On our first date, my wife Amy and I went to a Brooklyn restaurant called Cornelius, a place known for its sumptuous fried oyster po-boys and ample selection of bourbon and single-malt scotches. On our second, we went to Franny's, another Brooklyn spot, one heralded by the New York pizzerati for its exceptional clam pie. The third date was a crawfish boil at a Ditmas Park bar; the fourth, a feast at Northern Spy, a Manhattan farm-to-table restaurant whose menu forever changed my attitude toward kale salads. We both took pleasure—great pleasure—in showing off our knowledge of restaurants to each other. For every soul food shack she introduced me to on Flatbush Avenue, I showed her a dive bar in Red Hook that had somehow escaped her attention. Our relationship unfolded over roasted brussels sprouts and hanger steaks, fried fish sandwiches and duck-fat fries, micro-brewed IPAs and brandy old fashioneds.
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