eatproper-blog

[eatproper-blog]

The King’s Speech

The obvious comparison here is Mission Chinese. The first time I dined at Kings County Imperial in Williamsburg, I thought to myself, if Mission moved to Brooklyn, got small again, cranked the music back up, and served tiki drinks on tap, it’d be this place. The crowd is effortlessly cool, the menu’s typewriter face is styled intentionally, the chairs feel pulled from a yard sale, and the food runners are wearing snap backs. I quietly reminisced about the original location of Mission Chinese Food on Orchard Street—a loud, overcrowded, basement party that spit out mind-blowing, tongue-numbing Chinese-ish food to those strong-willed enough to wait two hours for a table. Ever since Mission had moved to a much larger location, raised its prices, and started taking reservations (the horror!), I had been looking for a place to fill that hole—a restaurant that made me feel cool just by virtue of knowing about it, that served exciting food with a sense of humor, and that challenged you to eat something beyond your spice tolerance, and eat a lot of it, and enjoy the pain. I soon realized that Kings County Imperial is not this, exactly. But that’s probably a good thing.

For one, this restaurant presents itself without pretention. Eating here isn’t a challenge. There isn’t a holier-than-thou host, nor a visibly stressed manager shuffling around. There are no long waits recorded on digitized waitlists, nor slick-haired bartenders busy manicuring original-to-a-fault cocktail garnishes. Instead, the staff moves around the low-ceilinged, tin-and-brick-paneled space comfortably, like they enjoy being here. The food items are recognizable but not boring, spicy but not painful, flavorful but not overwrought. In fact, the most pretentious thing here might be the soy sauce on tap, made custom in China following a supposedly very old family recipe. Oh, Brooklyn, must you always find something new to put on tap?

So, being a white Jew from Long Island, I will gladly refrain from comment on the authenticity of Kings County’s Chinese cuisine. But I get the sense that accuracy is not the point—but neither is curated inaccuracy, for that matter. While Mission Chinese is keen on being both stubbornly authentic and brazenly irreverent in one chopstick-full, Kings County is not trying to shove anything down your throat that you don’t invite. The menu is, at times, out there, but not so much that you find yourself surreptitiously googling alien terms under the table. Some items are spicy, like the Mapo Dofu (yes, tofu with a D), but not to the challenging degree of that of Mr. Bowein’s. Other dishes, like the Mu Shu Duck or the Double Garlic Eggplant, aren’t exactly innovative, but they’re comforting, perfectly executed, and damn tasty.

My absolute favorite is the Crispy White Radish Cake— reminiscent of its traditional Chinese counterpart, which is made from minced radish, Chinese sausage, and dried shrimp that has been kneaded together, steamed, sliced, then fried. It begins lightly crispy on the outside, like the crust that forms on the top of mashed potatoes you’ve reheated or baked in the oven, and then gives way to airy, steamed radish, laced with tiny morsels of pork and umami-laden dried shrimp. I could spend an entire evening drinking rounds of the Coco Palms—their signature blue pina colada variation—and letting radish cake after radish cake melt on my tongue, and not regret a second of it.

Other standouts were the pork soup dumplings--pretty much a constant special, and with good reason, and the Weeping Tiger Salad, a salad wherein the leafy green is cilantro, and plenty of it, tossed with sliced chilis, napa cabbage, and, my new favorite crouton, dried baby shrimp.

How could I forget the tiki drinks! I’ll be fast: they’re not perfectly executed, they’re not life-changing, and on paper, they read as a last-ditch effort to have a Williamsburg gimmick in the face of being an otherwise toned-down restaurant. But I won’t lie, sipping on flavors of pineapple, coconut, ginger, and almond, in the dead of winter, while tucked away in a cozy red velvet booth, a rice grain’s throw away and yet adequately shielded from the BQE and (even worse!) Union Pool, is kind of fucking perfect. 

On a scale from 1 to 10, 1 being you’d rather have Coldplay play the Superbowl Halftime Show again than eat here, and 10 being eating here is even better than that time Beyonce saved the Superbowl Halftime Show, I give Kings County Imperial a 7.5.  

[eatproper-blog]

Let’s have a Kiki’s

Tucked away deep in the East Broadway side of Chinatown, amongst Chinese gift-and-school-supplies stores and storefronts for Chinese Associations, spitting distance from some of the city’s best Dim Sum, and sitting under a sign advertising printing and signs (half in Chinese), is a little Greek restaurant, named Kiki’s. Kiki’s is casual, understated, affordably priced, and delicious. Kiki’s has managed to take the char, price, minimally Mediterranean decor, and modesty of any fantastic Greek eatery in Astoria, and open its olive-green French doors on a stretch of Chinatown that, thanks to the draw of places like Mission Chinese Food and Pies ’n Thighs, has become an increasingly interesting culinary locale.

On a Sunday night in August, this place is full. With all windows and doors open, people are almost spilling onto the sidewalk, huddled around small tables bearing many large plates, and bottles of Assyrtiko. The crowd is diverse—punks in leather vests, guys who wear suits on Sundays, families taking Grandma out to dinner, 20-something post-grads finishing off their beers as they show each other women on Tinder—and yet no one seems out of place. The walls carry on the olive-green theme, studded with dimmed sconces and a variety of framed photographs and paintings—some, it seems, from local artists, and others of the Old Country. The space feels like it started in one building and annexed the two next-door; only as we were leaving did we notice another abnormally-shaped dining room past the one adjacent to ours. This idiosyncrasy works to keep the place fresh and interesting, while the long menu, authentic and unadulterated, is able to shine.

The menu reads like your Greek grandmother is trying to get you to eat more. Have the octopus, it’s “delectable and uncomplicated.” Here, have a “straightforward helping of MEAT”—as if capitalizing the meat will get you to have more of it. “You look so skinny; eat!” I can hear my metaphorical grandmother say, as she pushes the meat plate closer to me.

Grandma doesn’t lie, because the octopus is exactly that, delectable and uncomplicated, cut into small pieces, remarkably tender, painted with char, and scattered rustically in a pool of lemon and olive oil. Next is moussaka, which brought to mind a shepard’s pie I once had as a teenager in London, although this one has eggplant and perhaps a little cinnamon, and is topped off with a thick layer of béchamel, perfectly browned on top for texture.

For the phyllo fanatics, there's saganaki, a fried cheese pie drizzled with honey and sesame seeds. It is almost dessert, but just enough savory that mom won’t yell at you for eating it first.

Everything about this place is unpretentious, which is refreshing in an era when so many restaurants are trying to out-devilled-eggs each other. Similarly, the staff, attractive and interesting-looking in a toned down, linen-dress sort of way, isn’t competing for who has the most extreme side shave or the weirdest lipstick color. Everyone who works here seems to really enjoy working here, and it is palpable. They move through the small space with ease, and are eager to answer any questions you may have, or bring you a new jug of water, or sell you a half-liter carafe of rose, even though the option isn’t listed on the menu.

Reggae quietly bumps in the background. It’s far from thematic, but it is certainly appropriate. With enough imagination, you might be able to close your eyes and picture yourself at a low-key seaside restaurant on a Greek island, enjoying a heavy-handed squeeze of lemon and the island’s endless summer.

On a scale from 1 to 10, 1 being you’d rather Donald Trump win the election than ever step foot in here again, and 10 being you’d campaign for Kanye West in 2020 if it meant you could eat here even one more time, I give Kiki’s an 8.

[eatproper-blog]

Shuckin' A

Stepping into Maison Premiere late one weekday night, off an otherwise sleepy Bedford Avenue, is like discovering a relic of the past, preserved in time. Paris in the 1920s. Revelrous eaters and drinkers pack around a large, central bar, where vest-clad bartenders, ready to be here until daylight, take great care stirring cocktails with one hand, while letting absinthe drip with the other. The walls, cigarette-stained, echo loud jazz, as if some rowdy band is crammed in the back, all wearing fedoras while they toot their horns. Like a scene straight from Midnight in Paris, I expect to see Hemingway or Dali relaxed at a table, drinking whiskey and smoking a cigar. In fact, it feels wrong that people aren’t smoking in here; the space almost begs to be smoke-filled. Toto, we’re not in 2013 anymore.

While I hate to spoil the mood, unfortunately, the charming ambiance Maison Premiere has successfully fostered is really the best thing about this cocktail and oyster bar. Their cocktail program is fantastic but the service is mediocre and the food is nothing special—tasty but nothing to write home (or on a blog) about. The oysters, unfortunately, are even worse—and they call themselves first and foremost an oyster bar. I’ve eaten here three times: the first, all they had was raw bar and while the other shellfish and plateau accoutrements were lovely, unfortunately, the oysters were disappointing. Some were haggard-looking, others were not totally clean of bits of shell. I tried again: the second time, the menu had extended to include snacks, so my friend and I had a few. Salt cod brandade with toast. Periwinkles with cream. Well-seasoned, but nothing I haven’t seen before. The oysters, again, unimpressive. They boast a long list, but that does not a great oyster bar make. If you do not know how to clean, handle, and properly shuck an oyster, they quickly go from appetizing to unpleasant. Oysters should look smooth and plump, not like grandma had a hard time chewing that one so she spit it back out. There should be no shell or grit in the bite, and they should be shucked clean from their shell. I want to slurp my cold salty oyster down like a shooter, and that moment when I have to use my teeth to free the oyster from its shell totally harshes my mellow. It is unacceptable. I shouldn't need a fork, or a plate. It seems common sense to me but I have been to way too many oyster bars who screw this up. And while I also believe that a great oyster shouldn’t need any sauces (especially cocktail sauce—why waste your money to taste nothing but ketchup?), being a good Jew I cannot resist piling on the horseradish, so let me say something about that—what’s up with this bottled shit? I can tell instantly, even by the way it looks, that your horseradish has come from a bottle. You’re a restaurant; grate your own fucking horseradish. Add a little salt, vinegar, and sugar, and you’ve got something that’s far better than anything from a bottle, and noticeably so. My 94 year-old grandmother could do it; c’mon guys, put in a little effort. Well, I guess everywhere can’t be the John Dory Oyster Bar (a crime if there ever was one).

By the third time I decided not to care so much about the oysters and to instead go for the scene, and I had the most fun yet (see first paragraph). I drank many cocktails and almost forgot the oysters sucked. They had added even more plates to the menu, so we snacked on the shredded fennel salad with artichokes, and the black cod with spinach and spring onion. As expected, we were not blown away, but we were happily satiated. Besides, by now I know it’s not the food that keeps bringing me back here. Although I want to call someone over every time I get my oysters and say, "Does this LOOK good to you?", I'll likely come back here; there's something about this place. It pulls you in; the jazz is seductive, the cocktails go down easy. The mediocre oysters are (mostly) made up for by the experience in whole; it truly feels like you’ve been sucked back to a time before cell phones or the internet; when bartenders were king and where you could drink enough absinthe to get yourself into a little mischief, and hopefully not remember it in the morning. Go for the atmosphere, stay for the cocktails, don’t waste your time on the oysters.

On a scale from 1 to 10, 1 being I’d rather tattoo Chris Brown’s face on my neck than ever eat here again, and 10 being the food is so good I could be moved to forgive Chris Brown for all of his trespasses, I give Maison Premiere a 6.

[eatproper-blog]

Cluck, cluck, pass

Marcus Samuelsson is all over the place these days. He cooked for the President (twice), he was on Top Chef Masters, his face was on many a Googa Mooga festival poster last summer, and apparently he’s on every American Airlines flight I take, microwaving my roast beef sandwich. His recently published memoir is doing quite well, and his Harlem restaurant Red Rooster is doing even better.

I recently ate at Red Rooster, however, and suffice it to say, Samuelsson himself is not the only one all over the place. I get it, you’re ethnically Ethiopian but you were raised by Swedes and now you live in Harlem. Welcome to New York, hun, the smelly homeless dude laying down next to me on the N probably has more ethnicities than you. It’s not that the food isn’t good, because it is—ok, not exactly spectacular—it’s that when I walk into the restaurant and I see the weird, modernish decor and I look at the weird, disjointed Carribbean/Swedish/African(?) menu featuring Gravlax alongside an option for a “Black History Month Prix Fixe”, I am forced to wonder what the hell Samuelsson is trying to say.

To be fair, I understand that restaurants in the 21st century are all about shedding labels, that they don’t want to be pigeonholed into one singular “cuisine.” I even resent when people use the term “New American” to describe these places, the ones that serve offal and burrata and ramps and that don’t have a shorthand answer to the inevitable, “What kind of food is it?”. I applaud these places, and eat at them more often than I do the “French” or “Italian” ones. Unlike Red Rooster, however, these places have some sort of thread or constant (I wouldn’t dare use the word theme!) that hold them together just enough, like the perfect pie dough. I get that Red Rooster is trying to celebrate diversity but it feels less like a celebration and more like a mandatory “Diversity Day” at your high school.

Perhaps I’m being harsh. I do not hate this place nearly as much as not-actually-a-chef Eddie Huang does, or find it nearly as offensive or out of place as did Huang’s dining partner (mentioned in Huang’s article), a rapper-producer and actual Harlemite, who asks grumpily, “Who in Harlem pays $28 for chicken?”. Look, Samuelsson may be “missing the point” by talking giddily about Harlem’s colorful history like he’s only read a book about it, but it’s not like he’s the first person, and certainly not the first restaurateur, to disregard the sanctity of a New York neighborhood when deciding to move in. So let’s not harp on how expensive his chicken is but rather on how scatterbrained—and frankly, awkward—his wall art, menu offerings, and poorly-designed, mismatched dishware are.

Looking back, I probably should have tried something out of the Swedish parts of his menu. As a Jew I should have been more drawn to the gravlax and as a curious eater I should have given the Swedish meatballs a go. I don’t think a chef shouldn’t be able to step outside of his comfort zone but since Swedish food isn’t something I encounter often (aside from my frequent IKEA trips, of course), I probably should have gone with what I know is Mr. Samuelsson’s thing. From what I’ve since read, the meatballs are indeed the way to go. Instead, we had crab cakes, deviled eggs, smoked butternut squash soup, fish ‘n grits, and jerk chicken. The crab cakes were tasty, as were the eggs, but the soup seemed to be missing its smoke, which is the only reason I ordered it in the first place (just about anyone can make a tasty butternut squash soup). The grits in the fish ‘n grits were lovely but the fish, while cooked well, was under-seasoned. The jerk chicken was yummy and the coconut milk involved was a nice touch, but I’d take street-cooked jerk chicken on Utica Avenue in Crown Heights over this one any day.

All that being said, Red Rooster appears to be doing something right. It is packed, and with people of all colors and ages, and from any and all boroughs. Looking around, everyone appears to be having a blast—the loud live jazz music doesn’t seem to bother them, nor does the fact that the food ranges from the strange, to the boring, to the Swedish. As my brother is a restaurant owner I understand the measure of a restaurant’s success is not based solely on how a few people find the food, but rather very much so on how busy it is, and if it is able to sustain that business. My parents, with whom I dined at Red Rooster, have a saying they probably got from one of their parents, and it goes, “This is not a restaurant…(It’s a goldmine).” True to form, this was the first thing my mother said when we walked into the place, and it is probably the thing she’ll remember best about it. I couldn’t agree with her more.

On a scale from 1 to 10, 1 being horse meat sounds more attractive and 10 being I’d even hang out with Anne Hathaway if it meant being able to eat here again, I give Red Rooster a 6.

[eatproper-blog]

Once, twice, three times a bacon

No one is lying about Mission Chinese. This restaurant is a hoot; an invitation to a kooky, colorful backyard party at your friend’s aunt’s rent-controlled apartment in the lower east side. The food is delicious, spicy, and, at times, hilarious (take kung-pow pastrami, for example. Or thrice-cooked bacon. I mean, is that a challenge?).

In fact, this restaurant has a great sense of humor. Nestled innocuously between the many small storefronts of Orchard St., you are inevitably forced to ask yourself if you got the address right. Once inside, you will look for a host and only find a cashier, receiving take-out orders on the phone. Up on the wall next to her are backlit photos of take-out offerings; they would be carbon copies of what you might see in any Golden Wok except the dishes are Salt Cod Fried Rice and Stir Fried Pork Jowl. While you wait for your table (provided you can find space to squat inside), you are welcome to drink from the free beer keg on the floor—only after receiving your red Solo cup from the host/cashier when you show her your ID, of course. 

Finally, once your name is called (and this might be after two hours, mind you), you are led down a narrow hallway, past a small kitchen on your right, and up a few stairs into their dining room, a rather cozy, utilitarian space with a large paper dragon above snaking through the ceiling beams—where extra chairs are also cleverly hung. Maybe 30 people can sit here. And that’s if everyone is comfortable having about as much personal space as you would on a rush-hour L train. Needless to say, it’s exciting. New York’s very own mad tea party!

Now is the time to prepare yourself for what’s to quickly come. For once you order, the food comes fast, and before you know it you’ll be desperate for another milky shochu cocktail to temper the inferno in your mouth. Not all the dishes are crazy spicy, to be sure, but the ones that are challenge you. The chicken wings, served literally in a pile of chili peppers. The chili-pickled long beans. Surprisingly, the thrice-cooked bacon (what is that “third cook” anyway?). For me at least, it is a bit of a battle, but one well worth it. This shit is tasty.

There is reggae music playing. Everyone, including the staff, looks snazzy. I am eating food served on mismatched, patterned, plastic dish-ware. There’s not a frown in the crowd. Where the hell am I?

Back to the food. House-made cold rice noodles with peanuts and plenty cilantro. Smashed cucumbers with sesame. Pork jowl with radishes and chinese spinach. Cold barbeque chicken—this chicken, by the way, I highly recommend. It is simple and flavorful, and in all the heat of this moment, it’s great to have something to bring you down to earth.

When it’s all over, you might feel defeated. You might feel triumphant. No matter what, you’ll need a second to process. Everything happened so fast. And it was all so delicious.

It’s no wonder at all that this restaurant is so smoking hot. For one, it is literally smoking hot. For another, that it’s hard to find and even harder to get in we all know adds to its allure. It is not just about the food here—even though the food is memorable in and of itself; in one fell swoop Mission Chinese satisfies your everyman craving for large-portion fried rice and Chinatown decor, as well as presents you with just-short-of ironic dishes that boldly challenge the classics (and by that I mean classic chinese with a lower-case c—more authentic to us than to anyone of actual Chinese heritage). For more than the food, though, this place is an experience; you walk out of here not only full but perhaps more importantly, like you just found the door out of the rabbit hole. Except in this tea party, everything actually ends up making sense. 

On a scale from 1 to 10, 1 being subways rats wouldn’t eat it and 10 being even the Dalai Lama wouldn’t be able to say no, I give Mission Chinese an 8.

[eatproper-blog]

The Best Damn Pancetta In Bushwick

What more could I even say about Roberta's that hasn't already been regurgitated across every food blog and printed restaurant review in New York? Even in his last review in the Times Sam Sifton spoke of Roberta's giddily (as if he were the first Manhattanite to take a risk, travel the L beyond Lorimer St, and discover cool people doing cool things).

By now this place is so red hot the host doesn't even need to give a shit. She doesn't need to interrupt her riveting conversation with a coworker the second--or even a few minutes after--you enter to greet you, because the wait is at least 45 minutes so what's a few more?

Don't get me wrong, I adore this middle-of-nowhere restaurant-turned-small-empire but there is a certain air of, well YOU wanted to eat HERE so I certainly don't need to wipe your chin, let alone smile genuinely at you, if I don't feel like it.

It probably doesn't bother me as much as it may other people. It is Bushwick after all; you automatically acquire that look on your face once you sign the lease with your shifty-eyed Hasidic landlord. I figure if you're already venturing that far out on the L, you can't expect people to be all that helpful or warm. 

Anyway, none of this shit matters once you finally get your table--or, most likely, your spots on a bench at one of the large, wooden communal tables crammed between the pizza kitchen in the front, and the everything-else kitchen and bar in the back. Because once you look at the menu and once you make your difficult decisions and once the food starts rolling out, you've already forgotten the bitchy hostess. 

This place smells like smoke. Not something burning, of course, but food smoking. I imagine some eager food chemist back there, laying anything he can find next to embered applewood and watching what happens. Maybe only half of these experiments work. But the ones that work, they fucking work. So how about that food?

I'm not the first to say this but their pizzas are far from traditional, save for the fact that they are cooked fresh from a wood-burning pizza oven (which I wouldn't be surprised doubled as the heating system when this place first opened). I've only had one--with cremini & oyster mushrooms, pancetta, taleggio (a soft Italian cow's milk cheese), and a bunch of parsley (this pizza is called the Thunderdome, for whatever reason)--but I trust the rest of them are equally as pleasurable. Thin-crusted, salty, smokey, creamy--you get the picture.

Next: the brussel sprouts. Contrary to my expectations, this dish is not heavy or cooked with pork in any capacity but rather the brussels are shredded and served cold in a tangy buttermilk-lemon dressing, alongside a perfect soft-boiled egg. Fried brussel sprout leaves provide some salt and the obligatory unhealthy element  but hardly overpower what is actually a lovely little salad.

Since I just can't resist offal we had to get the sweetbreads, which come battered, fried, and plopped on a plate in Benton's-bacon-and-kaffir-lime mayo (admittedly I did not know this until I asked, but Benton's is a super fantastic ham company out of Tennessee). I mean, I don't think I need to say much more about that. This dish didn't change my life, but it certainly helped sustain my shit-eating grin.

Just as much as you can't resist ordering at least one of their pizzas, it would be just as sacrilegious to pass up their pasta. They make a perfectly al dente orecchiette in red sauce with beef tendon and parmesan that is very good. They say any good red sauce needs at least a little sugar but I have a feeling that whatever tomatoes Roberta's is getting are just that fucking good.

Which leads me to my favorite dish I've had there so far: the carrots. No meat, no smoke, no bacon. Just sweet, goat-butter-caramelized heirloom baby carrots laid on a plate with miticrema (creamy sheep's milk cheese), halved gooseberries, and several sprigs of dill. Tart, sweet, creamy, the dill adds a delightful herbaceous note. Seriously sublime. The kind of dish where I found myself wistfully watching the licked-clean plate as it was carried off into the depths of the kitchen.

The thing about Roberta's is that the food comes through, every time. By the time you're halfway through your bottle of orange wine and shoving your second slice of thin-crusted cured-meat pizza down the gullet, you forget that you may have been given a dirty look on the way in and that it took over an hour to get your table. This restaurant is (rightfully) so successful because it is very clear the cooks are dedicated to the ingredients: in the summer time, nothing beats red sauce made from tomatoes grown on the roof and in the winter time, nothing is better than a nouveau pizza with the best fucking pancetta you've ever had in your life. This is not a new idea but it will never get old. Roberta's is on fire because the cooks truly understand the creed that the best ingredients, however simply prepared, make the best food. Once again, I know I am not the first to say this but every time a restaurant proves this to me, no matter the presentation or innovation or front-of-house shortcomings, it is still a fresh breath of delicious, sweet, applewood-smoked air.

On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the North Koreans eat better than this and 10 being Anthony Bourdain has never eaten so good, I give Roberta's a 7.5.

[eatproper-blog]

Beef cheek: it's what's for dinner

If you're like me, you try to avoid spending a lot of time on the Bedford Strip of Williamsburg. Let's say on a Friday night you'd rather order in ramen and make your own negronis alone than meet up with some second-tier friend at some overcrowded bar on North 6th. Although I understand these feelings more than most, Allswell is my exception. This place is pretty damn tasty; a charming "contemporary American" joint with a true appreciation for meat's off-cuts. And it works.

The crowd is delightfully predictable: printed dresses, leather boots, tucked-in button-downs, Warby Parker glasses. The decor features wood and painted wallpaper, like it's the cabin of some very hip friend of a friend of yours. The cabin is warm, inviting, even seductive--maybe you'll be enticed to stay the night. What's more, the food does not disappoint. Let's talk about it. 

To start: Their tomato-braised tripe, sliced thinly and served as a finger food, does right by tripe, a particularly difficult cut of offal. Its bbq-ey tomato sauce has plenty of acid, which balances the fatty texture beautifully. For a moment there you forget you're eating stomach lining! 

The beef cheeks are insane. They are slow-cooked, nearly as fragile as a sand castle, and come marooned in a pond of spicy lentils, topped with a fatty dollop of horseradish cream. The horseradish really pulls through to brighten this dish's soupy richness. I couldn't help but use my fingers to swipe the last slurps of spicy lentils from the bottom of the bowl.

Now the potted duck is definitely my favorite dish. Holy smokes, batman! Nothing like slow-cooked duck, simply seasoned, smothered in duck fat, and served in a jar, with a side of toast and pickled green beans. It's fatty, the toast gives it crunch, the pickled bean gives it air, and the first time I tried it I wanted to punch god for not presenting this to me sooner. 

Lastly, I cannot forget the poached egg in pork brodo (broth). While all the other dishes are so robust and aggressive, this dish reminds us that the simple things kick ass too. It is just a pork broth with plenty of chives and plenty of anise, floating a perfectly poached egg. Delicate, elegant.

This restaurant is just so good. Eat there. Trust me. You can take any of your cooler friends, or even your suburban parents who, after watching a few episodes of Girls, will delight in already knowing what a romper is.

If I had to place Allswell on a scale, let's say from 1 to 10, let's say 1 being I wouldn't even let a republican eat there and 10 being I would eat there forever if I could, I give it a 7.5. Every day there's another supercool Williamsburg spot bragging great cocktails and bacon desserts, but unlike so many of them, Allswell is doing it all right. 

[eatproper-blog]

To begin

I'll be honest: I cringe at the term "food blog." Instantly it brings to mind “food bloggers”, and they’re mostly a terrible and idiotic sort. These days any shmuck with internet can be an expert if he so chooses, and now with The Food Industry being so cool and chefs becoming celebrities, suddenly everyone wants to talk about Food like they discovered it.

You know them. The people who write thousand-word reviews on yelp, who talk you through each detail of their meal, and who, most of the time, are not only terrible writers but also terribly ignorant. The ones who instagram everything. The ones who write blog headlines such as “Café Medina Has Soups to Warm You Up this Winter”! and “Happy Birthday, Brooklyn Shake Shack”! The ones who wouldn’t dare look up the actual spelling of bottarga (definitely not bottagra) and who would dare suggest you order the burger at the Spotted Pig without its roquefort cheese. You know, foodies.

I’m a server in a restaurant and I get those types a lot. Most of them have not ever worked a day in a restaurant, and a lot of them certainly don’t cook. Most of them probably just watched an episode of Top Chef and thusly feel qualified to comment on the best place to find sweetbreads in Williamsburg.

I’ll be even more honest: I resent these people because I fear I am one. I too love talking about sweetbreads and I do know where to find the best oysters in New York (the John Dory Oyster Bar, no question). However, I like to think that I’m not a dick and, simply by virtue of having worked in a New York restaurant for a good chunk of time and having eaten in New York my entire life, that maybe I’m not a total idiot.

And that is why I am starting a food blog. The truth is, I think I can do it better. I don't claim to be any more an expert than many of these other people but at least I have style. And you know what, fuck it, I know food pretty damn well too. 

Welcome to my food blog. I may just be a crass, tattooed, Jewish twentysomething from Long Island, but at the very least I know how to Eat Proper.