I'm not one for hunting. I went once, with two friends who were looking to shoot woodcocks (small birds) in an apple orchard on the backside of a mountain in Maine. I wasn't holding a gun due to my lack of a license and desire, and instead trekked behind them through the waist-high, wet grass with my shoulders up around my ears, tense and sure that if anything got shot it would be one of us by accident. I willed time to pass quickly and no birds to surface as I unhooked brambles and burrs from my jeans and adjusted my bright orange hat. Every time something rustled in the underbrush I had palpitations (more after the jump).
Somebody must've heard my prayers, because no animals died that day by our hands. We did, however, find two massive marijuana plants thriving in the depths of the orchard. Which I'd argue is a better outcome.
Given my feelings about hunting, then, it seems counter-intuitive that I really, really enjoyed Freemans Restaurant in NYC. I have never seen a larger collection of dead animal heads than the one that adorns the walls of the Lower East Side establishment, which sits at the end of an unassuming alley. The restaurant is dark and it's comfortable; it's established (turning ten this year), and it knows exactly what it is and what its strengths are (well-mixed drinks, solid food, warm atmosphere). If the restaurant were a human, Freemans would be a man in his early forties who has made a name for himself, traveled often, and is always glad to return home. And if he does hunt, I imagine he has the grace to eat what he shoots.
I enjoyed the lightly fried shrimp fritters that came with a just-spicy-enough sauce, a legendary artichoke dip whose recipe probably comes (in the words of a friend wiser than I) from the back of a mayonnaise jar, and a delicate salad of baby kale and mushrooms. Everything was perfectly seasoned and straightforward, which, after a lot of very involved meals recently, was exactly what I was looking for on a rainy Tuesday night.
There was very little pretense about the place; it felt like a haven, a respite in the form of a pine-floored cabin in a concrete forest. I liked that I didn't have to think too much about the food. The Freeman's Cocktail, a mix of Rye, lemon juice, pomegranate molasses, and orange bitters topped with a flaming twist took the edge off of a long day, and the martini that the same wise friend ordered was the model of what the drink should be: intensely cold Plymouth gin, vermouth, and a lemon twist.
David Coggins, established writer and the man in charge of all sorts of creative direction for Freemans Sporting Club, the restaurant's menswear counterpart, took me up to see the fitting room where the bespoke suits are made (he is also the wise friend I alluded to above). We wound our way through small rooms filled with patrons, more taxidermy, and beautiful floral arrangements. We then passed through a door masquerading as a bookcase before entering the fitting room that is filled with paper patterns and jackets and pants in various states of completion. I stood in front of the mirror, filled with comforting food and buzzing a little from the drinks, and wondered whether I could pull off a very pricey made-to-order suit. I can't, but I look forward to the day I can afford to buy one for somebody after another great meal at Freemans. Who knows, maybe I'll even have installed a deer head above my mantle by then. Time will tell.
