The Thousands

Freda’s is not a place that will grow on you in increments. You won’t gaze around at the barest of bare brick walls, Mexicana rugs and pallet planters and think, ‘Oh yihhh, guess she’s awright,’ before making like Sydney and moving on to the next hot dive. You won’t indifferently sip the grapefruit mescal margaritas, Alaskan highballs or French herb vermouths wrought by master drink-maker Marty Campaign (who was poached from Shanghai!) – you’ll probably slam them all, plus a specialty beer and Giant Step Chadonnay or two (hundred), and then feel rather shady the next day because of it (read: today).

It’s obvious to everyone you’ll guts the bread – I mean, it’s co-owned by the dude who started Luxe Bakery – but you might be a little shocked at just how many platefuls of the daily specials you’ll guts too. We’re talking pickled octopus, garfish and capers, smoky eggplant salad all prepared at room temperature by a Fish Face alumnus – c’mon, you’re only human! You might even find yourself getting into an involved discussion about ice with the wait-staff. It’s cos it’s a special machine they shipped in from Japan that means the chunks are pebble smooth and clear as crystal and … oh, you tuned out.

So, no. You won’t just like Freda’s, you’ll love it – so hard that you’ll start to feel a bit awkward and stalky. It’s just that kind of place.