Because New York is a freezing tundra and because The Monster is lazy and hates being cold he decides to try out Imperial Number 9 at the Soho Mondrian.  Beautiful chandeliers clumped together hang from the ceiling, a wall of glass vases on a mirrored table separates the long bar from the dining area (and will surely be some drunk fools complete undoing one of these days).  The space is, well, it’s as though no one had any idea what it should look like and so they tried a whole hell of a lot of different ideas.  So it’s at once beautiful and dreadful.  Like the chair The Monster is sitting in.  It sucks.   Uncomfortable as hell and should be in a garden, not in a restaurant.  The very high vaulted 70’s style glass roof is ugly as sin. And what are the pictures of birds in costume?  Seriously, what the hell are they?

Service is kind of take it or leave it, you’re being blessed when they offer a menu or refill your water.  You could say that’s New York but that’s crap.  How many people who work here can pass by and ignore The Monster?  Four?  Five?  Six?  Seven?

Order a number 6, spring 44 honey, apple puree, ginger honey syrup, fresh lemon while perusing the menu that only took fifteen minutes to receive.  You get a lot of ginger taste and then hints of lemon.  It doesn’t work.  Thanks disinterested waitress for the rec!

The Monster could tell you about the menu but it bored him.  The halibut is served lukewarm and nowhere on the menu did it mention olives.  They are everywhere.  It’s a fucking olive convention.  Also, the dominant taste of the dish is salt.  So, if you like olives, salt and lukewarm fish this is your spot.  Thanks Sam Talbot, Top Chef alum known for your seafood.  Riiiiight.

As for the duck fat potatoes.  Well, they are potatoes.  If they have been rendered in duck fat it didn’t do anything.  The Monster got suckered into spending $14 for $1 worth of potatoes.  That’s a good profit margin.

The wholly fucking shit douchebag stop talking quotient must be measured on the richter scale in this place.  The Monster wishes the dickweed at the bar would stop talking about his “big business deals” and choke on his martini olive.

Why go?  You need to talk about the two hundred and fifty million dollar deal you’re working on and two heavyset forty year old women wearing too much make-up are the perfect people to discuss it with. 

Monster rating: 2/5 Monsters

9 Crosby Street
New York, NY 10013

(212) 389-0000

Imperial No. Nine (Mondrian Soho Hotel) on Urbanspoon

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Filed under Imperial Number 9 (New York), Reviews

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