I am never happy to find out that I have to wait for something, but when I was told there was an hour wait for a table at the Meatball Shop the other night, I was ecstatic. The last two times I tried to go, there was an unendurable two-hour wait, and since then Meatball Shop hype only seemed to grow. There were mentions of it everywhere: the Food Network, the Yahoo.com homepage, my Facebook friends’ status updates. Taunting me.

Yes, I allow myself to be taunted by hype, when it comes to food. We all have our weaknesses.

The wait might have been shorter due to the fact that it was a bitterly cold weekday night, right after a snowstorm. I put my name down for a table and waited at Epstein’s, a bar next door, where I met up with fellow food blogger, Mr. EateryROW. There was literally no breathing room for onlookers at the Meatball Shop, but they called to tell us our table was ready, as promised, about an hour and fifteen minutes later. We were seated at a side table along the wall of the small dining room, which is mostly taken up by a long communal table. The diners at this table seemed younger than the Tone Loc vintage tunes pumping through the ceiling, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Really—if you’re eating meatballs and drinking beers to Funky Cold Medina and not enjoying yourself a little, something is probably very wrong. Read more…

If you drink good beer, Drop Off Service is worth your time. If you happen to be a reasonably-attractive lady who drinks good beer, there’s probably somebody here who wants to talk to you. I’m not promising unicorns and rainbows, but it may not be a particularly off-putting experience either. Someone may try to sell you a glow-in-the-dark toy, invite you to his Bushwick-tastic gallery, ask you about the finer points of hobbit fashion, perform feats like clicking his heels together in mid-air (harder than it looks, if you’re not a leprechaun), or apologize for his overly-sniffy French Bulldog. A dog is an ideal entrée if you enjoy random conversations, but don’t relish starting them, and at this bar canine wing-men are welcome, as long as they’re well-behaved. Another rare sighting in Manhattan watering holes–a solitary reader squinting at a book–is also a regular here. In fact if it weren’t for the variety of its patrons, Drop Off Service would feel friendly enough to exist a river removed from Manhattan. The fact that it has an impressive beer list, and a generous happy hour, lasting from 3pm-8pm (1pm-8pm on weekends), is the basis of its appeal. Many of the draft beers are $3 during the popular 3-8 shift, including Yuengling, Magic Hat, Fuller’s London Pride, and Six Point’s Sweet Action Ale. A pint of Stone Brewing Company’s Arrogant Bastard Ale is a steal at $4, there’s usually a cask ale for $5, and Delerium Tremens–a Belgian ale that hovers at about 9% ABV–will run you a reasonable $7.

If you get hungry, not to worry. Tuck Shop meat pies are available, or even better, run next door to Zaragoza for some tacos ($2.50-$3.00), and bring them back to the bar to fuel another round. These are not gourmet foodstuffs–Zaragoza is a hole-in-the-wall Mexican grocery with a microwave and few hot trays, and it can be hit or miss depending on what’s available that day. The other night, the amount of hot sauce on my spicy pork taco hurt my face, while a tamale ($2.00) was rather enjoyable. But $6 for a taco and a pint of Sweet Action, plus some free entertainment? Sure, I’ll be right over.

Drop Off Service
211 Ave. A between 13th St. and 14th St.
Mon-Fri 3pm-4am, Sat-Sun 1pm-4am

Zaragoza
215 Avenue A between 13th St. and 14th St.
Mon-Thu 9:30am-12am, Fri-Sat 9:30am-4am, Sun 10:30pm-12am

You can eat poutine any time of year, but this Quebecoise treat tastes best when it’s really, really cold outside. I’m talking Montreal in January cold, the kind of frigidness that invades unusual places like your eyeballs and your teeth. Now that I don’t drive a car anymore, I don’t mind winter. I enjoy having an excuse to stay home, drinking dark beer and swaddling myself in layers of wool–the better to hide the gut I’m packing from savoring my favorite foods. Poutine is actually very simple–it’s just french fries and cheese curds, melted into savory gobs under a layer of steaming gravy. But it is somewhat tricky to execute. Proper curds are not easy to find, the fries should be fresh, the gravy ratio MUST be perfect, and a snowstorm backdrop doesn’t hurt either. Unlike your typical diner cheese fries, which fill you with self-loathing and regret, poutine, when it’s done right, warms your cockles, which I believe are located somewhere somewhere between your gullet and your spleen.

Poutine is pretty rare in the States but there are a few places in New York City that serve it. On Saturday, I checked out TPoutine on Ludlow Street, a relatively-new burgers-and-fries shop advantageously located in the booze-soaked Lower East Side. A classic poutine ran a steep $7.25, and came served in an appealing iron skillet, the curds just beginning to melt in their gravy bath. The cheese curds tasted authentic, and were generously-sized, although this possibly prevented them from completely melting. The fries, to their credit, maintained a fair amount of crispness, but the gravy didn’t taste much more than hot. A friend’s plate arrived with entirely too much gravy, which soon made the fries soggy, so it may be to your advantage to tell them to go light. All-in-all, this did a fair job satiating my poutine craving, but I’m told it’s not as tasty as the stuff you’d find in Montreal. TPoutine is open til 5am on weekends, so I could foresee a making late-night pit stop, but I’d probably keep looking for the really good stuff–my next destinations will likely be Mile End or Sheep Station in Brooklyn. There’s also decent and cheaper version available at Pommes Frites in the East Village.

TPoutine
168 Ludlow St between Stanton St & Houston St.
Tue-Wed 12pm-2am, Thu-Sat 12pm-5am, Sun 12pm-2am

I had my first lobster roll tonight. I tried to wait until I got home to eat it, but the toasty bread was just faintly warm under the crinkled aluminum foil wrapping, and I was feeling weak. So I just had a nibble of buttery bun. Inside were big, tender pieces of fresh lobster, lightly seasoned with celery salt and pepper. Mayo made only the briefest appearance, a mere scraping. But the time I reached home my roll was all gone, and I promptly went back for another one. My snacking associate kindly placed the order, sparing me the indignity of seeming a woman obsessed. This time I had a crab roll, which was almost as delicious as the lobster roll, though not quite.

Did I mention I hardly ever eat seafood? In fact I had wondered if Luke’s Lobster was a wobbly proposition, when I spotted the Coming Soon sign, with its hand-drawn smiling lobster, tacked on a hole-in-the-wall next to Caracas Arepa Bar. After all, lobster is pretty expensive, maybe not ideal street fare from a little takeout spot. But on Thursday, as I threaded through a pack of foodies eager for Luke’s opening day, I thought there might be something to operating a lobster shack in the East Village. For one thing, although I’m hardly an expert, the tastiness of the lobster spoke for itself. For another, it cost half as much as it would elsewhere in the city. A 2oz lobster roll (maybe 4 inches) ran $8 and a 4oz roll was $14. My 2oz crab roll was only $5. Restauranteur Luke Holden ships his lobster wholesale from Maine, where his father owns a seafood plant, which may account for the low prices and freshness (according to NYmag, it takes 1.5 to 3 days for the lobsters to travel from the ocean to bun). Also, never underestimate the advantage of being open late on weekends on this stretch of East 7th street. I can easily foresee making a quick detour some evening, after a couple of drinks have loosened my hold on my wallet, and filled my head with strange ideas, and once-in-a-blue-moon cravings. Hopefully this winter has some clam chowder or lobster bisque in store.

Luke’s Lobster
93 E 7th St. between First Avenue and Avenue A
Sun-Wed 11am-12am, Thurs-Sat 11am-2am

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