Austintatious: Huqleberry is back Austintatious: Do you want to be a part of it? Lars: Haha wow gimme a day to sit on it Austintatious: Ok Lars: U just don’t dive into something as abstract as Huqleberry without first weighing the consequences and repercussions Austintatious: There aren’t any Lars: Famous last words Austintatious: Haa
You might be right but right now it doesn’t matter. I would like to direct your attention to this record. Don’t ridicule Mick Jagger because he had a successful solo career. And just because you see an abundance of his records in dollar bins around the city DOES NOT mean it’s crap. It just means it hasn’t been appreciated. It was the fucking 80’s man, if you don’t believe me watch the video.
Adventure, a word I always refer to when trying a new restaurant. A perfect synthesis of culinary vision, service, and atmosphere is tough to find in a city with a myriad of dining choices (highbrow). New Yorkers know that Saturday’s are synonymous with brunch and a cure for the previous nights festivities.
So, as I made my way through NoLita searching for that perfect place to eat brunch with a friend, we decided to forgo a trusty standby in favor for Barmarche. It was voted Best of Citysearch’s 2006 for brunch and late night dining. I guess a lot can change over two years because after leaving this place I felt like it belonged in New York Magazine’s Openings and Closings. Filed under the latter.
We were promptly seated at a small table next to the window. I was a bit fond of the birch tree trunks running from the floor to windows and the gold trimmed mirrors. After looking over the menu I settled on Monterrey Eggs. I guess they thought they were too fancy to call them Huevos Rancheros (highbrow). My friend settled for the standard Eggs Benedict. After we ordered this place started to expose it’s flaws like a cheap varnish on a luxury armchair.
The atmosphere was awkward to say the very least. It was like the NoHo Star which I feel is equally uncomfortable. At one point I was so thrown off by the unnatural and ill humored behavior of the other patrons that I told my friend I needed to step outside. Escaping the confines of the restaurant, sadly, was my only way out (highbrow). I left her to fend for herself in the ring with the bulls.
I walked around for ten minutes around searching for a Village Voice newspaper bin. What is wrong with this neighborhood?
We received our food, mine was mediocre at best my friends Benedict wasn’t cooked properly and there were egg shells in it. The waiter also interpreted a request for mayo as a request for milk. Milk for what? We didn’t order coffee. They also never fulfilled our request for ketchup. We looked at each other and it was at that point we decided we needed to get out of this place as soon as possible.
This review doesn’t deserve any further attention. The food was average and overpriced (really overpriced). The atmosphere was terrible; an assorted mix of people from a recycling bin in the Hamptons who all pretend to be something they aren’t. Their solstice from a long work week is brunch at Barmache and shopping in SoHo (highbrow). I won’t be caught dead here again. A culinary adventure at the corner of spring and Elizabeth turned into a nightmare just like the last Indiana Jones film. Barmarche is not worthy of it’s location among far better eateries.
After knowing him for over four years I still don’t really know him. What I do know is he is full of a bizarre/dystopian wisdom that can only be referred to as ‘Gundenisms.’
I’ve placed the burden upon my shoulders and have decided to keep a running record of these Gundenisms. It is his legacy.
I don’t need to go anywhere to become a prick. I’m already there.
I guess I’m too tired to be clever.
The Mighty Ducks put hockey on the map.
Ten is a solid number. I’m the one. She is the zero (Moves index finger in and out of crude finger circle). Boom.
SoCo and lime is liquid panty remover.
Don’t pay for the mussels. You pay for a full meal and you get a cock tease.
Phone calls have become a thing of the past – so 1999 as they say. After living without a functioning Black Berry, the epitome of disconnection, I was forced to rely on the phone call. Technology became a bit more humanized again.
I noticed that I had an abundance of text messages (I’m so popular I thought to myself) that couldn’t be read due to the lack of a trackball. It made me wonder, who are these contacts and why are they texting me. It must not be that important if it doesn’t warrant a phone call.
Texting is the new romance. Facebook is the new church. Tweeting is the new obituary.
Yesterday couldn’t have been better. After waking up bright and early in my new bed, I traveled down to South Brooklyn to spend the day on The Little Prince.
The weatherman predicted thunderstorms for the duration of the day but all I felt were the rays of sunlight splashing on my face as we cast the boat out into the mighty Atlantic. I was handed a fishing pole and a beer at 10 a.m. and the rest of the day was a complete route.
I managed to catch two fish. After asking a shipmate what I had caught I was simply told ‘a five thousand dollar fine.’
Needless to say I laughed my ass off at the response. Apparently it isn’t fluke season in New York. Andrew played around with a shark and the “Sangre del Sharko” stained the bow.
Following the boating excursion I found myself at Il Fornetto. After a cup of coffee I attempted to learn how to bet on the ponies but ended up watching the other patrons.
A couple scanned a racing daily and placed bets using money from their pension. “I told you to bet on the five horse. You always switch out one of my horses. Listen to me when I tell you something.” The woman would bellow at her frail husband. He wore thick frames and I don’t think he could read the tiny newsprint that well. I didn’t notice a hearing aid but I’m sure he chose to ignore his wife a long time ago.
A group of Greeks sat around a round table. Some of the men would occasionally slam their fists down when a long shot horse pulled ahead to spoil their trifecta. A glass shattered after a losing race at Belmont Downs.
A chubby Italian sang Paolo Conte tunes while he kicked back his gin and tonic. He was watching baseball, not the races.
A man, at least 60 years of age, waltzed in with a young girl and took a seat across from our table. I was curious to know her age, Andrew and I concluded she had to be no more than 19. She placed some bets while he slurped his soup. The man was not her father.
It all started here, that quiet den of iniquity known only to people as “10A.” For four memorable years it endured the chaotic and serene tenants that occupied it.
On June 30th, 2009 we bid farewell to that lovely address where it all began. I will never forget the memories that 273 East 10th Street #4 created.
As you are well aware, this blog was shut down earlier this year due to unanticipated complications in the mental health of the contributors.
Guess what!? EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!! We are back. Every end has a new beginning (sounds like the tag line to every date movie made in the 90’s).
