Bad Advice

My kind of place

Last night was the big guy's birthday, so I took him out to Zenkichi for dinner. Though there's not a whole lot on the menu that I can eat (due to my loathing of all things fishy) I adore this place. The food is amazing, the atmosphere, exceptionally serene (except for the racist jackasses seated directly behind us, but that's no fault of the management), but the best part of all is their strict no children policy.

The rule is listed on their website, it comes up when you reserve through opentable.com and then, when they call you to confirm your reservation, they ask once more if there will be any babies or children with you. And if there are—guess what, you can't come. Uninvited!

After spending a day at the Coney Island aquarium this past weekend, I am well over children and their doting parents. In fact, it's not the kids that bother me—it's definitely the people who spawned them. I was in line for the bathroom—a very long line—when I noticed one stall wasn't turning over. I was worried someone was laying a stinker, but it turned out to be a mother and child. No problem, I realize kids take a while.

But after ten or so minutes, the line was getting longer when I hear, out of the stall, "Becky, now flush the toilet. Flush the toilet, Becky. Come on."

Becky: "Waaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!! No!"

Mommy: "Please, Becky, just flush it. Mommy wants you to flush it."

Becky: [hysterical shrieking cries.]

Meanwhile, the line is really long and full of (understandably) whiny kids who need to pee already, when the door opens. The harried mother appears, sans toddler, who is apparently unwilling to give up the stall and is now furious that mommy finally flushed for her.

Mommy: "Come on, Becky, we need to go now."

Becky: "No."

Mommy: "Becky, people are waiting—mommy really wants you to go."

Becky: "No."

At this point I was safely—and I say "safely" for little Becky and her mommy's sake—ensconsed in a stall, but had I not been, I would've grabbed that brat by the hair and pulled her out of that stall and thrown her into the otter pool. Or at least that's what I would've done in my head. The reality is, I would've yelled at Becky's mom. But instead, I just enjoyed my sixty seconds of sweet relief.

Some days I love living in Williamsburg

As I mentioned earlier, the man and I went for a walk around the 'hood yesterday and wound up at the Radegast Beer Garden. But first we did a little shopping. I'm looking for a necklace, so I wandered into this place on Grand Street that's a hair salon/jewelry store. I don't really get the connection either, but they had some nice things.

While in there, I overheard one of those conversations that you only ever hear in neighborhoods overpopulated with the very young and extremely over privileged. This chick was getting her hair did and at the same time, bitching at her stylist about the frantic hand life had dealt her:

"I'm a student, but I'm also a DJ. Except when I'm going to school I can't really DJ because being a DJ is like really hard because you have to research the music and then download it and then I don't have time to study or anything. So I can't really DJ until after finals."

Can you imagine if, like some of us, this nitwit actually had to hold a real job while attending school? To, like, actually pay for her own classes and books? A job even more taxing than programming an iPod? The horror!

Anyway, Radegast was really fun. It's beautiful, cozy, and the beer is awesome. The poor waitresses are forced to dress up like naughty shepherd girls, but everyone who worked there was both nice and competent. The beer was great and the food was good. I can't wait for Spring when they roll down the retractable roof!

I'll take mine with two Percocets and a side of Xanax, please!

Fine-Dining Friday

Inspired by the delicious-looking, rice-cake-crusted Mexican pizza featured earlier this week, my insanely talented friend Debra sent along this scrumptious recipe from Weight Watchers' Cookbooks past. I don't really understand how a bunch of hot dogs surrounding a pile of coleslaw is particularly low-cal, but I guess it's the lack of bun and condiments that makes it so.

At any rate, it's certainly more appetizing than a rice cake smeared with fat-free refried beans.

What's Cookin'?

The Large Greek and I are both attempting to shed a little poundage, so I thought I'd check through the Weight Watchers recipe collection to see what I could find. The first thing that popped up was something called "Mexican Pizza." As pizza and guacamole are two of my favorite food groups, I figured this was a win/win. Until I looked closer. The pizza "crust" is actually a rice cake. And there's nary a dollop of avocado to be found. Full recipe after the jump.

On the other hand. . . .

In sharp contrast to the crappy service at the Silent H, we also checked out the new tapas place on the corner of North 8th and Wythe, Nita Nita. We had stopped by for a quick drink on Saturday, but last night we stayed for dinner. First off, the place is beautiful. The lighting is dim, with tall tables and comfy wood stools, seemingly crafted for wide asses like mine (unlike the anorexia-butt, stools-of-torture at the otherwise lovely Dumont Burger). Sam the owner did a great job and not only that, but she's super nice and friendly. It did not surprise me one bit to learn she's a fellow Jersey girl.

We had the cheese plate, some chorizo, garlic shrimp and tortilla. All of it, excellent. Not only that, but they have two-for-one happy hour and a giant garden which will be amazing once Spring finally kicks in.  I'm going back on Thursday.

Simplicity

Whenever my friend Rose visits the Motor City, she brings me back two delicious jars of Sander's delish dessert toppings—hot fudge and butterscotch caramel. Yum. So today while I was home I decided to take a sugar break. Alas, there were no cookies or candy to be found so I helped myself to a spoonful of Saunder's butterscotch caramel. In an attempt to distract myself from the fact that I was scarfing sundae topping straight outta the jar, I looked at the label. There was a recipe for Caramel Apple Upside Down Pie. Mmm. Doesn't that sound good? I thought about making it, but worried that it would be too complicated for my limited kitchen skills. Then I read the recipe:

Turn an apple pie upside down on a plate, cover with chopped mixed nuts and drizzle with butterscotch caramel topping.

You know. . . I think I can handle that.

I Shouldn't Skip Dinner. . .

Because—god help me—this completely atrocious KFC creation is looking pretty good right about now. Mashed potatoes, corn, gravy, crispy chicken strips and cheese food product, all piled one on top of the other. Mmmm.

Then I thought about how my tummy would inevitably feel after downing such a frightful feast. Sort of how it felt after meeting my new neighbors via the world wide web. I want "amenities designed to let me focus on living my life." And what could be better than living in a community that supports "vegan cafes" and "boisterous jazz lounges?" Oh wait, I already live in that community (though mine doesn't come with giant butterflies). Wah!

Slurpy and Slimey

In a valiant effort to extend our vacation state-of-mind, the BF and I ate oysters twice this weekend. First off was Friday, when we met blogger Red Sauce and her delightful lady friend at Fish. As the L train was shut down for the second time that day (motherfucker!!!!!!), I was late and so wasn't really sure what the three of them had ordered, I just knew that I needed to catch up. I quickly slurped down two, ordered a delish glass of Reisling (not neccessarily in that order) and only then said my hellos.

After downing a few more, I ordered a lobster roll (almost as good as P-Town and sans the pesky lettuce), while the big guy took his chances on a lobster shepard's pie. That's some good eats.

Saturday afternoon found me and he wandering around Williamsburg in the drizzle. We ducked into the normally packed-to-the-gills Marlow & Sons and found it almost completely deserted. Not only that, but between two and six on weekend afternoons, they have oyster happy hour! Score! So we had a dozen Wellfleet and a dozen from somewhere offa New York. Never one to leave well enough alone, BF also ordered a selection of cheese and meats, which he topped off with a truly repulsive looking scoop of chicken liver pate (gag).

On a somewhat related note; doesn't the face on that oyster look familiar? It's Christ, don't you know! A Swiss bartender found the saintly shell and is set to sell it on ebay. Hell, for all I know, he already has. I'm sad to report that though our oysters tasted like briny little bits of heaven, as far as I know, all remained sadly secular in shape. You can bet that from now on I'll be checking.

Red, red wine. . .

A friend of mine came over for dinner last night and we had some wine with our pasta. Granny's drinking skills are a little out of practice, so it hit me really hard this morning. All I can think about is cheeseburgers and diet coke. Mmmmmm.

I love what Nick Cave answered when an interviewer from Tokion asked him about his first job: "I worked in a jeans shop in Melbourne. Working there cemented my loathing for denim."

Sigh. That man should so be my husband.

In other news, if I cheated on my wife with a teenager and wanted to win her back, Cindy Adams is about the last person I'd ask to relay my plans.

Thumbing back further into the Post, I came across this sensitive little piece on rent regulation. Don't miss the author's take on the "dysfunctional underclass." Nice.

In case you forgot, Spyro, Janice Erlbaum and I are doing a reading tonite. I've lost about twelve pounds since the last reading, which is pretty alright. How that will affect my ability to read is unclear at this point.