I washed my hair for twelve hours and that did not remove the Benihana-esque lingering stench post Korean BBQ dinner.
The latest anxiety stint: being commissioned with choosing an “authentic ethnic” restaurant when my homeboy from Miami, who is basically a Batali, came to visit New York (stalk him here and hire him for your next catering outing). If you need a veggie burger or pasta recommendation, I got you. But ethnic…F*ck. Extensive research landed us at Takashi. I’ll probably have indigestion for weeks due to shoving a cow down my esophagus at 10 PM. And I tried uni (now I can cross it off my before-I-die bucket list; escargot remains). And sweetbreads—which is some kind of veal gland, and I’m going to have prophecies of basically eating an Adams apple until I die. Dear metabolism, please work some voodoo.
This is a carnivore’s playground. It is their Ja Rule in the form of thinly sliced Kobe beef marinated in garlic butter and sizzled to their fancy. I eat meat on occasion, but have a fear of chicken, and was ecstatic to see there was none on the menu. It’s a cow-only place, but they get funky and offer brain, liver, tongue, ball sacks—the whole shebang. I played it relatively safe with Kobe short rib, beef shank buns, and the like. If Nicki Minaj and J Lo had a child, it would’ve been those buns. You need them.
Also, it happens to be one of Anthony Bourdain’s favorite NYC dining institutions, so that’s never not a golden stamp of culinary approval. I am not a beef connoisseur; I am a devotee of all things that swim in the sea. Still, all things consumed were of top quality, and you get to channel your inner five-year-old and cook dinner yourself. Ambiance was good, place is small, make a reservation, shower accordingly. Then, shower again (and again)
And I quote. “Lex, this is one of the best f*cking meals I’ve ever had,” said Chef I.P. I can die in peace, merci.