Little King: A Love Story
Little King: A Love Story
In a warm brass and charcoal hued den, soft orbs of light hang in mesh baskets from the ceiling like old street lamps slung in fish nets. Dark wood paneling wraps the room and rounds protruding corners, guiding me from the Art Deco doorway to the room’s focal point: two reunited friends behind a salvaged mahogany bar. They shake, strain, pour, and invite the Sunday afternoon drinkers who surround them to get in on their vibe (cool warmth, accented with hot toddies). John strains a War Horse (Laphroaig Single Malt, Overholt Rye, lemon, Aperol, Falernum) into a coup and hands it to me. The frothy smoky liquid feels like a preamble to something.
Sam Esterman plus husband and wife pair John Moskowitz and Christina Salway are the trio behind Little King, a new bar that serves food in East Williamsburg, doors from the Graham stop on the L. The bar serves not-overly-complicated cocktails and decadent pork belly donut sliders. But then there’s fluke crudo, roasted bone marrow, prosecco on tap, and a succinct list of natural and biodynamic wines. The assortment sounds disjointed, like the three pulled their ploughs in different directions to sow the same land. But in action, it works.
Blonde and erudite Christina sits customer side of the bar with me, while mellow Manhattanites John and Sam take turns telling their story, mixing drinks, and conversing with guests. John scoops ice for glasses Sam holds, Sam strains a cocktail that John shook, the two punctuate each others’ sentences. They navigate their tiny domain with the finesse of long-time line cooks. It seemed three had known each other for ages, that Little King fulfilled a long dream for them, but the trio actually came together last fall, serendipitously.
John and Christina, college sweethearts, came to the idea when John was looking for a career change. He declared he was going to have a midlife crisis (a few years early). Christina, an accomplished interior designer, supported him. “Hands in the middle, man,” she said, “Let’s all crisis together.” They moved to Paris. There, John began to harbor a dream of opening a bar; one with a food menu that rotated daily and reflected the seasons.
Sam has worked in the industry, both back and front of house, for years. He wanted to be his own boss. “We were living parallel lives,” Sam says of John and himself. They went to elementary school together in the West Village where they were friends, “but we weren’t besties,” John clarifies. They had lost touch before their Bar Mitzvahs. In August 2015, Sam and John and Christina went looking—separately—for bar locations in Brooklyn.
One hot day in Brooklyn Heights, softer spoken Sam tells me, “John and Christina were actually on their way to check out the space I had just passed on.” He catches eye contact with a customer and retreats. John fills in, telling me that Christina spotted these three guys standing in an open space, her senses attuned to any locations for rent. So they poked their heads in, and “Sam turns around and I was like, ‘I fucking know you.’” It had been twenty years, but they didn’t look all that different. They exchanged numbers.
John and Sam began to go to community board meetings together, exchanged ideas and discussed struggles they both faced opening a bar. “We sorta started dating,” John explains. After months of courtship, and pivotal break ups with former business partners, the two went to lunch. “We went to a Mexican joint and drank a bunch of micheladas, and we talked about food, and we just decided to—“ Sam cuts in, “Just get married.” To clarify, John’s real wife, Christina, was never dumped in this process. Their lives stopped running parallel that day.
John, Christina, and Sam quit their day jobs and for six months renovated the space they found almost entirely themselves. Christina put her expertise to use. She tells me, “I wanted it to feel like the back door to somewhere really grand. Like the staff bar to Grand Central Station— associated to something lavish without actually feeling that formal itself.” She evokes this in every sconce and flower arrangement, it all feels like slightly faded glory.
They are aware that three equals with differing opinions and strengths and visions could spell disaster for the bar. (“Two hot toddies,” an Irish fellow walks up and asks. John eyes Sam, “You’re in.”) John tells me “the good thing about us as a partnership is that we talk about everything, and the bad thing about us as a partnership is that we… talk about everything. Really, it’s a fucking committee meeting if we’re going to put the bitters over here or, over here. But it matters. We all care.” So far, it’s a love story that seems built to last.
