I didn’t go in expecting my socks to get knocked off—I just wanted to try a new nearby restaurant, hype, be damned—and well, my socks are still on. Not to say there was anything amiss with my food. I wanted it to be more distinctive. I think a lot of the appeal of places like The Good Fork stems from the quirk and trek factor. The same attention probably wouldn’t be paid to a similar eatery in say, the West Village.
The mashed potatoes seemed awfully sweet, and now I realize they were pureed with parsnips. Very nice with the carmelized, braised leeks. The black bean sauce was a touch salty, but it did punch up a potentially bland dish. The chicken was chicken, despite being from Cloonshee Farms. I’m sure if you put a plainly prepared Tyson drumstick and a free range hormone-less leg in front of me, I’d be able to detect a difference in flavor, but frequently fresh, organic meat is lost on me.
$74 was a touch more than I’d typically spend on a Thursday night dinner for two, and I don’t mean that in a Brooklyn should be cheaper than Manhattan way. People get up in arms if you complain about prices in the outer boroughs. I’m just thrifty. I wouldn’t say The Good Fork is a prime destination spot (at least not yet—hasn’t Red Hook been on the verge for the last decade? Who knows Fairway and Ikea will bring to the mix) but it is a nice option if you live in the general environs and are sick of the Smith St. offerings. (4/20/06)
The Good Fork 391 Van Brunt St., Brooklyn, NY
I started with a glass of Malbec and a salad of bitter greens, cubed beets and an apple-potato latke type wedge, topped with goat cheese. These are the types of salads I enjoy, yet never make at home because there are too many components for my weeknight patience. Then I moved on to the roast chicken, which I know is usually the most boring thing on the menu, but I’d been eating pork all week thanks to Easter leftovers, and it was so hot out I didn’t feel I should eat go too meaty.
Surprisingly, we were seated promptly at 8pm. I got a little nervous when asked if we had reservations. The thought had crossed my mind, but I didn’t call ahead out of principle—um, which principle, I’m not sure. Maybe the neighborhood joint principle. The staff seemed a little frenzied, though everyone was pleasant and accommodating. There was a slight insidery vibe, which is only to say that the host (owner?) seemed to know everyone. Maybe I’m just jealous because I’m not a regular even at places I go regularly.
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