Of course not, because buzzy though it may be, Marlow & Sons is located in that aesthetically impoverished borough of Brooklyn. But that doesn’t stop the likes of Jake Gyllenhaal, Reese Witherspoon and their drop-dead gorgeous friends from popping in, as they did tonight. As I waited for my huckleberry-infused gin and tonic at the bar, I chatted briefly with the characteristically affable Gyllenhaal about Brokeback Mountain and, of course, the island of Sicily.
But my cocktail was underwhelming, and my brik chicken, though passably succulent, lacked the sophisticated presentation one comes to expect from similar venues across the East River. Likewise, my chocolate caramel tart was garishly large, and the oversized salt crystals screamed hipster kitchen effort when what was called for was subtle tang and restraint.
There was also morel toast on the menu du jour, and I mean please — sticking mushrooms on a spring menu? Serious cop-out, kiddos. In June you can practically pick ripe tomatoes off the Jersey Turnpike.
Jake’s he-friend had a glow reminiscent of Jude Law’s in Wilde. My spring scarf was smoke grey with a gilded elephant motif. His was white with navy accents..
Two otherwise on-the-money dining partners — not, sigh, Jake and Reese — pointed out the chocolate bars for sale made by some Brooklyn hipster squad in their apartment. But guess what bitches? I don’t want to ingest chocolate made in some dude’s Billyburg apartment-cave.
If one could distill the evening down to one little infinitive, I’d say, “to want.”