Marlow & Sons

Marlow & Sons

The first time I visited Marlow & Sons it was in the company of a food-loving friend. She couldn’t wait to take me to some of her favorite Brooklyn food haunts. I couldn’t wait to engage in this little culinary adventure. Mind you, Jennifer and I had never met in person. We shared foodie moments on facebook where I post beautiful photos of memorable meals and she delights in the visual displays of food rapture.

First we ordered a soup that rivaled my grandmother’s zuppa di Josephine. I am a big fan of bitter greens and so is this restaurant. Swiss chard and scallions were warmed by a rich and hearty chicken stock that gave new meaning to the word robust. I was still savoring the flavor of the soup, imagining the rind of Pecorino Romano cheese that provided both texture and a semblance of salt that brought the nuances of flavor together in a delectable dance when Jennifer suggested we order the Brick Chicken.

We had just visited Marlow & Daughters down the street. Think old world style of butchering, serious about locally sourced grass-fed meats. No factory-farmed poultry in this establishment. Sure, I’d give it a try.

Just when I thought the soup was enough to incite a sense of boundless bliss, out came the chicken. Brick Chicken. I pride myself on staying abreast of food trends but this dish was new to me. Imagine for a minute taking a bite into a crunchy layer of skin, the texture of phyllo, a salty finish that leaves you anticipating the next bite with the greed of a pirate on a treasure hunt. The juice of the chicken dribbled down my chin as I reached for a strand of sautéed kale peeking out from under the poultry.

My interest was piqued. The chicken is seared in a skillet and weighted with a couple of rocks or bricks before being transferred to the oven. The result? Crispy skin and tender succulent meat. Enough to pull this “primarily plant eater” back to poultry, at least when I’m in New York City.

I dream about that chicken.

As I prepared for a return visit several months later, I knew it would take more than the most succulent chicken on the planet to get my husband to accompany me to this little gem of a restaurant. He is a creature of habit. He likes to visit our favorite restaurants in the City. He likes to read every review on Yelp before he even considers a reservation. Not me. I follow my foodie sensibility or, at the very least, the well-informed steps of my favorite food bloggers.

I prayed Marlow & Sons would have a wide selection of local brews. Perhaps a world famous BLT. No such luck. The special of the day was rabbit. And, we were a little too early for lunch.

Alain, our waiter, graciously entertained us with Bloody Marys and beer while we watched the breakfast crowd amble out. My husband eyed the restaurant with curiosity while I danced over to the adjoining shop to talk with Steve, the in-house coffee bean roaster. We talked about the art of roasting beans, both coffee and cacao. I gave him a sample of my new chocolate product, “the cluster.” We smiled appreciatively at the subtleties of a well-roasted cacao nib.

There is something about the vibe in this restaurant that makes you want to meet Marlow, interview his sons, and perhaps take a walk down the street to learn a little more about “the daughters.” Never mind this immigrant family is fictional, conceived by owners Andrew Tarlow and Mark Firth. I smile, imagining that I am one of the daughters and the storefront down the street is my home in another life. My dad could be Marlow and I could be the daughter preparing the display of fresh produce for people to pinch and squeeze and purchase with a smug look of satisfaction as they take their treasure home to enjoy.

When I sit down to order the chicken of my dreams, Alain breaks the news: the Brick Chicken is not on the menu today. He watches the look of disappointment cloud my face as I tell him we drove all the way from Washington, DC

FOR.THIS.CHICKEN

Alain looks at me with empathy when I tell him …

I dream about this chicken.

The kind waiter pours us a taste of local wine and runs back to the kitchen. We’re still working on the Bloody Marys and beer but we graciously accept the taste of wine.

I contemplate running down the street to Marlow & Daughters to purchase a chicken. I imagine taking it to the chef, an optimistic look on my face, eyes darting around the room hoping to steal a glance at THE BRICK.

Alain breaks my reverie. “We can prepare that chicken for you,” he says smiling. I order two, one for me and one for my beloved. The BLT man looks at me skeptically but by now he’s more than just a little curious about this chicken. While the chicken is searing under “the brick,” my husband and I enjoy the house special escarole salad, reminiscent of the salads I enjoyed as a child. There’s Josephine again. My grandmother tossed a sumptuous salad.

The lettuce behaves differently in this kind of salad. This is not a “soggy”salad. Nor is it crisp. This is the salad of Italian grandmothers who toss the greens with olive oil and vinegar or lemon, and a shaving of the most beautiful Parmigiano-Reggiano. And garlic. Lots of garlic. This is the salad of Italian grandmothers who leave the salad to “rest” while the dressing softness the greens and the salt unlocks the flavors waiting to be discovered in a single bite of ecstasy.

When the chicken arrives, I glance at my husband and wait. You see, this is the true test. This is where nuance meets nirvana.

I detect a look of food rapture crossing the face of my beloved.

I know we’ll be back.

I (we) dream about this chicken.

And wait ’til I tell you about salted caramel chocolate tart.