There have been a few times in my life when I deeply wished I spoke French.
When I was in France. Visiting a nation filled with people making incomprehensible vowel sounds is easy enough for a few days, but situations arise during even a short stay where clear communication is handy. Like, for example, arranging a wake-up call on your overnight train at the correct time so you don’t miss your stop and jolt from a dead sleep in the middle of some place that looks to be, from all the mountains, Switzerland.
When I was dating a French dude. One who would oh-so-subtly slip into French during certain phone calls. I think probably most mono-linguistic people have fantasized about being subjected to a seemingly “private” conversation in another language, then dropping some dry “gotcha” hint that they completely understood the whole thing: “Sooo, what ‘bitch-ass-ho’ ARE you having dinner with tonight?”
When I spied Yummy Magazine. Although I can’t read a word, the pictures hint that Yummy (Junk Food Design) Magazine gazes at/fetishizes fast food culture through through the lens of a design junky. But getting past the obvious ironies, surprises abound–a pictorial of Cadbury creme eggs (those eggy fillings always struck me as peculiarly creepy), and photos of Japanese candy displays, lunchmeat collages, beautifully-lit fried chicken, and a woman having a hell of a lot of fun with a bottle of Perrier. Yummy is released annually, which is probably just as well for me since it’s priced like an art book, even in euros (30€ - which by next year may well be a hundred bucks). But it all goes to show that snacks are fertile ground for inspiration–or maybe even art?
“Have you had this before?” said the lank-haired dude with the generously inked forearms as he rang up my little white bottle of ale. I shook my head. “It’s the One.” he intoned gravely.
“I bet you say that to all the beers,” I countered. I was feeling saucy because I was wearing my new boots.
He wasn’t flirting. “Do you have a glass that tapers near the top then bells out?”
“Yeah.” Actually, not really, but sort of. Buddy, I’m standing here spending five dollars on a rare little bottle of Belgian beer. OF COURSE I have a special glass to drink it in.
Satisfied, he bagged my beer and pushed it across the counter. “Enjoy.”
And I did enjoy. Gulden Draak (golden dragon) is a drinkably smooth and dark 10.5% ABV Belgian ale, with a creamy head and malty, spicy body, but without any overpowering fruitiness you may find in other Belgians. If you’re a fan of Guinness Stout, you may like this one. Unlike Guinness, one little bottle will put some color in your cheeks, and you may start to appreciate beer the way that some aficionados experience wine.
Reviews of Guldren Draak on BeerAdvocate.
Gulden Draak, available at Whole Foods (on Bowery) in The Beer Room.
95 East Houston Street between Chrystie and Bowery
As if Abraco Espresso weren’t enough, the East Village has hatched another cool little coffee spot–in a former carriage house. The Mercury Dime on Fifth Street actually started out as a wine bar, but the plan got vehemently smacked down by the nightlife-loathing neighbors. (Fifth Street residents are a particularly mobilized bunch, especially after fighting The Cooper Square Hotel’s now-unstoppable blotting out of the sun.)
But for now the block is sunny, quiet, and caffeinated. And unlike one of owner Sasha Petraske’s other ventures, referral-only speakeasy Milk & Honey, you don’t need a secret phone number to get in. Instead, the heavy black door swings right open to a clean, classy cafe, with four tables, a stunning full-length window, and high-quality, Ethiopian coffee. There’s supposedly food and wi-fi on the way, but for now, it’s just a minimalist menu of coffee and espresso drinks, with maybe a free sesame-studded cookie or two.
The jury’s out on whether their espresso ranks with my fave, Ninth Street Espresso, but given the owner’s connoisseurship with cocktails, it’s bound to be pretty damn good. Their official opening is this Friday, so be sure to check it out while you can still snag a seat.
The Mercury Dime 246 E. 5th St.
There’s a near-legendary statistic that nine out of ten new restaurants fail. Of course, some important info, like what constitutes “failure” and how long it takes to achieve it, is left out of that soundbite. Reasearch shows that closer to 25% of new restaurants close or change ownership within their first year. That number rises to 60% within three years. These are still not happy statistics, but are close to the average failure rate for new businesses across the board.
Still I wouldn’t be surprised if that rate is much higher for certain parts of Manhattan. In the East Village especially, I’ve noticed that if a certain street falls out of my flight pattern for a few months, I end up re-discovering the block. Signs change, familiar spots are shuttered, once-dark places are ablaze and spilling drunk kids onto the sidewalk, and the whole landscape has re-shuffled in my absence. I found this novelty quite enjoyable, except in a few cases, like the lovely Italian place near my apartment, that decamped in place of construction and a swirly neon sign in Miami pastels. That sign gives me a bad vibe; like it is calling, in a pitch beyond normal hearing, loud girls in tube tops and mini-skirts, and sports-jocks with beer bongs and anger to burn. More obstacles to my front door. Of course, the rate of change also affects me personally when I realize it’s rendered portions of my blog out-of-date in under a year.
So for now, Boedguita Cubana, whose Serbian owners supplied me with delicious Cuban fare throughout last summer, has closed. The other places mentioned at the Zagat link, namely Bouche Bar, and Sea Salt, were also familiar spots. And moving forward, I will attempt to indicate on my blog which of the places I’ve reviewed that have subsequently closed.
Pill-poppers and germaphobes everywhere received a stunning blow yesterday, when it was revealed that there is no scientific evidence that alka-seltzerish “immunity-booster” Airborne prevents colds. Well, maybe not so stunning. Despite a few endorsements from friends, I had my doubts about the stuff. Sure, I still used it but I need my placebo pellet-peddlers to remain untouched by litigation. Once that happens my stupidness threshold prevents me from actually spending money on the item.
This morning, as I gently stuff myself onto a hot, packed subway that stinks of fetid, phlegmy coughs, I wonder: what oh what will replace the fizzy comfort of Airborne? Short of developing a hand-washing compulsion that leaves me with papery geriatric fingers, or wearing a latex body suit, it seems I am exposed at every turn.
Here are instructions on how to get your Airborne refund online. Mind you, if you submit a claim for more than six packages, you must send in your file of neatly-saved Airborne receipts, which you have no doubt stashed away for just such an occasion.