Haru

This town needs another pseudo-hipster sushi/cocktail joint like I need a gall stone. But there we were, a mini-posse of three college buddies in Union Square, looking for an affordable dinner where we could sit and hear each other. We waited by the bar for about twenty minutes in this fairly loud two-level eatery, trying to drown out the vanilla sounds of the New Age-y sitar trance in the background, half-heartedly looking over the extensive bar menu of ho-hum lychee libations and lame "exotic" drinks with names like "Enter the Dragon." (Restaurants, please note: you cannot have a section on your menu called "Champagne cocktails" and then only list drinks made with prosecco. Just like you can't slap a Washington Square pigeon on the grill and call it poulet de bresse. So quit trying.)

We managed to get a table in the upstairs area, looking out over the rest of the gabby, squarish crowd in a long but narrow booth. We got hot steaming hand towels (which I think should precede every meal in any kind of restaurant) and looked over our menus. Or rather, we squinted closely at our menus because there was no light to read them by, except for the colored fluorescents highlighting the extensive selection of alcohol behind us at the upstairs bar. When we were able to spelunk our way through the whole menu, holding the little tealights up by our foreheads, we got a few apps to share and a few rolls each. We each got our own little black iron tetsubin of green tea, along with a small and civilized tea cup, but it was so damned dark in there that I couldn't tell how much tea I had poured in. I kept worrying that my cup would run over and spill all over the table.

The crispy duck spring roll with hoisin sauce came on an unexciting bed of dressed chopped romaine -- it was a little greasy, but the spring roll had a pleasant crispness. The agedashi tofu was perfectly fine, and the edamame were good enough. I ordered the crispy oyster roll, which was doused in that sort of sticky brown eel sauce and a spicy tuna roll, and both were just fine -- though you really could have put crispy fried shoelace rolls in front of me and I wouldn't have known the difference because I couldn't see a god-damned thing. Haru's greatest achievement is that it is completely indistinguishable from any other dime-a-dozen fusion sushi joint in this town. The food is pedestrian, the atmosphere dark and bland, the people-watching not particularly interesting. If you're really not a good-looking person and want to hide your frightening visage from a blind date while you get them shitfaced on fruity saketinis, this is probably the place to do it. Just keep an eye on the wait staff -- as our bored waitress cleared our dishes, a spent edamame pod slipped off the dirty dish and gently plopped into my companion's glass of water. When we asked for another glass of water, the waitress sent the busboy over with a pitcher for refilling, not replacing. But hey, she probably couldn't see a thing in there either.

Grade: C+ (The plus is for the hot hand towels)
Total per person with tax and tip: $35
Will I return? No. There are so many incredible eateries -- why waste my time on anything less? I'd rather spend my $35 eating a salad and an entree at Gramercy Tavern's front room where at least I can see what I'm eating. These poor eyes of mine certainly aren't getting any better, dagnabbit. Love, Gramma.

Haru
Park Ave. @ 18th St.
N R W 4 5 6 L to Union Square