I recommend the cauliflower, slow-roasted until it’s easily cut with a fork, nestled with delicate lentils and plump golden raisins. Get the beef-tongue hash, a dish that turns a quizzically textured cut into something alternately fatty and crisp, then sets a perfectly fried duck egg on top of it. To do this restaurant right, you’ve got to allow yourself organ meats. (If those tweens were ordering it simply for the awesome beef fat–fried fries, though, bless their hearts.) The meat’s mushy, the bun’s too big for the patty, and mine reeked of smoke from the bacon, despite the fact that the strips were scarcely cooked. And, not to start things off on the wrong foot, but the Kobe burger, like most Kobe burgers I’ve had, is nothing to get excited about. Friday’s this is not, and it was hard not to notice that those groups were ordering their fair share of burgers. Why else would I have been seated next to couples with babies and families with tweens? Yet, however welcoming and well-informed my server was, T.G.I. Truth is, the folks working here are some of the friendliest and most professional hipsters you’ll ever meet, and their graciousness isn’t lost on the neighborhood. But if you’ve gotten it into your head that eating at a restaurant owned in part by the Empty Bottle guys means that you’ll be systematically ignored by a waitstaff of smelly, aloof, strategically scruffed dudes and the waifish, Lycra-clad women who dig them, then you have seriously underestimated the genre. And there are flannel shirts, and mustaches, and Grandma sweaters. There are dozens of whiskeys for three bucks the house favorite, Cabin Still, is mellow and gentle. At Longman & Eagle, there are old fashioneds, stirred slowly and carefully behind a dark, gorgeous bar.
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