Hearth--Manhattan

646.602.1300

It should be noted that a lot of my restaurant experiences included the influence of tremendous amounts of alcohol. And it as been said that I am not necessarily the smoothest of drunks. Nonetheless, I must say that Hearth was a place I’d been dying to visit. Not me, actually, but rather my wife, who begrudgingly joins me on many of my restaurant sojourns. In this instance it was my other wife, a dear friend dialed into the industry to direct me to places she thinks I’d like. Unfortunately for these places, I’m a drunk. And when drunk, I’m an asshole.

The Hearth experience began at Terroir, the little-sister wine bar. Terroir is fantastic, and we started there with a little bacala and a few glasses of wine. I’m not sure what kind, so I’ll stick with red. When we finally got over to Hearth we decided to sit at the bar so we could observe the wait staff scurry around in their pre-determined casual attire. More on the pre-determined in minute. The bartender reminded me of someone, and when she walked up I was creepily familiar. I say creepily because I didn’t have my I’ve-never-met-you-before defenses up and was a little too much myself. Dare I say that for one, I was drunk, and two by virtue of one, an asshole. As we looked over the Northern-Italian Aspired menu I inquired about her nifty shirt, which everyone else in the restaurant was wearing to some degree. Did the restaurant make them buy their own striped shirt so that they could personalize the obvious manufactured casual look? Or were they forced by the conglomerate to wear them? My server did not receive these questions well, briskly going over the menu before taking a drink order for more red wine.

Now at this point I’m going to take minute to discuss what we had. I’d already wolfed down the bacala, which was delicious and I presume from the same kitchen. My friend had a salad with a lot of fennel and the quail. She said both were quite delicious but I wasn’t about to try her food because she’s kind of hot and fennel is gross. I had the veal meatballs, and because the server curtly took my order, also had a plate of salty gnocchi. There was also ravioli on the plate of meatballs. A question I distinctly asked when ordering to begin with, which is why the salty gnocchi was so fucking disappointing; because the dish already came with a fucking starch.

I understand that owners are trying to make their restaurant into a specific brand to attract a specific customer. I know this. Certain places do not necessarily have formal service, some places require a tie, and other places deal with insanely poor people and serve them processed protein that sometimes passes for beef. That’s the owner’s prerogative; what he or she thinks will sell well and for what price. And all of these places have two things in common: the first is that they are going to serve food; the second their staff is going to have to deal with assholes.
I appreciate I might have been off-putting to that lovely bartender on that particular night. I know my hang ups, look at myself everyday in the mirror and go on with life. I’m an asshole when I’m drunk. I get it. But don’t fuck up my order because of it. A restaurant that charges the money that Hearth charges should have the person who manages their bar, including service drinks mind you, know the menu backwards and forwards. And should prevent someone, even if they make fun of your silly dress code, from ordering a side of starch with a dish that clearly covers the starch department, especially if you’re going to charge that person forty dollars for an entrée and the side. You never know who keeps closeted restaurant reviews. And if Terroir’s staff wasn’t so knowledgeable, and most likely a better representation of the owner’s vision, an asshole like me would choose never to return.

Walter Foods--Brooklyn

718.387.8783

Williamsburg eateries beware; there is a new game in town. Un fettered by it’s predecessors of comfort cuisine, Walter’s is poised to take the mantle of hipsterdom and turn it on its pretentious ear. Walter’s serves up its product with something many should take note: Pride and Polish. From the clean, well lit, and finished dining room, to the beautiful bar, to the hand tied bowties of its staff, there is nothing that isn’t finished, and finished well.

Make no mistake, this is a bar first and restaurant second, though the quality of the food and service would lead one to believe otherwise. There is something inviting about the bar besides its prominence, as though it’s a permanent fixture of comfort in a topsy-turvy world of economic woes and nationwide layoffs. The cocktail list is plenty, albeit old-fashioned, and the mixologists behind the bar are both friendly and adept. The cocktails are well done, cold draft cubes and basic, refined ingredients make their “old fashioned’ legitimately old fashioned, and other classic cocktails (Pimms Cup, Hemmingway, etc…) are cold, crisp, and enjoyable.

Even though the bar is the crown jewel, the menu compliments it quite well reflecting a willingness to serve crowd pleasers but doing so in a matter that is both unique and refreshing. Two good examples of this are the Cocktail Franks in a Blanket and the Chicken Pops—really just buffalo wings with the bone exposed. The menu also offers a middle tier of sandwiches and burgers and each is worth trying: The Rib Eye burger is well cooked, and the Filet Mignon French Dip and Lobster Club are all worthy of having more than once. The entrées reflect the same no-frill attitude but are executed with precision and delicacy. The hanger steak (aptly disguised as a “Butcher’s Steak) was cooked and seasoned well. The half fried chicken, and seasonal oyster platter are other enjoyable meals. My only complaint would be the price, as a $44 dollar surf and turf seems a bit steep, but I’ve seen worse ways to piss away money.

All in all it’s about time that restaurants turned the corner in Williamsburg. Too long this neighborhood has succumbed to establishments where the food is all that matters; where if clean and professional ambiance is ostracized as a gimmick and automatically considered too commercial or Manhattany. Dressler was the first to take a stab at this, yet fell flat with the amateur service after nailing the ambiance. At last we have a restaurant that has servers who take their job seriously, but more so, have pride in running a restaurant. Thank God that someone has finally taken the inhabitants of Williamsburg as something more than anti-establishment trend setters, because it was long over due.