorboards like he was trying to put out a fire.  I have expected the wait staff to start doing the Lindy Hop.

Meanwhile, my host helpfully escorted me to my seat in the mezzanine.  He was a nice kid, so I’ll stop busting his balls.  Mind you, my seat is an old theater seat, and I think my table was a school desk once.  I remember crawling under these things for bomb drills!

I grab a cocktail menu and the first thing I see is a drink called the “French Future.”  Hey barkeep: how many shots of surrender are in that?  I decided to play it safe and get an Old Fashion.  Smooth!  I’m now sipping in style and enjoying the tunes.

Although, a couple of songs towards the end of the first set sounded a little macabre.  I fllipped a quarter into his jar as he was wrapping up and asked him who composed his last song.  He said it was by a fellow named Kurt Cobain.  Well, don’t quit your day job, Mr. Cobain.

I returned to my seat just in time for the hamburger I ordered.  I sure as hell wasn’t paying $9 for no grilled cheese sandwich!  What are they making the cheese with unicorn milk?  Yeesh.  Anyway, my burger comes, and I immediately have mixed feelings about what I’ve purchased.

On the plus side, it’s practically a towering beef-ferno, a big glorious ball of cow nestled snugly in a stately bun, served up chop house style on a stately butcher board.  The burger was so tall, I thought I was going to have to be Dagwood to eat it.

But what’s this?  BEAN SPROUTS?  What kind of PINKO puts bean sprouts on a perfectly good burger?  But there they were, sitting on top of the meat like a hippy girl’s unshaved pits.

I looked around, though, as burger after burger came out of the kitchen.  Popular item.  When in Rome, as they saying goes, so my chompers went to work.

Friends, I was not disappointed.  Salty and brown on the outside, gloriously pink in the middle, with chunks of bacon worth going to war for.  To be honest, I didn’t even mind the bean sprouts!  If nothing else, now I don’t have to floss tonight.

The piano player returned, and I’m enjoying my meal and tapping my toes.  I was in such good spirits, I ordered a Manhattan, and then things really got cooking.  I asked our waitress if she’d like to waltz, but she said was busy.  So, I decided to break the ice myself…why don’t young people like to dance?  Our piano player pounded out a sweet little shuffle, and I showed ’em all how it’s done.

Yutzi always calls me “buzzboy” when I get like this.  Ah, Yutz, you should’ve been there!

Anyway, I don’t remember much after that.  I might have cut a little too much rug for their tastes.  In fact, I may very well have pink elephant-ed this whole thing, it’s just too good to be true!  Guess I’ll find out for sure next time I want a burger.

Manhattan Inn, 632 Manhattan Ave., Brooklyn, NY

NO. 7 SUB

by WOLF 

Now as you know, I like me a good sub.  Meaty, with bread your fingers can sink into, enough to fill a hand.  Bag of chips, a pickle, and I’m eating right.  So, I was excited that my first assignment was No. 7 Sub, in that hotel on Broadway that used to be a flop house.

My excitement, friends, would be short-lived.  I looked at the menu, and the first thing I see is “shrimp sausage” with something called “shitso peppers”, onions and grape jelly.  Who’s the hairdresser eating this bullcrap?

Then I saw one with cauliflower, raisins, potato chips and French dressing.  Hey, is this a sandwich or a shopping list?

And what on God’s green earth is “peach munchim”?  “Pico de lettuce”?  And are you really going to put wax bean salad IN my sandwich?  Did you buy every ingredient on the menu with food stamps?

Oh, and pickles are TWO DOLLARS!  Back in my day, you’d get the pickle for free!  You could just reach into the barrel and grab one!  I thought I was seeing things

In the meantime, the hostess, boy, was she a sweet thing, blonde, pretty smile, just the right amount of curves.  Ba-boom!  Anyway, she pointed out that a long line of riff-raff had now formed behind me, ready for their snooty hoagies.

I panicked!  I told her I wanted to get the Meyer Chicken sandwich, mainly because “chicken” was the only thing I could see on the menu that actually belongs in a sandwich.

The place is about the size of a broom closet, and there’s no place to sit, but I finally get my order.  First off: you’d think for a $9 sandwich made by two fat Mexicans, it’d be a lot bigger.  Is chicken going extinct or something?

But I don’t care, I’m hungry and I’m going to enjoy my Meyer Chicken sandwich.  Now, I’m not sure who Meyer is, but by the taste of it, I’m guessing he’s a relative of Oscar Meyer.  WHAT IS THIS HORSESHIT?

I take a bite and the first thing I get my chompers on is a cold piece of bone.  Not that I would mind giving a warm bone to the hostess.

However, what little edible meat there was was hiding underneath some leafy green that looked like it could’ve used a long sponge bath.  The toasted bread gave me a case of raw mouth you usually need to go to the Philippines for.  And whatever the sauce was made my sandwich taste like one of Yutzi’s loafers.

In summation, I had three bites, then left in disgust and gave the rest to a bum.

They ought to call this place “#2 Sub”!  Know what I mean!

No. 7 Sub, 1188 Broadway, New York, NY