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Freemans

Sat., April 19, 2008

A few weeks ago, I overheard two young ladies on the 1 train speak ecstatically about the brunch they’d just had at a place called Freemans, and as I’m usually still sleeping at brunch time, I made a mental note of the place and tried it for dinner last night. I gather that a lot of its allure swirls around its location through an unmarked door at the end of a blind alley on the Lower East Side, an actual alley with grafittied walls and rear windows for an art gallery and a barber shop. As such, Freemans seems to draw a clientele easily impressed by perceived exclusivity (more on that below).

Appealing to me is that the place aims for the vibe of a rich gentleman’s hunting club: a maze of connected rooms with little nooks and crannies, fireplaces, unfinished rough-hewn wooden floors, darkness punctuated by Edison bulbs, walls hung with mounted animal heads and large oil paintings of anonymous bearded men. I would be not surprised to find a trophy case or possibly some large leather chairs in another room.

I started with the fennel tomato soup, rich and topped with a pair of large and crusty toasted-bread croutons, and for my entree had the barbecued heritage pork spareribs, which arrived topped with shredded pickled jicama and artfully crossed over a bed of cheddar cheese grits. The accouterments were bland but the ribs were smoky and tender. From the “light drink” menu, I had a honeysuckle (rum, lime and honey syrup), followed by a Freemans Cocktail off the “dark drink” menu, too sweet for my taste; it was made with rye, lemon juice, pomegranate molasses and orange bitters.

I was sitting at a table for two in a high-traffic spot near the smaller of the two bars, and there was another table for two sidled up next to mine. The host attempted to seat two jackass ad executives at that table for two and the louder of them, in expensive hair, pink dress shirt and chunky platinum important-executive watch, kept bitching to his companion that “I didn’t think we asked for a table for three.” The bided their time waiting for a waiter to appear to loudly discuss the book Deluxe: How Luxury Lost Its Luster and how Pink Shirt had recently secured Sears as a client, which required The Other Guy to one-up Pink Shirt with a list of his equally bland clients. Once a waiter arrived, they complained enough that they were moved and replaced at some point between my soup and entree with a trio (the third pulled up a chair). After listening in to their conversation, it transpired they were just-as-annoying but much quieter PR executives.

So the crowd wasn’t ideal but the atmosphere was great and the food was good.

Freemans

Tags: 52 Meals Project (2008) | Comments have been closed.