Bar Tabs: Public House

March Madness is one of my favorite sporting events of the year. Unlike other championships, where it matters whether my teams (Giants, Yankees) make it to the big event, Virginia will most likely not be in the Final Four, but I still get jazzed watching unfamiliar college teams duke it out.

I do at least one bracket, sometimes I do two, and I'm usually a top contender, though I have yet to win the big pot. For the past two years of my work pool, ClarkKent, our chairman, has mysteriously won. Upon his fishy repeat, several people said they would revolt and not participate next year. I sit next to him, however, and can vouch for his honesty and integrity (though not for his Boston teams). Our cubicle at work pays homage to New York on my side with cut-outs of Manning and Tyree, Pettitte, and Wang; while his side screams Boston with Sox paraphernalia and Tom Brady (with the occasional Giselle and Bridget in the mix).

On one of the last nights of the madness, a few friends and I ended up at Public House to watch the games. It wasn't my bar of choice, but I went along for the ride. I read where it was and my heart sunk with disappointment. It sits right next to Grand Central. I pictured suburbanites coming into the city for their big night out and doing it up at this bar a stone's throw away from the train to facilitate barely making the 1:27 a.m. train home. Does Connecticut have guidos? God, I hoped not.

The place was a zoo, and there was even a painful, cringe-inducing red rope outside, like they were expecting to have lines? Oh no.

After some food and drinks, I must say I was pleasantly surprised with the space and the crowd. I ended up running into a friend of mine (who I've known since I was seven) celebrating his 29th birthday. The funny thing is, he and most of his friends never moved out of Connecticut, so my pre-assessment of who goes to Public House was dead on. They were planning a wild-as-could-be night before they caught Metro North home. I did this for six months seven years ago. I will never do it again. And yes, I did manage to fall asleep on one such night all the way to New Haven, missing my connection to New Canaan at Stamford. That was an expensive cab ride home.

Public House is like the sports bar formally known as Park Avenue Country Club on steroids. It is bigger, cleaner, newer, more formal, and there may be more TVs. I'm not saying it's better. PACC was my favorite place to watch sports, and I still, to this day, have no idea how a place that was so tightly packed on almost any night of the year could have shut down. But Public House does a good job of squeezing a lot of people in front of a lot of TVs and the food was decent.

I sat at a table with Young'un, Fashionista, LittleMissSunshine and my biggest fan TustlingTorontoan. The man has been bugging me for the past six months to feature him in a blog post and I told him to be patient. So now, without further ado, I introduce TustlingTorontonian, another one of my good friends from the Harvard Men's Swim Team. Just when I think I've met all of them, another one creeps into my friend circle. We seem to have some discord on restaurant approvals so I'm eager to have him weigh in. He pointed out he wouldn't comment until he had a name.

TT: I had some delicious, delicious pizza over the weekend. I should have done a guest correspondence for Mona's Apple.
Me: Send it in, dude.
TT: You know, I actually liked the duck at Les Enfants Terribles.
Me: You have to start commenting. Give me a hard time on the page, not just in secret on G-chat.
TT: Ohhhh yeah. Maybe once I get a nickname.

No more excuses TustlingTorontonian.

A few of us ordered burgers and one of us went with the fancy chicken, broccoli rabe and polenta:


The burgers were decent, not the best I've had in the city, but certainly not the worst. I got mine with blue cheese -- blue cheese makes anything taste good. The chicken didn't seem to break any records and the polenta was a little too thin and soggy, but my buddy seemed to enjoy it.


I can't say I will be rushing back to Public House, though I have been back since for a friend's birthday party. But it served its purpose. I ate, I saw and Kansas conquered.

140 E 41st St., between Lexington and 3rd Ave.
(212)-682-3710

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Bar Tabs

I primarily use this space to write about restaurants, but I go to bars enough (at least three nights a week) that I can offer some color into the local scene. A few friends have requested bachelor(ette) and birthday party recommendations, and every time I put my heart and soul into coming up with some, I accidentally delete the list from my e-mail. Maybe this will help put an end to my brainless habit.

Bars in this city are like cupcake shops-- every time you think you've decided on a favorite, another one pops up that you like even better. Just to give you an idea of what my taste in bars is, here are a few of my preferred boozing holes. I always have a good time at:

*White Horse Tavern, even though the cash only policy bugs me
*Zum Schneider's serves the best selection of HefeWeisens in town
*The Back Room with its brown bag beers and teacups
*Rosie's (46th St.), because they call me by my first name and drink
*Automatic Slims knows what's up in the DJ department and drinks are potent and on the cheap
*Phebe's is the best place to meet a big group on the fly
*Doc Holliday's wins for the $2 Pabst and jukebox
*The Magician has one of the best happy hour deals in town, from 5pm-8pm you can get $3.50 tap beers and $2.50 well drinks, I mean, does it get any better than that?
*Pianos mixes some killer $3 margaritas
*Horseshoe Bar lets you play flip-cup on a Sunday
*Spring Lounge often has cute boys of all shapes and sizes-- prepster and hipster
*Floyd gets props for its indoor bocce court
*Tonic (just kidding)

Then there are the places I wish I could become a regular at, but I don't think it's going to happen unless I win the lottery:

*Milk and Honey
*Tailor oozes urban cool and you won't find its cocktails anywhere else
*S0ho Grand mixes a pretty drink with pretty people (ran into my boy crush Shia LeBeouf a few weeks back)
*Brandy Library has the most impressive menu of any restaurant or bar I've ever seen, including 120 different cocktails
*La Bottega transports you from Meatpacking to the Riviera
*Plunge at the Gansevoort is fun more for its crowd and view than the $15 cocktails

Last but not least, there are the later night spots, where dancing is the thing:

*Naked Lunch, where I seem to leave my credit card a time or two
*Sway can be hit or miss
*Alphabet Lounge for the perfect girls' night out
*Gallery Bar boasts art by day and hipsters by night
*Fat Black Pussy Cat has a couple of levels if you get bored with one and excellent music
*Bulls Head Tavern often lands on the Thursday itinerary for its great cover band
*Automatic Slims

What are some of your favorite bars? My birthday is a few months away and it's never too early to start researching.

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F.A.T.

Fridays About Town:

*Summer Food Festivals Are Hot
*Hold That Berry...It May Not Be in Season
*Going to Momofuku? Better Have a Photographic Memory
*Didn't This Guy Need an Assistant or Something?
*When Will This Place Open?
*Take to the High Seas (or Rivers)
*Get Your Farm List Ready
*Because This Just Looks Sick
*First Magnolia, Now Shake Shack?
*Pizza in the Park? Sign Me Up
*The Champagne of Beers Is Served, but It's a 40

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Les Enfants Terribles/Milk and Honey

At my last bartending gig, my worlds collided. My work friends met swimming friends met new friends met all my friends. It was fun, but slightly overwhelming. I was flailing behind the bar trying to keep all of my friends fed, drunken and entertained.

The best part of the night was when two friends and characters of my blog realized who the other one was. It was my very own live version of "Who's on first?" My co-worker ClarkKent went to talk to Fashionista because they met a couple of times previously, and he ended up having a moment with TheDude. Not only was the conversation amusing, but the sight of the three tallest people in the bar chatting gave everybody who noticed a good chuckle.

ClarkKent: So, you know about Mona's blog?
TheDude: Yah, I'm on it. We go out to dinner a lot.
ClarkKent: Dude, no way. Me too. What's your name?
TheDude: Yup, I'm TheDude. Kinda funny, right?
ClarkKent: Yah, totally. You must be the dude if you're on her blog. I'm ClarkKent, but she's only written about me a couple of times. We've never gone out to eat. So, dude, what's your name?
TheDude: TheDude.
ClarkKent: What dude? You're the man, but seriously, go ahead and tell me, what's your blog name?
TheDude: TheDude!

It was TheDude's turn to pick the crew's second round of dinner. He sent us a few options: Bacaro, but we discovered they were closed on Mondays, Azul and Les Enfants Terribles. He had me at the French one.

Fashionista and I showed up to Les Enfants Terribles, with the intention of beating the boys, or at least showing up simultaneously. Shocking. We blew it. They were cozily seated up against the window at our four-top sipping on their beers and glowing at our arrival.

Our waitress came over to the table as we were pulling our chairs in and asked us what we wanted to drink. I needed a moment to take a breath and look at the cocktail menu before I made my choice. I appreciate promptness, but give me a second to dole out hugs, kisses and hellos. After reading the menu and asking a couple of questions, like what was less sweet a maracana or a guericuacuara, we decided on our adventurous staple, the mojito.

The dining tables surrounded the bar, which was a big rectangle that jutted out into the middle of the space. This made it feel like dining was secondary to drinking. Luckily, the bar wasn't that crowded. This worried me, especially because a good friend and co-worker told me the food was mediocre. She frequented Les Enfants late night when the taste buds aren't necessarily the strictest judges.

I expected there to be beads hanging in the doorways to the bathrooms and for Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart to come bursting through the door. It had this African -Mediterranean vibe that I really liked and one that I had never felt before in Manhattan.

For starters we tried several dishes.

First a salmon confit with a banana guacamole, papaya-mango chutney and sweet potato shavings. Sweet potatoes get me every time.

We also went for the steak tartare...

and grilled calamari with a ginger and sweet chili dip, with chickpea and cilantro salad.

I don't remember which one I liked best. I just remember fighting with LoveLight over who got to eat the last calamari and chickpea, fighting with Fashionista who got to eat the last of the steak tartare and fighting with TheDude who got to finish the last of the salmon. I don't even like salmon regularly, but the confit is the way to go. Salmon's probably the only fish I don't really like raw or cooked, but the confit preparation is the perfect in between. I imagined these would be the types of dishes I would find in a beach hut on the coast of Morocco.

For our entrees, I ordered the duck with couscous...


TheDude ordered the chicken with white rice...

LoveLight ordered the sliced sirloin steak with French fries, tomato, onion and lime...

and last, but not least, Fashionista ordered the marinated grilled steak with fried kasava and salad.


I was sitting next to TheDude and I think we both suffered from other-half-of-table envy. We went with the poultry, but the beef dishes across the way looked a lot more exciting than ours. My duck fell right off the bone and was really tender, so much that it slithered down my throat without me even having to chew it. I would try to lather it in sauce and couscous so it could sit in my mouth a little longer.

Fashionista's steak was a little fatty, but juicy and cooked well, and the kasava was an awesome choice. Besides Public, I've never had these anywhere else. I will now be on a mission to find these sumptuous suckers. LoveLight's dish won the award for best, however. His mammoth steak was to die for as were his thinly-cut fries. I was a little uncertain where the Moroccan flare was in this dish, but it was still good all the same.

As dinner progressed, our server seemed to be more and more aloof. She seemed to be in a pissy mood. She was very short with us, slow on taking our drink orders and getting water was like asking for it to be blessed by the Pope. My assessment was dinner, like our experience at Kingswood, went downhill after the appetizers. The entrees seemed to lack that Moroccan zip that I found in the first course.

If dinner falls on the first of the month, we are required to get drinks afterwards. My dinner next week is July 1 and I think I have my place in mind, though it has Shaquille-sized shoes to fill.

Last night over another crew dinner, we discussed our recent favorites. I know it shouldn't count, because mine is a bar and not a restaurant, but my favorite discovery, over the past few months since we all started hanging out, is Milk and Honey. For several years, it's been an elusive destination, whose threshold I never thought I'd cross. Now that I've been in once, I know I'm in for good. Thank you, TheDude, for my introduction.

There are no menus at Milk and Honey. You have to know your s---. Decide before you go what your liquor of choice will be. They appreciate confidence and assertiveness. I'm convinced the less hemming and hawing, the better drink they serve. My first was a rum-ginger blend and my second was a margarita-esque concoction. "Nothing too fruity," I said. Kids, don't try these at home. I couldn't tell you what was in them, but they were magical and I reveled (cried) over the fact that I'd never again consume cocktails like these. Milk and Honey is the home of the one-hit wonder.


I don't want to give away too much, because your first time should be as unsullied and unaffected as mine was. That's the fun of it. There isn't much out there about the bar and it's better that way. Milk and Honey becomes what each person wants it to be: it can be your first date, if you're really into the person; it can be your pre-party with friends; it can be a quiet solitary cocktail over a good book; or as we made it, it can be the after-dinner drink.

There are a lot of people to meet, places to see and restaurants to visit in this big city, and we all seek special, once in a lifetime experiences to make it our own. That's what makes New York New York. Sipping my cocktail with the crew at Milk and Honey, I was reminded of this. I smiled to myself for a moment and didn't want the night, or any nights like this, to end.

Les Enfants Terribles
37 Canal St., at Ludlow
ph: 212-777-7518

Milk and Honey
134 Eldridge St., near Broome St.
ph: I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you

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Spotted!

After The Cure show last night, my girls Fashionista, LittleMissSunshine and I headed to The Box. We've tried to get in to The Box on one occasion previously and it ended very very badly. I yelled at the bouncers for letting in a slew of foreigners and giving the local New Yorkers no love whatsoever.

For some reason, last night was different. We broke through the iron curtain and hung out there until the sun came up.

I could barely contain my excitement when we stumbled upon Josh Lucas in the upstairs lounge. I really really really wanted to say hello, but I chickened out. After reading in this morning on The Box fun facts, it's not that outlandish that he was there. He is reportedly a Box board member (who knew?) along with Jude Law and Rachel Weisz. And one more fun fact? The Box is the creation of Simon Hammerstein, grandson of Oklahoma! and South Pacific writer Oscar Hammerstein. I have a newfound appreciation for the place, having been in both plays as a wee middle schooler and having just seen South Pacific at Lincoln Center. "Bloody Mary is the girl I love!"

P.S. I am mildly obsessed with The Box's MC Raven O-- the svelt, bleach-haired devil covered in tattoos. He and Josh are definitely worth the trip.

189 Chrystie Street, between Stanton and Rivington Streets

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Fridays From the Field

I say the following four words ad nauseam, but I've never meant them more intently than I do today. Thank god it's Friday. Truly. Thank god it's Friday. I could not survive another day of this grueling week. I called in sick yesterday because I had reached the tipping point of my survival/exhaustion. I've gotten about six hours of sleep total over the past three nights. This was supposed to be my week of rest, in preparation for my packed schedule next week. So much for that idea. My body hates me right now and here's what I'm still up against. I feel like the Little Engine That Could singing, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can..."

Friday: The Cure concert
Sat-Sun: friend's birthday celebration weekend in Southampton
Monday: friend's birthday dinner, locale TBD.
Tuesday: dinner with Fashionista, TheDude and Lovelight at Ninja
Wednesday: night off.
Thursday: NYAC open bar terrace party, which always makes for a miserable Friday in the office
Friday: praying for another night off
Saturday: NYAC athlete's reception at Travers Island

I've barely had a minute to myself to blog, and next week it's not looking any more promising. Luckily, I have SirDatesALot, my good friend and co-worker who's become a loyal fan of Mona's Apple, to give me his Wildwood report. Backyard Chef is working there and I've been meaning to stop in, but have not had the chance. Hope it continues to go well, BC! Here is this week's Fridays From the Field, courtesy of SirDatesALot:

"I love barbeque. Let’s start with that. In a past life, in another city, I have a big grill and would cook up all sorts of meat. Over the past year, I have tried to hit every good BBQ joint in the city, many over and over again. I even braved a 95-degree heat wave to "relax" at the Big Apple BBQ Block Party the other weekend. And to be honest, my Texas vacation in December was planned more around eating in the actual Hill Country than anything else. So when some friends suggested checking out Wildwood, I jumped at the chance.

While I like the other B.R. Guest restaurants, I was a bit skeptical about their ability to do good BBQ. I was pleasantly surprised as was my stomach.

Let me start with the one downside: we had a reservation but still had to wait 30 minutes. As much as I love Hill Country, I am not a fan of waiting and waiting for food. So I was excited that Wildwood took reservations. I was not as happy after standing for what seemed like an entirety watching plates of succulent meat pass by. But, it was well worth my wait.

The restaurant is housed in a big open space that gives you the feeling that you are inside a big Texas barn or some other modern-yet-rustic space. It is loud and vibrant and every table was packed. The sides were large and the brisket was super moist and yummy. They have a large beer list including several smaller craft beers and one of my favorite southern drinks: Abita. They also have their own BBQ sauces, including one with a hint of raspberry. It was odd, but surprisingly good.

We did feel packed into our table and were practically sitting on the laps of the folks at the next table, but it added a bit of excitement to the place. Everybody was peering over at the next table to see what they ordered and our mouths were dripping. You almost wanted to lean over, extend your fork and sample a little of their dishes."

Thanks SirDatesALot. It sounds like a bucket full of fun to me! I'm off to seek solace in a Red Bull or even possibly a double espresso. I don't normally drink caffeine, but feel I could benefit from the juice today.

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Bruce vs. E-Vill

Now that's a face you don't want to mess with. Bruce Willis lands in the middle of a wine bar kerfuffle, and he doesn't even own the place, as so many people have been misled to believe.

Protesters shouting “Die yuppie scum!” are getting a little carried away, don't you think?

“EVICT WINE BARS SAVE THE EAST VILLAGE.”

Really? I say eat, drink and be merry, people. Wine bars creeping up in your hood is better than having a bank boom!

What say you?

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Bloodies and Breakfast

I'm not going to lie. I make a mean egg scramble. Come on over anytime and I'll show you. This one at home had a little bit of onions, ham (cooked cooked cooked, ALWAYS cooked), several eggs and some shredded swiss cheese. Eggs can be a little challenging at home because I love 'em running off the plate and Mom and Dad like them bone dry and stagnant, but we figure out a system that works moderately well. It just means we eat breakfast on different intervals. It can be a little lonely at the dining room table, but at least we all eat.

Dad was in the family room, picking out his favorite Frank Sinatra or Luciano Pavarotti CD, while Mom and I were conniving on what should be our morning cocktail.

"Let's do Bloody Marys," I said. I realize there aren't too many options here, but we could have gone with a standard mimosa.

Mom was emptying out the dishwasher and she stood up like a drill sergeant and exploded, "Yes! I was just thinking I'll see if Mon wants a Bloody Mary."

"Great minds!"

Pavarotti was belting something from the living room and in walks Dad, proud as a parrot, carrying a cookbook and sporting his big green William Sonoma chef's apron and a smile.

"How about I make us a few Bloody Marys?"

My mom and I couldn't contain ourselves. We busted out laughing. Poor Dad had no idea what the ridiculous reaction was all about. Dad is the serious, more put together one of the three of us. Whenever Mom and I suggest a morning treat, which is often when we're together, Dad frowns upon it with a good ol' smirk and a head shake and a, "You girls..." Of course, three minutes later, once he sees the fun we're having, he jumps right in the mix.

This particular Sunday was different. Dad was actually pitching to have morning cocktails. I should have checked his forehead to see if he was feeling OK, but instead I just played along. We loved it and fell over ourselves laughing that not two minutes before we had suggested that very delicious thing.

I picked the Saratoga-style Bloody. I'm not sure how it's different from a regular Bloody, perhaps because of the Worcestershire sauce, but any Bloody I've ever handmade always had the big W in it. Dad gathered the ingredients and I kept a lazy eye on the scramble. I apologize, you may not be able to see the recipe without your magnifying glass.

+

=

Voila!


I've never even heard of celery salt. Celery doesn't taste like anything, how does it have a salt? Regardless, these Bloodies hit the spot. Even Dad, the non-Bloody drinker, downed his. I know this weekend is Father's Day, but I hope Big Daddy's Bar is still open for business.

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Hudson Hotel

When I think of the Hudson Hotel I think hot. Hot people. Hot workers. Hot music. Hot rooms. Hot drinks. Hot clothes. H-O-T hot. When somebody springs going to the Hudson Hotel for impromptu drinks or dinner, I shy away if I'm not feeling hot enough. Even its Web site crowns the midtown chic spot as "utterly cool." I'm a confident chick, but some days I roll in rusty Rainbows and a wifebeater, hardly what you'd be caught dead in at the Hudson --the Montauk Surf Lodge to see Sam Talbot, maybe-- but not the Hudson. If I'm going to the Hudson Hotel, I need fair warning so I can up my hot factor.

The hotel was designed by Ian Schrager's partner in crime Phillip Starck. It's the perfect Miami-Manhattan hybrid. Some rooms shout Manhattan and some rooms shout Miami and I can picture it in either city. My first exposure to its coolness was back in 2001 when The New Yorker had its Special Music Issue party at the hotel. My co-worker and friend at the time planned the party and I helped in any capacity I could. Just being associated with an event at the Hudson Hotel upped my cool factor as a newbie to Manhattan. I looked upon it with awe then and I look upon it with awe now.

At the end of March, MastersMaven, a friend and teammate from NYAC, was off to Perth to compete in swimming's world masters championships and I planned a good luck dinner for her. As the day approached, the numbers slowly dwindled until it was only the two of us that could meet up, though selfishly, this made it more fun.

MastersMaven had a friend who was DJ-ing at the Hudson Bar and we popped in for a few fancy cocktails. I was milling about, struggling to find a table without "Reserved" on it until MastersMaven just plopped herself down at one of them without even a flinch. I guess that's how you get it done! It was a Tuesday night, but by the crowd and the dancing you'd think it had been a Saturday. There was one pro tearing up the neon floor and MastersMaven and I were amused by the countless women who tried to measure up but failed. After our two drinks each, we waited patiently as our flightbag server scrounged to come up with my credit card and our tab. First nights are rough. Next stop? Hudson Cafeteria.

I had peeked into the Cafeteria several times before but never sat down for a meal. It was surprisingly not very crowded and we scored one of the high tables around the kitchen. We ordered a glass of wine and not a minute later decided on dinner: split burger and split mac and cheese.

I sat there staring at both plates in wonder for about three minutes. I had no idea the Hudson, near my central midtown universe (close to work and gym), had such a perfect made-for-Mona meal. Hudson, where have you been all my life? The burger was enormous and we were both happy with our decision to split it. It was everything a burger should be: juicy, the right medium-rare temperature, smothered in cheese and toppings, and sandwiched by a toasted buttery bun. The fries were decent, if you like steak fries. I mean, I ate them, after all a fried potato is a fried potato, though I prefer normal fries.

And just look at this macaroni and cheese. I barely wanted to rile its perfection. The crusty and crispy topping was so thick it trickled down to the middle of the generous helping of macaroni. I couldn't shovel it in fast enough. I know MastersMaven needed her carbs for her swim meet, but I had a very hard time sharing with her.

So now I know. The Hudson isn't just about fancy fare. It's about comfort too. Hot or not, I will be sneaking into the Hudson Cafeteria to score another forkful of this macaroni and another big burger bite. I just need to find someone who will go halfsies with me. You in?

Hudson Cafeteria
356 W. 58th St., between 8th & 9th Ave.
212-554-6500

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F.A.T.

I'm on the road, so this week's "Fridays About Town" comes straight from the John Jermain Memorial Library basement in Sag Harbor, N.Y. This was a photo of the finish line of my 2.25-mile open water swim in St. John. I'm doing a triathlon tomorrow so it seemed appropriate, though the water in Montauk will not be nearly this beautiful. Sigh.

I've Never Been, but Everybody's Talkin' About It

Make Your Penn Station Kommute Krispy Kreme

Wish I Had Studied This Prior to My Triathlon Debut

Because These Just Look Sick

NYC Nosh Gives You Their Big Three of the Week

Get to Florent While You Can, It's Worth It

Forget the Ice Cream Truck, Follow the "Top Chef" Truck

I Was Just There, How Did I Miss These?

Cheers to Big Brown Winning and to the Bartender You Find to Make These

Racing for My Own Triple Crown Tomorrow Here

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Spotted!

Priscilla Presley, ex-wife of Elvis and mother of Lisa Marie, dined at my very own favorite Freemans last night.

I was sitting at my desk this morning, pulling my hair out, banging my keyboard and fighting an acute computer ailment, when my co-worker Zoo brought something to my attention. We are both avid Freemans fans. She dines there almost every Sunday, a habit I wish I could engender.

Z: so my friends went to Freemans last night. celebrity sighting: priscilla presley. ha!
MONA: no way
MONA: wowsers!
MONA: that's hilarious!
Z: its a good one
MONA: that sounds like an odd coupling!
MONA: good for her though, she knows good food apparently.
MONA: were there any theatrics? people freaking out or just mellow?
Z: mellow, freemans is kinda used to this
Z: at this point I have seen gina gershon, jimmy kimmel and sarah silverman, heard of priscilla presley, susan sarandon
MONA: damn!
Z: ashley or mary kate olsen, not sure which

In my it's-Thursday-but-feels-like-a-Monday doldrums, I was excited to hear about the good taste I share with some of Hollywood's hottest stars. I haven't been to Freemans in ages, and I'm in serious Freemans filet withdrawal. Maybe I will treat myself to dinner there this Sunday in celebration of (fingers crossed) finishing my first triathlon - the Mighty Montauk- Saturday morning. Wish me luck!

If you happen to be dining in New York City and spot somebody famous, shoot me an e-mail and I'll alert the public of the celebs who lunch.

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Mermaid Inn II

I forget how I heard Mermaid Inn II was coming to my SoHa (south of Harlem) crib, but when I did, I nearly did cartwheels in the street. The Mermaid Inn of the east village is one of my favorite restaurants in the city, and not because of its incredible, mind-blowing food, but because it's simple, comfortable, consistent and it makes me smile. I ate dinner there with Swimster a few years ago and thus began my love affair with the seemingly seaside refuge.

FoxyLady and I were doing our own thing on a Sunday, putzing around Lincoln Center and we decided to meet in the 70s and cruise uptown looking for a bite. We were several blocks away when it hit me that we had to try the new Mermaid Inn location. I was a little tired of the walking, but FoxyLady kept telling me, "Just a few blocks more, just a few blocks more. You can do it. Just a few blocks more."

As I expected, the place was a zoo. Of course people are banging down the hostess stand to get a table. It's the best thing since Buceo 95 that's graced SoHa's restaurant vacuum. It had nearly the same decor as its downtown sibling: crisp white walls, dark brown wooden tables and matching molding, and nautical prints checkering the walls. When you walk into the Mermaid Inn you feel like you've walked into the belly of a ship, the country club's shore room or an oceanfront restaurant. It's different from any other vibe I've felt in the city.

I had about ten pounds worth of homemade Italian pastas, cheese and stuffed peppers from Bruno Ravioli (how did I not know it existed?!) and was dying to put my bags down. When I saw two stools at the bar, I looked at FoxyLady with a pleading face and we grabbed them.

For starters we tried the fried clams with lemon and tartar and the iceberg wedge with blue cheese and radish.

I don't know my clams like my mom does-- I think she's eaten in every clam shack across the eastern seaboard-- but I couldn't stop eating these. Even the two women sitting next to us were creeping over my shoulder and wondering what all the flurry of activity was about.

This simple salad hit the spot as well. I don't even typically like radishes but they were scrumptious with the blue cheese.

"What is thaaaaaaaaaat?" asked the lady with poofy hair and funky glasses next to me. She reminded me of my high school English teacher who draped herself in baggy Chico outfits and wore rainbow-colored, beaded eyeglass holders.

"The iceberg wedge. A must for next time." I noticed they were already on the best part of Mermaid Inn's dinner, but I'll let you discover later what that is.

For my entree I tried the grilled yellowfin tuna with corona beans, capers and arugula. The tuna was excellent though a little heavily salted. My favorite part was the sweet mixture of vegetables below. They had a tangy flavor that was entirely new to me. I imagine this combo would taste good with any salt water fish.

FoxyLady tried the wild-striped bass with spicy green lentils, preserved lemon and sauteed spinach and she complained about the same problem. Her fish and the lentils were way too over-doused in salt. Salt aside, the portions were really generous and we were both stuffed after dinner. I lent her some of my beans to ease the saltiness. I'm much more of a salt 'n spice girl than she is so I was worried she'd be unhappy.

It was FoxyLady's first time to the Mermaid Inn and she had no idea we were in for a complimentary dessert treat. The Mermaid Inn grants all its patrons a little espresso cup packed with chocolate pudding and a fresh dollop of whipped cream. Not only that, but they place what's called a "miracle fish" at its side and it's amusing to take out the thin red guy, place it on the palm of your hand and watch it twist or lie flat. Depending on its movements, you are deemed in love, jealous, fickle, indifferent, passionate, etc. That evening I was mysteriously in love, with whom, is still to be determined.

Over at Frank Bruni's blog, I enjoyed his discussion about best vs. favorite restaurants. I can't afford to eat at the best restaurants in New York City all the time, so they can't truly be my favorites. Was my meal at Jean Georges the most amazing meal I've ever eaten in my life? Yes. But one night of nirvana doesn't qualify it as a favorite. A favorite is more of a local hangout, a place where you can show up any night in any attire and get satisfactory service and food in a warm and welcoming atmosphere. The Mermaid Inn has that certain je ne sais quoi and I will always count on it for a solid meal. Maybe that's what the miracle fish was trying to tell me, I was in love, with his home.

568 Amsterdam Ave, between 87th & 88th St. 212-799-7400

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Hotel Metro

Mondays are rough, and to get through the pain of knowing I have at least 50 hours of work between me and Friday night, I e-mail friends to map out Thursday's happy hour itinerary. It's not even officially summer yet, but if the forecast is promising, you'll find us up on the city's rooftops.

A lengthy debate ensues, I can't handle 230 Fifth anymore, my co-worker swears by it and just when I think I've found the right spot, UrbanDaddy goes and showcases yet another rocking rooftop.

My first attempt at planning a Thursday roof rendez-vous was a train wreck of gargantuan proportions. I sent out an e-mail to dozens of friends saying meet me at Hotel Metro's roof, only to find out their roof was closed because of an elevator mishap. Huge planning faux-pas. When will I learn to pick up a phone and talk to a person if I'm planning an event? With the help of NovaCat, I choose Red Sky as our Plan B. I call and confirm their roof is indeed open, I send out the embarrassing retraction e-mail, night of I'm a few blocks away when I start receiving various text messages of this alarming nature:

"dude, m, where is the roof?"

"m, are you here? there's a huge line."

"this place is a dungeon. do we have the right place?"

%#@$&%!?!?

I show up having a panic attack, FunnyGirl is trying to calm me down, my 30-year-old friend isn't allowed in because she forgot her ID, I'm fighting with the bouncer who tells me upstairs is closed for a private party even though I specifically called and whoever answered the phone mentioned no such thing. A friend who happened to be at the party upstairs messages me that what was advertised as a rooftop is basically a third floor deck and you're totally walled in so you don't even feel like you're outside. Kind of defeats the purpose, no? What an amazing night.

It's a wonder I've attempted to rally the crew since, but if at first you don't succeed...

My second rooftop adventure worked out a lot better. Several weeks after the Red Sky (drinkers take warning) debacle, we backtracked and finally made our way to Hotel Metro's roof. I was very pleasantly surprised. It was much bigger than I was expecting. It's only on the 13th floor so you're not too high in the sky but there aren't very many tall buildings around you, except this one:

The roof abounds with sunlight. I showed up around six o'clock and stood at a table with no chairs for about an hour or so before a family left their table to Fashionista and myself. Our biggest complaint was the drinks were small and expensive: $8 for mixed well in very small plastic cups. God forbid you like Stoli or Grey Goose. By eight the place was bumping and all the tables were packed. About a third of the space is reserved for people eating food.

As far as roofs go, on a scale from one to 10, I'd give Hotel Metro a solid seven. It's laid back atmosphere and great views of the Empire State Building make it a worthwhile place to stop in for a cocktail. As far as decor, it has too much concrete for my taste. They need to spruce it up with some plants and foliage or something. When I go to a roof, I want to be whisked away and I want to forget that I'm in a city. Hotel Metro is heavy on the cement and devoid of the awe and whimsical factors that should be felt up on the roof.

Hotel Metro
35th St. between 5th and 6th Ave.

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