Despite having grown up in Arizona, the downtown Scottsdale scene has always eluded me. I don’t frequent establishments with velvet ropes at the entrance, and “bottle service” is a concept that is totally lost on me. But visit south Scottsdale on any given weekend, and it’s clear that I am in the minority. Parking is tough to come by; most parking spots are filled with chromed-out Escalades and BMW’s that the lessee cannot afford. The scenesters are easy to identify by their Ed Hardy shirts, jewelry (the gaudy ring on the index finger is a dead-giveaway), and cheesy body art. It’s a place where I don’t really fit in. Simply put: it’s the land of losers and I’m not interested in being a part of it.
Scientists know them as Masengillicus Ziplocopus. You and I know them as Douchebags, and last night Ty Largo (www.juxtapalate.com), Joel LaTondress (www.onefordinner.com) and I set out to explore their habitat. Despite our obvious bias against this scene, we set out for a night dubbed “Scene Cuisine 2010” and delved in to dine in the den of the douchebags.
The evening started out innocently enough, as we met-up at Trader Vic’s to numb our senses before venturing out. Sadly, expert cocktail crafter JK Grence had been assigned to a private party, but we enjoyed a few well-concocted Manhattans and Mai Tais and took in the scenery. It was particularly amusing when a very straight-laced bar-goer made a point of approaching Ty and fawning over his jacket. With Ty’s ego now nearly as large as his hair, we ventured into the night to explore the scene.
Granted, it was a Tuesday night and most Scottsdale douchebags were still sleeping off their hangovers from the previous Saturday night, but it was DEAD. The sidewalks were empty. But we knew one place that just had to be ground zero for the cool people: Urban 7. Dubbed in a press release as “the next generation of Scottsdale scene nightlife”, we knew that Urban 7 had to be the epicenter of cool. Based on the website, it was clear that this is the place where supermodels, billionaires, and people with genuine class spent their abundant leisure time. If there is one thing I know for sure, it’s that press releases don’t lie and Urban 7 was certain to deliver on its promise of cool-redefined.
Even better, the food was not to be an afterthought. With a kitchen staff that “has trained with some of the best chefs in the United States,” I knew the food was going to be great. Douchebags, in all their wisdom, are my de facto resource for recommendations on the best food in town.
As you can see, Urban 7 was PACKED. Not in a traditional sense but, rather, packed with air. And empty tables. And negative space. There weren’t any douchebags because there wasn’t any one there. With the exception of our 3-top at the bar, there was precisely one other table with people at it. And instead of thumping bass and an energetic buzz, there was the depressing background noise of a television hanging over the bar tuned to Lifetime Television.
And the supermodels that adorn the walls and the Urban 7 website? They must have all been recovering from a wild night at Urban 7 on Monday night. The only females in the restaurant were five homely girls wearing lacrosse shorts and sneakers that took up residence halfway through our meal. I’ve been to nursing homes with more energy. The women were prettier, too.
As Ty sipped his Dirty Scottsdale (strawberry kiwi, X rated vodka, soda water, and sweet and sour mix), Joel and I checked out the menu. We opted for the Urban Cowboy, described as “Grilled-Marinated Skirt Skewer/ Peppercorn-Garlic Paste/ Pickle Red Onions” and the Urban Parma, listed under the “Roman Crusts” menu heading. Flavor was as absent as the patrons. The skirt steak was tough, chewy, and nearly flavorless. I could barely gnaw it off the wooden skewer, and I’m fairly certain that the meat is still lodged somewhere in my gastrointestinal tract. The always-insightful Joel LaTondress pointed out that the shaved cucumber accompaniment was a watery glob of mush that didn’t even taste like the vegetables it was made of.
I’m not sure what they really ate in Rome, but I’m fairly certain that there was no product of Parma to be found on the pizza, which resembled a microwaved pizza laden with greens, un-ripe cantaloupe and a gristly cousin of prosciutto. Fact: I was still chewing on a chunk of fat from the prosciutto nearly 30 minutes after I ate it. Depressed from the Lifetime special, unsatisfied by “scene cuisine,” and disillusioned with the lifestyle of billionaires and supermodels, we bid farewell to Urban 7 in search of signs of life in south Scottsdale.
And where did we find signs of life? At FnB, of course, which was bustling with happy diners gobbling up fantastically prepared, high quality food cooked and served with love by Pavle Milic, Charleen “Badass” Badman and team. Honestly, it’s a study in contrasts. On one side, you have Urban 7, into which huge sums of money were invested on a shaky concept that pays homage to the antiquated and out-of-fashion notion of “excess.” On the other side, you have FnB. Tiny, unpretentious, focused and efficient. The entire restaurant could fit within the bar at Urban 7. And although Urban 7 likely packs in the douchebags and their maxed-out credit cards on Friday and Saturday nights, FnB is doing 50 times the number of covers during off-peak nights. It’s a disparate comparison, but what do you think Urban 7’s overhead costs are in relation to FnB?
The Braised Leeks with Mozzarella, Mustard Bread crumbs and a fried egg (enthusiastically punctured by Pavle Milic) were a revelation of substance over style, and the Grilled Broccoli with Meyer Lemon Aioli highlighted the freshness of the product. It goes to show that high quality ingredients will always prevail over fussy preparation.
The Grilled Lamb Tenderloin, procured from a small farm in California, was rustic and satisfying and the Bluenose Bass with cauliflower, hazelnuts and citrus sauce was quite simply one of the best fish entrees I have had in recent years. FnB may not be “scene cuisine” and it might not be where the douchebags dwell, but it’s a stunning example of substance trumping style.
So, what lessons were learned during Scene Cuisine 2010? First, it cannot be denied that Ty Largo has fabulous hair. Although highly flammable, his coif is also supremely imposing and resembles, in shape, the famed “Prudential rock.” Secondly, Joel LaTondress may not have trained “with some of the best chefs in the world” but I’m willing to bet that his worst dish is better than the best one at Urban 7. Thirdly, I am glad that Masengillicus Ziplocopus has a place like Urban 7. Much like lemmings following each other over the edge of a cliff, Urban 7 keeps the douchebags out of the good places like FnB.
Did I mention that Ty has fabulous hair?