"You know The Waldorf Astoria is closing in March 2017 for three years?" I said to SE. He had recently purchased Frank Caiafa's latest edition of The Waldorf Astoria Bar Book and made it his personal bible. There were tabs in a variety of different neon colors spattered along the book's edges, wear in its binding where he had found and repeatedly remade cocktails he liked in particular. I of course wanted him to be able to experience their famed Peacock Alley bar before it closed…but I also wanted to see the legendary hotel for myself.
Neither of us had ever been, but had seen it in the movie Serendipity and of course had known for years that it's one of New York's most luxurious, iconic hotels.
A product of the affluent Astor family, the first iteration of the hotel was established in the late 1890s, with its second and current location opening in 1931 on Park Avenue between 49th and 50th Streets. At the time, U.S. President Herbert Hoover said from a White House radio broadcast that "The opening of the new Waldorf Astoria is an event in the advancement of hotels, even in New York City. It carries great tradition in national hospitality...marks the measure of nation's growth in power, in comfort and in artistry...an exhibition of courage and confidence to the whole nation…” Once the tallest and largest hotel in the world, the hotel is known for its classic Art Deco details, stone and marble columns, and gold and silver leaf accents.
It's strange, sometimes living in New York you either forget to or just don't visit some of the city's most famous or even most beautiful historical spots. In over six years here, I have never been to the Statue of Liberty, the Cloisters, the Cooper-Hewitt Design Museum, and a host of other spaces. When a space has a deadline and you have a desire to get there, though, it's easier to make it happen.
"Why don't we go for your birthday?" SE asked.
"YES! PERFECT!" I said, delighted but amused I had not thought of it myself.
And even though I had known of the hotel's luxury for years, I still didn't know what to expect when we arrived on my birthday.
Hand in hand, we stepped through the building's silver and glass doors into its Park Avenue lobby. White floors accented with columns and a staircase led up to a mosaic tiled floor flanked by more staircases and two ballrooms and gilded lights shone white overhead. I don't remember either of us saying anything except a whisper of "Wow. It's so beautiful." And it was beautiful, elegant and palatial but not at all gaudy. It's the kind of place where you walk in and suddenly feel a little more elegant yourself, like there aren't scuffs on your leather heels and your bag isn't from Urban Outfitters. We seem to glide. I notice my gestures get smoother and more balletic, my voice softer. In my mind I am a version of myself I love, my laugh musical and not too loud, my steps authoritative and not clunky, with delicate manners, acerbic wit, and a cigarette holder dangling from my fingers. Dorothy Parker. Carole Lombard. Katharine Hepburn.
We find our way to Peacock Alley, through the Main Lobby's carpeted interior dotted with gold-leafed, black marble columns. There is also an Art Deco clock I will learn later is from the 1893 World's Fair, a two-ton, nine-foot tall salute to America and its presidents, the theatre, and Neoclassicism. Sidling up to the wood-paneled bar, we are greeted by bartenders in suits and ties, cocktail menus placed in front of each of us. SE orders a Robert Burns. The caramel-colored beverage, which comes in a martini glass, is made with "sheep dip blended scotch whisky, cinzano rosso sweet vermouth, benedictine liqueur, and emile pernot ‘vieux pontarlier’ absinthe." I choose The Peacock, which also arrives in a martini glass, but with its blend of "house-made cranberry infused vodka, marie brizzard apricot brandy, and fresh sour" is pink in hue. (Fun fact: though neither of our drinks were made with it, there are beehives on top of the hotel from which honey is procured. It's called "Top of the Waldorf" honey.) They're perfect, smooth and tangy, respectively. This moment of sitting in the bar in this hotel on my birthday is really all I wanted this year.
As usual, we chat with the people next to us and we find that one of them is Peacock Alley's chef, and the desserts are of her design. We order one, the lemon meringue pie, and it's a whipped, creamy dream. My spoon glides into it, past the fluffy meringue, into the creamy lemon filling, down to the soft crust, and into my mouth. Overhearing it's my birthday, the bartenders give us complimentary champagne (which, they say, they normally only do if you're guests at the hotel, but they like us). Bubbles ripple over my tongue. Is this a dream? Am I really sitting here in one of the finest hotels in New York next to a wonderful man sipping champagne on my birthday? We intake more luxuriant bubbles, more luscious spoonfuls of pie. I am near tears several times as I overhear myself thinking, "I don't have to wake up. I'm not sleeping."
As we're walking out onto Park Avenue, we're already trying to think of when we can return again before the building closes in March. It will be a one billion dollar renovation, I've read, where about 1000 of the hotel's rooms will be turned into condominiums (still, that leaves about 500 rooms leftover). I can only hope that the company that has purchased the hotel will preserve its gorgeous, historical Art Deco style so infinite others like me can come into the legendary space and be reminded that no, they are in fact not dreaming, that even a small slice of life can be and feel just this beautiful.
Step 1: Move to New York. Step 2: Have experiences.
Showing posts with label manhattan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label manhattan. Show all posts
Monday, November 7, 2016
Saturday, July 9, 2016
Celeste
When Maw and Paw Manhattan tell me they are coming to visit, two things usually happen: 1) I am delighted, which is then followed quickly by 2) a stab of fear in my heart. I don't worry for their safety, I don't worry for their ability to get around, I worry what restaurant I am going to take them to.
This sounds incredibly insane, and it definitely is, but at least let me explain. I love my parents so much, as we all do, and I want nothing more than when they visit to give them a positive experience. There are so many restaurants in New York, and so many quality ones to choose from. They deserve the best in my opinion, so if a restaurant doesn't meet their standards--which, admittedly, are not very high: does a place have good food and a comfortable atmosphere? That's it, that's all they care about-- it almost feels like I haven't done right by them. Like after all these years, after all they've given me, I still couldn't get my shit together and find something worthwhile. Insane, right? And much too deep, they tell me every time the come visit. "Uh, can't we just go get a burger, Lyss?"
When my parents go out to eat in Florida, where they live, they have a circulating stable of places they pick from, and every so often they'll branch out. They like good Italian food, good French food, good Chinese food, sandwiches, occasionally Greek, occasionally Mexican, and they've recently gotten into Korean and Thai food. They're not especially adventurous eaters, but they also know tasty, thoughtfully-prepared food when they have it. They don't have to be impressed with kale or unpronounceable vegetables or farm-raised this or organic that or locally sourced whatever. If it's delish and it's not too complicated, they can get on board. And when they come to New York, they're on vacation, so they don't need to get fancy every night (one night, sure; every night, no).
All that being said, the one thing my father asks for whenever he comes to New York is a choice Italian place. (That, and a trip to Nancy's Pig Heaven for some incredible spare ribs). I have not yet, though, been able to deliver on this request. I don't regularly eat Italian food, so finding a spot that's worthy when I haven't been there is a challenge. I have tried bring M & P to some spots but none ever cut the mustard, as it were. Paw likes a down-home kind of restaurant, where the tablecloths aren't white linen, where there are paper napkins, where you don't have to make a reservation and if you tried to they'd look at you funny. He also likes bolognese. I've seen him order it with every kind of pasta from gnocchi to spaghetti and in true connoisseur fashion, tries it whenever it's available in whatever restaurant we go to.
Recently, though, I was able to find one restaurant I think will be a good fit. Though he had had a long day at work and neither of us said we were going to be eating too many carbs any longer, SE let me drag him to Celeste on the Upper West Side. We were easily able to grab a table when we rolled into the unmarked, brick-walled restaurant at around 9pm, flanked on either side by a couple finishing up their tiramisu (which looked incredible) and a woman enjoying a nice dinner to herself (what turned out to be spaghetti alla vongole, or spaghetti with clams). We ordered one of their signature wood-fired pizzas, (Margherita) made in a brick oven, and a dish of their homemade pasta (Paccheri Vesuviana, medium-length tubes of pasta topped with ricotta and tomato sauce). And everything was unbelievable. The mozzarella cheese seeped into the tomato sauce which seeped into the bread and all melted into my mouth at once. I had one of those moments when you finish a slice of pizza and suddenly you're so happy there's one more there waiting for you. The pasta was perfectly al dente, the ricotta and tomato sauce spilling from the tubes and happily onto my fork when I cut into them. When we ate all the pasta, we dipped the bread into the sauce to sop more of it up, unwilling to let it go. We didn't get to try the bolognese, but there's always next time. The waitstaff was kind, the manager was friendly, and we didn't feel rushed during our meal. It was one of these moments of simple pleasures, delicious food in a quiet little brick restaurant, no need for splash or glitter, something perfect after a long week. The next time M & P come to visit, I hope they will feel the same.
Celeste
502 Amsterdam Avenue at W. 84th St.
212-874-4559
This sounds incredibly insane, and it definitely is, but at least let me explain. I love my parents so much, as we all do, and I want nothing more than when they visit to give them a positive experience. There are so many restaurants in New York, and so many quality ones to choose from. They deserve the best in my opinion, so if a restaurant doesn't meet their standards--which, admittedly, are not very high: does a place have good food and a comfortable atmosphere? That's it, that's all they care about-- it almost feels like I haven't done right by them. Like after all these years, after all they've given me, I still couldn't get my shit together and find something worthwhile. Insane, right? And much too deep, they tell me every time the come visit. "Uh, can't we just go get a burger, Lyss?"
When my parents go out to eat in Florida, where they live, they have a circulating stable of places they pick from, and every so often they'll branch out. They like good Italian food, good French food, good Chinese food, sandwiches, occasionally Greek, occasionally Mexican, and they've recently gotten into Korean and Thai food. They're not especially adventurous eaters, but they also know tasty, thoughtfully-prepared food when they have it. They don't have to be impressed with kale or unpronounceable vegetables or farm-raised this or organic that or locally sourced whatever. If it's delish and it's not too complicated, they can get on board. And when they come to New York, they're on vacation, so they don't need to get fancy every night (one night, sure; every night, no).
All that being said, the one thing my father asks for whenever he comes to New York is a choice Italian place. (That, and a trip to Nancy's Pig Heaven for some incredible spare ribs). I have not yet, though, been able to deliver on this request. I don't regularly eat Italian food, so finding a spot that's worthy when I haven't been there is a challenge. I have tried bring M & P to some spots but none ever cut the mustard, as it were. Paw likes a down-home kind of restaurant, where the tablecloths aren't white linen, where there are paper napkins, where you don't have to make a reservation and if you tried to they'd look at you funny. He also likes bolognese. I've seen him order it with every kind of pasta from gnocchi to spaghetti and in true connoisseur fashion, tries it whenever it's available in whatever restaurant we go to.
Recently, though, I was able to find one restaurant I think will be a good fit. Though he had had a long day at work and neither of us said we were going to be eating too many carbs any longer, SE let me drag him to Celeste on the Upper West Side. We were easily able to grab a table when we rolled into the unmarked, brick-walled restaurant at around 9pm, flanked on either side by a couple finishing up their tiramisu (which looked incredible) and a woman enjoying a nice dinner to herself (what turned out to be spaghetti alla vongole, or spaghetti with clams). We ordered one of their signature wood-fired pizzas, (Margherita) made in a brick oven, and a dish of their homemade pasta (Paccheri Vesuviana, medium-length tubes of pasta topped with ricotta and tomato sauce). And everything was unbelievable. The mozzarella cheese seeped into the tomato sauce which seeped into the bread and all melted into my mouth at once. I had one of those moments when you finish a slice of pizza and suddenly you're so happy there's one more there waiting for you. The pasta was perfectly al dente, the ricotta and tomato sauce spilling from the tubes and happily onto my fork when I cut into them. When we ate all the pasta, we dipped the bread into the sauce to sop more of it up, unwilling to let it go. We didn't get to try the bolognese, but there's always next time. The waitstaff was kind, the manager was friendly, and we didn't feel rushed during our meal. It was one of these moments of simple pleasures, delicious food in a quiet little brick restaurant, no need for splash or glitter, something perfect after a long week. The next time M & P come to visit, I hope they will feel the same.
Celeste
502 Amsterdam Avenue at W. 84th St.
212-874-4559
Saturday, June 4, 2016
Scenes from a Summer II
On Tuesday night I am leaving Phoenix, a gay bar in the East Village, because of course I am. SJT has just given one of his 'How to Opera' sessions, in which he highlighted some of the operatic points of interest happening around New York this summer. He sipped a greyhound or two or three and rolled up his cranberry-colored shorts to cool off his legs in the back room of the brick-laden bar. Pushing his long sleeves past his elbows in hopes of a similar result on his arms, he nonetheless said "I hate short sleeves," though the fact that it is now very much summer in New York does not seem to phase him. He asks me for feedback on the session though I have trouble issuing it because I could listen to him talk about quantum physics or the many uses of canned tuna and I would still be enthralled, words always elegantly and eloquently floating off his tongue whether they are about opera or about Bob's Burgers. I hope he will teach the class again.
Outside, the air is cool and though it is past 8pm the sun has not yet set and the sky is a blissful lavender hue. I can almost see the sunset down 13th Street, the sun a creamsicle-colored orb slowly descending into the horizon. I contemplate taking the bus uptown, but decide I want to be outside a bit longer and walk to the train. Back near my home, I stop to get a salad and decide I will sit outside and eat it on a stoop. Ultimately I decide my own stoop will be serve just fine, so I continue the journey home. I set myself down on the brick stairs in front of my building and crack into my salad, the soft night air brushing against my face. My roommate comes up the walk not too long after I sit down, smiling and raising an eyebrow at me. "Why are you eating out here?" she asks. "I thought to myself, well, we can't really do this in our apartment and I wanted to eat outside so I just said, 'fuck it,'" I laugh. She smiles back and laughs too, heading inside. Sometimes I forget what weird can look like to other people because I live in New York.
I miss this time of year the rest of the year. Maybe because I stayed inside far too often as a child, or because the nature of living in this city is that you are just exposed to its elements all the time and eventually you are bound to pick your favorites. I love the soft dew of humidity on my face, the kiss of the sun on my shoulders and face, the flutter of sundresses around my knees when I walk on the streets. I love the hum of the fan in my room when I fall asleep, wrapping myself in just one thin sheet as opposed to my usual piles of blankets. I love the coconut smell of the sunscreen I bought and the way sand sticks to my suntan lotion's orange grease gel when I go to the beach. I love the promise of rooftop parties and ocean visits and open windows that allow breezes to float in. At certain times, the city is emptier in the summer and I feel my thoughts flow a little slower, that I have more time to listen to them.
*
Friday night BK and I meet for dinner in Crown Heights. We go to Glady's on Franklin Avenue, a Caribbean restaurant. The restaurant, done up with glass shutter windows that remind me of homes in South Florida, is across the street from an organic grocery, and I had to walk past a Starbucks and a Citibank to get to it. I remember five years ago when the street was all bodegas blasting dancehall music, plastic lawn chairs for sale in their storefronts, with only the bar Franklin Park plopped at the end on St. John's Place.
Nevertheless, Glady's is delicious. BK and I sit and eat and discuss writing, relationships, the length of his new beard, and when we are going dancing next. We have the jerk chicken and bok choy and plantains and a bowl of curried goat. Never in my life did I think I would have the opportunity to say 'More Goat, Please,' but now I have proven myself wrong. They cap off the meal with complimentary servings of of deliciously cool non-dairy coconut ice cream in tiny metal cups and it's perfect.
I am dismayed to learn later that it is run by hipsters who are from absolutely no form of Caribbean descent and I have mixed thoughts about going back. But I'll be damned if I did not inhale that curried goat, practically licking my fingers until it was gone.
After dinner I head to a rooftop in the Crown Heights historic district. AR throws me down the keys and I let myself in and up the stairs. People sit on lawn chairs and look up at the now-dark sky, the only lights a string of Christmas bulbs they've brought up the line the wall. We migrate back and forth between the roof and our host's apartment, listening to records with his friend D: Grace Jones, Tracy Chapman, Savages, as the three of us sit and bullshit together, talking about how terrible Vangelis is though AR bought one of his albums that day. We slowly become covered in cat hair from the host's hilariously overweight pet, a fluffy white cat named Beans.
Back upstairs we sit and dig into dirt pudding, accented with deliciously mushy Oreos and rubbery gummy worms, treats I do not allow myself to eat too regularly these days. The pudding floats fluffy in my mouth and I take another serving though I definitely don't need it and am almost sure I don't want it, but I am doing my best to hold on to the food memory for posterity. I will doubtlessly need it since I have been subsisting off oatmeal and Lean Cuisines for the last few weeks and in this dirt pudding-ensconced moment I am in food bliss. At 1:30 in the morning, AR, D and I take the train back through Brooklyn. Once they depart at their stop I read Patti Smith's M Train until I get back into Manhattan, the air cool enough that I wrap my arms with the cardigan I've been keeping in my bag for such an occasion.
*
Saturday I have brunch with DL, a happy treat since I have barely spent any real time with him in many months. At Bar Corvo near the Brooklyn Museum, we dive into a fish sandwich (me) and a foccacia bread pudding (he…though I helped, probably more than I should have…). We walk all over the neighborhood, making our way around and then through Prospect Park and down into Park Slope and then by Barclays Center, chatting about the weirdness and wonderfulness in our current lives. He is older and wiser than I and I value his insights, doing my best to remember them for when I move forward. The sun is hot on our limbs but we press on, listening and overlapping speech naturally and never disrespectfully. Our stories bend and twist and our conversation sparks new topics at every turn, as it always has. By the time we reach Atlantic Terminal, we have walked several miles but, a mark of true friendship, I have barely noticed. Hugs and goodbyes are exchanged and I feel that same tug at my heartstrings when I leave all of my friends, that leftover ache of being an only child and going home to my empty room filled with stuffed animals that won't talk back to me. But as always, I know I will see them again, and with that I descend into the Q train to make my way back to Manhattan.
Outside, the air is cool and though it is past 8pm the sun has not yet set and the sky is a blissful lavender hue. I can almost see the sunset down 13th Street, the sun a creamsicle-colored orb slowly descending into the horizon. I contemplate taking the bus uptown, but decide I want to be outside a bit longer and walk to the train. Back near my home, I stop to get a salad and decide I will sit outside and eat it on a stoop. Ultimately I decide my own stoop will be serve just fine, so I continue the journey home. I set myself down on the brick stairs in front of my building and crack into my salad, the soft night air brushing against my face. My roommate comes up the walk not too long after I sit down, smiling and raising an eyebrow at me. "Why are you eating out here?" she asks. "I thought to myself, well, we can't really do this in our apartment and I wanted to eat outside so I just said, 'fuck it,'" I laugh. She smiles back and laughs too, heading inside. Sometimes I forget what weird can look like to other people because I live in New York.
I miss this time of year the rest of the year. Maybe because I stayed inside far too often as a child, or because the nature of living in this city is that you are just exposed to its elements all the time and eventually you are bound to pick your favorites. I love the soft dew of humidity on my face, the kiss of the sun on my shoulders and face, the flutter of sundresses around my knees when I walk on the streets. I love the hum of the fan in my room when I fall asleep, wrapping myself in just one thin sheet as opposed to my usual piles of blankets. I love the coconut smell of the sunscreen I bought and the way sand sticks to my suntan lotion's orange grease gel when I go to the beach. I love the promise of rooftop parties and ocean visits and open windows that allow breezes to float in. At certain times, the city is emptier in the summer and I feel my thoughts flow a little slower, that I have more time to listen to them.
*
Friday night BK and I meet for dinner in Crown Heights. We go to Glady's on Franklin Avenue, a Caribbean restaurant. The restaurant, done up with glass shutter windows that remind me of homes in South Florida, is across the street from an organic grocery, and I had to walk past a Starbucks and a Citibank to get to it. I remember five years ago when the street was all bodegas blasting dancehall music, plastic lawn chairs for sale in their storefronts, with only the bar Franklin Park plopped at the end on St. John's Place.
Nevertheless, Glady's is delicious. BK and I sit and eat and discuss writing, relationships, the length of his new beard, and when we are going dancing next. We have the jerk chicken and bok choy and plantains and a bowl of curried goat. Never in my life did I think I would have the opportunity to say 'More Goat, Please,' but now I have proven myself wrong. They cap off the meal with complimentary servings of of deliciously cool non-dairy coconut ice cream in tiny metal cups and it's perfect.
I am dismayed to learn later that it is run by hipsters who are from absolutely no form of Caribbean descent and I have mixed thoughts about going back. But I'll be damned if I did not inhale that curried goat, practically licking my fingers until it was gone.
After dinner I head to a rooftop in the Crown Heights historic district. AR throws me down the keys and I let myself in and up the stairs. People sit on lawn chairs and look up at the now-dark sky, the only lights a string of Christmas bulbs they've brought up the line the wall. We migrate back and forth between the roof and our host's apartment, listening to records with his friend D: Grace Jones, Tracy Chapman, Savages, as the three of us sit and bullshit together, talking about how terrible Vangelis is though AR bought one of his albums that day. We slowly become covered in cat hair from the host's hilariously overweight pet, a fluffy white cat named Beans.
Back upstairs we sit and dig into dirt pudding, accented with deliciously mushy Oreos and rubbery gummy worms, treats I do not allow myself to eat too regularly these days. The pudding floats fluffy in my mouth and I take another serving though I definitely don't need it and am almost sure I don't want it, but I am doing my best to hold on to the food memory for posterity. I will doubtlessly need it since I have been subsisting off oatmeal and Lean Cuisines for the last few weeks and in this dirt pudding-ensconced moment I am in food bliss. At 1:30 in the morning, AR, D and I take the train back through Brooklyn. Once they depart at their stop I read Patti Smith's M Train until I get back into Manhattan, the air cool enough that I wrap my arms with the cardigan I've been keeping in my bag for such an occasion.
*
Saturday I have brunch with DL, a happy treat since I have barely spent any real time with him in many months. At Bar Corvo near the Brooklyn Museum, we dive into a fish sandwich (me) and a foccacia bread pudding (he…though I helped, probably more than I should have…). We walk all over the neighborhood, making our way around and then through Prospect Park and down into Park Slope and then by Barclays Center, chatting about the weirdness and wonderfulness in our current lives. He is older and wiser than I and I value his insights, doing my best to remember them for when I move forward. The sun is hot on our limbs but we press on, listening and overlapping speech naturally and never disrespectfully. Our stories bend and twist and our conversation sparks new topics at every turn, as it always has. By the time we reach Atlantic Terminal, we have walked several miles but, a mark of true friendship, I have barely noticed. Hugs and goodbyes are exchanged and I feel that same tug at my heartstrings when I leave all of my friends, that leftover ache of being an only child and going home to my empty room filled with stuffed animals that won't talk back to me. But as always, I know I will see them again, and with that I descend into the Q train to make my way back to Manhattan.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Would You Like Some Bacon With Your Bacon?
The evening began with a couple of dirty martinis, as most adventures do. AS and I were stationed at the Hudson Hotel for beverahhhhges amongst other stylish young people wearing androgynous ensembles consisting of black leather jackets and jeans or, not-so-androgynously, bandage dresses and high heels. There was also a proliferation of man buns, swirled masses atop the heads of men who just simply couldn't be bothered with their long tresses that day. I was invited there, to Henry's Liquor Lounge, for a series of jazz-esque performances that evening. We listened, bobbed our heads, admired lush leather couches and bright lights and persian rugs and man buns, and then we had enough and decided to eat some hamburgers instead.
But we got sidetracked. I mean, how could you not get sidetracked by a restaurant called BarBacon?
While I have never considered myself a member of the bacon cult, I have long appreciated it as the candy of meats and, certainly after a dirty martini, I enjoy it quite a bit. AS, my partner in baconry, both stopped in our tracks when we saw the name of the restaurant. Needless to say, we decided to go there instead. It also worked in the restaurant's favor that we didn't feel like walking in the wind and weird-misty-rain-but-not-rain anymore. So inside we went and, as a party of two, were almost instantly seated. Not bad for a Friday night!
The restaurant, which calls itself a gastropub, features dark wood paneling and a definite "bro" vibe, but as soon as our food came I didn't care about the latter. For a starter we had bacon salted tater tots. Upon tasting them, AS and I were both smitten: I don't know what or how bacon salt is, she said, but I need to get some. The tots were crispy and had that perfect smoky, salty, sweet bacon taste. We deliberately crunched and savored each delicious bacon-y bite.
Then the entrees came--mine, Shani's BLT, a BLT with avocado and a sunny-side-up egg; AS's was the BarBacon Grilled Cheese, featuring fontina and gruyere melted with bacon on a salty bread punctuated with golden raisins. My sandwich was melty and smooth, and made me decide I never wanted a normal BLT ever again. AS's was creamy and sweet, the raisins in the bread adding pops of sweetness in every bite. Both of our sandwiches featured thick slices of gorgeously red applewood smoked bacon. Even so, the restaurant was smart: the bacon was not so much the star of each sandwich, but the stupendous supporting actor, enhancing the rest of the sandwich with its sweet and salty crunch.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you wax poetic about bacon. Which is not something I ever really thought I would do.
Even the chips the sandwiches were served with had a smooth bacon flavor--not like a fake, corporate potato chip flavor that leaves your mouth salty no matter what. And the sandwiches also came with a pineapple cole slaw: neither AS or I are fans of cole slaw in general, but this, we found, was an exception we could get behind.
The restaurant offers bacon flights as well, where you can try all of the artisanal bacons they carry: wild boar, applewood smoked, maple bacon, lamb bacon, and peppered bacon. They also feature fine bourbons and craft beers.
The BarBacon website isn't fully functional yet, but they are on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and MenuPages if you want to see what other deliciousness they have to offer. Or simply stop in to the restaurant at 836 Ninth Avenue between 54th and 55th streets, which I highly recommend you do.
But we got sidetracked. I mean, how could you not get sidetracked by a restaurant called BarBacon?
While I have never considered myself a member of the bacon cult, I have long appreciated it as the candy of meats and, certainly after a dirty martini, I enjoy it quite a bit. AS, my partner in baconry, both stopped in our tracks when we saw the name of the restaurant. Needless to say, we decided to go there instead. It also worked in the restaurant's favor that we didn't feel like walking in the wind and weird-misty-rain-but-not-rain anymore. So inside we went and, as a party of two, were almost instantly seated. Not bad for a Friday night!
The restaurant, which calls itself a gastropub, features dark wood paneling and a definite "bro" vibe, but as soon as our food came I didn't care about the latter. For a starter we had bacon salted tater tots. Upon tasting them, AS and I were both smitten: I don't know what or how bacon salt is, she said, but I need to get some. The tots were crispy and had that perfect smoky, salty, sweet bacon taste. We deliberately crunched and savored each delicious bacon-y bite.
Then the entrees came--mine, Shani's BLT, a BLT with avocado and a sunny-side-up egg; AS's was the BarBacon Grilled Cheese, featuring fontina and gruyere melted with bacon on a salty bread punctuated with golden raisins. My sandwich was melty and smooth, and made me decide I never wanted a normal BLT ever again. AS's was creamy and sweet, the raisins in the bread adding pops of sweetness in every bite. Both of our sandwiches featured thick slices of gorgeously red applewood smoked bacon. Even so, the restaurant was smart: the bacon was not so much the star of each sandwich, but the stupendous supporting actor, enhancing the rest of the sandwich with its sweet and salty crunch.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you wax poetic about bacon. Which is not something I ever really thought I would do.
Even the chips the sandwiches were served with had a smooth bacon flavor--not like a fake, corporate potato chip flavor that leaves your mouth salty no matter what. And the sandwiches also came with a pineapple cole slaw: neither AS or I are fans of cole slaw in general, but this, we found, was an exception we could get behind.
The restaurant offers bacon flights as well, where you can try all of the artisanal bacons they carry: wild boar, applewood smoked, maple bacon, lamb bacon, and peppered bacon. They also feature fine bourbons and craft beers.
The BarBacon website isn't fully functional yet, but they are on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and MenuPages if you want to see what other deliciousness they have to offer. Or simply stop in to the restaurant at 836 Ninth Avenue between 54th and 55th streets, which I highly recommend you do.
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