Freemans

If it wasn't for the nearly hour wait at Freemans, whether you're eating on a holiday weekend Sunday or any given Sunday (as we have now twice), this restaurant at the end of Manhattan's version of a hidden driveway would be one of my top five in New York City.

It's perfect for any occasion-- you feel hip enough taking friends, but it's not too hip you can't take your parents there. Our first trip was on Labor Day Sunday. I thought we'd have the whole place to ourselves, since most New Yorkers hit the trains, planes and Zipcars to get the heck out of Manhattan. But I was mistaken, strongly mistaken. The second Sunday we visited was no different.

GoldenGirl showed up before us and put her name down and the tiny man at the host podium told her it would be around a twenty minute wait. That wait quickly skyrocketed to 45 minutes, and with that, we decided to sit at the bar in our Sunday casual and feast away.

I know there's a place in the city called Aspen, which I've been curious to try, having lived the mountain madness in a "find myself" transition year from college to the real world. After 365 days of neverending parties and pleasure, I learned Aspen is the last place anyone's going to learn how to become an adult. I left before there was any chance of becoming a lifer. Freemans very much reminded me of an old rickety mountain lodge, with a few minor city touches. You walk in and you feel like you've just entered a black and white photograph toned with sepia. Apart from the antlers and taxidermy everywhere you looked, the hipster servers, the small rooms packed with tables, the dim lighting and the half-dark, half-white walls all bled mountains to me.

Not only that, but the temperature inside the bar room felt like we were in a mountain wind tunnel. The bartender was dressed like she was about to take a step onto a ski slope, with a jacket tightly buttoned to her neck and a neat scarf protruding from it and keeping her neck completely covered. How very odd. I couldn't just sit there and not ask what was going on. So, like every other disturbed patron in the bar room, in between teeth chattering I asked, "Why is it so freeeeezing in here?"

"I'm so sorry, the A.C. is busted," she replied with a smile.

To me, when the A.C. is busted, the opposite usually happens, and instead of feeling like you're in a freezer, you feel like you've just reached the lowest level of the New York City subway system on a 98 degree weather day.

"Well, it feels like it's working on overdrive," I said.

"Yes, unfortunately, we can't get it to stop."

Luckily I had a sweatshirt in my beach bag. We'd spent the day lounging around Central Park, going to the movies and walking around and thank goodness I felt the need to bring along my new favorite Black Dog sweatshirt. Fashionista and GoldenGirl whipped out the blanket we were lying on earlier and they wrapped it tightly around their legs like they were taking a cruise on a Central Park carriage in February.

I wasn't planning on drinking that night, but the frigidity drove me to have a glass of red wine.

We glanced at the menu and there were several things we wanted to try. Unfortunately this picture below doesn't do the artichoke dip any justice (my camera-phone can get quite temperamental indoors), but it's the best I've ever had anywhere. It was a perfect blend of chunky and smooth artichokes, even topped with a crispy layer of cheese-turned-crust on top. It looked like a big bowl of French onion soup but without the soup. Cheese was flowing over the rim of the massive ramekin and I made sure to get every last bit of it on bread. The portion is just right too. Any more you'd be dead. Any less you'd be unsatisfied and bullying your friends for the last chunk.

We also tried the devils on horseback and corn fritters. The devils disappeared before I snapped a picture, and while they did melt in your mouth, the bacon wasn't as crispy as I'd like. I think I'm jaded by The Spotted Pig's devils. Someone managed to steal her fritter before I took the picture so what started as three was now two. They were fluffy and fabulous and the size of a fist.

Fashionista and I both tried the filet mignon with roasted onion, mashed potatoes and horseradish cream. It completes me. This filet mignon is one I could eat every day, not just once a year on Christmas Eve like I tend to. Outback Steakhouse claims to have a bloomin' onion, but this onion was bloomin' in my book. The first night I tried it I tore off the red crisp skin, the second night I ate it and decided that would be my new thing. Filet and a roasted onion. Freemans knows how to KISS (keep it simple stupid). But wait, it gets better. The mashed potatoes were thick and clumpy and buttery and I didn't want to put my fork down. I just kept shoving it in. The horseradish cream is the gel that brought everything together for me. I don't think I'll be able to eat another filet without it. Recipe? Anyone?

GoldenGirl tried the pan-roasted chicken. I snagged a small morsel and liked the smooth tender chicken with the crispy cashews and snap peas. I think GoldenGirl wished the dish came with some starch (she kept going for our mashed potatoes), but looking at the size of that chicken most people probably wouldn't be able to finish all that food. In fact, I think GG got half of it wrapped up.

On our second visit to Freemans, Fashionista's mom treated us to dinner, and that time around we scored a table and the room temperature was just right.

Fashionista and I stuck to our guns and re-ordered the filet, the artichoke dip and the devils on horseback. In addition, we tried a cheese plate with honey and peaches, GoldenGirl tried the grilled trout with thyme, garlic and lemon, and Fashionista's mom tried the lamb with potatoes in the form of fried mozzarella sticks.

The trout came out fully dressed in its head and skin. When GG took off the layer of glistening skin she found a beautiful row of lemons cooked within the trout. I usually don't go for fish with the head on, but the way this was prepared I very well just might. I didn't get to try Mrs. Fashionista's lamb but the highlight of that plate was the way the potatoes were prepared. I snagged every last bit of the potato sticks (after she was full, of course) and would love to order these next time.

When you say the word "Freemans" to friends, they either look at you funny or give you the nose-in-the-air look as if you've just said you bought an apartment where the former Plaza Hotel used to stand. BeanieBaby was the first person to mention Freemans to me, and when she did I gave her the funny look. It's clear with the long waits that this Lower East Side gem is no secret, but when you eat there you still feel like you're part of the cognascenti. Unlike most restaurants in New York whose secrets have been trampled and riddled with mobs, Freemans fans are not turned off. People will continue to flock to Freemans, like skiers flock to Aspen, and so will I.

End of Freeman Alley, off Rivington between Bowery & Chrystie
212-420-0012