I would like to write the review of Laundry Palace, the 24 hour laundromat in Island Park, but being located two minutes outside of Long Beach, it evades blog criteria.  However, it can and will be juxtaposed alongside Beach Laundry located on West Beech St in Long Beach.

I entered Beach Laundry with high expectations.  My friends and Long Beach’s favorite couple, Justine and Mike, frequently bring their blankets and clothing to the locale.  Justine boasted that my experience there would be so thrilling that it would, to quote her, “rock my taint off.”  It’s clear the bar was set high before bringing my hooker and shame scented laundry into the local Long Beach establishment.

Upon exiting, I regret to report that my taint was very much left intact. My taint however is never as lucky upon exiting Laundry Palace.  Let’s compare the overall Beach Laundry experience to that of Laundry Palace’s in Island Park.

Laundry Palace is the studio 54 of coin operated household appliances.  You walk in and you’re the fucking boss.  Bright Lights, walls with large dryers covering the entire facade, six plasma screen televisions, beautiful women with their baby’s daddy either MIA or lurking in the corner, all that’s missing is a velvet rope- but I spoke with someone who (I think) worked there, he was holding a mop, at least; you wouldn’t hold a mop in a store you didn’t work at, right?  Unless you were buying a mop I suppose- but no mops are for sale at Laundry Palace.

Anyway, through his missing teeth I’m pretty sure he told me the velvet rope is in the works, either that or something antisemitic; I will give him the benefit of the doubt.

The best part- it’s 24 hours.  The laundry party never stops at Laundry Palace.  They don’t even know how to stop. And if you’re looking to do laundry amidst feuding ex-husbands and wives trading their children for the weekend, this is the place for you!

Beach Laundry closes at like 9.  You walk in and there’s 1/3 of the machines that are available at Laundry Palace and not all of them work.  The woman who works there has all of her teeth- which is not interesting to anyone except her, and instead of six plasma screens, there’s an old 13-inch Panasonic with the hand-dial permanently fixed on a Spanish channel.  Perfect!…Considering the only person in there that speaks Spanish is the woman with all of her teeth and a key.

Which brings me to my next point, the clientele…

Beach Laundry’s patronage is comprised of Long Beach’s elite- divorcees in their thirties and the twenty year-olds who date them.

Laundry Palace’s courtship gets a bit more interesting because it’s open at 1 AM; the witching hour in the laundry community where the underbelly of society realizes they haven’t worn a clean t-shirt in months.

The average age ranges from young to old but they share the bond of illegal substances; everyone’s on at least two drugs.  Despite all of the televisions, some couples opt to stand in front of the large dryers with glazed eyes watching their clothes spin as entertainment.  It’s a family affair, women are usually seen folding baby clothes- but unfortunately, these women are usually 12 years old.

In conclusion, Beach Laundry did not rock my taint off.  Laundry Palace on the other hand is more than just a palace with some washers and dryers.  It’s a land of opportunity where you can score some crack, get jumped into a gang, and be involved in a turf war.  It’s alot like Grand Theft Auto but with laundry.  There is also convenient parking and a 24 hour Dunkin’ Donuts adjacent to the Palace but no moat.

My friend had crashed at my place.  She likes bagels.  I don’t.  I heard “Max Bialy Stok” (pronounced, Bialystock) off Long Beach blvd had good bagels, and so I headed there after a morning run.  I ordered a cinnamon raisin with cream cheese.  The man behind the counter repeated the order for accuracy, “Cinnamon raisin with cream cheese,” he asked.

“Yep.”  And off he goes to make it.  The rest of the exchange was as predictable as an episode of “Saved by the Bell” that you had seen a million times.

“Anything else,” he asked while punching numbers into a register.

“No, that will be all.”  We thanked one another and parted ways.  When I returned to my studio apartment, bagel in hand, I tossed it to my friend.  Her thank you was cut-short by finding that the bagel was not topped with cream cheese but, practically, a stick of butter.

I didn’t really give it a second thought, after all, I had done my part.  But she posited, “how could he mess up cream cheese and butter?”  I wasn’t sure if she was questioning the abilities of the bagel man or becoming increasingly skeptical of my ordering abilities; after all, he was a professional.  Again, I had done my part.  Deal with it.  And deal with it she did and apparently the bagel was good.

Let’s assume he did mishear me and indeed thought I wanted butter.  Why would he assume that I, or anyone for that matter, would desire a stick of butter?  And this isn’t the only bagel spot that follows this abundant butter practice, and correcting it is a no-win situation.  Ask for less butter, they give you none.  Is this business as usual or a Jewish conspiracy?  As you can probably tell by now, I have no way to end this post.

Max Bialy Stok & Co is located at 159 E Park Ave, Long Beach, NY 11561.

It was around 1 AM when we entered, and I imagine, we reeked of smoke and beer.  The City by the Sea lacks a convenient 24 hour diner, so J&R Sushi chooses you when you’re drunk and hungry with its unconventional late-night hours, for a Sushi restaurant.

When we entered, while we were not treated like heroic samurais or respected Yakuzas, we were treated like people who would pay cash, and hey, sometimes what more can you ask for?

The menu was accessible meaning, it was in English and had plenty of pictures I could point to while being too drunk to read.  One thing I had no trouble reading was the looks on my friends’ faces; we were all un-easy about ordering sushi circa 1 AM.  No one had ever done it before and like the first time eating pizza for breakfast, it just felt wrong.

After we ordered, we talked about Halloween costumes and got into a fight over the relevance of Bill Brasky’s friends as  a costume choice.  I just didn’t think anyone else would get it.

“California rolls and Brasky!”

We then proceeded to spout many a Bill Brasky quote; no sooner then my friend could finish “You know how Brasky served three tours in ‘Nam? Well, I’m in Corpus Christi on business a month ago, and I had this eight-foot tall Asian waiter which made me a little curious, so I asked him his name, and sure enough it’s Ho Tran Brasky!”  Our Asian waitress sauntered up with our order.  She seemed neither offended nor amused.  I’m convinced her English is as bad as mine, in my current state.  Or, perhaps she is the mother of Ho Tran Brasky and this is hitting too close to home.

I ordered a water.  She brought me a beer.  I like her style.  I will be returning.

It’s 4 AM.  You wake up in a bed surrounded by midgets, strippers and a donkey.  You ask yourself, “who’s blood am I covered in?”  When you determine it’s not yours, you dust your shoulders off and go, “where the fuck are my running shoes?  I’m going to Synergy!”  Why?  Because we live in a 24 hour world.  And thanks to Synergy we can work out in one too.

Synergy is 24 hour fitness and man do they put the club in fitness club!  In addition to an army of elliptical machines, tread mills, stationery bikes, weights, and pull-up bars galore- Synergy is always spinning the hottest techno-mash ups.

Sometimes I don’t know if I should work out, throw my hands in the air like Lil Jon is telling me to, or throw a roofie in a water bottle.  The problem with water bottles is they all look the same- I once roofied my own- I need to be more careful.  I’ve already woken up without one kidney.  You know the saying “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?”  Apparently “what vital organs get removed in a Cancun, stays in a Cancun”- you don’t get second chances when it comes to the black-market organ trade.

Anyway, Synergy is awesome.  It’s cheaper than New York Sports Club.  It’s open 24 hours. I’ve never seen it over-crowded and the steroid-syringes are as hot as the women.  Synergy is located at 226 West Park Ave.

It’s hard to find anything good to say about a corporation that has built its empire upon the back of the sick and over priced medications; in the land of the free and insurance companies run-amuck.  But fuck it I have health care.  Still, when I needed a notebook they were charging $10 bucks for something that could be bought at Staples (not on Long Beach) for significantly less.  Health care’s not covering that.  So eff CVS.

But, with that said, who are you going to turn to in Long Beach when you need a morning after pill and a team of, apparently very liberal, and non-judgmental pharmacists?  Not Paninis and Bikinis that’s for sure.

So its moral bankruptcy is balanced by its commitment to family planning.

When you wind your way down Lido Blvd passing the sand and mushroom picnic facilities, you can sense something in the air.  Your senses are alerted, you’re not quite sure by what, but the tingling that travels up your forearm, around your shoulders and down your spine assure you that something big is on the horizon.  Your imagination dances freely like that of a school boy or girl.  When you reach the point in the road where Lido Blvd turns into Long Beach’s fabled West Park Ave, you know that you have arrived.

Amidst the glitz and the glamor of Cold Stone Creamery and mom and pop convenience stores lies another American success story, Starbucks.

*If it’s dark and you’re walking near or around the Waldbaum’s shopping center adjacent to Starbucks, you should probably walk a little faster because that place is a hot bed for crime at night.

But when you finally arrive at the door, under the illuminated-white Starbucks lettering and the green logo that encases what I think is a mermaid, you pull the door open and step inside; expect a warm smile and a friendly hello from the people behind the counter.

They are a cast of characters as vivid and wild as one would find in a Charles Dickens novel.  While I must confess, I’ve never read a Charles Dickens novel, one can only imagine they have old-world charm and wild-loving hearts.

This Starbucks seems to be a great place for a first/blind J-date.  Every time I’m there I’m sitting near two young people discussing temple and birth-right trips, and playing 21 questions.  All of this strikes me as the type of things Jewish strangers would do in the early stages of courtship.  But again, much like my knowledge of Charles Dickens, my knowledge of the inner workings of the Jewish community are equally as limited.

While typing feverishly upon my laptop and sipping an iced coffee, a black-man in a wheel chair entered.  I’ve seen him here before playing chess.  He asked a woman, early 20s at best, too old for me but that’s irrelevant; he asked if she was going to be leaving the table soon; all of the tables on the lower level were occupied.  There was ample seating on the second level but in case you missed the crucial part of this paragraph, he’s in a wheel chair.

She said, “no- my friends in the bathroom and we’re not leaving yet.” Yep, what a bitch.

I, amidst all the first/blind J-dates felt inspired to commit my very own mitzvah.  “Would you like to sit here, sir?”

“Oh, well, not if you’re using it.”

“It’s quite alright sir, I’ll sit up-” I stopped myself from saying, “I’ll sit up stairs,” because I didn’t want him to think I was bragging.  “I’ll sit up and stretch.”  Well I bragged anyway.  “Really though, I like to sit most of the time.  It’s more fun.”  Good cover.  Mitzvah complete.

“Thanks young brother, I really appreciate it.”

Now at this point everyone in the Starbucks has seen what just transpired.  Had there been a record playing when the girl said “no” to the man in the wheelchair, it would have skipped and scratched.  The eyes upon her were so fiery she was forced out by the heat and said “we have to leave,” to her friend as he came out of the bathroom.

While I was upstairs, I noticed Starbucks had a library for patrons to make use of.  Now, I’m not one for book learning, but I noticed they had the 600 page edition of Stephen King’s “Insomnia.”  At first I thought it was a quiet joke referencing the caffeine in their products.  And then I thought it was interesting that they thought anyone could be there long enough to finish the 600 page edition of “Insomnia.”

Simply put, Starbucks is a great local coffee shop in the city by the sea.  The coffee hot. The snacks delectable.  A promise land for J-Dates.  Offering a wide variety of products and an opportunity to expose a young girl as a heartless bitch.

Bonjourno!

“Notice: No public restrooms.”

“Notice: No dogs inside.”

“Notice: No bikes allowed in store.”

“No free matches with cigarettes.”

 And my personal favorite…

“If you want to use credit go to C-Town.  Credit cards are not accepted.  It is against my religion.  Do not question me.”

These are just a few of the friendly signs posted around The Alabama Deli, letting you know, you’re not in Kansas anymore.  All that’s missing is a wooden “Turn around, boy!” sign hanging from a tree and their collection will be complete.

At the Alabama Deli the customer is always wrong and apparently un-trusted.

Oh!  I left out another sign “We have 6 flavors of Muscle Milk.”  It is taped to the crotch of a cardboard cut-out of the New York State Lotto man, proudly displayed in the window.  The Lotto-man that announces the jackpots- not “Little-bit of Luck.”

Even though you’re probably not robbing The Alabama Deli, you always feel that you need a heist-like “get in, get out” game plan before entering.  Fortunately for me, all I ever buy is a 22oz can of Natural Light beer, but I’m always sure to have exact change- literally, I pay in dimes, nickels and pennies.  I make as little eye-contact as possible, throw it on counter and each coin is inspected to ensure that it is exact and that I didn’t sneak any Canadian currency in there (again). 

The Alabama Deli offers an old-world-Southern style charm, riddled with paranoia, and a modern twist.  It’s a bodega-confederacy for today, and I recommend it if you’re in the market for Natural Light tall-boys or 6 flavors of Muscle Milk.

After I find a wealthy woman to take care of me, this is where I will eat everynight. 

Nick Diangelo’s is an Italian-style steakhouse that serves chicken, fish and pasta dishes in individual or family style portions.  The waitress told me they are known for their steaks, though she didn’t tell me by who.  Regardless, I took her word for it and ordered the filet mignon. 

It was so effing good that I went home and threw all of my food out for being so vehemently inferior; all while yelling at my on-again-off-again-girlfriend for not being able to cook as well.  We’re off again.

The precursor to our meal was the delectable Nick Diangelo chopped-salad.  It’s an Antipasto salad, lettuce, meats, cheese, peppers, olives, in a creamy-herb-dressing. 

She had the ravioli special in a light sauce with chicken and vegetables.  When I asked how the “ravioli” was she said “good, but the menu referred to them as “cheese filled pasta squares”-evidence that that Nick Diangelo has a way with words and a stove.

We arrived a half-hour early for a 9:45 PM reservation.  I was surprised at how crowded it was so late on a Friday, but after tasting the food, my surprise faded into the night with stresses of the day.  We had drinks at the wine-bar while we waited.  The crowd was a mix of young professionals and old Jewish people, so basically everyone in Long Beach.

The ambience and style of the bar resembles that of a 1970s, New York City, Woody Allen movie.  There was a Jazz band playing that kind of left me with an unsettling Star Wars cantina vibe, but the strength of the drinks made me not care and eventually appreciate it.

My only regret is being too full for dessert which all looked incredible as they passed us by.  The wine-list, though not as expansive as boasting a “wine-bar” presumes, is comprehensive enough to offer a bottle of Malbec- which always resonates well with me.  It is located at 152 West Park Ave, Long Beach, NY 11561- (516) 889-3366.  Reservations can also be made at Opentable.com. 

I’m willing to bet at one point the sign on the storefront located on West Beech, at the start of the West End, read “Laundromat”, but if they can’t be bothered to fix it, then neither will I.

You know that warm, sweet smell of cinnamon that permeates certain bake shops, or even a “Cinn-a-bon?”  You know how as soon as it hits you, you just feel swept away to a place of magic?  Yeah, Laundr mat isn’t like that.  Equally, but on the opposite end of the spectrum, this place smells like feet and cigarettes.  Feeling like I was swept away to a beach-side bingo hall, competing for space amidst oxygen tanks and octogenarians.

Laundr mat

I used to go to Laundr mat because it was close to my apartment and all I was doing was dropping my clothes off for their “Wash, Dry and Fold” service, which was cheaper than other similar and local Laundr mats. 

But every time I got my clothes back, it just seemed like something was amiss, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.  You know something’s up, but you can’t quite figure out what it is.  The clothes that I dropped off were full of life and hope, but the ones that I was given back were filled with post-traumatic-stress and fear.

The last straw was the time they handed me my clothes, wrapped in their clear plastic bag, and on top was my Marc Ecko polo that I had worn once.  The blue from the collar had turned the color of a peach.  Finally, I had evidence to back up my Laundr mat paranoia.  The blood was on their hands.  At least have the decency to hide this one at the bottom Laundr mat. 

“Yo,” I asked, “what’s this?”

“It looks like it got discolored,” said she, the Laundr mat employee.

“Yes.  It does.”

“Well, I didn’t do it.”

“Well, neither did I.”

“I don’t know what happened.”

“But clearly something happened.”

“Look, that’s just what happens sometimes.”

Maybe she was right.  She does this everyday and sometimes bad things happen to good clothes.  I haven’t done laundry in over 2 years.  What reference points from my own life could I adapt this towards?  The day I discovered “Wash, dry and fold,” I liberated myself from the shackles that quarter-washer/dryers place upon people. 

You go into the Laundromat, half the machines are broken, all the TVs are speaking Spanish, there’s a 5 year-old girl with her family wearing a communion dress and soccer cleats, and to make things worse, there’s no bar to wait out.  Thanks but no thanks.

But, after that fateful day I could not and would not return to Laundr mat.  The “O” on the store front will not be the only O not to return.  Tom O‘Beirne has placed a “Montgomery-Bus” style boycott on this Long-Beach locale indefinitely.

9/9/09

What can you say about a place like Cabana?  Tuesday is a popular night for their aptly named “Taco Tuesday.”  Each taco: $1.00.  Two drink minimum.  Someone once commented to me that “the tacos must have heroin in them because everyone keeps going back.”  I checked, no sign of heroine, just chicken, beef and salsa wrapped in a flour or crunchy tortilla.

Living just a few blocks away, I’ve been there so many times but each time had something off about it.  There was the time they didn’t have forks.  There was the time I got the wrong order.  There was there time we had to wait 20 minutes to place our order.  It’s always crowded.  The bar is small, so if there’s more than 6 people at it you’ll be bounced around like a pinball competing for space with the waitstaff in transit. 

And yet…I keep going returning.  Why? 

I just love it.  How can you explain it?  Maybe they do put herion in the tacos?  Who cares?  It’s like the episode of Seinfeld where Jerry kept bringing the “two-face” girlfriend to Reggie’s Diner, despite her protestations.  When she found a rubber-band in her soup, Jerry laughs and remarks “Well, I know who’s working today- Paco!”

Cabana is just a fun atmosphere.  The food, while probably not the most authentic Mexican cuisine- rocks, live music in the summer, specials every night, and the mere mention of their frozen margaritas to anyone that has had one elicits the same response- “I had one and was too drunk to walk.”   

That’s what brought us to Cabana last night- we were two banditos seeking chips, salsa, and the desire to be too drunk to walk.  That and a $25.00 gift certificate purchased for $2.00 off www.Restaurant.com.

Uncharacteristic of my past Cabana experiences- this one was perfect.  I ordered the Fire Engine Chili for an appetizer and the Aztec Chicken for dinner.  My dining amiga ordered the Avocado Chicken. 

We each ordered a frozen Margaritta and upon finishing them, we took one look at eachother and started laughing simultaneously, communicating telepathically that we were indeed too drunk to walk.  But we ordered another, regardless.

Cabana is located at 1034 W Beech St in Long Beach, NY.  Reservations aren’t necessary because I don’t think they take them.  What is necessary is probably not showing up hungry and a designated driver since drinks are strong and served in large pitchers.