"Excuse me, sir... Is there marijuana in your salsa?"
Two tables over, a gray-haired man and his wife poke curiously at their half-empty ramekin.
"I'm tasting a very distinctive herb here. And I can't quite place it."
Our waiter (also their waiter) tries desperately to smother a smirk.
"How awesome would that be if there was."
Ah, brunch in Park Slope. Our initiation to Brooklyn.
A borough I kind of, sort of, accidentally might adore.
Food. The theme of the weekend.
Where Bjork simultaneously dined on the same codfish dish as Cara. "Bjork, as in Swan Bjork?" "Yep. That one." "She was here?" "Right in that corner." "And we didn't recognize her?" "She had on normal clothes." Sipping on Tito's (the only vodka stocked) and devouring warm oatmeal-crusted bread smothered in honey butter and sprinkled with sea salt, a love connection was made. Via Twitter. "You guys, my future is becoming clear. Joe, the owner, is NOW FOLLOWING ME." A real-life screenplay waiting to unfold. And when it does, we're casting adorable 1990s Meg Ryan and Anthony LaPaglia as the leads.
Where I questioned the idea of cornmeal cheddar waffles until I ordered them, drowned them in syrup and realized they made SO much sense. Without a stroller in tow, we were definitely the minority. Trending in Carroll Gardens? Toddlers. (So hot right now.) Go after noon and you will wait. Worth it.
Where old friends and new friends oooh'd and aaaah'd over decadent Italian (after examining the menu with an iPhone flashlight app, extensively) until we shut the place down. Three of four women wanted to procreate with our gorgeous singer/song-writer/artist/magician/server, Brett. ("He could be gay?" "Don't care.") Ricotta frittelli with fresh whipped cream and chocolate sauce happened. As did the creation of hash tag #JESUSBROOKE.
Where we nearly paid forty five dollars for a black truffle burrata. ("Ten grams, shaved right in. Served bubbling hot.") Got free drinks after a west coast waif knocked mine over with a gargantuan handbag that weighed more than she did. ("I can tell you're not from New York because you're not screaming at us," mused her Dodgers-capped date.) Highlights included a near-perfect charcuterie plate (piles of prosciutto) and roasted broccoli/pistachio/sweet potato salad. Decided my future home should be decorated identically to this gorgeous space in Union Square. Also decided: we're really, really good at eating.
