June 4, 2013
Berry Park vs. The Ides at The Wythe Hotel

The bartender at The Ides @ The Wythe Hotel was a total sourpuss, but who could blame the hip young chap?  Judging from the detritus that remained at his feet, he must’ve had a terribly busy Sunday Sunset shift.

Sunday Sunset:  The last socially acceptable time to indulge on the weekend in NYC if you have a typical nine to five, best done on a Brooklyn Rooftop.

My gang of idiots (none of us work typical nine to fives, presently) didn’t arrive at The Ides until well after dark, having spent the duration of the beautiful sunset at Berry Park. 

 Berry Park is a rooftop bar that has been a favorite of mine for years because they have pink wine on tap.  Also, I can usually find an ample supply of Cougiesnacks wandering around the semi-sportsbar interior, but on Sunday I felt that the tides were turning on this Billyburg rooftop.  The only interesting strangers I could find were clearly on Molly.  They were jamming out hard to late nineties R&B, and sweating, and looked like they’d been awake since Thursday night.  Also, one of them was wearing a Grateful Dead shirt…I had to deal with enough pseudo hippies growing up in whitebread Westchester so engaging this group was a no-go.

image

Just. Stop.

The crowd was better at The Ides, not to mention the view.  I’m basing my opinion of the crowd solely on the fact that a couple of 7 outta 10s hit on me.  Also, the unisex bathrooms at the Ides are far nicer than the toiletpaper-less cave that you have to wine pee in at Berry.  Bathroom layout is important.  Case and point:  Le Bain.

 With that having been said, this summer is off to a slow start in the snack department.  If things don’t start looking better I’m going to open a faux modeling agency call 5M: Miss M’s Mens Model Management.  I had the idea on the downtown N/R today, where I “discovered” two 6’2” wonders of chili lime boy-jerky toting their adorable little comp cards.  I wanted to be like: “How was your casting, I’m a really big agent,” but I chickened out when I realized I didn’t have any business cards.  One of them was complete Euro-trash and was wearing a windbreaker around his waist and he looked wide-eyed and new to New York.  I bet he regularly gets lost on the A Train.  You know what that means?  MISSED OPPORTUNITY.  

I’d write a missed connection for Windbreaker BeBe Zoolander on Craigslist if I thought he knew how to read… and wasn’t born in the 90’s.

 

May 19, 2012
Vinegar Hill House on Wednesday in DUMBO, BK

72 Hudson Avenue  

Brooklyn, NY 11201

(718) 522-1018

VinegarHillHouse.com

DUMBO stands for Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass, and not for what I am for going to dinner with my Kind-of-Ex from four years ago.  

It will be difficult for me to figure out how to take a star from Vinegar Hill House…I don’t like giving five star reviews.  

My Kind-of-Ex, who I’ll just call Kindof Ex because he’s kind of blonde and I feel like Kindof sounds like a German name, also introduced me to The Diner back in the day when we were first seeing one another.  Needless to say, I can trust him about food.  Just not about anything else, although he could say the same for me.

We arrived on Wednesday night at around 9:30 PM when we were supposed to go at 8 PM, but judging from the way VHH cleared out while we were dining, people eat a little on the earlier side in DUMBO.  I was terribly late for dinner because the forces of nature (especially sexy crucified Jesus) were trying to stop me and Kindof from seeing one another.  

I mean, picture staring at this as a little girl during the most boring hour of your weekend (mass - YAWN) and then imagine no blood and no cross.  

jesus

You get what I’m saying, even if you don’t want to.  As a sex-obsessed six-year-old this was INCREDIBLY distracting which is why I’m terrible at Catholicism to this day.  I’ve seen shirtless male bodies look like that before, but usually they aren’t hanging from a cross, they’re hanging from the wrought-iron detailing above my bed. 

Back to the topic at hand: here’s why I was late to dinner with Kindof Ex:

1.  I stopped off to visit my friend Cat at The Ninth Ward in the East Village for a shot of vodka and the confidence to wander into another disaster.

2.  When I finally made it to the F Train (about twenty minutes later) I stood on the platform for ten minutes to learn that it wasn’t running!  

Hey MTA: Stop messing with my lifestyle choices.

3.  When I finally found a cab, the driver of course didn’t know where DUMBO was, so I had to Google Maps the address on my piece-of-shit Droid to show him.  Incidentally, he also didn’t know how to drive.  He crossed a double yellow line after we got off of the Manhattan Bridge.  Unfortunately for us both, we got pulled over!  I didn’t even know that cops made traffic stops in the city.  Officers Frick & Frack didn’t apologize for making me later to my date.   Aren’t there a bunch of hippies traipsing around this city peacefully protesting that they have to Mase…or whatever my political friends are saying on Facebook?  God.  

Anywho, I got out of the cab and hobbled on my platforms to meet Kindof because Destiny is the name of the whore in my first novel - and whores are not to be trusted.  

Our waitress looked like she was straight out of Anne of Green Gables.  Too wholesome.  But very nice.  At one point, Kindof Ex was so overwhelmed by my ever-increasing beauty and intelligence that he dumped our still water into my very nice glass of wine.  Anne of Green Gables was very sweet about it.  We were sharing a bottle, so she got me a fresh glass and didn’t act like it was odd or undignified that I drank the water/wine, too, because I’m Italian.  

Italians wean their young off of breast milk with watered down wine.  #Fact!

Kindof recommended the Red Wattle Country Chop, which I ordered.  I ate a few bites of salad prior because Kindof was hungry since my ass was almost two hours late, and I didn’t have time to decide on an app.  This made me nervous.  I feel like a delicious app will always redeem a meal if the entree is subpar.  My satisfaction at Vinegar Hill House was going to be entirely based on an entree with the un-sexy word “Wattle” in it.  (Minus 1 Star?)

But then…THEN! I was rewarded with a really handsome, masculine plate of simple cheddar grits and a gorgeous hunk of medium rare pork.   All that was on the plate?  Pork and grits.  Cus that’s all that needed to be on the plate, folks.  In all seriousness, the meat was perfectly seasoned and my (unwatered) wine went along with the food perfectly, which means Anne of Green Gables was on top of her game.  I respect that.  

I could go on about hunks of meat forever.  Really - all sorts of hunks of meat…and masculine chops.  However, I have to pack for St. Maarten, as I’m off to the French Carreeb in less than 24 hours with Le Sam.  We plan on going Yacht Hopping & Exotic Cougy-Snack Hunting.  We’ll see if I’m able to somehow turn this coming week (no pun intended) into something having to do with NY Nightlifing…until then:  never turn down a date with your Kindof Ex if you’re going to Vinegar Hill House.

April 25, 2012
Brooklyn Bowl in…(um)…Brooklyn

Brooklyn Bowl

61 Whythe Avenue

Brooklyn, NY 11211

Bowling is for sweaty Midwesterners with big bellies and pit stains, right? 

Wrong.  BillyBurg’s latest re-imagination of an outdated concept leave you with two questions:  When did bowling become sexy? And how’d they get BLUE RIBBON to do the menu?

If you’re craving sad, faux “cheeze nachos,” this is not your spot.

However, if you’d love to enjoy a crispy Oyster Po’ Boy and a bottle of lush Italian rosé ($34) while you wait for your lane, read on.

I’m sure you never dreamed you’d drink delicious pink wine at a bowling alley, but you also likely never imagined you’d be in one that does double-duty as a concert venue for the likes of ?uestlove.  The space is massive (I got lost twice on the way to the bathroom) and holds a restaurant, an L-shaped bar, and a performance space in addition to sixteen lanes.

If you loathe bowling, sample craft beers from Greenpoint while you hit on Brooklyn’s finest twenty-something boys (ample selection on Sunday nights). Just make sure your game is on point, ‘cus they will make you trade your kicks at the door for those horrid leather bowling sneakers.  

CrooklynBowl

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