Kill Your Darlings

But first, make sure you know what you’re talking about

It’s 10pm, I just got back to my apartment, and I’ve scrapped the newsletter I had drafted for today. I have good reason for doing so.

Tonight I sat painfully close to two awkwardly high bar stools in a bookstore in Greenpoint. The bookshelves had retreated to the back of the space, making room for rows of folding chairs occupied by Archestratus loyalists.

I sat front and center, enraptured for an hour and a half watching Ben Mims chat like old friends with Gabrielle Hamilton. Ben is a decorated (and young!) food writer who has just finished his newest cookbook with the publisher I work for: Crumbs, is a testament to Ben’s dedication to the history of everything we make, the context of everything we eat, and of course, a love for little pillows of butter and sugar.

Gabrielle is, in short, a legend. Her accolades go on for pages, including James Beard awards, best-selling books, and one of New York’s most beloved restaurants, Prune. She showed up in a tan suit with a Tupperware in hand, pulling sheets of mortadella, peppered mozzarella, and green olives out when the mood struck. She’s a woman of taste.

They talked, we laughed, Gabrielle said fuck (baller) and we got to hear Ben speak with conviction about the three year process of creating a global cookie book - 300 recipes and countless hours of research later. Gabrielle and Ben spoke about food, baking, writing, how exhausting it is when people hate recipes because they made stupid substitutions, how you have to kill your darlings or at least tuck them away for your next project, and what the hell is going on with all the Instagram food that everyone claims is the best ever but generally isn’t that good.

It was a treat to listen to them and it tugged on the heart strings a bit, especially amidst an ongoing consideration of the landscape of food writing/media, and what we’re really offering people. Is it a promise of the best dinner of their lives? Is it an assurance their money isn’t going to waste? Is it a false sense of comfort that they’ve done it! They’ve found, and subsequently made, the best chocolate chip cookie in the WORLD(!)? Ben and Gabrielle offered a reminder of how special the research and life-long learning behind cooking and writing is. The entire evening was a reminder that the in-person really can not be replaced. I will never be compelled via a reel the way I am by a friend telling me about a meal.

I see so many complaints about restaurant reviews and fluff pieces—people are tired of having social media and press fawn over an already saturated conversation about the same three new restaurants. They’re tired of a limited 200 word format that doesn’t seem trustworthy anymore. And secretly, I think people are sick of watching people eat (just me?)

I love this newsletter, I love the outlet it has offered me and the ways it has challenged me. I love that I get to write about food how and when I want, in my voice, and, in theory, be a corner of the internet that people find helpful. Sometimes, though, I don’t feel all that compelled by something I’ve written once it’s been published. Naturally, I worry I’m part of the faux-positive and ever-vague problem, rather than the aberration I’d hope to be.

All we can really do here is know what we want to share and how we want to share it. I’ll tell you all about where to take your parents around the holidays, and what’s worth your time in Soho in the coming weeks. But first, I’d like to write a very honest review of my dinner last night.

I hope you enjoy. Thanks for bearing with me. I can’t believe there are over 600 people that read this. That’s so cool.

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Roman’s

Dekalb and Vanderbilt

A 5pm Sunday dinner is sacred, especially so ahead of a long week, and even more so on the kind of slightly sunny, slightly warm fall day that deserves special attention. The two conditions required for this particular outing had been met: first, a willingness to give up a Sunday evening and second, no external conditions that make leaving the house unbearable. Last night, all the pieces had fallen into their places, and I was looking forward to leaving my house, even as it got dark, with the promise of new (ish) friends and a restaurant first ahead.

I’ve known about Roman’s for years, a part of the potentially nepotistic Marlow Collective and an undeniably alluring facade on the always-charming Dekalb strip in Fort Greene. When living in Clinton Hill, I walked past countless times, admiring the menu posted at their door and trying to get a glimpse inside, always jealous of those sitting on the sidewalk sipping wine and eating bread.

Though I have known about it and been to every other business owned by Andrew Tarlow, I hadn’t been for one reason: I heard it just wasn’t that good. Certainly, an expansive restaurant group with a prime spot in a tasteful food neighborhood in Brooklyn would knock it out of the park, no? I have been so intrigued by this seemingly off-brand grading, and my curiosity finally got the best of me.

The restaurant is small, maybe 10 bar seats and 10 tables, and while intimate, it lacked a degree of personality. White-tiled walls and dark wooden bars have been seen before, and the white and grey marble accents felt a bit sterile. Perhaps I expected more of the charisma you would find at Achilles Heel or Diner, but Roman’s felt a bit lackluster. I liked sitting in my little cafe chair in the corner of the restaurant. The tiled mosaics are a nice touch. The dimmed lighting really helped, as if the glass chandelier, sconces, and tea lights were really just for show.

We were slow to order, partially because we were gabbing away and partially because the waiters didn’t seem concerned about our hunger levels. At restaurants like this, I like to order an assortment of small plates and, when reciting our order to the server, we got a bit of a scoff and a “that’s it?” Off-putting but fine. We ordered perfectly, thank you very much, starting with a gorgonzola-forward arancini and a delicate fava bean puree. The arancini had a sweetness that overpowered a bit, but the texture was delightful. A warm cheesy ball of rice is nothing if not a bundle of comfort. The fava bean puree was great, topped with a marinated chard, a drizzle of oil, and served with sourdough. Enjoying our snacks between stories, we nodded to one another in approval, offering last bites of each dish until there was nothing left to speak for.

A second course came with a plate of tender beets topped with halved walnuts and generous parmesan shavings. The plate was dressed in an amazing emulsion, some magical ratio of fat and vinegar in a divine salad dressing. The dish was so good. We closed with a paccheri topped with a light tomato and caper sauce with tuna confit. This is where I started to understand what people had been saying. I like tomatoes and capers as much as the next girl, but a lukewarm serving of undercooked pasta is a real disappointment. Sauces can be too bland or too salty, crunchy pasta though, is a bit more out of the ordinary. We ate it, I forgot about it, c’est la vie. Our plates were slowly cleared, and we were swiftly brought the check. I assume we were holding up someone’s table, but we hadn’t been informed of any such imposition, just sent on our merry way.

While I was hopeful I would end the meal with olive oil cake, I was perfectly satisfied and ready for a long stroll home. We agreed on a delightful meal in great company and any minor complaints fell away within moments. A leisurely dinner in a relaxing dining room was just what we wanted from our 5pm dinner. I left quite content, though perhaps not exhilarated by my experience of the restaurant itself.

Would I go back, sure. Would I send others to the “hip vintage-chic neighborhood spot” with the promise of an amazing meal? I don’t think so. 15 years on, and among an empire of Brooklyn favorites, Roman’s is ordinary. Under dim lighting, with great branding and perfect real estate, they are set up for success in any condition. Add it to the list of cute, but not life-changing.

Thoughts? Feelings? Feedback?

xoxoxoxo x a million time to go to bed!