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Posts Tagged ‘Flatbush Farm’

The Gowanus Lounge told me that Brooklyn Brewery might move into Smith & 5th!

I once made the trek out to the industrial boneyard that is W-burg to celebrate a fellow blogger’s b-day at the Brewery, and it was great. The only bad part was getting there. And getting back.

Yay beer gardens! I’m thirsty.

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I went to this bar on three separate occasions this weekend. And I bet I’m not the only one. Brooklyn is a great place when it comes to patios. Walking down Court Street for example, there are a number of bars to choose from that offer a nice, relaxing outdoor space. Even the Dunkin’ Donuts has a pretty terrace where the three customers I’ve ever seen eating there can enjoy their pastries. I’ve walked by that Dunkin’ Donuts with Manhattanites, and their heads almost explode. There is such a lack of nice patios in Manhattan, that the idea of giving some up to a Dunkin’ Donuts is mind-boggling. But in Brooklyn, that’s just the way it is.

Gowanus Yacht Club is a bar that is open from the late spring until around Halloween. Located on Smith and President right next to the Carroll stop on the subway, GYC is a small outdoor patio that can probably seat about 40 or 50 people, and is incredibly laid- back. It’s not really a club, and there are no yachts to be seen. Instead, it’s a group of wobbly, colorful tables, parasols, and cheap drinks. The beer selection is quite impressive (ask a waiter – he’ll go on for minutes), and they also offer hot dogs, burgers and the occasional pulled pork entrees.

Pros: Cheap-ish drinks, a drunk but oddly behaved clientele, a friendly and attentive wait-staff, nicotine-friendly environment, bar plays full albums of both new and classic rock, cheap hot dogs.

Cons: Only one bathroom, tight quarters, sometimes tough to get a table, neighborhood kids throwing rocks inside from the street, the grill has been taken away after complaints from neighbors (don’t bring up P.J. Hanley’s ribs around these guys), beer prices are slightly up from last year.

All in all this bar is pretty magnificent. I have the feeling that they’re going to challenge the suspension of their grill, hopefully improving the food situation. In terms of kids throwing rocks inside the bar, one bartender told us his intention of using a bottle of Ballantine as a weapon if they ever come back. That makes me feel safe.

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I thought that probably the best chance of getting my face smacked would be in an argument with a greasy Bay Ridger at some dank-ass bar, deep in Red Hook. Turns out I only had to venture a couple blocks into a quaint residential neighborhood for the bum ticker to get it on.

I should inform you, blogite, that my usual meandering about the streets of Carroll Gardens with roommate Kelley has us fitting in quite well with the surroundings. My darker, seemingly Italian looks and Kelley’s red Irish cocks-comb both harmonize with the culturally intertwined local spirit you can find on display at PJ Hanley’s Bar (that’s for another review). Anyhow, that night circa 2 am, any fear or respect our looks should have inspired didn’t apply to the bored, low-life, hood youngster scum that is so abundant in this town.

We were well into Henry street, a quiet, brownstone-lined, well-to-do area with a corner pizzeria with a front stoop harboring maybe ten teenagers having themselves a New York moment. I’m sure was a deep philosophical discussion they were having, but as we pass by them one of the larger set members suddenly broke loose from the pack. Hollering “Hey, how are you?” as I spun around distracted, this young hoodlum pops a sucker punch right to my left cheek. I was more stunned by the randomness of it all rather than any pain. Kelley, usually the effusive poet, was also rendered quite speechless.

So this pizza-loving douchebag bolts down Henry while his pathetic cronies are yelling in the street, pointing to which way he went. We snap out of shock and by instinct give chase, my vendetta fueled rage kicking in while Kelley spewed between breaths the most vile of ancient Gaelic curses in his repertoire. A couple blocks down Henry, probably at about Second Place, we realize there are still about five of the trolls trailing us. Kelley turns to me and in an Alec Baldwin voiced hush informs me of the potential for an urban ambush.

So we decided right then and there that our best course of action was to avoid an outnumbered street confrontation and so we turned down another street towards Court. The wanking blackhearts declined to follow.

What I should have done was whip out my cell phone and started barking orders in Russian. Then those kids would have been pissing their pants.

Shite happens, I guess…But doesn’t it suck how you always think of those things way after?

By guest blogger, JJP.

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If there’s a lovlier bar than Flatbush Farm, I don’t want to know about it. It’s so classy, it makes Union Hall look like Welcome to the Johnsons. It’s so charming, it makes George Clooney blush. It’s so pretty, it makes sunsets turn to ash and fall out of the sky. It’s so expensive, it makes me perspire.

Flatbush Farm is decorated with perfectly shabby barnyard equipment, has hippie hand soap in the bathrooms and sells organic beer. I think the concept of organic beer is both horrifying and life-affirming. It’s horrifying in that it’s a pussified version of an essentially tough beverage. But it’s kind of life-affirming in that I am an alcoholic vegetarian with a thing for farmers’ markets. It’s like they don’t even pretend that place is not exactly for people like me – except older and with more money.

Last night, they had a fund raiser for some sort of animal shelter and were auctioning kitty-pleasuring gift baskets to insane people who actually try to stuff pets into their tiny New York apartments. Attendees were literally yelping with delight as they bought hundreds of dollars worth of scratching posts and tiny plush mice. “Mr. Muffins is going to be so spoiled,” squealed one woman. Really, that money would be better spent on anti-depressants and a good lint roller.

Aside from how insane rich people in Brooklyn are, this bar is really lovely. You should go check it out. But don’t stay too long because the organic beer will probably melt your brains.

Flatbush Farm
76 St. Marks Ave. at 6th Ave. and Flatbush Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11217

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