The eastern end Henry Street, cleaved between the established brownstones of Brooklyn Heights and the industrial but refurbished BUMBO neighborhood, can claim some of the best, seldom discussed restaurants in Brooklyn. Running parallel to Smith Street on a map, it runs nowhere near it on the radar.
It's just a quick walk for me whereas Smith Street means a trip on the subway or bus, or some pedestrian ambition. Having cycled through each restaurant between Middagh and Clark, I finally wandered in to Henry's End whose façade and name connoted a dive bar. The "wild game festival" menu hanging in the window from October until March persuaded me to make a reservation.
Established in 1973 as a local hangout and burger bar, Henry's End inherited that frowzy atmosphere, but chef Mark Lahm worked his way up the restaurant brigade, starting as a busboy and moving through the front of the house. Eventually, Lahm attended the CIA and took over Henry's end in 1986. Somewhere along the line he developed a taste for game. Venison, quail and buffalo are found in many restaurants, but elk, rattlesnake and turtle are a bit harder to come by.
The exposed brick and slate tabletops give Henry's End the kind of masculine feel that stuffed heads and other taxidermist bric-a-brac can muster in places like Freeman's and Trophy Bar. The wine list is as steroidal and bold. New World wines from California, and South Africa feature as prominently as whites from Oregon and Washington state. A 2005 Napa Cabernet Sauvignon (Panacea) was painfully bold, but a Stag's Leap of the same appellation was velvety enough to enrobe a meal of mushrooms, game and chocolate.
A meal can easily become a feast. Ordering a couple of salads to whet our appetites, my beautiful fiancé and I were surprised a large plate piled high with large cubes of beets, whole pistachios and enough chevre to fill out a healthy cheese board. The dish overwhelmed and even threatened the sanctity of an evening out; meanwhile, a mushroom salad tossed with walnuts and perfunctory greens deceived the stomach but warmed the palate with the image of the hunt.
Not that any great hunting is taking place at Henry's End. Ostrich comes to Brooklyn by bridge and tunnel. Quails come us from Georgia, perhaps with the Braves when the play the Mets. Stuffed with chard and pomegranate, the tender foul is juicy but the greens added a bitterness that fought against, rather than accentuated, the sweetness of the dish.
The wait staff is well trained and polished. The rolled up sleeves of their denim shirts reminded me of trips to Lake Tahoe and the sporty waiters who looked like LL Bean catalogue models, yet at every point in the meal I was attended to and never bothered. As I began to enjoy an herb-crusted elk chop, I noted how fine the cutlery was. Much leaner than beef and pork, the sturdy knife was helpful. The herbs, largely parsley, some lemon zest, peppercorns and breadcrumbs were fine, but I detected a bit of complacency in it.
Across from me, I noticed a fine fillet of salmon in a "three mustards" sauce being pulled apart by a fork. A side of garlic mash potatoes was, as the waiter promised, worth the price of the dish. The mustard sauce was deficient though. It was simply lathered across the flesh, it seemed, rather than part of it. While nicely composed, it failed to register anything but satisfaction, if somewhat limited.
The finest dish was an antelope au poivre. I expected little more than venison, but antelope in this fashion had the gaminess of wild boar, the texture of beef and the sweetness of the best pork. Lean but succulent, the green peppercorns leached a little more juice from the bone-in steak.
While everything was well handled and the kitchen operated with timeliness and care, the desserts were disappointing. A Fonseca Vintage Port capped a nice meal but the Mud Pie that was recommended was served on an icy plate but topped with hot fudge. As anticipated the fudge become little more than troublesome tar.
10pm feels late at Henry's End. The crowd thins out dramatically and we were left with espressos and the chattering accompaniment of four expatriated Italians. Stuffed and exhausted we left to views of the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges. It's not an every night place, or even a monthly spot but once a season it is well worth it. read more