Adam Pascal and Anthony Rapp are reprising their roles as filmmaker Mark and rocker Roger in the Broadway musical Rent on July 30. The boys did a great job the first time around, and while the story may not seem as believable as it did 11 years ago (what's a squatter you ask? you must be new to the city)., it's still one of the best shows being performed.  In honor of their return, why not stop by the Life Cafe and ask for pasta with meatless balls and WINE AND BEER!

Asia de Cuba may have started the craze. There's Habana Central, Son Cubano, Havana Alma de Cuba and don't forget the cigar rolling Guantanamera (formerly Azucar). Of course there are countless other that recite their own ode to Cuba. Most recently that ode is being recited by Armin Amiri. You know him. He's the doorman who wouldn't let you in at Bungalo 8. His new resto-lounge Socialista (fitting name for the likes of him and his, "Yes, you are worthy", "No, go home" attitude). The restaurant is a breeze of pale blue and palm trees, while the lounge is a blanket of white walls, Ralpy Lauren furniture and holes in the ceiling to lower bottles down from. The jury is still out on whether or not all those people Armin told to take a hike will make something out of this place. Payback is a bitch, but remember, it was business, not personal.

There are a slew of romantic spots in the City, but sometimes, just sometimes, a side of mashed potatoes is also in order in addition to some quaity time. Ninth Street Market (337 E 9th St) is one of those restaurants that makes you say, "Oh yeah! I forgot about that place." Well, here is your reminder. Canoodle over catfish, pot pies, or chicken fried steak. Just try not to ignore your date too much while you stuff your face.

 

In a town where resturant openings generate as much buzz as Britney's buzz, it's kind of sweet when a restaurant manages to open quietly. Cote d'Or, run by the Tour de France group which also owns Marseilles, Nice Matin and a slew of other French bistros, opened Cote d'Or last week with little more than an open sign to announce it.  Named after a village in the Burgundy region of France, Cote d'Or is dedicated to all things burgundy and that means poached eggs in red wine that you will want for breakfast, lunch and dinner,  beef bourguignon, killer coq au vin and even black figs roasted in wine for dessert. just in time for fall, because really, how much more rose can you stand?

 

Sopranos’ cast members have consistently been associated with the food world. There are the wise guy cookbooks and one was even a former chef (Vito for those not in the know). You can now add Dr. Melfi to the list. Lorraine Bracco was out and about, sipping wine and chatting about grapes at Diving Bar earlier in the week for the bar’s Vino-Versity event where she displayed wines imported for her Bracco Wines company. Featuring 7 reds and 1 white, Bracco Wines has been a dream for Bracco and by the taste of it, we are glad this is one that is coming true.

Sea Salt had its soft opening this past weekend. And a visit last to the new East Village seafood spot revealed Orhan Yegen, the ponytail wearing perfectionist chef,  making table rounds to ask diners how their meals were. In between schmoozing, Yegen berated two servers with alternating calls of “Idiot!” back and forth as punishment for serving a table incorrectly. Could we have a Turkish born Ramsay on our hands or is he really the Soup Nazi of the whole fish world? After successfully feeding the packed house, the chef walked through the restaurant with helmet in hand and then hopped on his motorcycle and took off. Hmm….what is the motorcycle riding chef count up to? 

Spotted: Chef and restaurateur Geoffrey Zacharian (Town, Country) dining  at  Borough Food & Drink last night with wife Margaret no doubt sampling some of the area fare pulled together by consulting chef Zak Pelaccio. Zak, ever the gracious host, stopped by to chat.

We happened to pass by Kyotofu and found this pretty little pink slip tacked to its door:

 

 
The notice, which lists the Environmental Control Board at the top, was issued on Monday at 1:57 p.m. and notes a violation for "failure to store." The details of the violation, as written by an inspector: "I did observe four boxes being stored on New York City street."

We placed a call to the ECB, and it said that -- based on the specific code on the notice -- the violation was issued by the Department of Sanitation.

At least Kyotofu seems to be in the good graces of the DOH -- at least as of last May: The agency's "Restaurant Inspection" Web site says that the restaurant passed its last inspection, with a score that was way better than your average NYC eatery.

Looks like a new pub/bar is getting ready to open its doors in Hell's Kitchen, on 10th Avenue and 45th Street. Workers at the site tell us it's gonna be called Conker Hill, and it's located at the location of the old Rufus, which -- although chill and low-key -- just seemed to be one of those invisible bars that was always ... there. Planned opening date is supposed to be sometime later this week.

Pretty curious to see how this one will turn out: It's got a handsome wood bar and two red circular booths in back. There's an arcade machine at one corner, and lotsa empty space (no info yet on whether there's gonna be food, but this sure looks like a nice spot to put some tables).

Curious bit: There are (faux?) mailboxes on one wall, all painted gold. Not sure what kinda vibe they're going for, but hey, maybe it'll save the owner a trip to the post office.

  

Looks like a new pub/bar is getting ready to open in Hell's Kitchen, on 10th Avenue and 45th Street. Workers at the site tell us it's gonna be called Conker Hill (yep, that's how they said it was spelled), and it's at the location of the old Rufus, which -- although chill and low-key -- just seemed to be one of those invisible bars that was always ... there. Planned opening date is supposed to be sometime later this week.

Pretty curious to see how this one will turn out: It's got a handsome wood bar and two red circular booths in back. There's an arcade machine at one corner, and lotsa empty space across from the bar (no info yet on whether there's gonna be food, but this looks like a good spot for a table or two).

Curious bit: There are (faux?) mailboxes on one wall, all painted gold. Not sure what kinda vibe they're going for, but hey ... maybe it'll save the owner a trip to the post office.

  

Happy Bastille Day, mon cherie! Now, help yourself to some...Peruvian food.

We swung by Brooklyn's Francofest this past weekend and actually did find ourselves noshing on South American cuisine. Of course, it made complete sense -- the restaurant that served the food, Coco Roco, was located smack dab in the nexus of all the Bastile Day shenanigans. Our stomachs were grumbling by the time we got out the subway, and since Coco Roco's food stand was the first thing we saw, we dove right in.

 
Food was decent, if overpriced -- 9 bucks for three food items that you can scarf down in three bites. We had the empanadas de carne (pretty self-explanatory), as well as the papas rellena (potatoes stuffed with diced beef and veggies) and some other meat-y dishes that we won't even try to pretend we remember. 

For all the hoopla about Smith Street's Bastille Day celebration, it's actually much smaller than you think: two blocks, a coupla good restos. Tons of people, though, crammed into such a tiny space. Oh, and petanque, petanque, petanque. It's pretty much Bocce Ball, but with a fancy accent. We found a seat next to the petanque pit, but unfortunately the worst petanque player in history decided to spray us with loving doses of sand every time he'd throw a ball. If he can't handle his balls, lord only knows what else he ain't good at...

 

For all the ribbing that PDT's been getting (sssshhhh ... we're an ultra-secret speakeasy! Now let's hire a publicist!), the most oxymoronic not-so-underground underground bar seems to have created its own backlash. Still, with all the potshots being hurled at it, few have really bothered to mention that the place ain't half that bad, peeps. Seriously, give it a break.

(For the PDT virgins: It stands for "Please Don't Tell," and you access the bar through a phone booth located inside Crif Dogs, in the EV.)

We swung by recently, and getting in was a breeze. In fact, we kinda looked like morons because everyone seemed to know to make a beeline for the phone booth. We, on the other hand, made a beeline for what we thought was a phone booth, but which turned out to be the bathroom. Nice.

After speaking into a small intercom in the booth, you'll see the wall open up and you've suddenly got a bouncer standing between you and what looks like your Uncle Joe's swanky basement love shack: taxidermy, wood, dark, moody. He'll ask if you have a reservation (his name's Brian, in case you wanna seem mondo cool. Sweet guy. Has a headset. Looks like he's gonna take your HSN order for wrinkle cream.), but he'll probably end up just making you wait at Crif and have a hot dog. Within three minutes, we were in. That's it?! Come on, Brian, we were ready to bribe you with our leftover hot dog.

The place is narrow and kinda cramped, with a few seating areas and a lit bar counter. Intricate wood slats on the ceiling. Strange "Antique Roadshow"-type paintings. We can live with that. But overall, surprisingly chill. Crowd was mellow and not scene-y, at least on that particular night. Signature cocktails seemed to be heavy on the bitters -- not really our thing. Stuck to champagne and a Riesling. I think. Sorry, 'tis a blur ... might've been kinda drunk already.

Too bad the place is hampered by its gimmicky antics, which is what everyone has ended up focusing on. Then again, it probably would've wound up being just another bar if it didn't pull a few stunts, and we wouldn't have written about it. So there you go.

 Photo by: wheat_in_your_hair / catherine

La Esquina is sooooooooooo 2005, but we have to admit that it took us two years to finally drag our asses down to its subterranean nether-regions. Oh the horror, you say? Well, we'd been avoiding the place like the plague. Must've been that Andre Leon Talley piece that Vogue ran eons ago, in which he muses about schmoozing there after some Fashion Week show. Dunno with you, but we're frightetend of Andre Leon Talley. Pee-in-your-pants frightened. Goobumps-barfing-goosebumps frightened. Let's-dress-Jennifer-Hudson-in-a-solar-powered-sardine-can-at-the-Oscars frightened. We're sure he's a lovely man, and he's certainly earned his stature among fashionistas. But the thought of bumping into him and his billowing cape at the "Employees Only" staricase that leads down to La Esquina might've been too much for our bladders. (Touche!)

In any event, looks like the place still has some juice left in it. Lotsa purdy folks that you actually might wanna sleep with—always a good gauge. Plus, Elle magazine's Nina Garcia was dining at a nearby table and looking tres chic: LBD, spikes. Not that we'd wanna sleep with Miss G, lest she unleash a stinging "Project Runway"-worthy quip about our sexual prowess. Easy, Nina, easy. Hopefully, Miss G had a cellphone signal down there for that Blackberry she's been shilling. Can you hear me now?

Photo courtesy of Bravo TV