I trekked out to South Williamsburg’s Moto twice, and twice I called my awaiting company in a panic. Perhaps I should have read the backside of Moto’s menu, which informs: “Cash Only. Live Music Nightly. Car Service Next Door. Get Home Safe.” Even the restaurant proffers a solution for those who brave the desolate area for this foodie comfort zone.
Moto is inconspicuous save for its long and triangular body—like a pizza slice pinned together by a rustic copper door. A quick sweep past the black velvet curtains, and I find my friends squeezed in the back of the tiny, bustling joint.
We cluster around the horseshoe-shaped bar which twists around the kitchen and juts into the floor, lassoing in the lone bartender who mans the crowd with a French-heavy wine list and tap beers like Corsendonk and a black velvet Guinness/champagne combo. Strike up a conversation, as my friend did, and he’ll even indulge you with a taste test of drink specials.
We have time to soak up the scenery. Named after the owners John McCormick and Billy Phelps’ love of motorcycles, the café-cum-bistro is like a futuristic mechanic’s garage.
“It’s inspired by movies such as Delicatessen and City of Lost Children,” the ever-helpful bartender whispers to me.
“Like the past and the future.”
Indeed, beers froth from makeshift pumps constructed out of black galvanized water pipes. A half-mangled guitar slices into a mirror. And downstairs stands an old-fashioned pull-chain toilet, replete with a separate tank that dangles from the ceiling.
When I rejoin the group, we are seated at two itsy bitsy tables that wobble atop the uneven, wide-plank floors. Luckily, we forget the seesawing when the appetizers arrive. Like tapas, the servings are dainty but pack in a delightful punch. Green olives dribbled in pomegranate molasses ($4) are both tart and sweet, topped with crumbled walnuts. The lemon-infused whole artichoke ($7) with olive oil is steamed to perfection and shaves onto the tongue like butter. But we are a tad disappointed with the duet of Manchego cheese and quince ($5), as the very slim slice of preserve hardly merits its co-appearance on the menu.
A dusty recording of Nina Simone switches on by the time the waitress comes armed with our main courses. One friend visiting from Germany declares the Aepler Macronnen ($11)—smothered in Bundnerkase cheese, potatoes and caramelized onions—remarkably European.
“Reminds me of home,” he sighs, even though he only arrived yesterday.
This rendition of mac-n-cheese is really just that good, especially when paired with homemade applesauce for the perfect bite. It’s the clear winner of all the dishes we sample, though the others are quite tasty too. The saffron risotto special of the day ($14) comes heaped with a medley of garden vegetables—asparagus, green beans, carrots, mushrooms—and drenched in a slightly salty cream and cheese sauce. A crusty, earthy prosciutto panini ($9) looks pretty on the plate next to a spring salad but is rather textbook in flavor; the pear, brie, mixed greens and honey version becomes a wistful afterthought.
Every night Moto plays host to neighborhood bands, and tonight it’s bluegrass. A jovial feeling grows rampant among the diners due to all the swashbuckling banjo and bass-prickling. A red fire bucket surfs the crowd, patrons fisting dollar bills into the donation pot. I observe my elderly neighbor’s reaction as I prop the tin pail over his head and onto the table. His face turns like the changing colors at the break of dawn: first, a half-cocked brow, then anger at the disruption, until finally clearing away to a sheepish smile. He thumbs a quarter into a pot, then feasts with a renewed appetite.
And therein lies the beauty of Moto: Goodwill is incited by a surreal trifecta of good food, good music and good atmosphere, with only the occasional rumbling JMZ train above to transport us back to reality.
Moto
394 Broadway (at Hooper St.), B’klyn
718-599-6895
