If you thought Red Hook was remote, have a walk around Vinegar Hill, the sleepy historic Brooklyn neighborhood sandwiched between the Navy Yard and DUMBO. It feels like Red Hook as it was about five years ago, before LeNell’s, The Good Fork, and Fairway brought “development” (though I’d say of the good kind) to this former rough and tumble community on the docks. Vinegar Hill has a bit more innate architectural charm than Red Hook, however, and it does not require a subway and bus transfer to access (just the subway). It’s quaint, if desolate, and reminds me of a quiet, weathered college town—Pittsburgh or Bethlehem, Pa.—but one that bears marks of past greatness in the bones of its brownstones and the cobblestones etched in its sidewalks. It’s charming and a little spooky at the same time.

I had never been to Vinegar Hill before, and I was lured there not by the promise of the usual trappings of a Brooklyn neighborhood—home-roasted artisan coffee served in a ceramic mugs molded by local four year-olds, a hippie hand-crocheted knitting store, or some gangsta rapper underground poetry den—though any of these is clearly possible, if not probable, now that there is a hip and hot restaurant in the neighborhood’s mist. I was lured to Vinegar Hill by the talent of the chef, Jean Adamson, who previously cooked at Freeman’s, and by Robin and Rob’s glowing New York Magazine restaurant review.

I should let you know that I was not the only one who was lured to Vinegar Hill House last weekend. I was joined by about two- to three- dozen others on a crisp and blustery winter night, and we ascended from the subway with liquor bags heavy with wine (Vinegar Hill House is BYOB), and Google maps directions in hand, walking gingerly like Hansel and Gretel without a trail of breadcrumbs. The wind whipped up from the water as we turned on Front Street, then Water Street, and followed it to the end where it met Hudson Avenue, a lonely stretch of sidewalk with almost ominous views of the power plant. It felt like a sound stage for The Departed. Was that Leo leaning against the streetlamp finishing off a smoke? Alas, no.

The street was deserted and silent, that is until we got up about a quarter of the way and heard the din of crowds and conversation coming from behind a solid wood door marked 72. When we pushed the door open we came face-to-face with a melee. Crowds were three deep at the weathered bar (the back of which is a salvaged antique organ), there was a slow moving line of couples and threesomes trying to get the attention of Sam Buffa, the owner and acting host, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an attack of rabid foodies. The man was weeded and overwhelmed. I could hear his muted inner scream. It took about 10 minutes for him to even make it down the line to us and ask (in a low defeated voice that betrayed his utter exhaustion) our names which were placed on a list that at 7:30 offered a two-hour wait for a table of two.

We were not deterred. We were not leaving. There was no place to go that wasn’t a twenty-minute walk, at least. So Kiri and I stationed ourselves strategically behind a couple with a baby at the copper stamped bar, ready to pounce on the next available seats and have our meal there. Our wait was surprisingly short-lived. Indeed, the couple and their new baby were just getting up and we snagged their seats, and in no time at all we were perched on stools within arm’s distance of the open kitchen and wood-burning hearth where Adamson does most of her hearty seasonal cooking, and presented with the narrow sage green dinner menus.

While we found seats quickly, this was a peaceful dining experience. I was probably elbowed, shoved, jostled and possibly felt up by at least a half-dozen strangers who were smashed into the bar space with wine glasses dangerously close to spilling with every twist of the shoulder and turn of the hip. It was a bit stressful. But the room, had it not been filled to fire code capacity, was quite sweet, in an old mountain log cabin retreat sort of way—vintage tables and chairs, dishtowel napkins, wrought iron farm equipment, antique prints, and various other bric-a-brac that made the space feel as much like a flea market on the prairie as a restaurant.

Adamson’s menu is brief. At the moment it includes just three starters—meatballs in red sauce ($12), duck rilletes with soaked prunes and grainy mustard ($13), and a wood-fired tart made with potato and kale ($13). Entrees also number three: stewed pork shank with cannellini beans and tomato confit ($16), wild striped bass with mushroom butter ($16) and a crispy chicken in a cast iron pan ($15). There are three choices for dessert too: a Guinness cake, a sweet potato cake and a cheesecake ($6).

The menu, while brief, was certainly appealing, especially on a frosty winter night. But after having dinner at Vinegar Hill House, unfortunately, I believe Rob and Robin might have either been on something (or very hungry) when they reviewed the restaurant, or the kitchen was completely derailed by the crowds the night that we were in. The food was just not that good. It lacked seasoning and in some cases was just plain uninspired. I was happy we hadn’t waited two hours for it.

A special salad of roasted beets with beluga lentils and horseradish cream ($9) was pitifully flavorless. A pile of sliced beets was served naked, and lacked any sort of inherent sweetness from roasting. They tasted almost canned. They need some acidity, some vinaigrette, something. The horseradish cream was very judiciously applied only to the lentils and had little effect in waking up the flavors on the plate. Kiri and I were completely confused. What was it that was so great about the food here? The wood-fired tart wasn’t much better. While I love the idea of this dish—a savory pastry wrapped around kale and potatoes and aged sheep’s milk cheese ($13)—in this case it was dry and bland, lacking salt, pepper, and enough cheese to give the vegetables a nice gooey, tangy counterpoint. It was as though the kitchen was told to cook for a hypertension convention. No salt? No flavor? What’s that about?

Thankfully, the crispy chicken that Rob and Robin raved about was much better than the tart or the beets. Served in a cast iron pan, on a nifty Holly Hobby-esque knitted trivet, the brown-skinned half-bird was tender and terrific, positively bursting through it’s crisped skin with juices. While it was served in a puddle of wonderfully bracing sherry vinegar pan sauce and two roasted shallots this bird deserved the presence of at least a few potatoes, parsnips, or grits. Come on. Give us a nice carb or two.

The lamb pope hats—plump hat-shaped ravioli filled with braised lamb, pine nuts and dates set in a Parmesan and sage brown better sauce ($14) were fine, but certainly nothing to write home about. The sauce was one-dimensional and didn’t particularly match up with the ravioli, which I think would have fared better in a more robust sauce, something with more acidity or heat. A final disappointment were a side of wood-fired Brussels sprouts that were so mushy and overcooked they were suitable for an infant, but not for anyone over the age of five.

Kiri and I were rather disappointed in the meal, but despite the lackluster food (other than the bright spot of the chicken) the service was friendly and welcoming and we were having a very good time at the bar, catching up and people-watching. Sitting to the left of us at the bar were a trio of precious Daily Candy types: very pretty twenty-something girls, heavily made up and dressed to the nines in slinky short dresses, tights, and mile high boots. They were sharing a bottle of DKNY “champagne.” No joke. Donna Karan label bubbly. (This was not on the wine list. Remember, it’s BYOB.) We were not the only ones at the bar who seemed fascinated by this trio and their wine choice. Behind us were a set of flannel-shirted guys with lamb-chop sideburns who looked as though they just came in from hunting wildebeests, but most probably were just off the G train from Williamsburg. To the right of us were a group of smiling young frat boy types in jeans and t-shirts, drinking six packs with one lone girlfriend who seemed bored to tears.

By this point we had seen a fat slice of dark moist cake being paraded around the dining room, topped with a thick white frosting, and summoned the bartender to order our very own slice of Guinness cake that had been the subject of more praise in the NY Mag review. “Sorry, but we’re sold out,” he said. It was all of 8:45. Note to chef: when NY Mag raves about your food, make more of it. Instead, we went for the sweet potato cake, layered with cream cheese icing, which was very good and ended the night on a happy note. Carrot cake: watch your back.

By nine-thirty when we settled our check with our barman (if he were serving drinks to these folks he might have made some money), the crowds had thinned out and Mr. Buffa paid a visit to his girlfriend Jean in the kitchen, trading a kiss for a pat on the tush. It was a sweet moment between two very hard-working people who have clearly tried to create a neighborhood comfort station in Vinegar Hill. The potential is here for a very appealing restaurant for the neighborhood and those intrepid travelers from afar. But sometimes a rave review too early on is a restaurant’s curse. The hype ends up killing the product: they get too busy too soon, and the food quality suffers. That appears to be the case here. I hope that the food is taken under control and more careful attention is paid. Otherwise, the neighborhood may remain just a remote frontier, a place where tumbleweeds roam without a place to stop and stay awhile.

Vinegar Hill House is located at 72 Hudson Ave., nr. Water Street, 718-522-1018. Hours: Tuesday through Saturday, 6 to 11:30 p.m.; Sunday, 5:30 to 10:30.

Andrea Strong