[Pigging by Wilfrid: January 13, 2012]
What's in a misnomer? "Eating people is wrong," is the Flanders-Swann song which springs to mind when I hear of a restaurant called The Cannibal. But what they really want you to eat are barnyard animals in various forms.
A sibling of Resto, and next door to the mothership (unsigned and I found lost people outside looking for it), The Cannibal is worth a butcher's hook (I'm talking cockney now).
At least, I found it less pretentious and more enjoyable than its senior partner, where I found the meaty main dishes slapdash. Indeed, apart from an ambitious sausage program, The C. keeps things simple, offering a list of lardy small plates, plus a little cheese and veg, and a "steak of the day."
Like Northern Spy in its early incarnation, and Jeffrey's, The C. works very hard at appearing to be a store. What kind? Well, a beer store and butcher, I suppose. The front area is lined with bottle-laden fridges. The walls groan with comestibles in jars and bags - mustards, potato chips. In the rear is a butcher's cold case, filled with raw cuts of meat. Entering on a busy evening, it's not clear who is serving, who is a customer, or where you should put yourself.
There's a sort of dining counter-slash-bar which runs down the center of the room. A slab of wood has been screwed to the top of the butcher's display case, creating another kind of counter. There are cruelly small metal stools littered about the place. I eventually determined that a young man with a dishcloth slung over his arm was official, and he pointed me casually toward an empty perch. (This happened to be in front of a large, flat screen TV, and I admit to enjoying The Triplets of Belleville while munching through the menu).
I guess the atmosphere is like a party which happens to be held in a store. Bunches of guys in button downs drift in and out; stand for a beer; stand to eat near the butcher's counter; swill super-strong Belgian ales. You can wander over to a fridge and pull out a beer, and one of the plaid-shirted servers will open it for you. A couple makes out heavily in the corner. It's confusing and it's amazing how the staff hold it together - but they do.
In addition to eight taps, there are hundreds - hundreds - of bottled beers to choose from. The list comes as a mighty, leather-covered tome. I chose a Cigar City Maduro (brown ale), and was impressed when the server produced it like a rabbit from a hat. I started on some toasts slathered with whipped lardo (and, unfortunately, way too much salt).
For all the post-frat beer hall bro'ness of the atmosphere, the small plates (most around $11) really are small. A little slice of rabbit terrine came next - rabbit and pork with a chunk of the former's loin in the center. A curl of pickled carrots. Some country bread.
Credit for the sheer diversity of sausages made in-house. Cotechino, boudin noir and blanc, merguez, kielbasa - all, except the boudin blanc, available. I went for the blood sausage, black as night, of the soft- rather than firm-filled variety. Pleasantly sweet, and appropriately joined by some apple slices.
I thought that might be enough, but it wasn't. The plates, as I said, had been small so far. The corned beef tongue plate (though similarly priced at $12) was altogether grander. Countless leaves of really good, mild-flavored tongue, a drizzle of mustard, and a heap of homemade coleslaw. Also, lots of little brown bread points.
I soon discovered that I could make mini-tongue and coleslaw sandwiches, and that made me happy right through a bottle of Founders Red Rye Pale Ale.
A little Lagrein weinkase to finish, firm and nutty.
What a curious place. The elbow-rubbing and sense of just-contolled chaos will not appeal to everyone. The stools are crippling (and I am not, believe it or not, large of derrière). The TV would have been annoying if the movie choice had been lousy.
As it turned out, it was all quite fun, and around $60 including drinks and tax is an unusually fair price. Eating meat is right.
Here's the website.
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