The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: Easter Sunday Brunch!

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed and cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

The ressurection of Jesus Christ can only be celebrated in one way-- and that is by going to a giant loft party in Bushwick the night before, dancing with the fabulous Nomi Ruiz from Hercules and Love Affair, eating part pot brownies, and drunk dialing everyone you've ever known in life until you are, like Jesus, a total zombie the next day.

This past Sunday morning, I opted out of a cold, windy rooftop yoga session, and instead found myself at Fiore, on Grand St., with all expenses paid courtesy of my roomate's Jesus-lovin' mother. It could not be a more convenient and beneficial time for me to indirectly participate in zombie worship, as I am dead broke. No pun intended.

Aside from crazily stealing a complimentary donut off a nearby unnattended table (whatever dude, they were just gonna throw them away after those people left! But it was still the most hobo thing I've ever done), I decided to be non-traditional and get pasta. Specifically, the Rigatoni con Melanzane E Pecorino-- i.e. Rigatoni with eggplant, tomato sauce and pecorino cheese.My roommate got the beff hash with fried egg:

And my roommate's brother got the eggs benedict:


Overall, I would say we were all satisfied...partly because it's free. Though, I could've used more pasta to revive me back to life. Oh, and their coffee was good.
We got more free donuts at the end. And this time, they were warm and not secondhand. Though the ones at Dumont are better (as is the orange juice...though NOBODY beats Motorino's), Fiore's are bigger.
Random observation: Why would you line a wicker trashcan with an ugly, cheapo blue 99-cent-a-pack trashbag? I demand an explanation, Fiore.

Anyway, thanks to my roommate's mom as well for the crazy amount of easter candy she sent us. That and brunch will certainly be able to get me through till my next paycheck.

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The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: Beast

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed and cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

Sunday morning, I found myself in Prospect Heights and in the middle of the most gorgeous, most perfect Spring day of the year. I danced with a few of my good friends at the Rub, a hip hop party at Southpaw, until the sun came up. Though I could've looked at this weekend as a raging bummer disappointment due to an unfortunate rude awakening the previous morning, this weekend unexpectedly turned out to be just what I needed after all.

Some of the other much-needed things included but were not limited to: Schooling some offensive asshole on nature vs nurture(I had him at "nature vs nurture"), getting a set of amazing massages and genuine affection, spending some QT with my girl friends, going to a new yoga studio with a friend who was originally against it, semi-surpassing my expectations at my first attempt at making baja-style fish tacos, and "pimping" out my bed (new down pillows and jersey sheets!).

But back to Sunday, me, my friend Alexi, her boyfriend, and their roommate (who I used my magical powers of persuasion and shoulder-riding...what? I wanted a ride to brunch!) decided to have brunch at Beast, a bar/restaurant down Vanderbilt. Because we all stayed up dancing, etc., we got a little bit of a late start, waking up around 1:30pm. Had I been in Williamsburg, it would've been such a shitshow trying to go to brunch on such a coat-less day, so that made me even more happy than waking up next to an open window with the sun and spring weather coming in.

Admittedly, we were all pretty hungover and a bit out of it. Unfortunately, by the time we got there, they were out of my top 2 choices for brunch: French Toast and the Sauteed Polenta (the latter especially sounded amazing). I'm also fairly sure that the Australian waitress wanted to kill us. Not entirely sure why, but, I guess it must have sucked to have to be working on such a gorgeous day. Also, I'm pretty sure I was laughing about me mistaking something Alexi said for "a dingo ate my baby" fairly loudly.


We started with some mimosas & bloodys (included in the $13.95 brunch special), and a bread basket that was pretty damn amazing. Alexi and her bf got the bloodys, which are according to them, the best in the United States. For the main thing, I ended up picking the veggie wrap with chipotle aoli. Alexi had the pan-seared scallops, Alexi's bf had something egg or meat-related that I forgot, and Alexi's roommate had an egg and spinach special with a side of fruit.

As Foxy loves to tease me, I'm obsessed with portions. Although overall, I liked the fact that the veggie wrap claimed to come with a salad and potatoes, I in fact found a total of TWO (yes, as in one-TWO) little potatoes on my plate. Had the wrap not been so tasty, I probably would've minded way more. I have to say, though, I would've really like to try the sauteed polenta.

I would definitely go back...but perhaps when I'm less loud and hungover.

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The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: Smoke Joint

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed and cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

This weekend solidified my 30-day fast on booze as a complete failure. It all started with Rosé at Mother’s, which turned into Tempranillo at Huckleberry, which spilled over to the next day after The Vagina Monologues. I did start out drinking two mocktails very, very fast. But I caved and drank beer, beer, beer at B-Side, Lakeside Lounge, and some no-name bar in the East Village. Abstaining from meat, sex, and alcohol is way, way too hard to do all at once. Since something had to give, I’ve decided to let it be alcohol, since I only drink on the weekends anyway.

I wasn’t really hungover all weekend, which was nice, though I did feel super guilty about letting myself down on the pact. I had originally planned among other things for (what turned out to be not-) sober weekend was a screening of Cool Hand Luke at BAM. The friend who invited me is an aficionado of BBQ style food, and wanted to go to this place Smoke Joint, pretty close to BAM, off the Fulton stop on the G. So instead of a traditional brunch, I opted for that.

I guess it was a little bit of punishment for failing the alcohol pact. The funny thing was, after failing in that arena, it was a hell of a lot easier to not eat meat, even at a place like that. Go figure. Anywho, I split a side of BBQ-seasoned fries with my friend, and had the mac & cheese with a side of BBQ spicy corn. Oh, and I had some really, really sweet sweet tea.

The best thing about the meal was the fries, I have to say. The mac & cheese was a super small portion, and I didn’t even finish it. It was pretty rubbery and tasteless. The corn was pretty good, with all the spicy BBQ seasoning, but it wasn’t as good as I expected. I definitely contemplated getting a second order of fries My friend had the pulled pork sandwich. I’m sure it was pretty good, since it’s like one of his places to get BBQ. Oh, and he swears that BBQ sauce has restorative powers for hangovers. I don’t know about that, but I do, as a rule, know it to be true that BBQ sauce is categorically superior to ketchup when it comes to meat and fry condiments.

After the fry fest, I got a chocolate chip cookie for the movie. It was huge with huuuuuge chips. It was aight, probably better than what I could get at BAM, but nothing to write home about. Overall, I spent like a bit over $10, and though much of it left a lot to be desired, it was cool to be full with pretty small portions of 4 different things. It did kind of get me in the mood for Cool Hand Luke too, what with all the almost subtitle-worthy heavy ass southern accents, which must be at least partly due to the characteristic heaviness and spiciness of BBQ cuisine.

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The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: Roebling Tea Room

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed and cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

This past Friday, me and a few friends went out for Broke Ass Stuart’s book signing/reading/walking tour/drinking fun (check out BrokeAssStuart.com). We stayed out fairly late, and partially because my friend Abby decided it would be a great idea for she, my friend Chloe, and I to split a huge bottle of champagne at like 4am, after already having drunk quite a bit, I was a total wreck Saturday morning.

I had decided that it would be my last day before making my pact with a friend to go off alcohol completely for 30 days. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m going to give it a shot and see what happens. Especially because, on Saturday, I had been planning on going to yoga, but I could barely get off the couch, and I feel gross about it. Also that night, I was also supposed to go see my friend Matt’s improv show at the UCB theatre, and meet up with other friends at what I later discovered to be an amazing party on S.5th & the Williamsburg Bridge (that big white old building everyone wants to live in. One of my friends didn’t get home until 9:45am, because she was dancing for so long! Instead, I put in Season 1 of Arrested Development, got ready to go out, and accidentally passed out at 12:30am.

So, I slept until about noon today, and it was possibly the best thing I’d done for my body since I last worked out, a few days before. And since that nice, long sleep left me slightly lazier of a lazy ass, plus the weather being in the high 50s, my roommate & I decided to walk to Roebling Tea Room. Though in the past he swore he’d never go back due to a pretty bad service experience we had there once. But, I have a pretty short-term memory/concern about that sort of thing.

For some reason, lately, I have been obsessed with Ricotta, and I had my eye on the ricotta, fig spread with walnuts & greens plate. [Sidenote: they also have the most AMAZING Baked Brie platter on the evening menu. Seriously, I go out of my way for it]. Unfortunately, and probably because of the recession, the portion was significantly smaller than I remember. But it was just as tasty. I think the greens they use now are slightly more bitter, but it was a nice contrast with the sweet, lightly creamy sweetness of the ricotta/fig/walnut mix. When I’m craving ricotta in the morning, I can truly think of nothing more satisfying, semi-healthy, and meat-free. Then again, I can’t think of any brunch dish that typically pairs ricotta and meat, but whatever. Oh, and I looove the orange juice there, and the large sized glass they give you.

My roommate got the baked eggs and grits with cheddar, 2 huge slices of fancy toast with apple butter. Although the grits at Roebling are different than my faaaaaavorite grits ever, at Relish, I like that they use sharp cheddar as opposed to something more mild. The only thing I didn’t like about this was again, the small portion of everything but the toast—opposite from my plate’s issue. We didn’t have a service problem this time, and even though it always looks crowded, we were seated in like 10 minutes. Also, there is always some waiter I or whoever I’m with thinks is cute. The one I normally like wasn’t working this morning, unfortunately. He has black glasses, brown hair and I think at least one sleeve-- which I normally find unappealing, but on him it doesn’t bother me. I think they might have hired new/more people, because there seemed to be way more waiters working brunch than usual…or at least the presence is more obvious.

Oh, and we both also thought we saw Perez Hilton when we first walked in, which essentially, would be THE nail in the coffin to this neighborhood. But we can all thankfully breathe a big sigh of relief that this was a false alarm. The dude turned out to be more of a John Norris lookalike. Funny though, because my roommate and I always seem to be at the same events and restaurants as the actual John Norris. Anywho, yay for Roebling Tea Room ricotta, and figs!

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The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: Balthazar

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed and cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

This weekend, my parents were in town from California. I always enjoy going to places I would otherwise not like to spend the money on, or would otherwise not like to drag my ass very far to get to ordinarily. Every chance my parents get, they always ask me to get reservations to Balthazar.

There is a chance Balthazar is kind of an annoying place to go because it’s almost always crowded, people think celebrities do nothing but go there, and it’s sorta on the expensive side. But, as long as you get reservations, don’t order something insane, are lucky to have someone paying, and don’t let your dad embarrassingly gawk at Paulina Poriskova at the table behind you, it’s not too shabby. Well, even though the last part actually happened, it was still ok. Oh, and did I mention that they have the best desserts/baked goods in the history of humanity? And I’m saying this having also been to Almondine, which was just proclaimed by NY Mag as the best pastry place in NYC.

I was VERY tempted to either get a burger or French Toast, but decided to be somewhat healthy and ordered the grilled trout salad with greens and lentils, with a side of amazing Balthazar fries that me and my Dad split. My mom got the moules frite, and my dad got a French onion soup with beef stroganoff. My salad was really, really good. I’m a big fan of equal part lentils to arugula. Plus, I think there was some sort of balsamic dressing that was sweet and good, contrasting and marrying well with all the other three flavors. I tried a couple of my mom’s mussels, and I have to say, though Fada is definitely a, if not the top contender in the fresh moules department, this was really extraordinary.

We HAD to have dessert. That's just what you do there. My mom ordered some sort of lemon tart-y kind of thing with 3 different types of lemon things. Though I’m usually not a fan of lemon-based desserts, this was pretty tasty. Being no fool, though myself, I went straight for the Chocolate Pot De Crème.I’m totally going to sound like a stupid yogurt commercial/Kathy comic stereotype, but this shit is like everything good about the sensory experience in a pot. It is, hands-down one of my favorite things that exist in life. If you never eat a meal here, the very least you can do is order this. You will not be able to understand how you were able to function without it. It’s better than drugs, getting a nice alcohol buzz, and seriously almost as good as sex. I am not fucking with you. It is REALLY this amazing.

All in all: DO IT!

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A Syrcls Brunch Review: Ordering In!

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed and cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

The night before the brunch in question, I had to a whiskey tasting at Bottlerocket
right after work. I tasted a Hudson Baby Bourbon, a Hudson Manhattan Rye, and a Spirit of The Hudson Vodka. Unfortunately, I seemed to have misplaced the information I got about each of these drinks, due to me clearly getting way in over my head with this tasting, so to. I think my favorite was the Rye, though I’m not much of a hard alcohol drinker. I think my only comment was “yep, that’s alcohol all right!”Anyway, I somehow thought that night that it would be a good idea to not only meet my friend Foxy at a bar back in my neighborhood, but to also have some additional drinks with colleagues in the West Village. By the time I got back to Williamsburg, I should have probably just gone home. Instead, I proceeded to hang out with Foxy, and then some neighbors of mine, until I was too embarrassed to admit that I was too drunk to continue hanging out, walked out of the bar without saying anything to anyone, walked home, and passed out in my contacts.

Despite the early call of spring that Saturday morning, it was definitely an ordering-in brunch moment for me. Hey, sometimes, you don’t have the wherewithal to leave your apartment until absolutely necessary. Sometimes all you can do is lay on your bed and/or couch and sit still until that horrible spinning fades away. OK, I wasn’t that bad, but I was extraordinarily lazy. Oh, and ordering in is also good if you have a guest in your bed and you’re not quite “done” with them yet.

But on regular, non-sex partner nights, my roommate and I rely on Willburg Café pretty much across the board for ordering in brunch delivery. It’s not particularly outstanding in the quality of food, much less the service, it’s just that it’s really the best we have to choose from in our delivery area.
I have to say, the girl who takes delivery orders is has pretty far below average mental capacity. It’s been more than four times that she’s put us on hold and forgotten, royally messed up our order, or can’t spell anything we tell her. But, their tofu “omelette” (which is really more like a scramble), with combo of potatoes and toast, is pretty good and reasonably priced. In this case, though, we both got their yogurt, granola & fruit plate, which is a nice portion and a healthy option.

It takes them about 20 minutes or so to arrive, and unless that genius of a girl on the phone has messed up something on her end, they’re usually good about getting there on time. Oh, and they have fresh orange juice, which is possibly a better than a burger for your hangover. Read more...

HCAR Drink Tasting: The Southern Bride

Hey, folks. I know Faux-Bee June usually writes up these drink thingees, but she’s off in the hills of Scotland collecting the heads of her enemies, so we drew straws and guess who got the short one? The hint is: he wears a mask and is me.

This week we had a gin drink called the Southern Bride. I thought maybe this meant it was 16 years old but it was actually 2/3 Gin, 1/3 grapefruit and a splash of Maraschino. Gin and grapefruit both prove to be pretty strong tastes, so we got some pretty strong opinions. Onwards.

Our roster:
Staff members Faux Bee, myself, Syrcls, and Rachel and frequent guests Meatball, Fraulein N, and The Pet sat around on a cold end-of-winter’s night and tried to enjoy life.
Generally folks didn’t like this drink. Every single contributor mentioned that it was too tart or bitter, and that gin and grapefruit just do not go well together, like peanut butter and knifestabs. Rachel felt that the drink was best suited for old ladies in Atlantic City, but Meatball put down a Johnny Ryan comic long enough to comment it was for Upper East Side Ladies. I felt it was more for sorority girls, and the Fraulein darkly commented more literally that it would be suited for “A woman getting married south of the Mason Dixon line.” So we basically thought it was for women of low taste.

When asked where and under what circumstance they pictured themselves having this drink, The Pet, Rachel, and Fraulein all flatly said they would never drink this. Syrcls allowed that if she were depressed and there was no Nyquil, she’d give it a whirl. Faux Bee would indulge if she were dating a fellow with a deep expense account. I was more lenient, thinking that on a hot summer’s day this might be a bit more pleasant.

On the subject of improving the drink, everyone mentioned some sort of replacement. Tossing the gin for vodka was a popular choice, but the Fraulein and I agreed that the grapefruit was the most offensive part. I thought maybe lemon juice and some sweetening agent would make this a pretty nice summer drink. Syrcls would improve it by “throwing it in the toilet.” She went on, “Dark chocolate beforehand probably made this even worse. Eww. Just eww.”

In conclusion, Ms. June donned her lab coat to tell us that grapefruit actually hinders the liver’s ability to process alcohol, so it’s basically the worst mixer of all time. I still hold to the belief that nuclear waste and razor blades are a worse mixer, but to each his own.
Sorry if I did this wrong. Faux Bee is better at it. Let’s hope the Quickening doesn’t drive her mad with power. Read more...

A Syrcls Brunch Review: New Orleans Edition

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed & cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to sh\are my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

Earlier this week, I got back from an amazing (and spontaneous!) vacation to New Orleans with my friend, Foxy. I thought I’d be missing Mardi Gras, as I was leaving the Monday prior. Oh, dear, how exponentially far, far from the truth that was. Here’s the thing about New Orleans that I really didn’t understand before going: NO ONE STOPS DRINKING. EVER. Seriously. It’s a 24 hr/7-day a week shitshow.

While that can be kind of cool— everyone’s pretty laid back, no open container law (beers TO GO!), etc.—it can also be kind of a bummer, i.e. any and all sexual harassment is magnified times 5 million, Bourbon St.= Frat Central, shit moves SOO FUCKING SLOW if you want to get shit done, etc. Overall, I had an amazing time wandering around that amazing, culturally rich city, partying my ass off, randomly playing the bongos with legit Cajun musicians, and of course, EAAAATINGGG.

I had brunch my last morning there, directly after a night I had seriously lost my shit on more than a couple of dudes who made some of the most unwelcome sexual advances I’ve ever encountered-- not that I remember specifically, but hey, I’m fairly confident there was definitely SOME good reason I smacked, threw tater tots at, and chucked beads to injure those various fuckers. Not that I’m endorsing that sort of behavior (my specific reactions, that is), but it can be VERY frustrating to be a woman in your mid-twenties who’s drunk, angry, and feeling powerless against the overwhelmingly dick-baggish entitlement some men love to shove in your face at every second of the goddman day, everywhere you turn. Foxy and I did, however, meet some very nice men there who didn’t try to get fresh (we both have our own one particular person on our minds, respectively).

Anywho, at the recommendation of the fine Southern gentlemen we met (um why am I sounding like I’m about 90 years old? Whatevs), we went to a ridiculously picturesque place called Café Amelie. Unfortunately, it was pretty cold (compared to the rest of the time we’d spent there) and windy that day, and the inside was a long wait, so we were forced to eat outside. We were RAVENOUS and RETARDEDLY hungover from the drinks neither one of us paid for the majority of all night.

I ordered the crabcake (on a bed of greens, with citrus drizzle) and a side of potatoes. Foxy ordered the potatoes as well, and for the life of me, I cannot remember what she ordered, but I think it involved seafood. Anyway, if you are in New Orleans ever, seafood is a MUST. I don’t think I’ve tasted anything that fresh since I was in Hawaii a few years ago. The potatoes, however, were underwhelming, and I thought the crabcake portion was a little small, though that could’ve been my own fault for ordering nothing else.

On a nicer day, eating in that garden would have been a complete and utter delight. Take a look at that shit! I’ve rarely seen that level of non-showy combo garden/old building quaintness outside of Tuscany. And though the potatoes and waitress left a little to be desired, I highly recommend this place if you feel like dropping mad bones on a truly good quality brunch in a lovely environment. I think it definitely played a part in saving my mental health from the raging lunatic in my brain from the night before.

Photos by Syrcls

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The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: Spike Hill

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed & cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

It was a semi-cold but sunny Valentine’s day morning. I was brutally hungover and in probably one of the most ridiculous inner fits of rage ever. I literally wanted to slap the roses out of every goddamn person’s hand I saw. The sight of couples swapping their spit made my head want to explode and increased my nausea tenfold. I was in no mood for having a civil brunch with my roommate.

For whatever reason, we decided that today was the day we were finally going to eat brunch at Spike Hill— a pub right off the Bedford L stop, famous for their burgers. As I’ve mentioned, I’m for the most part, pescatarian. But that day, I was out for blood. I broke. I was weakened by my throbbing head and desire for ripping flesh apart with my teeth. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna get a visit from Aunt Flo soon, to put things more in perspective.
I ordered a burger, okay! A BURGER. And you know what? It was GLORIOUS. Actually, I would say that honestly, I much prefer Dumont’s burgers, but I haven’t had any type of cow product in my body in probably about 7 months at least. I almost forgot what it was like to be full. I felt really gross afterwards and sort of regretted it. Yes, apparently, I had a bad one night stand with a burger. I like regret eating it, but damn, it was good while I was getting all up in that shit. At least I had a free mimosa to comfort me afterwards.
My roommate got the huevos rancheros, which were really, like San Diego quality excellent. Again with the metaphor of dudes/sex/whatever, I often find that I’ve historically been more of a “tapas” kind of girl. I have trouble committing to one dish, and always think I’m missing out on what everyone else is eating, so I feel compelled to try everything on other people’s plates. Dude, when did this brunch review turn into a Carrie Bradshaw voiceover? I apologize.Anyway, both of the things we had were good. Best burgers in Williamsburg? I don’t think so. Also, I think me & burgers are through. I had a tasty tortelli with butternut squash and truffle oil last night that I’m really into right now. Sorry, I can’t stop. Anywho, Spike Hill, blah blah blah. It was ‘aight. They don’t need any more publicity than they already have by being located at the epicenter of post-collegiate heaven. The end! Read more...

The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: N. 6th

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed & cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

After a, for some reason, long night of going to see Tim & Eric, and then watching one part of documentary Make ‘Em Laugh (despite the lame subway advertising campaign) and drinking tons of cheap beer, me & my roommate were jonesing for some Roebling Tea Room or The Lodge. On the way, walking Northwest on Metropolitan in the crazy freezing 20 degree weather, we spied a cool vintage shop called 10 ft. Single (vintage surfboards in the window) on that weird corner where N. 6th splits off, right across the BQE, near Havermeyer. It reminded me that I had never been to the place located on the opposite corner, appropriately called N. 6th. Okay, we were kind of also attracted to it because a Playgirl van was parked in front, but anywho… We were the only ones in there for a while, even though it has a great location, and it was 12:30pm. The place isn’t heated especially well, as I definitely had to keep my heavy scarf on the whole time. I ordered a hot chocolate & OJ. I thought it was pretty cool that they serve even their non-alcoholic cold drinks in beer stein thingys. I have to say, though, that the hot chocolate was pretty “meh” and not even hot. Overall, however, I was pretty satisfied with the variety offered on the menu.

The waitress was especially friendly, and from San Diego (where I’m from), and helped me make up my mind between the various things I had picked out that looked good to me. It was between the French Toast, Zucchini Pie, Artichoke Pie, and Mozzarella/Tomato/Basil/Pesto panini. I went with the Artichoke pie, served with greens, and my roommate got the scrambled eggs with a goat cheese, mushroom, and truffle oil crostini.

When I initially got served, I had doubts that the small wedge and side of greens would be enough to satisfy me. The Artichoke pie is less like a quiche (as the Zucchini Pie was said to be), and more like a…uhhh….pie. It was pretty rich: mix of mozzarella, artichoke hearts, and flaky, buttery pie crust. The fabulous crust was really the key element that that balanced out the richness, aside from the portion size. My roommate’s crostini was much tastier in the sense that it had a stronger flavor, though I really did enjoy the pie. However, I do disproportionately favor things with truffle oil in pretty much all situations.

N. 6th, like many places in Brooklyn, are cash only, but have an ATM inside. This came in handy, when we stopped by 10 ft. Single on the way back home, where I purchased an awesome sweater with seagulls on it, wearing sea captain’s hats. It’s definitely one of those rare places that have a huge space, and carry a combination of really nice vintage pieces and low-priced normal thrift store type stuff.

Anyway, getting back to the restaurant, though I was skeptical about the portion of the dish I had, and I definitely wanted more after I finished, I think the portioning was actually done wisely, as I probably would’ve felt gross had I eaten more. Though the venue itself and the hot chocolate was inexplicably cold, if this place played one of those weird games at the movie theatres where you pull a lever & it rates your “love level” or whatever, it would be “Red Hot Lover.” That certainly was a lot of build up for that lame of a joke. Oh well, you get the picture.


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Pegu Club Tasting

One of our more enjoyable tasks at the HCAR offices is cocktail tasting and testing. Recently, to bring a new life to the exploration we were sent a tattered copy of Patrick Gavin Duffy's The Standard Bartender's Guide by our sponsor and superior, Colonel J.R. Harmon. The drinks within hearken back to days when Galliano flowed the streets like gold, and requesting a Wild Turkey Mist with a Twist, would not yank forth looks of disdain from your bartender.

This week the office tasting was on Superbowl Sunday, and so we had many guests stop in. Ladyboy and Rachel made chili, the Masked Drinker donned his mask and shortly before Bruce Springsteen attached his balls to the camera, we sipped The Pegu Club.

Tasting Roster:
The Masked Drinker
Syrcls
and
Faux-Bee June (your author)

Guests:
Juicy
The Pet
Meatball
Lacroix
LP
IamanIndian
Russell
JPMaxMan
Fraulein N
Cleopatra

Two Parts Gin
One Part Curacao
Splash of Lime Juice
2 Dashes Bitters

As usual, we mixed a small number of cocktails (in this case, three) and divvied them up into smaller rocks glasses for the tasting. We used Beefeater Gin, and instead of curacao we used Cointreau.

Curacao, incidentally, is a liquor from the Island of Curacao off the Venezuelan coast. When the Spanish brought Valencia Oranges, the oranges failed to grow properly and the surviving trees produced a fruit now called the lahara citrus. This citrus is a major component in the flavor of traditional Curacao, though it is often simply made with orange. The blue color of Curacao is food coloring added to make the initially colorless drink look exotic. On the mass market, Curacao and Triple Sec are very similar, and since the HCAR offices didn’t have any traditional, high end Curacao available, we decided that Cointreau – a popular brand of Triple Sec – would better suit the drink than the taste of blue food coloring and artificial citrus.

The majority of the tasters did not know the ingredients or recipe prior to tasting.

The large size of the group arranged for a wide variety of responses. In general, the taste profile was agreed upon, and, in the area of improvement, many people had similar thoughts. But there was a large polarity when it came to the overall view of what place people thought the drink should hold in the umbrella culture of cocktails, which we I will explore after our initial discussion.

First impressions didn’t always match the end result, it seemed. Cleopatra was given the most strait forward impression, stating that it tasted like lime and gin, and was a suitable sipping drink. Sycrls and The Pet (both notorious for not liking to taste alcohol in their spirits) said, respectively, that it tasted “like rubbing alcohol and lemonade” and “like a medicine I was given as a child.” Nonetheless they both agreed, (along with IamanIndian, who had similar misgivings at first) that it grew on them, and was “not so bad by the third sip.” Which is also nothing startling considering that the main ingredient, gin, as long been considered an acquired taste.

Russell thought that it was similar to a margarita, which it is, and thought that if any change were necessary it would be to “take out the gin and add tequila. – Oh, and put salt on the rim of the glass.”

It is no surprise, given the comparison to a margarita, that most people would have liked to see a bit of sweetness added. IamanIndian mentioned simple syrup or orange juice, which LP and Lacroix echoed. JPMaxMan and I thought that more cointreau would have done the trick, but since that’s pretty much orange flavored simple syrup, there was little to argue.

From here we moved on to discuss whom we thought might be most likely to enjoy this drink, (pre-revision, of course).

For my own part, I’d like to mention that my first response was that it was not overtly masculine or feminine, and could be enjoyed by anyone at a cocktail party. I was very, very wrong.

The split went like this:

The women in the group tended to argue that it was a “Ladies Drink.” LP said it should be served by “Ladies on a Ladies Nite in the summer.” Fraulein N agreed, naming it “spiked ginger ale” but also saying that she wouldn’t be likely to order more than one. IamanIndian was a little harsher; she strayed from the category of “ladies” but argued that it would be the kind of drink that Mrs. Krabapple on the Simpsons might indulge in. Lacroix was the only one of the women to argue that, perhaps, it would be better suited for her grandfather’s palate, which is what most of the men would echo.

Running on the assumption that the Masked Drinker is a man, he felt it was for “A man in seersucker. He has a goal in life. He will meet it.” JPMaxMan would serve it to Lord Byron, while Juicy was a bit more flexible in his listing, stating that his uncle, Santa Claus, lumberjacks and Eskimos would be included in the target market.

The Masked Drinker and I, both being devout whisky drinkers and usually disgusted by gin, were both pleasantly surprised, agreeing that it would definitely be something to try again, but Juicy seemed to sum up the groups sentiments best. “This goes into the same category as a hot toddy. It has its place.”

All in all, this drink may demand a re-visit if not primarily because it does not contain a whole raw egg. Read more...

The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: Snowshed Lodge Cafeteria

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed & cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

This past weekend, I went on a group ski/snowboarding trip to Killington, VT. So, technically, this isn’t an “urban brunch” post, but I felt the need to share this. After all, sometimes, we take some things for granted living in major metropolitan cities.

It’s not that I was expecting a ski lodge cafeteria to seriously be up to the standards of a brunch at a restaurant, but I guess I just was expecting the food to be edible. To be fair, the bagel I had was okay. Though, honestly, how do you fuck up a bagel?

I miraculously stuck to a vegetarian diet this weekend, despite the fact that, if you’re a vegetarian and go skiing, it is virtually IMPOSSIBLE to find anything without meat of any kind. Everything is chili, steak, burgers, etc. etc. And for breakfast/brunch, everything was eggs, sausage, bacon, etc. Even the so-called “Mountain Muffin” was filled with meat. So this is why I opted for a bagel, a side of home fries, and an orange juice.

The prices were obviously a complete rip-off, which was to be expected at a resort, but honestly, the $3 I was forced to shell out for the worst so-called home fries in the history of humanity was possibly on par with getting mugged for $40 a few months ago— at least on a “why me?” level. When the girl at the counter was SCRAPING these flake remnants of what I can only assume were potatoes and bell peppers on to my plate, from one of those metal containers heated from underneath, I didn’t have the heart to tell her to stop. She was, for lack of a better descriptor, probably mentally challenged, so I felt kind of bad ordering her to do anything.

So I paid about $10 for the whole thing, though it was fairly obvious at that point that I would probably break my jaw if I attempted to chew one of these shredded, charred pieces of “home fries.” However, my roommate was unconvinced. He took my plate, slathered ketchup all over the place, took one bite, and looked like he was going to keel over. I was “for reals” legitimately concerned that he might’ve chipped a tooth. He then attempted to get my money back, which I think was a little excessive, but then again, I would go to great lengths to avoid food/server/cashier confrontations of that kind, because I’m kind of a pussy like that. Plus, I feel like you kind of take a risk when you buy food, and you just kind of have to be prepared for that stuff. I mean, it wasn’t the mentally challenged counter girl or Italian cashier’s fault that the quality of lodge food can sometimes be horrendous.

We didn’t get my money back, mostly because the cashier was Italian and didn’t really understand what my roommate was saying. I guess it could’ve been worse…I could’ve gotten bad meat. Right? At least that tainted peanut butter going around hasn’t made its way to me as far as I know.

Oh, also, there was this waffle hut I found the next day outside the lodge, more by the actual skiing area, that had amazing Belgian-style hand-held sugar waffles. I was about to not get one, because I was afraid it would make me late to return my skis. But I got it anyway… and never looked back. Moral of the story: ALWAYS get the waffle. Always.

Fun and semi-unrelated alcohol fact: there is a beer store just outside the Killington resort that sells nice ales. I got a LaChouffe ale that I had all to myself, because for some inexplicable reason, everyone was more interested in drinking Bud Light. But that’s another story. Whatevs, more for me!

Photos from the Internet

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The Morning After, A Syrcls Brunch Review: Fada

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed & cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to share my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

On this past 3-day holiday weekend, I had a cousin staying with me, a zillion birthdays (seriously, everyone’s parents must have been getting busy for reals in the spring!), and a Brooklyn Iron Chef competition (for which I had my roommate 80% make me a salad I passed off as entirely my own). It was exhausting, and I still needed to follow through with a brunch date I had made with Foxy, a friend I hadn’t seen since before the New Year. We both live in the northern part of Brooklyn, though she lives in Greenpoint and I live more towards the east, around Bushwick. I figured Fada-- a French place I had been to before and had their amazing fries and seriously, the best mussels I’ve had in NY-- conveniently located right off the Bedford stop on the L on Driggs, was the easiest solution.

I got there shortly before Foxy, about five minutes before one. The place was about half full, though there only appeared to be one waitress working. I sat down at the bar, which was nice so I wouldn’t have to crowd the entrance area. When Foxy arrived, we started to make our way to the waitress, when I was intercepted by some random lady asking me what the address to this place was. I have no idea why people always think I know where everything is, much less exact addresses of places. Foxy found a business card & gave it to her, which was probably a better solution than my answer of “Uhhhhh, I dunno, like, Driggs…” Then I realized after we were seated that the waitress and I were wearing similar outfits, and had similar coloring. I also frequently get mistaken for waitresses or retail “sales associates,” which is ironic, because I am probably the worst sales associate and/or waitress ever.

Anywho, Foxy and I are vegetarians. When I say I’m a vegetarian, I mean, I totally eat shellfish, fish, and occasionally turkey on Thanksgiving. So, yeah, I’m basically a fake-believe vegetarian. But Foxy is for real. Fada has a great brunch menu that I much prefer over nearby French places Juliette and Fabianne. Juliette is kind of limited, especially for vegetarians (even fake-believe ones!), and has way too much fried shit for my taste, and though Fabianne’s menu is pretty good and eclectic, it’s always crowded and you have to go up to the front to order. Barbaric, right? Ha. It is if you’re a lazy ass on the weekends (and weekdays, my roommate would argue) like me. Fada is also the best deal of those three, because it’s about $11 that includes OJ and coffee and/or tea with your brunch. Their Bloody Marys & Mimosas are $6, which is not too bad if you have all that other stuff too. Oh, and their tea comes in these gigantic saucer bowl things, which are cool because you get more hot water, but kind of annoying if you have a small table.

Foxy and I both ordered the Veggie Croque—which is melted gruyere & country bread, served with a green side salad. I feel like it strikes a good balance between healthy/fiber-y, and super indulgent. Does the cheese cancel the healthy out? Whatevs. It’s pretty good. Though, I had to really restrain myself from getting the mussels for the eighty billionth time. Since Fada is cuisine more from Marseilles, you can imagine the standard of mussels. Seriously. Amazing.


The only thing that kinda sucked about this experience was that because there was really only one girl there working, it took a while to get our food, and Foxy barely got coffee after asking no less than four times. Also, they only type of credit cards they take is American Express, which is weird. But luckily, they have an ATM inside.

Overall, I would say this place has good food, portions that really hit the spot without making you feel either still ravenous, nor overstuffed and disgusting. Plus, they keep you pretty hydrated with the amount of drinks included with the brunch, which is always good. It’s also pretty convenient if you live in the area, or want to meet up somewhere easily reachable by subway station location. And MUSSELS, MUSSELS, MUSSELS!! Did I mention that?
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Syrcls's Top 10 Winter Bars

In no particular order:

1. Larry Lawrence— Though it sort of falls into the trap of those pseudo-speakeasy semi-hidden type set-ups, it’s not at all pretentious or trendy. The interior is all wood and brick (THE definitive formula for coziness, in case you want to get technical about it), I think they’re more memorable for their beers than cocktails (though maybe I’ve just never had a good one here), and though I like this bar for the winter, they do have a semi-see-through second level roof deck-type outside patio thing that is awesome for summer. It’s a rare thing that a bar gives you a cozy interior for the winter & yet something to look forward to for the summer.
Located on Grand St. in Williamsburg.


2. Harefield Road— One of the owners made all of the wooden furniture himself, and for me, this type of woodsy-Irish Pub-y décor is a slight variation on the epitome of winter coziness (see Larry Lawrence above). Really, if there’s one bar I think of when I want to get warm, have a beer or hot toddy, and not have to yell over loud ass music, but still listen to awesome music, this is it.
Located off Graham, on Metropolitan in Williamsburg.

3. The Room (SoHo)— When you get past the fact that almost everyone who goes here looks like an i-banker, it can be quite nice. I love the exposed brick & the comfy booths (though there is limited seating), it really is perfect for bringing a date or someone you’d really talk to. In the back, there’s even a little slide-y window thing connects to the bar so you don’t have to go around to the other side to order your drinks. They don’t have hard alcohol here, but they have both kinds of Delirium Tremens and a great selection of wine. It’s best to come here on a weekday to stake your claim in for a booth, and to avoid most of the collared shirt crowd that is most populous on the weekends.
Off Houston, on Sullivan, in Manhattan.

4. Home Sweet Home—Despite there being taxidermied animals as far as the eye can see, this is a great bar to either sit in a booth for a spell or dance it up. They usually play (at least when I’ve been there) good 50s & 60s stuff to dance to. I have a feeling Royal Oak took a cue from them, music-wise. True, it is the Lower East Side, but the crowd is mixed in a good way, and I always have a fun time here. Drinks are pretty reasonably priced, though I never get cellphone service because it’s downstairs. Though, honestly, you probably wouldn’t want to leave for whoever is calling you anyway.
On Chrystie off Delancey.

5. Sweet Ups— Velveteen paisley patterned walls, vinyl booths, and a blackberry bramble = possibly the best part about winter and living in “East Williamsburg.” This always also tends to be my formula for the end of a night. That blackberry bramble cocktail they make ALWAYS pushes me over the edge from being tipsy into drunken, screeching harpie shitshow land (just ask Erin or Ilan!). Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but these days, the bramble is my “beginning of the night” or “only drink of the night” drink. It’s so damn tasty and berry/winter appropriate that you forget how much goddamn gin & vodka are packed into that sucker. Fun fact: you can also get this drink at Royal Oak, though it’s not nearly as awesome in that environment.
On Graham & Grand.

6. Bar(n)— Part of the Flatbush Farm restaurant (which I’ve never eaten at officially), it seems to be THE birthday spot for my friends of South Brooklyn. Again, wood is a prominent feature here. I really love the assortment of beers they have here, especially that they have Schneider Weisse—a nice, light wheat beer that clocks in at slightly over a pint. Yes I inappropriately used the phrase “clocks in,” whatever. Anywho, it’s a nice spot for when you’re over in that area, and sometimes, late at night, it even turns into a dance party. Of course, the one time some weird Eurotrash dude wandered in there, and OF COURSE me & my friends were making fun of him, he just HAD to be the one to relentlessly urge me to dance with him. But, thankfully, I think that is generally a rare occurrence.
Located simultaneously on St. Marks, 6th Ave, and Flatbush Ave. somehow. That criss-crossy, non-gridded area frightens & confuses me like Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer. But it’s worth it!

7. Scratcher-- This was one of the first bars I’d ever been to in NYC. Christina Ricci & Adam Goldberg frequent here, and yes, it can be a bit i-banker-y sometimes, BUT, the undergrounded-ness, Christmas lights, stuck-together seat-table things, secret table spots, and Nick Drake itunes prominence make this bar irresistible. I can almost think of no winter situation that cannot be applied to going to this bar—getting cozy with red wine on a date, reminiscing with old college friends with pints & pints of Boddingtons, or just watching the snow fall and writing in your journal (CHEESE!) with some Jameson. It can get pretty crowded sometimes, but I somehow always seem to have the perfect timing. So, either go with me, or develop your own stick-shift-clutch-type relationship with it.
Located on e5th between Bowery & 2nd in Manhattan.

8. Brass Monkey— All the fucking way on the WAYYY West side, it may seem inconvenient. But, not if you work in or around that weird Chelsea/Meatpacking/West Village border like I do. Honestly, if you find yourself in the area, it’s a total haven from all the horrendousity (so what if that’s not a word!?) of the Meatpacking. Here’s the thing— not only do they have an incredibly impressive selection of beers (not cheap though, mind you), but they have an insane amount of space, so it’s never really that crowded, and is ideal for larger groups. Oh, and did I mention the interior is entirely wood? Naturally.
Located on little W12th St, sort of under the right side of the West Side Hwy.

9. The Richardson— This is a recent discovery of mine, mostly because it’s pretty new. It has all the nice cocktail-y faux-speakeasy things about Hotel Delmano without the attitude (and without the me getting kicked out of it or acting inappropriately on more than one occasion, but let’s not get into that…) or pretension. AND they have tasty, tasty snacks. AND it’s a pretty huge space and semi-conveniently located near to the BQE and the Graham stop on the L, just past Daddy’s. Their Pimm’s Cups are better than Delmanos anyway. YES, you heard me! I said it! IN WRITING, no less. Why does it seem like I’m getting more & more belligerent in this post even though I’m stone cold sober? Whatevs.
Located on Graham & Richardson (duh).

10. Roebling Tea Room— So yes, this isn’t technically a bar, but I just decided to throw a curveball at’cha. Does the fun ever start? Sorry…anyway….I just think this is a nice alternative if you don’t necessarily feel like drinking, but don’t feel like restricting yourself so rigidly either. The space is humongous, and has a few couches for larger groups or laptop writing. They obvs have an insane selection of tea and tea-like drinks (coffee even!), but they also have a very inexpensive and pretty good house red, along with nice bottle & on draft beers. The best thing is the BAKED BRIE plate, though, with walnuts, greens, apples & whole grain bread. NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING beats that on a winter afternoon. Great, I’m hungry now.




Photos from internet.
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