Brooklyn in Love

by Amy Thomas

  Andrew let me take the first bite. The pie had a perfect amount of give. It was soft and juicy, but not soggy (the downfall of promising slices in lesser hands). Neither sweet nor tart, the salted caramel enrobed the fruit and added a note of savoriness. As promised, the crust was killer.

  I’m not normally a pie girl. Tradition doesn’t inspire me, and I prefer a bit more decadence—say, Nutella and banana bread pudding sodden with cream or a box of dark Swiss chocolate champagne truffles. But as I looked at my Midwestern man, savoring the collision of flavors and textures in my mouth, I was flirting with becoming a convert. A quintessential Brooklyn playlist of Arcade Fire, Modest Mouse, and MGMT rocked from the speakers; sunlight streamed through the bars of the windows; and there we sat among my friends at the corner of an enormous communal table. Perhaps I was seeing a new side to him. He could be spontaneous. I would be surprised and challenged. And he just might be worth the emotional investment. Taking another bite of the thin, firm, slightly acidic layers of apple pie, I felt yet something else tugging at me: happiness to be home in New York.

  BRUNCHING IN BROOKLYN

  At some point, brunch became the weekly social event in New York. Not happy hour, not Saturday night dinner, not birthday parties at Korean karaoke joints, but that Sunday meal once so maligned that no one in their right mind would take this meal seriously. But here we are. It’s a thing.

  It’s not uncommon to wait for ninety minutes or for dancing to break out on the bar or tables after the bottomless mimosas take hold. You could get sucked in for hours and think nothing of dropping a hundred bucks. The worst offenders are in Manhattan, but the hedonism happens in all the boroughs. While you’ll probably have some sort of a wait at these Brooklyn spots, you will not have to put up with hooligans or shenanigans.

  I obviously love Jack the Horse Tavern in Brooklyn Heights. The smoked trout salad is what lures me back again and again; it’s indicative of the offbeat menu that also includes baked eggs, buckwheat pancakes, and a shrimp club sandwich.

  Everything at the Farm on Adderly is fresh and tasty. This Ditmas Park pioneer keeps it simple and refined: a smoked pollock cake with harissa mayonnaise, french toast with apple compote, and a kale salad with dried cherries and hazelnuts. Yes, please!

  Tucked away in the north of ever-popular DUMBO, Vinegar Hill House feels like you’ve actually trekked to Vermont. In the rustic ambiance, you can indulge in fancy cocktails along with the oversized sourdough pancake, tarragon-accented omelet, or eggs Benedict topped with pickled onion.

  Buttermilk Channel is the ultimate indulgence—pecan pie french toast, Provençal bean stew, a house-cured lox platter. Because of the over-the-top menu and portions, this Carroll Gardens bistro hops all day, every Sunday.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Intricacies of Artichokes

  When I had come home after those two years in Paris, I returned with many things: happy memories of careening around the city on Vélib’ bikes and picnicking on Comté cheese along Canal Saint-Martin. Once-in-a-lifetime experiences like seeing Lykke Li perform at an intimate house party filled with bearded bobos—Paris’s form of hipsters—and presenting my creative campaigns for Louis Vuitton directly to Antoine Arnault, then the fabled brand’s communications director, with the Eiffel Tower as my backdrop. I came home with profound new friendships, an expanded cooking repertoire, solid verb conjugation skills, some killer clothes, and…a book contract.

  Publishing a book was something I had been working toward for more than a decade. Before Paris, before New York even, when I lived in San Francisco and started expanding my copywriting career into the editorial world, I had an idea for a book. I wrote a proposal, landed a New York agent, and felt certain that was it: I was on my way. I moved to New York, leaving behind my life and, not inconsequentially, my boyfriend of five years, to pursue this promised life of a young, hotshot writer.

  Needless to say, my book went nowhere. I didn’t have the background or platform that publishers expected if they were going to invest in me. I wasn’t a “somebody” and I didn’t have “a name,” meaning publicists wouldn’t have an easy go of getting me press. I didn’t even have experience in the wedding industry, which was the genre of this book I had devoted more than a year to. In retrospect, I was simply young and naive, my hunger for success outweighing my experience. I had to start building my writing career from the ground up.

  I set aside my book project and, while still rooted in advertising, developed an editorial career on the side. Instead of boning up on the wedding industry, I focused my free time and energy on pitching and writing articles that schooled me in things I never would have learned otherwise: bespoke perfumers and communication coaches, art exhibitions and interior design, laser hair removal and oxygen facials. I started following my passion for food, writing restaurant reviews and about culinary trends—anything that got me closer to the bakeries, chocolatiers, pastry chefs, and sweets that I loved. It was an exciting time to be covering the local dining scene. With each passing year, eating out in New York became more popular, with chefs like Wylie Dufresne, David Chang, and April Bloomfield ascending in cultural relevance to rock-star status, complete with groupies. Restaurants were the new places to see and be seen; the sooner you went after they opened, the better your bragging rights. Everyone had a smartphone, a blog, and a Twitter account on which to chronicle their dining experiences. Everyone believed their opinions mattered.

  It was a fun life. I was a single girl with a side gig that excited me. My relationship with food was deepening. Going out to restaurants became cultural cache. Being part of this world gave me purpose and inspired passion. Food had evolved from something that gave me comfort as a kid to leading me places—Sydney, Sicily, and beyond—I could never have dreamed of going.

  I loved what I was doing. But it was also a nonstop hustle. As a freelance writer, you have to constantly dream up new ideas and pitch them to editors, turn new connections into bona fide contacts, and accept rejection—heaping piles of it. You need a thick skin to embrace the reality of moving two steps forward and one step back. For just as soon as you build a relationship with an editor, they’ll change jobs without leaving a forwarding address and that hard-earned outlet evaporates. Or you pitch a great idea, get no response, follow up twice, still get no response, and then in the meantime, see the idea published by someone else, making it instantly unsellable.

  Since I was still working full-time in advertising, when I did have an assignment, I’d often find myself squeezing in phone interviews in stairwells and taxis, editing pieces on my lunch break, and waking up at 5:00 a.m. and staying up until midnight to meet deadlines. But there were enough triumphs to propel me from indie magazines to glossier national titles, from small front-of-the-book pieces to meatier features, all which stoked my ambition and appetite for more, more, more. A decade after moving to New York, I had written dozens of articles, started a column called “Sweet Freak,” launched two blogs, coauthored an interior design book, and I was now facing the holy grail: publication of my very own book, Paris, My Sweet: A Year in the City of Light (and Dark Chocolate).

  Which is how I found myself with the food editor of the New York Post one chilly February morning, breakfasting on tarte tatin, the lush caramelized apple dessert. We were at Buvette, a wine-bar-slash-restaurant-slash-neighborhood-café that chef-owner Jody Williams had dubbed a gastrothèque. She opened it right about the time I came home from Paris and it became one of my instant favorites. It was sort of impossible to not fall in love with the place. It was about as tiny as a typical Manhattan apartment and crammed with charming details: wee menus that had little pop-up illustrations, the sundae-style stacking of cake stands and silver serving trays along the marble bar, an old-timey bicycle featuring a basket of wine corks parked out front. It was as if I had packed up a corner of Paris and transplanted it back in the West Village myself.

  I was now enjoying the incredibly gen
erous spread between the editor and me: a thick Belgian waffle obscured by a mountain of fresh cream and berries; crepes stuffed with thick, stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth Nutella and daintily folded into quarters; and the tarte tatin, traditionally served as dessert after lunch or dinner but the juicy, caramelized hunks of apple baked beneath buttery puff pastry and topped with slightly sour crème fraîche seemed totally appropriate to be on the table before us at 9:00 a.m. If only every day could start this way.

  “It sounds like you experienced a real cultural divide, living in Paris,” the editor said, probing about the torn allegiances between Paris and New York that I had professed in my book. It had now been a year since I returned to New York. While I remained confident in my decision to come home and finally felt I was reconnecting with the city, a little stab inflicted my heart when I thought about Paris and the time I spent there, devouring such things as tarte tatin.

  As best I could, I explained some the differences I saw between the two cultures: the French devotion to tradition, their respect for food, the apprenticeships the bakers and chefs go through before becoming full-fledged pros, sometimes learning the trade as adolescents from their own parents. On the American side, there’s our penchant for gigantic portions, the experimentation and eccentricity of chefs fusing different styles and ingredients, and the hours we binge on cookbooks, magazines, and TV devoted to food, even if it doesn’t translate to actual time spent cooking in the kitchen ourselves. Gazing up at Buvette’s chalkboard illustration of the wine regions of France and Italy, I felt like I could talk forever about my time in Paris—both the connections and alienation I had felt there, the love I had developed for the city, and the hole it had left in my heart. But mostly I wanted to savor this experience. After so many years and articles, the tables were turned; I was the interviewee instead of the interviewer. It was a moment.

  The nerdy thrill continued over the next couple of months as book launch signings, readings, and celebrations took me to such random places as a library convention in Philly, a Francophile boutique on the Jersey Shore, one of my favorite bookstores in San Francisco, and sweet spots across New York, where friends, family, pastry chefs, chocolatiers, and new fans of my book and blog came out to support me. It was a rush, making me excited for the pinnacle of my book launch activities: a return to Paris, where Mel, my dearest friend in the City of Light, was feting Paris, My Sweet at Le Citizen, an eco-chic hotel in the tenth arrondissement. It would be a return to my stomping grounds, the trigger for the entire book—my meaningful journey coming full circle.

  • • •

  So my book was doing pretty well. My relationship, not so much.

  Even though my friends liked Andrew and even though I had consciously decided that I’d get serious about finding a relationship once my manuscript was written and submitted, I kept questioning whether he was right for me. I found fault with everything, from his stiff and formal nature and lack of awareness of the city’s goings-on to his steady availability and simultaneous lack of planning.

  Andrew was laid-back to a fault. He didn’t realize that you have to make—sometimes fight for—dinner reservations weeks in advance. He didn’t know what movies, museum exhibitions, or concerts were on the horizon. And he didn’t seem to care about any of it. This was totally foreign behavior to me, a slave to the city’s weekly magazines and up-to-the-minute blogs that dissected every new dish and ounce of current and upcoming culture. And since Andrew didn’t seem to have strong opinions about where we ate or what we did, the onus of planning fell to me. Because I did care—very much. In my mind, there was no point wasting a night and a meal out at a mediocre restaurant. I found myself questioning Andrew’s passion and hungering for more connection. I understood that quibbling about someone’s restaurant IQ seemed shallow, but I had such a strong connection to food that it was hard to overlook.

  The publication of my book only seemed to exacerbate my uncertainty. After having been single for the better part of the past decade, in two cities, through three jobs, over dozens of trips, weddings, birthdays, and illnesses, it was hard to share my weekend, my plan, and now my dreams with someone else. Andrew was very complimentary and excited for me when my book came out. But he hadn’t been there for its long journey to publication. He didn’t have the history, didn’t know the players, and hadn’t been there for my ups and downs, fears, and triumphs. I knew I should have been grateful for his support and presence, but instead I wanted to embrace this moment on my own. This book was something I had worked so hard toward for years. This guy had been around for four months. Was it really that ridiculous to feel reluctant to share this achievement with someone who may or may not work out?

  My seesawing emotions inevitably affected the relationship, which all came to a head one night after what should have been a divine dinner.

  We had gone to Il Buco Alimentari e Vineria, a new restaurant inspired by the rustic sensibility and languid lifestyle of Umbria. The papers and blogs had been gushing about the NoHo (North of Houston Street) newbie’s house-cured charcuterie, fresh baked breads, and homemade pasta, and Andrew and I finally had a reservation (which I had made—not that I was keeping track). The restaurant was a spin-off of Il Buco, a dark and moody, antiques-filled Italian spot that had been a romantic date destination since 1994. Il Buco’s owner, Donna Lennard, was a real neighborhood pioneer, owning both a home and business in the area, which wasn’t considered desirable for either. She and her partners had been casually looking for another space in the neighborhood for a few years where they could create an Italian emporium. They wanted to sell products from Italy and, more important, “I wanted a place to bake bread,” Donna says, a woman after my own heart. “That was the biggest impetus.” Even so, she was in no hurry to open something new. “If it happens, it happens,” she figured, unwilling to let a new endeavor in the topsy-turvy restaurant world interfere with the ease or well-being of her and her family’s lives.

  And yet, in 2010, it happened. The partners found a space that had everything they were looking for just one block away from Il Buco. NoHo was by then well on its way to being a popular enclave of designer condos, upscale boutiques, and other trendy restaurants—a million proverbial miles from the dark and seedy streets that were once home to vagabond artists and strung-out addicts. “Change is double edged,” Donna philosophizes, reflecting on the neighborhood’s old, grittier charms while embracing the integrity it has retained, like the landmarked buildings and iconic cobblestone streets. Alimentari e Vineria itself, with its two floors of dining and a gourmet market peddling cheese, gelato, and pantry items like Pugliese tomatoes, salted sardines, and olive oils, is all hidden behind a modestly canopied facade. Blending an old-world feel and modern bustle, it was instantly at home in the neighborhood.

  • • •

  Now, tucked at a small table on the second floor, I was forcing myself to enjoy the evening I had been so looking forward to. Conversation between Andrew and me felt forced. There wasn’t a flow or nice, easy rhythm. It wasn’t fun or titillating. All the other diners seemed to be laughing merrily or having deep, thoughtful tête-à-têtes. We were stilted, as if we were bluffing. Both of us knew something was off between us, yet neither of us had the courage to confront it. Andrew sat so ramrod straight in his chair that I was suppressing an annoyance that discomfited me with its fierceness when I should have been letting the heavenly, crispy artichokes—one of the dishes all the reviews had been raving about—take me away.

  Artichokes aren’t something I especially love. You don’t even see them on many menus, probably because you have to really want them to make them work. They have sharp outer leafs that protect their tender hearts, the prized bit of the unique vegetables that are worth really savoring. After Donna described the way her kitchen prepares them, I understood how time- and labor-intensive the classic Roman dish is.

  First, the hearts have to be freed from those tough outer leaves with a sha
rp paring knife. They’re then soaked, so they lose their inherent bitterness, and are marinated for flavor. Finally, the hearts are gently fried until they’re both crisp and tender, before being finished off with a grating of dehydrated lemon peel. They arrive, just a small antipasto, and may not seem like a lot but, man, some serious devotion went into making them.

  Did I have that kind of patience and tenderness in me?

  Despite our agonizing charade over dinner—after the artichokes came fat spears of fried polenta, slices of unctuous octopus, and forkfuls of cacio e pepe along with more stilted conversation and suppressed frustration—I invited Andrew back to my place. Once away from the bustling cheer of the restaurant and the city’s electric energy, I couldn’t ignore the awkwardness anymore. “Is everything okay?” I asked as Andrew took a tentative seat on the edge of my green velvet love seat.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing. You seem a little tense or something.”

  “I seem tense?” I retorted. “You’ve been so stiff all night.” My heart started picking up speed. As much as I hate pretending things are fine when they clearly aren’t, I will do just about anything to avoid confrontation. Andrew, at least tonight, seemed more comfortable with it.