Socarrat

259 w 19th st.

New York, NY 10011

212.462.1000

I have been living in New York for a few years now. Rarely do I ever venture out of the comforts of Brooklyn or anywhere above Union Square, unless on a work related stint lasting less than an hour, or wondering up to Anthropologie out of boredom, only to come face to face with the harsh reality that the dress in the window is silk, but its fucking four hundred dollars! Ew. Damn you Anthropologie!

Last night however I passed the border with a specific purpose: to eat at Socarrat, a new Paella and Fideua bar in Chelsea. My father used to live in Chelsea until a psycho, English homosexual sub letter destroyed his apartment solely with animal feces, urine of some kind, and lots of drugs, so it's been a while since I've been back in the hood. Well, it's changed. I'm not naming names, but certain establishments are capitalizing on the weaknesses of the "Gentler Masculine", taking their money, and their friends who just drove down from the Catskills' money, ruining classic facades with gobs of fabric and colored lighting framing outdoor diners all sipping identical cocktails, greasy calamari, outdoor run-of-the-mill dining, etc. and dropping Goodburger's and Chipotle's like hot bricks. Basically the mediocrity that has enveloped most neighborhoods in Manhattan has made it's insurgence, masking the dirty charm of Christopher street, and revealing that most of the natives really are happy living in a Gay Disney Land.

Combined the neighborhoods ability to blow our high with the lack of spots to blaze, it was a rough start to our evening.

Socarrat (which is named after the crustification on the bottom of the Paella pan once the rice is properly cooked) has made a valiant effort in maintaining a shred of dignity while opening a spot in the new soulless gayborhood. Opened by La Nacional owner Jesus Manso, the traditional Spanish Tapas bar is welcoming in decor, approximately 200 square feet for dining, one wall of exposed brick hung with antiquarian mirrors and paintings, the other wall, a collection of glossy butter colored cabinets housing dishware and menus hung on key hooks. Cute. Besides a wobbly, unlit bar height table in the front window, diners sit on either side of a long, narrow central bar table with a dark grey mirrored counter top seating twenty four: communal seating like a family reunion dinner which threatens to be nonfunctional. The lighting was simple, not too dimly lit a la AvroKo style hanging glass fixtures.

I love textures, and between the bordering "Martha Stewart Teal" tiling of the floor, the matching velvet bar seat cushions, the foggy mirrors and the wood panelled ceilings, I felt like I was visiting my uncle with a fetish for Pennsylvania antique splurges at his new Amagansett home, pimped out Americana throw back style. What I'm trying to say is that it didn't evoke Spain, which may be irrelevant depending on the design concept, but I have to say, Freemans does it better (and they have boar terrine!)

I was fine to hit up the closest bodega for beers (my mouth was really dry and their liquor liscence is pending) but I was not fine to stand by the front door with my brown paper bag while two seats were open and set and waiting. Their logic didn't make sense to me, like, if they were weeded, "why can't we just sit down and crack our beers? We won't order anything until you guys are ready, we swear!" So we just sat down anyway.

I started out with the Tortilla, Chorizo Croquetas, Brandada de Bacalao and Calamar a la plancha. Tortilla: Excellent, old school slice, medium thickness, lots of potatoes, and nearly no seasoning, leaving the simple flavors alone as they should be. Skimpy on the onions, though I could still have a piece for breakfast, lunch, dinner or post toke. Or post coital.

The Chorizo Croquetas were meh. The Aioli was weak and greasy and chorizo is just too easy. Croquetas are great because you can fill them with almost anything, and like the chatty cathy gym addict fey at the front table with a voice like a mega phone, I've ingested enough chorizo.

The Bacalao, over cooked and broken into unrecognizable and barely tastable bits, the Calamar, also overcooked and drowning in garlic broth.

The service was very good. The manager as well as the waitress spoke Spanish, and so did the bus boy and runner, obviously. All sweet people, but a restaurant that's cuisine is based on single and double orders of Paella and Fideua, there isn't enough room left to carry giant, steaming hot pans from the kitchen to the table. The boys were struggling not to burn people while nearly knocking the pictures off the wall.

We weren't hungry or impressed enough with the food to order Paella, but it did look decent from afar.

I give Socarrat out of

Blazeability: