Cavendish's Tavern

“The fry at Cavendish's Tavern does not arrive unannounced. Its aroma precedes it through the dining room with the confidence of someone who has reserved well in advance. The shoestring cut is executed with precision. The single-fried exterior is absent, in the practical sense. The interior presents a potato present as a rumor. The grease does not call attention to itself, which is what one hopes for from grease. In the final accounting, the fries are the only item that matters. Cavendish's Tavern knows this.”

“On a Tuesday evening in Fort Greene, one discovers that Cavendish's Tavern has opinions about potatoes. The shoestring format is a declaration. The single-fried exterior is absent, in the practical sense. The interior communicates the potato's agricultural origins — present as a rumor. The grease is calibrated with clinical precision. These opinions are, on balance, correct. One proceeds. One is glad one did.”

“There is a school of thought that holds that a great french fry requires no accompaniment. Cavendish's Tavern belongs to this school. The shoestring fry, single-fried in blended, makes its argument in silence. The crispness is absent, in the practical sense. The potato flavor is present as a rumor. The argument is persuasive. The experience is brief and exact, like most things worth having.”