So is the theme, if not the mantra, of The Breslin. It should come as no surprise that in the Ace Hotel’s hipster gastropub, brought to you by the same folks as the Spotted Pig, pork is king and oil is gold.

The Breslin’s authentically tarnished ceilings and dark wood are not only gorgeous, they’re inviting. Though you’ll complain, you’ll secretly relish the inevitable wait for your table amongst the attractive New Yorkers. You’ll order a drink, maybe even a cask beer to get you in the mood, and take in the scene.

Decorative pigs adorn the walls. On your way out you’ll realize they were taunting you, smiling and whispering: “you are what you eat!” You’ll also wish they could be conjured to life to help with the sloppy service.

We oohed and ahhed at the pork scratchings’ packaging just to discover it was a hog in piglet’s clothing. The Scotch egg, fried in a batter of sausage and breadcrumbs, was too bloated with its own crust. Thankfully, The Breslin-coined scrumpets of twice fried lamb were worth the calories and the dill pickle juice that accompanied the raw oysters was something of a revelation. Pearl, Mary, Ed – are you listening?

One doesn’t go to The Breslin for fish. Even the lamb burger seemed too healthy a choice. Once you’re seated and resigned to your porkful fate, it’s near impossible not to be wooed by the pig’s foot. Don’t believe the menu’s claim that it feeds two. Four of us were hard-pressed to finish this behemoth.

The foot is generously stuffed with ground pork before it’s – yep, you guessed it – fried. At our table, the feeling was unanimous: the texture was unappealing and the flavor underwhelming. This was not a star trotter.

The smoked pork belly was the meal’s savior, reminding us that pork deserves its time on the throne. We somehow managed to squeeze in an order of thrice fried chips and a side of cabbage & bacon.

For dessert, we simply couldn’t stomach the donuts and instead focused on toffee pudding and chocolate. We had our fill of oil. We were fried.

Meatballs are the new cupcakes. Or something like that. Somehow the classic Sunday night fare originally meant to fill bellies has become trendy. Italian grandmothers everywhere are rolling their eyes. They’ve known this is the good stuff for generations.

Enter The Meatball Shop – a new EV eatery with a menu dedicated to yes, you guessed it, meatballs. It’s been open less than a week, but it’s already packed. Last night we managed to squeeze ourselves into one of the communal tables with just enough table space between us to sample every type of ball the The Meatball Shop offers.

The balls: beef, spicy pork, chicken, salmon, veggie, and the daily special. The sauces: parmesan, mushroom gravy, tomato, and spicy meat. You order your balls in slider form (above) or in a bowl. If you’re looking for a sampler, the slider route is the only way to go.

While it was fun to try them all (yes, even the meatless balls of salmon and veggie) I can save you the trouble. It’s all about the chicken which is insanely moist and flavorful. Italian grandmothers everywhere will be asking for the recipe (if they can be heard over the excruciatingly noise level). The side dishes – which can also be served under your slider-less meatballs – were surprisingly tasty. The white beans with bread crumb topping were cassoulet-esque while the creamed spinach (a daily special) will make wolfing down your greens easy (and your aforementioned grandmother very, very happy).

The Meatball Shop also has a build-your-own ice cream sandwich dessert menu. Get the walnut meringue cookie with vanilla ice cream. Don’t ask. Just listen. You’re welcome.

On February 14, 2001 I attempted to make my then boyfriend, now husband, a special Valentine’s meal of pan roasted duck breast. I had never cooked duck before and for some reason didn’t think it would be all that different than cooking chicken. How very wrong I was. The tough and chewy meat resulted in a serious case of duckphobia. So serious, in fact, that duck didn’t make another appearance in my kitchen until nine years later.

We had received a gift certificate for a home cooking instruction and when I perused the catalog of recipes, it was hard to overlook the duck with cherry port jus. I was game for the challenge. The fine chef who came to our apartment demonstrated the proper way to pan roast duck and in turn I learned what I had done wrong back in 2001: absolutely everything. The skin needs to be scored. The meat needs to be cooked on low heat for a very long time. The fat needs to be poured off throughout the cooking process. Under professional instruction we turned out an outstanding duck breast. But could we do it on our own? Our annual home cooked Valentine’s Day meal seemed like the ideal opportunity to find out. The picture tells the tale:

A perfect medium-rare. A crispy skin. A decadent sauce.

We served our scrumptious duck with a creamy and nutty farro risotto and broccoli rabe. My days of duckphobia are officially behind me!

Ever since reading a New Yorker article about Canada’s greasy spoon favorite, poutine (pronounced “poo-tsin”), I’ve been hankering to get my fingers into a pile. A recent trip to Calgary provided the perfect opportunity. Classic poutine is a heap of french fries loaded with brown gravy and fresh cheese curds. Over the years dozens of variations have emerged, making me feel it’s a not-so-distant cousin of America’s beloved stuffed spud. As for our version below, a poutine pundit would quickly notice that it was loaded with shredded cheese rather than cheese curds. In many circles this is surely a Canadian party foul, but I’m pretty sure we got the gist. I don’t covet either french fries or gravy, but together they managed to create something tasty.

Overall Rating: [3/5]

It’s been three months since I dined at a restaurant in its opening week. My last such experience was at Trigo, where I thought there was a chance at longevity. Even though it only took two months for Trigo to secure a spot in the NYC restaurant graveyard, that won’t stop me from making a prediction about Table 8: it’s here to stay.

With outposts in both Los Angeles and Miami, Govind Armstrong, Table 8’s chef and proprietor, has a successful track record. For his NYC debut, Armstrong has found a home in the already-hip Cooper Square Hotel. The pairing appears prosperous.

We definitely experienced a handful of kinks and miscues, but nothing that won’t get ironed out as Table 8 finds its’ footing. But as opposed to other newbie restaurants, whether or not they’re ever corrected probably won’t alter Table 8’s fate. It’s just one of those places. A place to see and be seen. A place where people will be drawn to eat, regardless of the food. A place where success is in the cards.

The music was so loud, yelling across the table was required. The restaurant was so dark, we passed around our single votive like a torch, so we could actually see how each dish had been plated. Women bore cleavage and stilettos. Men sported gel-infused coifs and shirts with one too many buttons undone. If I hadn’t just walked off the Bowery, I would have sworn I was in Miami, or maybe Los Angeles. Go figure.

Armstrong’s menu is varied and well thought out. He demonstrates cooking ingenuity and prowess. But the atmosphere prevents diners from appreciating these accomplishments, and from what I observed, the patrons are looking for more scene than food. With a couple Table 8s already under his belt, I assume this is the atmosphere Armstrong desired.

Armstrong’s menu features a Salt Bar (think amuse bouche-size bites), a flat bread, Starters, Entrees, and Small Accents (aka sides). We sampled Venison and Fluke from the Salt Bar. Both were flavorful and pleasing. For $4, there were no complaints about the generous portion of flatbread.

While there was nothing extraordinary about our Scallop and Quail starters, both were prepared expertly and both were very, very good.

Armstrong’s culinary capabilities were most evident in the Halibut entrée. Though its description is over-simplified on the menu, the halibut arrives two ways – smoked on a buttered and crispy baguette and as a small filet. The dish was delightful.

The Bone-in Skate, served in a spicy saffron broth with cockles, was also different than any skate preparation I’ve previously had. The broth was more salty than spicy, but once you mastered eating the skate without getting a mouthful of bones, the reward was luscious fish.

The Grilled Baby Chicken was the night’s only disappointment. It was grilled until rubbery, all its succulence depleted. The accompanying Short Rib Hash, however, should get the opportunity to be its own entrée.

If you can bear to stay for the final course, reward yourself with the Coffee Parfait.

While the scene at Table 8 is far from my preferred dining experience, and I’m not compelled to return, I have little doubt that there are countless others to take my place.

Table 8

www.thecoopersquarehotel.com

25 Cooper Square

New York, NY 10003

(212) 475-3400