In a borough famous for its pickle platters, this one was exceptional. The tantalizing assortment flaunted big leaves of cabbage tinted bright pink with beet juice, slender green pepperoncini, a puckeringly tart carrot slaw, sliced unripe tomatoes, pale gooseberries with wrinkly skins, miniature purple plums turned a lovely shade of brown by the brine, and, of course, half-sour cukes. But there was one pickle we couldn't identify—small and spotted with a woody stump where the stem had been, with crumbly coffee-colored flesh. Was it a fruit or a nut? Despite extensive postprandial inquiries, we never found out.
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