Credit Gregg Vigliotti for The New York Times |
I really wanted to adore the Bronx Beer Hall as much as I adored those hot wings, but like Cher’s character, fending off the advances of Mr. Cage’s operatic one-handed baker, the place seemed to specialize in making itself difficult to love. Hatched last year by two young brothers who dream of bringing fresh spirit to a distressingly sleepy stretch of Arthur Avenue, the hall can be found inside an old-school marketplace, where you may pick up a week’s supply of olives, pancetta and marinated anchovies while, if you’re lucky, an elderly gentleman plays an elegiac version of Andrea Bocelli’s “Con Te PartirĂ²” at the lonesome piano by the entrance. Grab a seat at the bar, or at the cluster of tables, and you feel lucky to be surrounded by the bounty of this storied Italian-American neighborhood. You want to linger.
But what’s bizarre is how disconnected the beer hall seems to be from that bounty. Yes, the beers on tap — a black I.P.A. called Misfit Toy from Great South Bay Brewery on Long Island; a white lager from SingleCut Beersmiths in Astoria, Queens — tend to be proudly local and consistently guzzle-worthy. They tangle well with Grandma Greco’s Special Wings, even when the hot-tempered Ms. Greco throws a capsaicin tantrum on your gums. It’s a shame, then, that so much of the rest of the pub grub at the hall is confusingly awful.
I’m still trying to erase the memory of the One & Only Truffle Burger, a culinary experiment so botched that it almost made a vegetarian out of me. Like a Bronx-based, speck-and-fontina-topped spin on Daniel Boulud’s famously luxurious carnivore magnet at DB Bistro Moderne, this one involves strips of truffled osso buco that are squeezed inside a patty made from sirloin and filet mignon.
It sounds good on paper. Alas, there are serious infrastructure issues. When I ordered it, the bun was too crusty and tall; the meat arrangement was too mushy and loose. I took a bite, and the edges of the ground beef squished outward. Before long, the whole thing fell apart, and I spied a sad, strange-looking knob of veal shank in the middle, curled like a fossil. I reached for my beer to wash away the image — and what seemed to be an oceanic residue of salt.
How, I wondered, does such a burger honor the legacy of Arthur Avenue? And what’s the point of offering a six-option Sausage Fest if each meaty link has been cooked so long that it has the texture of sun-bleached sailing rope? Does this historic neighborhood really need crostini made with peanut butter, strawberries, balsamic glaze and truffle oil?
For me, crushing disappointment came in the form of a “cheese board.” Here we sat, just steps away from some of the finest Italian cheeses in the city, and yet one of the selections on the platter was a very soft, bland, suspiciously triangular wedge of the Laughing Cow-ish fromage that you’d usually spot at the supermarket.
It’s rare that a restaurant allows you to order food from an alternative menu. On my final foray into the Bronx Beer Hall, I opted for a terrific meatball parm sandwich and a Big Mike Combo, with Italian cold cuts and provolone, from Mike’s Deli, the Greco family’s counter a few yards away. (Which makes sense: David Greco is a partner in the beer hall.)
So why aren’t they serving more of the real stuff at the Bronx Beer Hall? Well, maybe only the white-haired fellow at the piano can figure out the logic behind that. I still happen to think it’s a lovely place to hang out, and with a few radical menu changes, it could become the drinking-and-noshing destination that it’s supposed to be.
In the end, the Bronx Beer Hall made me feel like Cher in “Moonstruck.” I wanted to smack someone and shout, “Snap out of it!” But I say that with love.
NYPost
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