In August, about a year and a half after Claire Sprouse opened her Crown Heights bar and restaurant, Hunky Dory, she added a line to the proverbial shingle out front: “Approved Postal Provider of Stamps.” It’s just one of many ways the purview of the place has recently expanded. For a while, it contracted: immediately after the dining room was forced to shutter, in March, and Sprouse had to furlough her staff, Hunky Dory was reduced to a pushcart, which she used to deliver cocktails—including the Dolly Parton-inspired Smoky Mountain Song Bird (mezcal, turmeric, Madeira wine, and lemon juice)—to displaced barflies in the neighborhood.
During the summer, Hunky, as Sprouse affectionately refers to it, became an incubator of sorts. She’d given up on the cart (it was wreaking havoc on her back), but she was still selling drinks, along with some pantry items, including fried-chicken seasoning, for pickup. “As it became more apparent that we needed to have food,” she explained, “I started looking toward my network of chefs who depend on catering and pop-ups. It was, like, I have this whole space. You can use it! It will help me sell drinks.” Hunky played host to, among others, a roving Cambodian dinner series called Kreung, and to Yellow Rose, a Tex-Mex pop-up whose menu featured beef-chili Frito pies.
By July, Sprouse had figured out how to reintroduce Hunky’s own food, for pickup, delivery, or seat-yourself outdoor dining. This month, she turned the dining room into a general store, selling everything from sustainable toilet paper to single-origin, heirloom spices from Diaspora Co. Much of her success in staying open, she pointed out, has been a matter of luck. Hunky is on a heavily trafficked corner, and its windows open onto the street, making it easy to order without going inside. Her landlord agreed to let her use the empty lot next door as a patio, and she had already been planning to add a store, albeit in another location.
But Sprouse is also, clearly, quick on her feet. Hunky’s new food menu—a streamlined selection of the kind of eclectic all-day dishes available pre-pandemic—is optimized to be as satisfying ordered in as it is eaten on the patio. I thrilled to a delivery, the other night, of the “pile o’ veggies and dip,” a rainbow-hued array of steamed purple sweet potato, caramelized cabbage, and crunchy carrot, all seasoned with Aleppo pepper, and a thick whorl of red-lentil purée. The “autumn sando”—shredded duck leg, sliced apple, celery root, and horseradish piled onto focaccia—seemed to actually benefit from time in transit, the meat’s rich juices settling into the pillowy pockets of the bread. My Mangoni (mango brandy, aperitivo, sweet vermouth) came in a charming plastic bottle plastered with a “PLEASE RECYCLE ME” sticker.
On the patio, the vibe is as festive as a carnival. Sprouse still hosts pop-ups most Wednesdays. She bought both a movie projector and a popcorn machine, the smell of which, she said, “is evoking a lot of strong emotions in people.” In October, she held weekly clambakes, featuring bacon-and-celery-strewn shellfish and Old Bay-dusted French fries, and borrowed a cider press. Soon she’ll add tents, heaters, and a “blanket club”: regulars can buy warm throws to cozy under while sipping hot toddies and store them inside between visits, like beer mugs on the wall at a taproom.
The stamps inspired her to host evenings for writing postcards to swing voters; in general, she does not shy from politics. In July, she switched to a new gratuity-free payment model. Recently, on Instagram, she posted a breakdown of what cold, rainy weather did to her sales one Friday night: it put her more than a thousand dollars in the red. “If you can, please support restaurants,” she wrote. “If you can’t, please contact your senator and ask them to pass the Heroes Act now, which includes restaurant relief and so much more. Be kind to all workers. Wear a mask. Vote.” (Snacks and food $5-$25.) ♦
