A Rooster to Please All

It might be raining and there might be road construction outside my apartment that places the imagination in Baghdad or perhaps Kabul (Was that a roadside bomb I just heard?), but nothing, not even an unrelenting jackhammer, can dampen my enthusiasm about Harlem's current resurgence. There are too many exciting new developments to cover in even a week's worth of posts. But let's give it a shot and start with Marcus Samuelsson's new venture: Red Rooster, in construction as we speak on Lennox between 125th and 126th. My first (two) question(s) is: What the hell are Helga's meatballs, and what's she doing peddling them in Central Harlem?

Red Rooster is being constructed next door to Chez Lucienne, a well-received French bistro operated by Daniel Boulud acolytes Jerome Bougherdani and chef Thomas Obaton. (Lucienne moved into space previously occupied by Slice of Harlem.) Fraud's had a hard time wrapping his arms and head around the Red Rooster concept. When discussing it, Samuelsson is ever-effusive and charismatic but vague and, well, a bit unfocused. He looks forward to introducing "Harlem through food" with "farm-to-table fresh food" and "fried chicken and collared greens" and "Southern meets Northern-style dishes" with some Jewish- and Italian-American ones thrown in for good measure and, oh yeah, there'll be a speakeasy in the basement too. Oh, and a storefront bakery and grocery... And live music!

Red Rooster was the name of an erstwhile speakeasy in Harlem (occasioned, apparently, by none other than Adam Clayton Powell) located around 137th and Lennox. Notwithstanding Sameulsson's frequent protestations of fidelity to Harlem's legacy, methinks the 140-seat dining space will be of a slightly different flavor than any neighborhood predecessors, even if the china is local and reminiscent of a bygone era.

Fraud recently bumped into Samuelsson at a bar. The Top Chef appeared sullen and preoccupied, in stark contrast to the media images of the happy-go-lucky chef with a perpetually beaming ear-to-ear mega-smile. Maybe that's to be expected when the concept of your reportedly $2 million restaurant concept is strangely amorphous and the build-out is not only behind schedule but, by the looks of it (see below), light years away from the latest announced October opening date. I probably wouldn't be able to finish my beer either.

(Fraud wonders if Samuelsson made a strategic mistake locating the restaurant on Lennox rather than FDB below 125th, the avenue quickly becoming New Harlem's restaurant/bar row. Then again, the section of Lennox Red Rooster will occupy harbors, like the aforementioned stretch of FDB, several new residential developments that can serve as feeders. Plus, its proximity to Sylvia's and Lennox Lounge connects it to the psyche of Old Harlem in a way that none of the new spots on FDB do. Further, Samuelsson is a bonafide celebrity, not just an irascible Tweeting sensation like Ryan Skeen, formerly of 5 & Diamond--in fact, Skeen's middle name is actually Formerlyof... With celebrity comes freedom. Freedom from needing to dickride on FDB's considerable foot traffic and critical mass of dining establishments. At the outset Red Rooster will become a destination place for adventurous downtowners scouting the next wilderness, not just a charming neighborhood haunt for Harlemites. On the other hand, it's hard to envision Lennox taking on the downtown trajectory of FDB. It's easy to project the latter's long-term viability. But Lennox, unlike FDB, is just too damn wide to assume the cozy charm reminiscent of downtown's hoods and Columbia's not next door. Once the newness wears off, what's Red Rooster and Lennox to do? It's a close question.)

Well, here's Fraud wishing the admirably ambitious Samuelsson the best of luck. The bastard's gonna need it. My dude.




Red Rooster
310 Lennox Avenue bet. 125th/126th Sts.

Chez Lucienne
308 Lennox Avenue
212.289.5555

How Do You Say Beer in German?

It's spelled B-I-E-R and it sounds like beer. So ultimately you say beer in German the same way you say it in English, you just spell it differently (always remember: i before e). Harlem's first "White Boy Bar," for lack of a better and more ignorant term, is set to open soon, I'm told. How soon? Well, according to the official Bier International website, "any day now." Considering this bad boy was originally slated to open in time for the World Cup and since the 2010 Cup has since been decided ("Viva la Espana!"), "any day now" apparently means sometime between today and 2014. So thirsty residents of South Harlem, don't hold your breath.

BTW, in the history of bier gardens in South Harlem, has there ever been a more egregious missed opportunity than Bier International's inability to open in time for the Cup? (Assuming management was in fact aiming for the 2010 competition and not engaged in gentrification's equivalent to blue balls.) All that free marketing and eager, anxious clientele just waiting for a taste... It's a damn shame. But any day now it should open...

***NOTE: Fraud has been assured by Bier International's salt and pepper management team (Chris and Ousmane) that it is neither German beer garden (despite its name) nor "White Boy Bar," but a casual yet sophisticated space where all the multi-hued residents of Harlem can sample an assortment of international beers from Germany, France, Kenya, Belgium, and even Harlem. Imagine this print ad concept: Bennetton meets Bud Light. When it opens, it should do big business. It promises to be the only non-bourgie/sexy drinking spot south of 125th.

*** ***EXTRA NOTE: Below are some fancy renderings of the spot. However, I'm told not to expect outdoor seating until next season i.e. 2018. Fraud can attest that, according to the fancy renderings and his regular, thirsty pacing up and down Frederick Douglass this summer, the space is almost ready.

Um, this is Awkward...

Oh, hey... How're you? Wow. It's been... Yeah. So good to see you. I've been wondering how you were doing. You look good. Uh, your hair's different, right?... Yeah, thought so. See, I do notice those things... That was a joke... Look, I'm not trying to start an argument. It really is good to see you. Really good actually. It's just been a little bit... Yes, April... Yes, five months... My bearings kind of, well, fell off and spiraled down Frederick Douglass with the tumbleweed and some potato chip wrappers... But I'm fully equipped again... No, it wasn't you. It's me. It was me. Or him. You know, my dude. But I'm back... For how long? I don't know. Until I get bored or busy again... Yeah, it was always about me. Still is. You know you like it.... So... Geez, where should I start?

Occasional Posts #5: Unmolested BBQ

If this isn't irrefutable photo evidence of Harlem's radical transformation, I don't know what is... As I stalked Adam Clayton last night looking for a cold beer and a TV to watch the game, I came across this untended barbecue around 131st. Its deliciousness, evidenced by its delicious barbecue aromas, remained unmolested. Yep. In fact, neighborhood pedestrians just walked on by, scoffing at the spread's noticeable lack of arugula and hummus. Damn. Harlem really is going through some changes.

Mojo at Dusk = Mo' Sexy

Figured I'd snap a pic of Mojo's dusky sexiness--for the readers, of course. When it's lovely outside, like it was today, management opens up the floor-to-ceiling windows (like "Lift your little dress like light wind/(Ha!) Then I slide right in...")... Bartender was straight eye-f*%@ing The Kid so tough she almost got impregnated. But that's the risk you take by commingling Fraud's sexy with Mojo's at dusk. Just is.

Hov, so prescient: "I sink this ball in your hole/I'm Tiger Woods!"

Allah Brings 'Em Out in Harlem (NEW VIDEO VIDEO!!!)

If you ever find yourself stumbling around Harlem on a Friday afternoon with nothing to do, drop by the Masjid Haqsad mosque on Frederick Douglass between 116th and 115th for Friday prayers. It's a sight to behold. Dozens of devotees, quietly kneeling or sitting on rugs placed on the sidewalk, listen intently to some authoritative voice coming from a speakerbox telling them, no doubt, that a swarm of comely virgins await them in the afterlife. Nothing to place you in a state of luxurious serenity than daydreams of busting open hymens. No need to worry godless Harlemites and fervent disciples of ignorance and/or religious intolerance, these Muslims might worship Allah but are down like four flat for Uncle Sam too. 'Dem boys that is. In my humble, the neighborhood could use more "snitches" like those at Masjid Haqsad.

Occasional Posts #4: A "Magical" Night in Harlem

Dinner and a movie? Okay... Dinner at Applebee's, not just for the kitsch but, you know, for some Monte Cristo sandwiches washed down with some popcorn shrimp and a couple strawberry daiquiris. Afterwards, take that doe (doe as in kangaroo, son) to the Magic Johnson theatre, throw some more shrimps in her, maybe some traditional popcorn, all while enjoying Brooklyn's Finest starring tax-dodging, Asian-women-loving Nino Brown. (But make sure to avoid the bathrooms.) Ladies, after those two stops, the last item on your man's itinerary is your impregnation. Yes, that's right ladies, if date night is brought to you courtesy of Magic Johnson Enterprises, you might as well resign yourself to conceiving that same night. Showtime!


Applebee's (Harlem)
One W 125th @ the NW corner of 5th Avenue
646.783.6400

Magic Johnson AMC Theatre
300 W 125th bet. St. Nicholas and Frederick Douglass Avenues
212.665.8733

REVIEW: 5 & Diamond in the Rough

Sitting across from the Antlers PJs on Frederick Douglass between 112th and 113th is arriviste chef Ryan Skeen's new 5 & Diamond. The cozy restaurant unabashedly brings a bit of downtown flavor uptown, including a coterie of chattering corporate-squares over which the PJs observe in quiet, bewildered judgment, as if to say: Where'd these fucks come from?


And only irony of the richest sort could explain the satisfaction those same PJs must have felt at rumors of belligerence transpiring across the street. Although said rumors claim the front-of-the-house staff left in solidarity with the ever-charming Gwen Butler, Fraud only noticed two absentees between first and subsequent visits. With friends like these... Who knows the full-story behind the shakeup but dude, Mr. Skeen, has been described as "peripatetic," which we all know in this instance is just a fancy euphemism for "pain in the ass." (Mr. Skeen is formerly of Allen & Delancey, formerly of Irving Mill, and formerly of Resto, all in the span of the last three years.) And Ms. Butler has been described as... Well, she describes herself as "street." Recipe for a scrap if you ask me...

In any event, Fraud wishes Ms. Butler the best of luck in her future endeavors (as if she needed any more) and implores her to please, please, PLEASE bequeath her exquisite playlist to new management. On his first visit, Fraud sat in tranquil indulgence at the bar, sip sip sippin' on a perfect cocktail on a perfectly sunny day, listening to a mix that included classic Sade followed by this. It was a nice (head) nod to the neighborhood that deftly jibed with the space's aesthetic. But since Ms. Butler's departure the music has been, well, oddly confused. The PJs and Fraud disapprove.

Now onto the food...

Mr. Skeen's reputation carries with it a penchant for fatty pork dishes among other fatty ingredients that might not be good for you but taste fucking phenomenal. I can attest to the magnificence of both his downtown burgers at Resto and Irving Mill. Diamond's apparently 70% beef/30% pork (with some beef cheek in the mix) version--if less succulent (more charred) than its downtown cousins--is more than competent and either Harlem's best burger or a close second. He uncharacteristically goes bashful with the cheese though. Speaking of which, the gruyere and mimolette mac and cheese was disappointing for this very reason, not rising much above upscale Velveeta Shells & Cheese. Now, The Kid has fond memories of shells and cheese from childhood, so this isn't an altogether unwelcome association, but not exactly five-star or worth $8, nawha'imean? Maybe Mr. Skeen has been cowed somewhat by criticism of his less than health-conscious fare. To this I say: if haters gon' hate, let 'em hate. And don't spare the cheese, homeboy.

For the main course, me and Ms. Fraud enjoyed the grilled chicken and lamb. The "grilled" chicken was cleverly fried somehow, with a crispy exterior secreting incredibly moist meat inside. Not bad for what I assumed to be a boring ol' chicken dish. The lamb entree was decent, a flavorful dollop of duck salvaged the dish from mediocrity. Can't even remember the veggies (Or was it beans?) the lamb sat on top of, and the menu's no help in jogging ye ole memory. That about says it all for the lamb. Good but nothing to write home about.

5 & Diamond saves the best for last, the highlight of the dining experience being the creme brulee dessert. First time I hit it, I was a little worried. Too much custard, not enough brulee, like little lilly-pads of caramelized sugar floating atop a custard pond as opposed to the traditional, tundra-like cover. But I licked that ramekin clean, y'all. The grace note is the slightly bitter, chocolate spongecake lying in wait on the bottom, sublimely balancing the vanilla sweetness of the custard. Dope with a capital D, inDeeD. My apologies to the readers for skipping the assortment of exotic, aromatic cheeses. (For the cheese review, see his blog.) I had the creme brulee twice and would've hit it thrice but for some complimentary cookies given in reward for voluntarily "selling" the dessert to some fellow bar patrons. If torn between the cookies and the brulee, y'all, it's a no-brainer.

My only real gripe with 5 & Diamond (aside from the music of late) is the wildly inconsistent quality of the cocktails, seemingly due to the restaurant's unsettled staffing. To be frank, if the, ahem, sapphic bartender is tending, full-speed ahead. Avoid the hipster whiteboy, apparently sidetracked on his way to Williamsburg, and the "Old(er) Queen." Neither measured out the drinks--a no-no unless making something akin to vodka-soda--and free-poured to mostly disastrous effect, the single non-disastrous effect being that Fraud got good and tipsy off some make-up drank. (Underlining once again that making up is indeed the best part.) I should add that drinks are, surprisingly, only $10, so keep that in mind.

In conclusion: ONE-AND-A-HALF THUMBS UP, does down (and subject to revision, see below). Does as in rabbits, son. Joint ain't cheap, y'all (entrees range from $18-$30). Only take wifey, not the jumpoff. Hell, make wifey take you on a special occasion, like Wednesday. If you're looking for a finishing move for somebody in between the wifey and the jump-off, you could take her for drinks. If she holds her nose, she'll get drunk, and you'll get it in. My dude.

5 & Diamond
2072 Frederick Douglass Avenue bet. 112th and 113th
646.684.4662

***For my devoted readership, I promise to supplement this review with somethin' on the rascally rabbit pasta and the shrimp and grits hush puppies. I got you.***

New Shit New Shit!... Settepani Sneak Peak Preview... FB Exclusive!

Loyal readers (Mom, Dad, thank you) are by now well aware of Fraud's appreciation for the Italian cafe Settepani (Lennox @ the SE corner of 120th). Loyal readers are by now also well aware of my consternation at its protracted closing for renovations. What was supposed to be two weeks has morphed into more than two months. In fact, Fraud was given the okie doke just last week when told it was this close to re-opening. (He was even invited to the "soft opening" that same evening.) Well, Fraud dropped in again today to see what it do, as the "menacing" steel curtains still hadn't been drawn. I was informed by the demure owner, Leah Abraham, that the official re-opening was just days away. Yeah. We'll see. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on you some more, like double. Fool me thrice, well, you can't get fooled again because I done learned my lesson, see, and that shit ain't cool to just take advantage of dude because, you know, he's trusting and been hurt and shit and... Well, just call me 43...

In any event, Leah allowed Fraud to lift up and take a peek underneath the ol' kimono (women love The Kid). Below are some pix of the in-progress renovations of Settepani exclusively (EXCLUSIVE! EXCLUSIVE!) for my loyal readers. You're welcome.


Patrons will no longer be greeted by a display of yummy pastries, traditional bakery style. Instead, patrons will have to order pastries from the menu.


The cafe/restaurant has, supposedly, expanded its seating capacity from 34 to 65. Looks comfy.


The old back counter and display will soon be additional seating for the restaurant and wine bar.

Settepani, get 'er done. Because the longer you're on the sidelines, the longer certain competitors with well-executed concepts have time to grab and hold market share. I'm tellin' ya...

Chopshops: Lennox Avenue - Market Saturation

Fraud ain't new to this, he true to this. That being said, last week I set out to answer, definitively, for my readers, a question I know's been burning their cerebral cortexes for some time:... Why are there so many damn barber shops in Harlem? It's well-documented that Harlem has the most barber shops per capita of any neighborhood the world-over. But there can't be that many wolfin' hedz in need of a fresh cut, right? Right? Well... Fraud didn't definitively answer that question; it continues to baffle. I did, however, complete an exhaustive price and "atmospherics" survey of barber shops on the Lennox corridor below 125th. I was met with curious, suspicious, distrustful, and sometimes outright hostile glares and inquiries, but all this I endured for my loyal readers without regret or expectation of recompense. True to this.

Fraud stopped going to the (black) barber shop a few years back, so there will be no kicking of the tires so to speak. Having been sufficiently socialized in that environment for 20+ years, every other Saturday, he decided it was best to invest in some quality clippers and learn the mystical art of the homecut. On special occasions Fraud'll hit up the local chopshop, but he doesn't mind pocketing that $400+/year by going dolo. I also decided I had better things to do with my entire Saturday than waiting on some garrulous Negro to quit flapping his gums, leisurely enjoying multiple "lunches," and hollering indiscriminately at every fat one that happened to walk by the window, regardless of the facial merits. But that's just me.

First, there was Pure Elegance Unisex Salon on the west side of the avenue between 119th and 120th. One of the barbers was energetically soliciting outside on the block--never a good sign. Inside, the chickens ruled the roost. The lone barber with a flesh and blood customer stood opposite a bullpen of women under the dryer eyeing him mercilessly with the unmistakable judgment: "You ain't shit." He informed Fraud, without conviction, that cuts were $15... First, Fraud stays fresh. Second, Fraud ain't no sucker, man. No TVs? And I gotta sit there uncomfortably, absorbing the bullpen's ire? Shiiiiiit. You must've had me confused...


Next, Fraud hit up Sho Nuff, another unisex shop, this time on the east side of the avenue between 123rd and 124th, and one that proudly continues the bizarre convention of giving black barber shops names more befitting a Blaxploitation flick. Outside, Fraud was aggressively questioned by a brother in a lawn chair about snapping pictures (See photo, stage left). His rambling monologue could be summed up as follows: "You popo? You wit' dem boys, ain't cha?" He then proceeded to disparage President Obama, likening him unflatteringly, I assure you, to Officer Ponch. As with Pure Elegance, the chickens rule the roost in this unisex shop. There are no TVs to partake in bizarre male rituals like watching sports. Now, Fraud is by no means a misogynist--chauvinist, maybe, but no misogynist. But if men can't have their barber shops to themselves, what's left? You just can't talk about this or this in the presence of a woman. It would be unseemly. And besides that and sports, guys really have nothing left to talk about... Oh, cuts are sho nuff $10 at Sho Nuff. Right on. Patrons' swag pre-cut: Slightly minimal. Post-cut: Minimal.


USA 1st Stop Barber Shop & Hair Salon is located on the east side of Lennox between 118th and 119th. The vibe inside is in a word: depressing. Cuts are allegedly $10 but Fraud got the distinct impression he could've gotten a cut in exchange for some lively conversation. And by "lively," I mean inhaling oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide--preferably through the nose--all while speaking. This in stark contrast to the conversation offered by the comatose gentleman photo stage right. Methinks dude was auditioning for Madame Tussaud's. The red, white, and blue color scheme is an obvious play on USA 1st, appealing to the more patriotic consumer. Judging by its subscription, it may want to change things up. Maybe red, hot, and blue? Complimentary ribs with that Caesar? Patrons' swag pre-cut: --. Post-cut: ... ... ... ... CLEAR!


Apparently, all the neighborhood patriots flock to Victor's, 153 Lennox between 117th and 118th on the avenue's west side, another red, white, and blue, unabashedly all-American shop. And more apparently apparently, all the neighborhood patriots are Hispanic; there was not a lick of unbroken English spoken in the joint. It was, however, filled to the brim with customers. Fraud was eyed suspiciously upon entering, his measly two semesters of Spanish evident. And two semesters plus some erratic viewing of telemundo do not a native speaker make. Cuts were $10 despite the presence of a TV showing tournament games and the boisterous atmosphere. Como se dice: bargain? I just realized Victor's customers could be candy lovers, not patriots. Patrons' swag pre-cut: Abundant. Post-cut: Clean and abundant.


The uninspired but unambiguous Lennox Barber Shop Corp. is between 115th and 116th and offers $10 cuts. In addition, Abe Vigoda will keep you in stitches as he gives you a disjointed taper and a Snickers bar. A nice streak of faux-ivy lines the back wall, classing up the joint a bit. The lone brother waiting for a cut appeared to be part of someone's ingenious witness protection program. Patrons' swag pre-cut: Dire. Post-cut: Slim.


On the south side of 116th between Lennox and 5th is B. Braxton. The bourgie salon, open a few years now, proclaims to offer "Exceptional Grooming for Exceptional Men." Once upon a time Fraud patronized the joint for the easy-on-the-eyes, all-female staff, shameless and aggressive flirting from said staff apparently on furlough, scalp massage, complimentary hot towels and NO WAIT, all for under $20. If I recall correctly, there was also a bar, and patrons could indulge in a mani/pedi, facial, or massage for a reasonable rate. (Pause.) However, there are no TVs in B. Braxton, save one that constantly streams whine and cheesey 90's R&B. There was also little in the way of traditional male comradery. In any event, on this visit the joint was closed despite its posted operating hours (10 a.m. to 8 p.m.). So much for never having to wait. Perhaps the spot was a bit "too ahead" of the neighborhood, much like the now defunct and ill-fated/-conceived caviar bar formerly occupying space on the northeast corner of 120th and Lennox. At least B. Braxton never had a fruit fly infestation problem, unlike the aforementioned. (From memory...) Patrons' swag pre-cut: Fabulous. Post-cut: Even more fabulous.


Finally, Fraud found his favorite chopshop... On or a block east of Lennox... And below 125th... The ambitious, original Blu Barber (no relation). Blu Barber offers $13 cuts, the $3 premium on the consensus neighborhood price presumably for internet access, video games, a fax and copy machine, multiple flat screen TVs, and good old-fashioned misogyny. No doubt. I see you. The only problem I see for Blu is its flirtation with flouting the one unassailable rule of all successful retail: (good) location, (good) location, (good) location. Blu is nestled amongst the numerous PJs that line the avenue below 113th. Here's wishing you all the best Blu. Patrons' swag pre-cut: Staggering. Post-cut: Obnoxious with clean lines.




There you have it, children and inmates. The chopshops of Lennox Avenue. Seven in all (er, we'll call it six and a-half), offering cuts from $10-$15 depending on such factors as whether or not you have a fax to send and the scruples of the barber offering his services. If you visit one, tell 'em Fraud sent you... On second thought, better not. My dude.

Ask and You Shall Receive... Fraud Brown Exclusive Exclusive!

Yesterday, our fearless hero Fraud lamented that his favorite coffee in Harlem, Settepani's smooth, chocolaty brew, had been unavailable for an unexpectedly and distressingly long period of time, ostensibly due to renovations (Ya digly?). Well, the gods answered his inquiry: What it do (since no readers did)? Settepani was indeed shutdown for renovations (instead of, say, for roaches or bankruptcy), and is having a "soft (re-)opening" tonight starting at around 7:30 p.m.


Although the spot looked a ways away from customer-ready, Fraud will see what it do this evening and might even cop a cappuccino (oh why oh why?). See you there?


Settepani Bakery
196 Lennox Avenue @ the SE corner of 120th
917.492.4806

New Joint Joint... Fraud Brown Exclusive Exclusive!

Another restaurant opened on Frederick Douglass Avenue to exploit the development boom and coming population explosion on same said Ave - 5 & Diamond. Fraud's ten second, worth a dime(mond) assessment is: cozy, unpretentious, cute. (Pause.) Looks like a nicely executed concept, kind of like a smaller Market Table. The chef is Ryan Skeen, formerly of Irving Mill (good burger) and Allen & Delancey (interesting but expensive drinks) and a Cafe Boulud alum. Stay tuned for a full Fraud Brown review in about a week.

Like a devilishly handsome, debonair secret agent who tip-toes around raindrops, Fraud snapped an exclusive pic of the restaurant and some Gentrifiers inside. Anything for my readers... Okay... I actually asked the general manager for permission. She obliged because, well, women just can't say no to The Kid. But you need night vision goggles to actually make sense of it. No Biggie Smalls.


Above is the "soft opening" menu. (The lighting was shitty and the type was small, okay? I mean, can I live?) Check out GrubStreet (NY Mag's food blog) here for a legible version. 5 & Diamond is doing business in the near term from 6 p.m. to 11 p.m., Tuesdays through Saturdays. My dude.

Occasional Posts #3: Did Settepani Go Out of Business? WTF?...

Been patiently waiting like 50 and Em for my favorite Harlem coffee spot to reopen. In January, Fraud braved the frigid Northeastern Hawk in search of some coffee with a smooth, chocolaty finish. BOOM!: Settepani. Best coffee in Harlem, says I. I get there, crying from the cold and wind, icicles tumbling down my cheeks, only to find a notice that Settepani would be "TEMPORARILY" closed for renovations. Two weeks it said. Ownership was remodeling and adding a wine bar. Dope, thought Fraud. I'm cold, but I'm a soldier. (Pause.) I can wait... Especially for a full-bodied Cabernet.

Two months later, notice is no where to be found, and that joint is boarded up like a crack den. In fact, that whole block is boarded up like a... block of crack dens. (But all the D boys operate a couple blocks farther down.) What's goin' on east side of Lennox between 119th and 120th? Get it together fam. All those buildings are beautiful yet remain eerily and depressingly vacant/dilapidated.


Who's got the answer, loyal readers (Mom, Dad)?

Fortunately it's 70 degrees and sunny, so the only tears shed by Fraud today were due to being stuck indoors, typing and shit. Back to it.

REVIEW: Losing its Mojo?

True to my Microsoft Word, within the past month Fraud hit up the restaurant Mojo thrice times, which means that witch is ripe for review. Not once, not twice, but thrice... OH, BE-have! Had to. Especially since this joint's got nationally televised American Express ads featuring, as pitchfolk, a Tony award winner/purveyor-of-black-mawkishness... Let's go.

Devoted readers of this blog (all two of you) are by now familiar with Fraud's severe allergy to Bourgieness and all things labelled "Grown & Sexy." Why? Because it's B-O-R-I-N-G and T-I-R-E-D, much in the same way that a certain male, urban look is. Well... Sometimes Bourgie is successfully pulled off, as when the Bourgieness of the vision is fully-realized without much hint of pretension or self-consciousness. Got it? And to Mojo, Fraud just has to tip his Kangol hat. Congratulations. Walking into Mojo, one is immediately accosted by some sort of pagan-looking statue--perhaps the patron saint of Grown & Sexy. Fraud was fully prepared to do battle against this false idol but was quickly pacified by his Moroccan influenced, gorgeous purple and mauve surroundings, reminiscent of a much admired pop singer's ruffled attire during a famous game of basketball... Game, Blouses. Or in this case: Game, Purple-and-Mauve, Velvet-Seeming, Ruffled Curtains, Soul-Themed-Eclectic Playlist, and Resplendent Bar... "CHALLENGE'IM"!!

To start, Fraud enjoyed some yummy, creamy grits ($9), the saltiness cut and interestingly sweetened just a touch by some woodland mushrooms. Truth be told (I mean, that's what we do here), the grits were served a little too hot--like, could seriously scold a foot-dragging, cad of a soul singer hot. (Best believe they were kept away from Ms. Fraud.) And of course Fraud tried the mussels ($12), sauteed in... You guessed it: a white wine sauce with cherry tomatoes, garlic, thyme, and lemon for a little citrusy kick. Hey, when it comes down to it they're mussels, and as I've said before you gotta work hard to screw up some mussels. On the other hand, the lobster salad appetizer ($16) was disappointing, somehow managing to make everybody's favorite crustacean less succulent. Fraud didn't think that was possible. All you gotta do is throw that witch in a pot of boiling water with some salt and BAM! Make you wanna slap yo' momma... I'm tellin' you...

For the main courses, Fraud tried the rosemary chicken ($20), resting ever so seductively on a bed of kale and a white bean ragout. A Bourgie but successful twist on fried chicken, the skin was slightly charred and crunchy (without batter) but the meat remained refreshingly moist. Dope. (For a similar but boneless take, try this spot downtown.) The seafood pasta dish--fettuccini with shrimp and shallots in a tomato sauce ($14)--was tasty and indeed light as advertised, and the salmon entree was generously portioned if unspectacular ($26). I mean, it's salmon. Good luck bringing the spectac'.

And yo yo yo! Yo! Don't skip dessert. In fact, go in. The strawberry tiramisu ($7), although a little soggy (shortbread) was delicious. Fraud damn near licked his plate clean even after his Herculean effort to sample as much of the menu as possible. All for y'all, my loyal readers (Mom, Dad).

Now, to the seeming dissonance between title and post...: Mojo's service is friendly if not particularly fast. Methinks Mojo is paring back its ambitions a bit, no doubt a function of making this audacious concept work in Harlem. It seems to be trimming costs everywhere, cutting staff and changing up the beer list. On my last visit, one server worked the entire room and the exciting microbrew offerings of "old" had been largely replaced by familiar corporate brands like Heineken, Corona, Guinness etc. And, disgustingly, finally, Fraud's water tasted like a dirty dish rag. To the management of Mojo: Laundry can't be viewed as a luxury. Wash regularly or replace those dish rags. And to my loyal readers: THROW some money at Mojo, Harlem's flagship restaurant! We can't let that ship go down(town). Tell your peoples. Tell 'em!

Lastly, fellas, do not, and I repeat DO NOT take the jump-off to this joint. Strictly for wifey or those in the running. You won't get out of there for less than $70 unless you go drankless, which is effectively like going wifeyless. The quality of the food rivals downtown fare and, as the wisdom of the ages tells us: You get what you pay for. Oh, and I should add that the waitstaff ain't bad looking. I should definitely add that. One bartender reminded of a young Sally Richardson and the other was some Armenian/Turkish/Cypriot joint with a fat one. Fraud tried devilishly to snap a pic behind wifey's back (of the fat one, not Sally) but was frustrated by the angle. That's how much I care about my readers, y'all. Risking life and limb (literally) to snap a picture when wifey is distracted. DISCLAIMER: As in most Bourgie establishments, it was dark. Fraud bears no liability for inaccurate appraisals of the waitstaff due to Strobelight complications.


Final verdict: TWO enthusiastic THUMBS UP, does down. Does as in deer, son. My dude.

Mojo
185 St. Nicholas Avenue @ the NW corner of 119th (used to be Fraud's favorite bodega, complete with a shit-talking 24/7 Iranian child laborer)
212.280.1924

Occasional Posts #2: Bill Clinton Way?

You know how all the avenues in Harlem are eponymous, not numbered? (The FraudBrown.com Word of the Day, children and inmates, is: EPONYMOUS.) Named after famous, pioneering black leaders: Frederick Douglass, Adam Clayton Powell, Malcolm X, Flavor Fav, etc.? Well, Fraud wonders when Bill Clinton's getting his. I mean, he was our nation's first black president and all, RIGHT?... [***Fraud slams fist down in righteous indignation.***]

Shiiiiiit. Any of you suckers that bought that line read this book, which Fraud recently finished in two days (it was like political crack y'all--I was scratching and e'rything). I know We (that's the royal We) sometimes have a crabs in a barrel mentality, but he done crossed the line. Would have been "getting us coffee"? Indeed. I just revoked Bill Clinton's black card for that one. (Fraud's been given that authority by the great state of New York.) Ol' Billy can commisserate with this guy and this guy.

And then he kept trying to connect Obama to Jesse!!!... [***Fraud shadowboxes Slick Willy to an imaginary bloody pulp, then breaks his saxophone over his knee like a twig, MLB-style.***]

The Clintons' ambition has always been Olympian and a tad grotesque, that much we knew. But for the gods' sake, who knew their ambition trumped all principle? I guess Billy only wants to be black when it serves his purpose. For shame, Billy. For shame. No eponymous Harlem avenue for you. New York's Black Card Commissioner (NYBCC) doesn't care that you have an office here. In fact, f#&k Bill Clinton as a record label and as a motherf$%kin' crew! And if you wanna be down with Bill Clinton, then fuck you too.

Pardon my French. Bob Johnson has that effect on The Kid.

REVIEW: Frizzante... Italian for "Mediocre Italian Food"

So, Fraud recently hit up Frizzante, the new Italian Bistro & Bar that opened in South Harlem on the corner of Frederick Douglass and 117th. (I should mention that when reviewing restaurants going forward, Fraud will hit the spot up at least twice before opining and do my darndest, paper allowing, to hit it up thrice times. Fraud always tries to hit it thrice times, baby...)


Frizzante's vanilla-wood decor is inviting and warm and a nice contrast to the (too often) detestable and poorly lit "Grown & Sexy" vibe of the 'hood's other higher-end dining spots. (You ain't got to fear Strobelight Honeys in this joint. It got that good light.) The restaurant goes for, and largely pulls off, a casual family dining experience, like a slightly upscale, less corporatized Olive Garden. In fact, both times I went it was littered with families, kids in tow--albeit, well-behaved ones (unlike these).

Fraud had high hopes for Frizzante. Like almost Obama high... Okay, more like Charlie Rangel high. I thought I was getting over, largely due to the fact that ALL the entrees are priced between $9-$15 (with most hovering around $11)! You read that right. But, as experience and the wisdom of the ages tell us: You tend to get what you pay for...


Started off both excursions with the mussels appetizer (Sorry y'all, Fraud has a thing for mussels. Promise to mix it up next time.). It's hard to screw up mussels and Frizzante avoids calamity by eschewing adventurism and its attendant risks, keeping it simple with a white wine and garlic sauce. Good enough. But... the pasta offerings were, well, pretty bland. The rigatoni in lamb ragu elicited a yawn as did both the cod special and the fusilli; the pasta noodles were also a tad tough, leaving Fraud assured not too much time was wasted (or spent) in their preparation. Fraud finished his meal thinking he could've made equal fare on his own... if he had the time. (But he don't.) For dessert, there was a chocolate ball full of chocolate, for lack of a better or less descriptive description, and a lemon cheesecake, both of which were probably pulled from a box in the freezer and dropped on me and the Ms.'s plates. In other words, no need to leave room.

Overall, a valuable and nice addition to the neighborhood if for no other reason than it's pretty cheap. The service is good and fast, the food more than edible (skip dessert though), and on both occasions Fraud was served by a seemingly authentic Italian-American, apparently to make up for the less than authentic food. A nice touch. Dude was accommodating too. On my second trip he allowed Fraud and the Ms. to bring in a bottle of wine despite the fact the restaurant had by then made good on its liquor license. He recommends you do the same i.e. walk in and sheepishly claim you didn't know the BYOB policy had lapsed. To the management of Frizzante: Bring back BYOB and just charge a corking fee. It'll only add to the homey vibe and certainly ain't detracting from the restaurant's thrifty positioning. I'm tellin' you...

Lastly, for the fellas, Fraud recommends Frizzante for gals more than a jump-off but less than a wifey. The spot should especially impress youngins new to the city that have yet to venture downtown to the more delicious and expensive establishments. You can get out of there for less than $40 reasonably assured you'll be "compensated" later. Confucius (and Fraud) say: Get 'em while they naive.

Final verdict: ONE THUMB UP, does down. Does as in deer, son. You get what you pay for at Frizzante, but that's not so much a bad thing. My dude.

Frizzante
2168 Frederick Douglass Boulevard at the corner of 117th
212.866.0526

Occasional Posts #1...

Yo, so why was I enjoyin' a cancer stick on 119th when approached by a gentlemen of questionable repute asking if I was "slingin' that stuff"? It took me awhile to realize he was talkin' about "that trap." Because I never want to disappoint my public, I told him Yeah. He asked when. I said early because the early bird catches the worm... Which, even if covered in manured soil, is certainly better for you than crack. I love Harlem. What a way to bust my blog cherry...

Fraud promises he, in no shape or form, even remotely resembles a drug dealer. I keeps my hustles legal! Although I should add, for the ladies' sakes, that Fraud is the male answer to Jessica Simpson in the bedroom, so confusion by the fairer sex of Fraud's waterbed game as literal narcotic is understandable.

Fraud Brown

Who is Fraud Brown, you ask? Harlem's finest, that's who. And by "finest" I mean best, most spectacular, insightful, brilliant, quick-witted, fleet-footed, and devoted lover of dark-chocolate women (even ones who use cellphones as missiles and attack their own limo drivers), not just "finest" in the beautiful, irresistible vernacular sense of the word. Although, Ladies, best believe Fraud is serious eye candy. (Pause.)

Look at your man, now back to me, not back at your man, now back to me... Sadly, he isn't me...

Why Fraud, you ask? Well, I ain't exactly a homegrown product like my famous doppelganger. I'm part of that latest Great Migration of educated, enterprising, sophisticated, discerning, and real (read: NOT bourgie) Negroes to New York City from somewhere down South in search of all the titillation and stimuli the greatest city on Earth has to offer. And, yes, Negroes, Negroes is officially back in vogue so don't get your draw's all in a bunch. Sissies...

What is Fraud Brown, you ask? A site where the glorious residents of Harlem, and those visionary enough to partake in its abundant splendor, can get candid and reliable takes on the latest restaurants, bars, residential developments, etc., or even the old-timey restaurants, bars, bodegas, laundromats, etc. that call Harlem home. And from a decidedly MALE perspective. Shiiiiiiit, if it's goin' down in Harlem, best believe Fraud's on it. WARNING: If you're too timid or dull to develop or challenge your own aesthetic standards, and instead substitute the tired ones of the moribund "Grown & Sexy" movement, then this site might not be for you. Only the true "discerners," please.

Oh yeah, and of course there will be some quick, occassional posts on interesting happenings I see walking these streets... Or just because.

I am Fraud Brown. My dude.

Welcome.