Before I left New York, a friend asked me where I wanted to have my farewell dinner. The decision weighed heavy on my shoulders.
I adored so many restaurants. There were places that I shared glasses of wine with friends, laughed over pizza, and talked intimately over candlelight.
There were Saturday brunches that started with mimosas and quiche and ended with espressos and soufflés at night.
I thought of all the wine bars, gastropubs, and cafes in Manhattan. But I knew they wouldn’t suffice.
It was Brooklyn that stole my heart and it was in Brooklyn that I would eat.
The James was a 15 minute stroll from our apartment in Prospect Heights.
Nestled in the corner of St. Marks and Carlton Avenue, the restaurant blends into the neighboring brownstones and trees. If you peer into the side window, you’ll see locals enjoying gin and mint cocktails at the bar or slices of brioche at leather booths in the back.
The night of my farewell dinner, I sat at the bar, backlit by an expansive aged mirror. Like everything at The James, each detail has character and texture, a feeling that it’s been there for decades.
Around 8:30 pm, the setting sun streamed through the windows and bounced off the vintage mirror to make bottles of wine and gin glow from within.
This is what I wanted to remember—Brooklyn glowing.
I started with my usual: a shredded black kale salad, sprinkled with quinoa, crushed smoked almonds, shaved ricotta, and a perfectly poached egg on top.
Other items on the menu include Rhode Island scallops with a couscous crust sitting on roasted baby beets and a lemon-thyme broth and trofie pasta with organic mushrooms, pecorino toscano, and sweet marjoram.
I’m a firm believer in dessert and considered getting the lavender crème brûlée with a marinated berry salad but decided to end dinner with an espresso and cream. I slowly sipped on my coffee, inhaled the roasted aroma, and relished in my last moments, my last supper in Brooklyn.
hannahtice 