When I last visited King Mother—a Ditmas Park wine bar and restaurant that opened in December, 2019—the word “killer” appeared more than once on the single-page wine list, along with phrases such as “primo celebration fuel,” “super luscious,” “dope ass,” and “adult juice box vibez.” The cynics among us shudder. But what can I say? The 2018 organic Muscadet I drank did have “all the oceanic, mineral, toasty, tart, yummy things” I wanted, and I have thought of it lovingly, and longingly, many times since. I’ve also been haunted by a glass I neglected to try, a 2020 Txakolina, from the Basque country, described as “simply the most refreshing white wine in the world.” I believe it! I’ll be back.
If King Mother’s dope-ass vibes are a bit of an overcorrection to the pretension and stuffiness that have reigned over the realm of wine for hundreds of years, I’ll take them: the barrier to entry should be exactly as low as it is here, where the food is just as premium-yet-accessible as the drinks. The usual arrangements of salumi and cheeses (many sourced from Vermont) with honey and preserves are rounded out by excellent house-made allium focaccia; a reliable chicken schnitzel, in both sandwich and entrée form, with Bulldog tonkatsu sauce; and a crisp, spicy, creamy panino, encasing smears of smoked ricotta, ’nduja, and pickled shallot, wilting curls of arugula straying beyond its edges.
Last winter, when I ordered King Mother for delivery, I was surprisingly moved by the “big green salad,” which exceeded my expectations for its manifest simplicity: leaves of little gem, crunchy and sweet, with wisps of dill and a beautifully emulsified, balanced lemon vinaigrette. After months of grudgingly washing and drying lettuce myself, of vigorously whisking olive oil and salt with vinegar or citrus juice, and yet somehow never achieving the alchemy I craved, it felt like bliss to have someone else nail it for me. Sitting at one of King Mother’s sidewalk tables on an early, sunny spring evening and cutting into a quarter of a spatchcocked, buttermilk-brined, perfectly roasted Amish chicken—nestled with blanched rainbow Swiss chard, roasted mushrooms, and an herb-heavy house-made ranch—was even better.
At Winona’s, another wine bar and restaurant (plus café by day), on the northernmost edge of Bed-Stuy, the wine list, which spans a full five and a half pages and includes a dozen-odd magnums, is entirely free of description. Start with a mixed drink from the appealing lineup of cocktails—a smooth twist on a dirty Martini is made with both olive-oil-washed gin and a glug of Castelvetrano olive oil—as liquid courage to ask for a recommendation. On a recent evening, a vague request—“Something weird?”—was met with gusto. “Are you scared of a little sugar?” the sommelier asked, with a hint of mischief. “It’s really well integrated. Does it scare you?” Au contraire: the gentle threat was thrilling, and the wine, a pét-nat rosé, proved not only delicious—tutti-frutti yet yeasty and tart, effervescent, adult-popsicle vibes—but also very beautiful, a translucent shade of raspberry that caught the eye of the couple at the neighboring table, who pointed at it inquisitively as they placed their order.
Though the food menu veers ambitious, the best dishes are the most straightforward. A flawless Scotch egg—half of the couple who opened the place is British—is served with sharp mustard and cornichons. Grilled prawns, their funky, creamy heads intact, are propped up by glossy strips of smoked sweet pepper and torn olives and finished with flat-leaf parsley. A Spanish tortilla’s sturdy, browned edges belie its silky, supple interior—as unassuming and unexpected as Winona’s itself, whose wood-panelled façade is easy to miss on a building that once housed an industrial-refrigerator supplier, for which it still bears an enormous sign: “Old Reliable Store Fixtures.” (King Mother dishes $8-$22. Winona’s dishes $10-$29.) ♦
