Amelia Lester: The Pines in South Brooklyn Review: The New Yorker If anyone knows how to get people to eat fancy food in unlikely places, it's the crew behind the Pines. Seed money came from the owners of Littleneck, a clam shack a couple of storefronts down; on a good Friday night, when the room there is full and the rosé is flowing, it feels like a slice of Belle Époque life by the Gowanus. The chef at the Pines is Angelo Romano, who used to cook at Roberta's, the pizzeria that opened on a desolate Bushwick block in 2008 and is now a favorite of the Clintons and Kirsten Dunst. For those who have contended that what Gowanus needed was more "nduja, they will be pleased to find it here, along with oxtail, black truffles, and satsuma. In a sign of the menu's almost absurd ambition, these last three ingredients are actually all in the same dish of cappellacci. There are a couple of pasta dishes on offer, but even though this is South Brooklyn, there's no red sauce in sight. The "nduja - if you didn't know that there exists a spicy pork sausage that is spreadable, eat some immediately - comes blended with amaranth, an ancient grain used by the Aztecs in religious ceremonies, which is now sold in bulk bins at Whole Foods. There's even bone marrow topped with sea urchin, a combination that has possibly reached the point of cliché. The food has a kitchen-sink quality, and, as is the trend, the menu seeks to telegraph seriousness by naming dishes for a single ingredient ("greens," "octopus") - but what does it all taste like? At times, there was a sense of overreach: the pasta could be too al dente, like chewing electrical wire. That amaranth-and-"nduja dish, which sounded so intriguing, was a chore, like eating meaty porridge. And the bread - albeit from Grandaisy, and served with caraway butter - cost six dollars. This is too much to pay for bread when the restaurant remains obstinately cash-only. In an uneven meal, there were some delightful surprises. "Lettuce," which could have been the most boring dish on the menu, turned out to be among the best. The visual pun was that the croutons scattered around the wedge of romaine were actually slowly rendered nuggets of guanciale. It came with a dollop of dressing on the side, egg yolk, honey, and agar whipped into a white orb, light and smooth, like a meringue. And there was a memorable cocktail called the Baked Apple, made with bourbon, apple cider, and "smoke," with which the glass was filled before the drink was poured. The smoke came from an applewood log that had been infused with cinnamon, allspice, and blood-orange zest. Drinking it was like being in a college dorm room, near clove cigarettes, but more pleasant. (Open daily for dinner and weekends for brunch and dinner. Entrées $14-$40.) ♦