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.