Thirstbaravin

Thirstbaravin
629 Classon Ave
(between Atlantic Ave & Pacific St)
Brooklyn, NY 11238

With people, lofty arrogance often belies latent insecurities. With restaurants, it is a warning sign for a bad meal.

I've been a fan of Eric Asimov's NYT wine column for several years, and upon reading his recommendation of this desolate outpost of a restaurant in Crown Heights, I made it a point to go here. Also, the restaurant's elevation of the underappreciated French wine-producing regions of Provence, Languedoc, and Rousillion, beckoned me to go here.

The wines by the glass list initially turned me off given the small number to choose from (3 whites, 3 reds, 1 rose, and 2 dessert wines) and their relatively high price points ($8-11) given what the bottles sell at retail. The waitress/owner initially tried to sell me a glass of red from a half-empty bottle with a rubber stopper, a clear signal that the restaurant is trying to dump a bottle opened one or two nights ago. I passed and demurred for a Domaine de Fontsainte Corbieres Rose Gris de Gris ($8), which was from an unopened magnum and a reputable distributor. I asked why the wine was called "gris de gris," and got a harried answer about how the wine was halfway between a red and a white wine (hence the 1st gris), and after further prying, that it was made from "Grenache Gris" (thus, the 2nd). After my glass was half full, I was asked if I wanted another glass of wine. (Not yet.) Mid-way through my meal, I was asked if I still wanted another glass of wine (No, not for that stingy 4 oz. pour.) After my rillettes, I was then asked again (No, because you are annoying me with your upselling.)

The meal started on a good note and gradually wended downhill. The cold beet soup with sheep's milk cheese ($8) was a delectable dish on the longest day of the year: the creaminess of the beet soup married well with the tanginess of the sheep's milk cheese and earthy drizzle of olive oil on top. The dandelion green salad was an exercise in ingredients not handled well; the bitterness of the dandelion greens was underlined even more by the lemony, acidic vinaigrette that dressed them and the slightly burnt croutons that topped it. Following these two dishes, the chicken rillettes ($12) were a slimy disappointment, with the minimal mound of seemingly leftover chicken made even more insignificant by the stale, oxidized baguette slices that were served along with it. After having two poor dishes, I should have called it quits, but I decided to order the Macaroni Gratin ($14). Upon seeing the dish, I knew I would be disappointed; upon biting into it, I became morose. The turgid cylinders of rigatoni looked as if they were taking limpid bath in a wan cheese sauce. With gratin, there should be an incorporation of the bread crumbs, the sauce, and the starch, but since the bread crumbs had been too liberally sprinkled and added to late, the little bread pieces became like small pieces of gravel while gnoshing on my pasta. After the pasta was half-eaten, I became fully dejected, and asked for the check.

My first (and last trip) to Thirstbaravin was an unmitigated disappointment. From the pushy wine service, to the poor quality of food, to the lofty price points, this is a restaurant that has severely become complacent since Eric Asimov's glowing write up. For someone who works in the industry, I would never tell anyone to not eat at a restaurant, but for someone thinking about Thirstbaravin, I would go out of my way to make an exception.