Fabiane’s--Brooklyn

718.218.9632

Odd that I’d post this one so close to my other post of Julienne’s. And I wouldn’t call Fabiane’s even a restaurant per se, though their treats are good enough, and the outside seating is a stalwart of optimal-people-watching/Sunday Times Reading. The food is consistent enough, but not what I think of when I go out for a meal. I grab shit at Fabiane’s when I’m not too hungry.

I do remember it being on my shit list quite a few years ago, though it wasn’t so much what I could get but what I couldn’t, that is substitutions. Dumont also went on a no substitutions bender for a while—and naturally rescinded after my prolonged silent protest. I don’t see the sense of no substitutions. Why can’t I get the sandwich you make to order without ingredient x? Especially when ingredient x forces me into apoplectic shock. The answer is honest but flimsy. Both places claim that when they get busy it just slows down the culinary assembly line and they fuck it up or run out of things. To me thats sounds like your assembly line needs some fixing. Or maybe it's time you rethink the side or sandwich.

Any who, it’s a mute point for me at Fabiane’s (other than a sidebar to broach the subject of substitutions) because I always order the baguette with jam and a coffee. For that dish there is no substitute.

Juliette--Brooklyn

718.388.9222

So I might be a little biased on this one because this place used to be Red and Black and back in the day that meant dancing and smoking and drinking away my youth. Now it’s a French bistro, and though it’s been open for years I always found myself going to Fada before going to this place. My wife and I decided to risk it for brunch. The place was clean and open, and I wasn’t hung over so it had this refreshing summertime vibe when we walked in and I must say that I was excited, the place looked promising. Three pleasant girls welcomed us, and though downstairs was completely empty we opted to sit outside hiking up to a bustling roof-deck complete with full bar and black-clad servers scurrying to and fro. Again, this seemed promising, so I was content to wait with the weather being what it was and my pretty young wife beaming across from me.

And wait we did. No water, no coffee, no check-in by the server to ask for another minute because she was in the shit and just couldn’t possibly attend to our table. Nope. Nada. Nothing. Disez-vous en Francais? We might have well have been ghosts of dance-club past. The sun turned against us and we had time to dissect the service, struggling to ascertain how two servers, a busboy, and a bartender could be suffering with maybe 30 covers--half of which already served. I don’t know how long we waited, if I had to guess I’d say twenty minutes. Eventually, we discovered the problem: the server was smoking at the bar, along with the bartender and one of the cute bubbly hostesses that lured us in downstairs.

I wish I could tell you how the food is but I had brunch that day at Fabianne’s across the street. Too bad Red and Black closed.