Posts tagged ‘Bar/Wine/Pub’

Aug 31

I Guess It Beats Red Lobster

There are so many dining events in NYC–pig roasts, cook-offs, food festivals–and generally I ignore them. Not because I think the food won’t be good but because I just can’t deal with crowds. And they’re never not crowded. I know my limits, lining up for food, waiting an hour for food, heck, running out of food you paid for, just aren’t enjoyable things, so I sit these out.

I feel kind of bad about it, maybe I’m missing out, but after reading this piece on World Hum about introverted travelers, I realized I’m just an introverted eater. I don’t enjoy striking up conversations with strangers and being surrounded by hundreds of hungry people certainly doesn’t make me feel more alive, just aggravated. One man’s convivial is another’s claustrophobic.

But I’ve been meaning to pick up lobsters at Red Hook Lobster Pound all summer and do like Rocky Sullivan’s. So, Lobstah Feast Fridays at Rocky Sullivan’s? Yeah, I’d give it a shot. Rocky Sullivan’s is where I go when I just want a beer and no hassle. Even on the weekends, even when a random ska or Irish hip hop band is playing and the only clientele are their friends, it’s not packed. Normally, it’s just us, our pints and the sprawling upstairs wooden deck in the back. No more than a few mosquitoes and a family of black-and-white cats who trick you into thinking you’re seeing the same one popping up on opposite ends of the roof.

Normally, I wouldn’t go on the first night of a new undertaking. But it’s always desolate Red Hook and I’d only read about the event on a few blogs—how busy could it be?

Pretty darned busy. Slammed. There are really only three rectangular tables that seat around eight. Part of the trouble is that you can reserve for parties or six or more, which meant families ordering pizzas and parking themselves while smaller groups waited…and waited. I expected a wait, though.

The bartenders were incredulous, wiped out and unable to keep up with the demand (I was told that a lot of staff had taken vacation this week). Pint glasses were soon replaced with plastic cups. An older regular remarked to his lady friend, “This is how it should be on a Friday!” I can see that. I’m all for good business, and didn’t mind the 45-minute-wait I was quoted to be seated for food because I’d finagled a spot at the bar. And they had me…until they skipped my name on the list.

This seems to be a recurring problem in my world. I don’t think I’m unattractive and offensive nor mousy and forgettable (not that either of those should cause being skipped over in line) but without fail I get screwed over in a just wait and see scenario. I joked about it right after I got my party of two on the list, “What do you bet that they never call us?” That’s why I’m a cynic who avoids these situations. And don’t bullshit me over anticipating negativity manifesting itself in reality. Thinking good thoughts is all it takes to sail through life, really?

No, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that I’m too polite. Yes, too polite. After 11 years here I still haven’t developed the art of pleasant aggression, yet on rare return visits to the NW I’m viewed as an impatient menace who stands too close to people in line.

By the time I realized walk-ins were being given tables after we’d waiting at the bar for an hour, it was too late. I should’ve said something sooner but I had hope since I'd heard the three groups written on the pad of paper before me being called loud and clear. I don’t want to have to get all Chinese on people's asses, blindly pushy looking out for number one, or even all New York about it, which is essentially the same as above but being more calculated and less obvious (and refraining from hawking loogies).

We ended up ordering food at the bar because scoring a table started seeming hopeless and I was afraid the food was running out. I never saw a menu so I don’t know the exact deal. It appeared to be one lobster, corn on the cob and potato salad or coleslaw, I think for $23. It was fair but I think I will leave Rocky Sullivan’s as a drinking establishment and steam lobsters on my own time.

It wasn’t the wait that bothered me. It was Friday night, I didn’t mind sipping a couple beers. Everyone was being served at the same slow pace. Tables actually clapped when their food arrived and staff members were congenial despite being harried. What I didn’t appreciate was being ignored, plain and simple. Out of curiosity, we asked the hostess/waitress where we were on the list as we were leaving and she flipped back three pages to my name, not crossed off, with every name after it penciled through. We were then offered a table. Uh, I start to take these things, benign as they might be, personally.

Pardon Me For Asking seemed to have a fine experience, though. Always Hungry also enjoyed their meal and got brownies from Baked, which I didn't even know was part of the menu. So, like I said, these things just seem to happen to me. You might be luckier. I’m sure they’ll streamline their process as the weeks go on. And I will continue to avoid foodie events. No hard feelings.

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Jun 7

Iron Hill Brewery

After a grueling afternoon of outlet shopping in what felt like the middle of nowhere, Limerick, Pennsylvania, an early dinner was in order. The on site Ruby Tuesday wasn't calling to me so we checked to see what the GPS might come up with nearby. There appeared to be a cluster of restaurants in two towns: Royersford and Phoenixville. I wanted to avoid already-known-to-me chains and was wooed by Texas Roadhouse and Iron Hill Brewery. The latter sounded classier so off to Phoenixville.

Along the Schuylkill River, Phoenixville was quainter than expected with a cutesy main street inhabited by outdoorsy types. I was willing to be swayed by any restaurant along the strip. The thing is, independent doesn't necessarily mean good cooking. The little hamlet was rife with tapas abuse.

One restaurant, 101 Bridge, with colored strobe lights and a disco ball beaming from the second floor of the historic Victorian house, was advertising $16 "tapas" of chicken marsala and rigatoni. Ok.

Just down the way was The Fenix, "Phoenixville's only martini and whisky bar" offered tapas that included, California rolls, lobster nachos and a peculiarity called shrimp lejon, which you'll soon see is a favorite of the area.

I also wasn't sold on New Orleans pizza whatever that might be. So, we ultimately ended up right where our car's oracle suggested in the first place: Iron Hill Brewery, a bright clean suburban-style restaurant with vague upscale tendencies (lots of $20+ entrees and steak) and an almost comical seriousness about their beers. It really wasn't terrible in the least, though unprompted you will get a lengthy description with lots of flowery tasting notes if you ask about a beer. To their credit, they'll also give you juice glass-sized tastes if you show interest in a particular brew. We ended up with full servings of the Abbey Dubbel, Pig Iron Porter and Extra Special Bitter.

Always a sucker for a cheese plate, we had a cheddar sampler and honestly I don't remember which each wedge was. The crumbly aged variety in the middle was a favorite. Extras included grainy mustard, pear compote, dried cranberries and cinnamon-sugared walnuts.

Ok, here's that shrimp lejon again. I pronounced it lehon like it was Spanish and was corrected to lezhan. Apparently lejon is the combination of shrimp, bacon and horseradish, here in the form of a pizza. I ordered it because it was so foreign. I've never heard of this creation in my life. I'm assuming it's regional, much like that frightening Goeslin coiff, which I did see on a woman in the dining room. I'll concede that the flavors combine well, the creamy mildly hot horseradish sauce instead of tomato helping balance the double richness of bacon and shrimp. I still think it's weird, though.

Fish and chips in a beer batter, of course, their Vienna Lager.

Iron Hill Brewery * 130 E. Bridge St., Phoenixville, PA

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Jun 1

Captain Luna’s Seafood Bar & Crab Shanty

Owning a car in NYC is kind of decadent, but it also allows you to cram more non-decadence into shorter time frames. I don’t think I could stomach a Carroll Gardens-Howard Bay-City Island Saturday excursion on public transportation even though you see bus stops even when you feel like you’re in remote corners of the city. That’s just me, though, maybe I’m lacking an adventurous spirit.

Or maybe this is a simple case of taking the easy way out. Whenever I hear that phrase I think about tagging along during car-shopping missions along Northern Boulevard the summer of 2001. James wanted a standard transmission, which was proving tougher than finding Thai chiles in Carroll Gardens. A salesclerk confided in him, “We only sell automatics because Mexicans like taking the easy way out.”

What an odd sentiment, not the misguided racism, but the geographic confusion. This is New York, hardly a Mexican stronghold. Wouldn’t Puerto Ricans or Dominicans make more sense in that context? (In 2000 in NYC there were 799,588 Puerto Ricans, 532,647 Dominicans and a measly 183,792 Mexicans, though that last figure increased a dramatic 57.7% between 2000 and 2007. Watch out, car salesmen.) For what it’s worth, I only know how to drive an automatic.

First, I paid a visit to Captain Luna’s, a glorified bar overlooking Cross Bay that occupies a parking lot next to an FDNY station. It’s also a marina where you can rent boats, buy bait and tackle and charter fishing trips. No sea-lover, I was merely concerned with food and beer.

Coronas and Old Bay shrimp for me. I wasn’t expecting the butter (I’m not sure that’s actually what this was, which says more about me if I can’t tell the difference between margarine and real dairy) just shrimp in the style of Maryland crabs. I greatly prefer peel-and-eating to cracking-and-picking. The concept of crab is more fun than the actual practice.

Legs were the only part of the crab on the menu this particular Memorial Day weekend Saturday and plenty of patrons were gnawing on the red appendages. But blue crabs should become part of the regular rotation soon and I got an an email list to alert me when a fresh haul arrives.

The bar itself sits underneath a tent with additional umbrella topped tables on the adjoining pier. On a balmy Saturday afternoon visit there was a smattering of all sorts occupying the seats: a Hispanic family with kids, a Sheryl Crow-ish tanned woman wearing a cowboy hat who seemed more Austin than Queens who was accompanied by two non-descript men in t-shirts, bikers, most definitely not of the fixed gear variety (a POW/MIA flag is prominently displayed near a beer tap—not sure why I associate that with bikers) and a few twentysomethings, who couldn’t have traveled far to get there, like the two above who began kissing the second after I snapped my photo.

I would’ve soaked up the un-New York-ness of the place over a few more beers if the Bronx hadn’t also been on my agenda. I didn’t do much exploring around City Island, that’ll have to wait for another time.

Instead, I popped into Crab Shanty. The first thing I noticed was that their signage employs the font Burnstown Dam, the same silly lettering I used for my old online diary, Project Me. Viva the '90s. The restaurant isn’t really beachy; even with the blue colored skylights (that cast a really odd glow on my photos) shingled awnings and weather vanes attempting to create an outdoors indoors illusion, you feel landlocked. Plus, the aisles are tighter than a coach cabin. The crab stained glass was kind of cute, though.

The meal starts with garlic bread and a handsome relish tray of both crunchy raw and spicy pickled vegetables. There is a clear Italian-seafood connection in the region. All of the crab places I’ve been to in the city and New Jersey also serve pasta, red sauce and the like.

Their raison d’etre is fried seafood, not my favorite genre, but I dived in with gusto. This mammoth plate housed fish, a soft-shell crab, random shrimp and a shitload of squid. I totally gave myself a stomachache after eating about half and cursed the idiocy of choosing fries as my side (other options included baked potato and linguine). Dinners also come with soup or salad and there was no resisting the iceberg with blue cheese dressing.

Smarter diners opt for crab legs. People are crazy for crab legs. Go to a Chinese buffet and watch the mayhem unfurl when a fresh batch is brought out in metal trays. Crab legs are more meat for less effort, the epitome of taking the easy way out. Instead, James wanted whole crabs, which garnered a warning from our waitress, “That’s a lot of work!”

The thing is, he’s used to Mid-Atlantic crabs, which are big and priced accordingly. Spendy with payoff. Most of what you find in NYC are piddly, exhausting to extract any goodness from but rarely set you back more than $29 for a pile. There's no harm done if you just like cracking crabs, though you might come away from dinner still hungry.

Captain Luna’s Seafood Bar * 158-35 Cross Bay Blvd., Howard Beach, NY

Crab Shanty * 361 City Island Ave., Bronx, NY

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May 16

Prime Meats

I’ve been feeling guilty for ignoring restaurants within a three-block radius of my apartment for those in neighboring states. I can dig the Brooklyn scene, too. Or at least I can try.

I showed up to Frankies 457 when it first opened, liked it fine, yet didn’t return for four years. So, who knows if my urge to finally visit Prime Meats will garner a return visit any sooner than 2013. If you’re lucky like me, the Portland Coffee Messiah will pass you by as you stroll down lower Court Street.

Initially, we were scared off by the quote of a 40-minute wait at 9:05 on a Thursday. It’s not a big place so I ordered a Prime Manhattan (Rittenhouse rye, Buddha’s hand bitters and some sort of vermouth, I assume) and figured if I finished it before being seated, we’d move on to another plan. I don’t have a problem eating at bars but I do like to sit when ingesting more than snacks or finger food, and Prime Meats is stool-less for the obvious issue of space constraints. I was still sipping about 20 minutes later when we were whisked to the outer edge of a table for six already occupied by a young couple in the attached corner booth. Perfectly bearable wait.

We just ordered two things from the brief menu. A red cabbage salad that was slicked with just enough oil and punchy vinegar. The walnuts were the right finish, and they tossed in a few more than were probably necessary, which is absolutely how I would’ve made it.

The lighting is abysmal (for food photography, not romance, but I wasn’t there for romance, in fact I got into a tiff over something stupid…James having no opinion on which salad to order. I’m not passionate about salad either, but you must know which one of the three choices sounds the most appealing, right? Ok, I’m a snap decision beast) so despite the fact that I’ve gotten quick and stealthy with my largish camera since acquiring it at the beginning of the year, I was stuck taking candlelit photo after candlelit photo to no avail. Pure blur.

This is what prompted commentary from the peanut gallery at the other end of our table, “She’s Twittering her meal.” Ugh, boo to communal seating. “Dude, you’re supposed to talk behind people’s backs not in front of their face.” And clearly I’m blogging it. Twittering? Come on now.

It’s hard to order choucroute garni and not think fondly of Irving Mill’s charcroute plate, but the two restaurants are vastly different animals and must be judged on their own merits. There was a nice variety of meats—brisket, pork belly, super sagey weisswurst and bratwurst–swimming in a pool of sauerkraut soup. The combo needed mustard and brown bread. Oh, the paying for bread debate. They did have it for a charge and I’m not against the practice, but with a cash only policy I had to be careful with the extras.

Prime Meats * 465 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

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Apr 7

Char No. 4

1/2 The tickly smell of smoke did hit me when I entered Char No. 4 but it wasn't an assault. I'm afraid that I've become desensitized to the strong fragrance due to periodic household experiments with a mini smoker. Venting the fumes towards an open door helps but keeping the apartment from smelling like a piece of jerky is nearly impossible.

I chose to use my experience with smoked food as fodder for my Spanish class response to "What did you do last week?" a question I stumble through every Thursday. But it only caused my teacher to ask if it was normal to keep a smoker in one's apartment and if that didn't bother the neighbors (he lives directly above Caputo's and says that smoke wafts into his apartment–what do they smoke in house, I wonder?). Well, as long as those neighbors continue to use the tiny foyer, a.k.a. the ten feet in front of my door as a stroller parking lot, I don’t care if the entire building reeks like a giant campfire. But I couldn't say this in Spanish because I didn't know the word for stroller or foyer and besides, it's tough to convey humor coupled with disdain in my painfully slow, dimwitted second language style.

So, post-11pm is a good bet if you insist on weekend dining since that's when the ratio of bar drinkers to back room sit-downers begins to shift. The restaurant may look mobbed from the street but it's just whisky sippers crowding the space in the front.

With 100+ choices ranging from one ounce of Fighting Cock for $3 to a $100 portion of Old Grommes 121 Proof, there’s something at all price points (none of that $120 per glass MacCutcheon Scotch). If I were feeling more flush I would experiment a bit more. As it stood, I tried a two-ounce pour of Woodford Reserve. Not so adventurous.

I was most interested in the fried pork nuggets and they weren’t disappointing. The soft centers contrasted with the crispy surface of the cubes like a meaty petit four. What they refer to as Char No. 4 hot sauce seemed like Sriracha to me, not that I mind since it’s my condiment of choice for nearly all fried food. Something about the heat cuts the fattiness.

While I expected greatness from the above pork, I actually preferred the fried cheddar cheese curds (once the fried food floodgates have opened there's no stopping). The firm chewiness worked even better with the crusty exterior. I assumed the creamy (bucking that hot with fatty trend) lightly spiced dipping sauce was remoulade but it’s described as pimento sauce. That’s a lot of orange on one plate.

The city is rife with pulled pork sandwiches, so many that I’m not always sure I should bother. They can't all be special. I do think this one was above average because of the whole package. The meat was moist, more chunky than shredded, and mixed with a barbecue sauce that tasted vaguely creamy and mustardy. The bun was toasted, which is very important to me, and the pickled onions and peppers added just enough heat and tartness. The baked beans weren’t bad either.

I shied away from the proper entrees because after a few ounces of whiskey priced in the double digits, the bill adds up. James wanted to try the smoked chicken, though, since it’s a meat we haven’t attempted in our smoker yet. Wanting to learn more about the preparation, he piped up, “I had a question?” to which our waitress responded a bit defensively, “The pink?” Clearly she was tired of explaining the poultry's doneness despite the deceptively rosy color. Uh no, just the details on how they keep their chicken juicy and not overly smoked. The answer, as it turned out, was using a pickle brine, and smoking at 225 for one hour. We’ll test it out.

Char No. 4 * 196 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

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Mar 26

Pa is My Co-Pilot

I have a particular fondness for Michael Landon’s touching portrayal of Charles Ingalls, a.k.a. Pa on Little House on the Prairie (I swear more than once I caught my own dad’s eyes welling up with tears during an episode. He was full of paternal pioneer spirit, too) as well as smoked comestibles, so a friend’s impromptu birthday celebration at Diamond in Greenpoint served me well. By the way, have you ever seen the real Charles Ingalls? He sported some seriously au courant facial hair.

Never a beer aficionado, I just discovered rauchbier, a German smoked beverage that tastes like a campfire. A little goes a long way as I’ve been discovering with the newish smoker in my household. (I will soon be experimenting with different flavors—cherry, hickory, alder—since last night I gave a wood pellet assortment to James as one of his birthday gifts. He shares the same date of birth as Jane, who was the guest of honor at Diamond, but missed out since he was out of town.) If they can mentholate beer, why not add smoky overtones?

I need to stop complaining about the state of dining in my neighborhood because Greenpoint seems unusually bereft of choice. I have plenty of options in Carroll Gardens and environs; I just don’t happen to like many of them. If you don’t want mediocre Japanese, Thai or even exemplary Polish what do you do?

I ended up at "Mediterranean Bistro" Lokal, primarily because it was close the subway, en route to drinks afterwards and inoffensive enough (probably a little too inoffensive). Pork ragu with handmade pasta was actually pretty good and soft enough that I could justify eschewing the mush-only wisdom tooth extraction regimen I’d been following. It's not the most attractive plate of food but it was very satisfying.

The birthday season has begun and the first of my fellow 1972ers has turned 37. The greatness of that number shocks me. Thankfully, I still have four months to spend staving it off.

On the upside, I was able to convince a few guests to pose with Pa. My favorite bar decor so far this year.

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Mar 1

The Redhead

1/2 Starting Friday night I semi-give up on all the ridiculous food stringency, i.e. no sugar or starch, I set up for myself during the week, kind of like binge drinking but with edibles. Sure, it’s unbalanced but it works for me. Oatmeal breakfast and Little Lads vegan mush lunch allowed for fried chicken dinner.

I’d been curious about The Redhead but it struck me as one of those places that might have interesting food but also might annoy me with a cramped space and long wait times. A weeknight venture, essentially. But I went wild and made an attempt directly after work on a Friday and the timing was just right. Seating was no problem at 6:30pm but by 7pm the bar area was one solid, immobile hungry pack.

I started with a generously sized snack of the bacon peanut brittle. It wasn’t what I expected at all. Which isn’t to say that it wasn’t tasty. I was imagining shards of hard candy studded with nuts and bacon. But this was almost a dead ringer for one of my favorite Chinatown grocery store treats of peanuts tossed with thumbnail-length dried anchovies, a salty-sweet flavor combination that I don’t associate with the restaurant’s fancified Southern cooking at all. This seriously tasted Asian to me (ikan bilis in Malay). I brought home the remainders in a foil packet only to later catch our toothless cat getting into the peanuts and licking them.

I seriously though James was bullshitting me when he said he couldn’t have any because of Lent, but he did refrain from the pork-laced legumes. I’ll never understand religion. I’ve never known him to attend church, though two years ago around this time of year I came home to find him sitting on the couch, Ash Wednesday smudge on forehead. Baffling. Certainly, I grew up with Catholics but I’d never ever seen the charcoal on the face thing until I moved to NYC. I honestly had no idea what was going on the first time I encountered the practice, though I never articulated my confusion until six years ago.

So, he opted for a cod dish enhanced by fennel, shoestring potatoes and a sauce described as clam chowder. I did not take a photo because the setting was cramped, dim and awkward (though not wholly uncomfortable) as it was.

Me, I got the fried chicken. I generally find large amounts of white meat heavy and overwhelming. I just prefer a closer ratio of skin to flesh. Thankfully, the breast here wasn’t dried out in the least and the crust was very light and flaky. Both the spinach salad with apples and candied walnuts and very moist triangular wedge of cornbread satisfied love of sweetness in savory dishes. I wouldn’t have minded a biscuit in lieu of the cornbread, though.

Despite foregoing dessert we were still given a parting goodie. An intense chocolate cookie with chocolate chunks and big pockets of crystallized ginger.

The Redhead * 349 13th St., New York, NY

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Feb 24

Clover Club

While I would’ve been content sitting at home with a Hitachino red rice ale watching bad SCI FI monster schlock like Wyvern, around midnight I decided a Valentine’s drink was necessary even if it was technically the 15th by then.

I’d never been to Clover Club, having lost interest after a failed mid-week attempt right after they opened. They’re about seven months in, right? Time for a spot check. The bar looked full from the outside but there were a few open two-seaters. Perfect.

I like my spirits brown—and manly, apparently. Only dudes had this drink in front of them. I don’t like sweet beverages and The Improved Whiskey Cocktail was a fine example of this dry genre. Rye, Maraschino, the requisite absinthe (is there a cocktail that doesn’t either employ the once forbidden spirit or elderflower liquor?) and a dash of bitters created a bitter, herbal cherry blend. The massive cylinder ice cube could either be construed as thoughtful measure to ensure little dilution or as a way to make small amounts of alcohol look more plentiful. Glass half-empty or half-full?

The Southside Fizz, not mine, kind of riffed on a Pimm’s Cup with cucumber, mint and gin and club soda. I know there isn’t any mint in a Pimm’s Cup but similar idea, and with a big fat leaf, no less.

I couldn’t tell you what the three cheeses on the cheese plate were because our server was completely unintelligible and I didn’t have the heart to make him repeat himself. We originally tried ordering something with bacon (I can’t even remember what) but it turned out we’d incorrectly been given the brunch menu.

The namesake Clover Club cocktail (gin, lemon, dry vermouth and raspberry syrup) and a ginger cocktail that I drank but can find no evidence of online (I don’t understand eating and drinking establishment that set up websites, then never add anything beyond a homepage).

By 1pm the large room had thinned out considerably. Unsurprising, since South Brooklyn is sleepy that way. Yet I shouldn’t have spoken so soon because within ten minutes of each other two giant groups showed up and commandeered rows of tables on both sides of us, pinning me in claustrophobically. It’s like when a subway car is 20% full and two people decided to inexplicably sandwich you on the bench.

So, yes I scoff at the Cobble Hill elderly who can’t stay out past 1am, then I become the
fuddy duddy when surrounded by raucousness. It didn’t really matter; two $11 cocktails is my financial limit anyway. We moved on to Brooklyn Social where it’s not exactly rock bottom either but at least I had a settee to myself.

Clover Club * 210 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

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Sep 30

Five Leaves

Last week my friend in Greenpoint, Sherri, suggested we check out Five Leaves and say hi to our mutual pal who was one of the chefs. Strangely, just minutes before her email I received one from him mentioning that he’d already moved onto another job. I don’t think it had even been three weeks. (For some reason I equate hasty throwing in of the towels with west coasters, which both he and I are. I’ve always had the same compulsion. Even after getting my master’s degree in 2004 and trying to be serious, I’ve managed to breeze through four jobs.) No matter, the new restaurant was still in need of a visit and as the only New Yorker who seems to enjoy riding the G train, it was a journey I didn’t mind.

At 7pm it was still early enough to have a choice of three open tables. Being of the wobbly chairs wedged inches from your neighbor school of style, we picked one of the single two-seaters in the front near the takeout window. Honestly, it didn’t matter; it’s a tiny place. We were still in the line of traffic and next to the bar. I’ve never been to Moto, but Sherri remarked that they looked similar right down to their triangular shapes. That was astute since the same person designed both interiors.

We started with ricotta flavored with thyme and honey (at least I thought it was honey–the sticky substance looks more like marmalade in the photo) and topped with a few fig wedges. The fresh crumbly cheese paired well with the sweet raisin-studded bread. I think the smaller plates might be where they excel.

It looks like the Five Leaves burger is a classic Australian rendition (though I recently read somewhere that this peculiar item is actually a New Zealand invention). I hadn’t heard of the beets, pineapple and fried egg combo until Sheep Station opened in Park Slope a while ago, and now it seems like these burgers have been creeping up throughout the city. It’s the beets that are the strange component, I think. I declined a bite so I’m not sure how this version was.

My frisee was heavily dressed but not off-puttingly oily. The unusually meaty lardons were the highlight of my meal. I know it would be grotesque to eat even a small bowl of cubed pork belly as a meal (well, I guess that's what lechon is but there's nothing remotely Australian about it) but really the egg and lettuce were nearly superfluous. I also ordered a side of truffle fries, which were a little on the underbrowned and soggy side. I do love starch, salt, and I guess the occasional drizzle of truffle oil, so it didn’t faze me much.

The overall consensus was that the food was average, and so too the service—at least by Williamsburg standards (yes, I realize this is just over the Greenpoint border, but it’s still on Bedford Ave.). You may wait eons for food, you might never get what you ordered and that phantom item will most likely show up on your bill anyway. It was hard to tell if the crowd that amassed outside during our hour-and-a-half there was due to sheer popularity or lackadaisical pacing inside.

Sherri described this service type as typically Brooklyn, but I think the cute and well-intentioned yet negligent staff is more uniquely Williamsburg and environs. I wouldn’t incriminate the entire borough. But no one who lives in 11211 seems to care, so no harm is really done. And if you happen to be one of those laid back types who live nearby, it’s worth a stop in for drinks and snacks but I wouldn’t necessarily recommend the place for a serious meal.

Five Leaves * 18 Bedford Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Aug 22

Botanica

I feel like I can’t talk about places and things without photographic backup. People, including myself, don’t have time for words anymore. It’s all I can do to scroll through my work RSS feeds during the day while trying to squeeze in a few non-work feeds on the side. Particularly with food blogs, photos and headlines get the point across, and then you move onto the next.

I didn’t even start taking snapshots until 2006 and I’ve been writing on the web since ye olde 1998 so it’s creepy that photos have become so essential so quickly. Yeah, yeah, it’s all about video now…well, that’s never going to happen on my watch.

Maybe I’m regressing (some would say evolving) or maybe it’s just the lazy days of August when all NYC media tries to make you believe that the entire city is summering someplace full of fresh air that’s insanely fun (I’m indifferent to fresh air) but I haven’t been inclined to detail everything I eat and drink digitally.

I didn’t take as single shot at Grand Sichuan last week and only two or three at Boca Junior on Saturday. I did attempt a few pictures of my negroni at newly opened Botanica in Red Hook but flashless photography is futile while drinking outdoors at night.

Yes, there’s already a perfectly established bar with the same name on Houston Street, so that is weird. And yes, old-timer fave, Sunny’s is just down the street. I don’t see why the established and the new can’t coexist. No matter how much gentrification talk gets bandied about, the neighborhood is hardly bursting at the seams. The streets are still dead at night. Three cats prowling around the sidewalk at intervals was about the sum of the foot traffic I witnessed this weekend.

I’ve never felt more like I was in Beijing while ordering a drink at Botanica. Well, there weren’t any mute assistants with bowl haircuts working behind the bar when I was in China, but in both places I experienced pricy cocktails for the environs painstakingly made, i.e. slooowly from a binder of recipes. I’m all for perfection but the trick is making it appear seamless. I tend to be a bit twitchy and nervous as it is; I can’t spare the stress on my heart to be nervous for others too.

Now that I think about it, the awkwardness might’ve been compounded by a lack of bar seating and a big unfilled space between the bar and the row of tables against the wall. It feels strange to be standing eye to eye with a bartender when the room is nearly empty and you’re the only one at the counter. Or maybe it was the quirky African (or was it African-influenced? It was most definitely wasn’t Vampire Weekend, thank God) music playing that threw me off.

Normally, I’m violently opposed to sitting outside but Saturday the temperature was abnormally tolerable while the bar itself was hot and stuffy despite all doors being open and nary a crowd emitting body heat. My only fear was being targeted as a douche for drinking a double-digit-priced cocktail at a candlelit (make that glowing plastic votive thing) sidewalk table on Conover Street. And funny, because I overheard one table trading war stories with another table about the good ol’ days when the area was so scary it was safer to walk in the middle of the street.

The emphasis appears to be on freshly muddled fruit. A row of martini glasses filled with blackberries, cherries, and the like are prominently displayed on the bar (like this). I wasn’t up for a blueberry martini or anything sweet so I went completely bitter and dry with a negroni. Those herbal aperitifs like Campari have only recently begun to grow on me. Maybe it’s an aging thing; James mentioned that his father’s favorite drink is a negroni and the man is twice my age.

Botanica hasn’t hit its stride yet, and one drink was sufficient to get the gist. $10 lighter and seven mosquito bites later, we moved onto Brooklyn Ice House (formerly Pioneer Bar-B-Q). I do prefer beer and Van Halen chased by a free shot.

Botanica * 220 Conover St., Brooklyn, NY

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Posts tagged ‘Bar/Wine/Pub’

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