Bayleaf is a new vegetarian restaurant on 47th and division. They built their own building, complete with parking (a fucking rarity ’round here). Everything about this restaurant bothers me in some small way–but not enough to really care. The building is bland, inside and out, of stripmall-style construction and green tea paint scheme. The art on the wall is the same art you’ll find attached to the walls of cut-rate day spas and ‘asian themed’ red roof inns. In a city where restaurant spaces are either designed extremely well or extremely poorly (on purpose), Bayleaf occupies an uncomfortable space betwixt–not designed well enough to have soul, not designed poorly enough to have character–just, well, bland.
I’ll get this out of the way–no, I didn’t get any action.
The re-invigorated Bridgeport Brewpub re-opened recently, and the SSC crew hit it this past Sunday–an overcast, wet and warm day that happened to victimize us all, once again, by taking an hour of my life that I won’t get back until I no longer miss it.
seriously folks, I grew up sans daylight savings. I do not get it. I’m not even a great appreciator of 10pm daylight. It fucks with me.
Anyway, NW 13th and Marshall is the edge of the ever-expanding cancer that is the new revamped Pearl district, and the Bridgeport renovation is the newest addition to the high society vibe. The facility itself is a beautiful renovation, all dark wood, black laminate and steel. There are three zones–the pub, the bar and the restaurant. More than unique spaces, there are separate menus.
So Billy’s Dad bailed on the first attempt at sunday supper club revitalization. Too bad, since he had grand designs about where he wanted to go, but these things happen. He’s got the bird flu or something similar. Big-L and I hit up Pho Van on hawthorne, which just opened.
Often, when restaurants are empty, diners get special treatment from the waitstaff, whether out of boredom, desperation for tips, or some other reason. When Big-L and my hungover asses pulled Billy’s Dad out of his post-work funk and into No Fish Go Fish, we got a waitress to ourselves. Nay, we got the restaurant to ourselves.
Billy’s Dad had had a rough day at work. Big-L and I were really hungover, and it was that odd dining hour between 5 and 6. we were hungry, punchy, and honestly, i was a few degrees south of lucidity. The waitress sauntered over while big-L and I groaned about out livers, having dispatched with a scraggily looking hippy. As she warily watched the hippie outside the restaurant, she says ‘I hope they don’t come in here.’
Clay’s smokehouse is on 28th and Division, or thereabouts, just west of the Wild Oats. The Smokehouse resides in an older storefront and is rather unremarkable from the exterior. what is remarkable is that you’ll be smelling the woodsmoke for a block or two in each direction.