april dinner: craftbar
11 April 2007
Last week, Nicole and I had our monthly dinner at Craftbar.
It was my turn to pick (and her turn to pay) and I originally wanted to go to Craft, Craftbar’s tonier older sister restaurant. However, because I prolong and procrastinate with everything in life (except, of course, ejaculation, which I am ready to take care of….now), I waited until the day before to try to make a reservation at Craft and was given my choice of either 6pm or 10:15pm. As you might expect, I pulled the old "Do you know who the fuck I am?" card, even throwing in, "Have you heard of the internet? Well, I’m on it. And I’m awesome." However, the hostess, Gorgeous Luddite, was not impressed with my web prowess and instead Nicole and I had to settle for Craftbar.
In a way, going in with this mindset worked to our advantage. My personal philosophy on life is to make people expect very little of you. That way, if you give them even a little bit, they’ll be pleasantly surprised. (This is why I’ve often compared my penis to a lightswitch or a pen cap on this site, when in reality it’s much closer to a thimble than either of those.) Going into our meal at Craftbar, Nicole and I, label/name/scene whores that we are, expected very little. But we got so much more.
(Nice segue, right?)
We started as we often do with a cheese plate, allowing the waiter, who I would describe as a confirmed bisexual, to pick two cheeses for us – one stronger, one smoother/creamier. As an overweight man with a beard who has paid for sex in the past, I love me some cheese. However, thus far in mine and Nicole’s culinary experiment, I have resisted all efforts to turn me into a cheese snob. To take nothing away from her Meatloaf with River of Cheese, growing up my mom’s signature dish was Irish Chicken Parm – chicken cutlets with ragu spaghetti sauce and two well-placed slices of American cheese – and I loved it. Since childhood, I have been involved with a number of Italian women (ok, so I’ve met three Italian chicks and burgled the home of another) who have scoffed at such a bastardization. Subsequently, their arrogance and condescension toward my dear mother and her best dish has only a) confirmed my hatred of Eyetals; b) emboldened my love of American cheese. In sum, I like my cheese like I like my women: simple, white and fake. Keep your bries and your goats and your havartis and give me the Kraft "cheese product." This is all I will say about the cheese plate that Nicole and I had, except that, despite my stubbornness, I still found it rather delicious.
Cheese was a featured ingredient in the appetizers that Nicole and I shared: the pecorino stuffed risotto balls and a bruschetta with speck, gorgonzola, and hazelnuts. These appetizers were easy to choose; I make it a point to eat any food with "balls" in its name whenever possible, and once Nicole explained that speck is kinda like prosciutto, well, say no more. As you might guess, both were delicious. Although I expected something like the rice balls that I order at pizza places at 4:30am (i.e. Rosario’s), which are dry and a little bland, these risotto (Italian for "fancy rice") balls were absolutely oozing with a creamy, delicate cheese. ("Oozing cheese" is one of my all-time favorite adjective-noun combinations, right up there with "free booze," "easy lay," and "reunited Van Halen.") The bruschetta was essentially a high-class cream cheese and bacon open-faced sandwich. So, yeah, I can get behind that.
For our entrees, Nicole ordered the orecchiette with broccoli rabe, fennel sausage and parmesan. I was a little surprised she went with this, frankly. Not because Nicole typically doesn’t order pasta or anything, but because she knows that I hate (HATE) broccoli rabe and that our dinners usually end with her saying, "I’m stuffed - you have to take this home." Perhaps this was Nicole’s way of subtly protesting and ensuring that I do not end up going home with her leftovers (you know, like what usually happens when I’m out with my buddy Jeremy – zing!). But the joke was on her because the broccoli rabe flavor was very light and I quite enjoyed the pasta. Yet it was she who had the last laugh by finishing her dish and leaving me to go home empty-handed.
(Wait – did I just zing myself there?)
I went home empty-handed because there was no way my entree, the veal ricotta meatballs, was escaping me. Typically, I do not eat veal. Believe it or not, this is because I feel bad for the little calves that veal comes from. I know, I know – this may sound strange coming from a man who would sell his sister into North Korean slavery for a high-def TV or a really cool knife, but it’s true. Though I’ve dated more vegetarians than I care to admit (another of God’s cruel jokes on me), I once went on a date with one, a brilliant farm girl from North Carolina, who when I expressed my love of steak said, "Have you ever seen a cow? I can’t eat anything that kinda looks like me." This line struck me on a number of levels. First, this girl did not look like a cow. Second – holy shit - I kind of look like a cow. Though I could never quit steak, I gave up veal on the spot (I look more like a calf than a cow anyway, especially considering the weight loss).
However, my love of meatballs far outweighs my love of calves (after all, I don’t think a calf has ever comforted me at 3am after a bad date and/or guilty verdict). Throw in that apparently these were supposedly famous meatballs, and I didn’t stand a chance. The meatballs and I, we danced.
(For the record, I love slow dancing. Good thing I replied "+1" to my buddy Joe’s wedding in less than three weeks – at which I’ll be the best man – and I still don’t have a date. I’m sure all of my female friends are waiting in breathless anticipation for my last minute phone call asking, "What are you doing this weekend? Do you want to pretend to be my girlfriend so that an entire wedding assembly doesn’t think I’m gay? $328 says you do. And I promise to keep everything PG-13, or at least above the belt." God, I’m fucking smooth. I really should be given my own dating show.)
The meatballs were…solid. No, they were more than solid; they were very, very good. But if you know me, you know I’m more about style than substance (did you see what I wore last weekend or on my last boating trip?), and these meatballs were unceremoniously served in a bowl. That’s it. Just three meatballs, a little pool of sauce, a white bowl. Done. I mean, can I get a little pasta in there or something? Maybe a bread stick? I’m not asking for Christmas lights around the bowl or asking that it be served by a gang of gypsy musicians, but c’mon – I want to be swept off my feet here, not left saying "Hmph" when the dish is placed in front of me. Do you know nothing of seduction? Do you approach women in bars, expose your penis to them, and ask, "So…yes or no?" Fucking amateurs.
(I am particularly bothered by this because I chose the meatballs over the hanger steak with potato purée and caramelized onions. I chose the meatballs for the reasons above and because I’ve been eating a lot of steak lately - I know, quite a problem to have. Also, if I were to get married next week, caramelized onions would be in my wedding party. Such is the relationship that they and I have developed over the past two months. We both love and respect each other very much.)
Finally, my favorite – dessert. Nicole and I splurged a little bit and got two desserts instead of our usual splitting one. Since we couldn’t make up our minds, we ordered the brown sugar cake with roasted pear and cinnamon ice cream and the apple tart tatin with caramel ice cream.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Balls.
Despite my complaints about the meatballs, I had generally enjoyed the meal up to this point. I also liked the layout of the place, our waiter was efficient and friendly, and the food was tasty, high quality, and reasonably priced. But simply put, these desserts blew my mother fucking doors off. I have to give a slight edge to the brown sugar cake, which had a gooey center that if no one was looking I would have stuck my penis into, but the apple tart was not without its charms. (Really, how can you go wrong anytime you combine apples, caramel, and ice cream? Well, maybe if you add HPV in there, but that’s about it.) But these…these desserts were something special and – and I say this without exaggeration – easily my favorite desserts since Nicole and I started our eating tour of NYC last July. Bravo, Craftbar, bravo.
************
My summation: I would highly recommend Craftbar as a place to take a date you want to impress. It’s fancy and has a name (Craft is a legit four-star restaurant), but is chill enough for a casual date. I would also add that it is reasonably cheap, although our bill was quite high because Nicole put on a fucking clinic, putting back a $14 martini and four glasses of $13 wine – to my four $8 beers – while I sat there in awe. Of course, the quality of food doesn’t compare to some of the fancier (read: more expensive) places we’ve been to, but it was nonetheless delightful.
(I think I’ll end here because I’ve never ended a post with the phrase "it was nonetheless delightful." It sounds like the ending to a story told in 1871 by a British Duchess. And no, this doesn’t count as the ending, dick.)
It was my turn to pick (and her turn to pay) and I originally wanted to go to Craft, Craftbar’s tonier older sister restaurant. However, because I prolong and procrastinate with everything in life (except, of course, ejaculation, which I am ready to take care of….now), I waited until the day before to try to make a reservation at Craft and was given my choice of either 6pm or 10:15pm. As you might expect, I pulled the old "Do you know who the fuck I am?" card, even throwing in, "Have you heard of the internet? Well, I’m on it. And I’m awesome." However, the hostess, Gorgeous Luddite, was not impressed with my web prowess and instead Nicole and I had to settle for Craftbar.
In a way, going in with this mindset worked to our advantage. My personal philosophy on life is to make people expect very little of you. That way, if you give them even a little bit, they’ll be pleasantly surprised. (This is why I’ve often compared my penis to a lightswitch or a pen cap on this site, when in reality it’s much closer to a thimble than either of those.) Going into our meal at Craftbar, Nicole and I, label/name/scene whores that we are, expected very little. But we got so much more.
(Nice segue, right?)
We started as we often do with a cheese plate, allowing the waiter, who I would describe as a confirmed bisexual, to pick two cheeses for us – one stronger, one smoother/creamier. As an overweight man with a beard who has paid for sex in the past, I love me some cheese. However, thus far in mine and Nicole’s culinary experiment, I have resisted all efforts to turn me into a cheese snob. To take nothing away from her Meatloaf with River of Cheese, growing up my mom’s signature dish was Irish Chicken Parm – chicken cutlets with ragu spaghetti sauce and two well-placed slices of American cheese – and I loved it. Since childhood, I have been involved with a number of Italian women (ok, so I’ve met three Italian chicks and burgled the home of another) who have scoffed at such a bastardization. Subsequently, their arrogance and condescension toward my dear mother and her best dish has only a) confirmed my hatred of Eyetals; b) emboldened my love of American cheese. In sum, I like my cheese like I like my women: simple, white and fake. Keep your bries and your goats and your havartis and give me the Kraft "cheese product." This is all I will say about the cheese plate that Nicole and I had, except that, despite my stubbornness, I still found it rather delicious.
Cheese was a featured ingredient in the appetizers that Nicole and I shared: the pecorino stuffed risotto balls and a bruschetta with speck, gorgonzola, and hazelnuts. These appetizers were easy to choose; I make it a point to eat any food with "balls" in its name whenever possible, and once Nicole explained that speck is kinda like prosciutto, well, say no more. As you might guess, both were delicious. Although I expected something like the rice balls that I order at pizza places at 4:30am (i.e. Rosario’s), which are dry and a little bland, these risotto (Italian for "fancy rice") balls were absolutely oozing with a creamy, delicate cheese. ("Oozing cheese" is one of my all-time favorite adjective-noun combinations, right up there with "free booze," "easy lay," and "reunited Van Halen.") The bruschetta was essentially a high-class cream cheese and bacon open-faced sandwich. So, yeah, I can get behind that.
For our entrees, Nicole ordered the orecchiette with broccoli rabe, fennel sausage and parmesan. I was a little surprised she went with this, frankly. Not because Nicole typically doesn’t order pasta or anything, but because she knows that I hate (HATE) broccoli rabe and that our dinners usually end with her saying, "I’m stuffed - you have to take this home." Perhaps this was Nicole’s way of subtly protesting and ensuring that I do not end up going home with her leftovers (you know, like what usually happens when I’m out with my buddy Jeremy – zing!). But the joke was on her because the broccoli rabe flavor was very light and I quite enjoyed the pasta. Yet it was she who had the last laugh by finishing her dish and leaving me to go home empty-handed.
(Wait – did I just zing myself there?)
I went home empty-handed because there was no way my entree, the veal ricotta meatballs, was escaping me. Typically, I do not eat veal. Believe it or not, this is because I feel bad for the little calves that veal comes from. I know, I know – this may sound strange coming from a man who would sell his sister into North Korean slavery for a high-def TV or a really cool knife, but it’s true. Though I’ve dated more vegetarians than I care to admit (another of God’s cruel jokes on me), I once went on a date with one, a brilliant farm girl from North Carolina, who when I expressed my love of steak said, "Have you ever seen a cow? I can’t eat anything that kinda looks like me." This line struck me on a number of levels. First, this girl did not look like a cow. Second – holy shit - I kind of look like a cow. Though I could never quit steak, I gave up veal on the spot (I look more like a calf than a cow anyway, especially considering the weight loss).
However, my love of meatballs far outweighs my love of calves (after all, I don’t think a calf has ever comforted me at 3am after a bad date and/or guilty verdict). Throw in that apparently these were supposedly famous meatballs, and I didn’t stand a chance. The meatballs and I, we danced.
(For the record, I love slow dancing. Good thing I replied "+1" to my buddy Joe’s wedding in less than three weeks – at which I’ll be the best man – and I still don’t have a date. I’m sure all of my female friends are waiting in breathless anticipation for my last minute phone call asking, "What are you doing this weekend? Do you want to pretend to be my girlfriend so that an entire wedding assembly doesn’t think I’m gay? $328 says you do. And I promise to keep everything PG-13, or at least above the belt." God, I’m fucking smooth. I really should be given my own dating show.)
The meatballs were…solid. No, they were more than solid; they were very, very good. But if you know me, you know I’m more about style than substance (did you see what I wore last weekend or on my last boating trip?), and these meatballs were unceremoniously served in a bowl. That’s it. Just three meatballs, a little pool of sauce, a white bowl. Done. I mean, can I get a little pasta in there or something? Maybe a bread stick? I’m not asking for Christmas lights around the bowl or asking that it be served by a gang of gypsy musicians, but c’mon – I want to be swept off my feet here, not left saying "Hmph" when the dish is placed in front of me. Do you know nothing of seduction? Do you approach women in bars, expose your penis to them, and ask, "So…yes or no?" Fucking amateurs.
(I am particularly bothered by this because I chose the meatballs over the hanger steak with potato purée and caramelized onions. I chose the meatballs for the reasons above and because I’ve been eating a lot of steak lately - I know, quite a problem to have. Also, if I were to get married next week, caramelized onions would be in my wedding party. Such is the relationship that they and I have developed over the past two months. We both love and respect each other very much.)
Finally, my favorite – dessert. Nicole and I splurged a little bit and got two desserts instead of our usual splitting one. Since we couldn’t make up our minds, we ordered the brown sugar cake with roasted pear and cinnamon ice cream and the apple tart tatin with caramel ice cream.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Balls.
Despite my complaints about the meatballs, I had generally enjoyed the meal up to this point. I also liked the layout of the place, our waiter was efficient and friendly, and the food was tasty, high quality, and reasonably priced. But simply put, these desserts blew my mother fucking doors off. I have to give a slight edge to the brown sugar cake, which had a gooey center that if no one was looking I would have stuck my penis into, but the apple tart was not without its charms. (Really, how can you go wrong anytime you combine apples, caramel, and ice cream? Well, maybe if you add HPV in there, but that’s about it.) But these…these desserts were something special and – and I say this without exaggeration – easily my favorite desserts since Nicole and I started our eating tour of NYC last July. Bravo, Craftbar, bravo.
************
My summation: I would highly recommend Craftbar as a place to take a date you want to impress. It’s fancy and has a name (Craft is a legit four-star restaurant), but is chill enough for a casual date. I would also add that it is reasonably cheap, although our bill was quite high because Nicole put on a fucking clinic, putting back a $14 martini and four glasses of $13 wine – to my four $8 beers – while I sat there in awe. Of course, the quality of food doesn’t compare to some of the fancier (read: more expensive) places we’ve been to, but it was nonetheless delightful.
(I think I’ll end here because I’ve never ended a post with the phrase "it was nonetheless delightful." It sounds like the ending to a story told in 1871 by a British Duchess. And no, this doesn’t count as the ending, dick.)
