Restaurant Open Year-Round in Eastham: Brickhouse
Open 4-830/9p, closed Wednesdays
One the menu tonight:
• Mussels
• Brussel Sprouts
• NY Strip
• Chicken Marsala
• 908 Seafood Stew
• Bread Pudding
Brickhouse in the Gravitational Warp of Outer Cape Gastronomy
Dig: depending on which year you were born you’ll understand it your own way; they were either going into town to pick up a banned Link Wray vinyl (with Rumble, obviously) or a skirt that was cut too high (above the knee), or some lysergic acid diethylamide, or a handgun, or old George Carlin & Lenny Bruce tapes, or a mail-order bong or bride or or or … it was the journey—a parabola of anticipation drawn along the shadowed artery of Speedway 6.
On this particular night, the trio of desperados found themselves ahead of schedule—an anomaly in a timeline already frayed by the eternal tardiness of Connection. With nothing but a few cracked phone screens and a universe's worth of algorithms to guide them, the one in the backseat, the short one, who the two in the front decided didn’t need legroom (or, he’d entertain, respect), dared to summon the heavens and sent a bing for open restaurants nearby to outer space.
“Brickhouse Restaurant,” the phone declared.
So it was Googled, so it was done.
The Vestibule: An Antechamber of Infinite Potential
The entry vestibule was the kind architects dream up on strong peyote trips—caverously claustrophobic, with faint hints of symmetry that dissolved the longer you stared. Behind the greeter's podium, the wall suggested its own hidden conspiracies: likely a collection menus haphazardly stacked alongside dog-eared knitting manuals and an anarchist cookbook. The host, a figure poised precariously between benevolence and menace, waved them forward with the flourish of someone who’d been tipped in cryptocurrency.
Inside, the dining room yawned open—a cozy, oddly high-ceiling-seeming fever dream of warm lighting and polished wood surfaces that bent inward. Then the short one stopped dead in his tracks, inhaling like both nostrils had just cleared after some god-awful week-long clogged head. The unseen smell of wood-burning firehad transmuted the air into something tactile, nearly edible. Gwyneth Paltrow’s candle people could only dream of matching this alchemical triumph.
On a cold November night, when at least two of the three had the good goddam sense to wear appropriate footwear (who wears flip flops in December? Shorts as a show, maybe, but jeans and flops? To drive? A stick shift?), what you wanted to smell was a wood-burning fire and that’s what they were granted. And yet … the absence of a crackling soundtrack—no hiss, no pop—nagged at the taller one. He refused a full point total to his vibe count. Point of fact, he went as far as to file this negligence away under Grievances and muttered something about poetic injustice. When he recounted the story later, he spat on the ground.
The menu was loaded with several contenders for each of the delinquents, and each of the delinquents had some degree or another of hemming they had to haw. But, though they were early, they were still running, so decisions were made, orders were placed, and several rounds were run in preparation for the inevitable.
Enter the Plates: A Catalog of Devotions
As they imagined the illicit beaded stitch on that cropped skirt bottom, the smooth, pearl revolver-handle, the sound of the crackle under Carlin’s shrieks, the first of the plates arrived. Each dish was delivered with the solemnity of a royal decree, heralded by a waitress whose charm, while genuine, did not escape the paranoia of the moment. Was she flirting with the passenger-seat philosopher? Perhaps. Did she know something they didn’t? Doubtless.
MUSSELS
When the basics have been laid out for you since the ooops-wrong turn, temporary-landing of the 1620-ers up the street, there’s no need to reinvent anything. A buttery clam broth carried a symphony of garlic, onion, tomato, and celery, the flavors weaving together like a jazz quartet in a basement club. A slab of bread hovered nearby—half weapon, half sponge—daring you to leave the bowl anything but bare.
BRUSSELS SPROUTS
Toasted to the very edge of their dignity but never burned, these halved green meteors wore chili sauce and everything bagel seasoning like haute couture. These greens should have had a cameo in the video for Kanye & Lil Pump’s opus, because I love it. Each bite was a revelation, each crunch a subtle reminder that, yes, vegetables could pull focus, even in a room full of carnivores.
NY STRIP
The steak arrived, unapologetic, and dropped its 10 ounces on the table: the alpha. A seared crust sealed in primal perfection, and the Gorgonzola crumble provided a counterpoint—a blowtorch of funk and salt to its earthy richness. Asparagus spears and whipped potatoes flanked the beef like loyal knights, and somewhere in the distance, a fig and port reduction whispered, you are worthy.
CHICKEN MARSALA
The Marsala sauce clung to the chicken like a lover (with anxious attachment) reluctant to part, its creamy richness balanced by the earthiness of mushrooms and the bright pop of sliced carrots. Green beans leaned in, muscular and conspiratorial, while the whipped potatoes whispered sweet nothings.
SEAFOOD STEW (908 EDITION)
The short one, ever mindful of mirrors and their cruel honesty, chose the stew—a protein-packed survival kit masquerading as a meal. Scallops, shrimp, cod, and mussels jostled for space in a tomato broth that shimmered like a mirage. For good measure, and to pay tribute to the Portuguese gods, strong on this land, chourico was offered as well. A white wine which could only be described as flavorful finished the plate, tying it together.
Counting their minutes and about to ask the waitress for a straw to send the rest of their cocktails to perish, the amigos were treated to a wonderful visit straight from the heavens behind those metal kitchen doors, swinging like some hip Bay Area bird who just can’t stop spinning that Chet Baker record, man, yeahhh.
Denouement: Bread Pudding and the Thrum of Destiny
Tray-made and cut square, these slices were served warm with more than a dollop of whipped cream (not potato) piled on top. It was good and likely could have been rated great but for the fact it was simply inhaled and not savored. Maybe the waitress had a plan to get to know our passenger friend better. Maybe it worked.
They hustled out to the car and the driver just about tripped over his flip flops when the hair-flipper passed on his passenger privileges to the backseat dweller. Shorty almost welled up, but the last thing an undersized-someone can show is a weakness - so he swallowed the lump in his throat and assumed his throne upon Shotgun Mountain. The guitar and bass-lines drubbed heavily in unison as they pulled out onto the Speedway and headed toward the Outer Cape and two-lane heart of the sunrise. Yes!
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