My wonderful incredibly hot friend, Lesly Bernard, has opened a fabulous new haunt in the East Village called Mr. Jones. I still have fond memories of Clementine where cocktails were as good as mine back when I was mixing at Marions. I just got word that Mr. Jones has received the coveted New York Times review. As if.
Since I am bound, gagged and chained to my dungeon of an office, running Design Shrine Group and writing a second book - thus unable to have a life of any kind - I have not yet been. But I plan to as soon as I can get my driveway shoveled, since we're again snowed in, and my toe steps onto the wondrous land of Manhattan, I shall avidly try the harami goma shichimi!
But if you're lucky enough to live in the land of epicurean delights, please get thy foxiness over to Mr. Jones immediately and report back!
Now a word from a little rag called the New York Times:
Applause for Lesly Bernard. Failing to and La Otra this fall as planned, Mr. Bernard, the Tillman’s impresario, has managed to open this East Village yakitori lounge. Its
name smacks of Amy Winehouse. The pop innuendo is abetted by drinks from the Angel’s Share bar book and a funked-up Danish modern interior, with big, round, red
banquettes. “In the city, most people don’t have room to entertain their friends, so I really want to offer people a comfortable place for that,” Mr. Bernard said.
Judging by the empty seats, folks are in no mood to party. Perhaps their hearts have been skewered like those in the chef Bryan Emperor’s hatsu in yakitori sauce. At $3, these tasty, if chewy, grilled chicken hearts are a seeming bargain. Still, you would have to gut the whole coop to make a meal. Other grilled meats are more satisfying. The harami goma shichimi’s hefty hunks of wagyu, topped with an opium-thick black sesame paste, deliver on designer-beef indulgence ($7).
Despite their dominance on a menu of small bites, the yakitori aren’t the go-to items; too many taste of gas from the grill. Instead, trust in the Frialator.
Lollipoplike chicken wings — partly boned, fried with potato starch and topped with daikon to offset their earthiness — are a comfort-food balm ($9). Kobe meatballs ($12) are rich enough with molten foie gras centers; frying them is overkill. But the mizuna salad benefits from a sprinkling of crunchy jako fish ($8). Calamari tempura ($8) is the chicken wings’ even trashier, more addictive companion. Slathered in a fermented soybean-and-chili paste that is mellowed and sweetened with cream, it’s a glam-rock sop for the cocktails.
As for those cocktails, who can resist the old-fashioned? It hugs a single sphere of ice. A flock of citrus, peels curled like plumage, perches on its glass. It makes you laugh. Then it soothes you. What more to ask from a drink in troubled times.
By BETSY ANDREWS Published: January 13, 2009 New York Times
