Sinanation

Carefully crafted rolls of sushi gallantly fly across the room. They are perfectly rounded around the seafood and vegetable of choice, lined up on the plate like a string of pearls. They blink over to your comfortable lounge sofa on the main floor strategically positioned next to a DJ who knows how to get the groove on. You pause to think “Sushi has never been this fun. Japanese has never been so out of order.” You are surprised but extremely content to enjoy an extremely traditional meal in a sleek and comfortable lounge with such good music. Things get extra impressive in good weather when the windows come off to let you observe the pedestrians envious of the fun inside. Surrounded by such a good vibe, you can even disregard the slowness and the ignorance of your waitress. After all you are not at a traditional restaurant; you are at Sushi Samba Seven.

Sushi Samba has been around for a long time and has grown into a huge chain with multiple locations in different cities. Both of those facts label the restaurant as a tourist destination for the locals. If it wasn’t for Musa, I would avoid visiting Sushi Samba Seven just like its other locations. Yet, after my second visit, I realized that it would have been a mistake. Out of all the locations, this specific one turns the weekday dinner into a fun social gathering that carries on past the midnight. A few bottles of the Blue Moon Sake coupled with rock shrimp and spicy tuna rolls work the magic.

Sushi Samba Seven at 87 7^th Ave. South (on the corner of 7^th ave. and Barrow St.). No reservations necessary for the lounge.

A heart that is worth a thousand words, a thousand guts, a thousand kisses, a thousand fights, a thousand make-ups, a thousand welcomes and a thousand farewells… It comes surprisingly soon, unexpectedly easy. Delivered on a ripped piece of paper with a borrowed pen. It is surrounded by daylight, music, food and wine. It is brought to life at a small restaurant in New York. You are having the most intriguing conversation with an Italian girl sitting at the table next to yours. You tell her about your Italian business partner and she starts teaching you the language. Your pronunciation makes her laugh. You both enjoy each other’s company in this overly-crowded and eventful restaurant you both happen to be in. An accidental acquittance, a pleasant conversation, a short piece of reminiscence  stored in your ever-expanding library…

This little piece of evidence popped out of my blazer’s inside pocket and pulled me back a few years to Le Bilboquet. One saturday, one brunch, some tuna tartare, a medium rare filet mignon and too many glasses of the famous rosé. That was how it all started…

Girls think it is so easy. Gather a few cute friends. Blow-dry the hair. Put on the make-up, a cute smile with a flirty mimic, some short tight skirts, sexy tops and high heels. Once out the door, they are ready to conquer the nightlife in New York. 80% of the bouncers will be happy to let them in and mingle with us poor guys who are forced to drink at least a few bottles of alcohol at a table with a fake sexy waitress who is looking to suck out the limits on our credit cards.

Do not tell us that we can (maybe) avoid a table reservation. We don’t have the luxury, the character or the patience to deny the rules of the game. It takes ratios, bribes, credit cards and a totally superficial acquaintance to make it to the famous club where you want to dance us until bedtime.

The moment we are behind that red velvet rope we are reminded that we are there to be spiritually abused and financially raped. We get the attitude from the host who probably can not come close to the education, vision and culture we have been injected with over the years. We become the victim in front of an “average Joe” looking to abuse all the power he/she has been surprisingly given as the person who decides who to let into this luscious club that will only be popular for a few more months. We are constantly asked how many is in our party as we watch weird guys cutting through the line with their whole clan. We point towards the faces of our friends hoping they will pass the “beauty” test. We overhear the bouncers deciding the faith of our night by asking each other “what do you think?” with an extremely arrogant face. We wait. We ask for attention like a helpless puppy although a lion roars “you are too good for this” inside, grabbing onto our male ego. We are finally slapped with the sentence “I.D.s out!”. We hug although we despise. We shake hands although we hate the deal.

Each time we walk up to that club door we have cramps thinking about the next step. Yet, we walk the line with the prospect of a fun night with close friends. We take the attitude with the hope of a kiss from a girl we fancy. Alcohol helps only to ease the tension built up at the start of a night out in the city.

We pay the bill with a bad hangover and a regret that reminds us how we will pull through another night out in the city that never sleeps.

I have never been to the infamous Socialista at Jane Hotel in New York (113 Jane St.). It became so popular at one point that numerous New York blogs and magazines started writing about every detail and socialite visitor of the hip lounge/nightclub. Yet with growing noise complaints from the rich and influential residents of the West Village, Socialista was forced to close its doors before we could visit the place. The only time we gave it a try was when we got the most well-known New York bouncer excuse “sorry but we are closed for a private party” casually thrown over us.

The supposedly cool and nontraditional bohemian Cuban  lounge handed over its keys to a completely different setting a few months ago. The bar filled with alcohol turned into a fruit and desert display with abundant coffee. The red velvet sofas left their place to comfortable leather chairs. Bright light became a necessary accessory in this high-ceiling room that once housed dark night sessions of live Latin music. It became the second location of the original Gitane of SoHo. The menu stayed the same with food as delicious as before. The dirty look of the SoHo location, which forced visitors to question the hygiene level in the kitchen, transferred into a fresh, well-established restaurant that also accepts credit cards. Rather than being a source of bad day-after hangover, the place became a fun healing ground after wild Saturday nights.

It finally came all together here. This place could be my new most favorite Sunday eatery. I recommend:

The fresh watermelon juice (with ice)
Avocado, Lemon juice, Olive oil, Chili Flakes on Seven Grain Toast
Cucumber, Yogurt and Mint Salad with hummus, chili flakes and pita bread
Moroccan Couscous with red peppers, raisins, toasted pine nuts, hummus and eggplant with organic chicken
Orange Blossom Waffle with fruit, maple syrup and a scoop of vanilla ice-cream

Get everything to share if you want to avoid obesity.

Hope you can make it…Call 212 751 3036 for reservations.

I accidentally ran into this exotic patisserie in the Rockefeller Center and took the plunge in with the urge to try something new. Minimoto Kitchoan is a Japanese confectioneries store (“wagashi”) for tea ceremonies.

With numerous weird, but delicious looking deserts showcased inside separate glass displays, the place reminds one of an exquisite candy store. Make sure you talk to the ladies and read the descriptions inside to make the best selection among numerous tiny deserts made with chestnuts.

I am not going to deny that I go to Cipriani Downtown for the scene (but I also love the food). I haven’t written about it until today because of its obvious popularity. From locals to tourists, this place is always packed with more fur, jewelry, make-up and attitude than any other New York restaurant you can think of. Multiple languages blend into one another somewhere around the high ceilings of the dining room. The extremely happy Cuban mister with a huge cigar and smile winks at the tables from his over-sized frame. The famous carefully-suited managers of the place are always welcoming and courteous. Outside seating is available as long as there isn’t a rain or snow storm. Everyone has a story here. Some are easy to write and others take further investigation to put together. One day you might be eating next Arturo Di Modica (the sculptor of the famous Charging Bull on Wall St.) and the next you might be rubbing shoulders with an emerging model testing her “trophy wife skills”. You are at a pretentious museum of people and you are also on display. You detest the idea but you can’t resist the stalking and the attention.

The menu might not compete with the scenery but it is still good enough to make you want to come back for your favorite dish. The prices are obviously unreasonable, but should be expected from Italians who know how to play the flashy fame game so brilliantly. The Bellini is the best in the city, but make sure you know when to stop. The fried calamari, the artichoke salad, the baked tagliatelle and the seafood risotto (with a portion comfortably enough for two) are delicious.

You can do without the deserts. A single shot of espresso with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream on the side should do the trick.

Cipriani Downtown is located at 376 W. Broadway (between Broome and Spring).

Frank Sinatra once said “I want to wake up in a city that never sleeps” and pointed towards New York. Since then New York’s lights have never faded. 24 hours a day and 7 days a week there was one city that had something to do, someone to be with and some place to have fun. Sinatra might have gone a little too far.

There have been days when I thought the whole city was asleep. I would be comfortably positioned behind the TV, desperate yet unsuccessful to find a “partner-in-crime” or an event to take on the city. This was especially the case on Monday nights. Known as the nightmare of the workers, the first work day after an extremely peaceful and lazy Sunday had to have some kind of a plan to look forward to. Sinatra definitely forgot to mention that even in “the city that never sleeps” such plans are very hard to find.

This is where my friends Daniel and Derek Koch come in.

These two unbelievably driven event managers/promoters have been on the backstage of some of the best events I have been to in this city. I met them as waiters and watched them grow into managers of their own entertainment company, Day & Night. From happy hours, dinners to benefits, they have been working hard to make sure Sinatra’s lyrics rely on hard evidence. They decorated the dreams of women who brunched at Le Bilboquet on Saturdays. They amazed the gourmets with a delicious menu at their Jour et Nuit restaurant. They made sunglasses a fashion at Merkato 55 & Bijoux to hide from the sparkles fired up on Rose and Champagne bottles.

I fell in love with their model bouncers. I climbed on tables to dance to their DJs. We celebrated birthdays and we cried to farewells at their events. I have been there because they have never ceased to value personal attention.

They are still on fire Saturdays with their brunch at Revel in meatpacking, but I have been bugging both for a while to put together an event that can ease the pain of Mondays. The happy news came unexpectedly. They prepare to take on La Zarza (166 First Ave. between 10th and 11th st.) with two DJs from Madrid, Spain and a crowd that is ready to let it loose.

Hope to see you there. Party starts March 1st.

I had to share this quote as it grabs onto my inner feelings about the city “that never sleeps”, the city that has been my home for more than 3 years. It is a short paragraph with much longer meanings written by my dear friend, Nichol Alexander, for his descriptive piece on Johnny’s Bar (90 Greenwich Ave., between Jane and W. 12th St.), his favorite place in Manhattan.

I was born in NY. And I love it. But I also know enough to know, it’s a fucking horrible city, drowning in a pestilence of unsustainable capitalist angst. Velvet ropes holding back the 20 year old sluts in short dresses trying to fuck the next partner at Goldman, meatheads and uberhipsters chasing a pair of legs or a purer line of powder in the bathroom. The streets are crowded by ceaseless illusions. Strippers on stages. Restless competition. A neverending stream of unforgivable trespasses. Infinite objectification, specialization, untraceable trends; it is a city designed to destroy love and make simplicity complicated and everything commercial.

You can find the whole article at The Bar I Drink At.

I remember the days when I used to go nuts seeing it snow outside. I would run from one side of the house to the other to see how well it was covering the surface. Happiness and excitement would flow out of my eyes. I would be a Formula 1 driver with my socks, gliding like a maniac on the wooden floors. My only wish would be to hear the governor close the schools the next day. Only then the real fun would begin. With the company of a few friends we would take on the white powder with multi layers of ski outfits. Our cheeks pumped with blood and our hands and feet soaking wet, we would become the Eskimos of the urban life. On the way back home, we would jump up and down to get rid of the snow stuck on us and take the leap into our beds after hours of snowman projects, snowball fights and trekking.

Along the years snow stayed the same, but I, unwillingly, have changed. I still think of the aftermath whenever I see snow outside the window, but from a completely different point of view. I now think of the mess that is going to be on the pavements the next day. The harmless beautiful white snow will turn into harsh ice and then melt into an annoying grey slush. Shoes will be ruined. Socks and pants will be soaking wet. Within all the crazy pavement traffic in Manhattan, we will once again be challenged with successfully solving an extra equation while walking. We will be forced to calculate the best routes to avoid falling down and/or getting wet on the corner of each block.

I am still a big fan of the snow, but I now have to be in parks or on ski slopes to let the kid in me take control.