Sailor
Every time I walk past, I wish I was sitting down for dinner
There are 0.54 nautical miles between my place and Sailor. Even on the roughest of days, the voyage along the DeKalb Avenue channel is a pleasant one. To port, Fort Greene Park has an emerald glimmer; to starboard, a row of brownstones with weathered facades stand strong. What awaits on the other side is a restaurant brimming with charm and charisma. I’d chart a far longer course to dine there, and many do.
The spiritual alignment that occurs when you’ve found a destination-worthy restaurant in your home neighborhood is powerful — I feel it to my core. It’s a combination of comfort and pride. Comfort in knowing that Sailor is perched on a quiet corner, warmly greeting guests into their ship-in-a-bottle-like dining room every night — and that I could easily be among them. Pride in knowing people are willingly traversing the city to my neck of the woods to eat perfectly golden roast chicken and sip stiff cocktails in one of the best rooms in Brooklyn. I feel like Fort Greene is where I belong, at least for now. And Sailor’s presence in the neighborhood has solidified that belief.
I liked Sailor before I ever set foot inside. Its navy blue and white striped awning broke my stride on a walk around the neighborhood one night. The L-shaped room has a gentle glow, and beyond the all-glass facade is a sophisticated, radiant room that’s incredibly captivating. Peering past the scalloped café curtains, the room is humming — full, not packed. The server's movements, subtle and calculated, create the illusion of a docked ship softly rocking with the evening waves. Even before I knew what that concept was or what the menu looked like, I wanted to sit in that room.
There’s something to be said about the time between hearing about a new restaurant and visiting for the first time. Anticipation starts to build, and I begin to create images in my head of how it’s gonna be, how it’ll feel. It’s not dissimilar to the feeling before a first date with someone you’ve met in the wild — knowing just enough about the person to know you want to discover more. Even after getting to know a restaurant intimately, I’ll often think back to that period of mystery just before it became known — before it revealed itself. Perhaps it’s an argument for letting all these new openings simmer a bit before the initial visit.
It was cold outside, but not in a bone-chilling way. The sun peeked out past overcast skies — the motivation I needed to venture over and line up outside Sailor’s door. A few minutes before opening, Gabriel Stulman came outside and addressed the line with a humble “Thank you so, so fucking much for being here. We’re amazed by the reception for this little place, and we’re gonna do our best to seat every one of you.” It was a tone-setter. A genuine, gracious moment that made me feel like I was a part of something special – all before stepping inside.
Gabriel Stulman has done this before. “This” being running a restaurant. His West Village spots — Fairfax, Jeffrey’s Grocery, and Joseph Leonard — are charming, well-respected neighborhood hits with good food and better atmospheres. But he hasn’t done this quite like this. Across the pond (in Brooklyn), Gabriel has April Bloomfield as his chef. Which is a big deal.
April Bloomfield has a pedigree like no other. When I told my Dad I was eating at her new restaurant, his eyes got wide — “You mean the April Bloomfield?” He went on to recall a visit to The Spotted Pig in its early days (before shit hit the fan) and the massive inspiration it was for him. He followed it up with a vivid recollection of his first bite of AB’s lamb burger; I now understand why there’s a lamb burger on the menu at his Metro Detroit restaurant.
The duo of Stulman and Bloomfield might sound like a law firm, but it more closely resembles Rob Thomas and Carlos Santana teaming up for the 1999 mega-hit, “Smooth.” An absolute legend, Santana, shreds on guitar while Rob Thomas delivers the booming vocal hook that rings in your head 25 years later. April shreds in the kitchen. Gabriel delivers the front-of-house vibe. Just like the ocean under the moon.
The concept, Sailor, turned out to be a damn good one. It’s a world-class restaurant and a neighborhood gem — a casual version of the former, a sophisticated take on the latter. Simultaneously humble and opulent, it strikes the balance of fine and everyday dining like nowhere else. It’s a place to celebrate an occasion or stop in for no occasion at all. It can dress up a Wednesday or settle down a Saturday.
The front door is in reeded glass, adorned with a gold-trimmed outline of a 19th-century ship. It’s the final layer of separation between mystery and familiarity. Inside, it’s tight quarters — a room kept in shipshape. It has the feel of a rustic, old-world tavern, but with plenty of polished finishes and thoughtful touches. Vintage maritime-themed gallery art fills the limewashed brick walls — likely a random assortment, but some pieces, like the framed black-and-white photo of a woman with a mustache in a Sailor cap, make you wonder if there are backstories.
There are 38 seats at Sailor. 18 of them are in the front bar room, all of which are held for walk-ins each night. Sailor’s choice to leave nearly half the restaurant for walk-ins is worth unpacking — it’s an unheard-of move for a restaurant of this caliber. They could easily fill those seats with reservations, but instead, they’ve chosen to maintain accessibility. You’ll find this to be a theme: $9 glasses of house red & white wine; open 7 days a week, lunch service on 3 of those days, brunch on 2 more. Decisions like this create approachability that a lot of great restaurants don’t have. Approachability, when paired with excellent food, creates repeatability.
I settled into my blue leather upholstered stool at the hand-carved, reclaimed wood bar. Behind me, two curvy wood booths resembling vintage English ferry benches were filled with smiling diners well into their meals. There’s intimacy at Sailor, no doubt, but there’s also an overarching convivial energy.
The food at Sailor is hard to pin to a single genre — there is French flair mixed with crispy bites that wouldn’t feel out of place in your favorite British country pub. Ingredient-oriented dishes, often familiar sounding, seldom familiar tasting. The plates are more substantial than what you’d expect at a wine bar but are still relatively modest, and straightforward in presentation.
A rich, house-made salt cod brandade with herbs and peppers landed early on, which is best wiped with charred sourdough. Beautifully acidic mussel toast followed shortly after, at the same time came a creamy, zesty arctic char pâté.
The roast chicken was even better than advertised — glistening skin, impossibly juicy, served with parmesan-crusted potatoes, settled in a comforting, thin gravy. Simple sides, like poached celeriac in a lemon butter sauce, should not be overlooked. Airy, flaky profiteroles, filled with vanilla ice cream, were draped in a silky, salty caramel sauce. From start to finish, it was an impressive first visit.
In the dining room, the remaining 20 seats are for reservations — unsurprisingly, not an easy one to come by. The tables are dressed in crisp white linens. There’s a marble-topped service island to the right — home to an enormous jar of olives plus a domed glass dessert stand, within it resting a molasses-y, spiced ginger cake. Behind the island is a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with wine bottles, the top shelves accessed with a rolling wooden library ladder. The height of the room is a welcome surprise when you enter. The wood-beamed ceilings are prominent. As is the magnificent brass-framed mirror that stretches the length of the entire back banquette — tilted down about 10 degrees creating a surreal birds-eye view of the room and everyone in it. The design of Sailor — the room, the art, the entire aesthetic — is timeless. Should we be lucky enough to have Sailor around in 20 years, I’m certain it’ll feel as fresh and luxurious as it does today.
I’ve had some great dishes in the dining room on subsequent visits. Tender pork shoulder with charred fennel and olives. Striped black bass with sunchokes and rich vermouth cream. Crisp-fried sweetbreads in a lemon caper sauce. The menu seems to flip rather than rotate — and when seasons change, no dish is safe. A March and April visit, just weeks apart, offered a disorientingly different selection. I’ve grown comfortable with this fact, as the hits significantly outnumber the misses. However, my preference leans toward the heartier fall and winter dishes over the bright, vibrant spring and summer roster.
Furthering Sailor’s repeatability is its brunch service, which feels like a completely different restaurant concept, but with a few menu throughlines: a perfect Caesar salad, the umami-packed Gentleman’s relish, a side of crisp, hand-cut fries. The linens are stripped back to reveal worn-wood tops, and the service is toned down to an even more casual level. Light pours into the dining room through the front windows and from the above skylight. Many of the brunch dishes — avocado toast with fermented hot sauce, confit vegetable, and goat gouda quiche — feel Californian, more than anything. Sailor has two items making their rounds in the social media sphere, both of them only available during brunch. The Sailor burger has melted onions and cheddar supporting the juicy, tavern-like patty. The French toast is custardy, with a brûléed top, swimming in a caramelly maple syrup, and vanilla cream. They’re both rightfully standouts.
I will say, Sailor isn’t perfect. There’s a little bit of “you’re lucky to be here” in the air. I feel it when I sit down, even though I’ve been half a dozen times. I suppose that’s inevitable with a perpetually booked-up spot. It’s also not a place that’s particularly kind to requests. One time, I asked that the (decadent) French toast come towards the end of the meal. In general, I let servers course things as they see fit, but sometimes you gotta speak your mind — French toast is more dessert than appetizer, at least for me. Not only was the French toast the first dish that landed on the table — it came nearly 20 minutes before anything else. I couldn’t tell if it was a misunderstanding or a petty fuck you from the kitchen.
Sailor’s greatest strength — being meticulously detail-oriented — can also be its Achilles heel. That gorgeous, statement-piece mirror was streaky one day. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It might sound minor and silly, but it almost ruined my meal. When details are everything, it’s jarring when they’re off.
Sailor’s early success isn’t an accident. It’s the most thoughtfully considered restaurant I’ve been to in a while. It’s calculated and precise in a way that demonstrates they know exactly who they want to be, and the identity they want to carry.
Deep-cut Miles Davis seamlessly transitions into David Bowie, then Van Morisson as I sip a masterfully stirred Negroni in a perfectly weighted glass. Dish after dish, I wonder how I got so lucky to have a restaurant like this a short voyage away.
Sailor lifts the dining scene in Fort Greene to highs it has never seen before. There are plenty of good restaurants around this part of town, but Sailor is the first great one.
This was a restaurant write-up from Mr. Flood’s Party. Subscribe for free and get Flood’s delivered every week.
This was one of the best restaurant write ups I’ve read in a while! 👏👏 Also I could really go for some dessert French toast right now…
the french toast fiasco made me laugh! loved this as always and the photography is always on point 🫡