DuMont, a Born-Again Williamsburg Restaurant That Rises Above Its Geography

There aren't too many new Williamsburg restaurants that I take seriously. Most are so design-heavy that I cannot believe that the emphasis would be equally placed on cooking and ingredients. And I'm skeptical that a great many residents of this predominantly new-to-NYC neighborhood have the experience, scope and discriminating taste buds to inoculate the area against an invasion of make-believe restaurants. By make-believe I mean a place that fools you into believing that you are somewhere you are not, consuming exotic food from some faraway land that is conjured up from a box of Sysco institutional foodproducts.

There is something about the DuMont, though, that whispered comforting thoughts to me. This is a born-again Williamsburg restaurant that rises above its geography; a place that any neighborhood would be proud of.

Some North Brooklyn establishments are blessed with that naturally occurring warm Brooklyn ambience: the small, octagonal-tiled black and white floor; the original pressed-tin ceiling; and, as is the case with the DuMont, the coveted pressed-tin walls. I sensed the souls of Brooklynites long gone, of young Francie Nolan out buying provisions from a Jewish shopkeeper. DuMont takes this warmth a step further with a dim yellow candlelighting scheme, a dark wood corner bar and the most comfortable deep burgundy banquettes in the borough, a cross between the backseat of a family minivan and an orthopedic leather recliner.

I need not have been tricked into believing that I was in Williamsburg, emerging artistic center, full of youthful arrogance and sexual energy. This was encouraged not by the restaurant, but by the patrons, a fashionable mix of boys and girls out on dates and larger groups discussing their plans to influence the world through their magazines, gallery shows or theater presentations. The crowd was sparse when we arrived at 7:30, but by 8:15 the young Lennons and Ibsens were out on the sidewalk waiting for tables. DuMont doesn't take reservations, so try an early meal or a late-night visit, or settle in with a glass of beer or wine (they don't have a full liquor license) and wait it out.

The small clipboard menu lists salads, a burger, macaroni and cheese and a few other food standards, but the beauty lies in the specials, which make up the bulk of the restaurant's business. This arrangement recalls a bohemian haunt of my past, Leo's Lunchroom in Chicago, which served up sandwiches and ambitious daily specials to a cool Wicker Park coalition. I've been waiting for that kind of place to make an appearance around here. Diner (on Broadway and Berry) is close, but the atmosphere can get stifling, especially with celebrity spottings, DJs and car services dropping off slumming Manhattanites from the Williamsburg Bridge. DuMont is more my style.

The namesake salad of field greens, haricots verts, toasted pecans, radishes and small pieces of crunchy, thick bacon was excellent, but unfortunately laced with a standard, inexpensive Gorgonzola. A special of roasted cod with saffron aioli and crispy potatoes arrived atop a wonderful olive tomato sauce?an unexpected twist, but this dish just worked. It was buttery, flaky, and even though the aioli was more of a tartar sauce, it all came together on the plate; I finished every bite and attempted to lap up the remaining sauce with the crispy (pan fried?) potatoes.

Another special of creamy polenta with sauteed radicchio and crimini mushrooms was odd, like some breakfast dish from another continent, but it was deftly prepared and tasted so smooth and soulful that my dinner partner left the restaurant more relaxed, as if having been to a spa. I never did return to sample that burger, prominently featured as the first item on the menu, but it made my mouth water as it whizzed past our table, all thick and charred and served with a mound of medium-sized golden fries.

The food here is thoughtful, fun and full of the same youthful zest as the crowd. As with life in one's 20s, mistakes are often made, but here they do not distract from the overall vibe of the meal. Often, as with any artistic pursuit, a mistake can be a blessing in disguise. The special banana bread-pudding dessert, recommended by the helpful waitstaff, was born of one such mistake: the chef had baked a banana bread, that staple of second-grade-teacher-holiday-gift cuisine, was unhappy with the result and reconfigured it as bread pudding, serving it aside a hefty portion of creme fraiche. It was spectacular?gone in a heartbeat. I can't even remember what it looked like.

Prices run from about $9 for the burger to about $16 for the duck breast special. You're not likely to be offered exactly what I ate here, and that's the tough part about reviewing a specials-dependent restaurant, but I can at least confirm, based on what I experienced, that there's some beautiful music coming out of that young, talented kitchen.

DuMont, 432 Union Ave. (betw. Metropolitan Ave. & Devoe St.), Williamsburg, 718-486-7717.

The Minnow

I used to live in Park Slope. I'd amble down 5th Ave., mulling over the future of that decrepit strip of urban ineptitude. Needs more bars, I thought. Nothing to eat around here but General Tsao's chicken, I moaned. I was entitled, as a resident of the most placid, architecturally stunning and socially progressive residential neighborhood in the Western world, to only the finest restaurants, the most charming and friendly taverns, and to intellectual yet visually attractive neighbors.

Well, look now. Ten bars and 20 restaurants later, I am in Sunnyside, a Park Slope exile. I had begged the Genie of Brooklyn to bless me with awe-inspiring retail activity and nightlife, and yet had forgotten to wish for a rent-controlled apartment. Now my life is a maze of numbered streets, avenues, roads and lanes, and I'd be hard-pressed to run into anyone on my block who can understand a word coming out of my mouth.

Down on 5th Ave., since I've moved out, Blue Ribbon Brooklyn has moved in, bringing with it the sophistication and street credentials to elevate the scene from backwoods to urban chic. I wish them and their $20 fried chicken the best of luck. Long Tan, a Thai-ish bistro and bar, occupies the former headquarters of the street youths who used to throw beer bottles at lesbians. Closer to that baseball-stadium-revival masterpiece, the Atlantic Center mall, Convivium Osteria (at Bergen St.) is a high-end cozy hideaway for great Italian/Portuguese cooking. And up on Flatbush Ave. is the most telling gentrification story of all?a former African-American bookstore transformed into a sleek French bistro (Bistro St. Mark's, at Flatbush and 6th Ave), owned by a former Soho chef.

Most of the recent restaurant activity has been far away from Main Street Park Slope, 7th Ave., home of the strollerati, the ruling class of doting mothers and autocratic children with fairytale names like Arianna and Cody. It is here that primitive and offensively awful restaurants grow like fungus. They can be divided into the following categories: Bland, Bland/Ethnic and Bland/Expensive. Naturally, the third category is experiencing rapid market growth, and because (not in spite of) the World Trade Center attacks, these restaurants will multiply and prosper as well-heeled residents spend less time in Manhattan (fear, anthrax) in favor of Brooklyn (home, family, trees, distance).

Enter the Minnow, a mid-priced (average entree, $16) fish-themed restaurant occupying the garden floor of a big old brownstone. Inside, it feels like a snug, far-West Village neighborhood place: a brick wall lined with local art; a long banquette topped off with those Manhattan-cliche mirrors. Lighting is subtle, tables are close together and the joint is packed. So far, I like what I see?a Park Slope version of a Smith St. restaurant. Warm and inviting.

I was more than a little afraid to eat seafood in a 7th Ave. restaurant, but as a sort of exposure therapy, I sprung for the raw little neck clams appetizer. I prayed briefly, and then down the hatch. Out of eight of them, four were scrawny and too salty; the others were fresh and plump. New England fishcakes were firm, and fried to perfection. Still don't know how they got them to hold together; there was practically no filler, just flaky chunks of unidentified white fish.

While waiting for the entrees, the wails of a child Napoleon racked my brain like a Webern string quartet blasted through a Marshall stack. To be fair, though, the Minnow is a more grownup restaurant than others nearby. Crowdwise, it's a mixed bag of neighborhood couples, both young and old, and visitors from points south. It's refreshing to see the Park Slope vicinity drawing in folks from other neighborhoods; Brooklyn, excluding Williamsburg, usually doesn't operate this way.

My sauteed skate wing was passable, if a bit uninteresting. Its accompanying smoked haddock croquette was a thoughtful touch. Oven-roasted cod was placed inside a bowl of broth strewn with clams and mussels. It was properly flaky, but, again, lacked oomph. Minnow's cooking isn't quite subtle and ingredient-based, either?my "bitter greens" were no more than plainly sauteed Swiss chard, which barely registers a three on the barometer of bitterness, that being a baked potato at the low end and my grandfather as a perfect 10.

My dining partner was warned that the grilled yellow-fin tuna would be served rare. It wasn't. It was cooked throughout, probably because the whole plate was placed into an oven to heat the olive mashed potatoes and the excellent, spicy fruit compote. Other choices include roast chicken and vegetable lasagna, and more notably a nice-looking plate of lobster for under $20.

The wine list is priced very fairly and contains some real gems. The Y2K Domaine Lacroix-Vanel Syrah was full and throaty but still crisp enough to match up with a nice thick piece of fish. (But not something so delicate as my skate wing. My fault.) We had a pumpkin flan for dessert that resembled a flan only in appearance. It was more like creamy pumpkin pie without a crust. Coffee was sufficiently strong.

Problems arose with service, which was hectic, overburdened, disorganized and uninformed. In the course of our meal we were visited by four different members of the waitstaff. The one main waiter who seemed to be doing all the work was performing as best he could under these circumstances. It took a long time for our dessert to arrive and longer still to take care of the bill. If they are unable to fix the kinks in this system, the Minnow will be lost.

The Minnow, 442 9th St. (7th Ave.), Park Slope, 718-832-5500.