[Pigging by Wilfrid: August 17, 2010]
Zydeco, as everyone knows, comes from a phrase meaning "the beans aren't salted" - les haricots sont pas salés. I can scarcely imagine what accordion-driven cacophony the Cajuns might have kicked up if the beans had been cold and hard too.
No Cajuns, as far as I could see, at The General Greene on a quiet weekday evening, so I was left to munch the cold, hard, and pretty well unsalted fried broad beans in relative peace.
Giddy, I suppose, with the success of my recent visit to Walter Foods, I thought I'd tick another Brooklyn bistro off my list, the longer established The General Greene (and why the definite article?). Walter Foods hadn't turned out to be a destination restaurant, or on the cutting edge of anything in particular: it just seemed to summarize and represent an important genre - the American bistro, as I called it - and to do everything it did just right, from the greeting through service to straightforward but creative and well-prepared food and cocktails.
The General Greene, on the occasion of my visit, seemed hellbent on doing everything wrong. I am sure, of course, that it has its long-serving regulars and devoted fans: indeed, there seemed to be plenty of them at table the evening I arrived, although it was noticeable that they were all eating the burger or the fried chicken. But I can only review my own experience.
Which began with a friendly wave from the bar-tender and enquiry if it was "for two?" - and went downhill from there. The barnyardy dining room was nearly, but not quite, full. There were a couple of two-tops near the door, and appeared to be more empty tables in the back. A server dived passed us, nodding at the closest two-top, and waspishly snapping "That's all we have!"
And good evening to you. Busy he may have been, but niceties remained at a minimum throughout the rest of service. He can hardly be blamed, however, for the sluggishness of the kitchen even on what must be one of the quieter nights of their week. Cocktails were ordered first, and an item from the bar snacks to occupy the table while awaiting appetizers. My cocktail was an Old Fig - essentially an Old Fashioned gussied up with fig purée. It was a nice Old Fashioned, but the presence of fig was signaled by a flotsam of fig seeds rather than any decisive flavor accent.
The bar snack was the bowl of fried broad beans, and it arrived after twenty five minutes or so, about two minutes in advance of the appetizers. The word fried had suggested hot and crunchy. Not so. Suffice it to say that I've rarely put anything quite as boring in my mouth.
One appetizer was chicken liver in a jar, with its toasts as the French say. It looked the part of a light, fluffy, creamy liver paté, but was disappointingly dense and solid. It tasted of chicken liver, but also of something else. Some citrus in there to help it out? A discordant note, anyway, a sort of unwanted tanginess.
A beet salad was correct, unfussy, unremarkable (also, like my funny Valentine, unphotographable - pretty much a blob of dark purple).
No so0ner were the appetizers being appraised than bang - the entrées arrived, without ceremony. They were sort of shuffled onto the table, shoving the partially eaten appetizers to one side. Dishes here are like buses, it seems: wait half an hour, then they all come at once.
No apology, no question about whether the entrées should be held back. An assumption, I suppose, that we were lucky to be there and knew it. Not attractive.
I suppose my party was somewhat ill-disposed toward the meal by that point. Polenta with radicchio and wild mushrooms was as advertised. In the darkness it was possible to make out a big chunk of hen of the woods, and a couple of other fungal contenders. The radicchio, I thought, made a nicely crunchy contrast to the corn pap.
I hadn't paid much attention to the advertisement of Italian hot peppers in the menu description of the pork chop. My own fault, because it's clearly called a "hot chop," and hot it is. A colorful array of full-steam-ahead peppers, seeds and all, blanketed a nice enough cut of pork. It was a substantial dish, and while I was worried about the liquid in which the meat sat, it turned out to be a pleasant, buttery broth (at least my taste receptors told me buttery even though logic suggests olive oil). Not bad for $18: it needed a side dish for balance, but not to make up the quantity.
The General Greene succumbs to the pretension of serving blue collar and mock-blue collar canned beers with dinner. If only wine was hip enough to demand attention. I ordered the Minervois by the glass, but my request being incomprehensible I asked for it by blend, carignan/syrah. Whatever they poured me was quite horrible, worthy of being served at Flea Market. When the check arrived, it purported to be the Project 3000 "grenache/syrah" [sic], twice the price of the Minervois. Fifteen dollars, in fact, which is about the price of a bottle of Project 3000 - which comes, incidentally, as either grenache or syrah and not, as far as I can see, a blend of the two.
I decided to emulate my server on this point by not really caring. I backed away from dessert.
Not friendly, not good, not especially cheap considering no bottles of wine were ordered: over $100 for two. There are American bistros, and then there are good American bistros.
Their website awaits.
