Leland Eating and Drinking House
755 Dean St at Underhill Ave, Prospect Heights
The Place: An eating and drinking house (otherwise known as a restaurant?) with a classic Brooklyn aesthetic.
The Time: Saturday September 24, 6:45pm. I’m going to a friend’s house party nearby and thought I’d stop in somewhere for a cocktail and a snack first. (Turns out I didn’t need to, as she cooked up a FALL FEAST.) I’m always down to try new places, and figured a restaurant bar would probably have a pretty chill atmosphere on a Saturday night.
Italian Greyhound at Leland
The Vibe: I was right, it’s super relaxed for a Saturday. I pass a lovely outdoor seating area and step into the restaurant, which is segmented into a front section where the bar is, and a back section, presumably with more tables and a kitchen. There’s a long wooden bar, cool shaped lamps, white brick walls and a tiny disco ball, for some reason. I take a seat at my classic corner bar spot, even though I’m the only one at the bar for now. There’s folksy music playing and it’s perfectly pleasant. A lot of people seem to be working here, and a lot of them are wearing crossbody fanny packs. (Is this the new apron?) Around 7, it starts to fill up. A big party comes in, a couple sits at the bar, a woman waits for her friends. An older couple sits at the window behind me; he has a Citarella bag and she gives the host a 212 number so I know they’re probably hailing from the Upper West Side. I also overhear this part of their conversation: “they have vermouth service.” “What color wine is that?” Incredible, no notes.
The Bartender: There are two, a woman who seems to be doing all the work and a man wearing a straw hat, which feels like an impractical wardrobe decision for this line of work. The only thing I see Straw Hat do during my entire time here is look at wine glasses like they’re Poor Yorick. The bartender who’s actually doing her job asks me if I’m having dinner at the bar when I first sit down. This has happened to me a few times recently and I’m over this question. Like, what if I don’t know yet? Also, what is dinner, can’t I just have a snack or a bite? You’re apparently an “eating and drinking house,” Leland! Just let me eat and drink, we don’t need labels! Okay, rant over.
Look at those giant croutons!
The Drank: They only have three cocktails on the menu and clearly specialize in natural wine (and apparently vermouth service!) but I’m craving a cocktail. I choose the Italian Greyhound, made of gin, contratto and grapefruit with a salt rim. It’s pretty good, though fairly uninteresting. I also get the panzanella salad, which rocks. It’s got tomatoes and cucumbers, has an excellent heat to it and is super fresh and light. But the croutons are HUGE, I feel like I’m trying to chew through sharp boulders.
Was I Hit On?: Nope. Though one of the servers looks like my ex and my heart skips a beat until I remember that this particular ex would probably rather throw himself in front of a moving train than work in a restaurant. Towards the end of my time, a woman sits a stool away from me at the bar, and I compliment her adorable red and pink shift dress. She says, “Thanks! It’s from Rent the Runway!” I love women.
Should You Drink Here Alone?: Sure, I guess. Leland is charming, but it doesn’t have a ton of personality. That’s okay though, I still had a very nice time, even if I had to witness a female bartender picking up her ill-dressed, male co-worker’s slack.