Everyone has a ‘perfect spot.’
The thing is, many have yet to discover it. This is a place not too far away but, for the sake of adventure, far enough. The lighting is just right, the music is top notch, and there’s always a seat or two open. Throughout the night, conversation falls somewhere between a dim whisper and a lively conversation. The food tastes as good or better than the price would indicate and, ideally, the service is actually drawn out somewhat — not too much, but enough to make it all worthwhile.
In a city as extensively unearthed as ours, it’d be just shy of a miracle to find a truly ‘secret’ spot. However, knowing a place a little off of the beaten path is the New York equivalent of having a pristine beach all to yourself in St. Tropez. Interested? This place exists, and in Brooklyn nonetheless (!!). Sitting literally underneath an elevated subway line, Moto is a restaurant-meets-bar-meets-cafe that has been catering to a dedicated crowd for a bit over five years. A bit beyond the continually redeveloped face of Williamsburg, Moto comprises of a rustic building not dissimilar to the Flatiron Building — though merely in shape, not condition. A small doorway opens into a room that expands outward in a ‘V’ formation. The building — whose former purpose was that of check cashing business — is on a corner of Broadway, a busy avenue populated with bodegas and laundromats in an otherwise residential area. In this sense, the restaurant is truly a diamond in the rough, a post-industrial pearl.
After realizing the strange, almost discreet placement of the building, one would soon be struck by how the space is lit. Dim, irregularly occurring, and coming almost entirely from overhead, the lightbulbs which line the room have exposed filament, an evocative detail which adds a little kitsch and a lot of nostalgia to the space. The windows are esconced with a grid-like metal cage, the floor is worn out in the most charming of ways, and the distressed walls are lined with old-fashioned signs, photographs, and paintings. Dusty, blemished irrors are spattered about in such a way that nearly every seat in the house is afforded an interesting second perspective of the space. The room is fastidiously decorated with timepieces of various eras — some swallowed up in the omnipresent shadows, others aflame in the yellow-red light.
What is it about this place, though? In a city brimming with restaurants, bars, cafes, and clubs, practically every aesthetic and approach have been tried out. I asked Alex, a young, friendly waitress at Moto, how to “justify” (if you’re not sold yet) the “hike” to Moto. “People want good food, a nice atmosphere, decent prices, terrific service,” she says, snickering at the last criteria.”What I think sets Moto apart from so many other places here is that it so flawlessly combines all of those components.” Her observation is dead on; her sincerity unmistakable. In fact, it’s been a common thread with all of the staff I spoke with: a genuine love for all that Moto is, more likely one that was born long before each began working there. Never-beens turn into regulars, and a few enlist behind the bar, ushering in a new crop of familiar faces.
Each of these are factors of the whole. The entire place is drenched with personality; it truly is a place to hang your sense of familiarity on the rack at the door and pretend to be in Paris, Berlin, or even the most unattainable of all: old-time Brooklyn. Bands perform almost nightly, varying in genre from ragtime-era jazz to gypsy folk. On any given night, one may come across the twang of New Orleans-style blues, trans-continental jazz-pop, or downright rock & roll grit. Just as the music concurrently establishes and distorts any traceable nationality, the cuisine looks to both reconstruct and disregard the borders of cultures and nations. The menu is affordable in that too-good-to-be-true sort of way, with a heritage including but not limited to French, Mexican, Italian, and “Deep South”. In e’er so subtle ways, Spain may become bordermates with Germany or Greece — it happens. There’s an enigmatic, unabashedly American voice that serves as the gracious culinary translator, though, as I could see a handful of our grandparents lining the chairs chowing down like the days of old.
The cooking staff, who have but a 12’x 8’ area to work within, would even concoct their way to ‘Antarctic Soul Food’ if they had the means to do so. Moto may appear to be in a state of confusion — given its atypical location, the oddball music, and a culinary composite of an imaginary nation. Truly, this confusion is complementary to the experience and, in my opinion, quite intentional. To lose onself figuratively in “the experience” or, perhaps more literally, just get tangled in the shadows of the sparse lighting, it’s all part of the Moto experience. As we’ve learned, after all, the experience is half the fun. If it doesn’t seem to fit your taste, there are plenty of ‘spots’ in this giant city. The problem is, only one is Moto.
Part of a Moto photo/essay profile. Ah, I’ve been swooning for years.
