"X" is for xcitement at Xunta!

Upon dining at Xunta, no one knew how historical this event was going to be. At press time, Xunta is currently closed. We caught a glimpse and shared in the end of an era. Well, almost. Although it doesn't look like much from the street, Xunta was quite happening on the inside. The underground tapas joint felt like a nice blend of East Village bar and authentic Spanish restaurant. Authentic in that the service was extremely slow, and they provided impressive entertainment of flamenco musicians and dancers. East Village in that there were congregations of post college kids sucking back sangria. Not that we should talk - the 12 of us sucked back a few buckets of beer as well.


The food was at times quite delicious, and other times quite terrible. Shrimp soaked in chili oil and paprika were fantastic (for bread dipping as well as you can see [PIC]. If the place actually existed anymore, the spicy potatoes and manchego with quince jam would also be worth going back for. We could have used a bit more imagination when it came to the tortilla española, rice and grilled dates with bacon. We could have used a live, breathing cook to make the marinated clams and chicken (it was so un-noteworthy I've forgotten what kind) actually edible. We probably ordered way too much, but it's better that than too little. We had to debunk the myth most men are accustomed to. Poor Mike has been abused by spending $75 on dinners with semi-anorexic girls who only order small plates of olives and two green beans (in which he usually has to devour a large burrito afterwards). Not this night, not with the Zupperites.

"X" at Xunta was xcellent fun, with an xceptional crowd. Xtra thanks to Covitzs for organizing!

"W" is for Walkers

Walkers is the type of neighborhood place that won't win any major awards, and you won't want it to. You don't want the creepy old guys at the bar to go away, not even the douche-y banker guys. The setting is so comfortable and worn in, you're happy with the slightly rickety chairs and background banter of the locals at the bar. From first impressions, you might expect simple pub grub, but the menu actually has a bit more than the typical burgers 'n nachos. There's an old school vibe that is as eminent in the staff as it is in the setting. Walkers is an inviting atmosphere... we were there on a pleasant summer evening, but I'm sure there will be return visits to get cozy as the weather gets colder.

We spent the first part of the evening have a lengthy debate on whether our waiter was from the Bronx, Ireland or the South. And we barely had any drinks at this point. Turns out the gregarious fellow was indeed from Atlanta (and the rest of us are absolutely clueless). For the grub, we started with a couple healthy treats - cornmeal crusted oysters and fried calamari (oysters were the best). Entrees ranged from free-range roasted chicken, burgers, and the semi-famous cowboy chili. Again, you're probably going more for the atmosphere than for the food, but nonetheless we are eaters and eatin' we did.

The paper table cloths and crayons were a nice little treat for several of our attention deficit Zupper members. Nick had a field day drawing lovely pictures of bleeding animals and a recent depiction of how he cut open the middle of his nail. Appropriate and lively discussion for dinner you can imagine.


Overall, Walker's is a neighborhood gem that should be appreciated as a good place to go after work, for a late Sunday afternoon meal or really whenever the hell you're thirsty.

"V" is for Veloce Pizzeria

We had been wanting to do a solid pizza and wine evening for the past few letters or so. Call it fate, but a new pizza joint had just opened to high acclaim, with the name Veloce Pizzeria. Veloce Pizzeria was just about as perfect as a pizza evening one, or 14 people, could hope for. What a turnout. What was originally 9 people slowly crept to 11, then 14, and then who knows, I think we lost count. I'm pretty sure we caught the unassuming waiter off guard because of his slightly off-putting attitude at first. But that iciness was quickly subdued (no doubt because of our charm and good looks) and he was a dreamboat for the rest of the night. You know who else was a boat of dreams? The host/manager. Our party wasn't small, or on time, or for the number of reservations we had originally made, or quiet, or...you get the point.. but he was wonderful and accommodating and made us feel like we were guests of the house. (All Devin had to do was sell his soul and offer a few favors in the back of the kitchen. That's it.)

The food, oh the food. It was all dynamite. We started with these insane fried porchetta meatballs...mmmmm meatballlssss... the only thing i could use to describe them was that they tasted so, well, porky. That melt in your mouth porky sweet and savory tenderness all wrapped up in a thin little blanket of fried crust. Umm, hello? Delicious!

The pizza, oh the pizza. It was sicilian-esque, square style and the waiters placed them on double towers in almost a royal manner. We tried a variety: porchetta sausage, prosciutto di parma on fontina, mushroom complete with hen of the woods and oyster mushrooms, margherita and garlic & clam.
Each was piping hot, containing perfect layers of all the essentials: crisp outer layer of dough hiding a chewy, more soft interior. The outer crust was flecked with baked in cheese and had a bit of charred taste, nodding to the slice's fiery start. It was just the right amount of dough to support the sauce, cheese and toppings. None of the layers overpowered the other, they all seemed to meld together into that perfect bite. The quality of the ingredients was top notch. Not too much of a surprise, especially when you consider you've got Miss Pork USA Sara Jenkins as one of the partners. The house wine is also a good thing to note - we thought they were a great deal, with the Rose being the favorite.

It was a night of old friends - shout out to the SF crew: Craig Mangan, Tod Puckett, Paul Charney, Devin Sharkey - coming together, eating, laughing and drinking. Imagine the classic television show, Cheers. It was like that, except with better clothes, better food, better atmosphere and way hotter women. Take that Shelley Long!

Veloce Pizzeria gets an official "Approved by Zupper Club" stamp (a few of us have already been back). And the conveniently located Tile Bar (not it's official real name, we're not sure there is one) was a great dive-y spot for pre and post cocktails. Thanks to the SF crew for making it one of the most memorable nights, we miss you and "we're always glad you came...to eat pizza."

disclaimer: the lovely shot of the pizza slice was not from our photo-challenged group. it's from a nice guy on flickr.

"T" is for Taco Tuesday at Tenny's

T is for:
a pretty girl named Tenny
who made good looking Tacos
on a Tuesday in May
and even chips & guac... mmm... Tasty
where beers were drunk and all were gay

T is for:
a Tenacious cook and hostess
and Three other solid foodies
big Thanks for her rooftop party
but points off for making me write this,
and for it being so Tardy.

S is for (short) and Sweetwater!

Sweetwater in Brooklyn couldn't have taken place on a more sumptuous, Spring evening. It was one of those early Spring nights that only East Coasters can truly appreciate (well, maybe mid-westerners could too). The flowers were budding, the birds were chirping and dirty hipsters were hanging out of bar windows, toasting the chance to wear colored Ray-bans and cut-off neon tank tops once more. Sifting through the sidewalk parties that seemed to take place outside every establishment (even the pet store was going off), we found ourselves nestled in the backyard patio of Sweetwater on N 6th St. The outside decor felt like an entirely different place than the more subdued, French-bistro interior space. The beer selection was a tasty one, but most of the group ended up with the Pilsner. We ordered a good sample of dishes that were pretty straightforward (except maybe the lamb burger served with tzatziki on an English muffin). The other straight up beef burgers were also tasty, served on the English muffin with caramelized onions. Other faves included the lovely, earthy beet salad, roasted chicken with french lentils and spinach, and pan seared salmon with mashed potatoes. The cook may not be Top Chef material, but the outdoor atmosphere combined with the consistently good fare made it a two thumbs up.


The entertainment of the night must have been when the ladies at the table learned an important, eh maybe not important, but rather disgusting revelation. It had to do with berries and pebbles and such. It's best not to get into details at the dinner table blog. You gross boys and lucky girls know who you are and hopefully don't have to be reminded.

We welcomed Adama to New York, and her first Zupper night (along with her lovely sister, Fatou). Hopefully we showed them a good night and didn't offend them too much. Nick can do that sometimes. Also, the Zupper family raised their pints to toast Phil and Andrea as they shared their last Zupper meal before marriage (clearly a sign of good luck).

"R" is for RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRoberto!

It was like that age-old children's story, "The Ten Little Zupperites." First there were ten fearless food junkies all gung-ho, ready to storm the Bronx like a bunch of Zupperites hopped up on some high-grade meth. We had just conquered Queens two weeks prior with the noticeable flair and zest that comes from a group that knows its shit and is confident taking down another borough. And this time it would be the last borough. The Bronx.

That's right, the Zupperites had put away 18 months, 18 letters, 18 restaurants, 4 New York boroughs and only had one borough left to bring down. We were strutting around like a bunch peacocks wearing bright yellow shirts, ruby-rimmed glasses and Horn of Plenty hats encrusted in sausage links. This was Confidence's bigger brother. The perfect mixture of Popeye Doyle wearing a Martha Stewart Halloween mask. After Saturday, it was clear to all involved that the Zupperites would claim victory over all five boroughs with 8 months to spare. Life was good...

...Or so it seemed... (Insert crack of thunder and bolt of lightning here)

Like the fat guys on Saturday Night Live, the Zupperites suddenly started dropping like flies when R-Day approached. Some had work, some had sicknesses, some just didn't have the decency to write back and say, "Sorry Dudes, I moved to LA a few months back. I'm probably not going to make it. This is Paul, btw." So what started out as a strong, solid, Zeitgesit of Zupperiters, pretty soon dwindled to a paltry, fidgety, forlorn five. 3 women. 1 man. 1 undecided. It was a watershed moment. Would the Zupperites, ravaged by disease and flakiness, survive to conquer their bitter foe, the Bronx? The confidence was gone. The swagger, no more. The Horn of Plenty hats traded in for ones less ostentatious. One fainthearted Zupperite even suggested in a text, "Rain check?"

The seas were in tumult. Would this happy Band of Food Brothers and Sisters still make it to arguably the toughest borough in town? Don't be silly.

Of course, we would. We're F*in Zupperites. And we were hungry. And thirsty. So before we set out, we powered up with a couple cocktails at the famous Oyster Bar in Grand Central.


Once we were "juiced" up, we boarded the LIRR and headed North to 125th St. We headed out in search of the famous Arthur Ave (New York’s original, real Little Italy). The street was a culinary mecca of little delis, bakeries, pizzerias and family run pasta joints. Temptation was everywhere, but we had to stay the course, we had to reach Roberto’s or this would all be for nothing.



Roberto’s doesn’t look like much from the outside, but with just a crack of the door, we could sense that we were about to experience something unique, something utterly and wholly divine. (We just had to get past the "Sopranos extras" at the jam packed bar and “coffee talk” ladies milling about.)

It’s hard to begin on the gloriousness that was our dinner. The specials were a highlight, the best being the spring risotto (fresh pesto, toasted slivered almonds and buttery morels) and this creamy, rich pasta pictured below:

The Chianti flowed, homemade pastas were twirled, chicken was smothered and veal carmelized to perfection. We felt like Kings, Queens... like we found out a secret that we didn’t want to share. And best of all, Roberto himself came over to check on the table, made a few jokes and posed for a picture. I think someone tipped him off that the Zupperites were there.







We were so inspired (and loopy), we had no trouble entertaining ourselves. Our first attempt at replicating the shape of an "R":





And Tenny’s successful way of making an “R”:

Another night of culinary success- our bellies, satiated and adventurous souls, quenched. Roberto's (the restaurant and the chef) absolutely rocked. Two right thumbs up.

"Q" is for Quaint in Queens

I think we have to hand it to Covitz for this one - "Q" night at Quaint in Queens was quite a lovely surprise, a true pig in the poke. Not that we didn't expect a lot from Phil's quixotic quest (or from Queens) but whenever we leave the island, it's always a little bit of a gamble. Going to and from seems to be as flavorful as the meals themselves.

A core group of Zupperites and two very special guests, Lisa from San Francisco and James from Kenya, met at Grand Central and after a few detour quagmires (the 7 wasn't running) landed in Sunnyside, Queens. Due to the quivering cold and queasy subway feeling, we quickly quaffed down a beer at a nearby pub. After a few quips of us yelling "queers" at each other (clearly only replacing cheers with a zupper version of the word), we headed to Quaint.

It was quite a top quality restaurant, the quintessential little neighborhood spot. The menu had a short list of seasonal items (no quail) and the group took advantage of all the options. Several enjoyed the seared salmon over a bed of garbanzo beans and braised fennel, someone ordered the pan fried catfish with wild rice and toasted pecans (one of the true highlights, it was like each grain of rice was freshly picked and marinated, not goopy or mushy at all). Even the chicken breast served with a thick brick of gratin potatoes quenched a couple hungry bellies. There was an all-you-can-eat mussels and fries deal for $18 but to quote a questioning zupperite, "Having a finite amount of mussels is a good idea. I'm not sure I trust people who can eat unlimited amounts of bivalve mollusks."

On our way home, we experienced something you don't see everyday in Manhattan: a small Asian woman with a quadraphonic megaphone making the subway announcements. A real, live human being uttering those quizzical and incomprehensible announcements that typically blare overhead from some invisible speaker. It was so jarring, it prompted someone to impulsively query "oh my God, you are real!?!" We even got her to announce Happy Birthday to Mike, making him feel like the quasi-queen of the night. But even though she was standing right next to us, the only thing we were able to quantify was "Hmmmpp... Btooreerkkk, fivmelele, aexcxxxcitte!!" Close enough.

We ended the night in quality fashion - by playing Buck Hunter at the querimonious Subway Bar. Definitely not your quotidian bar night - the bar itself is a hodgepodge of B&T, quiddley old drunks, and some young hipsters nestled in the rotting red leather booths. The boys flexed their quads and competitively fought to be the quincurion with the highest Buck Hunter score (except Phil, who's points grand total was a quiet 12. Don Quixote, he is not.)

Without quibble, Q night was all about good 'ol fun (no quaaludes or anything). Two thumbs up for Quaint and big Qudos [sic] to Phil for organizing.