Post-Punk Gastropub

There are few things I loathe more than the  the prefix “Post.” “Post-modern?” Can someone, anyone please concisely define that word for me? I’ve asked dozens of professors, art students, anthropologists, literary critics, dandies and hipsters and never received a satisfactory answer. So it’s not without trepidation that I’m titling my first self-indulgent exercise in navel gazing (blog) with the word. Yes, in this case it just might be appropriate.

Allow me to explain-

I live on a funky little block on the southern fringe of Park Slope, Brooklyn, a cheerful, much-gentrified neighborhood that hasn’t been dangerous in decades but is still inconvenient enough to Manhattan that it’s maintained a modicum of hipness [If you haven't heard of Park Slope, it's a little like this or this]. For the past year and a half I’ve lived in an aging prewar building perched on the crest of said Slope that according to local lore was converted by the mob in the late ’80′s into condos.

For the past dozen years the street level commercial unit of the building was occupied by a low-key, low-profile, BYOB, cash-only (sensing a pattern?) Middle Eastern restaurant that did a mystifyingly steady business. Mystifying in that the food was lousy, the decor nonexistent and the venue visibly filthy. I love a good hummus or even a not-so-good hummus but theirs was appalling in a way I can’t even describe. Runny, thin, bland, sad.

All of this would be excusable had us residents had an easy time dealing with the owner but to make a long story short, we didn’t. Sami (an alias), the short, bald, blunt owner showed up on his motorcycle to the restaurant at most, once a week, to collect his cash. Chasing him down to pay his monthly condo fees was as frustrating and circuitous as finalizing paperwork at the DMV.

So when I got word that Sami had sold his restaurant (confirming a hunch I had since he’d pounded down my door for a copy of the condo offering plan a few weeks earlier) I was thrilled. I had seen rumors online that a new joint was opening on my exact intersection but hadn’t dared imagine the sleepy falafel joint could actually make way for anything resembling a “turn-of-the-century tavern setting.”

Dare to dream, folks. Mine was realized Sunday evening when I met David, the new proprietor of Thistle Hill Tavern, the casual, cozy new eatery slated to open in January which the new owner sheepishly described with that overwrought culinary buzz word “gastropub.” In keeping with unofficial gospel of all new Brooklyn dining establishments, Thistle Hill’s fare will be seasonal and locally-sourced, leftovers will be composted and carbon output minimized (The greatest sales pitch nearby Six Point brewing company ever stumbled on). In other words, it will be everything the prior unnamed falafel joint was not. And did I mention the chef was a woman?

And the very best part: this guy is part-owner. That’s right, Fat Mike, frontman of seminal punk band NOFX, who is apparently a childhood friend of one of David’s partners. Hopefully the place will establish a homey neighborhood pub vibe and not a pilgrimage-site-for-aging-punk-rock-nerd vibe. But then again, clinging to youth and coolness when you’re way past your prime pretty much defines this neighborhood so maybe either would be totally appropriate.