Hamburger Mary's

Hamburger Mary's on Santa Monica and N Sweetzer Ave, LOS ANGELES

Hello blog universe!  I haven't updated this thing in, well, my God, over 4 years.  I have been eating out alone, I promise you.  I have no good excuses for my absence, really.  Luckily no one reads this thing, so my apologies are like wisps of wind curling around a dead cactus in the middle of the Mojave.

Today, a Tuesday, I found myself in West Hollywood.  I moved to Los Angeles a few months back.  Well, I'm "splitting time" between LA and New York.  I'm bi-coastal.  I'm important.  No, the reality of the matter is, if I'm going to luxuriate in this perpetually under-employed lifestyle, I'd rather do it in shortpants in February.

Today, a Tuesday, I was finished at the gym with a nebulous period of freedom and a hankering for something to spoil the fruits of my workout.  A burger and some fries.  America.

I had heard about Hamburger Mary's because I like drag queens and sometimes drag queens do things there.  Like Drag Bingo.  Which is a thing people do.  I don't judge, because I don't know me at age 80.  Today at 1:45pm, no drag queens were in sight when I walked in.  Which was a relief, because I only had 50 minutes on the meter.  Food and go.  In and out.  This was my plan.

There were only a few other tables with people at them, and one muscly dude in a tank top painting black stripes along the interior restaurant wall.  An equally muscly waiter in shortpants said, "Anywhere you like, doll."  I blushed as I found a hightop table and a chair with back support.

"First time here?" he sidled up beside me.  "Uh yeah, just moved from Brooklyn," I stammered.  I'm not used to any sort of Hooters-style attention, especially before 2pm.  He recommended a burger, the spicy one.  I ordered in medium-rare, and while I waited I read a few chapters of the current book on etiquette I have on loan from the library.

Nothing like sitting in a mostly empty, gay-themed restaurant, waiting for a burger, while reading a book on etiquette, 8 hours before the drag queens arrive, amirite?

The spicy burger came, and it wasn't half bad.  To drink I stuck with water, even though technically, by the time the burger arrived it was 5pm in New York.  I guess I'm not really bi-coastal.

The burger came with a white sauce which I assume is ranch, because since leaving New York, I discovered that aside from oil, America's most important natural resource is ranch dressing.

I weep for this county.

But before the tears dried on my cheek, I definitely dipped that burger in that Motherf*cking Ranch.

The bill was 18 dollars, because this is Los Angeles, and like New York, 18 dollars is not a criminal amount to charge for a hamburger.  I left an even 20% and grabbed my things before the waiter could flirt with me again (though his sweetness was appreciated).

Another meal, enjoyed alone.

Colador Cafe

Colador Cafe on Bedford Ave btwn Dekalb Ave and Kocsiuszko St

Brooklyn Chillaxin' is how this new-ish BedStuy cafe chooses to differentiate itself. And, as I'm barely employed, chillaxe is what I like to do these days. So I often find myself here.

I live in the middle/slightly west of center BedStuy; a few blocks south of Tompkins Park. Real Estate agents keep pushing the Clinton Hill boarder closer and closer to me, but if I'm to be real, and I'm nothing if not real, I live BedStuy. And so does this cafe.

The space is warm, lots of wood, with 8 or so tables along the wall and in the back, with a couch and a couple of stools at a high counter which looks out on to the street. There's a latin/cuban feel with the music and some of the decoration. The food is mostly standard cafe food. Some eggs, paninis, sandwiches, bagels, you know, REGULAR CAFE FOOD.

This day I walk in, and Josie, the lady behind the corner is no longer mad at me. She made it a point to know my name after I had been in there a number of times, and the last time I came in, admittedly after a prolonged absence, she looked me up and down and said, "Nuh uh, I'm not talking to you."

She jested. She missed me.

Today was the first weekend day I came in. They have table service on weekends! I ordered the omelette with spinach and sausage, with french fries, and a piping hot cup of coffee.

Listen, the food is good, the coffee is good. Josie is a pistol. The atmosphere is nice. With a tip, you'll never spend more than 11 or 12 bucks. This place is really nice. I think you'll like it.

And that was another meal, enjoyed alone.

Chez Oskar

Chez Oskar, Dekalb Ave and Adelphi St.

Hello nobody! I'm sure you've missed me.

I have been to this locale once before, on one of those dates where the other person looks really good on paper and then it ends up being a total mess.

THIS evening, however, I had made plans with a friend to eat somewhere in Ft. Greene, as she was a newbie bike-rider and we thought to meet somewhere equidistant from our respective neighborhoods. She woke up from a late afternoon nap feeling like doody, so I went by myself.

I sat at the bar; perhaps because I am a bartender, I really like sitting at bars. The bartendress was the same cute French? girl who when I called asking if there was seating at the bar (I couldn't recall from that one genial date) I had to repeat the question three different times with different nouns and verbs.

I ordered a Kronenbourg 1664 while I thought about the menu. A number of things called out to me, but something about an entree portion of Steak Tartare pulled at my heart strings and I wanted to scream-sing me some Edith Piaf. Instead I just ordered the dish.

It was heaven. I big thick patty of raw fresh beef minced with capers and onions with a raw quail egg on top and toasted baguette and french fries. The second I ordered a glass of house cote-du-rhone to finish off the meal, some early evening jazz band started up in the corner of the restaurant.

I have an aversion to live jazz in restaurants. It's cheesy and it begs attention from whatever else I want to be doing. Like giving bedroom eyes to the beautiful bald black lady in the other corner. When I dine alone I am Captain Anyone.

But they weren't half bad. And as I scraped my plate clean and they finished the first song, I clapped. Because they were good, and I wasn't really gonna make it with that bald lady anyway.

The bill was $32 on the nose, and I paid with a credit card but left $6 in cash.

Another meal enjoyed, all alone.

Cafe Luluc

Cafe Luluc, Smith St. between Baltic and Butler Sts.

I've dined here alone quite a bit, dear reader(s), and it should be a surprise for all of us that I haven't written about this establishment sooner. It's quite a treat.

Cafe Luluc - which I could have sworn was Cafe Lulu with a small registered trademark symbol next to it, it's not, it's a smaller font "c", strange - is a French? bistro that plays Latin? music. I think. Something like that. It's fucking super cute, with bottles of wine lining the banquettes, and newspapers and magazines lining the walls.

I went in last night after work, around 11:15 craving something I have had there an earlier time - Mussels Poulette. The dish is mussels steamed in a tarragon cream sauce with bacon, celery and leeks. They call this dish an appetizer. It's enormous. Based on my previous experience, I ordered just the Mussels and a side of French Fries. I was feeling for a drink, because I had just gotten off of work and it's a job I don't care for, so I ordered a glass of rose wine. The menu just offers white, red, or rose wine, with no indicator as to the producer. The server asked if I wanted "regular or sparkling." Um, fucking duh, I get real queer for sparkling rose, so pour it up my dear man.

The wine came, it was kinda flat. I didn't care too much to change it. The food came and I jizzed in my pants. Now, call me a rube, but when I order shellfish, I kinda like to get the shells out of the way first. Like all of them. Just five minutes of work and then uninterrupted heaven. And that's what I did. And I took handfuls of French Fries and threw 'em in the sauce. I killed that dish. Absolutely killed it.

The bill came out to 24 bucks or so. It's a cash only joint, so I left 30, got on my bike with a heavy grin, and peddled my satiated self back home.

Another satisfying meal enjoyed, all alone.

Vinny's of Carroll Gardens, Smith St. between Union and Sackett Sts.

This restaurant and "luncheonette" is one of the last stalwarts of an older Carroll Gardens and the Italian population that shaped it. The people are friendly, and some of the waitresses, I would say, are downright brassy, but in the best possible way.

I often order food to go here. They have a lunch counter with various Italian things sitting in metal trays over barely boiling water. They got the fried chicken cutlets, the pasta marinara, the eggplant parmigiana, you know, all that Italian stuff.

I like the guys behind the counter. After the third or forth time I ordered some food to go for lunch, one of them said, "what, you don't work?" Because I, unlike most adults my age, have been riding this "barely employed" line for a number of years, making do with a couple of night jobs and acting work. I smiled and said "barely," and they laughed, and I told them I was an actor. The following time I came in, the same guy said, "hey, Mr. New York Times!" He had apparently seen the commercial and after knowing I was an actor, they understood why I show up in their restaurant between 2 and 4pm with bedhead.

Today, a brassy waitress smiled and told me to sit wherever I like. I chose a booth, and ordered what I usually order - Penne Pasta with Sausage and Broccoli Rabe. Being as it was the middle of the day, I ordered a Diet Pepsi. They bring it in the plastic bottle with a glass of ice.

The food came, she brought some bread, it was very tasty, though they sometimes leave a generous amount of pasta water in the bottom of the bowl, so if you don't eat quickly enough, you're left with soggy pasta. They leave whole chunks of garlic sitting on top of the broccoli. I fucking love garlic. Between garlic and sex, I would actually choose both, though it never seems to work out that way.

I have no idea what it cost. Maybe 16 bucks? I threw down a 20 and made my way to the door. A warm smile and a "see ya later!" as I left the restaurant.

This luncheonette has a special place in my heart. It reminds me of back home. Where customer service wasn't discussed in meetings with the management. They're happy I'm spending money. And I'm happy with garlic and sausage and no-nonsense attitudes and diet pepsi in a plastic bottle.

Another meal enjoyed, all alone.

Prime Meats

Prime Meats, on Court St. at Luquer St.

My dear followers, if any of you exist, my apologies for such a lapse of time. Please don't take it to mean I haven't been eating out alone. I have been. I was just waiting for a nice experience to ruminate on. And here we are.

Prime Meats is a restaurant from the folks who brought us Frankie's Spuntino, two doors down on Court St. in Carroll Gardens. I had been to Frankie's thrice before, for lunch, and the food, service, and atmosphere were all fantastic. Last Monday I was in a celebrating mood - I had finished shooting my first day of the first real feature-length movie I've done, and decided upon Prime Meats as the location to enjoy a dinner. All by myself.

Now. Prime Meats is capitalizing on this New York/Brooklyn trend of speakeasy chic. With old-timey cocktails, and bartenders with ties tucked inbetween the buttons of their shirts. I haven't been drinking lately - mostly for reasons of vanity (I appear shirtless in this movie, and when I cut out the sauce I can loose a couple of lbs.) - and worried that my lack of desire to get soused would inspire a cranky attitude from my server. It didn't.

I was seated in the bar area, at what they called the communal table, which was really just an oddly long table with 6 seats. At the other end was an affable man who smiled at me when I sat, and his ladyfriend, a woman I noticed from around the neighborhood as being a drunk.

I ordered a seltzer with a splash of cranberry juice. They don't have cranberry juice. Excuse me? They had grapefruit and something else. I got the grapefruit and holy shit it was refreshing.

The food. For the first course I ordered the Sauteed Wild Mushrooms & Poached Amish Egg. The. Most. Delicious. Thing. I'veeverfuckinghad. I must have looked deranged, I had to actually tell myself to slow the fuck down and not lick the plate.

The second course was the 12oz Grilled Prime New York Strip Steak, cooked medium-rare. I should've ordered in rare. It came with a watercress salad and a chimichurri sauce, which I slathered on the beef. It was good. My breath reeked of the most intense garlic for about 3 days after. The price you pay.

When I was finished, the waitress smiled and said, I'm gonna wait a while and let you digest before I bring you the check. Or something like that. It came off as very endearing, because she's right. What's the rush? This life is long, let's just enjoy ourselves. The bill was around $35. $42 with the tip. Would I come back? Definitely. At least for the Mushrooms and Amish Egg. And perhaps again when I can tie one off. The drinks looked tasty too.

Another fancy meal enjoyed all alone.

The Fall Cafe

The Fall Cafe, on Smith St. between President and Union Sts.

Saturday coffee is better than Sunday coffee, because there aren't a ton of assholes at the coffeeshop. I had some work to do, and though I spend too many hours in front of my computer at home, she is a laptop, and work needs doing, so I dragged her to the coffeeshop around the corner for some change of scenery and a nice mug of joe.

A great thing about the Fall Cafe is the $2.50 mug of coffee that comes with two refills. It's basically asking you to hang out for a bit. And although summer prompts me to get iced coffees, Saturday was rainy. I staked out a nice table by the window, and ordered this mug, and some granola with steamed milk. The whole thing cost about $6.

Here's the thing. I didn't tip. I've worked in the food service industry for a number of years, and consider myself a generous tipper. But it's the tip jars that started appearing everywhere that has given me pause outside, what I consider, normal tip-giving establishments. Tip jars at coffeeshops, delis, laundrymats, I once saw a tip jar at a photocopy store, basically everywhere commerce is performed there seems to be a tip jar. I don't know if that's just playing on or maybe exploiting the American urge to tip a job well done OR if cheapskate employers pay their workers less and justify it by putting out a tip jar. I assume it's the former, but sometimes I get a nasty look if I don't toss my change or a buck in the jar. Yesterday at the Fall Cafe was one of those days.

No biggie. The granola was good, the coffee piping hot, it was a nice day spent watching the rain fall outside. Every other table was filled with other folks on laptops. When I worked for Starbucks for that month in college, I had to read all this corporate literature about what this "third space" is, and how coffeeshops, like bars for drunks, should be a completely enjoyable space that isn't work and isn't home, but should maintain positives of both those two environments. I think Fall Cafe does a fine job at being that third space.

Another coffee and granola enjoyed all alone.