For me, there's not much more satisfying than a good meal. On the flip side, there's not much more disappointing than a bad one.
Unfortunately, I was fork-deep in a bad one this evening.
After a long day at school spent trussing and quartering chickens—not to mention an early morning test about filleting fish—I was ready for a relaxing evening and a great meal. Ryan and I opted for a restaurant we hadn't tried in the neighborhood (which I will respectively keep unnamed) and we were completely let down.
I knew it was bad news once the waitress replaced my glass of skunky wine with another glass of skunky wine. (Restauranteurs: If your place doesn't have air conditioning and it's consistently been 90-plus degrees outside, keep the bottles somewhere cool—or don't sell wine at all. It's not rocket science, people.) The appetizers followed, and I'm almost certain the advertised truffle oil wasn't in the dish. Our bland entrees came last.
Ryan wanted to blame his cold, and I wanted to blame my burnt tongue, which I injured today tasting court boullion (a short broth) that was just taken off the burner. However, I'm fairly confident it wasn't our taste buds fooling us. The food was bad. Period.
I'm sure there are plenty of poor restaurants in this city, but I don't often find myself eating at them. Whether a dive or a Michelin star joint, I usually rely on friends' requests, NYMag.com or Yelp.com. I'm not usually led astray. Today was an exception.
We needed a quick recovery. The tasteless meal led us to Brix, a great little wine store on 9th Street in the East Village. We settled on a white blend from Bordeaux.
Wine saved me from my whine.
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