Fulgencio M.'s Profile

My only problem with Frasca is that it's across the street from a train station.  No, it's not noisy or anything.  It's just that whenever I eat there, I have to look at people who take public transportation.

Frasca has become a neighborhood stop for me, which means every time I'm in the neighborhood, I stop, look at it, and then pass right by.

But no, really, ever since I moved north from warm and wonderful MiAmI beAcH, I can't get enough of Frasca's drink specials (and uh, food too, I guess).  Frasca has lots of special nights for wine-o's like me.  Mondays are  1/2 off bottles.  Tuesdays are  1/2 off glasses.  Sundays are $3 drafts.  I'm still waiting for the night when those cute server boys are  1/2 off... OOOH cHiLd, they're thin and bearded and look like they just got off shift at American Apparel.  I'd compost for any of those hedonistic hipsters.

So what was I saying?  Oh right, alcohol.  The wine list is largely Washington/Oregon.   I think Oregon is the capital of Washington.  Or the other way around.  Either way, I've never been to Canada, so I can't tell you for sure.  All I know is that this guy named "Owen Roe" is very popular on their wine list, and boy do his wines lighten up my sad, lonely life.  Whenever I try to burn my cheating boyfriend's wardrobe like that crazy loca in Waiting to Exhale and the cops lock me up for weeks at a time, it's good to know that I can go right to Frasca and get drunk on my buddy Owen Roe.  And for half off!

Ugh, so you probably want to know about the food.  I can sum it up in two words: Mushroom Risotto Fritters.  Fried balls of perfection.  And I know a thing or three about balls.  I've ordered everything on the menu... from cabernet sauvignon, to cabernet franc, to sauvignon blanc, to--wait, which menu are we talking about?  Oh, food?  Oh, I don't eat--why are you asking me to talk about food?

But whatever, the food is delicious.  Pizzas are thin and cooked to perfection.  The chicken breast is great if you're on a date and don't want to get gassy after the meal.  The gnocchi is superb.  The first time I saw that word I thought I was ordering Italian nachos.  Boy was I right.

So stop by Frasca.  Especially on a Monday for  1/2 off bottles.  I'll be there, and I expect that with the discount you'll have no problem sending a bottle my way.  But if you're stuck taking the train on the Paulina line, and I have to stare at your sad public transportation face while I'm downing my fifth glass of cab franc, then don't be surprised if I Na NA na POO POO to you from the window.  You deserve it.  No one takes public trans anymore.  Only city planners and the homeless.  Which are basically one in the same.

This has been a Review by Fulgencio

Let's be clear about one thing, Yelpers.  Just because I like Japanese food doesn't mean I like Japanese people.  Ever since they declared independence from England in 1997, I refuse to go to their country.  Now Tokyo on the other hand is an amazing country that I visit all the time.  But I wasn't in the mood for Chinese food last weekend... I was in the mood for authentic Japanese.

I found Chizakaya by accident.  I saw four pretty Japanese girls standing outside a building, and since my body naturally gravitulates towards other ethnic minorities I uncontrollably was ushered into this trendy Japanese pub.  And that was fine, since I was in the mood for some raw fish and sake.

Do I even know what I ate?  Does Martha Stewart know how much money is in her bank account?  No, so why are you bothering me to review food?  I'll tell you what was excellent though (all that I remember before I got drunk on the sake): the little chicken meatballs and chicken skins are superb, and so were the chicken livers and the pork meatball thingies.  I also liked the foie gras soup thing, although it was a small portion.  All the portions are small, which is great for me.  You don't keep a 27-waist by eating at Outback Steakhouse every day.  Do ya Paris?

Best of all was the service at Chizakaya.  So many friendly staffers came up to talk to me, and it wasn't just because I'm stunningly beautiful.  The manager even brought me a complimentary little bottle of hot sake.  A restaurant that doesn't flag me after 3 drinks, and actually encourages me to drink more?  This Japanese pub has no idea what they're in for...

If you're looking for a cute spot in Lakeview for small plates and pre-"going out" drinks, then this is it.  The beer selection is eclectic, and the food is unique and well-done.  And the boss of this place is some Japanese woman with fierce heels, so that just makes my life complete.  Had she smashed a bottle of hot sake over my head and told me to kiss her Christian Louboutins, I would've still given this place 5 stars.  Especially for that cute Japanese male chef... hEllO.

But that's right, all you horny middle-aged men with a Japanese dominatrix fetish, this is your hang-out.  But don't tell the folks at Chizakaya that I said that.  I don't want to jeopardize my free sake shots...

Anisha A.: The words in your review were way too big.  I can't understand it.  Can you like, post a dumbed-down review for me?  Or bullet points?

Oh, and FYI yelpers, Chizakaya has a very cool ambience.  If I knew what that word meant, I would explain further.  Since I don't, I'm just going to repeat myself and use it in a new sentence.  The ambience at Chizakaya is really amazing.  It could be a set in a Kill Bill movie... only I'd be Uma Thurman, and Bill would be Jean Georges or Nobu Matsuhisa.

This has been a Review by Fulgencio

OK, so this is a biased review.  When my friends tell me they're going to take me to a meat market, I spend an entire day preparing to look fabulous for what I assume will be a nightclub or important event.  So you can imAginE my horror when last week my friends took me to Meat Market, and I realized the only meat that would be entering my mouth was wagyu.

Finally I settled down after my friends reminded me that this would be the first time I'd go to a meat market and not contract a venereal disease.

So the restaurant.  The indoor is massive, but we ate at an outdoor table on the busy Lincoln Road.  I love sitting outdoors for the people watching.  And that means that I like when people are "watching" me.  I don't have time to watch people, especially when I'm focusing on being skinny.

I also love it when a college-age asshole wanders down Lincoln with his monstrous dog, who takes a steamy crap right in front of my table.  Literally, a foot away.  Did the restaurant staff respond to this incident?  hEllO, of course not.  The thing became caramelized by the time the dog's owner got ahold of his friend, who stopped by with a plastic bag.  Alas, the problems with eating dinner on Lincoln Road.
The restaurant's food?  I can tell you how it tastes, but not how it smells, since I had coroner's cream on my face to block the smell of the dog.  In fact, I saw Paris Hilton walking down Lincoln Rd, and I had more white stuff under my nose than she did!

Aside from the best sweet potatoes in my life, perfect little foie gras sliders, and a sea bass to die for, the food was whatever.  Or maybe it was all very good.  I actually don't remember eating anything other than the sweet potatoes, sliders, and sea bass.  Midway through dinner the wrenching stench of the dog had killed so many of my brain cells that I was beginning to experience short-term memory loss.  In fact, I don't even know if I'm reviewing the right restaurant right now.  This could be the Houston's up in Orlando, Florida, or even the T.G.I. Fridays in Scranton, PA.

I've never seen foie gras at a TGIF, but I also never knew I was forbidden from traveling to Havana until last week when I was detained at the airport after following a bunch of Cubans onto a plane headed for their homeland.  hEllO, I was just trying to find someone to clean my condo.

But anyway, Meat Market is a wonderful little spot on Lincoln Road, amidst many mediocre restaurants.  My advice: sit inside.  It's air-conditioned, and you won't have to risk smelling dog crap for 30 minutes of your evening.  There are some dark, private booths in the back of the restaurant by the bathrooms (where I cruise the straight guys), so def try to get one of those.  But if you're hoping to bump into me, sorry Yelpers: I'll be at a REAL meat market.

This has been a Review by Fulgencio

I was off to New York City to fight for our country.  Those of you that know me, know that I'm very pro-mosque.  It's not just because of my Imam ex, or the fact that I'm the treasurer of the Not Without My Daughter fan club (fyi sorry members, there won't be a conference this year because the IRS froze my accounts), but the true reason I'm pro-mosque is because I heard on the radio that if the Muslims are not allowed to build at ground zero, they will pull all hummus and pita bread from our grocery stores.

This CANNOT happen.

I don't like to protest in the street, for fear that someone might mistake me for being poor or homeless.  Instead, I decided to protest at one of the whitest, most bougie places in the city.  Bouley.

I arrived at Bouley promptly at 9:30 PM, waltzing into their little foyer with skin-tight jeans and a Cavalli top.  I'm not talking about a shirt, straight people, I mean that the TOP I was with was dressed entirely in Cavalli.  Tacky, I know, but he was Eurotrash and he was gonna foot the bill.  You think I could afford Bouley on my own?!

The first room you enter when walking into Bouley is filled with rows and rows of apples, which releases the fine smell of...apples...into the air.  Snow White would have a field day.  FYI, there's no one watching this room, so if you ever need some free produce, just run in and grab a few.  No one cares.  I mean hEllO, it's Tribeca.

So we sat down, blah blah, and I of course ordered the most expensive thing on the menu... the tasting, which consisted of 4 regular courses, plus a strawberry soup and dessert.  I know what you're thinking: why would Fulgencio order all this food if he doesn't eat?  Good question.  I'd gotten so high off the overwhelming scent of apples in the foyer that I had no clue what was going on... OR why my Eurotrash date still hadn't removed his ruby red sunglasses, even though we were indoors and in a jacket-required high-dining scene.  He looked like Cyclops from the X-Men, only this one's from Belarus, and the only reason his eyes light up is because he did too much coke the night before.

So now's the most painful part of the review where I actually have to talk about what I ate.  Oh God, for an anorexic, this is the worst.  It must be like when they ask Lindsay Lohan what she did last night.

First of all, the food is amazing.  Unless you have the palate of a caveman, then you'll love it.  The meal started with a perfect gazpacho, and before you knew it the chef was knocking out dishes like a professional boxer.  Each dish was literally like a punch in my face, except for the dessert, which was more of an ear bite-off.  No clue why the chef had to get all Mike Tyson in the last round.  Whateva, it's all good.

Highlights?  I don't know even know what that word means... all I know is it was the name of a kids magazine in my old barber shop, and I used to do the puzzles on page 5.  But I'll tell you what dishes were best.  The duckling rocked, and the scallop dish with the tomato flavor was pure genius.  The hamachi was also noteworthy.  And at the end of the meal, the kitchen served three desserts, one of which wasn't even on the menu, along with a petit four that was more of a petit sixteen.

While I was ignoring my date, who was talking about designer jean-shopping in his hometown of Bucharest (wherever that is...), one of the managers graciously approached our table and asked us if we were enjoying our dinner.  I said I'd enjoy it even more if the hot latin busboy gave me his #.  The manager thought I was kidding.

By the time my many-course dinner was over, most of the restaurant had emptied out.  There was no one left to protest to about the mosque.  Really, the only thing to protest was that my Eurotrash companion wanted me to crash at his hotel.  Luckily for him, I'd gotten drunk off a bottle of Martinelli zin and my wine-o goggles made him look much more like Marc Anthony than Silvio Berlusconi.

If you want the continuation of my mosque story, go see my review of Aureole.  Or just go straight to Bouley and enjoy one of the best meals of your life.

This has been a Review by Fulgencio

First of all, I want to apologize for the lapse in reviews.  Six weeks ago I boarded a flotilla that I thought was a gay Carnival cruise ship on its way to Tel Aviv.  I should have known the first night when I was kicked out of the mess hall for playing Brooke Hogan on my portable Bose speakers.

But now Fulgencio is back from his international travels.  Be grateful.  I married a rich imam in the Gaza Strip, until he realized I had a penis.  I've been kicked out of bars, clubs, restaurants, convenience stores, movie theaters, and even funeral homes before, but I've never been kicked out of a relationship so quickly!

Upon my depressing return to Miami, I was in a rare mood.  I was actually hungry.  FYI, Gaza is totally AmAzinG for anorexics.  But since I was back home in luxurious Miami beach, I needed a place to commit carbocide, and I chose one of the best in Miami: Mai Tardi in the design district.

Mai Tardi has three things going for it.  #1 - most of the servers are out of an Abercrombie catalogue.  #2 - the food is consistently good.  #3 - I forget.  #4 - see number 3.

But the fifth reason I'll tell you: every time you go, you will see a beautiful, busy, Amazonian-freakishly-tall Italian woman named Andrea running around in cute outfits giving top-notch service.  Sometimes I go to Mai Tardi just to look at her in admiration, and wonder how someone can be so skinny and still look healthy.  This woman is so fabulous that sometimes I literally just burst into tears looking at her.  It's like watching "Life is Beautiful," but fast-forwarding through the Nazi parts.

Oh, and the prices are very reasonable.  I took my Imam ex out to Mai Tardi when he flew to the US to apologize for leaving me, and he actually footed the bill.  This coming from a guy who asks me to split the check at Cracker Barrel.  My life is going downhill quick.

This has been a Review by Fulgencio

My Yelp homepage says I'm looking smart today.  I think they're trying to trick me into donating money.

STK is much like myself: all beauty and no depth.  But that's what being fabulous in South Beach is all about, rIgHt?  Let me give you some background.  I arrived on a weeknight for the small, intimate birthday of my parole officer.  We were going to eat lobster, drink champagne, and re-negotiate my terms of house arrest, which resulted from stealing a cop car and using it to get into one of Elizabeth Taylor's parties.

We arrived at STK promptly at 9:30, and weren't seated until 10:20.  We were sent to these ultra-expensive winding sofas to drink and wait for 50 minutes before our table was ready.  Was the wait their fault?  Obviously not.  If I spent a fortune on sofas I'd also want people to sit on them.   One time I bought a chair from Fendi and paid a guy $8/hour just to keep the seat warm for me.  Unfortunately he had an accidental bowel movement since I wouldn't let him get out of the chair, which soiled the fabric.  It's okay... now just I just tell people it's a "cow pattern."

After fifty minutes of waiting, our birthday group was led to our table, in the very back of the dining room.  At first I was glamoured by their complimentary bottle of champagne.  Then I realized what it was: $10 champagne in their wine list for $55.  I saw $21 sauvignon blanc for $68.  I saw good cabs with triple mark-up.  I think I even saw Bernard Madoff's name listed as the Sommelier.

I loved our complimentary $10 bottle of champagne, but I also love boxed wine and movies with Nicholas Cage.  The rest of the table wasn't so thrilled.  So we ordered a decent white wine and placed our food orders.  My foie gras french toast was delicious, and so were the little pots of bread sent to the table.  Appetizers were a hit.  Unfortunately my plan was NoT, since I got stuck sitting in-between my parole officer's grandparents, who had to affix their fake teeth every time they wanted a bite of my foie gras.

Somewhere in-between a fire alarm and our birthday boy receiving a charred 16oz steak, our waiter dropped the bottle of white wine on the floor and proceeded to serve it anyway.  He was probably just outraged by my campaign to sell my parole officer's grandparents on the idea of euthanasia.  Still, that's no reason to drop my $70 bottle and not offer a new one.

Hence why restaurants should start carrying boxed wine.  If you drop a box of wine, there's no problem.  Maybe a little squirt, but that's it.  Not to mention I would've gotten drunk for $15... or actually $40, knowing this restaurant.

How were the entrées?  My Maine lobster was nice, and Grandma's snapper was delicately cooked.  I liked the thick parmesan truffle fries, but they didn't quite compare to the ones at Rouge in Philadelphia.

And customer service?  What customer service?  I felt like we were in a circus.  Even with the glitzy interior, the expensive sofas, and the fabulous music, STK has an over-priced, underdeveloped menu that pales in comparison to top-tier service restaurants like Wish, NAOE, or Osteria del Teatro.  I've gotten better service at Pollo Tropical.  We should've just gone there for the birthday party and saved $100 per person.  You know how many designer t-shirts I can get with $100?  One.  That's better than zero!!!

So STK doesn't do the restaurant thing so well.  But if you're looking for drinks and tasty appetizers in a chic, important setting, stay at the bar or one of the upstairs tables and order away.  As for me, I doubt I'll ever eat here again.  For me, restaurants are just like men: they only get one chance with Fulgencio Milano.  Or two or three if they're loaded.

This has been a Review by Fulgencio

Every year I receive about 15 to 22 letters signed by Florida congressmen begging me to move out of their state.  I've been offered money, cars, jewelry, and even a date with Governor Charlie Crist.  The only stipulation was that I had to wear heels and respond to being called "Fulgencia."  I haven't gone by that name since my drag work in the 90s, and I have no intention of going back.  

But every year around the same time I plan a vacation to a new state, to sample the waters (and men) of other lands.  This year I was heavily debating between Arkansas and Tennessee, when I had a revelation: why don't I visit a state that doesn't completely suck?

Traveling to Hawaii was not easy.  First I had to find someone else who would pay for the trip, and then I needed to learn Hawaiinese.  Unfortunately Rosetta Stone didn't stock their language.  Figures.  Software companies can't do anything right.

My first impression of Honolulu was horrendous!  I saw a Gucci store, and a Prada store, and somewhere in-between them was a discount dollar store.  What a steaming pile of crap in the middle of two superpowers.  It's kind of like how the founding fathers put Middle America in-between LA and NYC.  Apparently Ben Franklin used to wear Dolce & Gabbana.  Or, at least until he got hemorrhoids and had to switch to less itchy fabrics.  This is all in history books, FYI.

But Honolulu wasn't my main stop.  The St. Regis in Kauai was, and most importantly: Jean Georges' Hawaiian restaurant.  Now I've done Jean Georges in New York.  I've done Jo Jo.  I've done Prime Steakhouse.  I've even done Jean Georges.  Not a bad lay... has a soft hint of caramel and is aged like a stinky French bordeaux.  Just decant him for 15 minutes before foreplay.

At Kauai Grill, you can get delicious foie gras, delightful shrimp, and a perfect little heart of palm salad, but the one thing you can't get is bread.  I expected that at the St. Regis' Jean Georges restaurant the bread boy would be some hunky Hawaiian surfer.  Instead it's an extra from The Land Before Time.  This is how our conversation went:

#1
Fulgencio: "Um, excuse me, can I please have more bread?"
Bread Boy: *grunt*

#2 - 15 minutes later, and no bread
Fulgencio: "Um, I asked for bread earlier, and like, I still don't have any?  Could you please bring some?"
Bread Boy: "Huh?"

#3 - 30 minutes later, dinner is finished, and Bread Boy is cleaning tables
Fulgencio: "hEllO, is there any bread left in this God forsaken place?"
Bread Boy: *grunt*

What I took from these conversations?  Don't expect to get any bread.  Savor that one piece you'll get as if it's the body of Christ.  I suspect the St. Regis is heavily involved in bread trafficking, which would explain two things: 1, the fact that I didn't get bread, and 2, the extreme shortage of bread on the island.  There's not even enough to feed all those chickens that squawked me out of my beauty sleep at sunrise.

But what can I say.  If you're in Kauai, where else but a Jean Georges restaurant is worth a diva's time?  And if you figure out a way to get bread at Kauai Grill, call me ASAP.  My digits are on the bathroom wall.  Not to mention tattooed to a few locals...

This has been a Review by Fulgencio

The Palace is old-world luxury meets "please shoot me now."  The only thing luxurious about this hotel is that you don't get crabs from the blankets.  Happened to me three times at Aloft.

I was certainly expecting something more "palatial" from The Palace.  I mean, some things were palatial...  there was a palatial amount of obnoxiously loud children in the swimming pool.  There was a palatial distance from the lobby to my guest room.  About a 45 minute walk.  I could more quickly cross the Golden Gate bridge blind-folded.

At some point in my 3 night stay I took a palatial crap in the modest bathroom.  I know what you're thinking: "but Fulgencio, you don't eat, so how can you excrete?"  I was so offended that my guest room lacked a bath robe and a comfortable amount of towels that my bowels reacted out of protest.  It was like, totally a Ghandi thing.  Except the only reason that my skin is brown is because I practically live at Hollywood Tans.

The pros?  The staff is super-friendly.  The housecleaning carts are always left unattended, so soap and water bottle heists are easy breezy.  The hotel is splendidly clean, and room service food portions are extremely generous.  One night I ordered a quesadilla just so that I could sleep more comfortably with the subtle aroma of cheese and sour cream filling up my guest room.  Did I eat it?  Not one bite.  In the morning I sold it to a homeless man in return for a cardboard box.  I had to ship some artwork back to Miami.

FYI, internet isn't free.  There will be a palatial internet charge on your bill if you dare surf the web.  You'll also get a palatial charge if you assault a staff member.  I was surfing the web wHiLe assaulting a staff member, so you can just imagine my bill.

This hotel is basically a Marriott with a lobby.  Luxury Collection?  Just because you put lipstick on a pig doesn't mean it turns into Lisa Evangelista.  That only happens in Disney movies.

Stay at The Palace if your rate is AmAzIng.  Otherwise get those Starwood points at the W, or either of the two nearby Westins.

This has been a Review by Fulgencio

I have a life coach named Samantha, and I've been sleeping with her husband for the past year.  What does that have to do with this review?  Nothing.  I just felt like putting it out there.

So Steak 954.  Usually I avoid the tragic Ft. Laud food scene, but that's only because the fine dining options are so painfully straight.  Last time my drag queen bff Monique and I dined out in Ft. Lauderdale, two seniors were rushed to the hospital.  Not everyone can handle two beautiful latins in sequins and feathers.

Foodie circles are all well aware that Steak 954 is a Stephen Starr restaurant.  Who is Stephen Starr?  He's basically a fat Jean Georges.  Both have a funny last name, and both blow my mind with their wild fusion dinners.  Having lived in Philadelphia, I've been to all of Starr's hot spots: Buddakan, Barclay Prime, Parc, Alma de Cuba; apparently there's even a sofa in Pod that's inspired by me.

Given that I'm a Starr expert, I just HAD to be driven up to Ft. Lauderdale to review Steak 954.

Monique put on her best (fake) Louis pumps, and we drove up to the W Hotel, where beautiful boys valeted our car.  We hurried past the "straight" scene at Whiskey Blue--it was like Dawn of the Dead but with heterosexuals--and we were given a two-person table outside on the breezy patio.

Before I knew it we were greeted by a robot who said something about lobster and Australia, and probably about my 27-waist, before he hurried off and was replaced by a sweet blonde.  I no longer felt like I was trapped on the set of Terminator 2.

Since neither I nor Monique eat, we ordered a bunch of crap to fill up the table and make us feel important.  We also ordered a fine bottle of Continuum 06', expecting that some old Ft. Lauderdale queen would pick up the tab before the night was over.  Our three appetizers showed up quick: foie gras and tuna tacos, kobe sliders, and bacon-wrapped scallops.  They all looked very cute on the table.  If I ate, then I'm sure I would've tried them, and I'm certain they'd all be excellent.

The main course was just fabulous, and I even took a bite!  Monique and I split a Maine lobster, drenched in this delicious butter and sauce.  The best lobster of my life!  Of course, the last time I had lobster my legs swelled up and it took me 3 weeks to get rid of.  See if I date anyone from Eastern Europe again...

Steak 954 is "steak fusion."  What does that mean?  I don't know, but I just made it up, and it sounds smart.  And few do steak fusion better than Stephen Starr.  If in Ft. Lauderdale, stop by the W Hotel and do outdoor seating at this fabulous restaurant.  And if like us, the Terminator turns out to be your waiter, at least you can be rest assured that there's plenty of cherub eye candy among the bus boys and valet boys.  Then again, Fulgencio Milano doesn't do boys.

This has been a Review by Fulgencio

Usually at 11 AM I'm in the middle of my REM cycle, but when in Philadelphia and awake for brunch, I dine at XIX.  This prix fixe lunch is all you could ask for, and features a fabulous buffet of "things" for people who eat.  Since I don't, I just like to stare at the food and imagine what it would taste like in my mouth.

The first time I saw the sign for XIX outside the Bellevue on Walnut and South, I thought it was a help group for cross-eyed drunks with huge noses.  And since I was looking for a Jewish husband, the first word out of my mouth was "oh my God!"  When I got up to the 19th floor, sat down at a random table, and started to pour out my life story of drugs, booze, and my celebrity boxing tragedy against Judge Judy, I'd caused a whole table of 90-year old socialites to go into cardiac arrest.  And that is how I became the single-most mass murderer in American history.

My fave thing about XIX is that not only is the name in Roman, but the food is also Roman.  How do I know it's Roman?  Because one time in Milan I had a really bad trip, and found myself surrounded by towel-wearing men, manchego cheese, and cold cuts that looked surprisingly like the ones in the XIX buffet.  Or maybe that was just my last trip to the bath house.  I forget.  I can't keep track of my sex life any more than I can keep track of my social security number.  Hence why I'm always making up a new one every time AmEx cancels one of my cards.

If you're scared of heights, XIX is enclosed by walls and windows, and has the most fabulous views of the downtown.  The architects basically designed the view so you can't see any poor people, which is perfect for me.  Poor people make me lose my appetite.  I have a whole slideshow of street bums that I'll look at to control weight gain.  hEllO, it's like the new thing in dieting.

Competition for the brunch/lunch scene is fierce on Walnut Street, and if anyone knows anything about the word fiErcE, it's me.  XIX is high-end, sexy, and aside from being a wonderful lunch spot it's also a cute place for drinks and date nights.  Also, if your date is going less-than-perfect (i.e. he suggests you "split the bill"), you should know that there are no bathrooms on the same floor as XIX, which means you need to take the elevator; hint hint, hitting that Lobby button is far too easy after "excusing yourself" to the ladies room.

For a trendy lunch spot and some delish Roman food, try XIX.  And ladies/gay men: don't forget about the elevator.  This restaurant is totally designed for bailing on a bad date.  If I were you, I'd schedule a bad date just to experience the architectural bail-out masterpiece.  Speaking of which, I'm on EHarmony right now...

This has been a Review by Fulgencio