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Posts from the ‘Manhattan’ Category

Jun 16

Black Pearl


I don't think Black Pearl is here any longer. And the Black Pearl in
Brooklyn is not related.(3/06)

People always seem to make a point of pointing out that Black Pearl is a
mini operation inside a dive bar, Julep. I don't get the big deal (though I
had the feeling it was the sort of place where you would get barged in on
while on the toilet, despite locking the door, and thats exactly what
happened). I have zero experience with authentic clam shacks, but I've never
been under the impression that theyre rarefied affairs. Ave. A might as well
be coastal Maine to me.

While waiting for my dinner date as I usually do (it doesnt matter how
late I try and force myself to be, I'm always the first to arrive with
friends and loved ones and inevitably sit solo like a doofus for long
stretches) I was entertained by an antsy wound-up waiter who reminded me of
the volatile death-obsessed mailroom clerk on Seinfeld who Elaine
accidentally promoted to creepy copywriter. The server wasn't scary,
however, he just liked to chat and had a mildly mercenary quality that I
prefer to read as passionate. His mention that his girlfriend preferred the
cod over the haddock forced me to ponder how she might possibly look, but I
didnt dwell too hard.

I don't think I'm a real New Yorker because I rarely eat out on
weeknights. But when I do, an urge for alcohol always hits. Strange, because
I never drink at home after work. Being half restaurant, half bar, I was
able to take advantage of the two-for-one special (twice). But the point
wasn't stumbling around the East Village, it was to get reasonably priced
lobster rolls and the like. I went for the clam roll, a simple bun bursting
at the seams with little breaded nuggets. Traditional tartar sauce, a
spicier diablo rendition and cocktail sauce were offered. It was diablo for
me, since I suspected the pinkish dip would make a fitting fry condiment in
a ketchup/mayo/mustard secret sauce vein. I was right, the fries, which
would be just as appropriate piled next to hanger steak or a bowl of
mussels, were fine naked, but the dip added fatty panache.

The only down side is my short term memory where battered, fried seafood
is concerned. Crispy, oily crustaceans, mollusks and finned creatures, while
delectable, always give me post-prandial trouble. Maybe its just best to
live in the moment, and worry potential stomach cramping and nausea later.


Black Pearl * 14 Ave. A, New York, NY

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Jun 11

Oversea Asian

It's strange that I have such a S.E. Asian food fixation—I'm visiting
Singapore for the second time next month—but never eat that cuisine in
NYC. I think its because this isnt the city for doing that style right, not
that I'm an expert by any means. But vegetables, herbs and fish just arent
the same half way around the globe. It's not like Manhattan is teeming with
pandan, coconuts, rau ram, and Sri Lankan crabs (preferred species for chili
crab). Regardless, I needed a restaurant near F train Chinatown (because its
super hot out and after shopping at Hong Kong Super market on Allen St.,
there was no way I was heading to the heart of Canal St. for dinner) and
Oversea Asian fit the bill.

When I arrived shortly after work, the room was primarily filled with
guys drinking BYOB Heineken and Guinness. I don't know if they were staff
just kicking back because it wasn't busy or if they were just hanging out. I
wasn't sure if the fact that none of them were eating was a good sign or
not.

James finally showed up (it goes without saying that whenever I meet
anyone for dinner, I will always be the one kept waiting. I'm not sure if
this says something about me or the company I keep) and we ordered a roti
canai to share, which Ill admit is odd since its really no more than one
serving, but we also wanted chicken satay. The skewered meat was right on,
slightly sweet and charred around the edges, the peanut sauce oily, rich and
slightly spicy (though James preferred dipping his poultry pieces into the
leftover roti canai curry, which wasn't a half bad idea).

We then moved on to mee goreng (I was just reading an account on a
message board how someones mother got food poisoning in Malaysia and when
they asked the doctor what ailment she had, he replied, “mee
goreng.” I don't know why I find that anecdote so amusing, but I hope
I don't catch any mee groeng while I'm visiting), which you never know what
is going to be stir fried into the mess of egg noodles. Shrimp and tomatoes
seemed like okay additions, but there was also bean curd, possibly potato
and flat crispy shards, kind of like scallion pancake pieces. I didnt mind
the mish mash. Sambal shrimp, a little heavier on the onion and green pepper
than shrimp, was more of an accompaniment. We probably shouldve ordered a
more proper entre, but its not like we left starving.


Oversea Asian Restaurant * 49 Canal St., New York, NY

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May 26

Bistro du Vent

1/2  *They closed back in May of last year. Sometimes it takes me a while to remember these things. (1/07)

There's something about this newish Theater District restaurant that makes you feel like a tourist. Maybe its the location, maybe its the not-used-to-tight-spaces clientele bogged down with shopping bags and saggy-ass jeans. We walked in early a weeknight thinking it wouldn't be a problem. Apparently, thats what all he Times Square stragglers thought too. Luckily, we were offered a table at the bar that kept us out of the four-child families and souvenir oohing and ahhing fray.

I'd heard the food was perfectly fine bistro fare with no over reaching aspirations. This is exactly what it was, solid, no complaints. The frisee salad with lardons and poached egg was text book. My side of frites, both tender and crispy. Jamess steak frites were generous. Everything was more than edible, there was just something off about the atmosphere. The service, while adequate, seemed mechanical and distracted.

I just wanted to try something new before a Revenge of the Sith showing (no, I'm not a Star Wars freak, we waited a full week before venturing). Next time I'm in the area Ill likely check out Tommy Lukes down the street. Pork, provolone and broccoli rabe sandwiches are the best.

Bistro du Vent * W. 42nd St., New York, NY

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May 13

Lederhosen

German food just doesn't garner the same excitement as flashier cuisines in the city. I guess its perceived as stodgy, heavy, unhealthy. Not trendy like Japanese or perennially popular like Italian. And honestly, my knowledge doesnt extend much beyond bratwurst and schnitzel. (I'm curious about the food scene in Germany because Berlin is totally hip–they must be doing innovative things that Americans are completely obvious of.  Sure, Spain gets all the press, but maybe its time for the Deutsche to do their thing.) But I'm interested, nonetheless.

Rarely setting foot into the West Village, I was trying to come up with someplace to eat and drink, with an emphasis on drinking, on a Friday night that wouldn't be obnoxious or entail the words caliente or cab. Newish Lederhosen, which hasnt gotten any press that I'm aware of, seemed to fit my needs.

The restaurant almost seems out of place for the neighborhood. When I think sauerkraut I don't think Bleecker Street. Most others don't either judging from their empty dining room. The bar up front had its stools filled, but it was a tiny bit off putting being the only food seeking customers in the picnic table and giant alpine mural back space. At one point, an after work group piled in, and after being seated, left. I think from the street you get the impression there's a back garden and this causes disappointment. Maybe German food is synonymous with beer garden.   

But I loved the vibe, very down to earth, German pop music (from the '70s it sounded), friendly staff, bathrooms like it was someones home, maybe your grandmas: Kleenex box, air freshener can, pink cotton towel with a butterfly appliqu on a silver wall-mounted loop (the mens had a blue towel). Definitely not trendy or trying too hard. I'm not sure who the target audience is, which makes me worry that this place wont last.

The food is straightforward, traditional and reasonably priced. Usual suspects like sauerbraten and wiener schnitzel are on the menu. Almost everything is under $12, and many items well under that mark. I had a bratwurst on a roll with shared potato pancake and spaetzle on the side. Simple, carby and good.

Lederhosen * 39 Grove St., NewYork, NY

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Apr 27

San Loco

Ooh, I can’t believe I ate at San Loco. Sometimes I have to let my guard down and lower my standards so I don’t ostracize and annoy friends with what I call little kid palates. So, a chicken chipotle burrito before The Organ show at Rothko didn’t kill me. I will admit being disturbed by my dining companion ordering a rice burrito. I’ve always abhorred rice in burritos, it so doesn’t belong there, and neither does spinach. But a burrito entirely centered around the grain?! What the fuck? Ha, and then she ordered a rice krispie treat to cap things off. But I love those, so it was ok, albeit a lot of rice for one meal. (4/27/05)

San Loco * 111 Stanton St., New York, NY

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Apr 1

Pam Real Thai Food

When you use a term like real in your name, people are going to expect you to deliver the goods. I guess you could say Pams is realer than much of what passes for Thai food in NYC. I'm so not a food snob, but Thai is one of the few cuisines that I actually feel like I "get" and can talk about semi-authoritatively. I'm picky. Ill have a shit fit if anyone dare suggest Lemongrass Grill as a viable option (or requests chopsticks). And unfortunately, I just might live amidst the citys highest concentration of mediocre Thai restaurants (Citysearch lists 18 for the 11231 zip code, but nearby stragglers also show up in the results).

Everyone knows Sripraphai is the go to for Thai food, like the earth is round, its irrefutable. So, its hard to branch out when you know ahead of time the cuisine wont measure up. But Pams has been qualified as Manhattans best Thai (others would argue Wondee Siam), and with that ranking in mind, bolstered by fairly recent New York Times praise, I figured I'd finally give it shot.

The first weird uncharacteristic thing I did was bring a bottle of wine. BYOB is allowed at Sripraphai too, but I've never partaken. I have unfounded issues with people who bring wine into "ethnic" holes in the wall. It's not that I don't enjoy wine with my meals, its just sort of a when in Rome deal. I would say its a Borough vs. Manhattan thing, but its not completely because I also feel NY Noodletown is an inappropriate venue for showcasing ability to pair wine with roast duck on rice. But Pams felt like a bottle of wine was warranted, nothing precious or foodie about it.

I ended up liking Pams food, and if I'm sounding defensive its only because authenticity police love slamming this place. No, its not Sripraphai (and some would argue the new Sripraphai isnt Sripraphai anymore) but if you choose carefully and strongly emphasize your capacity for heat, its not like youre going to have a Lemongrass Grill experience. The LG experience at this restaurant was more evident in atmosphere, by which I mean the clientele.

We arrived very early and beat the notorious crowds, but that didnt keep a peculiar foursome from being seated smack dab next to us. After the older gentleman removed his back brace and crammed it an inch from my feet, I became fixated on figuring these folks out. The best I could tell was that a woman who used to live in Manhattan was enlightening relatives (the spine injury guy and a couple in their early 20s) with her good taste via her former stomping grounds. I was stumped by their slow Midwestern diction and unabashed love of Ruby Tuesday, only to have them go on to talk about living in New Jersey. I shouldnt condescend, despite their not knowing what curry was and gaping over a fish presented whole, they all seemed pleased with their meal at the end.

I wasn't displeased either. We started with a surprisingly spicy seafood som tam, studded with shrimp, mussels and squid. I swear I'd eat som tam all the time if I could just find green enough papaya. Instead of ordering crispy pork with basil and chile so we could compare to our Sripraphai standard, we tried the duck version. I thought it held up, though smaller pork pieces seem better in their flesh to fat contrast. Basil chicken, aka E3 (Bennies got us hooked on that shorthand) has never knocked my socks off in the first place. We make it home all the time because its easy and tasty, but at restaurants I want things that are difficult for dabblers to reproduce. I did miss the all the plastic tubs of goodies since I'm accustomed to taking my sweets to go. I refrained from dessert at Pams though I do have to give them kudos for putting a durian rice pudding on the menu. You definitely wont find that at Ruby Tuesday. (4/1/05)

People get down on Pam because it's not Sripraphai. But jesus, compared to the bland lowest common denominator Thai food that dominates my South Brooklyn environs, it's like a breath of fresh fish saucy air. Since my last visit, they've taken a page from Sri's book, literally, and have started putting color food photos at the back of the menu (as opposed to a big binder). They've also started serving alcohol.

But of note, is that the food is better than I recall from my previous meal. I frequently feel like crying after wasting money and calories on Thai food. I end up full yet totally unsatisfied from the pale renditions of yums and curries. The one dish that remains unique to Sripraphai seems to be the watercress salad. Nothing compares, I don't even know if they eat such a thing in Thailand (I never saw it, but it's not like I scoured the country). Pam hasn't attempted that, but their salads are sufficient.

Pamfish Where they seem to excel is with the crisp fried, deep and dark preparations that burn the tongue. Or maybe I just love anything that's rich, crunchy and hot as hades. Our two entrees looked nearly identical–only one photo turned out, but no matter because the images were interchangeable.

We ordered crispy duck pad prik king and a catfish something or another that was hard to resist with its double chile rating. The duck had long beans and the fish apple eggplants, both were sprinkled with lime leaves (my only complaint would be the thick matchstick-sized cut leaves instead of a finer chiffonade) I'm not sure if both had basil. You have to emphasize you really like heat (and that you're not freaked out by lots of tiny bones. Oh my god, once I brought a friend to Sriprphai and her boyfriend ordered a similar catfish curry and had a spazz out over all the bones). I guess they believed me because the fish (actually the sauce and eggplants more than the flesh) hit me hard half way through the meal. I think it charred my esophagus. I don't even want to think about the intestines and the rest of that eventual route.

Despite the detractors, I really do think Pam's is the solution if you're Manhattan-bound. If you're stuck in Brooklyn? I guess you're screwed. (1/19/06)

Pam Real Thai Food * 404 W. 49th St., New York, NY

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Feb 14

Megu

This was a bit of a surprise Valentines choice. We eat a lot of Asian food,
but never Japanese. I havent tried any of the ten million new trendy
Japanese restaurants that seem to have sprouted everywhere below
14th Street. Mostly because I'm miserly and not fond of obnoxious
scenes, but there are exceptions to every rule.

Megu ended up being surprisingly fun–maybe thats just the alcohol
talking—somehow meals always become more fun in proportion to the
amount of imbibing that occurs. Yes, the food was tiny and expensive, but it
was creative and mostly satisfying. The service was gracious and completely
unpretentious. As might be expected there were plenty of white guy/Asian
girl and wizened male/nubile females combos dotted throughout the starkly
plush room (yeah, its possible to be simultaneously minimalist yet
decadent). The tables and white leather banquettes were pleasantly spaced
and intimate, which lent to the luxurious feeling. Arm room and the ability
to hold private dinner conversations are not inalienable rights in NYC. A
gargantuan iron bell hangs from the ceiling, hovering over a large ice
carved Buddha, but somehow it seems Ok, despite verging excessive.

We were seated near the sushi bar, which frankly made for a better view
than looking out over a sea of lovers. Raw fish beats painful attempts at
impressing dates, any day. We opted for the prix fixe, of which many of the
dishes and their proper names have vanished from my memory, not that they
were unmemorable. These things just tend to blur, particularly when
preparations have lots of little components. And hey, Megu is known for its
thirteen-page tome of a menu, they don't make it easy. We started with a
glass of complimentary Veuve Clicquot (which I couldnt turn down because,
well, its alcohol, but I'm so grossed out by all the recent press given to
their CEO the sepulchral author of French Women
Dont Get Fat).

Things progressed from there with an amuse of custard in an eggshell
that was flavored with the ol one-two punch of black truffles and foie gras.
Then came a champagne risotto dusted with gold leaf, a lobster ravioli, kobe
beef with six ground peppers (this was the funny part because while normally
non-questioning diners, we inquired about the differences between the
miniscule pillars of pepper positioned at the edge of the plate. The
waitress laughed, then admitted she didnt know and had to pull out her
notes. I don't know if that was unprofessional, but it made her seem more
human than many waitress-bots these places often employ), yellowtail sushi,
a rock shrimp tempura, I think, an edamame soup, perhaps another course was
in there. Like I said, it was a whirlwind and the sake and cocktails didnt
do much for bolstering brainpower.

There sort of were two desserts. I say sort of because I'm not sure that
“slightly sweet egg” counts or not. It came precariously
presented in this whimsical dish/cup combo that magnetically held the shell
at a 45-degree angle. While trying to crack the top to get to the tofu
custard I managed to drop the egg onto my lap and then the floor. The staff
was totally eagle-eyed because I thought I'd rectified the mishap before
anyone noticed, but a waiter immediately came over to replace my oddball
treat. A “real” dessert crafted into a heart and made of a
chocolate crme caramel covered in spun sugar followed it. I was also given
a small box of chocolates at dinners end, then managed to unexpectedly score
a second box while at the coat check. It's the little things, you know.


* 62 Thomas St., New York,
NY

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Jan 5

Dinosaur Bar-B-Que


1/2

I tend to scoff at New Yorkers who deem anyplace in the boroughs or far
reaches of Manhattan impossible to get to. There are very few subway
inaccessible spots on the big island, there's no excuse except not actually
wanting to make the effort. Ill cop to being ignorant of most of everything
above midtown, mainly because everyone I know lives south or east, not
north, but I'm not opposed to trying unfamiliar corners. When it came to
finding Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, my Brooklyn-centric stripes began to show.

In theory it seemed like either the 137th or 125th
street stations would be fine since theyre both equidistant number-wise from
131st. The 1/9 went screwy and bypassed 125th for
137th. Fine, no biggie. But instead of walking the six simple
blocks down Broadway, I opted away from the crowd and went for the next
block west, Riverside Dr. This shouldve been a tip off because I knew the
restaurant was underneath Riverside Dr. and how could it sit underneath a
street and also be along it?

Despite the snow flurries, as usual I was still sweaty from impatiently
huffing around. I made it past 134th before realizing that I was
up in the air on an overpass that extended as far as my line of vision.
Dinosaur Bar-B-Que was clearly somewhere beneath my feet. And I'd already
trudged what felt like a long way. I couldnt cut back to Broadway without
completely backtracking to where I'd originally came from. So frustrating,
and I had no one to blame except myself. At least I was working off my large
lunch from Bryant Park Grill (weird restaurant choice, but it wasn't mine to
make).

Once inside, cozy with an IPA microbrew I was able to settle down and
take in the peculiar surroundings and now pretty falling snow. There would
be no guessing you were in New York City if you hadnt traipsed through East
Harlem (and had a large party of heavily accented, muscle bound, New
Jersey-esque type guys with cell phones attached to their ears, sitting
right next to you. I did appreciate that they considered Cuban sandwiches to
be perfectly normal appetizers to order. Never mind why Cubanos are on the
menu at all, though I faintly recall the same weirdness at Blue Smoke) to
get there. For one, the space is quite large, and woody, rustic like a
roadhouse. I don't know their whole history, except that theyre from
Syracuse, have something to do with bikers and have a loyal following.
Clearly theyre shooting for an outlaw vibe, which I've never really
understood about barbecue, how its somehow developed this extreme or tough
persona, perhaps because grilling, smoke and fire are mens domains, who
knows. The staff were also unusual for NYC—friendly, guiless,
bubbly—perhaps they are upstate tagalongs.

We started with spicy, earthy boiled shrimp, which felt very New
Orleans. I had the big-ass pork plate, despite minor reservations with
saying the name (not out of piousness but because I have issues with silly
food titles—moons over my hammy, anyone? I noticed a guy near us just
ordered “the pork plate” which prompted his server to force him
into saying big-ass).

Despite a short southern jaunt last summer, I'm hardly a barbecue
aficionado, but I would give high marks to the limited items I did taste at
Dinosaur. My pulled pork came with a slightly sweet sauce, which was fine
though others might prefer a different style topping (there are three sauce
choices on the table). I like that the meat was tender, yet also with a few
crispy bits on the fringe. I only ate one pork rib, but it was also
flavorful and not overly fatty. Barbecue isnt about the sides, but my beans
and salt potatoes were surprisingly good. I'm not usually a fan of bbq
beans, but these were loaded with smoky meat, and the potatoes were in a
slick of oozing butter. It's hard to beat butter and salt for simplicity and
flavor.

There wasn't room for dessert, though I've heard good things. I hate to
say it, but I'd be inclined to use a car next time. Even so, Ill still
harbor ill will towards the subway-impaired, I cant help it.


Dinosaur Bar-B-Que *
646 W. 131st St., New York, NY

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Jan 5

Bryant Park Grill

1/2

It wouldn't be my first choice for a company lunch, but its not as if I'm in
an expense account industry (well, advertising: yes, but a librarian within
such an organization: no). Per Se, Masa—not happening. As a
post-Christmas present our department was taken out to lunch by a former
company CEO who still holds court, at least figuratively, on some oak-heavy
floor that I've never ventured on. I didn't want to look a gift horse in the
mouth despite the host and the two employees who ordered after him all
asking for the exact same Caesar salad and cheese ravioli special. Weird. I
got the boring womans choice: roasted chicken, though primarily for the
french fries that came on the side. And since I wasn't paying I didnt feel
much guilt about only eating half of my food (not by choice—everyone
else just ate faster and I had to stop too). Isn't that the French
way everyone seems to smitten with lately? Eat whatever you want, but
just a few bites. Waste is so chic.


Bryant Park Grill * 25 W.
40th St., New York, NY

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Dec 20

WD-50

1/2 Dinner at WD-50 was better than expected, really top-notch and fun. I'm always afraid I'm going to be disappointed by popular restaurants (like a couple weeks ago we went to Mermaid Inn, which isn't quite in the same league, but was a hot spot last year, and I was under whelmed. Plus, the waiter called me ma'am, where at WD-50 they had the good sense to use miss. It's the little things, you know.). Maybe that's why I tend to give them a good six to twelve months to mellow out.

The disturbing yet entertaining portion of the evening came from the couple one table away (luckily it wasn't so packed that you have to do the classic NYC crammed thing where you can barely squeeze into your seat because it's set up with about 3" of space between tables. The waiters always pull the table out for diners, but still you have to either scoot your crotch or butt right up against your neighbor's table. It doesn't really matter how svelte you are, settling in is going to take a few awkward seconds.) At first I thought we were witnessing a flaccid date, but it felt a little too strained for that.

The duo was made up of an Asian guy who exuded finance industry with his blahness and a so-so blonde woman who probably thought she was prettier than she was. They could've been anywhere from 28 to 34–it's not always easy to peg that demographic. I was obvious that the gentleman was trying to impress her, it was transparent enough that she was subtly egging him on in a manipulative way. She wasn't going to hump him (though James thought there was a slight chance she might) she just relished the attention…and probably the free meal, he did order a $145 pinot noir (we opted for a sauvignon blanc that was exactly $100 less). She only ordered one thing, a cod entre and didn't even finish her tiny portion, while he ordered two appetizers and an entre for himself.

He proceeded to bring up his fiance, and it was clear that he was fishing to see if there was any chance things might work between him and his dining companion. We guessed they were college friends, or old acquaintances, not likely coworkers. He was saying stuff like, "if circumstances were different…" and he brought up babies like three times, it was totally gross, and how this woman would make a good mother. Nothing gets a girl wet faster than pregnancy banter. I almost barfed up my pickled beef tongue and fried mayonnaise (and not because I was eating pickled beef tongue and fried mayonnaise).

He then began schooling her in the history of avant-garde cooking and saying how the chef Wylie Dufresne, was a protege of Ferran Adria who is like the progenitor of all the current culinary trends (he invented using foam, you know like carrot foam, but has now moved on to essences, seriously, you don't even eat them, you just breathe them in and experience them) and is chef at the impossible to get into (though not so impossible that this guy wasn't able to eat there and brag about it) restaurant in Spain, El Bulli. Anyway, Wylie Dufresne isn't a protg of Ferran Adria (doesn't protg mean you studied under the person?), I wanted to tell him so, but that was hardly even the point.

They exchanged gifts, he gave her a L'Occitane gift set (the same one James is giving his mother–does that make it any less romantic a present?) and she offered a wine bag and what must've been a fancy bottle of wine because he couldn't stop thanking her for it (though he probably would've jizzed himself over a jug of Gallo of as long as it came from this woman). We were appeased when this guy seemed to become unnecessarily humiliated when the sommelier wouldn't allow him to open this bottle of wine and share it with his lady friend, the mood was totally ruined, and he got all snippy and asked for the check when the waiter subsequently inquired about dessert. "We're not dessert people," he snapped, and they left in a huff. He probably figured that extra wine might've been adequate to lower his companion's defenses enough to impregnate her. Such an uplifting holiday tale.

Yes, the food. We did eat more than eavesdrop and just because I've neglected to discuss our actual dinner doesn't mean the meal wasn't noteworthy. As mentioned, I had the pickled tongue with little fried mayonnaise cubes and sprinkles of crumbs that were supposed to be onion streusel, there were also dehydrated scattered grains of what formerly was lettuce. If you created a bite using all components it tasted like a sandwich. A small beef tongue sandwich. Being a pork belly fiend, that entre had to be done. Sure, it was rich and I was pleasantly surprised by the decent portion. Even though pork belly is best in small doses, I feared the artistic giant plate/tiny serving syndrome. The five meltingly unctuous slices were more than adequate and accompanied well by fatty antitheses: turnips and soybeans. We shared what was probably the most pedestrian dessert, "chocolate cream, coffee soil, tonka bean ice cream," which was a conglomeration of vanilla and chocolate shapes and textures, cakey and creamy. I was tipsy enough at this point (I'd already downed a few pre-dinner cocktails at the new Barramundi across the street) that the idea of eating chocolate dirt seemed like the ultimate nightcap.

WD-50 * 50 Clinton St., New York, NY

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