The Reader On Food

There’s a certain kind of magic that happens when a restaurant gets intimacy right. Not just intimacy in scale—though Be Pasta is certainly cozy—but in spirit. I felt it the moment I stepped through the door for Be Pasta’s grand opening, accompanied by my mother—the original source of my love for food. Her kitchen was where my earliest culinary revelations unfolded, and she showed me that when food is made with curiosity and care, it transcends nourishment and becomes a kind of storytelling. I’m happy to say that the folks at Be Pasta speak that same language. 

The space itself is small, but absolutely lovely: a single room that draws the eye directly toward the kitchen, where pasta dough is floured and folded by hand, visible behind a counter scattered with beautiful half-constructed dishes and glinting copper overhead lights. It’s a subtle act of transparency, of theater without performance. Patrons get to sip their wine while peeking into the workshop—no mirrors, no pretense, just some of the wildest pasta dishes made by people who know exactly what they’re doing. The rustic white-brick walls are decorated in an eclectic mix of Italian art, chalkboards, and even a vintage punch card machine.

Monia and Alessandro, the husband-and-wife team behind this new venture have already earned the neighborhood’s affection and esteem with their first restaurant, Terre BK, known for homemade pasta and a love affair with natural wines. Be Pasta is clearly an evolution of that passion—a slightly more playful, deeply personal project that feels as much like a dinner party as it does a dinner service.

My mother and I began with a bottle of 2022 Podere Pradarolo, a skin-contact wine from Parma that danced with floral perfume notes and finished with a whisper of rosewater. It was dynamic in the best way—structural but friendly, a wine that shapeshifted as we moved from course to course, somehow always finding the right note.

The menu at Be Pasta reads like a collection of Italian idioms, each dish named with a turn of phrase, hinting at something poetic or curious underneath. First to arrive: “The Goats and the Cabbages.” What came to the table were Brussels sprouts, blanched and bright, standing upright like little green boats. Each carried a tiny arrangement of fragola carpaccio, anchovies, capers, and a delicate drizzle of basil oil. The crunch was immediate, the flavor gently briny and herbaceous. It was one of those dishes that teaches your palate to listen closely.

Then: “To Go to Bed with the Chickens.” A plate of busiate—durum wheat pasta coiled tightly like a corkscrew—nestled into a ragu that tasted like a medieval love triangle: goose, chicken, and rabbit, all slowly stewed into harmony. The sauce was rich but not overbearing, clinging to the ridges of the pasta like it was meant to live there.

My personal favorite came next: “To Buy in a Closed Box.” Mezzi paccheri, those fat, short tubes that almost beg to be over-sauced, instead came dressed with elegance—a sauce of clams and celery root puree, crowned with peas so fresh they might’ve been picked outside the kitchen window. The name of the dish caught me, so I asked. Monia smiled and explained: in Italian, “to buy in a closed box” means to purchase something sight unseen—because your trust in the quality is so absolute, you don’t need to check inside. An ideal metaphor for this restaurant, really. You could close your eyes, point at anything on the menu, and be rewarded.

For dessert: “To Be at the Fruit.” A deconstructed caramelized pasta tart, filled with sweet Chantilly cream and paired with seasonal fruit. The crisped pasta shell, delicate and ridged, reminded me of a sfogliatella—that iconic Neapolitan pastry that shatters into a hundred flakes the moment you bite in. It was a sweet little miracle that reimagined pasta as dessert, without losing the soul of either.

But what truly elevates Be Pasta beyond the sum of its ingredients is the warmth that flows from the staff like a second wine pairing. Our host was generous and genuine, and not in that rehearsed hospitality school way. She spoke about the dishes with pride, joked with my mother like an old friend, and explained the idiomatic menu with the kind of detail only someone deeply involved would know. Executive Chef Andrea’s hand is unmistakable in every plate—there’s control without rigidity, a balance between creativity and comfort that’s as rare as it is welcome.

Be Pasta doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. It hums along like a well-loved song, one you don’t mind hearing again and again. Be Pasta is the kind of palace you take a first date to (they will remember dinner, even if they don’t remember you!).  Be Pasta is the kind of place where you take your wife on a temperate summer evening just to celebrate being alive together. Be Pasta is the kind of palace you take your mom to show off, when she comes to visit you in Brooklyn.

Be Pasta

447 1st Street

One month after its closure, now-vacant Barboncino still lingers in the minds of its customers and workers—and in the larger conversation around labor power in Brooklyn.

BROOKLYN — Barboncino in Crown Heights served its last wood-fired pizza on Feb. 28. 

The pizzeria had become known for more than its Neapolitan style crust: it was the first unionized pizza place in the city and a community staple.

“It is a place where you can go at any moment and see someone that you want to talk to,” said Andrea Lopez, 34, a bartender and server at Barboncino, who lamented the loss. “It’s a really, really special place, and it’s a really rare thing in this increasingly kind of atomized and isolating world.”

The closure is also a blow for labor organizers, and it hints of how tough such efforts will be in Brooklyn in the months ahead. Workers United, a national union which had helped organize the pizzeria’s workers, had scored another big win at the Starbucks in Park Slope in October 2024. But like Barboncino, the Park Slope Starbucks closed in January, with the company citing financial strains.

The ability of workers to flex their power seems to be fading rapidly as the Trump administration makes changes at the National Labor Relations Board and a cooling labor market suggests more unemployed people are available for companies to hire. 

At Barboncino, owners and workers had been unable to agree on pay and other terms for more than a year. Similarly, they now disagree on the reason for the shop’s demise. Employees say the new owners failed to provide the quality and care that had cultivated a loyal following.

The owners say the business succumbed to the financial pressures common among small restaurateurs. On Instagramthey posted, “We believed in Barboncino’s long-term potential, but because of rising economic strains, diminished sales, and other industry-wide challenges, it is with great sadness that Barboncino must put out the oven-fire, and close the doors.” 

Employees at the Crown Heights restaurant worked with Workers United to officially form a union in July of 2023, but negotiations stalled, and a contract was never signed between the owners and the union. The union represented the 32 hourly employees.

Becca Young, 28, a server at Barboncino and one of the lead contract negotiators, described negotiating as “a really drawn-out process.” 

“They were willing to meet with us once a month, mostly,” Young said of the owners. “Except for when they were away vacationing in Capri, which was often.”

At their final negotiation meeting before the closure announcement, workers presented their economic proposals. The owners delayed responding until eventually announcing they were closing for good. 

“Our community, one we have worked to preserve and improve, is being dismantled at the hands of absent owners that have repeatedly ignored our needs,” is written in an Instagram post by Barboncino Workers United, announcing the closure of the restaurant. “A union can’t salvage the damage done by incompetence, neglect and disregard.” 

Most of the front-of-house staff worked part-time at the pizzeria and supplement their pay with other work. However, for many, Barboncino was their primary source of income. 

Staff have started a GoFundMe to help staff that are in financial distress after losing their jobs. They have raised over $10,000.

Despite lacking a formal contract, the union was able to achieve some worker protections. One victory came when morning shifts were abruptly cut—a total of ten shifts. Initially, staff were given just a week-and-a-half notice, but after pressure from the union, management agreed to delay the major scheduling change to give workers a chance to find other work.

Another was the implementation of a step-by-step protocol to address incidents when a customer harasses an employee.

Barboncino was bought from its original owners by Jesse Shappell and Emma Walton in October 2022.

“I think they viewed the restaurant as an investment, and we viewed the restaurant as a home, and I think they couldn’t understand what they had bought,” Young said.

Lopez, who has been at Barboncino for six years, said that staff noticed business was lagging and customers were unhappy but felt ignored when they brought their concerns to the owners. 

“They were just raising the prices, lowering quality, and we were like, people are complaining about the prices and the quality of the food,” Lopez said. “And they were absolutely ignoring us at every turn. They took no steps to, in any way, try to bring back business.”

Serving Solidarity in these Trying Times

In the wake of the 2016 election, Liz Alpern knew she needed to tap into the power of community and hosted the first ever Queer Soup Night. 8 years filled with countless bowls of warm meals coupled with tens of thousands of dollars in donations to local organizations, Queer Soup Night is a true testament to the expansive impact we can make when we gather together with spoons in hand and open hearts.

Earlier this summer, I had the opportunity to chat with Liz Alpern, chef and founder of Queer Soup Night, a project that was set in motion after the results of the 2016 election. I recently reconnected with her to catch up after the results of the most recent one. As we head into winter, and an unpredictable four years, I want to share our conversations with you. Liz’s words remind me of how soup can be not only a wholesome source of nourishment, but a form of solidarity, and how we have to keep showing up for our local communities now more than ever to collectively build the world we believe in. I hope these interviews bring you comfort like they did for me

Angela: Hi Liz, thanks for chatting with me today. One of the first things I learned about you was your passion for soup. Could you share more about why you love soup so much?

Liz: I’ve always had a passion for soup, almost comically so. I’ve always loved soup as a medium for sharing culture and stories and also comfort. And I love how playful the format is.

I always wanted to do something with soup, but I struggled to put my finger on what it was. You know, I work in food full-time and I cook and I do events, but I was like, “What’s compelling enough for people to come to a place for soup?”

How did the election in 2016 inform your thinking?

After the 2016 election, it became immediately clear that queer folks, LGBTQ folks, were feeling particularly vulnerable. Like, are all our rights gonna be rolled back? It’s almost hard to imagine how scary that felt.

There was a cafe that I was working in at the time, and the cafe owner mentioned to me that the space was free in the evenings if I ever wanted to do an event there. And the idea to take over this coffee shop and throw a soup party for queers kind of came together at that moment.

There was something that unlocked in my mind, like, soup makes sense to bring people together in this time of feeling vulnerable.

And how did that first event go?

It was a really great gathering. I made three soups with some help from friends, and friends of friends came. The energy was really amazing. We ended up raising a lot more money than I expected.

And it also happened to be the weekend – and this certainly couldn’t have been planned – when Trump had established all these travel bans for people coming from majority Muslim countries. And so people were coming from the airport after protesting at the airport and having a bowl of soup at the end of the day.

So it ended up being a really successful first event, and it was very clear that this was something we could replicate.

And now it’s in eleven (thirteen, as of November 2024) cities across the country. Can you talk about how you grew the organization?

We developed pretty slowly and with a lot of intention. The party first moved to another city because one of the founding people who’d been organizing, moved to a new city. So we tested the waters and did two events there.

Before long, a friend of mine who’s a chef out in Portland, Oregon, was like, I kind of love this idea. So the first two chapters in Gainesville, Florida, and Portland, Oregon were started by chefs I knew personally, who really took time to learn the model.

After that, we started getting contacted by people we didn’t know. That’s how lots of these things grow: they start with your network, and then they go one rung out at a time. And that was when we really had to establish what this was. You know.

what are the guidelines?

Could you speak more to the guidelines? For example, are non-queer guests allowed to attend or to cook?

The short answer is yes, anyone can attend. We have always had in our mission statement that all are welcome at Queer Soup Night.

We have this threefold mission, and it has been unwavering: 

Strengthen your local queer community

Raise money for organizations in your place, and

Lift up the chefs in your place where you live.

At the same time, we definitely are not going out there looking for any chef. We really try to seek out queer chefs, but there have been plenty of instances over the years where someone who’s not queer-identified makes a soup. So I would say, 85% of the time everyone involved is queer, and there’s about 15% of people who may not be queer-identified, but are strong allies.

Bringing it back to the soup a little bit, I’m curious to hear what you think is the unique power of soup to express and also to connect.

No matter what culture you’re from – whatever your background is, whatever your story is, however you were raised – you are going to associate soup with comfort, with really deep nourishment, and with a feeling of home.

I’m an Eastern European Jew and I love matzo ball soup and chicken soup. They call it Jewish penicillin. But through Queer Soup Night, we’ve had Mexican chicken soup. We’ve had Vietnamese chicken soup. We’ve had Filipino chicken soup. We’ve had Korean chicken soup. We’ve had so many different versions of the same theme, right?

And the theme is, hey, this is what I’m going to serve you and it’s going to feel really good. It’s going to make your house smell like comfort and it’s going to stick to your clothes in a good way.

What has been your experience of being able to feed people such nourishing food?

You know, we’ve been doing Queer Soup Night for eight years, and I have never made money off of it. It’s purely a passion project for me; seeing people feel nourished by the food that we make for them is extremely motivating.

One of the things that I really like about Queer Soup Night is that it gives you an automatic inroad to chat with other guests. Soup is much more relatable than a lot of foods and easier for people to talk about, even if they’re not culinary minded. So I would say another part of the reward is just seeing other people be involved in conversations around soup. And that is another layer of nourishment, the connection.

Could you talk a bit about the collective impact that you’ve had on local grassroots movements here in New York?

Just in the last six months, we raised funds for more than 15 different local organizations. And I would say collectively, probably somewhere around $20,000 just in the last six months. 

We raised over $50,000 in total in 2023. And that came from thousands of donations that were $12. That’s the kind of thing that I think of as collective impact – that you can show up to an event and pay $12 to $20. And then when it comes to the end of the year, this collective queer community has raised over $50,000 for different organizations.

And we select organizations that could really use a small amount of funding, where $500 to $2,000 would make a huge difference.

What kind of initiatives do the recipients of the donations revolve around?

Our only criteria is that they have to be local. We don’t send funds outside of the community. So your $12 stays right in your community.

Now we are defining “community” by geographic boundaries and you could definitely say that community is so many different things, but our goal with Queer Soup Night was always to build something that strengthens IRL connections.

I really admire the focus on the local.

I will tell you, it’s not always easy to restrain yourself, because there are so many places that our money needs to go. But especially when our eyes are on global events unfolding, it is so important to remember all the work that’s being done locally.

Like we, as an organization, basically started during the (2016) Trump presidency out of outrage and fear and concern and resistance. But we always said, “This party is not going to become irrelevant when Trump is no longer president.” There were a thousand things we were activated about before, and there are a thousand things we’re going to be activated about.

When Biden became president, no one was like “I think we’re just going to chill.” And look at where we are in 2024 facing another.

Although the menu features a contentious rivalry of hot dog styles, Dog Day Afternoon offers a selection to satisfy even the vegan in the bunch. The restaurant’s decor and atmosphere welcomes film buffs, gamers, and hot dog fanatics alike to enjoy the classic hand-held meal together under the same roof.

Hide out from that Sirius summer heat, with some of the best franks in Brooklyn. What is a dog day afternoon exactly? We have all heard the expression, and most of the people reading this article will be familiar with the critically acclaimed 1975 film starring Al Pacino. Anybody who has lived through a summer in New York City has experience coping with the ‘dog days’ of summer, but where do we get the expression?  

Well it might surprise readers to learn that the expression originates in ancient Greece and Rome, where it was believed that in late July, Sirius’ rise in the sky alongside our sun contributed to the blistering temperatures seen in the northern hemisphere. Sirius being the astrological dog star, this period from Late July through mid August became known as the “dog days of summer’, a time for humans and canines alike to favor stillness and lethargy in merciful shade, far away from the ire of Sirius and our own beaming sun.

 And what memories do those sweltering city summer afternoons conjure up? Perhaps images of open fire hydrants, whose white jets of cool water quench the cast-iron heat of our neighborhood asphalt. Or the scent of a thousand charcoal grills wafting through the lush and shaded paths of Prospect Parks. For this writer, nothing pairs better with memories of hose water and the heat-advisory than an all-american hot dog and a cold beer.

And so for my article this summer, we move away from the formality of full service sit-down French bistros, and embrace a Brooklyn institution perhaps older than most of this Boroughs restaurants, the humble and ever versatile hot dog, and what I believe to be our neighborhoods latest and greatest purveyor: Dog Day Afternoon.

Situated between Prospect Ave and 17th Street, right off Prospect Park West, the small-yet-mighty storefront has been serving a variety of top-notch dogs to the residents of Park Slope and Windsor terrace since they opened in August of 2021.

I was first turned on to this spot last summer by a good friend of mine who had recently fallen in love with their Chicago dogs, and insisted on bringing me along to pick a few up for a movie night. Since then, my friend and I have been eating at Dog Day Afternoon with enthusiastic regularity.

 The storefront is small, but I would stop short of calling it ‘unassuming.’ On the contrary, the place is dripping with a unique and eclectic style that almost contradicts its size and spartan construction, inviting pick-up customers to linger and take in the vibes. And that vibe is good.

The walls of the shop are adorned with all kinds of NYC cinema classics; Dog Day Afternoon is there of course, right alongside another Brooklyn-classic, Do the Right thing. Ghostbusters, Rosemarys Baby, and a healthy dose of comic-book-chic transport patrons to a particular time and place.

 As a matter of fact, the first time I walked into Dog Day afternoon on a warm late summer evening, I felt the unique sensation that I had just stepped back in time, to a place and time in the city’s history not long before I was born. Despite having existed here for only three short years, there is an undeniable air of authenticity to the shop that makes one feel as if it has existed here for decades, and that it may well exist for decades to come.

On my most recent visit, I caught Jay of the owners, and I asked him about the inspiration for their establishment. The answer he gave me was equally authentic, unpretentious, and proudly matter-of-fact. “We decided we wanted to open up a hot dog shop, and I wanted it to have free games and just a good vibe.” That’s it. No grandiose marketing-heavy soliloquies common in the culinary business world. Just a good old fashioned vision, well-executed and expertly operated.

Jay and his partner Joe both worked together in the food service industry for a number of years, and when COVID-19 hit, they saw how badly restaurants and food industry workers were affected by the economic uncertainty. The experience left an understandable impression on them, and inspired them to take destiny into their own hands.

Their vision was to build something small and dynamic, with a lean-run operation and a focus on culinary specialization. Joe, who is from Chicago originally, had grown disappointed in New York’s lack of options for those partial to the Chicago Style dog, and so their idea for a dedicated neighborhood Hot Dog Shop was born.

For those New Yorkers unfamiliar with the Chicago style, a Chicago dog features an all-beef frank (Vienna Beef in the case of Dog Day Afternoon), on a poppy seed bun topped with mustard, pickle relish, diced white onion, tomato slices, dill pickle, pickled peppers and celery salt. The presentation is lavish, by hot-dog standards, a feast for the eyes as much as for the senses. 

As a proud New York-style food fan, I have to admit the Chicago dog is quite delicious, and a very welcome addition to our proud neighborhood (even IF I still narrowly prefer their New york style dog myself).

For the Spring edition of the paper, I am featuring the bright, crisp, sweet and tangy flavors of Vietnam, and my favorite neighborhood Pho spot, Ha Noi.

Nestled on the bustling southeast corner of 7th Avenue and 9th Street in central Park Slope, Ha Noi’s humble and understated facade on the ground floor of a townhouse, conceals a gem of authentic Vietnamese cooking.

Upon entering Ha Noi, guests are treated to a beautiful interior of dark exposed brick, and east asian wood decor. The ceiling, framed by sturdy wood and thick knotted rope evokes  nautical theme, as if one has just found themself entering the captain’s cabin of some 18th century galley ship. The vibe is cozy and inviting, and on most nights, patrons will find Ha Noi filled with locals, families, friends and couples on dates, quietly and cheerfully chatting over their steaming bowls of Pho and fried dumplings.

The scent of those rich soup stocks saturate the air, and the aromas married with the scent of plum sauce and fresh basil set the mood and stimulate the appetite immediately.

I first stumbled into Ha Noi on an unseasonably cool late spring evening in 2017. My wife and I had only just moved to the neighborhood a few months earlier, and in early May I had caught an absolutely terrible cold. I have thankfullynot experienced the like since, as it left me feeling like death for two straight weeks. 

At the end of my second week of this super-cold, I was so stir crazy and miserable that I decided I needed to overcome my fatigue and go for a walk with my wife. Half way up 9th street, we were bombarded by the aroma of warm meaty soup broth, and decided to poke our heads inside to find the source of the smell. So yes, ignorant of social-distancing courtesies, we sat down at a small table in the back of Ha Noi and ordered 2 bowls of the chicken curry pho.

The phrase “Chicken soup for the soul” comes to mind, but that falls short of describing the experience that that first bowl of Pho was for me at such a low point in my well-being. Each spoonful of creamy, unctuous, spicy curry broth gave me hope. I found myself staring down into the bowl, dazzled by the way the oils danced with the rice noodles and the tender chunks of white meat chicken. That bowl of soup, whether by coincidence, or by some deeper older kind of medicine, healed me that day. Two weeks of misery, fatigue, fever and chills abated that very night, and I will forever remember Han Noi for that perfectly timed bowl of soup. 

The phrase “Chicken soup for the soul” comes to mind, but that falls short of describing the experience that that first bowl of Pho was for me at such a low point in my well-being. Each spoonful of creamy, unctuous, spicy curry broth gave me hope. I found myself staring down into the bowl, dazzled by the way the oils danced with the rice noodles and the tender chunks of white meat chicken. That bowl of soup, whether by coincidence, or by some deeper older kind of medicine, healed me that day. Two weeks of misery, fatigue, fever and chills abated that very night, and I will forever remember Han Noi for that perfectly timed bowl of soup. 

And thus, like many of you reading this article, we came to love Ha Noi as our go-to place for Pho in the neighborhood.

But that’s enough about my personal experience with one magican bowl of soup. What else does Ha Noi do well? My wife’s personal favorite is the Pho Combination Special, featuring vermicelli noodles in a beef broth, beef balls, brisket, rare steak, tendons and tripe, served with a generous bundle of basil leaves, sliced jalapeno, bean sprouts, lime wedge, and hoisin sauce. 

For starters you can never go wrong with their fried pork dumplings, served with a crispy laced bottom, also known as a dumpling skirt, which is achieved by adding a thin salt-flour batter to the bottom of the pan as they fry. If you have a slightly more adventurous taste I would strongly recommend the frog legs. They are served alongside sweet onion slices, sauteed with lettuce in french butter. These tender morsels are fried to perfection and the meat is succulent, more tender than chicken wings, with a subtle sweetness.

Finally, if you are looking for a noteworthy entree you will not regret trying the Grilled Pork Banh Hoi. This is a self-serve style wrap dish featuring woven bundles of vermicelli, tender strips of sweet braised pork, peanuts, shallots, pickled carrots and daikon. These can be wrapped in lettuce leaves to form individual wraps and dipped in a sweet and salty nuoc cham sauce. The result is a bright and crispy sort-of summer roll, with a sweet and tender, garlicky pork center.

Beyond the charm of its cuisine, it is Ha Noi’s impeccable service that sets it apart. For the seven years my wife and I have been going there to dine in, or to pick up, Ha Noi’s staff have always been professional, attentive, and kind without a single exception, and that service only adds to the hearth-and-home ambiance of the establishment.

As winter’s cold chill gradually and stubbornly eases its grip on the city, and the warm bloom of spring turns a corner, I invite my neighbors to celebrate the season with the eternal vibrancy of good authentic home cooking, at Ha Noi Vietnamese Kitchen.

There is a bias in food writing toward featuring the new, the novel, and the trendy. It is important to draw attention to established places where chefs are trying out new things, or striving to elevate and reimagine cuisine.

I could argue that this place was the first neighborhood spot that made me realize how great this borough’s culinary offerings could aspire to be. And the ONLY reason I haven’t featured them in my writing yet, is because I have been distracted by what was new around the corner instead of appreciating what was great right next door.

n featuring the new, we often neglect the consistent, the classic, the local gems that grew with the neighborhood, and maintained their commitment to quality for their long-time patrons; those places that have found success long enough and maintained it, to become “staples” of their respective neighborhoods. 

I want to feature one such neighborhood gem that really deserves our appreciation.

Olivier Bistro has been serving the neighborhood of South Slope for over a decade now (August was their 10 year Anniversary). In a city with no shortage of French “brunch spots”, Olivier stands out for its truly authentic French menu options, its comprehensive listing of European liqueurs, and its rustic old-world ambiance.

When you visit, there’s a very good chance you will find Olivier Verdier, the passionate proprietor of Olivier Bistro, walking the floor of his establishment with purpose and professionalism. He is a local and a hands-on restaurateur, who appears most at ease dining at his own table. His journey traces back to his roots in Pezenas, France, where his love affair with the culinary arts ignited at the tender age of 11. He honed his cooking skills alongside his grandmother, Rose Marie, and that familial connection to the traditions of French cooking formed the bedrock upon which Olivier built his culinary dreams.

Fuelled by a storied tapestry of flavors and techniques, passed down from his family matriarchs, Olivier ventured into culinary school, refining his craft, moved to the US, and in 2013 founded his bistro.

Reflecting on his culinary pilgrimage, Olivier reminisces, “It was an accomplishment and a dream 

of many years… I opened my bistro because I wanted to give the people of Park Slope a French experience like my grandmothers used to cook!”

And Olivier’s dedication to his country’s heritage reflects in his offerings. While the Sunday brunch can contend with the best among them, where Olivier Bistro really shines is on its dinner menu, where you will find such delicacies as Foie Gras Torchon Maison with brioche toast points and a velvety apple puree, or  Escargots de Bourgogne, served in the traditional caquelon dish, each snail luxuriating in a rich emulsification of garlic butter and its own sweet liqueur.

While most French establishments content themselves to offer the American palate the classic brunch fare (and rest assured, Oliviers does), this unassuming haunt offers its more passionate patrons some of the finest French dishes, as casually and as confidently as a local diner might serve up eggs and bacon.

I am embarrassed it has taken me so long to write about this place. This review is well-earned and long overdue. I met my (now) mother-in-law for the first time at Olivier’s back in 2015. My (now) wife and I moved in together for the first time in 2017, two doors down from their fashionable, French Flag adorned storefront.

I can recall wandering downstairs on a quiet weekday afternoon, and discovering their charcuterie menu- a tightly curated assemblage of rare cow’s milk cheeses, aged salami, sweet spiced sausage varieties, and distinguished hams. 

I have enjoyed countless meals with friends and family in their establishment. In 2019 when my wife was laid off from her first job, we cushioned the blow with a visit to Olivier, and enjoyed some of the best red snapper we have ever had to date. Three months later we celebrated her new job with another meal there featuring their Moules Frites, a harmonious marriage of plump mussels steeped in white wine, shallots, and garlic.

The first time my parents visited Brooklyn, we took them to Olivier to show off what our newfound home had to offer. 

This winter, when the bitter winds blow, and the chill sets in, I look forward to the warmth that comes from returning to where my passions first began. Sitting down to eat in that establishment that first kindled my love for the food here. I want to revisit the bar where I tasted Grand Marinier, and Ricard Aperitif for the first time. I want to make friendly conversation with Olivier, his bartenders, and those professional, knowledgeable waiters; to indulge in a rare Hanger Steak, served with pommes frites and peppercorn bearnaise. And most importantly I want to share that joy that comes from appreciating the storied classics with friends new and old.

I want my share in Olivier’s dream, to have a taste of provinciale France here in New York, and to bask in the privilege that we all have living in this city where restaurants like Olivier exist. 

I invite my neighbors and my fellow readers to join me this winter, come celebrate one of the restaurants that first kicked off our neighborhood’s ascent into culinary excellence.

In Red Hook, there is no shortage of seafood and beer in the neighborhood, and one could write an article dedicated to the various perfect ways to spend an afternoon in the dockside enclave. However, today I am not here to talk about the dives, or the crabs, or the breweries. Today I am here to talk about a burger and the tavern that makes it.

First some history:

Along Brooklyns western coast, Red Hook emerges just south of Brooklyn Bridge Park, as a storied neighborhood steeped in maritime heritage and urban transformation. Originally settled by the Dutch in the 17th century, it evolved into a bustling port, welcoming immigrants and fostering a diverse community. The 19th century marked an era of industrial growth, with shipping, manufacturing, and warehousing driving the local economy. The industrial and merchant interests that first built Red Hook, brought with them a steady supply of salty maritime men, and with them, came the demand for dockside bars and taverns. Today, Red Hook, like its parent borough, has embraced an economic resurgence, while retaining its distinctively nautical and charmingly divey character.

There is no shortage of seafood, and beer in the neighborhood, and one could write an article dedicated to the various “perfect” ways to spend an afternoon in the dockside enclave. However, today I am not here to talk about the dives, or the crabs, or the breweries. Today I am here to talk about a burger, and the tavern that makes it.

Extraordinary claims:

A few months ago, a good friend of mine from the neighborhood made a very bold claim in our local group chat. “Yesterday, I had the best burger of my entire life. Maybe the top culinary experience of my entire life.” He told us about his trip to the Red Hook Tavern and about how he was caught completely off guard by how ‘next-level’ their unassumingly named burger was.

I was skeptical. Very skeptical to be frank. As much as I love good food, I generally don’t rank hamburgers that high on my list for fine dining consideration. Burgers are great, classic, delicious, crowd pleasers for sure. But their tastes are maximalist, often topped with competing condiments and loud overwhelming flavors. And more to the point, most tavern burgers taste more or less the same to me. So the idea that this burger was maybe the best meal of my friend’s life, was shocking to me. 

Another friend of ours, who does consider himself to be a hamburger connoisseur and a casual expert on the matter, was equally intrigued, and perhaps a bit more open minded than myself. “When can we get there? Lets all try it out.”

We set a date, and planned for a lunchtime excursion into Red Hook on a temperate late summer sunday afternoon.

Now I’m going to break the fourth wall here a little bit: When I was thinking of a spot to write about for the fall issue of this fine local paper, a burger joint was not high on my list. Our editor even told me it probably was not worth going outside the bounds of the neighborhood to review a burger place. And I generally agreed with him. But given the claim my friend was making we decided that if indeed the burger won me over, we could make an exception. Deep down, I did not think the burger would win me over.

Extraordinary evidence:

Leading up to the reservation I decided to read up on the Red Hook Taverns staple tavern burger, and what I read very quickly began to change my perception of what a burger could be. The burger had been reviewed by the likes of Pete Wells, food critic for the New York TImes, There were articles featuring it in Eater, and Resy. There’s even a youtube video featuring the burger with Action Bronson. I quickly began to realize that this burger did not need my review to elevate it. All the more reason not to write about it. And yet, here I am writing about it. So what happened?

Well, not to bury the lead, I had the best hamburger of my entire life at Red Hook tavern. And I want to tell you all about it.

At the heart of this masterpiece is the dry aged beef, an art that transforms meat at the molecular level. There are only a handful of steakhouses in all of New York City that offer dry aged beef. As steak is left to age in a carefully controlled setting, enzymes within the meat gently break it down, tenderizing it internally. The flavor of the meat takes on notes of nuttyness, bleu cheese, mushroom funk. The meaty flavor is elevated, sweetness and savory umami intensify greatly the longer the beef is allowed to age. The process is expensive, time consuming, even a little wasteful, as it leaves the outer layer of the meat desiccated and inedible. But culinary enthusiasts everywhere know that dry aging a steak is among the best ways to elevate its flavor potential.

Extraordinary:

We arrived as a party of eight, and were seated in the covered outside seating area, although we would each get a chance to glimpse the charmingly decorated interior, featuring turn of the century wallpaper, converted gas light fixtures, and a gorgeous mirrored cocktail bar. Everyone in the party had agreed to order the Tavern Burger as recommended. The burgers arrive perfectly medium rare, served upon a butter-toasted bun, crowned with American cheese, a slice of crisp white onion, strategically served beneath the patty to keep the lower bun dry. The plate also comes with crinkle-cut medallion fries, and a pickle on the side. In a small cup, ketchup awaits, though this burger stands alone, its fragrant meaty, just pink interior requires no condiment. So save the ketchup for the fries.

The consensus was instant and universal. I let out a chuckle. “It is. It is absolutely the best burger I have ever had.” By now I had already known it would be. I knew the second I smelled them cooking it. That unmistakable aroma of aged beef, I had only ever smelled it before in Peter Lugers Steak House. Here it was, in Red Hook, The thick mouth-watering scent pouring out into the street. My friend, the burger-expert, spoke next: “OH, no doubt. This is the best burger I’ve ever had. I’ve never had anything like it before.” We try to temper our enthusiasm if only for posterity’s sake:

“I mean I’m sure there are other burgers that can claim to be the best, but I’ve never had one as good as this.”

I joked to my friend who first turned us onto the spot: “I won’t go as far as saying it was the best culinary experience of my life. But these guys… they have made the hamburger as great as it can possibly be, and it’s right up there with the best of culinary experiences. No doubt about it.”

Our attempts to temper our enthusiasm falter as another of our guests interjects “It’s a PERFECT burger.”

“I like that they went with american cheese. A classic. It lets the meat do the talking.”

I exclaim almost drunk with newfound appreciation for the humble burger: “I can’t find ANY other place in the immediate neighborhood that does aged beef, and this place is using it as hamburger meat!”

I’m halfway finished with the burger as I speak, and I find myself already starting to miss it.

We finish up our meals, and spend the rest of the afternoon in contented bliss, listening to a live bluegrass jam band play in the backyard of Red Hook’s famous Sunny’s Bar. The burgers made our day.

A week later I’m looking for excuses to go back. I schedule another trip to the Tavern for early fall, so I can gauge my parents’ reactions to the perfect hamburger.

Even as I write this article, I am looking forward to returning in cooler weather, with more friends, perhaps to spend more time admiring the tavern’s impeccable interior. Like a converted religious zealot, I want to bring more fine-dining converts to worship at the altar of this humble burger.

As I wrap up, putting the finishing touches on the piece, my friend texts me a link to an instagram post by legendary comedian and established gourmand Eric Warheim. It’s a big photo of a perfect cross section of the Red Hook Tavern burger. The caption is profanity laced bliss. Another convert.

In the heart of Red Hook, where the past collides with the present, the Red Hook Tavern and its Dry Aged Burger are a culinary pilgrimage that transcends the ordinary. This burger is more than just a dish; it’s a love letter to meat lovers, a narrowly focused kind of perfection, and a testament to the endless pursuit of gastronomic excellence in all things.