The Masked Drinker's Guide to Benders

In drinking, like all things, moderation is the key. What some people never tell you about that guide is that “all things” includes moderation, so one must moderate in moderation as well. And there sometimes—not too often—comes a time in someone’s life when it’s time to go a little off the deep end. A good bender can be a damn fine thing, but you really have to do it right. I’ve done it wrong in the past and learned from my mistakes. I just got back to work after a week and a half off and I quite explicitly decided to make it a bender. So I’d like to now share what I’ve learned about this noble and horrible experience.

First off, make sure you have ample time to be to yourself. You’re going to need anywhere from a weekend to two weeks (longer than that I really highly don’t recommend) where you are pretty much free from normal human responsibilities like family, work, and hygiene. (Just kidding.) (Kind of.) Point being if you need to check in on Granny every now and then or work with children or make spreadsheets to keep yourself employed, don’t go on a bender then. Self-destruct in moderation! I’ve often used spring break, but it’s very vital not to do it in the way low folks like Floridians would. A bender is not an excuse to yell lewd things at impressionable girls. A bender is a hedonistic self-exploration.

It often helps to have something of an impetus for the bender. It can be something as simple as “I have time off” to something rather more serious like, “Holy shit, my marriage just ended.” Sad-started benders need to be monitored more carefully than others, as the point is to come out a little better than you started, not way more depressed. I’d say stick to a good reason at least your first time. No bender is trickier than the barely-avoiding-depression bender.

I should add that you should let people know what you’re about to do; at least the ones that won’t give you hell about it. I, uh, in particular mean people that you share some sort of activity or some such with. Like, uh, a blog. I’d like to publicly apologize right here for not sending anything in last week. Sorry, theoretical adoring fans, arch enemies, and lovely crushes. Also, sorry Colonel Harmon. Really should have kept you of all people in the loop on that one.

Mostly go to bars where they know you. Now, don’t only go there, as they’ll get really tired of you. A bender’s a nice time to explore joints randomly. Remember, though, not everyone’s on a bender so don’t be an asshole, at least not more than you usually are. Respect the rules of trying out new bars, just do so within a week-long stint of drinking.

Remember to eat. Some nights you’re going to be stuck with the dregs: a friend’s leftover sandwich, microwave bar food. That’s unavoidable. But make sure you eat normal food too. Pasta keeps your stomach from completely revolting and just leaving by way of the first orifice it can find. At times when you’re just starting for the day or nicely buzzed, eat something really good and tasty. You’ll appreciate it whilst swimming in your debauchery.

Speaking of food and digestion, be prepared to not digest too well for the entire time. We’ve all had beer shits before, but understand that a real bender’s gonna involve beer shits pretty much every day. Stock up on TP and the stomach placebo of your choice and just roll with it. You get used to it, anyway.

You’re going to be tempted to bathe less. This is not a great idea. Everybody skips a day every now and then but if you skip more than one, you’d better have a major excuse, and it has to involve either an explosion or sleeping with someone ridiculously hot. Otherwise, for Christ’s sake, nobody needs to smell your drunk ass. If you must, buy some cheap beers to drink in the shower for motivation. That’s actually really fun.

Bender friends help. They’re not always available and do make sure they’re good bender friends. Bad ones quickly lead you down paths that not even you want. But someone who shares your break or purpose and can actually hang with your drinking style is pretty awesome. Nothing’s worse, though, than a lightweight bender friend. Can I call them frienders? When you’re out and ready for a multi-hour stretch and he or she is hiccupping after one beer, problems arise.

It also helps to have a non-bender friend, someone who’s generally staying sober, or at least normal. This has to be a close friend you trust and who is not judgmental. You need someone watching out if you’re about to step over a line, like drinking a fifth of whiskey near some cops or hitting on someone you really shouldn’t hit on. REALLY SHOULDN’T. But if you’ve got a judger, they’re just going to be on your case about everything so you never know what to take seriously. A cool non-bending friend can be a real ballast making sure you don’t go about this all wrong.

Keep some sort of record of what you’re doing. I don’t mean some weird OCD list of every drink you have. But a journal or something. Personally, I like to keep my camera around. Benders often lead to amazing, unexpected times. It’d be a shame if you couldn’t remember them. So make sure there’s something that will keep these good times around even after you clean up.

Lastly, when it’s time to rein it in, do so. When you’ve set yourself a time limit, never extend it, not even for a day. You’ll feel terrible for a day or so but, man, you will feel great once you’ve worked it through. Elongating a bender is the surest way to wreck it. There’ll be another time. Besides, it’s time for moderation in your excess.

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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 Masked Drinker Gets Poetical

“She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

'This music crept by me upon the waters'
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.”

Thus sayeth T.S. Eliot in “The Waste Land.” Why bring it up, especially since I am clearly an idiot in a mask that drinks too much? The answer is threefold. I’ve been teaching “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” to 10 year olds this past couple of weeks and it’s been kind of awesome. Also, as you might know, the poem quoted above begins with the famous line, “April is the cruelest month.”

Thirdly April is National Poetry month, which may or may not have something to do with the previous two reasons. Poetry and drinking have a long, weird history, really. I mean, pretty much any poet worth his or her salt (from Shakespeare to Hank Williams Sr.) was a giant drunk, or would have been if they weren’t so goddam nuts they weren’t ever around booze. I’m looking at you, Dickenson.

It was only last week when I was about to enter Shades of Green in Manhattan in order to a) play a nerdy board game with my friends and b) try to flirt with a cute waitress (the two go together like peanut butter and chocolate IF YOU ARE ALLERGIC TO PEANUT BUTTER). I was finishing up a cigarette when a fellow came from inside and asked me for a light. He then began to expound upon all sorts of topics, like the original location of Tammany Hall, how kids only study things like business today, and the genius of song and poetry. He then recited “The Harlot’s House” by Oscar Wilde from beginning to end. It was impressive on the other hand, and long and weird and creepy on the other. So maybe if you want to memorize a cool poem suitable for bars, perhaps a multi-stanza epic isn’t quite the way to go. (Although that may have been super impressive to some Ren Fair girl, but if you want to impress a Ren Fair girl I don’t want you reading my goddam blog in the first place and getting your greasy little fingers on it.)

(I was going to post a photo of Ren Fair people here but realized I hated neither you nor myself enough to do so. But now the image is stuck in my head so I have to look at something awesome.

Whew, much better.)

So, with that in mind, I have decided to supply you, my reader, with your own easily-memorizable poetry to use and enjoy this month or whenever the fancy strikes you. For convenience sake, I’ll keep it in “fun size” haiku poems. Enjoy!

Home with cold beer
Oh no where is opener
My life is pointless

You are beautiful
I think that you should make out
With the Masked Drinker

Oh man gotta pee
I should have stayed with liquor
Beer goes right through me

This is like magic
I’m pretty sure that whiskey
Just made me charming

Dear God I’m hungry
Oh, look, it’s a White Castle
This is a mistake

I have bought four drinks
I hope next comes a buy back
Yay life has meaning

This party is lame
So I will play this guitar
Wait, I don’t know how

You’re familiar
How is it that I know you?
Oh, yeah. We had sex.

Holy shit this beer
Tastes like homeless dude asshole
It’s free? Glug glug glug

What is the best blog?
It’s “Here Comes a Regular”
It’s because of me

Eh? Eh? Whattaya think? Should I start sending to publishers?

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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 Masked Drinker's Bourbon Pairing: Shotgun Willie

Let’s talk music. Now I might be a man of strong opinions when it comes to music, but I make no attempt at seeming like I’m an expert. I’m basically one of those annoying guys who “knows what he likes.” But I can freely admit when I like some terrible fucking things, and when I hate some amazing stuff. It’s nice when what I like coincides with What Is Good, but not necessary.

Today I want to talk about an album that is not only Good but Perfect Drinking Music. And that’s Shotgun Willie by Willie Nelson. I don’t understand how this came out as a country album in 1973. It’s funky, jazzy, funny, and completely awesome the entire way through. The title track starts off with this crazy bass line and simple guitar work. The lyrics are silly, metatextual, and make fun of the Klan on top of it. When the horns kick in you know you’re in for something special. Willie’s classic, often underrated guitar work doesn’t hurt too bad, either. Listen to it.

Then, of course, you get that second track, “Whiskey River.” Now, I’m a man of certain traditions and rituals. When I see a “L’occatan en provence” shop, for instance, I say the name out loud in a terrible French accent. This was designed to drive an ex of mine nuts, but I still do it, even when alone. I dunno, I like this stuff. Anyway, whenever this song comes on, no matter my state or the time of day, I take a glass of bourbon. The lyrics are simple, but exactly what you need them to be.

Whiskey River, take my mind
Don't let her memory torture me
Whiskey River, don't run dry
You're all I got to carry me

I'm drowning in a Whiskey River
Bathing my memory's mind in
the wetness of its soul
Feeling the amber current flowing from my mind
To warm an empty heart you left so cold

Damn, I couldn't find the album version, but here's a good live one.



Those two stanzas are just repeated in between some great music and solos. Everybody gets a turn, classic jazz/bluegrass style. That funkyass bass is still there, and the vocal harmonies are churchly beautiful.

Incidentally, Willie released his own bourbon called Old Whiskey River and it’s pretty damn good, actually. I remember being offered it by a waitress friend whilst in a heartbroken state. I took it because it was nice of her and, hey, free bourbon, but I really didn’t expect much. Blew my mind that a celebrity bourbon could be so damn tasty. Pretty hard to find these days, and it’s not my absolute favorite, but it’s always a welcome sight.

Next up is “Sad Songs and Waltzes,” a sad and funny little tune where Willie tells some woman that broke his heart that she doesn’t need to worry about anyone finding out, because no one will listen to this song. Cake (remember them? Faux Bee June does.) did a good job covering it, I recall. It’s kind of hard to find a good waltz these days. OK, let’s start a movement, Waltzcore. Who’s in? Cotillion INSANITY all the way. Man, we will make some parties that will be THE THING.

The whole album’s great. There’s classic great country like “Local Memory,” more crazy 70s countryfunk like “Devil in a Sleeping Bag” . . .it’s all over the place in all the right ways. “She’s Not for You” is a minor key masterpiece. The Bob Wills cover “Stay All Night (Stay a Little Longer)” is what we all want to say after that fourth drink and that cutie next to you just cracked the perfect joke and smiled that smile.

Anyway, I can’t recommend this album highly enough. Don’t be afraid if you don’t like country; it’s barely recognizable as such. Just get a tall glass of straight bourbon, nothing too fancy. Sit back, relax, and have a damn fine time with an American genius. (Not me, Willie. Although you’re welcome to try me sometime, too.) Read more...

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 Masked Drinker's Guide to Las Vegas

I’m not a huge traveler. I came from shit-town, Kentucky and climbed my way to the heights of awesomeness in Brooklyn. New York City has just about anything you could want in any place, so rare is the time that I leave it. When I do, it’s with a mission in mind, be it food (lobster rolls in Maine), friends (wedding in Arkansas), or duty (family in-sigh-Kentucky). But way back in my college days my two best friends were attending college in Las Vegas. So, every spring, I’d go visit them.

And, seriously, fuck Las Vegas. Jesus Christ is there a worst place on the planet? (Other than the internet.) “Oh, but it’s party central, Masked Drinker!” you might be shouting at your screen (your coworkers hate you). No. It is stupid central. “But they have no open container laws!” (Stop shouting.) And, yes, that’s pretty awesome, at least, until you realize that most people in the world have no business drinking so much as to need to take it out from building to building.

Drinking in Las Vegas is a lot like going out to eat on Valentines Day or having pizza in Los Angeles: fucking amateur hour. Screaming morons with retarded novelty cups half-filled with shitty drinks or shittier beers lurching from specially-designed human maze-trap to otherly-themed human maze-traps wasting money that could be used for something useful like curing AIDS, getting me a better phone, or curing phone AIDS.

My friends did the best thing they could possibly have done for me when I first arrived. They picked me up at the airport and drove me straight to some casino. They gave me twenty bucks and let me choose where to spend it. I sat down at a blackjack table and lost it all within ten minutes. Don’t go to casinos in Las Vegas. They are designed to take your money and sense of time away. You might get a free drink or two, but they will taste like they were poured through the sole of your shoe.

It’s not that I mind gambling. Hell, I love poker. (Real poker, not that “Hold ‘Em” bullshit. Poker isn’t an exercise in card counting. Well, not that explicitly. It’s an opportunity to drink and lie with your friends. And sometimes lay with them.) But big casinos are just awful wastes. Also, you inevitably will find yourself faced with a line of elderly people mechanically dropping their savings into slot machines, and I don’t know about you, but pondering the meaninglessness of my own mortality isn’t high up on my AWESOME FUN list.

And casino bars suck. Hell, all theme bars suck. If I may paraphrase Tolstoy in a blog entry about how much Las Vegas sucks, all good bars are similar; but each shitty theme bar is shitty in its own themey way. Again, I lucked out as I had locals, or local-enoughs to be able to be hooked up with a normal bar filled with normal people who actually knew how to drink. It’s the only place, other than peoples’ apartments, I’ve happily been drinking in Las Vegas and I don’t mind telling you what it is. It’s called the Stake Out. Now, this was back in college so maybe it’s too college-y for me now, but I never had less than a good time there.

I’d like to take this time to anti-recommend a bar in Las Vegas, now that I think of it. There’s a Cheers branch there, and one friend and I went to see what it was like. HOLY SHIT IT WAS AWFUL. You’d think the most famous bar license in the world would have a bit of quality control. It was a horrible little hellhole with only two people other than us in it: the bartender and a customer, both with long, curly hair. We found the juke and played some early Van Halen and dude turned it off. He had the audacity to purport Santana was a better guitarist. Suffice to say the night ended with us throwing bottles in a rage and scooting on out.

That’s what Las Vegas is like. It brings out the retarded in you. Sometimes that’s funny, or at least is in retrospect. There was the time we semi-accidentally Cool Hand Luked a college parking lot; an epic story filled with danger, superhuman feats of strength, and a miraculous shopping cart. Unfortunately, even masked, I don’t think it’s the best idea to share it online, but let’s just say mistakes were made and we’re all very lucky to be where we are today.

So I guess I’ve had good times in Las Vegas. But it should be noted said good times were had with the people I had good times with in the middle of nowhere, Appalachia, so that may have just been the company. Go if you have to. Maybe it’s an experience people need. And you won't do so badly if you get some locals and get away from the strip. But understand that it’s going to be a weird, depressing experience filled with the lowest thoughts and deeds mankind has to offer at the moment. And that at one point you’re going to be totally wasted, carrying someone’s booze through a shortcut that takes you through a loud casino, and all the sudden you’re going to realize what Hunter was really talking about.
Images stolen yadda yadda. I'm just happy I remembered how to do roll-over text. Read more...

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 Masked Drinker's Bourbon Pairing: Garth Ennis comics

I’ll be honest. I’m not doing so well right now, folks. I have had a bit too much too many days in a row. Jobs that start early and nights that go late can add up. And that goddamned animal holiday yesterday filled every bar with rank amateurs of questionable skill, knowledge, hygiene, and moral fiber. But I soldier on, fear not. I’ve got another bourbon pairing aimed right at your soul, high caliber style.

You may have noticed I’m a man who enjoys the occasional dip in the nerd pool. OK, fine, I’m prune-fingered from staying in too long. THIS METAPHOR IS GETTING TIRED. So this week’s bourbon pairing is all about me bringing you, the reader, into a pleasant nerd cave filled with excellence.

See, one thing that always goes well with bourbon is the comics of one Garth Ennis. Ennis is an Irish writer that came to American comics by way of a slightly different route. Most comic writers grew up reading the same superhero comics that are around today, but not Ennis. He grew up on a steady diet of British war comics, more anthology-based, more morally complicated, and often laden with irony and honor like ketchup on a classless person’s steak.

He’s worked on a number of books that are prime bourbon material. One of his few forays into (somewhat) traditional superhero fare was Hitman, the story of an Irish gangster with x-ray vision. Superheroes were skewered and satirized while keeping the action going and the humor ribald. Friendship between men, a common theme in his work, is an important strand throughout. I honestly don’t think it’s his strongest work, as some of it seemed derivative of the works of John Woo.

He’s more famous for the series Preacher drawn mostly by Steve Dillon. There were sixty-six monthly issues now collected into nine trade paperbacks. Both a love letter to the myth of America and a deconstruction of Judeo-Christian (especially Catholic) belief, Preacher is the story of Jesse Custer, a tortured man with a complicated background and a strong right hook who one day acquires the “Word of God,” an ability to make people do whatever he says. He, a hitman girlfriend, and a vampire best friend go off to find God and “make him pay for all the suffering.”

The tone moves from slapstick, gross-out humor to elegiac romance to action buddy-movie and everything in-between. Steve Dillon’s artwork is clean, full of expression, and representational enough to ground even absurd concepts, like the failed suicide called Arseface. There are lots of great moments and overall it’s an impressive, personal work. There are unfortunately points where Ennis falls a bit too in love with his characters, and tidies things up a bit too neatly, and other points where his critique of religion is more adolescent petulance than thought-out theology, but it’s a remarkable work well worth checking out.

It’s my masked opinion, however, that a more recent epic is even better, and it comes from the strangest place. Ennis and various artists spent the past few years working on the Marvel Superheroes gun-toting vigilante, The Punisher. The character debuted as a Spider-man villain, but eventually became popular enough to support several of his own titles (including a near pornographic “file” book detailing the various guns he uses). Largely and for ages thought of as something of a joke by readers over the age of 13, Ennis was given free reign to do whatever he wanted with the character. He started with a dark comedy called “Welcome Back Frank” that teamed him again with Steve Dillon. Sort of a morbid Road Runner cartoon, villains were dispatched in increasingly violent, absurd methods. But then Ennis wrote “Born,” a sobering look at The Punisher’s time in Viet Nam and here is where he seemed to really find what he had to say about the character, and, more, through the character.

He quickly relaunched the book with rotating artists for different stories and a darker, more serious tone. Now an adults-only book, it tackled various issues in the world today from sex trafficking to the war on terror. In truth, it became a years-long epic examination of the world and especially the United States, in today’s both post-Viet Nam and post-9/11 environment. Harrowing, poignant, and yet never losing the pulp excitement and action that carries the character, the series is one of the most significant pieces about America I’ve seen in the form. Frank Castle, the Punisher, is portrayed as a man of his time, completely dedicated to his psychopathic war, a relentless killer who just happens to kill terrible people. But the Punisher is more a vehicle for the social examination that Ennis is doing; he’s often less a character than a device.

A book about a guy with a skull symbol on his chest killing bad guys has no right to be such a vital, amazing work of art. But it is. Also collected in trade paperback form, I cannot recommend it more highly. Crack it open, pour yourself something brown and hot, and let the two things rattle your brain together with toughness and meaning. Read more...

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!

Pictures from the interwebz
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