Goodies First

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Locals Only

I'll admit I kind of liked complaining about Carroll Gardens (and I did so with gusto--there's a grocer/sandwichery that called me out on citing them three times--Google alerts, clearly--in my blanket overhype condemnation). But as they say, love it or leave it, and so I did. There's nothing worse than whiners who don't take action.

And I can be honest and say that there's not a lot going on over here in my far northeastern corner of Clinton Hill (and technically none of what follows is in Clinton Hill--you don't really need to hear about the perfunctory sashimi and Caribbean snacks and melon cocktails I've encountered). But at least there are no illusions. A majority of the restaurants on Court and Smith streets were/are mediocre, and despite perfectly good meals at Buttermilk Channel and Frankies, I see no need to wait over an hour for a bowl of pasta or fried chicken anywhere.

So that said, my standards aren't as stringent in these parts. It's like in high school where there was a class called Reading and the students did nothing but read books on couches amidst a bunch of potted plants because they had bad grades and were underachievers. Ok, my standards aren't that low; I'm just saying there are different measures of success.

Dictated by the neighborhood made up of  Pratt students, old-timers, public housing inhabitants, and yes, the errant brownstone dweller (I don't think the Hasids play any role)  the dining options tend to be inexpensive and un-ambitious. The new busineseses all seem to be burger joints or wifi cafes, which don't mean much to me. The Wallace, which is more upscale, is already using Scoutmob and was recently on Blackboard Eats, which aren't typically good signs even though I've been known to use both. I assume Lulu & Po is still going strong (I need to revisit) and I haven't heard a peep about Prospect since it opened.

(I was going to say that the white bougie family influx hasn't hit hard yet, but just a few hours ago a preschooler sat down on the barstool next to me and then her Scandinavian-accented father asked her if she wanted to have her birthday party at "the new house" or in France. He then told her Bono was "a nice guy" after she failed to pay proper attention to the song playing that I didn't recognize. "I like it," she said. "You're not even listening!" he replied, but softly, not snappily because he was foreign.)

 

Brooklyn Bird Opened a few weeks ago to zero bloggy fanfare, this diner-styled restaurant that feels more suited to takeout is nothing special (I do feel bad that no one ever seems to be in there) but it's a block away and they serve food until 4am. They are advertising beer and wine coming soon. Plus, they've created a lesser-known-regional-fare trifecta with their upstate New York spiedie (nearby Speedy Romeo and Brooklyn Koalache Co. round out the mini-trend with St. Louis pizza and Czech by way of Texas, koalaches). I just tried a grilled cheese (cheddar and gruyere) sandwich with bacon and truffle oil. Of course, it didn't really need the truffle oil. I may be inclined to try the ghost pepper hot wings and that chicken spiedie some late night soon.

Dough It's only a block from the nearest subway station, but it's still a solid 12-minute walk from my apartment, so it's on the fringes of what I'd consider "my neighborhood." It's not like Dough is a secret; they made a name for themselves at the Brooklyn Flea. But even for someone who rarely eats doughnuts,  I can say unequivocally that it's the best $2.25 you'll spend for something of the raised yeast variety. (It took me three months to finally walk over there, and the main reason I did was to break the twenty dollar bill I had on me to tip the Fresh Direct driver who was arriving in less than an hour. Mildly related and good to know: the 99-cent store on the ground floor of my building--yes, I live in the same structure as a discount store and it rules--advertises an atm that distributes $10s, but I only wanted to tip $5.) Tart frostings are kind of their thing. I'd had a hibiscus doughnut before, and the passionfruit is in a similar vein. What sets it apart are the cocoa nibs that give it a bitter crunch. The dulce de leche with slivered almonds is more full-on sweet and makes you want to go back to sleep after eating it. That is not a criticism.

SCRATCHbread Another five minutes southeast from Dough and unquestionably in Bed-Stuy (I'm a newcomer and I already know that Classon is the cutoff despite brokers pushing Bedford as the dividing line). I didn't fully get that Scratchbread is doing crazy things until I actually ate a few baked goods. The sticky buns may look innocent, but there are a million things happening. I'm still not completely sure what. The bread itself is wheat-y and vaguely wholesome, and then the caramel isn't particularly sweet but burnt and spicy--both hot spicy and cardamom-spiced--and there are more of those cocoa nibs. I kind of just wanted sweet caramel and pecans. If you're going to go this direction, though, I bet you could do a cool caramel with fish sauce.

I also picked up a loaf of the bread custard, but it wasn't the seasonal loaf I'd seen mentioned elsewhere. I do think the guts were soft from roasted squash, but instead of rosemary there was sage and there was no trace of prosciutto. Instead, two cheese-filled red peppers had been stuffed into the bread like little Crater Lakes, almost treading into foreign Pizza Hut territory. It was a Christmas Eve hit, of course.

Lola f.k.a. Chez Lola. I guess the former bistro and Myrtle Ave. pioneer is now calling itself a gastropub? The revamp entails new cocktails (too sweet, though it was my own fault for ordering the Brooklyn Beauregard, essentially a whiskey sour with Jim Beam Honey Tea Bourbon and St. Germain) and a move towards American cuisine, meaning Canada, US and Mexico. The menu sort of reads like a Kitchen Nightmares overhaul: pared down, nearly foolproof to prepare, a bit of repetition, but overall inoffensive. Canada is represented by a duck poutine, which is a glorious drunk food (I wasn't drunk, though). The fries, cheese curds and confit could've use a little more gravy it was decided. I love a thin crust tarte flambee and their goat cheese, onion and bacon version was ok. A salad of smoked chicken, apples and cashews wasn't really more than just that. They do serve late for the area, until 2am, and nothing is over $20 (most is under $15) so there is an appeal if you want something other than pizza or Chinese  in the immediate vicinity. And I think they still do a $15 all-you-can-eat mussels deal on Thursdays, so there's that. They're also on Scoutmob, by the way.

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Shrimp Heads, Downtown Ramen, Bitters-Free Manhattans

Allswell. Being open till 11pm is not late night dining, not in NYC anyway, and it's always bothered me, especially on weeknights when maybe you want to go out to eat at 10:45pm and the pickings are beyond slim.  Allswell serves real food until 3am, not whole menu, but it's something.  These hyper-crispy head-on shrimp in a Meyer lemon sauce and duck rillettes were pre-midnight, normal menu items. The burger, fat and meaty (with cheddar and bacon, both add-ons) and perfectly pink inside, can be had any time. The fries were an abomination, though, if you hate wet and oily thick-cut fries like I do. Steak fries are the bane of my existence. That's the worst part about pub burgers, which this appears to be emulating.  Bring a friend who likes fat, mushy fries (they exist!) and let them go wild.

Ganso. With ramen I often give the same disclaimer I use with barbecue: I'm neither a fanatic or expert. Obviously, I like both and have opinions, but I can't speak to what a broth's correct flavor should be or the specific pH of mineral water needed to produce the ultimate noodles. Frankly, I just like that there is a ramen shop in that odd pocket of downtown Brooklyn near the IHOP. The short rib buns weren't anything remarkable, and a little mesclun-y (I did not try the short rib ramen pictured, but love the idea that each broth receives a different noodle, subtle and thoughtful) but the spicy miso ramen with thinly sliced pork belly, Chinese broccoli and a soft-boiled, soy-infused egg was winsome, if not a little gut-busting (I always find that Asian noodle soups of this size put me into a coma). I will be even more happy about Ganso being there when it becomes cold enough to better appreciate the ramen's warming and filling properties.

Mayflower. A miniscule moderately new bar affiliated with neighboring Aita, a corner Italian restaurant I may never visit because I rarely eat Italian food (unless you count pizza). Some might call it a speakeasy (signage was recently added). Jonathan Ames was there on a date, at least I think so, I don't like staring at people. The bartenders (who can get overwhelmed when at capacity) are weird about bitters: on one visit none were used in a Manhattan, on the other I was asked whether or not I wanted them used. Would it be too hyperbolic to say that a Manhattan without bitters is not a Manhattan? Still like the place.

The Wallace. Along with Prospect, it's one of two new upscale restaurants to open on Fulton Street. I figured I should try one of them, and the main reason The Wallace won out because it was slightly less expensive (entrees in the low $20s vs. high $20s--now that I live in new shiny condo, no complaints, I'm going broke buying things like shades for ten-foot-high windows). There's nothing radical going on, food-wise or with the decor (one might get the impression this was another tin ceilings, Edison bulb joint, but the interior is oddly generic like it could've been a suburban Italian restaurant in a previous life--ok, it was Caribbean) just solid, well-seasoned New American dishes with French foundations like crispy pork belly on a bed of lentils with braised greens, the latter an unexpected slight Southern twist, and tilefish with a potato gratin and beurre blanc tinged with saffron. Manhattans are on the cocktail list and bitters are used, no question.

Il Porto. When I was assigned to review this Italian/pizza place for nymag.com after it opened a few years ago, I thought it was in the middle of nowhere. I guess it still is, though now that I live down the street and that the scary-seeming (not just to me) Navy Yard Cocktail Lounge has been gutted and looks like any generic storefront for sale, the block seems less isolated and off-putting. With that said, it's not a destination unless you're already in Fort Greene or Clinton Hill. The wood-fired pizza is pretty good (arugula, prosciutto and parmesan is popular) though the floury, barely charred and nearly flaky crust that I happen to like probably isn't the pinnacle of Neapolitan pie-making.

Lulu and Po

Homespun and tiny with intergenerational groups (making sure skeptical parents see the neighborhood's charms?) breastfeeders, small plates, Vampire Weekend tempered by Marvin Gaye, no reservations, no credit cards, Lulu and Po is pretty much a New Brooklyn stereotype, and a sweet place, nonetheless.

Maybe you've read about the bone marrow tacos? I suspect more than few have since the vertically chopped bones with three soft tortillas and a thatch of parsley-caper salad sat on nearly every table. They're kind of a mess since tortillas don't absorb the fat like toasted bread does, but I love the idea. And the accompanying house-made Sriracha was right on, more tart, less sweet than the commercial version. I could totally see spicy Yucatecan pickled red onions working with this too.

The wax beans in the wax and green bean dish had been 86'd (I'm directly quoting from the chalkboard that listed that evening's depleted items: a pork loin and said wax beans) which was ok. They were served cold and tossed with  generous hunks of feta and jalapenos for a little non-Mediterranean intrigue.

The lightly breaded and fried anchovies were like a Spanish bar snack (I've never had this exact thing in Spain, I'm just saying they could fit in) meaty, not greasy in the least and perked up with a Sriracha-spiked tartar sauce.

Smaller plates dominate, but the "iron" pressed chicken, with its nicely crisped skin, is a medium plate heavy on brown tones and still more than sharable. It made me remember the less purist, but slightly more attention-grabbing sweet tea-brined chicken recently eaten at St. Anselm and now I want to try brining a Thanksgiving turkey in sweet tea.

Despite the full house on an early Saturday evening, the service was always pleasant, never rushed. Frankly, I was surprised to have a dish comped as thanks for accommodating a weirdo seat that was in everyone's way. That counts for something.

Lulu and Po will more or less be in my neighborhood, ten blocks east on Myrtle, as of tomorrow. I probably won't rely on it as a show-off if my parents ever come to visit because roomy seating and individual entrees are more their thing (they might like sit-down Chinese-Spanish Sapolo, however) but I would definitely give it another go.

Lulu and Po * 154 Carlton Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Der Schwarze Kölner

I wouldn't say that I favor beer halls over other drinking establishments, so it was odd that I ended up at semi-isolated Hungarian, Draft Barn, Friday evening and at Der Schwarze Kölner two nights later.

Fort Greene's German contribution isn't a true beer garden—there are smattering of outdoor folding tables and chairs facing Fulton Street—and food isn’t really the point, but the bar was just right for a Fourth of July stop, post-BAM.

No, I didn’t mess around with fireworks or barbecues this year. Instead, I witnessed my first Nathan’s hotdog eating contest in person, then sobered up with some bleak Americana while watching Winter’s Bone.

The dark (and extra echoey) room was the perfect setting to test out my new point-and-shoot, an uncharacteristic impulse buy. My old-ish PowerShot SD800 died last week and I could make do like the rest of the world who now seems to rely solely on iPhones for photos, but the quality doesn't cut it (plus, I don't have an iPhone). I'm not always in the mood for cramming an SLR in my purse, but still want to take casual photos on occasion. Things like pretzels and sausage that can only be so pretty.

And clearly, I still have some way to go in mastering this new camera. These are not glamour shots. (By contrast, the first time I ever used my SLR in the wild at Hill Country, my photos turned out well despite not knowing what I was doing—amusingly, one of these test shots was recently used in an Ozersky post).

True confession: I hate hotdogs. My patriotic eating duty went unfulfilled at Nathan's. That doesn't mean I dislike sausages, though. Weisswurst are more delicate and I kind of like their albino appearance. And no one can argue with a soft pretzel.

Obazda was completely new to me. The cheese spread, a sharp blend of cream cheese, butter, brie, beer and caraway, is like Bavarian pimento cheese, in a way. The radishes and dark Spaten Optimator added an additional layer of welcome bitterness to the dip.

Der Schwarze Kölner * 710 Fulton St., Brooklyn, NY

Smoke Joint

I'll admit to being fascinated by the smoked vs. deep-fried throw down over on Grub Street. For me, there’s no question. Fried anything beats all (in fact, just two nights ago there was an impromptu canned biscuit frying session that erupted in my kitchen). I’ll dabble in the smokier side every now and then but I’m not passionate about barbecue. Though after seeing Little Children (admittedly, a more conventionally satisfying film than Old Joy, the last one I saw. I can’t resist those movies about nothing, especially when they’re steeped in northwest-ness) at BAM, it seemed silly not to check out nearly new Smoke Joint up the block.

For once, our timing was right. There was only one other table occupied and the order counter was free and clear. Of course, after we grabbed a four-seater and our food arrived, the fairly small space became completely swarmed and guilt set in for occupying a large table with two unused chairs (but then I force myself into inconsiderate, oblivious NYC mode and all is well). The circumstances did cause me to eat faster than usual. At prime dining times, I can see the set up definitely lending itself to take out.

It probably wasn’t the wisest to order two pork dishes but it happened. We tried the ribs and the hacked pork. The loose meat came with coleslaw and an assortment of pickles. The bones stood alone. I didn’t have a problem with either, though the ribs had a slight edge over the shredded meat, which leaned towards dry. Or maybe that was just the relentlessness of pure unadulterated flesh that got to me. I had to intersperse bites with the cabbage and cukes to stay sharp. We rounded out the meat with fries and corn on the cob, both chile spiced.

For the record, they serve Blue Point Toasted Ale in bottles and it tasted nothing like the problem pint at Sheep Station. (I have no qualms about Sheep Station, if it were walking distance, I’d pop in every now and then, but I was amused by this line in last week’s New York Times review, “Make sure the tap lines at the bar are clean!” Ahem.)

Smoke Joint * 87 South Elliott Pl., Brooklyn, NY 

Thomas Beisel

Nothing like a little post-Brokeback Austrian meal. The Rockies...The Alps...whatever. I, like most New Yorkers, probably don't eat much German or Austrian food. Mainly because it's few and far between (and yes, I know the two cuisines aren't the same). Here, German tends to be outerborough and kitschy while Austrian leans toward pricy and gilt.

After a BAM matinee it became a toss up between Thomas Beisel and Junior's. Since I've been to the latter countless times TB's seemed in need of trying. It was a good choice, as it was early evening and not terribly crowded. We got a two-seater that temporarily (it was soon filled by a young couple who appeared to be on a first or second date and the guy went on about his firsthand knowledge of Austrian beers and the girl, who appeared to be Russian, filled him in on all her bouts with mental illness and eating disorders. Just so you know, now when she wants cake, she eats it and it's ok) had an empty table next to it with more than six inches of space.

We both started with a hearty gruyere-topped onion soup because that's hard to resist when it's icy outside. With a large glass of Hefeweizen, that would've been a meal in itself, but I wanted to sample the entrees. I went classic and ordered pork cheeks with sauerkraut and dumplings, which was even better than I'd expected. I thought the knoedel would be airy and boring, but they were dense, chewy and carmelized, if that's possible. I suspect the main ingredient was potato. They weren't little and round, but large, thick, flat ovals. James ordered a nutty special of halibut with scallions and ginger. I would've steered clear of Asian touches, but he seemed to like it, even though the fish was oddly matched with potatoes and sweet-sour red cabbage.

For some reason the restaurant strikes me as an older person's haunt, as if the flavors are more suited to a middle aged palate. Strange assessment, I know. Maybe I'm equating Thomas Beisel's clientele with the typical BAM-goer, which isn't unreasonable.

Thomas Beisel * 25 Lafayette Ave., Brooklyn, NY