Restaurant Review: Koo Zee Doo

So today we're traveling outside the confines of New York City in order to bring you something special: a Philly flashback! Yours truly spent a recent weekend back in the City of Brotherly Not-Quite-Love-And-Probably-More-Like-Hate visting friends and, of course, having my fill of Philadelphia's incredible restaurants. People who know me think I'm crazy when I say that Philadelphia's food scene is better than NYC's, which is probably why they sprinkle antipsychotics in my cereal, but consider the advantages of world class chefs (Vetri, Garces, etc.) catering to a blue collar population. BYOs, cozy bistros, and food trucks litter the landscape, all while providing delicious and creative food at reasonable prices. NYC's counterparts are essentially cost-prohibitive for someone on a budget, like myself.

But let's get back to the crown jewel of this trip, or what I had initially thought was at least going to be a diamond in the rough. Koo Zee Doo is a Portugeuse restaurant in Northern Liberties, the Brooklyn of Philadelphia, so to speak. I have wanted to eat at this restaurant, which has quickly climbed everyone's best-of list, for years now, but I never crossed it off my bucket list when I lived in Philly. I decided to finally right this wrong. Now, understand when I say that I had built this restaurant up to proposterous proportions in my mind. Without ever having eaten a bite or having smelled a whiff of the food, KZD had become the stuff of legends, alongside Bigfoot, Atlantis, and Miley Cyrus in terms of its ability to amaze. Clearly, my expectations were not going to be met.

And so they weren't. KZD crashed and burned worse than 2011 Philadelphia Eagles (I had to). My fellow diner and I split the salt cod croquettes (I happen to love salt cod) and the shrimp in piri piri sauce. When someone says to you, "I'm going to deep fry one of your favorite things to eat," there would seem to be low probability that it could be bad. Hell, even deep fried ice cream works. Deep fried butter works, too. But for some reason, the croquettes were utterly forgettable. Soft on the outside, somewhat lacking in that intense seafood flavor expected out of salt cod, and pretty average overall, I was annoyed enough at the outcome to throw one of the croquettes at the nearby bartender. The shrimp in piri piri sauce, while fun to say, were also average. You'll see that the word "average" comes up a lot in my description of KZD's food, and I suspect that's because I was expecting creative food with strong flavors, even if KZD was serving up traditional Portugeuse grub. The entree, a highly recommended baked duck rice, was large enough for two people, with well-cooked duck and a Portugeuse version of dirty rice. Typical, mediocre, commonplace, ordinary. Yeah, average.

[PICTURE COMING SOON!]

Verdict: 3.6 (Can you believe it?) out of 5 delusions of grandeur

Restaurant Review: Waterzooi

It's pretty hard to make a bad Belgian bistro.  One of the primary reasons people come into these types of establishments is the unique beer selection, so by the time food arrives and people have thrown back a few brews with the alcohol content of moonshine, they're obviously going to be hungry for greasy, gourmet burgers and mountains of mussels doused in cream-based sauces.

But let's get one thing straight: it's exceedingly difficult to make a special Belgian bistro.  Beyond the beer and the food, there has to be a sense of soul.  You should feel as if you've been transported from whatever Yankee city you live in to the cultured streets of Belgium.  Also, it doesn't hurt if they spike your food with acid to keep you coming back.  In all seriousness, though, you want the pub to have character.  Your entrance should be countered with the pungent aroma of briny mussel juice and fresh-baked bread.  The wooden tables should be stained with beer, partially moistened by years and years of spilled aperitifs.  The people should be kind of snobby, but not as snobby as French people, so that your hate only festers and doesn't manifest as a punch to the nose.

Waterzooi, a Belgian bistro located in Garden City, NY (yes, Long Island), definitely delivers on the food, but unfortunately is a little lacking in the ambiance.  Of course, once your food arrives, you forget that you're seated on cushions that only Elvis could love.  The red velveteen fabric combined with the absurd paintings on the wall and the abnormally bright lighting screams "clowns!" more than it does "Belgian!"  Let's forgive these shortcomings for now, because 1) we are in the middle of nowhere (Long Island), and 2) Waterzooi makes up for it with its spectacular food.

I went to Waterzooi one night after work with some co-workers, one of whom had highly recommended this restaurant.  The first thing I noticed was the beer selection, which was extensive but not overwhelming.  For grub, I got the Homard, a pot of mussels cooked in cream with bits of lobster sprinkled throughout.  Part of me thinks this isn't fair.  You'd have to have several extra chromosomes to mess this type of dish up; but then again, I had never had mussels in a broth this good before.  By the way, do NOT make the rookie mistake of ordering anything else off of the menu.  The mussels come in a pot the size of a large dog.  Even though I was hungry, I still had enough leftover mussels to feed my four baby mommas.

Oh, and just so you know, here's the Wikipedia link to Waterzooi.  It's not that interesting; I think the name's just fun to say.  Waterzoooooooooooooooooiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.  Ahem.

You could put this on a car bumper, and it would taste good.

Verdict: 4.2 out of 5 Waterzoooooooooooooooiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis

Restaurant Review: Gaia Italian Cafe

So let's get one thing straight: I'm not a mean person.  Well, not that mean, anyway.  I'd like to think there's a minuscule amount of good in even the most depraved people, and that principle goes for food, too.  So when I say that Gaia Italian Cafe provided me with the worst meal of my life, rest assured that this is not false bravado or hyperbole.  I spit the truth, dawg.

Instead of my usual spiel, let's have story time.  Once upon a time, there was a devilishly handsome food blogger named General Tso (his friends called him GT for short).  GT had just moved to New York, and was on the prowl for good eats in the city, but he was overwhelmed by the numerous restaurant options, the women, the subway system, the different neighborhoods...oh, and the women.  Luckily, he used Al Gore's invention to find a highly rated Italian diner named Gaia Italian Cafe, although there were only 10 reviews on its Yelp page...all one-liners.  But still, a perfect rating on Yelp in the LES?  That %$&# cray.

So one gorgeous evening, GT and his parents decided to saunter on down to this CAFE and sample their wares.  Seeing as how this was a CAFE and not a formal dining establishment, GT decided to forego reservations, because, well, it was a CAFE.  When the happy family arrived, they noted that there was not a single customer in the place.  Odd, because when they began taking a seat in the barren restaurant, the owner rushed at them like a Spartan in 300, telling them that they were only seating reservations that night.  The family, confused at the circumstances before them, looked at each other haplessly and exited the restaurant.

Flash forward several months.  GT had finally made reservations at Gaia Italian Cafe for him and a lady friend.  The anticipation had been building for this night, where GT would finally get a taste of Gaia's famous panini.  Again, the restaurant was desolate, but the couple were seated according to the Geneva Convention rules of reservations.  The two noticed strange things starting to occur in the restaurant.  For instance, nobody else was in the freakin' place.  Also, Gaia kept turning away perfectly acceptable customers because they lacked reservations.  Ain't no one in here homegirl, whatchu doin'?

The worst was yet to come, however.  Namely, the food.  The two ordered several of the $5 paninis, a steal if you were getting something edible.  They were not.  The paninis were cold, the ingredients within were sparse and average, and the presentation was terrible.  Oh yeah, by the by, CAN A BROTHER GET SOME PLATES?!  The coup de grace was an odd concoction of some sort of mystery meat curry laid on top of homemade mozzarella.  It all sounded well and good, until they got the dish, which amounted to cold diarrhea on top of mozzarella sitting in a pool of its own whey.  This was as appetizing as a murder scene.

I cannot identify a single good thing about this dish.

Verdict: 1 out of 5 bouts of diarrhea

Restaurant Review: Vesta

Brunch may be the best meal ever created.  Literally, anything goes!  You want a gourmet Belgian waffle for brunch?  Sure.  Does your friend want a pizza for brunch?  Knock yourself out.  Does the hobo that followed you into the restaurant want cleaning solvent for brunch?  We can do that, but first call the police.

What's more is that brunch is specifically designed to be later in the day just so you can sleep off your hangover and then eat/drink off your hangover.  Not that I would ever drink to the point of getting hungover, of course.  But, the best part of brunch is that there are drinks created solely for the purpose of being imbibed during the day, so you don't look like a lush in front of your friends when you pound mimosas at noon.  You're just being classy...excessively classy.

This brings us to Vesta, a cozy "trattoria and wine bar" tucked neatly into one of the crannies of Astoria.  Vesta's ostensible expertise is brunch, although the dinner menu appears to be equally if not more impressive.  I had been hankering for some brunch food and decided that I had to find out if the hype behind Astoria's food scene was true.  It didn't hurt that the names of the menu items at Vesta were playful, like "A Warm Bankie" and "Hangover Pizza."  How could you possibly go wrong with either of those?

After being seated, we got the two items mentioned above.  The former is creamy polenta served with asparagus, mushrooms, fried eggs, and topped with truffle oil.  While this may seem gratuitously heavy, you have to remember that you did nine body shots of tequila off of a complete stranger last night, so this is medicine for the soul.  The Hangover Pizza, with its thin crunchy crust, is not as substantial, but it's topped with things that will also soak up those acetaldehydes, like potatoes, pancetta, sausage, and fried eggs.  Both were winners in my book, and the food was just enough for three (not hungover) people.  

Once I got home, I researched the name "Vesta" and found that the restaurant was named after the virgin Roman goddess of hearth, home, and family.  So that's cool, I guess.

You may have forgotten last night, but you won't forget this.

Verdict: 4.4 out of 5 hobos requesting cleaning solvents for brunch

Restaurant Review: Press195

One of the places that I got really wet-my-pants excited about when I moved here was a place called Bell Boulevard, located in Bayside, Queens.  I thought it would serve as a surrogate South Street, with numerous restaurants but without the flash mobs, gunfire, and general peril that is part of Philly's charm.  I had taken several trips down Bell Blvd. just to window shop, and one day I finally decided to bite the bullet and try Press195, a restaurant known for its sandwiches.

"Oh...sandwiches...interesting," I can hear you saying sarcastically.  Well you know what?  Eff you, loyal reader.  As mother dearest can attest, I have been eating ham and cheese sandwiches for lunch since I had teeth.  I literally live off of sandwiches, and when I get the chance to try some upscale versions of my favorites, I won't turn it down.  So one day, after a long and grueling day at work, I found myself a spot at their bar, caught some sports action, and had a meatloaf knish.

Let me preface this by saying I was very hungry.  Like, Las Vegas buffet hungry.  So when I asked the waiter for one of his biggest sandwiches, he recommended this one.  You can imagine my utter disappointment when he brought out what appeared to be dinner for a family of sparrows.  This sandwich was no bigger than my left hand!  I had just spent $9 for what essentially amounted to finger food.  "This better taste good, homes, or I'm going to YOLO all over your face," I thought to myself (see, I'm hip).

The knish itself was good, but not great.  The sandwich is essentially a meatloaf dinner served in between two potato-based patties.  I believe Bell Blvd. suffers from Yelp inflation, in which the surrounding area has so many low quality restaurants that the average score of any given restaurant is probably 1/2 star too high (this is actually a problem of Long Island in general).  In any case, I was underwhelmed.  So much so, in fact, that I have not been back to Bell Blvd. since.  Hey, when it's a meatloaf knish or singles for a strip club, your priorities have a way of sorting themselves out.  Wait, what?

Hey, thanks for the horse doovers!

Verdict: 3.5 out of 5 YOLOs.

Restaurant Review: Nicky's Vietnamese Sandwiches

Do you remember the first time you hit a crack pipe?  Yeah, me neither.  I've heard, however, that drug addicts continually chase their first high, doing endless amounts of dope just to get back to that initial euphoria.  Such is my relationship with Banh Mi, the lust child of French and Vietnamese cooking.  I've tried them all in an effort to recapture that first bite of Nhu Y (802 Christian St., Philadelphia, PA 19147) magic.  But alas, nothing gets me close to that lip-quivering blend of sweet yet savory meat, crisp vegetables, and crunchy but pillowy French bread served up by some Vietnamese dude on the outskirts of the Italian market of Philly.

And yet, I chase.  After moving to Queens, I remembered that a recent "Best Thing I Ever Ate" showcasing sandwiches mentioned the Brooklyn site of Nicky's Vietnamese Sandwiches not once, but twice!  Nicky's Banh Mi was going to be the Blue Magic ("Breaking Bad" reference) to my Nhu Y cloudy meth.  Although the restaurant garnered a paltry 3.5 stars on Yelp, I remained unfazed.  I hopped in my car, sped through town, hit a few old ladies, and parked my car, mouth watering in anticipation.

Me (with gusto): I'll have your famous sandwich!

Cashier: [Odd look.]

Me (deflated this time): The Banh Mi.

Cashier: [Rolls his eyes but acknowledges my order.]

I got my order.  I reached into the bag, my hands shaking violently, and pulled out this magical sandwich.  It was beautiful.  It seemed to have an aura about it, a halo of some sort.  Was this God himself in sandwich form?  I took a bite, and another, and another, and another.  Wads of chewed meat flew violently in every direction.  Men cringed.  Women gawked.  Children ran.

And yet, as the warmth of the meat washed over my brain, I came to a painful epiphany.  Nhu Y was still better.  NHU Y WAS STILL @%#&$% BETTER!  KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!

Yes, I rubbed the other half on my pants.

Verdict: 3.9 out of 5 Wrath of Khans (and still not better than Nhu Y)