Matey! This sailor sweater I’m wearing is accidentally and embarrassingly appropriate for Saltie, the tiny nautical-themed sandwich outpost in Williamsburg where salt is a major player (NYC’s salt war be damned). And my lunch date is wearing a navy pea coat and a wool beanie! Egads.
The lassi: Today it comes with quince and it is salty, sweet and sour (S.S.S.) Satisfying!
The sandwiches: I order “The Captain’s Daughter:” sardines, a pickled egg, parsley, salsa verde and dill and he orders “Scuttlebutt,” an even saltier technicolor combo of pickled beets, capers, squash, olives, feta, a hard-cooked egg and aioli.
Jarmuschian: A seat at the window a very square stool frames a scene of complicated telephone wires from which sneakers precariously hang. There are shadows of pigeons flying overhead. A man heaves flat packs of new pizza boxes into a cellar next door and the music playing reminds me of the Ethiopian jazz in “Broken Flowers.”
A four-shelf minimalist glass and painted steel case: Olive oil loaf, Eccles cakes, a pork and potato slice—it’s a little bit of England-in-Paris a la Rose Bakery, but in Brooklyn.
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