(1) Flatbush Farm, gastronomic tavern and wine bar for the established palate, was born in the shadow of a dream. The philosophy is one of simplicity, masked in a complexity matched by none. The gastronomic rogue abounds with numerous philosophies and a mash of cultures, though one aesthetic—old world drink, hard water, ales, spirits, hoots and shooters.
The Farm (as it is affectionately known) consistently employs sustainable agriculture—hormones and antibiotics kept to a minimum. (2) Accessible, seasonal, local ingredients used to craft cuisine that features no selected yeast, enzymes, or additives—only partial flavors yielded.
Minerals are the source of the best-tasting foods, naturally harvested in ways ecologically sound and socially responsible. In the immortal words of (3) Afrika Bambaataa & the Soul Sonic Force: “rock, rock the Planet Rock, don’t stop…”. Aye, this Farm never will.
The spacious Farm interior holds yarns of rustic dining space and is adorned in unique and well-crafted furniture and artworks from mid-century (19th!) modern movements. A gorgeous outdoor patio features tables outfitted with individual wood-burning ovens, a cozy space done Italio-southwestern style.
A list of rare, extraordinary (4) wines from small, fanatical vine growers deliver elixir made with passion and dedicated neuroses. Secret passageways lead to cellars and a basement kitchen of immense proportions where our Chef and dedicated magician-chefs work gastronomic augury: logs are burned, ovens with baked meats choke, spits turn, sorrow and cold hap die, merry evermore, conjuring spells while masking any impurities the foods might hold.
The notorious side (5) BAR(N)—wayward, mischievous—is filled consistently with revelry, lovers, and mayhem: DJs, circus performers, literary recitations, and punk rock chaos of lore. Recent guests, drunk on frothy pints and ruby red vino— a, Brazilian tropicalia wafting through their heads, merrily shout, “N„o V· Se Perder Por AÌ”. Farm sentiments exactly.
As (6) “Futurists” we feel that the voluptuousness of the palate is for both sexes to enjoy, an upward movement through the human body. We must stop the male from becoming a solid leaden block of blind and opaque density. Instead he should harmonize more with his palate and the gastronomic female, a swift spiraling transparency of passion, tenderness, light, will, vitality, and heroic constancy. Let us make our bodies agile, ready for the featherweight flying vehicles of the future that will undoubtedly replace the heavy steel and iron-laden trains of present usage.
Let us consult this matter to our lips, tongue, palate, taste buds, and glandular secretions! Probe with genius into gastric chemistry! Flatbush Farm Rules: We will sell no wine before its time, serve mostly wild chicken, totally green asparagus.
The infamous Guuzbourg -- the rake -- has returned to his native Brooklyn, and is preparing a table just for you. Wine you say? Feasting you say? It is in his nature, as it is yours. Please let the word go forth: Flatbush Farm, like F. Brown before us, “goes to town”.