A young man with a beard slides his stool up to the bar, squeezing in between a flirting couple and an elementary school-aged child. The bearded fellow is dining solo at Black Hogg, his only companion a fat book of Carl Jung. He inquires about beverage options and is informed that there's still no liquor license. The space behind the bar where the liquor should be has only a barren shelf, used for tallying checks rather than slinging drinks.
It's too bad. This is boozy food.
The bearded gent orders spicy chicken livers, which come piled up on toast like bruschetta and topped with a mohawk of chicken cracklins. Behind him, the dining room is packed. It's so sparsely outfitted it almost comes across like the tiny cafeteria at hipster middle school. A woman with a giant tattoo of an heirloom tomato giggles with her friend as they snack on oysters and fried olives with honeyed goat cheese.
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In the kitchen, which you have to walk right through to access the restroom, an extended family (presumably that of chef Eric Park) hangs out eating take-out sushi. A baby squirms in his mother's arms. They step outside the swinging kitchen doors to observe the tiny, packed dining room.
An exceptionally pretty blonde waitress coos at the baby, then rushes back to the kitchen to grab plates of sausage hash and uni on toast. The group of customers at the door waiting for a table swells. It's easy to see how this place will take shape once the booze arrives: The crowds will grow. A seat at the bar will be harder to come by. The tipsy trek through the kitchen to use the bathroom will be more of an adventure, and the line for said bathroom will spring up, winding past the line, mingling with the family eating sushi, until the customers and the cooks and the relatives of the cooks are hard to distinguish. Perhaps we can all discuss Jung and the collective unconscious together.
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