brooklyn Archives

Thankful for these great people we meet while living in BK

Brooklyn always has a way of pulling us back into its rhythm. On this trip, that rhythm led us to an easy, familiar night at The William Vale, tucked into their downstairs outdoor patio—cocktails in hand, city buzzing softly around us, and our puppy Dyson right by our side.

We were in town for a work event and finally stayed at a hotel we’ve long admired and hosted events at, but never actually experienced as guests. Being able to slow down and enjoy The William Vale as a home base made the trip feel different—less transactional, more like stepping back into a version of our Brooklyn life.

The night became even better once friends joined. I was sitting with Carmen and Dwayne, two people deeply woven into our everyday history here. Carmen has been Dyson’s long-time dog walker, his best friend, and even brought him to our wedding. Dwayne used to work at the coffee shop across from our old place on North 10th Street—someone we saw nearly every day, until daily hellos turned into real friendship.

After dinner, we regrouped for a casual cocktail, catching up, laughing, and letting the night unfold naturally. No agenda, no rush—just one of those Brooklyn evenings that reminds you why the city sticks with you long after you leave.

Moments like this aren’t about landmarks or hype. They’re about people, shared history, and returning to places that still feel like home. Every time we’re back, Brooklyn gives us exactly what it’s best at: connection, familiarity, and just enough surprise to keep us coming back.

My favorite = Biddle Brunch

There are meals that feel like they’re doing more than feeding you. They slow the day down. They make the table feel like a small, steady place in the middle of the city.

This one landed exactly like that: a marble tabletop crowded with a little cast-iron pan of baked eggs and greens, toast on the side, coffee poured dark and simple, and two stemmed drinks catching the light. Even the water looks deliberate—cold, clear, beaded with condensation—like the room itself is taking a slow breath.

I like brunch best when it isn’t trying too hard. When it’s warm and ordinary in the right ways, and the details feel lived-in: forks set down between sentences, glasses nudged closer, the quiet agreement that there’s nowhere else we need to be for a while.

Biddle has that kind of ease. It’s a gentle sort of indulgence—food that arrives sturdy and pretty, and a mood that makes you want to linger just a few minutes longer than you planned.

If you’re looking for a Williamsburg brunch that feels both celebratory and calm, this is the one I keep coming back to.

6:30 Dinner – we opened the place

6:30 dinner, and somehow we opened the place.

There’s a special hush that only exists when you arrive before everyone else. The room feels borrowed from another hour—tables set but untouched, water glasses lined up like small promises, candlelight pooling in amber circles. A lamp glows in the corner, making the whole place look like it’s remembering something.

We slid into our seats with that quiet satisfaction of being early, of being unhurried. Bread showed up first, warm and plain in the best way, the kind you tear without thinking. A tulip stood in a bottle on the table, casual and bright, like an afterthought that somehow makes everything feel intentional.

Then pasta—comfort without ceremony. The sort of dinner that doesn’t need a story to justify it, because it is the story: steam rising, forks turning, the steady rhythm of eating while the day finally lets go of you. The restaurant stayed mostly still for a while, as if it was letting us have those first minutes.

Eventually the place woke up. Chairs scraped back, voices gathered, little constellations of conversation forming at nearby tables. But I kept noticing the early light, the way the candle kept working, the sense that for a brief stretch we were inside the quiet before the night became a night.

Some evenings don’t ask for more than that—warmth, food, and a room that holds you gently until you’re ready to go back out.

Dyson, “I’m snooow much fun”

Dyson runs straight into winter like it’s an invitation. In the middle of all that white, he’s a dark, eager shape cutting a path through the churned-up snow, tennis ball held tight like a prize he earned fair and square. His ears are up, his eyes are locked in, and his whole body says the same thing: throw it again.

Snow has a way of rewriting a place. It softens the edges, hushes the street, and makes even familiar ground feel briefly new. Every footprint becomes a small story—where you went, how fast, how excited you were to get there. Dyson seems to read the page as he goes, adding lines as quickly as he can.

There’s a particular joy in watching a dog take the cold personally, like it’s not something to endure but something to conquer. The air might sting, the snow might melt into slush later, but right now it’s all possibility. A ball, a run, a return. Simple rules, endless rounds.

Maybe that’s the best part of days like this: the reminder that you don’t need much to feel full of it. Just a bright green-and-blue circle, a stretch of snow, and someone who comes back every time like it’s the first time.

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Weekend Brunch with my Favorite People

The table was already telling a story before anyone said a word—white mugs cooling into quiet, orange juice catching the light, and a small bottle of syrup standing in the middle like a patient invitation. Plates arrived with their familiar comforts: eggs, toast, bacon, the kind of breakfast that feels like it’s been waiting for you.

Weekend Brunch with my Favorite People isn’t really about the menu, even when it’s generous. It’s about how a room changes when everyone settles in. Silverware clinks, chairs shift, and the conversation starts to move—slow at first, then steady, like warmth coming back into your hands.

There’s something grounding about eating together at the soft edge of the weekend. You notice the details you’d usually rush past: the clean lines of the placemats, a tulip in a glass, the way coffee smells different when you’re not drinking it alone.

If the week can make life feel scattered, brunch gathers it back up. It reminds me that good days don’t always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes they show up as a shared table, simple breakfast, and the familiar ease of people who make the city feel smaller.

Later, the plates empty and the cups go cold, but the room keeps a little of that warmth—proof that the best part was never just what we ate.

My baby is sooooo handsome

My baby is sooooo handsome.

He’s the kind of handsome that doesn’t try too hard. Just a tri-color face turned slightly toward the window, ears caught between perked and relaxed, like he’s listening to the house breathe. The tag on his collar taps softly when he shifts, a tiny chime in a quiet room.

I took this photo and realized how much of loving a dog is learning their still moments. Not the sprinting, not the chaos—just the pause. The look that says he knows his name, he knows his people, and he’s deciding whether to be brave or be cuddled.

Some days the world feels loud and over-lit. Then a dog settles into the blanket like it was always meant to be there, and the room becomes its own small weather system—warm, steady, and familiar. If you’ve ever looked at your pup and felt your chest soften for no logical reason, you’ll understand this picture.

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30th Birthday with original CM team

Thirty is a funny kind of milestone. It doesn’t arrive with a drumroll so much as a quiet click—like a door latching behind you—and suddenly you’re standing in a room that feels both familiar and newly lit.

This one was spent with the original CM team, gathered close beneath big gold balloon letters that spelled out a simple, bright permission to celebrate. Drinks in hand, we held still for a moment in front of a wall of books, the background hum of a home around us—shelves, frames, small evidence of everyday life. The photo catches that in-between feeling: polished enough to mark the occasion, relaxed enough to be real.

I keep thinking about how time folds people together. Work becomes friendship without anyone making an announcement. You look up and realize you’ve collected a small history—shared late nights, inside jokes, the steady rhythm of showing up. It’s not loud, but it lasts.

If birthdays are supposed to measure anything, I hope it’s this: the warmth of familiar faces, the comfort of being known, and the kind of joy that doesn’t need much more than a room, a few friends, and a little gold light bouncing around.

Book Boo in BK

There’s a particular kind of quiet you can find in Brooklyn when you’re near the water—busy, but softened. A long stretch of boardwalk, the river breathing beside it, and the skyline set back like a thought you can’t quite finish.

He sits with a book open in his hands, cap pulled low, knees folded in. The page has that steady pull that makes the rest of the world feel optional. Around him, the city keeps its own pace: distant footsteps, a few voices drifting past, the metal rails holding the edge between land and water.

It’s an ordinary scene, which is why it feels like a small miracle. The kind of moment you don’t plan for, but later you remember the light and the space and how simple it looked to be completely elsewhere without leaving.

I like the way places can live alongside us like that—how a walkway, a bench, a view of towers and clouds can become part of a memory without announcing itself. Brooklyn doesn’t always give you room to exhale, but sometimes it does, and you take it when it comes.

Book Boo in BK, paused mid-chapter, with the whole city behind him like background noise.

Boys in the Jungle

There’s a certain kind of quiet you only find in a room full of plants. Not silence exactly—more like a soft, green breathing. Leaves cut across the light like slow-moving shadows, and everything feels paused for just a second, as if the city outside is holding its noise at the door.

Boys in the Jungle is what we called it, which sounds dramatic until you realize it’s just two of us standing close, half-hidden behind long blades of green. A mirror selfie, sure, but also a small record of being together in a place that asks nothing from you except to look.

The plants do what old houses do: they make the air feel lived-in. They hold onto warmth. They turn the ordinary—glass, fluorescent light, a phone held at chest height—into something a little more like a scene you’d remember later.

We’re in Brooklyn, but the image doesn’t insist on location. It insists on texture: patterned shirts, hats pulled low, the bright wash of indoor light, and the bold interruptions of leaves in the foreground. The jungle isn’t wild; it’s curated. Still, it has that same effect—making you feel smaller in a good way, like you can step back from yourself.

Sometimes that’s all a photo needs to do: prove that a moment existed, green and uncomplicated, before you walked back out into the day.

Sunday second brunch at The Richardson

| #boyfriendswhobrunch #brooklyn #brunch #richardson | ???

| Finally, I had the time and was in the right location to try the Richardson (@therichardsonnyc). I have to say the cocktails were pretty great and the sandwiches were better then I expected for bar food. The Richardson is your classic cocktail bar with a slight pub feel. They serve many drinks and have a larger selection of whiskey & bourbon; I had a vesper.

The layout of the bar is great to sit and people watch and the patio a a decent size. You can normally find a seat either inside or outside if you get there a bit early, but even at a peek time there is not much of a wait.

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Loving Lucky Luna

| #lucky #noodles #bao @LuckyLunaNY | ???

| I am having serious doubts about sharing this restaurant and subsequent post. Lucky Luna is one of those neighborhood gems that you may regret telling people about if word spreads about its likable qualities and as a result it becomes too popular to get a seat.

Sultry Sunday Scallop at Greenpoint Fish & Lobster Co.

| #greenpoint #boyfriendswhobrunch #scallops @GreenpointFish | ???

| Finally, I made time with Angel to eat at Greenpoint Fish. I have purchased fish from here before but never tried the restaurant in the back. I was very impressed by the variety of dishes for such a small location and the special did not disappoint. The Scallop special raw, with lemon, olive oil, and sea salt was amazing! The wine on tab at Greenpoint fish was also good, a tasty chardonnay.