Dining-out disappointments on this scale only happen once in a blue moon so Snackish has returned from vacation to share the tale of her spotty dinner at The Spotted Pig. I’d been eager to to try this place for a long time. It is the gastropub of gastropubs in New York City–starred by Michelin, revered by Yelpers, and favored by the Times. Celebrities knock elbows with plebians in its small confines and its kitchen, bolstered by a well-regarded chef, supposedly justifies the sceneyness. I even have a couple of first-hand accounts from friends who said they liked it.

So Saturday night my associate and I finally landed at the Pig. After not-unbearable half-hour wait (they don’t accept reservations, you must walk in and put your name on the list) we were seated at the coldest table in the house, near the door. (Lest you think I’m a bloodless wimp, a bearded dude sitting next to us wore his coat and hat throughout the evening). But my need for food was greater than my need for warmth so I ordered a pint of highly-enjoyable Sixpoint Righteous Rye cask ale to combat the draft. Appetizers arrived in the form of perfectly-paprikaed deviled eggs ($3) and a plate of “devils on horseback”–pear-stuffed prunes wrapped in sticky candied bacon, speared with toothpicks ($7). They tasted better then they looked but were powerfully sweet, salty, and not entirely pleasant. My next course was the sheep’s milk ricotta gnudi in brown butter sauce with fried sage ($15). The sheep’s milk added an interesting bite to these tender dumplings, and I enjoyed the crispy sage, but yet again the dish was overwhelmingly salty. Next came more beer and an epically-proportioned burger under a heap of paper-shaving thin “shoestring” fries. Someone had tried, unsuccessfully, to make the fries substantive by adding a copious amount of rosemary. The burger all but disappeared under the funk of the Roquefort cheese which stubbornly adhered to the bun. I suspect it was a good-enough burger, but it was hard to taste anything but cheese, and for $17, I expected to be in burger heaven.

(Rosemary fries comin’ atcha. Run!)

At this point our server wandered off and we spent several minutes getting drunker and chatting with a couple next to us, who were similarly underwhelmed. By the time the she re-appeared, the sting of how much this meal would cost was sufficiently diffused for us to order dessert. I had a scotch and the creme caramel–a fine take on creme brulee ($8)–while my associate wound up with a stale-tasting walnut tart (perplexingly, the server recommended it but it was the worst thing we had all night).

Aside from the tart, I can’t say any one thing about the meal was terrible. But the combination of the wait, bad seating, strange seasoning, sluggish service, and just-beyond-reasonable prices is enough to keep me from going back. In retrospect the burger, perhaps, was not the thing to get (but judging by the steady stream of burgers floating by on servers’ upraised hands while we waited, it seemed to be a house specialty). I can say that the space had a convivial upscale-pub atmosphere and seemed to be full of pretty and interesting people. If you’re lucky enough to grab a seat upstairs you’ll probably stay warm, and on an off night I could see it being pleasant to cozy up to the bar for a pint of Righteous Rye and some deviled eggs. But I suspect that the Spotted Pig’s off nights are as few and far between as my epic dining disappointments.

The Spotted Pig
314 West 11th St. at Greenwich St.
Brunch: 11am-3pm (weekends), Lunch: 12-3pm, Dinner: 5:30pm-2am
Bar Menu: 3pm-5pm

After a disappointing burger at Back Forty, I wondered if maybe a non-fancy place, one that doesn’t give a damn about fresh greenery or artisanal cheese, would pour more love into its beef patties. I turned to the crowd-wisdom of Yelp.com to help me find a solid East Village burger joint and the reviews of Royale sounded promising. Located on Avenue C, on a stretch once out of the stumbling powers of weekend warriors who come to party but that is now dotted with cute nightspots, Royale has an understated appeal. Inside there’s a bar, baseball on TV, classic rock pumping out of the Wurltizer, and beer in a can on the menu. I’m sorry to say that I was distracted from a thorough perusal by the soaring rock opus that is Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin‘,” (imagine if Pavlov’s dogs played air guitar, and you have an idea of the spell I was under). I barely had the wherewithal to order a Bacon Royale ($7), can of pork slap ($4) and basket onion rings ($4).

In maybe ten minutes, a toothsome stack of medium-well angus beef, crispy bacon, cheddar cheese, lettuce, and tomato was placed before me. On the first bite a dribblet of hot grease ran down my wrist–a juicy, burning harbinger of sweet burger-scouting success. The batter on the onion rings could’ve used a bit more crunch, but I liked how they were sliced thin enough to bite through. No slab of onion becoming dislodged from its battered casing and slopping on your chin here! The pork slap was malty, gingery, and mild like a beery dessert in a can. I don’t think this is the holy grail of burger places, but this is relatively cheap and totally satisfying grub, attainable late, and probably even tastier when you’re drunk.

Eastvillagepodcasts compares Westville and Royale

157 Avenue C near 10th Street
Sun-Thu 4pm-2am. Fri-Sat, 4pm-4am

I wanted to like Back Forty. I’m all for elevated gastropub fare using ingredients straight from the Greenmarket, and I don’t mind the rusticated interior design that’s in vogue these days. And there were a few highlights. An impeccably-sugared mint julep ($10), mixed with Ezra Brooks bourbon and muddled mint arrived in a de rigueur frosted silver cup, cooling under a mound of snowconeish ice particles. The golden beet and chevre salad ($10) seemed aimed to make you marvel over the perfection of each green, balsamic-coated arugula leaf. Spicy homemade ketchup, with a rich undercurrent of molasses, kicked up the interest factor on some otherwise so-so rosemary fries. A pint of Chelsea Sunset Red ($7) was the first cask ale I’d had since the cask ale festival, and was suitably flat and complex in flavor.

Unfortunately, we were waiting 30 minutes for a table and when another party of two who just walked in was seated immediately, it become apparent the host had thought we’d requested a table in the backyard. We had not. A simple mix-up I suppose–however, another place might offer a free round of drinks or something for wasting our time, and we received a brusque “sorry.” The second screw-up happened when I ordered the burger. The menu recommended ordering the grass-fed beef not cooked beyond medium, but I ordered it medium-well, having had that work out with grass-fed beef before. It arrived just-past-rare, and I suppose I should have sent it back, but I was at that point starving, and crankily picked at instead. Fans of rare beef might like this burger, it probably would have been fine cooked, (the Burger of the Month Club put it on their top ten), but for $11, I don’t want something that’s been thrown back on the grill.

There were other items on the menu that piqued my interest (pork jowl nuggets, chicken and waffles), and I believe a review usually warrants two tries, but I’m in no rush to go back. We ended up, predictably, at the bar, tossing back another round of cocktails, which at $10 each, were well-mixed and not too outrageously priced.

Back Forty
190 Avenue B at 12th Street
Dinner: Mon-Thurs 6pm-11pm, Sat 6pm-12am, Sun 6pm-10pm,
Brunch: Sat&Sun, 12pm-3pm

Sometimes all you need is a relaxed, candlelit bistro and a giant hunk of garnished meat to get your night back on the right track. Something about Belcourt–whose full length windows overlook the bustling downtown theater action at Fourth Street and Second Avenue–feels particularly welcoming; maybe because it’s a new place trying to be like an old place and arriving somewhere comfortably in between. Or maybe because there’s never a wait to be seated. Patience is not one of my virtues.

The menu will be familiar to any fan of european gastropub fare–selections of meats, cheeses, salads, and entrees ranging from hanger steak to fish. High-quality ingredients, often homemade, and a few twists and turns to the flavors elevate this beyond standard pub grub. Highlights include the spiced pear and mixed greens salad with beets, walnuts, blue cheese and pickled onions ($8) which delightfully mixes sweet with savory, and the thickest-cut pork chop I have ever seen, served on a bed of swiss chard with shitake mushrooms and gorgonzola sauce ($24). It was tender, perfectly cooked, and redeemed itself from the fact that someone left out the advertised and much-anticipated side of maple bacon.

(Photo by gothambill)

On a more disappointing note, the beer list could use a little more variety. I am not a huge fan of La Chouffe, although having a Belgian on draft at all is a plus. The coffee bbq-rubbed braised brisket suffered from way too much salt, although the side of polenta it came with was perfectly nice ($23). Probably the best value here is the beef or lamb burger, served on a squishy bun, layered with slivers of spicy pickled zucchini ($12). It comes with a side of fresh, crispy frites; the garlic aoli dipping sauce and spiced homemade ketchup alone are worth the price of admission. Update 4/2/09: The housemade ketchup has been discontinued! (Doesn’t prevent you from demanding they bring it back).

I hear the brunch is worth checking out, as well.

Belcourt, 84 East 4th Street at Second Ave.
Open daily, 11am-12am

The road to Krumville might be the longest few miles you ever drive. County Route 2 unwinds past redundant woods, ponds, and abandoned barns, the Catskill mountains bobbing ever-closer in the near distance. You know you’re getting close to The Country Inn when your usually-intrepid companion says with a hint of irritation, “So WHERE is this place?” and you say “I think it’s just up ahead,” but there is doubt in your voice.

Just hang in there because it’s worth the trip. The Country Inn sits on a hillside overlooking an algae-coated pond, and inside is all lodged-out, wood-lined and adorned with objects like a giant mounted fish and hanging mottled softballs. A neglected pool table and a dusty fireplace both await discovery. A few things belie the casual appearance, though. Local-types hunch over the bar sipping beers out of exotically-shaped glasses and the names of 500 or so beers available in bottles line the back wall, heavy on Belgians and lambics. The menu, while brief, features beyond-dive fare such as escargot, duck, and trout. It’s like a secret beer-snob society plunked down in the woods.

We opted for locally-brewed Evans ales, (on tap and a steal at $4.50); both a pitch-perfect pale ale and a very hoppy brown ale. For dinner, burgers ($9) with beef from Fleisher’s of Rhinebeck ($3 extra), which supplies locally-raised, grass-fed meat–the adorable Frankie’s Spuntino is one of many city restaurants that shop there. The burgers arrived unadorned except for a single lettuce leaf and our extras, sauteed mushrooms and onions, on hearty CD-sized buns. The grass-fed beef was delicious but extremely lean and getting it cooked beyond medium is probably not a great idea; but it was a pleasure to eat a burger without feeling like I was courting a heart attack. I somewhat missed the crunch of pickles or onions, though they might ultimately distract, so next time I might indulge in some smoked bacon on top. The onion rings, suffice it to say, were perfect–not overly battered, and sliced thin enough to bite through. The desserts parading by looked tempting but I ordered a Corsedonk ($6) which arrives in its appropriate glassware. To me, this is better than ice cream, unless someone devises Corseonk-flavored ice cream, in which case I’ll have to rethink that statement.

I’ll put it this way, when I’m fighting my way through Times Square on another miserably hot day the happy place I go to in my mind will be the patio of The Country Inn at dusk with a Belgian and good company. Here’s a tip: bring a designated driver so you can make some headway through their beer list and still get down the mountain.

The Country Inn, on Route 2, Krumville–which is not a town, exactly… just check their website because I can’t explain it.  Wed-Sat 5pm-10pm, Open Sun at 3pm. They usually close in January so if it’s wintertime better call ahead.