On the healthier side, here’s the softest (except for the kale, which I’ll get to in a second) brunch in the world: scrambled eggs with grits at Egg, on Bedford and N5th. A very nice gentle meal on the border of wimpishness, but their ingredients are fresh and from their upstate farm. But while I didn get there early enough to avoid the hipster scum, I dined at the same time as an annoyingly boorish and FlyoverstateIstan-ish couple that really made me agree with something that my dad said recently: Williamsburg? “You mean SouthSoHo?” Jesus. But back to the food, and the meal’s secret weapon: concealed in the dense thicket of kale lie morels, any great chef’s gift to your taste buds. Admittedly, the healthy kale was the one item I didn’t finish, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying. There was a lot of it, and it was the secondary definition of what Han would call Chewy. So while the kale wasn’t finished, I did have enough to make up for future transgressions.

Above is my typical breakfast during the week-long-stretch of time where I found myself in search of something to eat that was both filling and soft. What I found, at my standard iced coffee spot El Beit, was a freshly baked warm flaky croissant. I was so enamored with the thing that I didn’t move onto the pain au chocolat. For some reason, these nice little croissants have not been there to assist me dragging my self through Williamsurg, onto the dreaded National Lampoon’s Dachau Vacation that is The L Train, and into the city. Their sandwiches at El Beit are advertised in store to be from Amy’s Bread, so maybe that’s where I have to go to track down these flaky pieces of brilliance.

Among some friends it’s well known that I have a thing for the chocolate-chocolate cookie that’s served over at Momofuku Bakery & Milk Bar. So much so that a few warning signs of an addiction have already appeared. I’m on a first name basis with one of their cashiers whom I once said (and before you read the below exclaimation, let me acknowledge that it’s not meant in spite and yes it’s said by someone who knows he’s not in perfect shape by a long shot. Ahem,) “I don’t mean to sound like a fat kid or anything, but I really hope you’re baking those amazing chocolate chocolate cookies tonight,” to. Said cookies, pictured below, manage to steamroll over the fine line of sugaryness and actual powerful flavor without really pissing on either side of the proverbial toilet seat.

Admittedly I didn't eat these in the week after surgery. In my defense, though, they're fucking phenomenal.

And when I came in the day after my left-side wisdom teeth were taken out, I had to tell this cashier, “No, no, that cookie is a bit too rough for the state I’m in. I’ll have a chocolate mint milkshake instead.” And it was an amazing milkshake. One that became something of a crutch, along with their soft-enough pork buns, which I ordered pickle-less because I’m not all about pickles and I had the excuse of nothing with seeds in it. The pork is as soft as it gets, as it’s the wonderfully fatty pork belly. These items helped my bad habits last through the aftermath of routine surgery, and I thank Christina Tosi and David Chang for doing their part to make the city just a bit more diabetic.

Up next will be a piece on a movie you can bring some of those Momofuku munchies to: Up. Fun Fact: That last sentence was about %1 palindrome!

When McDonalds gives the hungry overfed masses a new delight, they slap a “Mc” before a word like Flurry, Rib or Nugget, creating a brand new term for the masses to learn. Kinda like how Apple used to slap an “i” before every product name. But then Dunkin Donuts comes along and tries to introduce a breakfast bastardization and doesn’t even do the public the service of slapping a comically moronic name on it, which most will use as a means to not always order it. Nobody would order a McGriddle (the McOriginal this above frankensandwich is a carbon copy of) every day, but a “Waffle Breakfast Sandwich” doesn’t roll off the tongue nearly as inhumane.

So a good few friends linked to this digital archive of gastronomic nightmares, ThisIsWhyYou’reFat.com, which is simultaneously amusing and nauseating, the seeming bastard brainchild of the food television world’s current champions Man Vs Food host/guinea pig Adam Richmond, and Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives host Guy Fieri, both hosts of shows whose mottos could be reduced to three words: Gluttony Is Good. Between these shows, current national trends both dietary and economic, and the above sandwich, it seems like the goal is to make overeating boring and normal, or are we there already?

So, in need of sustenance, and in a deep haze called The Uncommonly Terrible Cold, I made it out yesterday for brunch at Egg, on North 5th nr. Bedford in Williamsburg.

In a word, awesome. Tip of the hat to Sweeetheartfever, the blogger whose name I’ve still somehow yet to learn, as she recommended Egg as a place to brunch.

I had the:

Country Ham Biscuit

Country ham from Col. Bill Newsom’s Hams in Princeton, Kentucky. Served on a biscuit with homemade fig jam, Grafton cheddar, and a side of grits.

Instantly after ordering it I realized I also wanted the:

Eggs Rothko . . . $7.50

Easy-cooked egg in a slice of Amy’s brioche and topped with Grafton cheddar. Served with broiled tomatoes and a side of meat or seasonal vegetables

So waiting for my meal to get there, I kept thinking about my decision. But the meal I got was so fantastic, I decided, hey, there’s always next time for the Eggs Rothko. A meal I concerned myself over because hey it’s a placed called Egg, why didn’t I order something with eggs?

One thing, though, it’s packed. Bring reading material. It’s also packed with kids who look like the kids I went to Bard with. It’s near the Bedford stop, anyways, so that’s to be expected.

That’s how I order my coffee. Usually done at the Starbucks on 23rd and Park Ave South. Which is around the corner from my office.

Preamble first, so you see where I’m coming from on this habit that most have been on forever. Before, let’s call it, senior year of college, I didn’t really fucks with coffee. I had dabbled in the drink, but had always found myself too impatient to wait for it to cool down from what Kenneth on 30 Rock calls “The Devil’s Temperature.”

When staying awake was a major concern, Euro History in High School with Snook if any Packer survivors are reading this, this being back when he threatened to kick me out of the class for falling asleep (side note: if he didn’t give us such dense readings every day, I wouldn’t stay up so late, yes that’s why I was always tired, so sheltered back then) I found my caffeeine in Red Bull. Red Bull, that evil evil combination of the tastes of Pez, Seltzer, and Gatorade.

At some point in college, I realized Red Bull wasn’t taking anymore. That leads me to my Jessie Spano caffeeine pills incidents, the last of which ended at Bard’s Karaoke night, me performing “I’m So Excited” and ending it by tossing Caffeeine Pills into the audience.

So back to coffee. It’s mostly been a phenomenon of the post Bard years that I’ve been able to get decent coffee. The brunch coffee at Elote is servicable, but the thing about them is that they only serve it hot. Which I get. Except I love it ice cold. Much better for savoring the flavors. Much better for having the coffee black, too.

The daily iced coffee routine started back when I was in Williamsburg and Gimme Coffee was just so nice with their iced. Around the time Winter started though, Gimme decided they weren’t going to do iced coffee in the same way, they then kept a pitcher in a fridge. The results of which were not at all close to what I’d gotten used to. So I moved to tea, I think. Or something?

I’ve started a plan to go to as many coffee places as possible and rate their offerings. Today’s was the sometimes oddly enough reccomended Dunkin Donuts. C+. Watered down and burnt. Nothing more to say than that.

Finally, from Sunday to hopefully middle of next week, I won’t be blogging as much. My laptop’s going in for repairs, as Apple is finally admitting that the Nvidia chips in their MBP line can shitty the display up. See my first encounter with this B.S. here.

And I quote:

Here’s to nonconformity!

Hipsterism, you’ve hereby jumped, and been eaten by, the shark.

This is Two Boots Pizza’s Bayou Beast Pizza. That’s BBQ Shrimp, Crawfish, Andouille, and a very very generous dousing of Jalapeños. This is the Greatest Least-New-York Pizza Ever. I mean it’s made in New York City, but at first sight, it’s not of the city that’s so prideful of the tomato and cheese lathered disc. Except that it’s true NY in it’s throw everything great onto one surface and hope it’s the sum of it’s greatness and not overweighed by the grease on top mentality, which is what they sell paper towels in those smaller sectioned off pieces for. The grease in that metaphor? New Jersey/Staten Island/Dane Cook fans.

Speaking of Staten Island Grease …

So I went to see Atmophere live in concert at Webster Hall a week before Sunday. What we’re seeing here is what I like to call the destruction of the indie rap show by 13 year old smarmy ass kids. I first saw this at the Little Brother/Brother Ali show. The kid in the center, whose bloody bruise all over his forehead made him a trailer trash Harry Potter, got kicked out of the venue after getting caught smoking a blunt. The girl on his right was almost kicked out with him – she came in with him, I’m pretty sure so why wouldn’t she leave with him? – but about an hour later she was at the front of the show making out with some other ugly disease ridden schmuck. The lesson to be taught to you concert goers reading this: don’t make out with strangers you’ve met at a concert, you don’t know who they came in the door with.

In the category of Least Importance, I’m really annoyed that Last.fm has this horrible tendency to group all of the songs played by the same artist under the most famous white person/band related. I listen to a few tracks off of HNIC 2 by Prodigy of Mobb Deep, and it thinks I’m still rocking to the dbags who gave us Firestarter or Smack My Bitch Up.

To try and avoid alienating those Patriots fans who still read this after the last two posts, I’ll start with something everyone could agree on tonight, Super Pollo‘s rotisserie chicken.

At last night’s Sunset Park Super Bowl festivity, we dined on pizza, hand made guacamole, (the majority) drowned themselves in a variety of beers (Magic Hat Feast of Fools, Guinness, Red Stripe, Dos Equis Lager Especial, and I believe I saw some Brooklyn Brewery), but all the carnivores on hand agreed that Super Pollo’s juicy roto (as it was referred to) chicken was the tastiest damn thing on earth.

Most of the rotisserie chickens I’ve ever had suffered from soggyitis. This makes the bird way too much of a mess and therefore makes you feel like even more of a mess than you were before you decided to go out and buy a really fucking big chicken that’s perfectly ready to be devoured.

I don’t know if you can tell from Ben’s photo (Above photo © Ben Feingold, linked to entry of origin), but this ain’t no wet chicken, not nearly. Juicy, hells to the yes, but soggy, fuckouttahere.

Now that I’ve covered a topic that both the Giants fans in attendance (everybody except those who had money or food wagered on The Once Sure Thing) and Pat and Josh could agree upon*, I have to bring the focus back to Super(ior) and, as Wikipedia informs me he’s called, one sir Elisha Nelson “Eli” Manning.

This won’t be your primary Wikipedia photo for much longer, Manning the Youngest.

That’s more like it. In an unrelated note, I saw Elisha Cuthbert on the street on Saturday in the Meat Packing District. Who’s still reading this? Because I’m not lying.

Because I’m not a real reporter or anywhere close to Arizona, I’ll give you the following quotes copied and pasted from ESPN.com, quotes that show why tonight, Eli Manning was the Superior QB and Tom wasn’t Terrific (Tony the Tiger, reached for comment, wouldn’t even give the guy a half-hearted “grrreat!”)

“The No. 1 thing that bothers me about him is how he reacts to adversity. He gets angry when something bad happens. There is almost that part of him that, it’s not being a jerk, it’s not the side of Tom Brady we don’t know. It’s not that at all. You’ve seen him do interviews. He’s a good person. It’s just his temper. Some people say they love that competitiveness in him. I like the part that is competitive, but not the part that looks like he is blaming everyone else or he is going to be pissed because the guy did not catch it. It’s a temper thing. I would try to manage it better if I were him.” — AFC assistant coach when asked how Brady might be able to improve

Source: ESPN.com’s Mike Sando

Eli isn’t Peyton. Peyton is into control and execution. Eli is cool, which led to earlier criticisms that he wasn’t a leader. To his credit, Eli didn’t get pumped or excited after big plays. He also didn’t get flustered after bad ones. When he missed a wide-open Burress after scrambling free of Richard Seymour with 8:32 left in the fourth quarter, Manning remained composed.

“The guy is incredible,” Gilbride said of Manning. “I don’t think everybody realizes the movement he has. On the play he scrambled and missed Plaxico Burress when he was wide open, most quarterbacks would be devastated. He came back and figured he’d make some plays in the next drive.”

Source: ESPN.com’s John Clayton (the guy who looks like the geeky teacher from early Saved By The Bell)

Speaking of keeping calm under pressure, allow me to show the court Article of Evidence 13442 in the case of Good Sportsmanship v. Bill Belichick:

Walking off the field before the game is over, an almost Boras-Announcing-A-Rod-Move mid-World-Series moment, as the shift of the cameras goes to BatshitCrazy Bill which then in turn brings the rest of the press onto the field. I don’t know if Belichick knew the game wasn’t over, or what the press would do if he ran out on the field. Maybe he was so filled with sadness and fury over his perfect bunch of asshats losing that he lost it all together.

Oh wait, this is Bill Belichick, he’s aware of every fucking thing that happens. Unable to control it tonight, but perfectly fucking aware of the score, the time, and the consequences of his actions. The baby that he proved he is, didn’t care, I think. He just wanted to run as fast as he could to Coughlin and then off the field. Probably to throw away his prewritten victory speech.

How does that all relate to Superior(ity)? Inversely, it shows that mentally, he’s really just a silly inferior motherfucker, who after being spoiled with 18 wins, really can’t take a loss. He doesn’t even get to go home and … well, I’ll let a Deadspin Commentor say it for me:

So, Pats fans, don’t cry for Tom, your Masshole tears should go to Belichick, who tonight, just goes home to cry and do horrible things while wearing those ugly hoodies.

Finally, I never thought I’d get the chance to do this, or even want to, but I’ve got to take this moment to point out that New York’s Papers are Superior to Bostons. I hate the Post as much as anyone (their Obama endorsement still befuddles me though), but even they would recognize the negative sports karma (think jinx) that is accrued by putting the following title up for pre-order on Amazon, and trying to trademark the phrases “19-0″ and “19-0 The Perfect Season,” that title, screencapped below is Jinx Evidence at it’s greatest:

Wherein your narrator explains that the Globe is owned by the Times and therefore, even more respect is lost for their Hillary endorsing asses.

The aforementioned NY Post, was silly enough to file trademark papers for 18-1, which now leaves us at:

Post: 1
Globe: 0

And so the game left me feeling the same way the Super Pollo felt, perfectly well done. Sweet, and not a mess. Lord knows I’m not the world’s biggest Giants fan, it took me until an hour before kickoff to put voice behind Big Blue (I echoed the note Wilbon sent in from his recovery bed, with a Giants by 1 pick), but the feeling left me the way Charlie Bucket felt after he mopped the floor with the competition: anything can happen. And maybe that bizarre thought is why I can’t get to bed.

Oh, and assuming Collin’s gotten this far, I’d like to remind him of something he said:

Prove yourself wrong, Collin.

Update: 12:08PM Monday: Proven.

* Eric, Mr. Money, the vegetarian he is, can not testify to the superiority of Super Pollo.

• Even if you hate Apple Earbuds, like I do, you might want to pack them and your iPod in your jacket for the suppression of the less than likable fellow train-riders at 4:30am.
• If you’re waiting for food really late at night, and you’re some yuppie complaining about how much it all costs and how long it takes when you can CLEARLY afford to pay for it, you have lost your civil liberties and should shutthefuckup. Also, this should be common sense, but of all things, don’t start mocking the Latino cooking staff by calling them by names that obviously aren’t theirs, like Speedy Gonzalez or Rico. Nice quiet guys like me will get our food before you, and walk away laughing our asses off.
• Help people find cabs. Know the best intersections. Trust the people you’re handing drunk revelers off to. It will help the next steps of your night go easier.
• Screaming is necessary for two things: Cell Phone calls on the street, and getting stragglers to get the eff over to the cab you found. Just do the shouting a safe distance from the parties or persons you may or may not want to disparage over the phone.
• Carry two kinds of liquor on you, but don’t start the second until the first is gone. Jameson (flask sized bottle) and Korbel (bottle) were the draft picks last night. Take them slow, and you’ll be happy all night but never rowdy. Unless you want to be rowdy.
• Help your friends get alone time with their ladies or gents, move groups of people away at key moments. Keep the wrong people away for as much as you can, etc. This is one of the best things you as a person can do on NYE.
• Speaking of Rowdy… when your friend wants to go up on the roof, but you get stopped en route, twice, realize that your friend is going to want to start a fight. Talk him out of it by any means necessary, including not letting him convince you to throw a punch. The party is probably in too small of an apartment to have a fight with someone getting a drink spilled on them or their brand new shirt or top to be ripped. It will devolve into chaos and that means no more 90/10 alcohol/mixer drinks from their stash. Use that last bit as argument. No fights were gotten into while I was around last night, but I saw what would have happened.
• Once the ball drops, if you’re not at the second party of the night, you have a half an hour to get all like a green and white kick ball and bounce. The holiday is about running around. Getting into adventures. Maaaaybe getting into a fight as long as the other person isn’t the kind to call 5-0. But one party or one bar is not enough. On AlcoHoliday, we are not meant to be sedentary creatures.
• The LED read-out signs on the L train line are lying to you. Especially if they say 25 minutes. Last 5 times I’ve had this, it’s been no more than 8 minutes. Fuck The MTA.
• Do not let a restaurant make you wait over an hour for your food. Las Palmas on Borinquen & Hooper (nr. Grand) in Williamsburg is a shitty fucking restaurant. The food, when it got there was decent, some said good, even, but the service was unforgivable. Fuck them.
• When people are making you so pissed and uncomfortable, it’s okay to take the time to go outside and smoke the first cigarettes you’ve ever smoked. It’s okay to do this up to three times. Walk your even more amped friends around a little. Make jokes. Try and see the humor you don’t want to admit is there.
• Don’t let other restaurants string your hopes along by letting some gigantic group of people take 45 minutes to make their orders. Leave when someone from your party, without the group’s blessing, goes inside to argue with the restaurant.
• And finally: … Start. Pregaming. Early. In small moderate doses. You’ll be setting up a nice equilibrium not to be offset in any way. I didn’t believe it myself but that method kept me up from early NYE morning, until around 6 or 7 in the morning on New Year’s Day.

In Lieu of Photography, we Present RealLifeDocumentaryyyy

If that doesn’t remind you of at least a few people you know, then feel lucky and/or out of the loop, or, even, lucky to be out of the loop.

Yesterday, in need of an album that I couldn’t find illegally online, I ventured over to Sound Fix (110 Bedford Avenue, nr. N 12th.) and picked up one thing I knew I wanted, and made one risk.

If there’s any concert I regret missing this year, it was the LCD Soundsystem/Arcade Fire show. Not sure exactly what made me miss it, previous engagements, hipsterphobia, a desire not to have to navigate Randall’s Island after getting lost after Rock The Bells. All of the above, probably (it’s always D). So, when I found FABRICLIVE 36: James Murphy & Pat Mahoney, respectively leader & drummer of LCD, I knew I would be walking out with something new.

FABRICLIVE 36: unboxed and such. © Henry Casey, 2007

If you’ve never seen a Fabric album (released by the London night club of the same name) before, then the above image probably looks like another case of design over content. Slipcase and metal box, a combination that just doesn’t bode well. Except that the two other Fabric records I’ve gotten so far (FABRICLIVE 33: Spank Rock, and FABRIC 36: Ricardo Villalobos) seem to be great mixes. Villalobos’ record is much more subtle and smooth than the Murphy & Mahoney disc, but that’s just because the LCD boys made a party starter, and those Spank Rockers, they made a banger.

I’ve only gotten a couple listens so far, but it’s got a similar feel to the Hot Chip/DJ Kicks record (a disc that I would have left off my soon to drop year end tally if I hadn’t referenced it here) that came out back in May. A great collection of knowns and unknowns collected for the sake of jamming out (rocking out minus long hair or phantom instruments). Nothing really pushing the record forward as in a central idea except the idea of having fun.

The Reason Behind the Risk

For some people, Sage Francis inspires the pride that Uncle Sam used to inspire. I’m one of them. The cunning bastard that he is, he’s put his face on the record label logo, so when you see something released from his record, you also see his face on it. So, when I saw this on the new Buck 65 record, Situation, coupled with the phrase “strongest rap record to date,” (for an artist I’d been avoiding because of news that they weren’t rapping enough) I might have been suckered in by the genius ass marketing. ‘Ass marketing,’ because, so far, I’m not digging the record. Maybe I’ll warm up to it, maybe I won’t. Odds are leaning towards the latter right now.

I thought I’d share my thoughts with you and not the Highly Exclusive Fandango Community

After ripping the CD’s onto my iPod and picking up some albums that Ben wanted, I met up with Michael, Ben, Megan, and Megan’s friend Marieke. We went to see There Will Be Blood, which I liked, despite not having gotten enough sleep last night (getting to bed by 6 and up before noon can fuck with one’s sleep cycles). I won’t spoil anything, but I have to say that this movie really sat well with my expectations, and Paul Dano, the teen from Little Miss Sunshine who was all cold shoulder for most of the movie, he finally has to carry some dialogue-weight, and as a teen aged evangelist he stands toe to toe with Daniel Day Lewis, one of our time’s greatest scene devourers. It’s not as good as No Country For Old Men, but I think trying to jump the high-bar that the Coens set would be damn near impossible right now. I think it’s between American Gangster and No Country in terms of my year- end list.

The four of us met up with Jared at BarFry, on 50 Carmine St., a restaurant that prides itself, as it should, on it’s beautifully clean aesthetic and fried foods upon fried foods. I had the Samurai beer to start, which was a nice light beer that matched well with the temupura’d foods I had (including a really nice chicken fried steak, and a more-than-generously portioned Crab Cake Po’ Boy). They gave us all a free shot of something that was quite sweet, definitely from the Girlie Drink territories, but was the kind of welcome surprise that really makes recommending them a painless experience.

With the Crab Cake Po’ Boy, I experienced something I’ve never experienced. I had pickles with almost no idea that they were there, having forgotten they were mentioned in the sandwich’s menu entry. They were these spicy pickle slices that gave even more energy to a sandwich that already had a really nice sauce on it. I know my food reviews are kind of base, but I’m just getting started.

Warning, though, the waiting staff did seem to expect us, first-timers, to take less time figuring out what we wanted than we took. Then again, the waiter has a Vandelay Industries t-shirt, resembled Adam Scott (the male nurse from Knocked Up, amongst other roles, who kind of looks like a younger James Urbaniak), and the chef came out to talk to us at least once and was one of the most charismatic guys Jared had seen in a while, enough at least for him to comment on it. I guess I’d have to say that character makes up for quirks in this case.

PS: Fuck the Patriots, the Red Sox, the Celtics, and for good measure, the Bruins.

Instead, a restaurant reccomendation: Yuka. Balls to the wall all out All You Can Eat Sushi.

$20 a head. Amazingly fresh fish. The Eel Hand Roll is Cracktacular.

That is all.