The Only Thing We Hate More Than a $16 Bread Basket Is a Bathroom Attendant

French Fries -- Balthazar

Balthazar

We will admit it up front: we have a personal vendetta against Balthazar.

Now, there are many things with which we could take umbrage concerning the place:

1. Their Soho location, causing us to trip constantly over mismatched cobblestones,

2. A seating arrangement that makes airplane configurations seem "spacious," and

3. Their rather pretentious air of "We think we're French, even more than the French do," which permeates the entire place. 

In Balthazar, These Would Be Called "French Flowers"

But none of these details alone would be enough to keep us from returning to Balthazar.  Instead, the main culprit in our grudgery is a little thing called the "Balthazar bread basket."

WHICH COSTS $16.

With All That Money, You'd Think They Could Afford Something Better Than Dishcloths for Napkins

Yes, that is correct -- $16 for a pile of goodness that any respectable establishment would provide for free.  Actually, we retract that statement -- said bread basket, all $16 of it, is not actually that "good."


It's "fair" at best.  Verging on "poor."

 

It also COSTS $16.

Obviously, few things make us more bitter than having to pay for our carbs.

Presumably We'll Be Shelling Out Money for the Tap Water Next

So we arrive at Balthazar, pent-up bitterness boiling in the backs of our throats, and we are escorted to our table.  By some miracle, the hostess does not insist on squeezing us in between two already full tables, and for five glorious minutes, we have a whole area all to ourselves.

And then, like clockwork, Balthazar begins jamming 12 people into an area where only 6 should ever be. 

FYI, Our Table Is About 1/16 the Size of That Booth

We huddle over the wine list for entirely too long, Ginger trying to decide whether to order red or white, and Vodka discerning whether it makes more sense to order carafes or half bottles.  

"I Might Have to Go With -- " "A Half Bottle?" "I Was Going to Say 'White'"

We soon settle on two carafes of... well, one of the reds.  The one that was deemed by our waiter to taste the most like pinot noir.  And then -- you won't even believe it -- we get a bread basket.

A FREE bread basket.

What Is This Wizardry of Which You Speak?

Now, said basket does not feature oodles of pastry variations like the $16 version, but we never even knew Balthazar gave away any free bread at all!  We are temporarily elated, and the bread (especially after sprinkles of salt are added to the dreaded unsalted butter) is rather scrumptious.

Nicely done, Balthazar.  Way to redeem yourself.

That Wasn't So Hard Now, Was It?

Moving onto our entrees, we are here to eat Bobby Flay's Best Thing I Ever Ate TOTALLY FRIED dish, the French fries, so our main concern is what meal we can order and be guaranteed a plethora of said fries.  Ginger chooses the hamburger, and Vodka the moules frites ("Those are mussels right?  Not oysters?"  We're such gourmands).  In a matter of minutes, our table, which could pretty much fit half of a person comfortably, is overflowing with plates and utensils -- the bread basket, the butter, the wine carafe, two wine glasses, two water glasses, the burger, the mussels, three bowls in which to discard the mussel shells, the French fries, the mayonnaise, and a plethora of flatware.

Needless to say, we start dropping things pronto.

No More Room at the Inn

First things first, the French fries (which, naturally, Vodka douses in two tons of salt) live up to Bobby's description, primarily because they "taste like McDonald's version" (our highest compliment).  

So Essentially, Balthazar Is an Upscale Mickey D's

Light and somehow without grease, they are just crispy enough on the outside without becoming crunchy, and the variations in size and shape make for a pleasant experience.

Truth Be Told, We Really Meet Few French Fries With Whom We Don't Get Along

If we came back to Balthazar again, we would certainly order the fries.  But the jury is out on whether or not that set of circumstances will ever occur.

Do You Have a To-Go Window for JUST Fries?

Ginger is pleased by her burger, which is topped by lettuce, tomato, and onion (but not cheese, which Ginger did not want.  Vodka is predictably appalled).  

All These Years, She Thought "Hamburgers" Were an Urban Legend

It also comes with about a gallon of French fries on the side, so if nothing else, we give Balthazar 5 stars on their portions.

Mount Everest of Fries in Background

Now, Vodka's mussels, while certainly not bad, are not great either.  Rather lukewarm in temperature, they are also piled so high in their caldron that Vodka is a third of the way through the meal before she finds any sauce at all.  

Oh, THERE You Are, Sauce. We've Missed You

If anything, these mussels are hovering on the wrong side of "dry," so Vodka makes a great show out of consuming her cornucopia of fries for 45 minutes instead ("No, no, still working on those, bread boy").

Does This Look Empty to You?

As our meal winds down, we are -- if not HAPPY with Balthazar -- certainly less hostile towards them than we were walking in.  That is, of course, until we enter the bathroom and find an attendant.

And there are few things in the world that get on our nerves more than a bathroom attendant.  

We Hate Them Even More Than We Do Dry Mussels

We consider ourselves more than capable of finding our own paper towels without having to suffer the indignation of someone sitting outside the stall, listening to us pee.  So we fly in and out of the bathroom even more quickly than we would have if left to fetch our own soap.

And we don't leave the attendant a $16 tip either.

Balthazar's French Fries: 4 stars

So Bring On the Figgy Pudding

Warm Barbecue Potato Chips with Blue Cheese and Bacon Dip -- Blue Smoke

Blue Smoke

There is a reason it has taken us so long to make our way to Blue Smoke.  After all, in what normal universe would we object to consuming homemade potato chips, immediately, if not sooner?

Come At Us, Carbs

But Blue Smoke is not just a restaurant, but also a jazz club, and if there is one kind of music we... how to say politely?

Well, we hate jazz.

Hi, Yes, Do You Guys Have Any Showtunes?

For this reason, when Ginger arrives at our table (which Vodka had already made the hostess switch, when she tried to seat us next to a table of babies.  Homie don't play that), Vodka asks with mild panic in her voice, "Where does the jazz happen?"  (The implication being, "Please don't let it be anywhere near us").

Ginger waves her hand dismissively.  "In another room.  Don't worry.  We're not close to it."

We Have Restraining Orders Out Against Saxophones

With that assurance, we move onto the most important item on our agenda: cocktails.  And it is at this point that our waiter realizes he has a long night ahead of him.

Primarily Because We're Too Busy Reading the Coasters to Pay Attention to Him

Ginger, after trying to talk said waiter into giving us a happy hour special (and failing), orders a Dark and Stormy.  Vodka, however, is trying to discern which, if any, of the specialty cocktails are not sweet, and when our waiter answers, "Um, none of them," she asks if she can have the Porch Swing made with "more gin, less lemonade."

"So Pretty Much Just Bring Me Some Gin"

This comment, while made somewhat ("somewhat") in jest, actually seems to come to fruition, as the bartender's less-sweet creation is not only delicious, but deceivingly strong (it is also a very large pour, which is always appreciated).  Apparently, these are the kinds of beverages patrons need to consume in order to sit through seventeen rounds of jazz riffs.

Though Considering the Headaches We Had the Next Day, Perhaps Blue Smoke's "Gin" Is "Rubbing Alcohol"

With our cocktails squared away, we order Susan Feniger's Best Thing I Ever Ate FINGER FOOD dish, the warm barbecue potato chips with blue cheese and bacon dip.  Not really in the mood for Blue Smoke's classic barbeque delicacies, we debate for many, many minutes about what else to order.  And while heaven knows we love a fat-laden calorie, it is at this time that we realize just how HEAVY all of the items on Blue Smoke's menu are -- there is pretty much nothing one can order and still leave the place not feeling like she has gained multiple pounds.

So, we figure, when in Rome, go for the fried stuff.

Preparing to Become the Pillsbury Doughgirls

We ask our now long-suffering waiter (who has approached our table three times now asking for our entree order, and each time has been waved away with a murmur of "We're drinking") what Jackie's fry bread is, and when he describes it as a "savory doughnut," we're instantly sold.  Within minutes, our first round of food -- the chips and the fry bread -- appear, and we dive in.

Well, we attempt to dive in.

Only the food, the fry bread in particular, is astoundingly hot.  Like, so hot that it's pretty much impossible to touch, let alone eat.  And we are not fond of being delayed from stuffing food into our mouths.

Waiter, Return This Dish to the Kitchen Until It Is Appropriately Lukewarm

We reach for the more temperate of the two dishes, the homemade potato chips, which Ginger has actually had before and was less than overwhelmed by.  The first couple of chips make Vodka think that Ginger was being too picky -- warm with a slight hint of barbecue seasoning, the chips themselves are mostly vehicles for the blue cheese and bacon dip.

Dip = The Greatest Condiment

On their own, the chips aren't all that interesting, but when combined with the dip, it makes for a pleasing, if not entirely original, combination.

Anyone Have a Bag of Utz To Top These Off?

But as we reach the bottom of the bucket, the bigger problem with these chips begins to emerge.  Generally speaking, we're not all that into when restaurants make their own potato chips for a few reasons:

1. They're usually overcooked...

2. ...And yet somehow soggy....

3. And the longer they sit, the more tightly they all stick together.

And indeed, all of these problems are true when it comes to Blue Smoke's chips.

This Dish Would Be More Appropriately Called "Warm Barbecue Potato CHIP"

By the bottom of the barrel, they are essentially one solid mass of greasy chip, in desperate need of some crispiness.  And based on the gallon of blue cheese dip we still have left, Blue Smoke needs some work when it comes to appropriate portions.

So Are We Just Supposed to Spoon The Rest of This DIRECTLY Into Out Mouths?!

When the fry bread has finally cooled down for us to taste, we are instantly disappointed.  The stuff is indeed like a doughnut in texture -- fluffy and soft and just barely fried on the outside.

A Glazed Doughnut Sans the Glaze

But it is so ridiculously BLAND that Vodka ends up using Blue Smoke's entire condiment collection in order to try to bring some flavor to the stuff (for the record, the salt is, naturally, the most effective).

Something In This Contraption Has Got to Have Some Taste to It

You Keep Your Magic Dust, Blue Smoke -- We'll Take Your Salt

At this point, not entirely impressed by Blue Smoke's food selection so far, we opt for a second round of cocktails, a Caesar salad, and an order of sticky toffee pudding.  The salad is decidedly "blah" -- essentially hunks of romaine hearts, hacked into pieces and sprinkled with an oily dressing and grocery store-style croutons.

We Pretty Much Ordered This Because It Was the Only Thing Not-Fried-Within-an-Inch-of-Its-Life on the Menu

We consume it half-heartedly, partially because we are already somewhat full from our foray into fried foods, but mostly because we think it could stand for a bit (okay, a ton) more dressing.

Is THIS What All the Extra Blue Cheese Dip Was For?!

However, lest you think everything (except the cocktails) at Blue Smoke is verging on the side of Average-to-Poor, we still have to contend with the sticky toffee pudding.  And this thing is a bit of majesty.

The Crown Jewels

Truth be told, we're not exactly sure what sticky toffee pudding is -- only that it's an English dessert (a fact we know because we consumed it in the England section of Epcot).  Indeed, multiple times through the course of the evening, we end up referring to it as "figgy pudding," and thus launching into confused versions of Christmas carols.

"How's It Go? 'Bring On the Figgy Pudding?'" "Bring US Some Figgy Pudding. Not Bring ON."

But despite our confusion, we are in love with this dessert -- the cake portion is moist yet sturdy, the accompanying toffee sauce is just sweet enough, and the sprinkle of pecans and whipped/sour cream over top pull the whole thing together.

Everything's Better with a Dollop of Cream

THIS, Susan Feringer, is 5 stars.  Those pesky potato chips are decidedly not.

Admittedly more than buzzed from our two cocktails, we make a great show about screwing up our bill, Vodka launches into a convoluted tale about hair care ("In a manic episode while drinking a lot of caffeine, I bought a hair dryer"), and Ginger begins hoarding Blue Smoke's toothpicks (which Vodka is convinced are matches, and thus accuses Ginger of taking up smoking).

Ginger Didn't Light the Fire

Needless to say, the Blue Smoke staff can't seem to get rid of us fast enough.  And lucky for us, we manage to trip our way out of the place before a single note of the dreaded jazz music hits our ears.

Blue Smoke's Warm Barbecue Potato Chips with Blue Cheese and Bacon Dip: 3 stars

How About Another Round, Bread Boy?

Tempura Bacon -- The Red Cat
The Red Cat

"I mean, I know we can be kind of annoying, but the Bread Boy didn't even smile at us!"

To say the least, things at The Red Cat are not going well.

By the Way, Who Paints Their Cat Crimson?

We probably should have known walking into the place that we were in for a bit of trouble for a couple of reasons:

1. It has taken us over two years to eat here because they have refused to keep the Best Thing I Ever Ate dish on the menu consistently (one of our top pet peeves), and even more tellingly,

2. Vodka was CHASED down the street by a psychic just prior to entering the place.  Said psychic was brandishing a business card and insisting that Vodka had a "a beautiful aura," a fact which a member of any waitstaff in New York City could wholeheartedly dispute.

With a start like this, things at the The Red Cat are bound to be amiss.

Naturally, Though, We Are Seated at the Date Table, So Things Are Looking Up

We begin innocently enough -- well, if "innocent" can be defined by sending the waitress away three times because we're incapable of making a decision on the cocktail menu.  Eventually, Ginger settles on the Elysian Fields and Vodka on the Thai gin and tonic, both of which, naturally, contain gin.

Vodka Apologizes for Abandoning Her Previous Alcohol of Choice, But It's Always Gin O'Clock Somewhere

Neither drink is particularly remarkable (though Ginger does gain valuable insight into Vodka's mind when Vodka sips the Elysian and spits out, "Ugh, it tastes like champagne."  "...You don't like champagne?"  "I HATE champagne.")

We Prefer to Toast Ourselves with Hard Liquor

Ginger can soon be found hunched over her menu and laughing to herself like someone who is decidedly not wrapped too tight.

"What is it?" Vodka finally indulges her after one too many seconds of letting her look certifiable.

"Clearly, I'm missing something," Ginger says, pointing to an entree on the menu: oven-roasted kid.

The Red Cat Likes to Sacrifice Second Graders

"That's goat," Vodka says, suddenly losing all sense of the absurd.  "Not a child."

Deciding against gnawing on a preschooler for dinner, we choose a sweet pea ravioli special to share, along with the baked goat cheese casserole and bacon tempura salad as appetizers.  Now, the actual Best Thing I Ever Ate dish which Ted Allen chose on the TOTALLY FRIED episode was tempura bacon by itself, but its reemergence on the menu has come along with cabralese, apple, watercress, and smoked paprika aioli.  Apparently, The Red Cat is no longer as confident in the merits of its deep-fried bacon as a standalone dish.

Um, Where's the Bacon?

As we sip our cocktails, an inexplicably-already-annoyed-with-us bread boy comes along with a giant basket of bread slices.  Not bread baskets, mind you -- SLICES.

Let the Hostility Commence

As we have made very clear, a restaurant can make or break itself on the bread alone.  And being stingy with the carbs is a surefire way to get on our cranky side.

Well, That, And Us Not Knowing How to Work the Salt Shakers

Besides being way underportioned, this bread leaves MUCH to be desired -- Ginger thinks it needs a minute to heat up in the oven, and Vodka finds that its 80-to-20 crust-to-white ratio is entirely unacceptable.  Despite our general dislike of the stuff, we are desperate for another slice in order to lap up more of the olive oil.  Yet Bread Boy is nowhere to be found.

Restaurants Need to Start Providing Us with Bells With Which to Summon Bread Boys

Temporarily saved from our wrath by the imminent arrival of our food, we distract ourselves from the lack of bread on our table by diving into the bacon tempura salad.  Three slices of the tempura-battered bacon can be found deep within the greenery of the salad, meaning that by the time they are recovered, they are completely soggy rather than crisp.

That Was a Good Game of Hide and Seek, Bacon

We try the bacon on its own first, and it is more off-putting than appealing.  Limp in texture and excessively smoky in flavor, we are flummoxed as to why this was ever called out as being special.

In Other Words, Blech

Admittedly, the addition of the greens and, especially, the cheese, improves matters a bit, but not enough to win us over.  Rather than actually creating a pleasing item, The Red Cat is getting by on the novelty factor of dredging a thin slice of bacon in batter and then deep-frying it.  But let's be honest -- they deep-fry butter at state fairs.  Gourmet invention, this is not.

Tis a Far, Far Worse Thing to Ruin a Salad with Bacon...?

...Or to Ruin Bacon with a Salad?

The baked goat cheese casserole is incredibly disappointing, based on the fact that we had both, separately but with equal enthusiasm, honed in on it on the menu.  Though the cheese itself is served in a tiny ramekin, we run out of bread on which to spread it within seconds, with a solid two-thirds of the cheese still stuck in the dish.

For the Love of Goat Cheese, Someone Bring Us a Loaf!

So Much Cheese, So Little on Which to Spread It

It is at this point that we try to flag down the bread boy.  Or our waitress.  Or anyone.

And there is NO ONE to be found.

Look, We'll Bake the Bread Ourselves If We Need To, People

We appease ourselves temporarily by consuming the sweet pea ravioli, which, while the best item of the three, is still not all that stupendous.  The pasta itself is thin and nicely cooked, but the ravioli are stuck together in one solid mass, which impedes proper dish-sharing.

Essentially, It's One Giant Ravioli

The sweet pea mixture inside the ravioli pockets is pleasing enough.  But the sauce that is spread over top, which looks like a brown butter concoction, is sickeningly sweet when we taste it solo, and, naturally, we would have preferred salty.

Especially because we are now out of bread AND drinks.

And there is still NO ONE to help us.

Empty Glasses and Bread Plates Over Here!

When a solid ten minutes (no exaggeration) pass, and we can still be found lingering over our empty (save for the cheese casserole) plates and glasses, Vodka accosts a random worker and requests that he find our waitress.  Seemingly unable to locate her, this man takes our order for refreshed cocktails and brings us a dessert menu, while Ginger practically mugs the bread boy's basket in search of more bread (which he eventually hands over, albeit begrudgingly).

Service with a Smile... NOT

Finally, our waitress deigns to grace us with her presence, of which our general reaction is "Get us our drinks and some blueberry pie.  Stat." Our refills and dessert make it to our table a few minutes later, and by this point, we are decidedly more hostile than when we arrived.  After all, if there is any surefire way to put us in a bad mood quickly, denying us more bread AND cocktails is it.

Don't You Want to Make More Money Off of Us, Waitress?  Bring Us the Booze!

We ask for the check, and try to use our failing math skills to attempt to figure out what would be considered a "bad" tip, being that our waitress disappeared for at least half an hour of our meal (however, because we never properly learned how to calculate percentages, we end up giving her like 18%.  We're such rebels).

There Is a Reason We Didn't Major in Calculus

In the meantime, we stab our spoons into the dessert, of which the buttermilk ice cream and accompanying crumble is rather delicious, but the mini-blueberry pie itself is not impressive (though the best reason we can come up with for the reason behind this disaster is "The blueberries taste funny").

Perhaps Because of That Weird Smear of Ketchup on the Plate

We pour the remainder of our cocktails into our mouths and stumble outside, remarking loudly to one another, "I am not impressed with this place."

And, needless to say, not a single staff member compliments our beautiful auras on our way out.

The Red Cat's Tempura Bacon: 2 stars