I left Flatbush Farm with a sense of disappointment weighing heavily on my soul. For all the restaurants I have eaten in in Manhattan and Brooklyn , I have taken away a simple souvenir: one business card from each establishment. I consider them notches on my belt, jewels in the crown. And Flatbush Farm, well, they don’t have ‘em. And the funny thing is, is that they didn’t have a reason, really, except for that it was purportedly in keeping with the owner’s aesthetic, which, given its somewhat Luddite approach, is forgiveable. That, and because everything we actually ate there was really scrumptious. 
We were doing that somewhat rushed, pre-theatre thing, so I can’t say we sampled an extraordinary amount of the menu. But what we did try was outstanding. The soup of the day was a luxuriously smooth mushroom bisque, unctuously creamy without the heaviness sometimes equated, essentially pure mushrooms rendered smoothly spoonable. Another special of the day was a quirkily dubbed a U-10 (unit ten in culinary terms- as in "we won't dumb down for the eater"- ten scallops to the pound = big) scallop on a plush bed of polenta and a moat of lobster bisque. And because soup can’t reach its destination via a fork, they provided the absent spoon upon request, which was integral in uniting all the elements of the dish in each bite. Which were marvelous bites. 
A side of fried cauliflower didn't seem fried so much as roasted, but just as richly flavored with capers and lemon. It would make a perfect complement with just about any of the entrees, or, as had I, rounding out the sizeable scallop appetizer for a light meal. 
Mains include a farm's worth of responsible proteins, grass-fed this and free-range that, paired with innovative, complementary sauces and seasonal produce, as they should. A homey spaetzle was rich like poutine, with cheese curds and bacon, but also a novel flourish of pureed butternut squash to keep things from leadening out. I would've loved to have stayed for dessert, but like I said, we were pre-theatre: Richard was calling. The III. As in Kevin Spacey, his third to last performance and for whom would wait for nobody. So we hustled out without sampling any of the seductive-sounding desserts: cocoa creme caramel with blackberry sauce, a boozy warm poached apple or (what would've been my choice) a forbidden rice pudding with crushed almonds. Notably sexy desserts for a restaurant boasting barnyard-chic... or was it my company?
Our bellies were noticeably full, even though neither of us had really consumed a inordinately full dinner's worth. The food at Flatbush is fulfilling and satisying so as not to need enormous quantity. So with that out we rushed into the chill under a rain-threatening sky, with a momentous performance to anticipate. Lucky for the propriety of Flatbush Farm that their food is good enough that, despite the somewhat rushed, brevity of the meal and the distraction of post-prandial events, I won't forget the delicious, soulful repast. Even without my business card souvenir.
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