Tag Archives: lunch

The Old Man and the Seafood

THE JOHN DORY OYSTER BAR
By Yutzi

Preamble

This Honkytonk Heaven really makes ya’ feel like hell

Yutzi here! Is this thing on? What? Someone just called me a blogger. That sounds dirty.  Hey, sweetcheeks, you like my picture of  Merle with an oatmeal cookie bomb? I found it on this thing called Goooogle, you heard of it?  Now that I’m a fancy internet scribe, please stop clogging my email arteries with photos of your recently widowed great Aunt.  And to the congressman who sent me a picture of what the Kid terms “his junk,” I’m not a doctor and have no idea what the crust on your vendekemp fishstick is- go see a proctocologist or something, jeez. Who voted that degenerate into office? What’s that, I did? Damn straight democratic ticket!

So, speaking of fishstickes, my son, Robbie, dragged me to some mid-town, yuppie-fish shack for a lunch of oysters and beer. I’m often accused of burying the lead, so here it goes: they do not accept AARP discounts – rat bastards.


They also don’t take a joke.  The first thing I saw when I sat down was a giant spherical fish tank above the front door.   I have expected to see fake snow blowing around in it, but instead it was filled with colorful tropical fish.  Anyway, the waitress came by to take our order and I pointed up and said “I’ll have the blue one.”

After that bombed, Robbie and I decided on oysters.  Now, back in my day, oysters were used as bait.  Now they’re used to bait money out of yuppies’ wallets.  $3 a pop for an excuse to eat cocktail sauce.  But I do love me an oyster, so I cashed in my war bonds and bought myself  a dozen.  After I slurped those sandy suckers down my gullet, I ordered the grilled octopus with aioli and parker house bread rolls  ($4.50 charging for bread, jeez, I thought we won the war) to mop up the octo-juice, which I washed down with a Sixpoint Pilsner from a local brewery in Red Hook (I’m sensing a nautical theme here).

The bill was pricey for lunch, especially on my fixed income. Did I mention they charge for bread rolls? When I asked the waitress for the veteran’s discount she just stared at me blankly, then laughed as if it were a joke. Hey, toots, my friends died for your freedom so you could overcharge pensioners for fancy bread rolls and bait.

 

The John Dory Oyster Bar, 1196 Broadway, New York, NY

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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

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