March 4th

Barker Cafeteria, and the song that's getting me through winter.

Hi there. I’m going to start writing here more often and more casually. I really just want to tell you where I’m eating and if I liked it. I want to tell you about what surprised me about the meal and if it had a good sense of humor. That’s what this is going to be from here on out.

I’m holding myself accountable and saying that you’ll hear from me every Wednesday morning at 10 AM… and I’m going to be strict about that! I promise to give myself a slap on the wrist if I don’t follow through. If not, please text me and ask me why the hell I’m not in your inbox.

At the end, I’ll share thoughts on other things I’m loving — maybe something I impulse bought online, or a book I’m halfway through, or a TV show I watched in one sitting.

Enjoy.

“We’ll be seeing a T Mag piece about seedy pastries by next week…”

This past Sunday, on the second day of our first Fake Spring of the season, I visited Barker Cafeteria with my friend Rebecca. It’s lofted and light, the line of diners spilling out onto the sidewalk intersecting with the line of diners snaking out of the front door of Ursula next door.

The daytime cafe space opened its doors in December from Gracie Gardner and Harry Wright, a husband and wife duo that met on the line at Blue Hill at Stone Barns and relocated to Wright’s native Canada during Covid. There, they cultivated a sense of simplicity at farmers markets, serving honest food that is, in their words, unfussy.

And that’s exactly what Barker is. Humble, unpretentious, and superbly delicious. We ordered our spread at the counter and, in a stroke of luck, a two-top at the top of the stairs opened just for us, overlooking the counter and the mass overcrowding the door. Sunday lunch, after all.

Our roast beef sandwich lasted thirty seconds before being reduced to crumbs on the plate. The roast beef, tucked into focaccia, graciously melted into a parade of crispy potato sticks. A bitter horseradish mayo waved hello well after swallowing. It’s the textural blueprint of what every sandwich should be.

My favorite dish was poached eggs in an herby, minty yogurt, served with slices of griddled focaccia to dredge up the gleaming yolk. It felt perfectly unplanned, a dish you make for a friend who’s going through it and has spent the night, sure to cheer her up.

The apple fritter was delicious, but overshadowed by the hippie cookie, which is reason enough to visit Barker in the first place. It’s a seedy chocolate chip, the Final Boss of oatmeal chocolate chip-adjacent cookies, and completely surprised me by being both very crunchy-granola yet completely addictive. “We’ll be seeing a T Mag piece about seedy pastries by next week,” I thought to my friend. But I’m not complaining. The more the merrier.

For all of the real estate in Brooklyn, I’m surprised that there aren’t more spaces in Brooklyn that feel like Barker — open, social, not trying to rush you out the door. The next time I’m setting a lunch date with a friend, I’ll take them here, to languidly catch up over a dish that doesn’t brag about how good it is. The flavors speak for themselves.

What’s Getting Me Through

I won’t say it more than once, because we’re all thinking it, and we all think about it all of the time: this winter is so horrible. When winter’s at its worst, music takes me somewhere warm and familiar. This week, it’s “Island Music” by Tennis. I’ve been a fan of Tennis for well over a decade — they’re the band I’ve seen live the most. Their song “Island Music” stands apart from the rest of their catalogue, less rock pop and more tropical breeze. When I listen to it, I’m in line at a snack counter on the beach, minutes away from a red sno-cone melting down my wrist and dripping onto my sandals.

Thanks for reading. Next week: thoughts on Stissing House.