Quick Bites: Grazing In Greenpoint

[Pigging by Wilfrid:  July 29, 2013]

With stealth, over the past six months, Greenpoint has become the new Williamsburg (or new Bushwick, if Bushwick was the new Williamsburg already). And--good news--without the foot traffic.

So far, anyway, although the news about the interesting eats and drinks to be found on the quiet backstreets between Manhattan Avenue and the East River is already out.

Even so, there's something isolated about this neighborhood.  It's still quiet, it's accessible only by the G train (which is currently ignoring weekends), or by a long walk up from the L.  I've done that walk in both directions recently, and it's a salutary reminder (for those who need one) of how close together Williamsburg and Greenpoint are.  One side of McCarren Park, the summer's most exciting new restaurant, The Elm; just the other side, the beer bar everyone is talking about, Tørst.  Will the neighborhoods soon merge, like the East Village and the LES below Houston? Well, not quite yet.  The new places I'm talking about are mostly further north.

And there is still a huge Polish community.  It's still easy to shop in stores where only Polish is spoken.  And it's even easier to slide into traditional restaurants and order enormous, and often very satisfying, platefuls of meat and potatoes, and sausage, and cabbage, and lard, and all those good things.

But change is in the air.  Witness, for example, The Bounty.  I've not tried this sober little seafood joint yet, but it makes a curious neighbor to a raucous dive bar, and hardly mirrors the super-hearty Karczma across the street (a jolly place of traditionally dressed waitresses and pots of  bacon fat).

Witness also Alameda, a super-sleek bar-restaurant which looks like just another pub from the street, but inside boasts a striking, near-circular marble bar, and strips of--I suppose--neo-art deco lighting glowering from the ceiling.

The clientele--the night I was there at least--could have been transported from Northern Spy Co.  Young, fashionably dressed, far from grungy.  The menu too leans heavily towards small, market-driven plates of healthy things.  The burger is only the real heft, which made it an evidently popular order.

I went with the flow.

The distinction between small plates and sharing plates gets ever more confusing.  I thought a few radishes might make for a light starter on a rigorously hot and humid evening.  Twelve dollars bought me more radishes than any one person needs, although the garnishes of fresh goat cheese and farro were appealing, with some maple syrup pooling in the center of the plate.

I went with the flow. Octopus came as a crisp-creamy tentacle curled around some salad and thinly sliced disks of apple.  On the one hand, it should be remarkable to realize that we've come so far that well-prepared octopus is just taken for granted.  On the other hand, this was a nice dish which I felt I'd eaten often enough before.

Despite the grandeur of the bar, the beer and wine lists are short.  Hard liquor is indicated, and I drank a St Joseph sour, made with Old Overholt and Velvet Falernum, and sour it was.

Most of the dishes on the menu fall into the salad or cold seafood categories, and if sharing works, the $10-$12 price tags are kind.  The one indulgence advertised is a foie gras sandwich with egg, cheese, and bacon.  Straight out of Montreal.  Atmosphere: buzzy.

If lights at Alameda were low, they were even lower at River Styx, a long, gloomy bar in an almost concealed location so far down Greenpoint Avenue you think you're going to fall into the river. Or at least hitch a ride back to Manhattan with Charon, if you've an obol to spare.

The bar is long, with a curious curve at one end, and late one Friday night I was sat around the bend, almost behind a potted plant.  There's also an open kitchen, sending out selections from a longer, quirkier, and altogether heartier menu than Alameda.  Things like mussels on sticks and chicken liver tortillas.

I can't remember if this is stoner food, but it might well be.  After asking what a "Big Chef" might be, I ordered one. 

Yeah, invisible, I know. It was a sort of big, raggedy pizza pocket, stuffed with capicola, cheese, and bechamel, and freshly baked.  Ideal for eating in the dark, for soaking up beer, or addressing the late night munchies.  Atmosphere: louche,

And what's with the Greek mythology obsession.  Returning in daylight, I passed up the river to the underworld and headed into a quiet residential neck of West Street in search of Achille's Heel.

This is a lovely conversion of the commercial space (it was a bar and grocery years ago) in a grand old townhouse, just sold for $3.75 million.   We happened to meet the owner, who walked in during brunch and announced..."Hi, I own the building."

Okay.

Achilles Heel itself is owned by Andrew Tarlow of Marlow & Sons, Diner, and Reynard.  The brunch menu featured all the usual pastry-type things, but I was drawn like a magnet to a rabbit terrine.

Do I need to say anything, except that it was as good as it looks.  There are appealing wines, and proper coffee, but food (and seating) is as yet fairly limited.  One to watch.

And a shout out to Broken Land, a new bar which was my starting-point for some of these investigations.  The name?  Think about it.  The bar, deep and dark, is a sufficient indicator of the direction this neighborhood is headed.  Heavy metal, but not too loud.  Drinkers in bike club colors ordering cocktails from the list.

A change has come.