Most small-plates joints, including such good ones locally as AOC or Lou, follow a kind of pattern, a loose, tapas-inspired matrix designed more to compliment the wine than to provide a specific aesthetic apart from lubricated conversation, but this lunch seemed like a different thing entirely, like the Craft experience distilled into a tasting menu.
I've probably been to a dozen barbecues at friends' houses in the last month, and the routine of burgers and overdone chicken is getting a little old. Any suggestions for my own barbecue? And please don't point me towards any of your beloved organ meats.
Matty's behind the bar and proffers us two deliciously cold German beers from the tap -- a Köstritzer Schwarzbier for Courtney, and a Reissdorf Kölsch for me. We don't attempt to pronounce them. Libations in hand, we wait on the endless sausage line snaking out the door and down the cobblestone street. But who cares? Who cares that the line moves with the pace of an inchworm? We have beer! We have friends! And we're making new ones as we stand together in the kind of proximity typically reserved for a New York subway.
On the third night of Ludo Bites, the restaurant ran out of food. And I don't mean it sold out of a dish or two, or that it closed a bit early -- it ran out of pretty much everything.