JG Melon Is An Outstanding, Old-School Bar Of The First Order That Serves A Completely Winning, Wonderful Burger
Looks classic enough, doesn't it?
There’s a surprising amount of really excellent comfort food to be had on the Upper East Side. I say “surprising” because with such a vibrant neighborhood you’d imagine restaurants would come and go with some regularity. But the classics, as always, endure. And though it is not actually a classic (by New York standards, since it opened in 1972), JG Melon has been around long enough now (almost 40 years!) to earn the respect associated with one, and well deserves being treated as one. So what is the place, and how has it endured?
The bar preserves the old-school feel.
Simply put, JG Melon is a classic New York bar of the old school. Take note of all the images of melons behind the bar, that’s the only nod to shtick they make. On a blazingly hot, soupy summer day, the air conditioning inside was excellent and welcoming, as was the wonderful, no-nonsense bartender. The place is pretty dark within, which is nice, and teems with regulars, and foodies on a quest for their burgers.
Like the original PJ Clarke's, there is an outcropping - this time, though, it's for the kitchen.
Apologies for the blurriness of the picture above, but JG Melon is not the kind of place you’d feel comfortable using your cell phone within. I think it is frowned upon, since it really is an old-school bar. And as previously discussed, cameras and restaurants can quickly become controversial, so these snaps were taken hastily.
Nonetheless, what you’re looking at there is the outcropping that hides what I gather to be the grill for their burgers if not their entire kitchen. It sits just a few feet away from the bar and folks within are working tirelessly to produce the deliciousness you are about to see below.
A serious patty for serious hunger.
Again, the dread blurriness, but I felt as though I was pushing my luck just by holding my cell phone. I got the sense they are frowned upon there, which I well understand. JG Melon, in my opinion, is meant to be a respite from that sort of behavior.
I trust you can see, though, that the burger is basically beautiful. It is soft, juicy, and choice – like a bigger version of the excellent one at the Burger Joint at the Parker Meridien. It is heftier than many burgers, including PJ Clarke’s, but not as massive as the Bozzi Burger at the Palm or the one at Wollensky’s Grill. Few burgers match its quality, flavor and heft. If I’m honest, it is more succulent than the brilliant ones I’ve been eating lately at the marvelous Mel’s, which I still heartily recommend. It is served with red onions and medallions of pickle on the side, so you can stack it as you will. The burgers, which are fatter patties, are a mix of lean and fat grinds, with a strong emphasis on lean. The cheeseburger clocks in at $9.75, and is well worth it.
Their fries, in medallions, are unique.
The cottage fries do not come with the burger, they need to be ordered separately. As you can see, they come shaped like chips, of a sort. They are puffy, and for you “I love fries as salty as McDonald’s” folks out there, prepare for disappointment. They are not very salty at all, which I appreciate. They don’t taste particularly like potato, either. The interesting thing is what you taste depends entirely on the thickness of the individual chip. For many of them, the potato has been cooked out of them and you get hollow puffs, sort of similar (but not quite) to good tater tots. Occasionally you will stumble upon one loaded with fluffy potato and it is heavenly.
Just beautiful color. No flame control problem here.
For two beers, a cheeseburger, and an order of chips, I spent $26. It was well worth it. The place is great.
JG Melon
1291 Third Avenue New York, NY 10021 No website
I Am Just Going To Say It: I Don’t Get Blue Smoke
Somebody blew smoke alright.
There are food phenomena in New York City that simply elude me. Shake Shack. Beard Papa. Add Blue Smoke to the list.
People love this place. It is one of the first places people mention when you talk about where to get BBQ in New York City. And it is that: a place to get barbecue in New York City. But I do not think it is as wonderful as everyone else seems to think it is.
Does that mean it is bad? No. Not at all. It simply means the level of hype around the place is completely out of proportion to the food that you get. The food is ok, but it is far from revelatory, and doesn’t strike me as being the real deal for BBQ.
Now I am not a bbq afficianado. I presume that the folks who own and operate Blue Smoke probably know more about barbecue than I do by a long shot. That said, as a diner, I can state simply: There is nothing I’ve had at Blue Smoke that I would drop everything to go get, or go particularly out of my way to get. Frankly, I prefer Hill Country – Rack & Soul even more so.
The interior is spacious.
In truth though, this really just points to the dearth of quality barbecue in New York City. That should come as no surprise, considering the geography. But this is one of the great food capitals of the world. And New York (in my experience) just isn’t cutting it for quality Q at the moment. Sure, there’s Dinosaur, which again is just fine (recommend their deviled eggs and chicken). But the last really amazing barbecue I had in New York was from a tiny little spot that had a real pit going in its back yard near the Queens entrance of the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Unfortunately, that joint shut down about 10 or more years ago, so good luck. But they served a beef rib that looked like it came out of the Flintstones: you didn’t know whether to eat it or wield it as a club against your enemies. Of course, it was far too delicious to waste on that, so, you only did what’s right.
So I am on a quest for quality Q in town. If you know of a spot, please fill me in. I am eager to try R.U.B., but if I’m going through the trouble to get there, I’m going to Peter Luger’s instead.
But back to Blue Smoke.
I lucked out over the weekend and got a table right away, which is impressive since I understand the place is wildly popular. My seat was somewhat unfortunate, if I’m honest: upstairs, in the back corner, near the service entrance. There was a regular rush of servers hurtling by that was a touch distracting. OK, that’s no big deal, someone sits there every night.
The highlight of the meal.
The meal began with the deviled eggs. Everybody knows deviled eggs are always delicious. I found these to be a bit on the small side, and a touch liquid. It had a pleasant, strong mustard flavor.
My eye is always drawn to the beef ribs, for nostalgic reasons mentioned above. So I ordered them. They are served in a salt & pepper preparation.
I should say at the jump I generally prefer barbecue that doesn’t come from a bottle. A lot of places drench the meat in sauce, which I find just hides the quality of the preparation. Or disguises. Delicious sauce is wonderful, but too many places just swamp the food in it. Hence, I usually go for the rub.
If you look closely, you can see the pepper.
The trouble is that Blue Smoke’s rubbed salt & pepper beef rib comes caked in a pepper bark. The pepper flavor is too strong, and buries the taste of the beef. The texture of the beef, by the way, is suitably soft and giving, and on its own it almost seems candied. The pepper flavor though was too much for me and buried the beefiness.
A suitable mac.
It was of course necessary to get the mac and cheese. As always, mac and cheese is delicious. Blue Smoke makes a tasty, rich version. There’s no bread crumb crust, and it is a bit liquid within, but it’s still a suitable mac. It is not up to the Delta Grill standard. In fact, there’s a good argument that says Delta Grill is an excellent competitor for Blue Smoke (while offering different cuisine with much less hoopla).
Look. At the end of the say the food is basically mediocre. I don’t get it. It’s the Shake Shack of BBQ – that makes sense, they’re both Danny Meyer operations. I have got to give it up to him: he always gets great press and has a helluva batting average with most folks. For me, I am not surprised by Blue Smoke’s initials. Maybe it was just the hype machine that blew smoke.
Blue Smoke
116 East 27th Street New York, NY 10016 www.bluesmoke.com
Large panes of glass reveal the outdoor eating area.
Gabriela’s has been around quite a while, opening with a splash on the Upper West Side on 1992 as part of the emerging, family-friendly, quality dining movement that was creeping through the neighborhood at the time (including Dock’s, Carmine’s and so forth). Gabriela’s was originally located on Amsterdam and 91st, but has long since transplanted itself to its current Columbus Avenue location. It seems to me that part of the reason for the move must’ve been for a larger footprint, so they can run their free pediatric care unit and kindergarten classes. At least, if they haven’t done those things yet, they should, because it is by far the most family-friendly restaurant on the Upper West Side. The restaurant is constantly swarming with children.
For example... .
What do I mean by “swarming?” During our most recent visit there, we counted no fewer than 13 children (including babies) spread out among the tables. If you want to see some Gabriela’s hosts get frustrated, tell them you’d like to sit somewhere away from children. If they do manage to find you a spot five feet further away from the most recent shrieker, not to worry: a child will be seated next to you in just a few minutes. They get brought to the tables with the same customary regularity as the complementary chips and salsa.
Gabriela’s has gone so far to stock its own large supply of lidded, bestrawed, plastic cups for children. They have a lot of them.
During that most recent excursion, we saw something I’d not seen before. This time, one family had brought a portable DVD player and headphones and the kids, instead of shrieking and running and throwing and yowling, were instead watching some cartoon or another. Is this what it has come to?
The culprit?
The architecture of Gabriela’s only amplifies the effect of the kids. Inside the restaurant, there’s a wall of long, glass windows. There’s a lot of bare walls and columns. The floor I think is a significant factor: it is tiled. There is next to nothing to absorb some of the sound, so the crash, clank, clunk and shriek of the place is always maximized. To borrow from Spinal Tap: it goes to eleven. Why not hang some curtains along the bare walls to absorb at least some of the sound? Perhaps a rug?
Way too addictive... .
Part of the reason I’m making so much of the children thing is that the food is really quite tasty, but each time my wife and I go there, the volume of the place is such that it interferes with our enjoyment. It is not a place for a romantic dinner. But if you have children and are looking for a place where their antics will not spoil it for everyone else, since every other table also has kids at it, voila.
The jalapeno slice foretells the heat... .
It’s also a damn good thing they serve so many tequila-infused drinks: margaritas, mojitos and more. The mojitos are sweet, sour and minty with a very thick flavor, almost like soda. During a recent excursion I also savored a cucumber-jalapeno margarita, which again had a near-soda level of sweetness, but with some serious heat.
Three narrow fish tacos. Not loaded with stuff, but tasty... .
By the way, how’s the food? I am pleased to say that generally it is delicious. Their seafood is very fresh, their specials are routinely worth trying, and their standard menu offers upscale versions of comfort Mexican classics. For example, their beef burrito is filled with brisket. It’s very decadent.
Take their fish tacos: they are just silly and awesome. Three narrow corn tortillas wrapped around some deep-fried fish. Despite the frying, the fish remains nice and flaky and light and oh so rich. They pull off a neat trick of being hefty in flavor and light in actual portion size. The result? Satisfaction.
Looks pretty. A bit on the small side, but... .
The guacamole is on the small side, creamy with hit-and-miss spiciness to it – that is to say, sometimes it is spicy, other times not. I think the slight dusting of Parmesan cheese atop it is inspired. It is served in a fried tortilla.
My wife and I ate guacamole, two orders of the fish tacos and had three drinks for $72. I guess that’s another way in which the place is family-friendly: the price point.
If you’re willing to weather the shrieks, screams, folly and disorder of the neighbor’s kids being kids, you’ll have a tasty meal. It’s not “authentic authentic” Mexican cuisine, it’s a bit gussied up, but the ingredients and flavors are dynamite. Just don’t be surprised if you find yourself wondering when the teacher is going to show up to talk to you about your child.
Gabriela’s
688 Columbus Avenue New York, NY 10025 212.961.9600 www.gabrielas.comME LIKE EAT Contributor: The Heart Of Babbo
Once again ME LIKE EAT is proud to present the thoughts of contributor Hugh, this time taking a journey up the lonely, savage, brutal canal of Manhattan dining… a journey that would lead him, ultimately, to the heart of Babbo.
Saigon. Sh*t.
Our decision to go to Babbo was made after about ten or fifteen minutes of serious talks on a random Friday night in the late Spring. This decision was not made lightly nor easily.
In thinking about the discussion which preceded our choosing Babbo, I recall we considered a number of options. Usual, neighborhood standbys and places outside of our comfort zone. Pricey, fancy places along with reliable, go-to joints. But after Babbo was first mentioned, it slowly began to permeate the discussion. At first, Babbo sat there quietly. And as other options were considered and discussed, Babbo waited as if it knew it would soon be mentioned again. And it was.
This time, we talked about how good the food at Babbo always was.
Then, as these discussions do, the conversation careened around a bit more. Babbo waited patiently.
But Babbo was mentioned again and this time, we discussed how we would get there.
Perhaps by this point we had narrowed our choice to Babbo, and another restaurant or two. And as our decision narrowed on Babbo, we talked about the money, and Babbo is expensive.
Well, expensive-ish.
Babbo is more pricey than, say, Carmine’s on Broadway, but it is not as expensive as a Jean-Georges.
However, by this point in our discussion, Babbo no longer sat quietly and waited. It had stood up and introduced itself. And the more we discussed it, the more I felt Babbo becoming impatient, and perhaps slightly offended by the fact that we had not yet finally decided to choose it.
But, Babbo faced a big, final stumbling block. The issue was whether we stood any chance of getting a table at Babbo, at the last minute on that random Friday night in late spring?
Our analysis of how to deal with this challenge was a mash-up of deductive reasoning and experience-based analogies. But broadly, we felt that because it was a Friday night after Memorial Day many of the people who would dine at a place like Babbo would probably be out having a big time in the Hamptons. We also thought that because our planning discussion was happening at 5:30 in the evening, and we were ready to move quickly, we might have a shot.
Like many great restaurants, there is a bar area at Babbo. And while reservations are generally impossible an unwashed type like me to get at the last minute, or even at all, on less than thirty days prior notice, there is a small bar area where a walk-in visitor might be accommodated.
The smaller the group, the better the odds.
For the restaurant commando, under the right circumstances, going for that seat at the bar at Babbo was a worthwhile objective. If it was a Friday night in the fall or winter, the story might have been different. But on that night in the late spring, Babbo to us meant better than even odds.
We made the decision. Go.
If I say it is safe to surf this beach, Captain, it is safe to surf this beach!
Ok, for those who do not know, Babbo is a great New York City restaurant, operated by the highly talented chef, charming media personality, author and successful entrepreneur Mario Batali. I have not eaten at all of Batali’s restaurants. But Babbo is my favorite of those I have visited. It serves hearty, basic Italian food.
Well, basic-ish.
You can order papardelle Bolognese or a pork chop. But if you are feeling ambitious you can also order a black spaghetti with rock shrimp, flavored by salami calabrese (Batali actually uses meat flakes as a pasta seasoning) or ravioli filled with a blood orange colored ground beet filling (Batali’s buttery Cansunzei is good for a near-narcotic effect).
The thinking and planning done, on execution I was struck by the possibility that our analysis of our chances of getting a seat had turned to be totally wrong.
To start with, we arrived late.
Well, late-ish.
We entered the restaurant at 6:30 at night. Early prime time. And the bar area was crowded. Too crowded.
I made my way through the crowd, to the maitre d’s station. He told me that seats were possible in the bar area. In an hour. Or an hour and a half.
The maitre d’ had dared us to stay.
There are moments in life when time freezes. At those moments, you have half an instant to analyze the facts, and another half to make a decision.
So for just a moment, in that crowded bar, the maitre d’s taunt hung in the air.
Why not?
I took the bet, and asked the maitre d’ to put my name on his list. Then off to the bar, order a drink, stand, and wait.
Do you know who's in charge here? Yeah.
It turned out it took only a half a drink before prime seats opened up. Maybe the maitre d’ told everyone ‘an hour to an hour and a half’ to separate the dedicated from the dilettantes. But shortly after we arrived, we were seated and settling in for a prix-fixe pasta tasting menu, with wine pairings ($69 per person plus $50 for the wine).
For those of us who live on the ragged edge and hoped that we might get a seat in at that bar area, we were bluff and bluster. Yes, we knew good food. We just did not have the juice, poise or patience to get through the maitre d’ or wait the obligatory thirty day standoff period.
Even though I might have been lucky that night, and was seated quickly, the decision to take that chance and try to get that seat was made after a discussion and analysis. So I didn’t feel the least bit bad as I ate my tagliatelle in a sauce which tasted of green peas picked a few hours earlier, observing this guy in what was probably an expensive too-tight designer shirt hovering by the bar, ordering a glass of wine for his total knock-out girlfriend and a Captain and Seven for himself. As they stood. And waited.
Ha!
Captain and Seven at Babbo? Ok, in fairness to this guy, you could tell by the way his beautiful, dark haired, blue eyed, dressed-to-the-nines date eyeballed him that he would definitely need that drink. Every man reading this has at least once been to that place where the eyes of Ms. Dressed-to-the-Nines sent Mr. Captain N. Seven.
Yet somehow – having absorbed this mini drama – at that moment, my food tasted better.
Is that so wrong?
But then something unexpected happened.
Over my shoulder appeared this young, compact, pretty, short-haired, blonde woman. She wore dark, neat, nice but understated clothes. She sipped a glass of wine with a sweet smile on her face. She had a pleasant, somewhat Canadian air about her. She seemed to be happy.
Well, happy-ish.
This pretty woman’s companion for the evening, stood next to her: another woman similarly small with similar blondish hair and hairdo. Clothing choices were nearly identical – a pair of rimless eyeglasses excepted. She also possessed a similar eau’ d’ pleasant. She was a generation older though. And by her shape, dimensions and bearing, you knew that this lovely mother and daughter couple came to the arena to dine out.
Without a reservation.
Mr. Captain N. Seven can stand and wait. And as he does so, I will joyfully relax and savor my chocolate al diavolo – a sort of chocolate mousse seasoned with hot red pepper flakes – paired with a matching dessert wine. I will smile and maybe even have a laugh as I contemplate whether a tier one single malt scotch after dinner with maybe two ice cubes is a good idea or not.
That’s the deal.
I know the deal. And Mr. Captain N. Seven knows the deal too. You roll the dice. And maybe you get lucky. Or maybe you have to stand there and wait while Ms. Sex In The City Version 2.0 flings straight razors at you from her eyes.
But how should you feel when you see this truly lovely looking mother and daughter pair just standing there, sipping wine? They smile sweetly and chat nonchalantly. And they wait.
Sure Babbo is democratic. And the rules are the rules. We all got to obey the rules. Don’t we? And hey, this is America, where no one’s above the law. Right?
Well, it’s not America. It’s Babbo. And there are is a lucky group who enjoy status Babbo. People who can actually get that reservation and not wait a month before they get to enjoy that great Babbo dinner.
But this lovely mother and daughter pair – like me – did not have status. They stepped into the Babbo and by so doing, they took their chances. They knew what they were getting into.
Didn’t they?
Then something strange happened. I found myself experiencing an emotion at the bar at Babbo, which I did not expect to feel.
Guilt.
Ok, I got there forty minutes before they did and knew enough to do that. But, still, I got to sit and eat and drink and enjoy fairly quickly.
And they got to stand and wait. Not for too long I think.
Well, long-ish.
The horror... the horror. (photo credit: Hugh)
For more of Hugh’s culinary adventures in New York City, check out his thoughts on Dining with Mark at Yankee Stadium, Nougatine and the State of Nature, and the Battle for New York City’s Soul: Pizza vs. Hot Dogs.
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