review

August

West Village

An influx of medieval hodge podge (and possibly made up) spices piled together in what appears to be a culinary walk of shame.  A Scullery Maid and Merlon's, illegitimate redheaded child (all growns up) and lost in the woods, seeking shelter in an apocathery's abandoned greenhouse.

 

The meat I tried to eat was called Goat Leg. It was accompanied by mystery greens and a viscid little ball they referred to as Dumplings.  The Oxtail Ragu seemed as though it was sauteed in said Scullery Maid's preserved placenta.  And please, don't even ask about the spaghetti squash and chorizo sudoku puzzle they call Camarones a la Parilla. (Added Bonus: Black garlic and squid ink dipping sauce.  ?.)  But don't worry, they lend you a couple crawdads whose beady little eyes gaze upon you while you eat.  As if to say "You will sit at this table until everything on your plate is finished, or I'm telling your father". 

 

Strong points? The wine was good, and ordered by a dashing and brilliant young man. AND if you move the table around enough, it will stop wobbling.

 

Cheers.