Foodalicious: Bar 89

Finding a place to eat in New York is never a challenge. Deciding between the places, however, is another thing entirely. It’s always good to have a few filters. On Thursday evening, I received a text suggesting someplace relatively cheap – it is New York after all – and having bar-type food. Another text suggested either the Ear Inn or Bar 89.
A quick search indicated that the Ear Inn is older and somewhat loud. Best described as a dive bar, it has cheap food and drinks. Bar 89, it said, is newer with an upper scale atmosphere. Though not as cheap as the Ear Inn, the food and drink by SoHo’s standards are still on the less expensive side.

Wanting a quieter, more upper class vibe, we chose Bar 89.

The four of us entered the heavy glass doors at approximately 9 p.m. A large sign informed us to wait to be seated. As we waited, I took in our surroundings. It seemed a big white box, tall and long. To the left was a non-descript bar. To the right, there were horseshoe-shaped booths. And in front of us were small round tables. To the back of the restaurant, a tall staircase leads to a few more round tables and a one-sided booth with four separate tables. All in all, it was a large space, but it almost felt as though they hadn’t made adequate use of it.

As for the atmosphere, it was loud, but not loud like something small and enclosed. Instead, voices ricocheted off the boxy walls competing with each other from different corners of the restaurant. It felt more like we were in a concert hall than a restaurant.

After taking in the surroundings, we were still waiting.

I recently watched a reality television show that featured a competition between two competing teams who each had to set up a functional restaurant in 24 hours. Restaurant goers choose one of the restaurants based on the décor and menu. Sometime during the period when each restaurant is serving, the panel of four judges enters to judge all aspects of each restaurant from the greeting to the dessert. In that specific episode, the judges walked into one of the restaurants and were not immediately greeted by a host, which was a big no-no.

Well, that’s how I felt when I entered Bar 89. After approximately two minutes – an exorbitant amount of time in restaurant-speak – a server approached us and asked if we wanted to sit up top. We didn’t much care, so we meandered upstairs.

The round tables were too small for four, so we chose one of the back-boothed end tables. Upon sitting at the table, we immediately noticed that the table resembled a trapezoid – almost a triangle – more than a rectangle. And it wasn’t a big trapezoid. In fact, the table probably shouldn’t sit more than three though it is set for four. We wanted to move to one of the three adjacent tables but noticed two guys standing beside them. When we asked, they indicated that they had a large party that was to occupy the remaining three tables. We decided to live with the trapezoid.

Our waitress distributed menus and asked us what we wanted to drink. One of our company asked what was on tap. She answered that they served beer only in bottles, a bad sign for a place with ‘bar’ in the name. Two of the company ordered mixed drinks. I and another of our company both ordered Samuel Smith Nut Brown Ale, a beer I had never tried.

We then surveyed the menu of typical American fare. I spied three different types of wings on the front among other common appetizers. Inside, we found hamburgers and other typical sandwiches as well as a few main entrees. It was not an extensive menu, but there are times when a spartan menu is preferable since it indicates that the restaurant concentrates on a few core items.

We ordered. I had a taste for the Buffalo wings with some blue cheese and some spiciness. The others ordered, though what exactly, I do not now recall. I think, perhaps, they ordered sandwiches.

Soon after, our drinks came. And, there was only one Nut Brown Ale on the tray. It seems they had only one left, another questionable sign for a ‘bar’. The other person who ordered the ale insisted that I take it and then ordered himself a Magic Hat. We toasted and awaited our meals. I did, by the way, enjoy the hoppy nuttiness of the ale.

Meanwhile, we discussed the birthplace of our server. A prim and proper woman with an accent, she reminded me of a figurine that emerges from a cuckoo clock on the hour. We tried to place the accent but were unsuccessful; we therefore settled on it being Welsh since Welsh accents can be mistaken for just about any other European-based accent in the universe. I suppose we could have inquired, but she seemed rather focused and unapproachable.

The food came. I’ll rate it as satisfactory. If I needed to give it a grade, I’d say a ‘C+’. I’ve had much better wings – I’d suggest Archie Moore’s in downtown Wallingford, CT. I’ve also had much better waffle fries – see Chick Fil-A. Still, I ate everything on my plate, consuming each wing methodically.

As I ate, I noticed that I was missing most of the conversation between my friends. The noise level seemed to increase as we remained longer, probably due to the adjacent party’s consistent imbibing. In fact, their voices felt like bludgeoning blows to my already sensitive eardrums.

We completed our meal sans dessert and paid our check. As we readied to leave, two of our company decided to visit the restroom. They returned moments later and beckoned us remaining two to witness the strange thing they had seen. We all walked back to a well-lit area and noticed approximately 10 individual unisex stalls, each with heavy doors. And those heavy doors were made of clear glass; in other words, we could see everything in the stalls, including the toilet and sink. One of our company entered a stall and closed the door. The glass became opaque, and a white-lit ‘Occupied’ sign appeared. It was, we agreed, a fascinating concept, a novelty. The only problem was that the glass door did not become opaque enough to hide the occupant entirely. It was in practice, for lack of a better word, creepy.

As we completed our accidental voyeurism, our waitress approached holding three receipts in her hand. She asked politely where she could find the fourth receipt. We checked the receipts she had in her hand and noticed that it was mine – of course – that was missing. I checked my wallet and found the customer copy, but I didn’t have the merchant copy. Remembering where I placed it on the table, I returned to the trapezoid and noticed a wet towel atop the place where I had laid the receipt. I pulled the loose paper from beneath the wet rag and handed it to the waitress. She accepted it with her apologies.

We descended the stairs and exited the ‘bar’, each of us in turn stating that we collectively and respectively did not need to relive the Bar 89 experience.

Foodalicious: Famous Joe's

There's a debate that rages wildly in all corners of the United States. Where might you find the best pizza?

Magazines rate. People yelp. Bloggers list. Critics critique. But this post isn't about rating or yelping or listing or even critiquing in any kind of serious way. It's about finding that perfect slice in NYC, the land of slices.

It came up one day in Seattle. I was in Steve's office not too long ago discussing some work-related item when he asked if I had found any good pizza in the city. I admitted to him that I hadn't even had pizza since being back to east, a travesty unto itself. When I asked his advice, he excitedly said that Joe's was the best he had had in the city, as if Joe was some guy who had a place in Brooklyn in the 60s when Steve was growing up. Undeterred by my wise-assedness, Steve started clicking wildly and told me to 'c'mere'. I rounded the desk and saw that he was attempting to pinpoint the Manhattan location. After some strategic clicking and zooming, Steve had found the place at 7 Carmine in the West Village. 'Best pizza in the city,' he commented.

So I had to see for myself.

I've been three times. And, I'd have to agree that it's the best - albeit some of the only - pizza I've had in the city. That may seem a backhanded compliment. But I must compare to the pizza I've had elsewhere. I'll have to admit its superiority to Seattle and Boston pizza. I must, however, reserve judgment when comparing to the New Haven pizzas because I've still not visited Sally's for a pie, and I visited Pepe's only once and don't really remember it.

What makes Joe's so good?

First, it's the atmosphere. This ain't a restaurant where you're going to have a sit down meal. When you walk in, there's a small counter to the left, a small counter facing toward the street in front, and a few small, round stand-alone tables strewn throughout the joint. On the counters and tables, you'll find parmesan cheese and crushed red pepper. It's a short walk to the counter where you'll be greeted by a grunting Italian who acts as if he has no time to deal with you. You have to notice the quick head movement and brief eye contact to get service. After speaking your choices, the guy warms the pizza in the oven and takes your cash (cash only) to the tune of $3.50 per slice (seems expensive but the slices are generous). Meanwhile, you notice that the place is a good cross section of white and blue collar, and they have usually been - well at least since I've only been there between the hours of 11 pm and 3 am - rather intoxicated, making for some interesting interactions with Joe's staff. A great place to be a fly on a wall, as long as you as the fly are nowhere near my pizza.

Second, it's the celebrity. Although the place is pretty much a hole, it's well liked by many a celebrity. No, I haven't seen a celebrity there yet, but based on the pictures in the restaurant, they have everyone from Harrison Ford to Adam Sandler in pictures along the wall. Even more than the celebrities that have visited, the place itself can be considered a minor tourist location for comic lovers and movie nuts alike as it was the pizzeria where Peter Parker, i.e. Tobey Maguire, worked in Spiderman.

Third, it's their hours. I didn't get the exact hours, but I'm pretty sure they're open from late morning to early morning, i.e. from about 11 a.m. until about 5 a.m. Ah, the city that never sleeps... kinda. But that's another post.

Fourth, and most importantly, it's the pizza. I've had only the cheese and the pepperoni. But I must say that I think the pepperoni is the best I've had anywhere up to this point in my life. It's not that greasy, which I find to be amazing. It's thin and foldable. The crust is just a little dark; there's an almost but not quite burnt-around-the-edges taste that translates more as crispiness than it does burntness. The sauce is faintly sweet but can be cut well with the addition of crushed red pepper. And the cheese is just the right texture. All in all, delectable.

I have no doubt that I'll be returning. And if you're ever in the neighborhood, please go. And take me with you...