Cheeseteaks, Pitzas, and Lamb...OH MY!

Going forward I shall offer my ramblings as "The Ubereater", an aptly acquired appellation that I feel best describes my relationship with food...plus "The Human Vacuum" wasn't nearly as becoming. As an ubereater, I will immerse myself in NYC's food culture in order to celebrate the exceptional, expose the inedible, and dissect everyone else who make up the mediocre in this big city of ours.

My latest crusade found me at Moustache in the West Village where the experience resulted in a valuable lesson about being an ubereater. It's not that the food was rubbish, or the place was dirty, or even that the service was rude, it is just that the experience wasn't dynamic enough to lure casual diners back for more. If you are tiptoeing the thin line between loving middle eastern food and just beginning to accept it, Moustache will probably compel you to hold off on accepting this kind of food for a while. Furthermore, unless you are from the Middle East, or harbor some strange craving for lamb (who does?), you probably won't be waking up in the middle of the night wondering when you're going to get back for that mind-blowing lamb kebab you had at the 'Stache.

You dont have to be an ubereater to know that expecting greatness at every meal stems from the same silly optimism that has us Giants fans chanting "Superbowl" everytime Jeremy Shockey makes a catch for 8 yards. Even so, after countless disappointing meals I still can't seem to avoid feeling disgusted and annoyed with myself for wasting time, money, and most important, the meal itself, on a dining adventure gone awry. To add insult to injury, my dining partner will often console me with an painfully obvious, "We shoulda gone to that other place." Yeah, thanks!

Before I delve further into Moustache, I should explain the reasoning behind my decision to eat here. To do so, I must look back to the times when my brother and I, pining for a cheesesteak, would hop in the car and battle relentless NJ Turnpike gridlock and a labyrinth of unkempt, degentrified one-way streets, to reach the intersection of 9th and Passyunk Avenues in South Philadelphia. It is here that cheesesteak giants Pat's and Geno's perpetuate their rivaled relationship while making arguably the best cheesesteaks anywhere in the world. Once afoot, my brother and me would wait in line at Geno's and Pat's respectively, and 40 minutes later, reunite half-way to each shove 5 of the gut-busting, caloric catastrophes down our throats until our bodies couldn't take it anymore. Dizzied by a wicked combination of endorphins, indigestion, and hyperglycemia, we'd moan our way to the car lamenting (and celebrating) the absurdity of having invested more than 5 hours of our Saturday to experience 15 minutes of absolute Americana that is the Philly Cheesesteak. Yet as much as we writhed in pain and groaned with agony, we knew our torpor would slowly subside, leaving us proud of our accomplishment. In fact, only 20 minutes would pass on the ride home before the silence was broken by my brother's self-assured, "I could go for another one right now," followed by an equally assertive, "You sick bastard...so could I!" This is one of the many culinary crusades that has made me into the ubereater I am today. Undoubtedly, ubereating is marked by the timeless internal conflict of man vs. his own shamelessly relentless zeal to put only the best in his mouth, no matter what the cost. It's a sport where winning is a long-lasting sweetness, and losing reaks of overspiced lamb and bland Tabouleh that linger on your breath longer than you'd ever want them to...

..Which brings us back to Moustache, my Saturday night dinner and the current topic at hand. With my fearless dining partner in tow, we arrived at this bustling spot on sleepy Bedford Street in the West Village. Though not the most enticing name for an eatery, it didn't seem to bother the dining room of patrons that took every chair in the house. The room is tight and quite loud, making across-the-table conversation difficult. Add to that an open-air kitchen in the back, 3 hosts/managers nervously buzzing around, and people constantly hovering by the door, and we might as well have been in a busy cafe in downtown Istanbul. Somebody pass the hookah!

The menu is straightfoward, offering traditional Middle Eastern fare that ranges from "seen it before" usuals such as Hummus, Tabouleh, and Kebab, to "never want to see it again" such as the "Pitza", which is a middle eastern take on pizza using pita bread and various toppings. The Tabouleh, which I've enjoyed in the past elsewhere, is nothing more than seasoned chopped parsley with lemon juice. Moustache's version wasn't sapped with enough lemon and arrived without any sort of bread, leaving me no other option but to eat the plate of chopped parsley with a fork. This was as silly as it was depressing. Traditional Armenian Lamb on pita (officially "Lahmahjoon") can be really good, but Moustache's lukewarm interpretation had way too much lamb, not enough red onions, and lacked the bold lemon flavor that makes the entire dish even worth ordering. The "Ouzi" was a benign combination of rice, vegetables, and spices, mixed and baked in an enclosed pocket of phyllo dough. There is no doubt it was made to order using fresh ingredients, but I can't get excited over what is essentially rice pilaf baked in a balloon of dough. The accompanying yogurt sauce was a boring, drippy version of the beloved Greek Tzatziki sauce that I hold so near and dear to my heart. Meghan's spinach and cheese pie tasted funny to me as the spinach was unusually bitter, emitting a sulfuric odor that I liken to the stink that takes over the room when you overcook collard greens. It turned me off to say the least.

To my pleasure, the meal ended on a high note with an outstanding cup of gritty Turkish coffee, sweetened perfectly, and strong as hell. It was exactly as it should be and was by far the highlight of the meal.

In all fairness, I think this eager establishment truly cares about the quality and authenticity of its food (save for the gimmicky "Pitzas" that should be taken off the menu and the back of the employees' T-shirts). With that, it is also fair to say that my wishywashy opinion about this type of food is as much to blame for my disappointing experience as is the handful of crticisms I had about the actual meal. Those who are thoroughly comfortable at the Middle Eastern table will probably find Moustache to be, at the very least a decent and affordable option in a neighborhood known for otherwise. As my ubereating ways propel me to more and more destinations, I recognize that while I may not always like where I end up, there is always a lesson to be learned at the table before me. In this case, I have learned that as my culinary exploration leads me toward the Middle East, I should proceed with caution, or even better, drop my bags in Greece where the Tzatziki is thick, tangy, and always flowing.

Report Card:
Food - C+/C+ --> Got cold too fast
Ambiance - C --> There was no ambiance
Service - B --> Efficient and nice enough, but clearly geared towards turning tables
Experience in a thought --> "Take a Look Around...Cause we ain't comin back."
If you had to go back: I'd go in the afternoon, on a rainy day, and enjoy a coffee or two.

Moustache
90 Bedford St (between Grove & Barrow)