It was late on a Sunday evening at Inga’s Bar in Brooklyn, and the dining room grew quieter. Thus, the seats at the bar, where I was having dinner, began to fill up with waiters who had sent their last customers in for the night.
As they decompress for cocktails and booze, something unusual happens: They talk to each other, with great enthusiasm, about the things they love on the menu. Some of the dishes were praised, but the one that was universally supported seemed to be a salad called Victor celery. Someone orders one, and when it arrives, the conversation about its value begins again.
They can’t kiss the chef, their boss Sean Rembold; he has no ears at the end of the bar. Are they doing this for me? I ate the crunchiest giardiniera I can remember and it was followed by a fisherman’s stew, a bowl of hake, oysters and mussels in a tomato broth so thick and spicy it could be made into a dish. great arabbiata pasta. While my ideal fisherman stew could have contained more seafood, I was completely satisfied and clear by the end of my meal.
The only explanation that makes sense is that they mean it. And while the endorsement of paid workers usually has no place in a review, I’m telling you about this conversation because it illustrates something about Inga.
Located on a corner of Brooklyn Heights, the place is divided into a bar and a dining room, connected by a wide walkway but separate enough that each room has its own atmosphere. Many restaurants use their bar as a lounge and overflow seating. Inga has avoided this since opening in March and as a result the bar has become a local hangout. (It may have attracted some alternate loyalists from Jack the Horse Tavern, a longstanding local favorite that closed last year.) Sit down with a book and you might be asked what you’re reading; Order celery salad and someone will agree. The employees at the end of the shift just follow the pattern set by the average drinker.
They were also right about Victor celery. In the original form, devised in a hotel in San Francisco over 100 years ago, a salad consisting of celery stalks braised in vinegar, garnished with anchovies and served cold. Perhaps feeling that this would be a bit too much like celery for the modern diner, Mr. Rembold incorporated other vegetables and leaves into the picture, along with pieces of Parmesan and pickled mustard seeds. Salad in Inga is never an afterthought. Even a simple plate of pastries and herbs can start a conversation.
Inga’s Bar actually doesn’t serve bar food, despite the name, and although its menu features a cheeseburger – a very tasty and unpretentious item, on a soft toast with onions white, crispy pickles, buttered and sweet bread pickles and a stack of two pressed beef patties, each with the shiny orange exterior of melted American cheese. You wouldn’t think it’s out of place in a pub style where cups are kept in freezers beneath beer taps and food is served in plastic baskets, unless you know that the pickles are made on site. Okay, dark fries with freshly whipped mayonnaise can also make the game go away.
Mr. Rembold’s heart lies in seasonal cooking, using regional ingredients to serve up traditional dishes from France, Italy and the United States. Inga’s Bar excels at charcuterie. It makes a raw-grain rustic pate wrapped in bacon and serves it with a pat of cultured butter and a little bit of bitter young mustard greens, as well as a layer of spicy onion lard, topped with brown butter and a curly mane of Microplaned Gouda, looks more prominent than many Bolognese imports.
I wouldn’t say Mr. Rembold cooks comfort food, but an adequate amount can be prescribed to treat gnawing anxiety Holly Golightly calls neutral red. Had polenta with chopped chives and grilled mushrooms; Mashed comté and a warm egg yolk are placed on top, waiting to be combined with the burgundy color. Every bite is different, but not in a way that will alarm anyone.
The Irish lamb stew is actually more of a pot-au-feu. It has a light broth that you can sip between spoons of tender pork leg stew, some Japanese radish and velvety kale leaves. Under those leaves are more leaves – fresh mint, of course, a classic pairing with lamb, but pretty much the last thing you’d expect to find in an Irish stew.
Still, it’s a thoughtful contribution to an old idea Brooklyn diners had come to expect from Mr. Rembold when he was a Johnny Appleseed figure in the local culinary scene. For many years, he worked as the head chef of Dinner, Marlow & Sons and Reynard (all in Williamsburg and all owned by the same corporation), while training younger chefs in a do-it-yourself, do-it-yourself philosophy, which was still new to Brooklyn when he started making practice it.
After leaving Reynard about five years ago (it later closed), Mr. Rembold didn’t run another restaurant’s kitchen until the Jack the Horse space hit the market. It has a pressed tin ceiling and wooden floors. Him and the designer Caron Callahan, his partner in marriage and in business, hung vintage paintings and drawings on the walls, and circled Grandma’s silver plates and containers with floral patterns. The effect resembles a teahouse, where bohemians of the past century might have eaten pastries and existentialism.
In fact, Inga’s best dessert is a cake with a rich, pale yellow center and high puffy lips at the edges. It reminds me of Breton Castle. I should look to the Midwest instead, because it is much more closely related to the delicious St. Louis is called greasy butter cake. Spiced syrup was drizzled on it and there was boiled apple on the side, and as I ate it, the worries of the day seemed to have shifted to another city. Life has recently become an endless existential play, but at least we still have the cake.
Meaning of the stars Because of the pandemic, the restaurants are not given a star rating.
