By emily

Grade: B-

We don’t usually do restaurant reviews at the UR because, except on the rare occasions when our parents or sugar daddies treat us to fancy meals, we don’t dine at the kind of restaurants that there’s anything to say about. I mean, I could do an in-depth review of the Whole Foods Salad Bar, but it would probably turn out just as dry and boring as their pasta salad. But this week I somehow managed to pay my own way at a restaurant of the someone-asks-if-you’d-like-fresh-ground-pepper variety. Here’s the poop:

Hipster date spot DuMont can be a little bit intimidating. When you first step past the velvet-curtained doorway, you’re greeted by a long banquet table full of first-class Williamsburglars, all gleefully chowing down on giant burgers and steaks and platefuls of thick, golden fries speckled with parsley. It’s as if you’ve died and gone to a very self-consciously cool Valhalla. However, if you’re lucky, a waitress will lead you to a secluded table for two that’s crammed into a niche in the hallway on the way to the back bar. Here, you can focus on the food (and on your dining partner, of course) instead of on the hairstyles of the people on either side of you. The food is standard-issue steak-frites stuff, but it’s well executed and only a little bit pretentious (example: the waitress who recited the specials spoke in the third person and called the acorn-squash risotto ‘autumnlike’). I ordered the lobster bisque, which was yummy if a bit too much like drinking a bowl of half and half. Normandy had a nice crisp green salad that seemed to have been assembled from real lettuces and not mass-produced bagged mesclun mix, which always tastes a little bit mossy to me. Then we split a plate of salmon, which had a crunchy, buttery exterior and a slightly translucent middle. It was situated on a bed of crisp fingerling potato slices, rich sautéed mushrooms, and chewy, bitter kale. Really we should both have gotten the burgers, which looked and smelled fantastic, but we were trying to be healthy or something. We also had glasses of the cheapest variety of red wine they had, which cost $7 and was not particularly exciting. Neither is this review, I realize, but I figured I might as well give it a shot. At least I did not mention cats. Wait . . . shit.

By emily

GRADE: A

Clothing ads almost always feature hot, seminude models who look as if they have just finished or are just about to start having sex. But usually it’s super-obvious that a huge team of stylists, makeup artists, and photographers with silly names like “Rolf” and “LeToi” worked very hard all day and went through like 200 aerosol cans of Evian and a metric ton of expertly smudged black eyeliner to nail that freshly-fucked look. Not so the ads for American Apparel. In these, it looks like the photographer had sex with the model, waited a sec for her to throw her skimpy cotton undergarments back on, and then took the pictures. This may actually be the case, judging from the recent wacky Jane expose of priapic company founder Dov Charney, who says he personally knows (“knows”?) all the American Apparel models. Well, I’m not sure whether or not I want to expose myself to the lusts of the muttonchopped Mr. Charney, but I would like to be an American Apparel model. I’m just putting it out there. I would like to be the new face (or, more realistically, the new ass) of American Apparel. In this spokesmodel position, my sole responsibility would be to wear an all-AA wardrobe and occasionally be photographed in it. I would be happy forever.

On to the review: if you enjoy wearing thin, comfortable cotton garments in a wide array of flattering shapes and colors, and you’re not a fan of sweatshops or that weird Gap smell, you will like this store. We here at the Universal Review are a veritable fashion show of American ensembles. B's healthy sunburnt glow is accentuated by their men’s polo in a delicate shade of pink. I enjoy sporting their booty shorts in my fourth-grade favorite colors, hot pink and black, and their racerback tank top in light blue. If you, like us, are lucky enough to live in the big terrorism bullseye that is NYC, you can go to one of four American Apparel retail outlets. The salespeople are solicitous, stoned-seeming, and super foxy. Maybe if you’re really nice they’ll follow you into the dressing room and take some snapshots. What could be more American?

By Guest Reviewer Rachel

Grades: A for Home Depot, C for Giant, D for Ikea: Average: B-

OOOHHH! The self checkout is a harsh mistress! How I love her and hate her! Our first meeting was at my local Giant Food store (Have you noticed that Giant has changed its logo from the big red Gothic "G" to the weird 70s-style G in the rectangle? What's up with that?) in good old Silver Spring, MD. What joy! What fun! It had been awhile since I had heard that melodic scanner beep and here I was, getting it without having to slave away in some degrading retail position. (Editor’s note: I agree that the beep is enticing. But don’t self checkout machines seem like a harbinger of the scary totally automated future? Not that I will miss my fake, awkward interactions with the checkout people. Except, I will miss the girls at Duane Reade who are always laughing and saying dirty comments about their manager.)

Now, if you’ve seen people using these things I bet you’ve wondered the same thing I did: what is preventing everyone from stealing? The short answer is: nothing. They TELL you that there are secret cameras watching the checkout so that, if something is amiss, an employee will step in. But is anybody really watching? Is anyone really stopping me from ringing up a big bag of avocados as Idaho potatoes? No, they are not. At least I don't think they are. I'm certainly not going to try it. My shoplifting days ended in the lingerie department at Hechts. (editor’s note: Rachel, did you steal those silicone outplant things there? Remember when you brought them over to B's house and we all took turns walking around with Peg Bundy cleavage? If you still have them, can I borrow them for my dead-Adriana costume next Halloween?)

My next encounter with this fiendish vixen was at Home Depot where things ran very smoothly for me, but not for the other patrons. Plus side:unlike at Giant there is always someone there to help out.

Next stop Ikea. Now the Ikea setup in College Park is a little
different. There is one self-checkout area with four registers. There is also a monitor there; two, actually. One who seemed to be a boss of some kind who just sat in front of a monitor, and another who reminded me of the awkward teenage character on The Simpsons and did all the running around. Having observed him having to do all the work for half the people in self-checkout and also having to do a price check for me for some blinds that should have been on sale, I can state for a fact that he was definitely doing the work of four people. So although Ikea is saving some bucks, the unlucky employee who works that position pays the ultimate price. When my blinds didn't ring up correctly I felt like an ass wasting the register just standing there and gave it up, so I had to eventually get back in a regular line which took another twenty minutes. But the scanner is so much fun! Beep! Beep! Beep!

By emily

Grade: A-

This chamomile tea is awesome. I think it might just be the best I’ve ever had. And not only is it tasty, it’s free of GMOs, whatever the fuck they are. So is the incense that I’m currently burning, which is handmade from a blend of pure, natural essential oils. Yes, I’m burning incense. Actually, according to the package, I’m doing so much more: I’m “participating in a centuries-old tradition that uses the aromatic properties of medicinal herbs to promote relaxation and quiet the mind.” I’m thinking about cracking open a soy yogurt. Yeah, I feel like somebody’s tunic-wearing weird hippie aunt -- but it feels great! In fact, it feels . . . healthy.

The only downside of living a block away from Greenpoint's superb health food store is that I am tending to give them about 85% of my paycheck. More than once I’ve contemplated taking a part-time job there, for the free groceries and also because the cashiers always look like they’re having so much fun. I admire their teenaged high spirits, even though I suspect that most of the time their giggly comments during our interactions translate to something like this:

Me: Um, it’s a debit card?
Cashier: Mm-hmm. (in Polish, to bag girl) This girl is back again? What is wrong with her?
Bag girl: (in Polish) Yeah, what is this, the third time today? Her outfit is so weird. Hey, let’s play Tori on the PA again.

I’m just irresistibly compelled to spend money there. For starters, it’s not a chain, so you don’t feel like you’re perpetuating some kind of Whole Foods-style shiny-happy-corporation fakery. And all their products are just so enticing. If I had unlimited funds and pantry space, I would probably want to purchase each and every one of them. It’s like “I will buy this bag of rice chips – it’s good for me and the future of sustainable agriculture!” or “These cookies are organic, with recycled packaging – hence, healthy.” Maybe I am an addict and I’ll have to go through some twelve-step where I renounce The Garden and have to do some sort of Super-Size-Me style rebound. Because if this gets any more intense, I might have to start doing yoga again and you know it is just one baby step from there to that sustainable-living commune in West Virginia. I think they’re also polyamorous. Maybe I should run out and get some cheez doodles.

By B

Grade: Various

I have been remiss in my reviewing duties recently. Emily has been alternately cajoling, nagging, and bribing me to get it together. Anyway, here is the verdict on all the crap I’ve been consuming. I promise I’ll get back to the real meaty stuff soon.

Harry Potter #3
Grade: B+
Don’t go to see a midnight showing of this movie. It is really long and you will be about to pass out by the end, no matter how much you like Harry Potter. Even though it is sick, I think that Harry has gotten kind of sexy.

Stephanie Zacharek, Film Reviewer For Salon.com
Grade: F
I know this is an obscure thing to be reviewing, and that no one cares except me, which is why I am limiting myself to a capsule review only. I could write pages and pages, because Ms. Zacharek is my pet peeve. All of her bad reviews—and she mostly writes bad reviews—go something like this: “Although I enjoyed every aspect of this film, it was ultimately not enjoyable at all.”

All the movies that she really likes are pretentious, obscure and mediocre. Or they star Queen Latifah. She LOVES Queen Latifah. Sometimes I think she must have been in one of my Film History classes at Sarah Lawrence. Also I bet she has a really annoying friendster profile.

Napoleon Dynamite
Grade: B-
Laird says that this movie is getting all kinds of hype. Mostly undeserved, I’d say. It was funny, but not as funny as Welcome to the Dollhouse. And there was no story to speak of. I did, however, enjoy the silver screen rebirth of Tina Majorino. Remember when she was in Waterworld? Also there was a movie with a seal, or a sea lion, or something of that nature. And maybe a film with Whoopi. I might be imagining that last one. Anyway, now she is the new Heather Matarazzo. Bravo, Tina.

The Tonys
Grade: C
I did not watch the Tony Awards.

The Sopranos Finale
Grade: B
I didn’t watch this either, but I bet it was pretty boring unless Adriana returned to life. I will on-demand it next time I am home, unless Judge Joe Brown is on. In which case I’ll watch that instead.

Nancy Reagan
Grade: C+
Sorry, but unlike “Hip Conservative” Dorian Davis-- who, P.S., has removed comments from his odious blog because he obviously couldn’t take the heat-- you will not find me crying over the death of Ronnie. Still, I have to say that Nancy has gotten a little easier to stomach in the last ten years or so. You have to feel at least a little sympathy.

(My prediction for the celebrity deaths that will complete the trifecta: The Pope and Phyllis Schlafly.)

McDonald’s Premium Salads
Grade:C+
I got the (Crispy) Chicken and Bacon Ranch flavor. Don’t ask why; it was a total last resort. I can’t believe that these salads have revitalized the Mickey D’s brand. It is just a piece of rubbery McDonald’s chicken on a bed of iceberg lettuce, with dressing in a packet. Duh. Also, why are they allowed to call this variety of chicken CRISPY? It is actually quite soggy.

People at the Gym
Grade:D
Taking a nice, relaxing nap on the weight machines while people are waiting to use them is not going to help you lose weight. Grunting loudly while doing your nude calisthenics in the steam room might, but it is just gross.

Roll Roasters on 11th and 3rd
Grade: D
They really need to perfect the system here. Somebody stole my food before I could snag it. He got a stern talking to from the manager, and his ill-gotten burger was thrown in the trash, but I still blame the restaurant for being so lax in their ticket-checking. Thieves just hover around the counter waiting to take your food if you aren’t quick enough. I’m not joking. And when I finally did get my burger, it was undercooked.

addendum: i'm now obsessed with roll roasters and go every day. duh, you obviously get the ROAST BEEF here, not the burger. i don't know what my problem was. you still have to guard your food vigilantly but it is so worth it. certain people have a bone to pick with the ugly awning, however.

much, much later addendum: Roll N Roaster on 11th and 3rd is now closed. While my first experience with this restaurant was not good, its closing has been a real tragedy in my life. I only hope that my negative review so many years ago did not contribute to the failure of this business.

Low Budget Gay Romantic Comedies
Grade:D
Boring, way too long, and only occasionally funny.

Lesbian Comedo-Thrillers
Grade: F
Boring, way too long, and only funny to the people who are in them.

By B

Grade: B

I wish there were more to say about the “exclusive” establishment known as the Soho House, because Emily says I have to review it or else. You may have seen it featured on the episode of Sex and the City in which Kim Catrall wears the most hideous bathing suit ever. Actually, it is a sort of funny episode, but the central premise—that Carrie and company are forced to impersonate members of the club in order to gain entrance-- is totally ridiculous. Because, let’s face it, if I can make it past the front desk, there is no way that Carrie Bradshaw would need to go to such desperate lengths. (I know this is not a review of Sex and the City, but I just want to point out that this exemplifies one of my many pet peeves about the program: in some episodes, Carrie is a full fledged C-list celebrity, with a coterie of fancy friends such as Candace Bergen, and then in the next episode she is so wretched and obscure that she is forced to sneak into the Soho House.)

Anyway, there were not really any famous people there except for Queer Eye #4 (furniture). I was glad to finally see him in person for real, because I am always falsely spotting him on the subway etc and then it turns out to be a lesbian or a Polish person. Now that I have seen the real him, I will no longer make this mistake. My host also thought that he saw Jordan Catalano, but all white people with cornrows are not necessarily him, in my opinion. If it really was JC, then he has totally gone to seed.

I am not really going to bother picking on the soho house because that was pretty much covered by the gawker like a whole year ago, and plus i had a nice time. in the end, it was sort of exactly like a hotel bar, which is actually what it technically is, i guess. that's fine with me. i've always liked hotel bars, especially the one in boston where Margaret pretended to be Lisa Rosenthal. sorry emily! i know i am disappointing here... but i'm coming up blank. i could talk about the foosball table (pretentiously fake-anglo) or the membership card (pretentiously minimalist) or the waitress (sort of a bitch) but i don't think any of those things are too newsworthy.

The cocktail menu was sufficiently girly, and featured the most overcooked descriptions that I have ever read in my life. The word 'salubrious' was, in fact, used. This attention to detail was a little wasted considering that the drink I ordered was not the drink that I actually got. That was fine, though, because I was pretty much picking at random anyway.

In general, it was a pleasant enough experience. Mostly I think that it is for grownups, because the place was totally cleared out by two o’clock in the morning. I’m hoping to be invited back when it is swimming pool season, although the pool is supposedly very small. I don’t care as long as they have 'noodles'. I love those.

By emily

GRADE: A

Grandmothers, beauty mags and smart-consumer guides often tout the fact that drugstore makeup is just as good as the expensive kind. This is SO NOT TRUE. I realized this the other day after I got my first paycheck from my new yuppie job and promptly blew 16% of it at Sephora, the retail experience ne plus ultra. Here are just a few of the things that make Sephora and the products it sells so, so excellent:

1. Drag-queen looking girls will find you the exact right shade of foundation from a billion different brands and not even really pressure you to buy it.
2. Ease of shoplifting, for fans of the sport. Personally I am so unsubtle and graceless that I get followed around in stores just for looking shifty (or maybe it’s some kind of trashy-girl profiling) so I never shoplift. But my friend Alice is constantly whipping out new stolen lipgloss testers. Mmmm.
3. Testers. By the way, who is really so prissy that they try on lipstick on the back of their hand? I touch the subway seat right before sticking my finger in my nose/mouth all the time. Why would I put lipstick on my hand? My hand doesn’t wear lipstick. It doesn’t even wear nail polish. It is a hippie.
4. The lighting is good, so that you’re like “I deserve all this makeup because I am so beautiful.”
Besides, once you haul all your new beauty products home they don’t immediately lose their appeal the way new clothes and shoes do. This is because you use them all the time. Every time I apply my ‘BAD GAL’ by benefit eyeliner I am convinced that it makes me a more expensive, more alluring person than my old $2 wet’n’wild eyeliner did, even though they are basically indistinguishable except that one has a cute name. No matter. Good makeup is making me a classier individual.