Song
Song
It’s almost dinnertime at my favorite Park Slope eatery – Song. At 6:45pm only 8 of the 30 tables are filled with patrons – vigorously scoffing down warm rice bowls and steaming noodle dishes with wooden chopsticks. Tealight candles flicker on every table, softly illuminating the faces of hungry diners, and vintage chandeliers brighten the eclectic decor. The medium grey walls are flanked with pine, and chair rail paneling complement the dark grey concrete floors. 3 large red and white abstract canvases adorn the walls directly behind the light grey banquette that serves as seating for 7 – 8 people. The patinated wrought iron framing of the large patio doors add a rustic dimension to the otherwise contemporary feel of the restaurant. As the servers navigate through the maze of white bistro tables, they periodically visit the bar at the front of the restaurant to place their customer’s drink orders with the handsome Honduran bartender.
By 7pm, the busy L-shaped bar seats 8 and is filled with regulars talking amongst each other – some sipping wine and others imbibing a beer or cocktail. Caesar, the bartender, scurries back and forth mixing drinks and making small talk with his clients. Some patrons are dining at the bar — grey and black woven placemats separate the white ceramic dinner plates from the white Silestone bar top trimmed in metal. Blue Moon, Michelob Light and Heineken wooden beer taps are barely visible above the bar top’s surface. While Caesar is filling an empty glass with Heineken, he simultaneously reaches behind him to grab a second glass from the nearby, evenly spaced shelves, filled with wine bottles, spirits and the restaurant’s stemware reserve.
Snuggled between the bar and the dining area stands a white subway tiled countertop featuring a black computer, a phone and a stack of royal blue menus with bold white letters that read SONG on one side. A short, well dressed host takes phone orders, distributes take-out and manages the line of 15 – 20 people now waiting to be seated. While he barely stands 2 inches taller than the computer monitor he’s in front of, he commands the crowd of couples, families with strollers, and a party of 7 celebrating a co-worker’s birthday. “Jordan, party of 3, please follow me.” The trio maneuver through the crowd leaving a gap of exposed brick wall behind.
Lauryn Hill’s “Doo Wop” and Bruno Mars’ “24K Magic” are just some of the selections that blare through sets of tiny speakers strategically placed throughout the venue. The up-tempo songs promote loud chatter throughout. I overhear a couple complain about the 30 minute wait — “We’ll just grab the first available seat at the bar,” a tall, green-eyed blonde woman informs the host. She inches her way between two seated customers. The bartender immediately recognizes the couple and suggests, “Macallen neat?.” The young woman accompanying the blonde nods approvingly. At the other end of the bar, a server tries to get Caesars attention, “Hola? Hola? Por Favor?,” she manages through a thick Thai accent.
It’s 8:15 now and all the seating in the dining area has been filled. The line has dwindled leaving a single couple waiting to be seated, and a grey-haired gentlemen awaiting his take-out order. The glass cylinder lighting above the bar area has dimmed and the speakers are now softly playing Adele’s 2015 hit, “Hello.” Caesar is cleaning behind the bar in anticipation for what he has just proclaimed will be the 9 o’clock rush.
