Filed under Connecticut
You know it was bound to happen, right? A month into my new job in Connecticut (yes, that Connecticut), I’ve had several chances to hitch rides with co-workers and try a few places for lunch. Since I don’t know how to drive, I’m at the mercy of those with cars and I go wherever they want to go. It’s been really nice to treat lunch time like a new food adventure because I never know what I’m going to get. Some of the places we’ve been to were meh, but a couple have been really decent.
Now I’ve never really been a big fan of pizza. I think it’s because pizza reminds me of college and college reminds me of how poor I was. On a student budget, I ate poorly. As soon as I started to make money, I swore to myself that I was never going to go back to eating bad food again. “Bad” here, of course, is both in taste and in nutritional content, and pizza usually qualifies for both. I like my Otto and I like my John’s on Carmine just like anyone else, but never again will I “get a slice” because it’s 1am and I’m stumbling home from a bar–Han Bat in Koreatown is open 24 hours and I can get a better hungover meal there–and never again will I think pizza is “good because it’s cheap”–I can still get a plate of pork chops with rice under $5 from Chinatown.
But go ahead and convince me otherwise. Let me know where you get your pizza and I’ll give it a shot–my boss did. He drove a couple of us from work during lunch to the notorious Colony Grill in Stamford, Connecticut. He wanted to prove to me that Colony’s pizza isn’t just regular pizza; it’s its own beast. He talked up the hot oil so much, I also got excited about it. I ended up liking the dive bar feel of the place and it seemed like the waitress knew every customer by name.
We must have waited 45 minutes for three single pies and we were starving by the time they were served. I inhaled my sausage pie with stingers, or hot peppers, on the side without blinking an eye. The hot oil was not exactly spicy, but it made even the pepperoni better; the vegetable pizza was definitely better with it. I was speechless on the drive back to work and I was comatose the rest of the afternoon in my cubicle. College days be damned; Colony has some good pizza.
Colony Grill is at 173 Myrtle Avenue in Stamford, Connecticut. You can call 203/359.2184 ahead to order but you’d still have to pick your pie up.
Related post/s:
Otto pizza is thin and crusty
Filed under Japanese, Upper East Side
1410 First Avenue between 74th and 75th Streets
212/517.6860
$105 for two, with drinks, with tip
♥ ♥
I have to be honest with you here: I’m not one hundred per cent sure I was at Tsuki. I’m pretty sure it was Tsuki because it’s one of the restaurants I have noted on my iPhone, but I have so many pending reviews I think I might have some of them mixed up. It wasn’t that the food was forgettable–as far as omakase sushi goes that won’t break the bank, the selection was pretty fresh and pretty good. There was nothing stunning about the interior because there was hardly any decor, and really, only this photo survived that night:
I’m a little embarrassed that I’m showing my age here, but I’ve racked my brain and I still can’t confirm that it’s Tsuki I’m supposed to be reviewing. Help me out and I’ll edit later, but let me continue and tell you about the place anyway.
We walked in around 930pm on a weeknight. Everyone else decided to stay indoors because it was cold out, but we were hungry after attending a retail store party with free sparkling wine. There were already two couples and a single diner sitting at the short bar, and because we always prefer to sit by the chef, we waited for our turn to sit there. Everyone left at the same time and we were able to move after only ten minutes. For the rest of the night, there were only three people with us inside: the chef, who also doubled as the dishwasher; the waitress, who could have been the chef’s wife and who also answered the phone; and a white guy in chef’s whites who returned from a food delivery but settled behind the bar after he had removed his coat.
It certainly looked like a family business with, perhaps, the white guy as an apprentice, but they seemed like they needed an extra hand or two to make things run smoothly. We ordered our sushi piece by piece from the chef because he looked like he couldn’t handle more than two orders at once. He fulfilled orders that were called in and he ran back and forth from the kitchen to get clean serving plates. Meanwhile, the waitress picked up the phone, cleared the tables and packed deliveries while also refilling our water glasses.
It took us two hours to go through a dozen sushi pieces each but we killed time by drinking Sapporo and cold sake. Although some of them fell apart while I tried to eat them, the restaurant had a varied selection that included hokigai, or red clam. The mackerel was great and the uni was fresh. After a while, eating there felt like we were in the Japanese couple’s dining room: we waited to be served; they waited for our feedback. We spoke in hushed tones and bowed every time plates were exchanged. We were comfortable and an inconvenience at the same time, staying after every guest had already left. I’m not sure if the frail couple reminded me of my parents but I felt very melancholy the whole time I was there; watching them work so hard to keep the night, and their business, alive. Sadness and sushi don’t make a good combination and maybe that’s why I’ve blocked the restaurant name out of my head.
Related post/s:
Le Bernardin was excellent, but it felt very stuffy
