Goodies First

Tripoli

Dining at 10pm on a Friday in the Carroll Gardens environs isn’t as easy as you’d think. I wanted Middle Eastern but not Zaytoons, and that still left plenty of Atlantic Street options. Normally, I would head to Waterfalls but they close at 10:30pm. Yemen Café, another favorite, didn’t strike me as a promising candidate either. I felt remiss in never having tried Lebanese Tripoli, which on the surface is the grandest of the lot.

But not so grand that bringing a bottle of Charles Shaw Shiraz caused much shame. Honestly, I thought the bargain wine was a better than decent, fruity compliment to the rich food. We all conceded that it was more likeable than the random red "Vinos de Madrid” we’d been drinking earlier that cost three times as much.

This was an appetizer plate shared among three. There was plenty of everything: salty cheese cubes, olives, hummus, babaganouj, falafel and my favorite, pickled beets.

I was expecting the kibbeh, or as it’s called here, kibbee mishwiye, to be cut in squares like at Waterfalls, but these were dense ovoid lamb patties. Beyond cracked wheat and onions I’m not exactly sure what rounds out the ground meat mix. That’s fine, it’ll keep me coming back for more. I saved the second blob and some salad for later, and with a smear of hummus, it made a great sandwich enrobed in toasted multigrain bread (pita would’ve been ideal but I didn’t have any).

As to my never fully explained phobia of being the last diner in a room, it still came true. I thought we’d be safe with an 11pm closing time but we still ended up victims of lights being turned off and chairs being shuffled. Either I need to get over my irrational concern or find later night restaurants in the neighborhood.

Tripoli * 156 Atlantic Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Joya

You think I would have the good sense to steer away from Cobble Hill Thai food in a restaurant with a DJ booth. I shot down suggestions of Grand Sichuan House and Anselmo’s in the name of open-mindedness and the quest to give seemingly so-so neighborhood restaurants a fair shake. Now, I’m afraid my mind has been shut for good.

I had issues (actual screaming matches) with a scary, marathon-running, MBA know-it-all coworker from a few jobs back. She insisted Joya was the best Thai food she’d had in NYC and I wasn’t having any of that nonsense. But I was able to garner one of my favorite quotes that I’m positive I’ve mentioned many times before. Picture this being said in the nastiest, condescending, 5’1 tough office lady voice, “Have you even been to Thailand?!" Ok, you win, Brooklyn pad thai is totally the same as street food in Bangkok. Better, even.

And so I went to Joya. Hmm…I don’t know how to say this without coming across racist and/or elitist (and for the record, that dijon kerfuffle is utter crap. My family totally ate Grey Poupon on our backyard-grilled burgers in a blue collar suburb 20+ years ago. It was mainstream then, and certainly is now) but it’s a genuine question  Why is Joya, a mediocre Thai restaurant in a gentrified, overwhelmingly white neighborhood, filled to capacity with Long Islanders (this wasn’t a judgmental inference based on the usage of dawtah and cah [that would be daughter and car], the two loud tables I was sandwiched between were talking specifically about Long Island and how far they’d driven into Brooklyn) and well, black people? I’m not all “Stay out of my neighborhood.” Frankly, you can have it. It’s more, “Why are you coming here for this restaurant?” Do they know something I don’t? Everyone seemed to be having a good time, so who am I to ruin their fun with my killjoy spirit?

And the food was barely passable. I didn’t even bother with photos. The chili basil mussels we started with were fine enough but the stir fries and curries were flat and flavorless, even more so than your typical Americanized Thai. I like “bad” Mexican and Chinese, but I can’t abide bad Thai because it doesn’t even translate into craveable greasy junk food (hard shell tacos, sweet and sour pork) it just ends up pale, bland and sad.

I tried to take the when in Rome approach, and maybe after a few glasses of Yellowtail Reisling, the fortyish woman next to me who’d clearly been downing cheap white wine all night, would cease hurting my spinal column with her shrillness. But there’s no ignoring deafening shrieks about farts, queefs and explicit sex acts (now, I really will get blocked by work filters) punctuated by maniacal laughter. There’s a time and a place, people. And this is coming from a loudmouth who likes to drink.

I freakin’ love New Jersey but Long Island scares the crap out of me. And now, so does Joya. No matter who tries bullying you into thinking this is good Thai food, do not listen. This is no time to be open minded. In an unprecedented move, I am downgrading the two shovel rating naively bestowed on the restaurant in 2003, when I was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, to one shovel. (5/15/09)

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

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

Patois

After hearing that Patois, one of the Smith Street pioneers, was closing this weekend, James made reservations for Friday. Of course, now it seems that they will simply relocate across the street, but at least I had the opportunity to try one of the many eateries along South Brooklyn’s restaurant row that I normally walk past without a glance.

And Patois was very much what I expected: charming in a rustic cozy way (who can resist a roaring fireplace in the dead of winter?) with serviceable food. I can see why a French bistro would be something to celebrate in 1997. Now, there’s a lot of competition. Restaurants in this Gallic vein can be found all over Smith Street (Provence en Boite, Café Luluc, Robin du Bois, Bar Tabac) and environs (Jolie, Pit Stop, Quercy).

The slab of pate (on the right) was creamy, spreadable and more memorable than the coarser country-style slice beneath it. The accompaniments--cornichons, grainy mustard and tart vinaigrette--were all sharp, almost too much so. A stronger sweet component would’ve added balance. And now that I'm looking at the photo, I realize there are blobs of what must've been a fruity syrup yet I don't recall tasting it at all.

I loved the fries in my steak frites. The medium-rare beef was also well cooked. The only detraction was the cornstarch-thickened poivre sauce. We were sitting next to a drafty windowed door (completely my own choice. I initially liked the less hemmed in corner table. It wasn’t until we got settled that I realized how much of the frigid air was seeping through the wall behind me) so it didn’t take long for the thin peppery sauce to cool off, exposing a gluey consistency. Not that this deterred me from taking home leftovers.

The financier was larger than I had expected and not overly sweet. The insides were springy and studded with bits of melted chocolate, the outer edges golden and firm. What sold me was the scoop of coffee ice cream, though. I tend to choose based on extras not the feature.

Everything at Patois was perfunctory but lacking in small harmless ways. I left without a strong feeling one way or the other. I’ll be curious to see how the new location will differ, if at all, though I don’t know that I will return in the immediate future. It might be worth it for the mid-week prix fixe.

Patois * 255 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Bocca Lupo

Strangely, I don’t feel like I have much of anything to say about Bocca Lupo because it’s solid, reasonable restaurant that needs no comment from me. (If I were to say anything it would only be relevant to me. And that is that whenever I have the urge to go out to eat, I should wait an extra 30 minutes. You know, kind of like that taking one accessory off before leaving the house trick. Unless visiting a restaurant that’s outer outer borough, it’s guaranteed that I will end up waiting half an hour to be seated, and as soon as I sit down half the room clears out. Bocca Lupo 10pm on a Friday=crowded, Bocca Lupo 10:30pm on a Friday=lots of open tables.)

Bocca Lupo’s on Henry St., I live on Henry St. They serve non-marinara drenched Italian food and stay open until 2am on weekends, both good things. You can order little snacks or more substantial dishes--it’s crazy like that. They’ve been open for almost exactly one year and I have no idea why it took me this long to pay a visit.

Unfortunately, thanks to three glasses of random Sangiovese, and their lack of an online menu, I can’t even cobble together basic details of what I ordered.


Salumi
Why do I only remember the mortadella?


Cheese
Once again, I only remember one specific: the gorgonzola. The unknown soft cheese was my favorite and the candied pecans were a nice touch. 


Bruschetta
Sweet peas don’t seem very October but whatever. The green puree was topped with prosciutto. The brown mass on the other bread slices was sausage draped with mild chiles. 

Bocca Lupo * 391 Henry St., Brooklyn, NY

Carniceria

1/2 *Unsurprisingly, Carniceria has bit the dust. (10/1/07)

A few months ago, probably in February, I mistakenly attempted to try Novo, Alex Garcia’s first comeback restaurant. I’m not sure that it was supposed to be open to the public, it was a total freak scene. The kitchen was closed, looked like it has been out of commission for some time and covered with a curtain. The bartender could barely manage a mojito, even though it was her suggestion. Boxes were piled up in the bathroom and the only patrons seemed to be friends of the staff. Sketchy. It reminded me of that Asbury Park Howard Johnson's that time forgot. Apparently, it's now an "upsacale, yet unpretencious lounge."

So, I was surprised to hear that the chef had reappeared in my neighborhood and at cursed former Porchetta, no less. No, the irony of troubled chef choices hasn’t been lost on some, but Cobble Hill could stand some sort of excitement (maybe they can get that raw food perv in the kitchen after this incarnation sours). It was worth a visit and I was glad to hear the owner admit that the area didn’t need another Italian restaurant. I’m all for any new place that’s not Thai, Italian or French bistro.

Even though I intended to, I never ate at Porchetta so I can’t speak to décor changes. I had seen photos of that faux taxidermy deer head and it looks like they’ve swapped it for white antler-esque wall sconces. The brown vinyl tablecloths feel new (and hot on the legs) and maybe the iridescent wall paper. I suspect there hasn’t been a major cosmetic overhaul, though.

The service was slightly buggy, one server was very informed and had an accent that James insisted was fake (I strongly doubt that but it was bit Montalban-esque) and the other was a little twitchy and unsure. But the food seemed fairly confident for only being open a weekend. They weren’t set up to make tamales yet and didn’t have the lobster for multi-seafood dishes. Everything else was go.

Despite the heat not putting me in much of a carnivorous mood, at least one cut of grass fed beef needed to be sampled. I tried the skirt steak. I’m not sure if my mind made me taste unusual flavors because I knew my length of beef wasn’t a corn product, but it truly tasted super beefy, ever so slightly gamey. As a sauce, I preferred the chimichurri to the red chile relish that also came as a condiment. The grilled onions were side enough, though cauliflower, potatoes, chard and sweet potatoes described in more enticing terms were available as an add-on.

I can never resist a bacon-wrapped date in any fashion. Here they’re stuffed with Cabrales and an almond and served atop a vinegary endive slaw. James ordered both appetizer and entrée specials, a seafood empanada and polenta topped with scallops and oxtail. We couldn’t find fault with anything we sampled.

I’ll be curious to see how Carniceria shapes up and if the neighborhood takes to it. The Argentine/Spanish menu does seem promising.

Carniceria * 241 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Mancora

Not counting vacations (because I force myself to wake up earlier) I probably only eat breakfast or brunch out like three times a year. But I hadn’t/haven’t gone grocery shopping in over two weeks so the food situation had become dire (sort of, there are two freezers full of things like chicken breasts, pork dumplings, lime and curry leaves, duck fat, Italian sausage, morcilla [I ate that last night with chickpeas, dried cranberries, pinenuts, garlic, parsley and lots of olive oil—so good I’ll eat some more tonight] two whole chickens and short ribs, and a shelf brimming with forgotten dry goods like cherry jam, Jacques Torres Wicked Hot Chocolate, Indonesian krupuk, lentils, black beans, kidney beans, Moose Munch, Iams cat food, four varieties of wild rice, weirdo South American grains and dried corn that never ever get used, rendang in a box, low fat coconut milk, canned turnip greens, decaf Starbucks coffee and way way more) enough to warrant dressing before noon and fighting the Sunday brunching brigade.

I tried to come up with nearby options that might be unpopular yet still tasty. Irish breakfast at the recently revamped Ceol came to mind (as evidenced by my morcilla bender, I’m all about blood sausage). This was the original plan but on our detour to Rite Aid for cold medicine we passed Mancora and were intrigued by the sandwich board advertising a $8.95 brunch with beverage. Peruvian for breakfast seemed about as safe from crowds as Irish, so we gave it a go.
The place was practically empty, save for the Hispanic dudes getting an early start on New Year’s Eve at the bar. Eventually, your classic white guy with his Asian gal came in (all restaurants in gentrified Brooklyn neighborhoods must have at least one such couple) so we didn’t feel so lonely.

Where a Mexican place would give out pre-meal chips and salsa, here you get fried plantain chips with a creamy, lightly spiced orange and green dip. We both ordered egg dishes that came with lukewarm, sweet purple rice studded with plantain chunks. It wasn’t bad and I’m a sucker for food in unusual colors (I can see it grossing out people though. I was recently so dismayed to see all these freaks bothered by this emerald green macaroon that I left a pro-green cookie comment and I rarely get involved in these petty matters, and now it looks like all comments have been deleted). I don’t think the rice is naturally purple, despite the fact that purple potatoes and corn do grow in Peru. Maybe it was made with chica morada? I once made purple rice using grape juice, so who knows.

James had a steak and egg thing that came atop English muffins but wasn’t eggs benedict. Mine was more benedict-like but instead of muffins I received eggs sitting on silver dollar sized quesadillas filled with spinach and cheese and drizzled with a chile hollandaise. It was actually kind of creative, more than I’d previously given Mancora credit for.

The food reminded me of the type of fare a chef would come up with (not so much Gordon Ramsey on his Kitchen Nightmares, which appears to be casting in NYC this very second) on Restaurant Makeover to shake up an eatery in a rut and attract new clientele. With a so-so but strong bloody mary (or mimosa or sangria) included in the price, the brunch is a pretty good deal. (12/31/06)

Bottled chicha morada photo from Slashfood.

Cube 63

It recently occurred to me that I never ever eat sushi for dinner. Yeah, I pick up deli (technically Sushi-Tei [they advertise this link, but this particular restaurant is nowhere to be seen on the website] which is no Café Zaiya or Yagura. I’m still mourning both after six months in my not-so-new-anymore job neighborhood) sushi a couple times a week for lunch, but that’s not like real. I know, purists get all grossed out by fast food sushi, but those midtown you pick, they toss, salads make me want to hurl. And fast food sushi is cheaper than a lot of midtown mediocrity.

I picked neighborhood Cube 63 for no reason in particular. I think Osaka is the local higher end fave and clearly Hana Sushi is just plain popular. While Cube 63 was nearly empty around 7:30 on a Saturday, Hana, one block over was stuffed to the gills. I would say that those diners must’ve known something we didn’t if it weren’t for the fact that I don’t trust the judgment of most people in Cobble Hill.

We were fairly restrained in ordering. I picked spicy tuna rolls, spider rolls and yellowtail sushi. James asked for scallop sashimi and the 63 roll (spicy tuna, avocado, lobster salad). Yeah, a bit tuna heavy. All in all it was an acceptable dinner, but there was something flat and perfunctory about the experience. Of course it was more enjoyable than deli sushi, which isn’t saying much.

Cube 63 * Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Little Bistro

*LB has been replaced by a not-so-promising looking place called Vivir. (1/06)

Famous last words, "it had better not be one of those barbecue sauce restaurants." Oh, but it was. It's starting to get strange, the Bococa (oh yes, I did) affinity for barbecue sauce. (Or possibly more accurately, James's penchant for ordering items drenched in it.)Realistically, the incidents over the past few years have been few and far between, all things considered, but they tend to stand out because they occurred when we first moved into the neighborhood and were figuring out the dining scene. We had bbq sauce trauma at Pier 116 and Village 247, both addresses-in-the-names joints have since faded away. Perhaps rampant bbq saucing is the mark of a restaurant in demise.

I wish I could remember the exact name and description of our appetizer. It was something along the lines of barbecued shrimp summer rolls. I'll admit, barbecue is right in there, but we assumed by context this meant grilled. Wouldn't that make more sense? But no, the Vietnamese style rolls came with a little patch of mache, a pool of creamed corn…and drizzles of barbecue sauce. Good lord. After that, there would be no way to convince James to ever give another Cobble Hill restaurant a chance.

That rough patch was only exacerbated by the excruciating amount of time it took to present our entrees.  I'm not one to fuss, but it probably would've irritated an average diner. And it wasn't matter of things being backed up, they clearly messed up our order. We were nearly neck and neck with the table next to us and they received, ate and finished their main dishes before we even saw ours. I suspect there was a problem with the veal special. We're opposite, James often goes for the special and I avoid them.

I was mildly amused that when the panko crusted veal finally arrived it was served with "Japanese Worcestershire sauce," which is like one step away from sweet barbecue sauce. one might imagine would be sweet. It wasn't James's night.

To be fair, I quite liked my entrée, which was a plate of sliced duck, massaman curry sauce, two moo shu duck style pancakes, and two sweet potato fritters. A small pile of baby vegetables in the middle consisted of carrots, pattypan squash and green and wax beans.

It's easy to asses the neighborhood's vibe and restaurant's clientele, from the caveats the waiter gave with practically all orders. "The duck is cooked medium, so it's a little pink in the middle. Is that ok?" Yes, that's fine. The shrimp rolls, "That comes with coleslaw, is that alright?" Ok, not a problem. Both female components of the couples who sat on my right (yes, two seatings occurred during our unintended lengthy meal) ordered the salmon with "Japanese spiced cream sauce," and both asked, "Is it spicy?" The waiter robotically replied, "We can put the sauce on the side." South Brooklyn is infested with fussiness.

Little Bistro * 158 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Pacifico

1/2 There are moments made for mish mash. And those moments tend to involve alcohol impaired judgment. Pacifico, it turns out, is great for what it is: drunk food. Unfortunately, it almost became puke food after swilling mint juleps and bourbon slushes for five hours straight. Despite the burgoo and derby pie consumed earlier, I still needed a little padding of the stomach lining.

Beer and a carnitas quesadilla did more harm than good. The cheese and grease backfired and I was only able to eat one of my four stuffed tortilla wedges. It wasn't half bad, I just wasn't primed for eating. But I was happy the next day to have hefty leftovers as hangover food.

Pacifico * 269  Pacific St., Brooklyn, NY

Yemen Cafe

In the nearly two years I've lived vaguely near Atlantic Avenue, Waterfalls is the only Middle Eastern restaurant I've visited. I fear that whole strip is going to be gentrified into oblivion within a couple of years, so I'd better start branching out while I can. Yemeni cuisine is one that I could stand to learn a little bit more about.

I took the opportunity during the first flakes of the blizzard. After seeing Cache at that odd Brooklyn Heights Theater on Henry Street, Yemen Cafe was a short (albeit wet) walk down the street (and home, 15 blocks south of that). As I'd suspected might be the case, I was the only female in the sparse, spacious room that was maybe a quarter full. I think that's why I tend to be wary of many of these restaurants: the lack of women. Am I breaking a rule by wanting to try new and delicious food?

Many of the items on offer were highly tasty and not quite like things I've had before. The pita was large, pizza-sized and comes on a platter. It had definitely come straight from an oven, warm with charred, bubbly edges. I didn't order any appetizers because I assumed the entrees were meal enough, which they were. However, the foul madamas and the Yemeni fateh, bread with honey and butter, grabbed my attention. Maybe on another visit.

James had a lamb fateh. I gather fateh means things served atop torn pieces of bread. The gravy soaks into the flaps of starch and creates a chewy flavor combination. I had the house salta, which comes in two parts. I think the salta is the stew, which is laced with potatoes, carrots and zucchini and comes most interestingly topped with a white herby foam called houlbah. I'd never seen such a thing, at the same it's time ancient and avant-garde. You mix the strong flavored swirl into the liquid. I couldn't put my finger on what the bitter component was, but later I deduced that it was fenugreek. A roasty browned, juicy lamb shank comes on a separate plate (you can also get chicken). A lot of picking and dipping is involved.

The foam came as a surprise, and so did the hot sauce they bring on a small saucer. I swear it's a dead ringer for salsa. We were joking that there was a jar of Pace in the kitchen. The components were there: tomato, onion, jalapeno, but lighter on the tomato on higher on the heat. Not chunky, but a puree. This is what I enjoyed about Yemen Cafe, unexpected tid bits like the Yemeni salsa, foamy toppings and pita strewn stews.

Yemen Cafe * 176 Atlantic Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Taku

So, I've finally deduced that it takes me about six months to actually try a new restaurant. Well-intentioned or not, I never seem to get to all the places on my list, even when they're walking distance from my apartment. And in NYC, nobody cares about a restaurant after six months.

I recall good things being said about Taku when it opened this summer. I don't know if they've kept things up at the same caliber, but I was unexpectedly under whelmed. James flat out didn't like food, which surprised me since he's never extremely passionate about anything, let alone cuisine.

My sashimi trio included...um, I can't even say for sure because it wasn't explained well and I'm not a raw fish whiz, I think uni and two different white fleshed fish varieties, along with a couple different seaweed salad tufts. It was fresh and just toothsome enough to remind me that I should eat Japanese food more often.

James ordered the wings, which I was interested in too. The sambal coating and cucumber cream dip sounded like a fun riff on Buffalo wings. They were presented prettily on a long ceramic plate and wrapped with a thin leaf. Unfortunately, the meat wasn't fully cooked, once you bit off the saucy exterior, the flesh was raw. It's a good thing neither of us are panicky about avian flu, or more realistically salmonella. I guess we should've said something, but it didn't feel worth the bother. There was a weird dispiriting vibe in the room, despite the surface soothing tones and music. Nothing overt, but the service managed to feel spacey and clunky, like I didn't want to do anything to further interactions or conversations. So, we kept mum on the sashimi wings.

I enjoyed my Taku ramen, which was ideal for a pork fanatic like myself. The tonkatsu broth was laden with thin slices of Berkshire pork and a nice substantial piece of rasher style bacon. The weird thing is that I expected more flavor, the broth was oddly flat and even the tiniest bit bitter. I think my taste buds could be tainted by my almost daily bowl of cheap Yagura chicken udon. I'm sure the stuff is teeming with salt and msg, but it's insanely savory and addictive. Maybe it's dashi derived vs. pork bone broth? No expert in Japanese soups, I'd always imagined pork broth to be the stronger flavored of the two.

James envied my ramen and loathed his scallops so much that he actually went home and ate a bowl of instant tom yam noodles. I thought his entre looked fine, though I became scared to taste it when he began insisting it was laced with mayonnaise. I wouldn't be surprised, Japanese are a tad mayo crazy, but the emulsified condiment wasn't listed as an ingredient. I only recall apple puree (as a bed for the seared sesame crusted scallops), celery root (a few scattered slices) and holy basil (in the form of lightly drizzled oil) as components. The celery root did appear to be coated in a white creamy sauce. I don't think the quality was poor, it just wasn't what he had had in mind.

Despite being offered a new job mere hours before this meal, we couldn't agree on whether this was a celebratory dinner or not. I said no at the end because it didn't go well and I wasn't feeling elated like I should've been. James said yes, since it ended up being more than we'd (ok, he'd) normally spend on food for a casual weeknight ($81). I don't care what he says, it didn't count--I'm getting another dinner.

Taku * 116 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Cholita

1/2 Funny, there was a story in todays NY Times about WWF (I know its WWE now, but it just doesnt look right) style wrestling Cholitas in Bolivia. Cholita, one of Cobble Hills Peruvian restaurants, wasn't as amusing, I'm afraid.

On a sickeningly steamy Saturday I decided try either Mancora or Cholita since I'd never been to either and Peruvian sounded like a random good idea. We opted for the latter, primarily because it was less crowded. In fact, the entire dining room was empty. I would normally take that as a bad sign if it werent for the full-to-capacity back patio, which we wanted nothing to do with. Maybe were freaks for sitting alone in air conditioned comfort, but humidity combined with a slew of strollers and the new mommies accompanying them, is the antithesis of a an enjoyable evening.

Even being the only diners in the room (at least temporarily), we still had trouble with our scatterbrained bed-headed waiter. They were out of Jamess original choice, something involving lamb, so he went for a basic hanger steak with chimichurri, medium rare. It ended up rarer than rare. I went for the paella, which I'm not the biggest fan of in the first place, it was a spur of the moment urge. But their bizarro addition of a frozen vegetable combo (lima beans, green beans and corn--isnt that succotash? I have a severe hatred of those mixed vegetable packs. The only time I tolerated them was way back in 91 when I got my first apt. and the only place that did Chinese delivery [which wasn't even in my S.E. Portland neighborhood, but downtown] had this sweet greasy pork stir fry that was full of frozen corn, machine cubed carrots and green beans that I'd frequently order even though I was well aware that it was so not Chinese) in the rice and seafood fray certainly didnt help change my opinion of the dish. Do they even eat paella in Peru?

It wasn't a heinous experience by any means. The Pisco sours were nice, the fried pork appetizer wasn't half bad, but I'm in no hurry to return. It's not like I'm in an early '90s Oregonian culinary wasteland; now choices abound. I think Cholitas back garden is the draw, much the same way nearby Pacificos open air seating trumps their cuisine. For me, al fresco atmosphere doesnt hold enough sway.

Cholita * 139 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Gravy

People always lump Carroll Gardens and Cobble Hill together. Perhaps its the blur of homogonous residents (the minor exception being the freaky front yard, social club, right leaning, elderly Italian contingent, whom I happen to share a neck of the woods with). But even only being one subway stop south of Bergen, I'm still out of that more bustling loop. To me, Gravy popped up out of nowhere, I had no inking. But it's kind of hard to ignore (and dislike) a giant neon gravy boat. Gravy is now the cornerstone (literally), connecting Pacifico to La Rosa in some labyrinth-like near gimmick. I don't have issues with the whole Alan Harding empire, La Rosa pizza tastes good to me, Schnack is fun and cheap. Pacifico supposedly sucks, and thats why I've shied away.

Gravy falls into the affordable and light hearted camp. No new ground is broken with the updated diner concept, but thats okay (it certainly beats the hurl inducing Sonnys). The interior is bizarrely vast, even by Brooklyn standards. A Friday night table for two was no problem.

Unfortunately, the operation wasn't completely up to snuff yet. Not all menu items were available, for instance the vegetable muffaletta I'd wanted. After striking out, I changed my second choice Monte Cristo to the more routine Rueben just to preempt any additional disappointment. It was a perfectly respectable rendition, skewered with toothpicks bearing a black and green olive. The fries, sprinkled with shredded parsley, were also nice.

The entrees include what you might expect: chicken fried steak, meatloaf and macaroni and cheese, which every table of white guy/Asian girl duos (to be fair, there was one table with the reverse ethic combo, but they were both wearing flip flops so my initial positive impression was soured) in the room seemed to have a plate of.

Mac and cheese is one of those gross comfort foods that I don't get, but everyone seems to love (I also dislike hotdogs, so maybe somethings wrong with me). Noodles and cheese just don't thrill me, but perhaps thats not the point. I noticed a lot of faces being made, complaining and picking at food by the women, which was kind of baffling. But the men werent much better, the gentleman next to us didnt know what chicken fried steak was, and he didnt even touch his vegetables, which appeared to be fresh picked and decent looking not frozen.

The desserts, however, were not freshly made as I'd been hoping. The adequate choices, which included Reeses cheesecake and apple pie, came boxed and ready to slice. I know because the woman prepping them with sliced strawberries and whipped cream was stationed mere feet from us.

When I originally heard that Gravys stayed open until 2am I got excited because there's nowhere for late night dining in the neighborhood. I was super thwarted on a recent Sunday when I wanted dessert after 10pm and we walked blocks and blocks of urban ghost town. I had visions of eating homemade lemon meringue pie in the middle of the night, but it looks like my sugar fix might more along the lines of a defrosted cheesecake slice.

Gravy * 102 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Banania

I think this place is closed/in flux (4/06)

I'm not a brunch person. I like the concept, but the dining event takes effort. And really, its a social affair. Friends meeting friends from the neighborhood. Youngsters placating visiting parents. And depending where you live, brunch is a playground substitute. If anything I shy away in Carroll Gardens because I find strollers, drool and colic less than appetizing.

But we ventured out on a sunny Sunday morning anyway. Banania is one of the more popular brunch spots in the area (my out of town sister and boyfriend nosed it out unaided on their last visit), I'm not sure why, the food is standard fare, I guess the prices are fair, there is outdoor seating and a complimentary bread basket, complete with chocolate croissant. Thanks to the nature loving throngs who adore dining al fresco (I generally don't) there were actually free tables inside during prime time. No complaints there. James and I went Hollandaise crazy and ordered eggs benedict and Florentine, respectively (I never realized people had such issues with Hollandaise. The woman on my right ordered Florentine minus the sauce, though clearly wasn't fat-phobic since she ordered an extra plate of bacon. The woman on my left wanted her Hollandaise on the side. Why don't they just order egg white omelets and be done with it?). They were pleasant enough renditions and came with home fries and salad greens. It's doubtful I'd return any time soon, no fault of Banania, brunch is just a very occasional thing.

Banania * 241 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Cubana Cafe

Cute but cramped, and in a more claustrophobic way than most elbow-to-elbow NYC eateries. We bailed on our first attempt to dine here a few months ago. It was freezing and the only open tables were in the heated, but still off-putting front room addition. This time we managed to avoid the annex, but our table was one of three in a row that are barely bigger than barstools. Good for cocktails, not so good for dinner

The food, however, is reasonably priced, most entrees stay under $10. My empanadas were flavorful, the drinks were interesting, but the mains were kind of so-so. Not that they werent well prepared, its just my bias against this kind of rice, beans and a meat cuisine. I don't get enthusiastic over rice and beans, I've never understood the big deal. So, my inclination would be to return on a weeknight and get a Cuban sandwich, appetizers, sides, whatever, and split a pitcher of sangria. Maybe in another couple months.

Cubana Caf * 272 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Hill Diner

I don't generally do brunch. Not out of any sort of principle. I like breakfast food and I never cook it myself, but I just cant get up and going early enough. Brunch usually means close to home and my close to home equals lots of strollers and needlessly affectionate couples that I already get enough of on the F train.

So, Hill Diner was random and spur of the moment. And it didn't kill me to wake up and get myself together on a late Saturday afternoon. I've discovered that there's no one worth impressing in the vicinity of my apartment anyway, and South Brooklyn chic consists of women with no makeup, ponytails, glasses and Patagonia fleece. I've never gotten the I'm so full of substance and intellect that I have no need to enhance my looks aesthetic. Getting dolled up for omelets in this climate is futile and a waste of good product.

My croque madame, roasted potatoes and coffee were enjoyable. The company around us, not so much. My jest "doesnt being in here make you want to start a family?" was met with a steely glare, and made me ponder what life would be like with a boyfriend possessing a better grip on jibing humor. Clearly, my problems with brunching has nothing to do with the actual food.

Hill Diner * 231 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Savoia

Savoia has reasonable prices, better than average pizza, and is a little more inventive than many of the Carroll Gardens (or is this Cobble Hill? I get the borders confused) red sauce restaurants I like to avoid, but its probably not a draw if you live outside the neighborhood. Smith St. is pretty blah despite everyone seeming to bestow it restaurant row status. We were going to try the new, probably mediocre Cuban place, but it was full as new restaurants often are. Savoia, with free tables and a warm glow, beckoned from across the street.

I had reservations about ordering the fattoressa pizza (spinach, gorgonzola, sausage, mozzarella), not because it didnt sound enticing, but because somehow saying the word fat might make me seem fatter myself (this is the sort of bizzarro self-consciousness that a skinny individual would never even consider). Though I've ordered lardo without giving a thought to being viewed as a lard ass. So, the fattoressa was fine, if not a touch over-charred around the edges (I know, wood-burning ovens and all that).

With the number of yet untried restaurants clogging Smith St., it'll probably be a while before I return. Thats the problem with these types of establishments. I've never had a horrible meal in the neighborhood, but I've also never been revved to revisit a place.

Savoia* 227 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

La Rosa and Son

1/2 I don't care what anyone says, this is the best pizza I've had in the area (whatever the heck you want to call that area...Cobble Hill? Boerum Hill? Carroll Gardens North?). For such a scary Italian-American neighborhood, they don't do so well with the pizza. But La Rosa? They're alright. The staff is friendly and the wine is cheap (it even says so on the menu). (4/31/04)

Not bad, not bad at all. Maybe I've grown overly skeptical over new neighborhood restaurants. I don't know what it is with areas where professionals and families congregate begetting mediocre eats. La Rosa and Son has that readymade, built new to look old vibe, but compared to the blah pizza churned out at practically every legitimate old school Italian-American joint in the immediate region (and believe you me, there's more than plenty), I'm not complaining. Purists might say the pies are a little heavy on the cheese, but I'm no stickler, having grown up on the west coast loving gooey Hawaiian toppings (you could get killed trying to order ham and pineapple here). (5/21/04)

La Rosa and Son * 98 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Panino'teca

I'm crazy for a pressed sandwich, and who isn't these days? All the delis in town now have those glossy mass produced signs advertising them. Bye bye wraps. So, it's weird that I've been in Carroll Gardens for a while and hadn't visited Panino'teca yet. I took the opportunity on a rare visit from a friend and Williamsburger (you know how hard it is to convince them to leave "the shire" She's only branching out because she's in a mini-spat with a mutual friend who also lives in her nabe. Yes, I just said nabe.) to check this little cafe out.

James ordered a glorified BLT (hardwood smoked bacon, tomato, red onion, arugula and mayonnaise), and I opted for the capacolla, peperanota, provolone with red chili mustard. Sweet, meaty, spicy and tangy at the same time. Nice. The bruschetta, salads, and cheese and meat plates all sounded worth trying. So many of the family-filled restaurants in the neighborhood just plain depress me, but not this one.

Panino'teca * 275 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Caserta Vecchia

I'm so not into the whole Carroll Gardens Italian thing. How I ended up here on a Friday night is a bit of a mystery, especially since I was in the mood for a suburban style buffet and James had emailed me earlier in the day wanting to find a sit-down Pizza Hut for that evening's entertainment. Caserta is neither Pizza Hut-like nor a buffet. It's just real average Italian-American type food. My brick oven quattro formaggia pizza was alright, the antipasto was adequate, James thought his fettucine with ham was blah. It's just what it was. And then we got into a fight because I wanted to throw James a birthday party and he didn't want one. How ridiculous a fight is that? Now Caserta is imprinted in my mind as a conflict-inducing spot with ok, but uninspiring food.

Caserta Vecchia * 221 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Pier 116

* Short-lived Smith St. restaurant. Now it's Taku.

I don't like battered, fried seafood, so really it's my own fault for not being wowed by the shrimp po'boy. This was one of those post-10pm weeknight meals that makes for meager dining choices. Carroll Gardens is so not about staying up past a respectable bedtime. We were the only people in the place, which is a nervous pet peeve of mine. The food was ok for what it was, it's just not my thing. James was irked by the bbq sauce on his fish sandwich, he insists that everyplace in the neighborhood puts bbq sauce where it doesn't belong (it ended up on a burger a few weeks later someplace else). I believe there are worse crimes, but whatever.

Pier 116 * 116 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Village 247

Some might call the dcor cheesy, but sometimes faux small town facades, complete with a barber shop pole and street signs like Arugula Lane and Meatloaf Place transported indoors are just what you need. I was always a little put off by this place because it's always been empty when I've thought about trying it out, but that's mainly due to the neighborhood being eerily empty after 10pm on weeknights (Carroll Gardens was specifically mentioned in a recent article about transitional vs. relational neighborhoods, meaning single people hotbeds as opposed to shacked-up sanctuaries. We're totally in a married with children enclave, it's frightening.)

It's primarily a sandwich and burger type of place, and it does them pretty well. I was sort of intrigued by the muffaletta on the menu, which they don't actually call as such, and the Portland omelet. Denver is known for their filled egg combo, but Portland? (What would be in it, soyrizo and rice cheese?) I'd go back, but James was miffed by the bbq sauce on his burger and now believes that the entire neighborhood is bbq sauce crazy (it also showed up on a fish sandwich at Pier 116).

It's a goner.

Village247 * 247 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Lobo

Brunch is not my thing. I partake maybe once every four months, if that. One, I can't get out of bed, and two, I'm scared of the stroller set that plagues practically every eatery in the neighborhood. Sunday, James suggested going to Hill Diner, but there was a crowd out front so we went for Lobo, across the street, instead.

I think they actually do a good breakfast and weren't packed to the gills either. I tend to admonish people who always order the same thing like they're afraid of change, but I've started realizing that I'm equally guilty. Lately, I've been noticing when I add my little write-ups here that on previous visits I'd eaten the exact same items. In this case, that would be the Texas breakfast.

I am not chaste on those rare occasions I actually do go out for breakfast or brunch. I don't want to choose between sweet or savory offerings, I want both (that's why IHOP is so genius). You need an egg, a meat and a treat, and that's what I got: two eggs over easy, a mess of bacon and two large buckwheat pecan pancakes. I don't even care much for pancakes (one would've been sufficient) but I wanted something to slather butter and drizzle maple syrup on. If I ever return, I will force myself to branch out. (11/13/05)

This is the old Harvest, which I never ate at anyway, so that doesn't mean much to me. Supposedly the brunch is the same (I mean, it's advertised as such on the window). I very, rarely brunch (did I just use brunch as a verb?). I'm just not up early enough, and if I am I'm not in the mood to deal with sitting near the type of people who do eat brunch.

Well, it turned out to be pleasing in a hearty, satisfyingly stuffed to the gills way that you can't do on a regular basis. I get the same effect from Old Devil Moon's breakfast offerings. But here they have the Tex-Mex slant as opposed to the Southern thing. Country ham, grits, huevos rancheros, big omelets, it's the works. I opted for dense, pecan-laced, buckwheat pancakes, and normally I don't even like pancakes. It just sounded so toothsome and right. And it was. (1/24/04)

Lobo * 218 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Baluchi's

1/2 *Smith St. Baluchi's has been closed. (5/06)

Nothing really need be said about Baluchi's (I always want to say Balducci's, which just reopened in a new location and I can't say I really care). It's no great shakes, but I had the urge for Indian delivery in the neighborhood and we only had one menu in the house, Bombay Dream, which is practically next door to Baluchi's. I knew the latter had a website, so I peeked at it for price comparison.

Everything was about a dollar more, but I was highly impressed and taken aback by their order online feature. I recall doing this once with Domino's a few years ago. Yes, novelty trumps taste on some occasions. I love being able to pick and point using pull down menus and clicks. No need for human interaction (I jest, but I do and have always had a pointless phobia about ordering food over the phone. In college, my sister would force me to phone-in pizza orders knowing I was loathe to do so and quite frequently I would flat out refuse, preferring hunger over having to make the call) and the ability to pay with a credit card.

We both did the prix fixe (so fancy) where you get an appetizer, entre, rice, naan, raita and chutney for $13.95, a bit more than I'd normally spend on take out, but it's cheaper than buying everything outright and it easily makes three meals. I had aloo fried, which are fried potato cubes with masala chat, and lamb saag. Nothing was totally hideous, at least the potatoes were crisp and not sogged, though the spinach was on the salty side. But for Wednesday night it was more than adequate. (12/14/05)

I thought the food was alright, though admittedly I'm no Indian food expert. I mean it wasn't completely heinous and inedible like everyone seems to say about NYC Indian (Bangladeshi, or whatever passes as Indian). The lamb vindaloo was surprisingly spicy and a nice respite from the single digit temperatures (both inside and out-the restaurant was beyond chilly) and the mixed tandoori grill was adequate, though sometimes the meats all blended together and were on the withered side. It's about what I would've expected from Smith St. Indian. No surprises, but it worked. (1/9/04)

Baluchi's* 263 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Chestnut

I originally felt good about my choice to dine out for Thanksgiving this year. No boring turkey to bother with, no out of control portions, seconds and subsequent leftovers for the extended weekend. But last night, on work week eve, I was dying for a plate of three-day-old old stuffing and stale slice of pumpkin pie.

But this was sentimentality at play. Chestnut's Thanksgiving menu was pretty flawless. I went with two friends, which was unusual; I'm used to being a holiday loner. We all ordered three different first starters and main courses, which was also (with James, we often want the same items, and have to negotiate prevent redundancy).

Instead of the usual homemade pickle and bread plate, we were initially presented with crumbly, salty shortbread squares and brioche with butter and cranberry preserves. Fortunately, they didn't over pack the bread basket or else we would've ruined our appetites before even beginning. I started with a substantial rabbit terrine with toast points, quince chutney and a speck of grainy mustard. Being a bundled-up evening, I then opted for the hubbard squash soup with crisp leek garnish instead of the Asian pear and pomegranate salad. If any dish could've been jazzier, this would've been it. But I'm not a soup purist, I like lots of stuff in my broth.

I was torn between the venison and the quail, but settled on the latter, despite being intrigued by the deer's accompanying gunpowder jus (I'm throwing a holiday dinner party next Saturday which is to be in lieu of cooking on Thanksgiving, and am making an Earl Gray tea sauce for duck breasts). After a rye cocktail and some Argyle sparkling wine (Willamette Valley representing--we're all from Oregon, so it seemed right) I became enamored of eating the four toy-sized drumsticks and wings with my hands like a giant. My relish in plucking the limbs from my tiny quails might've put off the 98% vegetarian friend who had to have her trout served headless.

None of us finished with pumpkin pie, and miraculously we all went separate ways: chestnut and fig pave, apple pie, and for me, pecan strudel that thankfully didn't come glazed (I don't care for drizzled icing and associate it with strudel) but drenched in crme anglaise. Flaky, buttery, nutty and creamy in each forkful.

We all agreed that Chestnut has a way with grains (and tubers). Starches aren't always that exciting, but Jessica's leek and sage strewn hominy, Jane's sweet potato gratin and my rich, cherry-studded farro were welcome protein partners (ok, I intentionally used the term protein just to see if I could gross myself out). We weren't stuffed silly, but fortified to stay up drinking champagne and bourbon and ginger beers until the black Friday floodgates were opened. But by 6 a.m., sleeping sounded wiser than shopping. (11/24/05)

During Restaurant Week I made a mental note to return on a Tuesday or Wednesday for their $25 prix fixe, but only recently remembered to return. It's a pretty good deal, all appetizers, soup and salads, entrees (except hanger steak) and desserts can be chosen from for your three courses.

I tried the salad with beets, marcona almonds, pomegranate seeds and arugula. The beets caught my attention because I've been planning a party menu, which I thought might include the burgundy vegetable, but it was the rich marconas that sold me. For a main I went with roasted cod, littleneck clams, fingerling potatoes, shrimp and guanciale. It's so about the sides. Cod doesn't really grab me, but I was dazzled by its menu partners so ordered it anyway. It was almost like a bouillabaisse, but cream based.

That would've been plenty, but when dessert is part of the deal you can't turn it down. I had a pear tart with honey ice cream and brittle, which came like a three ring circus on the plate. A flaky pastry in one zone, honey ice cream topped with the crackly sugar candy in a different spot and thinly sliced caramel soaked pears to the side. I'm always a little unsure how best to tackle these deconstructed dishes.

Chestnut also has a nice list of cocktails. The Rye Presbyterian (Michter's "US 1" Rye, ginger ale and crystallized ginger) caught my attention since you don't see rye used all that often. Sometimes I like burgers and fries American food, other times I like "dorado, grilled melon, kohlrabi, tequila-carrot vinaigrette" American food. Chestnut does the latter style well without getting too precious or over the top. I think I'm going to have Thanksgiving here if I can coax a few holiday orphans out of their Williamsburg cocoons. (11/9/05)

A much better Dine in Brooklyn experience than at Tempo. As it turned out, they have a $25 prix fixe deal every Tuesday and Wednesday, so for an extra five bucks it was worth trying dishes other than DIB ones designated with smiley faces (though they were perfectly fine offerings).

I got wild and drank a Syrah Rose, Renwood 2003 to be exact. (Isnt rose in now, and shaking off bad blush connotations? One of my favorite food outlet finds was a pile of individual serving wine boxes that came in variations: white, red and pink. I bought pink, of course.) I don't know how well it paired with the wonderful octopus, chickpea, feta, fried herb/green (ah, I looked it up: cavolo nero, I think thats kale) salad. I love fried herbs, very Thai, but also Italian I've recently learned. It was crazy olive oily, in a good way, the way I'm too worried and restrained to do at home. I'm notoriously skimpy with oils, fats, spreads (my bagels are kissed rather than slathered with cream cheese), which makes no sense because it certainly hasnt resulted in any slimming effect.

Despite the insanely unseasonable weather (like 80-something degrees) I still opted for the cool climate oxtail with polenta. It wasn't as heavy as it sounds. The polenta came presented in two small disks, bottoming and topping the braised meat almost like an ice cream sandwich, but with beefier more copious filling. The dish was also accompanied by a chard and shitake jus, which I defnitley wouldn't have remembered without the aid of a online menu.

I even ran into someone I knew (hes not exactly a friend, but a friend of a friend who destroyed a perfectly good Rubbermaid container with a hammer at one of our parties, but you take what you can get when it comes to acquaintances), which seems quintessentially New York if you watched TV, but rarely ever happens to me. Maybe because I'm antisocial. Or maybe because I live in Carroll Gardens and am single and childless. You arent allowed into the secret circle until you procreate and purchase an SUV and a canine. (Or not. I just found this Chowhound post on whether a five month old would be appropriate at Chestnut. No, was the overwhelming response.)

I want to go back already, or at least try to reproduce a version of the Mediterranean-ish salad. If anything the DIB promotion has endeared me to midweek dining (and also exposed me to freaks that seem like they never eat out in public--weird demands, bad manners, loud voices, fighting--er, that could just be Brooklyn on any given night.) So much better than overcrowded weekend meals. Just like how some say bars on weekends are filled with amateurs. Heck, I'm a pro at eating and drinking, why relegate my skills to Fridays and Saturdays. (4/20/05)

This was sort of an early Christmas dinner since both James I would be out of town in separate towns for the holidays. It was a nice choice, as the menu reflected the winter season (though if I had to pick, I think fall would be my favorite food time of year).

I had a large appetizer of grilled sweetbreads with pistachio relish. The relish was very nice, though I'm not sure what it contained. It wasn't completely nutty, there was something green predominating, and a citrus flavor. For an entre I tried duck with curried quince and rice croquettes. I was pleased with the duck and croquettes, though I'd have to say the quince was the most unsuccessful part of the meal. They were a little firm for my taste, and seemed overly subtle. I wouldn't have known they were curried if it weren't for the traces of yellow liquid that pooled beneath them. But that was minor. A honey and chestnut bread pudding made for a satisfying shared dessert.

There was a series of appetizer toasts with toppings like chicken liver & apple, ricotta & caramelized onion, and chick pea & romescu, that I wouldn't mind trying on a repeat visit. (12/21/03)

Chestnut * 271 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Waterfalls

They changed the menu once again. I think it's been different ever time I've dined there, which is more times than I've actually documented here. Now "gourmet wraps" and hamburgers are prominently featured on the front. Clearly, they're trying to rope in customers who aren't in the mood for Middle Eastern fare, but why you'd go to Waterfalls for a burger is beyond me. And they changed the sandwiches, and not for the better. I swear you used to get hummus or baba ganooj, but that might've been a $1 supplement, which I don't see offered anymore. Now you choose your meat, I went for shish tawook, grilled chicken, and it comes cubed in a pita with a shitload of dressed lettuce and a drizzle of tahini. The meat to roughage ratio is about 40/60. It felt super healthy, but kind of blah. It needed some serious jazzing up. I would've liked to have crammed some of those fuchsia pickled turnips into the mix, but that's just because I apparently have a minor fixation with them. (11/12/05)

The menu has changed. The dishes aren't glaringly different, but they've revamped the categories into things like "mom's homemade specials," "healthy food diet & salad" and "gourmet wraps". If they start adding pannini I might balk.  I had a combo dinner with shish tawook (chicken), kafta square and baba ganooj. It was all good, but I missed the pickled turnips. I guess they don't use the relishes anymore. (2/11/05)

Lately they've ended up serving as an unintentional brunch venue. At night it never occurs to me to visit, but early weekend afternoons while doing neighborhood errands it makes sense. I invariably get the chicken sandwich while James does the kebab version. The only difference this visit was a shared bowl of thick, rich lentil soup served with pita. Interestingly, there is always a white male/Asian female (duh, like it's ever the other way around) couple with a stroller inside. Not the same couple, mind you, just the Cobble Hill archetype, I suppose. (12/2/04)

It wasn't the brunch I had expected, but perhaps better. I don't know if it should be a source of concern, but in the month since James has moved into the new neighborhood, it seems that restaurants are closing shop right and left. Max Court shut and was reborn as Fragole, Harvest turned into Lobo, Latin Grill just plain closed, and the same is true for Red Rail, which we thought we'd try for brunch since it's so near. No such luck, but I'd been meaning to try Waterfalls for ages and this was a ripe opportunity.

I went for the simple and ordered the chicken shawarma with baba ghanooj. What I really go nuts for are those pink pickled turnips. At least I think they're turnips. Even though they are neon fuschia, I think they're just colored with beet juice, not actually beets. I've heard that Waterfalls isn't what it used to be, but compared to the mediocrity I've experienced in Carroll Gardens and environs so far, this meal was more than welcome. (11/16/03)

Waterfalls Restaurant * 144 Atlantic Ave., Brooklyn,NY

Bar Tabac

I felt like we were ordering more food than the people around us, but that was probably just because it was past prime dining time. James and I split a reasonably priced bottle of wine, a plate of grilled sardines, and I had a charcuterie and cheese plate with little olives, cornichons and onions. Not a bad place, it'll be one to add to the open-when-I feel-like-dining restaurants in the new neighborhood. After 10pm, you're pretty screwed. (11/7/03)

Weeknight, after 10pm dining in the neighborhood has always been a bit tricky. Even more so when a vegetarian tows along. After a cheap seat showing of Sideways (which I'd already seen, but Life Aquatic was a mob scene) we were ravenous for food and wine. By process of elimination we ended up at Bar Tabac, me with a duck salad, Jessica and I sharing mussels, fries and a bottle of something red that slips my mind but definitely wasn't merlot. I always forget about Bar Tabac, not that its forgettable or anything. (12/28/04)

There's nothing terribly compelling about Bar Tabac, and there's something bizarre about their name post-smoking ban, but it is one of the few late night dining options nearby. The food is what youd expect from a bistro and reasonably priced—I cant complain about my $12.50 moules frites. (10/8/05)

Bar Tabac * 128 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Faan

1/2 I totally became sick to my stomach mere minutes after eating a Faan, but I can't say for sure if it was their fault or not. The kung pao spaghetti seemed enticing in a creepy way (I don't generally recommend Asian sauces coupled with parmesan) but I opted for the oddball Hawaiian papaya beef instead. I thought I liked papaya, maybe I was expecting green papaya, but it was the sweet, ripe orange stuff and it tasted an awful lot like melon, which threw me off. I can't eat melon. Rather, I just flat out refuse. It's not a matter of allergy, it's a simple aversion. There's no medical reason why my body would reject papaya/melon, but I almost instantly became queasy after leaving the restaurant and wondered if it were a coincidence or if the fruit was genuinely wreaking havoc on my gastrointestinal tract. With all that said, I'd probably give Faan another go. If only because it's one of the few late night dining spots in the new early-to-bed, family-friendly neighborhood. (11/6/03)

Faan is Faan. There's totally nothing special about it. But it's not expensive, it's open late, and vegetarian house guests don't complain when you take them there. The kung pao spaghetti still fascinates me, but not enough to order it yet.(4/27/04)

Faan* 209 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Zaytoons

This was just a quick, light pre-Halloween dinner, so I only have a cursory sense of the place. I had a chicken schwarma pitza, which was nice and grilled just right, but I always wonder if it's OK to say "pitza" without sounding silly. I almost don't want to order it, but it's nothing compared to the inexplicable embarrassment I'd have as a teen ordering The Super Bird (a glorified club sandwich) at Denny's. I'd always crack up while saying it, though I never had a problem with Denny's Moons Over My Hammy (ham and scrambled egg sandwich with Swiss and American cheese on grilled sourdough, as per their website). Funny.

Zaytoons * 283 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Crepe Place

It was a wedding rehearsal dinner. What more need I say? We were offered a choice of three crepes, including the amusing Alexander the Crepe (the Crepe Gatsby, was unfortunately not on our list, though it's on the regular menu). Oh boy, who could resist. All the 25+ people at the dinner received full crepes while James and I only got half portions. If I wasn't so tipsy, I would've been really pissed. Obviously two other people did half orders and didn't bother to claim them. Were these health-conscious Californians trying to tell us gluttonous New Yorkers something?

The Crepe Place * 1134 Soquel Ave., Santa Cruz,CA

The Crepe Factory

1/2 Closed: The crepes are gone and Cafe Dore, a Caribbean joint, has surfaced. (4/6/02)

I don't make a practice out of hanging out in the family-ish parts of Brooklyn (or any city for that matter), but I'd forgotten my bag at work Friday night since I was in such a hurry to leave. Saturday I had to go back for it, and since I was in a real car instead of my usual subway car, I thought it'd be fun to see neighborhoods I never see. This brought me to Cobble Hill, Carroll Gardens and The Crepe Factory.

I'd really been dying for a crepe for ages, so this was a golden opportunity. I really should've gotten a sweet one, but since this would be my first meal of the day at 4pm, I opted for a savory ham and gruyere delight. It hit the spot, and then some. It was a bit excessive and I can be a big eater. Not that I'm complaining about large portions. Actually, my only complaint would be the table of completely ill-behaved, ruckus-making, precocious little kids with the oblivious liberal mom. But, I guess it was my own fault for spending a Sat. afternoon in Carroll Gardens, right?

The Crepe Factory * 270 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY