Farm on Adderly

Wednesday night off from the restaurant, I have this standing date with a friend in Carroll Gardens. We usually eat at Fragole on Court St., although sometimes we pick up Chicken Parm at Vinnie's on Smith. After dinner we watch Lost at his place, guilty pleasure, I know, but I don't miss it. Anyway this week he couldn't make it, and I don't have cable, so I did what I often do when plans fall through--took myself out to dinner.

Now I've been reading a lot of MFK Fisher lately--I would quote her on this, but I've lent my girlfriend the book. And there's something about the way she ate alone, and something about her dignity and aesthetic and the way I feel when I'm alone, how sometimes it's nice to not have to be anything for anybody. I could have gone to Blue Ribbon where they know me, or to my old restaurant, but somehow being around people I would have to talk to missed the point.

Besides, taking yourself out should be new and different and exciting. I had never been to the Farm before, had always wanted to check it out, but never did. Walking there, I started to feel a little sorry for myself, a little awkward, having second thoughts at the door and looking at the menu, watching people eat with people and laugh and I went in anyway. Sit at the bar, look at the menu, order a drink and ask the bartender what she likes. I order then, pate to start and fettucine; a heavy, meaty appetizer and a lighter entree, something I can linger over, and then the bread comes and it's not perfect--a little dry maybe, but I wipe it through my little dish of oil, and I'm ready for more. Things start to feel good, and the pate comes--a big plate, one solid slice of terrine, some mesclun, grainy mustard, olives and cornichon. I smell the terrine, slice a piece and it's everything a country pate should be, hearty and well seasoned. The mustard is delicious and I eat each piece differently, trying every combination of bread and meat and greens, mustard, pickles and olives. The olives are creamy and the mesclun is acidic with a citrus undertone.

I finish, pushing the plate away and nodding to the bartender. I tell her it was delicious, I'm glad I ordered it, and then the fettucine comes, a giant bowl of pasta and peas and broccoli rabe. It's a little bland at first, but some kosher sprinkled over, a good swirl with my knife and it's perfect, filling but light, good spring vegetables, fresh pasta and I eat it quickly, finishing every strand. I'm full now, sit back and look at the plate. The bartender sees the peas I've left, says "You don't like peas." I laugh, "No I love peas, I'm just full," and somehow saying it gives me enough push to dig in again, and I finish the plate. Skip desert because, really, I am very full. I look down the bar, to the back of the restaurant, half full, a couple of tables having come in since I sat down. It's a Wednesday night, after ten, and a restaurant in Brooklyn is almost full. Life is good.