Augieland

Morandi, 230 perrilotourzillian stars

In the interest of disclosure I was employed by Keith McNally for about 150 hours one winter back in my freelance days years ago. I believe it ended amicably; I quite often can be found at the north end of Balthazar’s bar having a couple dozen oysters with a Muscadet, followed by a bar steak with some cheapish Burgundy, a meal I greatly enjoy when I am hungry at the hours the Balthazar bar is approachable, like 2:30 pm on a weekday. 

As far as Keith goes I happily imagine he has no idea who I am, a suspicion reinforced when dining in his proximity at Morandi the other night where my presence did not distract him in the slightest from running around the floor with a hopeful, earnest look, causing me to doubt there was any intention to make me uniquely comfortable or un.

I should also mention that wandering home along Greenwich one warm sunny day a couple of years ago I came across a newly opened restaurant with the most ridiculous chandelier ever and a huge hole in the center of its floor, sat down in a breezy entryway and fell in love with Jody Williams’ temerity in simple Italian fare.

By moving from Gusto to Morandi Jody and her food are further away from me by an avenue (which is forgivable), and in a far more cramped, awkward, contrived space (which may not be). The place is as bad as Chianti fiascos in recessed arches, distressed brick walls lit with harsh blue light, horribly uncomfortable mismatched café chairs and small tables crowded by a plate and bread plate per person, arranged in such an odd floor plan that accessing the bar, the exit, and or the bathroom requires some footwork and takes at least an extra minute than it should. There is no way to move directly from one end of this room to another, and judging from the amount of times my rickety chair was kicked by some member of the staff not even from one table to another.

Once nestled in chairs chosen after some exchanging with adjacent tables for the slightly more functional versions available, Downstairs, Bubby, Luh, Roar, Vhee, and I were greeted with a resounding “Buon Giorno” from our waiter in a convincingly not-native-to-New-York accent.

So far everything seemed in order. I could forgive the space and the chairs, after all McNally reinvented the “Paris bistro in New York” with Balthazar and Pastis and in general these places have chairs that encourage you to try to finish and pay for your meal within the forty-five minutes your seat will tolerate their seats.

In general McNally’s many successes have been cramped, slightly uncomfortable places full of people that are fun for crowds, providing good food and all the ingredients for a good time. Then this charming, pleasant young man went on a diatribe about Morandi offering “a unique, authentic Italian experience,” here in New York, two blocks from Babbo and one from Gusto where Jody used to serve the exact highlights (and the restaurant still does).

He went on to detail how they strongly suggest we get many appetizers to share, followed by pasta (it would be small enough, being authentic and all), and then obviously move on to entrées. I heard almost this same speech in college when the waiters at the new Romano’s Macaroni Grill put a five liter bottle of cruddy red wine in front of me and some pals asking that we keep track of our own glasses, “just like in Italy” (we could use the crayons provided to make hash marks on the butcher paper if we had trouble). It rang as manufactured then, and at that point I had only been to the major tourist cities of Italy where places resembling this exact room cater to the tourist notion of bona fide.

So, braced for authenticity and with our own version of our waiter’s plan we went with:

FRITTI Carciofi alla giudea fried artichokes with lemon: this is the dish that made me love Jody in the first place, not much more than trimmed immature artichokes hammered in an immersion fryer until the leaves on the outside that would otherwise be tough are browned mahogany and easily crunched. Inside is trapped the steam that softens this tough thistle’s heart. This is the food of a ballsy chef. To be this perfect you must appreciate the acrid notes of burnt olive oil while embracing the lovely bitterness of cynar oil in young artichokes, so deeply bitter when perfect that it makes even water seem sweeter (seriously not a wine dish). The good news is these little treasures of the Jewish ghetto in Rome are made with the same conviction they were at Gusto.

Bagna cauda Radishes in olive oil anchovies and garlic: Here somehow neither bagna (bath) nor cauda (hot). The beauty of bagna cauda should be that it is unapologetically fishy. It is made of three things – anchovies, garlic, and olive oil – warmed together and best paired to bitter vegetables. This was more smattered than bathed and tasted like oiled radishes, with the exception of one well-roasted garlic clove half I found that was somewhat reminiscent of the amalgam of all three flavors.

Prosciutto di Parma con gnocco fritto: this is the dish that could have made the chairs, the lacking fish flavors of the bagna cauda and the silly waiter speech all ok. I have never had a version of this dish that I did not love, until now. Like all Italian dishes there can be regional variety at places directly across a street too narrow for two Citroen C2s to pass each other. So the fact that this version of fried dough is different than those I am used to is fine with me; that Morandi’s misses the heart of the differing other versions I have tried is the dilemma. There are two components: the gnocco (basically immersion fried bread dough), and those wonderful hams of Parma with their beautifully flavorful fat. As far as the ham goes, the quality is fine even if it is a somewhat paltry serving at the price. As I prefer them, gnocco have the chew of bread while being light, moist, hot, and airy (hot being the key because their warmth warms the fat of the ham, in turn encouraging the ham’s aromas to release). Here, the texture is like a savory puff pastry, entirely hollow in the center, exchanging chew for bite, and giving up the ability to retain heat. There is also a disparity in portion. Perfectly prepared, the Prosciutto slices make it once around each puff. As served here they fit three times around with enormous overlap at the ends, losing any play of textures and nuance that might have existed.

ANTIPASTI Polpetti sedano Grilled octopus with celery and black olives: one baby octopus grilled exactly to the point where the suction cups are crunchy and the flesh has that pleasingly yielding bite. The octopus was allowed to shine, more garnished than dressed with sliced celery, parsley leaves, small dry cured olives, and a lightly acidulated olive oil dressing.

ANTIPASTI Burrata creamy mozzarella with roasted peppers and arugula: I don’t report on dishes that others eat and I only have a small taste of, but this was enough cheese for four people as an antipasto and, as part of what was being branded as an authentic Italian experience, this course made me crazy when Downstairs gave me a bite. First and foremost, burrata is not mozzarella. The two are made in similar manners, but burratta includes some of the whey trapped in the center with the cut, stretched curd giving it a gorgeous lactic zing and creamy consistency no mozzarella can match. The only way to kill this is to serve it cold. This was served out of the fridge cold, so cold in fact that we put it aside to come back to after entrées (which required us to defend it from no less than eight attempts by one of two busboys to clear it). When we came back to the cheese at the end of the meal it was still too cold to be creamy. A complete misunderstanding of an ingredient.

PIATTI del GIORNO DOMENICA Bollito misto: cottechino, beef short rib, veal tongue, capon breast (which a different waiter pronounced like Al’s last name), carrots, onions, very buttery mashed potatoes, and some cabbage all cooked together. I love bollito misto. Well made it is the odd cuts of older animals immersed in boiling water to seal in their juices and commingle their flavors, making the sum far greater than its parts. This dish was not the tragedy an adjacent table pronounced it to be; it was however far closer to Irish boiled brisket than the northern Italian dish its name would indicate. The short rib had been seared before going in the water leading it to be only slightly drier than the capon. The capon was obviously an attempt at tenderness over the flavor of a haggard old bird because it was dressed with salsa verde. Overall, the entire flavor had been boiled out of rather than into these cuts. Even my beloved cottechino seemed flat. As condiment, in the place of the mustard, vinegar, and horseradish I am used to, were roasted cipollini onions in a sugary sweet vin cotto facsimile (think store-brand balsamic). Without the uglier, more flavorful bits of traditional bollito misto like veal head and pig lungs, something needs to be added. Here they are asking a cottechino and maybe a clove or two to impart flavor to some pretty needy cuts which they are just not up to.

Back when I worked for Keith McNally it was a great job because Keith makes restaurants that make money, which makes him both a good restaurateur and employer. As a New York diner with many “authentic” Italian places to choose from, I was turned off by Morandi’s heavy-handed contrivance. Maybe Morandi would have blown me away years before Po. But this meal tasted and seemed like Italian heavily cleansed to play to an American palate of twenty years ago in a room for the same crowd, at today’s prices.

The truth may be that unlike the Parisian bistros, Russian vodka bars, and cocktail joints with nice rarebit in up and coming neighborhoods which we were lacking before McNally gave them to us, we have a lot of authentic Italian places, and the West Village is not wanting for a dependable good time place. The good news is we seem to have an unending willingness to accommodate another; all you need is sincerity in your product.

At this point it seems the restaurateur’s wish not to offend anyone and make money is overpowering the chef’s interpretation of flavors that are still somewhat uncommon around here, and that just doesn’t work for my type of diner. Jody’s food was, and hopefully again will be shamelessly proud authentic flavors, not faux authentic names, service or rooms (Gusto was at best an awkward room). Hopefully someone will report that Morandi has refocused and all the food has the sincerity of the artichokes, and I will try it again. Until then, I know how to fry artichokes.

Dieci, 640 decimalillian stars

Dieci. On Tenth between First and Second, get it?  Just like Otto on Eighth street and Fifth. At least that’s what I thought till I walked down the stairs and realized they may have meant the number of seats available at tables. This is a small room, the type you have to walk out of to change your mind.

Lane wanted to talk about food blogging, a subject I can drone about for hours but don’t find very interesting so I figured it might become more interesting for both of us if we were trying a new place. Being as Dieci had recently opened it seemed appropriate.

The left half of the room is comprised of nine seats at tightly packed tables with chairs on one side and a banquette on the other, the right half is a communal table at bar height with about a dozen stools. Three more stools at a window ledge round the dining room out. I chose to sit at the north end of the communal table which has a kind of Bar Jamon/ Boqueria potential if the right motley group fills this (small) room.

Perched on a stool awaiting Lane’s arrival I had time to look through the menus and form some opinions.

The wine list is brief and all Italian with the eccentricity of not necessarily mentioning producer or region, so there are offerings like CHARDONNAY ESTATE 2004, BASILICATA BIANCO 2005 and AMARONE DELLA VALPOLICELLA 97, 98, and 2000. The good news is the servers will provide the left out bits of info upon request and with only six whites and a dozen or so reds the whole exercise only takes a couple of minutes. 

The list contains one other idiosyncrasy in the form of four Sakes, begging the question how well does a Junmai Daiginjyo pair to Prosciutto? I still don’t know the answer because one of the six offered whites was a Pra Soave Classico which I tend to enjoy as a better than average quaffing white and I hadn’t tried the 06 yet. It proved quite nice, citrus-y with good minerals but a little linear and less round than I am used to from Pra.

In the short time it took Lane to join me I had decided it best to try a couple of appetizers and if we liked them move on to a main. She arrived, agreed, and it went a little something like this:

Olives mix of niçoises, Sicilian, and green nyon: not particularly interesting, literally just a couple of olives in a small bowl, you could do this yourself at any gourmet store in town with the difference that you would have more olives for the money, but they would be in a larger plastic container.

Mortadella authentic bologna style ham, delicately flavored with black pepper and pistachio nuts: I love mortadella. It is what Oscar Meyer copies when they make sliced bologna, but authentically it is huge, like a foot around and four plus feet long, which in this restaurant would leave no room for your date. This was big for a salumi but still small by mortadella standards; smooth force meat cased with decent sized fat bits and pistachios, sliced thin and served plainly on a plate. Nice, especially with the wine, but this service stakes no claim on it. The last place I can remember that offered mortadella was Otto at their ill-fated breakfast. By serving a small sandwich with salsa verde, fresh horseradish, or Dijon mustard they made it theirs. As served here, anyone with a source for imported meat and a slicer can recreate this dish perfectly.

Genoa Salami: A rather wide-gauged, nicely spiced sausage with a pretty even split of fat and meat. This was made unique by being shaved incredibly thin. Usually samplings of meat favoring a rougher grind like this I have had are sliced more thickly. As thin as this was, none of the coarseness was evident making it interesting as unique if not classic.

Octopus Salad served with olives, dried tomatoes, celery and parsley: the small tentacles of small octopuses cooked with moist heat, properly both chewy and tender were served as a cold salad dressed in what I assume is a lemon agromatto because the dish had more a pervasive lemon aroma than and citric zing. Well conceived and executed, but definitely the smallest part of a small night.

From Main we had Steamed New Zealand Mussels served with cherry tomatoes, broccoli rabe and a saffron blue crab broth: The meats of the green lip mussels were nicely plump but slightly dry, more as if they had been previously frozen than overcooked. They benefited from a dunking in the aromatic brackish broth laced with saffron and slightly bitter notes from the rabe. Fine as a standalone dish but at odds with our wine, pulling astringent qualities out of the acids.

To finish we tried five cheeses which were simply accompanied by raisin toast. Far too cold for fair assessment but what seemed like it would have been a good sampling of some Italian types if properly served.

Walking in all I knew was that this was meant to be an Italian place with a Japanese owner, chef and management. As far as I could see, and it is easy to see everything from the front door (the place is small), the management part of the story was true. The food, however, is not Italian so much as the derivative Southern European cuisine offered around New York. It feels as if the chef has taken his favorite flavors from restaurants called Mediterranean (or whatever we are currently calling the cuisines that use olive oil as their primary lipid) and decided they are all Italian. Those mussels were a nice dish but came more by way of Brussels than Italy, a fact that distracted me from simply appreciating them as well made or not.

At this point a large portion of New Yorkers are pretty Italian fluent; seldom do people insist baked manigott (sic) is authentic anymore. Part of this development has been a sense of what really is eaten by Italians in Italy and none of these offerings are that. The truth is, held up to the Italian light Dieci fails under scrutiny, but this should be irrelevant and only matters when the restaurant identifies itself as Italian. Considered as nothing more than a good little place for a bite, it is quite nice.

The room and the food seem best suited to fueling a community feeling amongst the right small crowd rather than cuisine contemplation by foodies. In the long run, I suspect Dieci will do best by resisting the Italian brand and becoming known simply for its good chef interpreting his favorite flavors on small plates, in a small place, with a small wine list, at smallish prices.

Danube, 623 ceruleanillian stars

There is something both attractive and repellant about the longer running fine restaurants of New York. On the one hand if they have had a run longer than five years in this fickle town they must be doing or have done something right. On the other hand things that sell well around here are often assimilated so quickly into the mainstream that the luster of a new and creative idea can be dulled prior to sampling the original, robbing it of the special-ness that sets it as desirable in the first place. But from experience at places like Gotham, Chanterelle, and Jean-Georges, those that are truly special settle into a confidence, even after their techniques and ideas have diluted in the pools of American dining, that makes for enjoyable meal.

With all this in mind Bodhi, Zaphod, Pharyngula, Normal, Gastrula and I dropped by Danube to finally try David Bouley’s now classic (seven or so years since the Times review) modern Austrian restaurant.

For the couple of years before Danube opened a lot was made in the press of Chef Bouley’s vision for the restaurant and its cost. I’ve heard it described with words from funky to posh. Having seen it for the first time ten years after first reading tales of its intended splendor, I can say it definitely walks just on the safe side of the line between beautiful and ridiculous but all in all is truly impressive, amazing actually.

You enter the narrow end of a graduated space into a room that contains the entrance door, another door and the coat closet. Through the door on the left is a room that is opulent, shimmering, dark, rich and luxurious with inlaid polished stone swirling around a bar with maroon crushed velvet seats with dangling satin tassels. Next is the obligatory blue space (which I guess I would describe as azure) a place called Danube would have.  This area moves into a dining room with glinting gold Klimt reproductions under ever- widening vaulted ceilings. As I describe it the place sounds as tacky as some of Michael Jackson’s wardrobe choices, but as experienced it is as regal in ornamentation as the more tasteful of the dress military uniforms he apes.

Once seated we were offered a menu divided into four parts: Austrian (appetizers and entrées), Modern Eclectic (appetizers and entrées), Market (appetizers, entrées, and a dessert), and a tasting menu consisting of about 75% of the menu grouped into courses with multiple selections.

We decided to go à la carte, and it went a little something like this.

Amuse: duck cappuccino with winter spices; creamy and buttery, with duck notes and anise aromas, but primarily buttery and creamy without being heavy.

Modern Eclectic: Diver Sea Scallop and New England Crabmeat with Paradeiser, Coriander and Fresh Lemon Thyme Sauce. The sauce was zippy with acidity lightening strong pungent flavors of paprika, pimento, and coriander. While quite nice, it overpowered the scallop and completely obliterated the crabmeat and may have been better suited to an oily fish (I imagine it could stand up well to the likes of an Atlantic Blue). The scallops were hard seared on the outside, leaving the moist translucent bite of rare flesh on the inside; a solid execution.

Austrian: Wild Striped Bass, with Parsley Puree, White Onions and a Lambrusco Foam. Pan roasted slices of a bass fillet resting on a pile of sweated shaved onion in a pool of thick green puree with cleansing chlorophyll flavors and a lemon aspect are topped with fried parsley leaves, large gauge red caviar, and dried cherry tomato slices awash in a lightly acidic Lambrusco foam which I had expected to be red when I ordered. Everything well prepared again, the dish was most pleasing for the play between extremes of the briny pop of the caviar and the lightness of the foam, with the rich fish, sweet onions and astringent parsley accenting them from the middle of this flavor spectrum.

Pre-Dessert: Elderflower sorbet on grapefruit gelée with grapefruit sections. Strangely it tasted o f pear, although the server assured me it was just the two flavors, the elderflower lingering on the palate extending the aromas as if they had been an atomized aromatherapy exercise.

Cheese selection: good variety but nothing either unique or remarkable enough to note, just a proper assortment of milks and methods.

I loved the wine list. An Austrian focus rounded out with popular offerings from elsewhere, I went with a pleasantly tart Chard/Pinot sparkler called Klimt as aperitif. With the first course foie was served others while I got my scallops and I don’t suspect many wines would have been as accommodating to such divergent flavor profiles as the ’05 Rudy Pichler Smargd Gruner-Veltliner, crisply acidic with aromas of orchard fruit. Although I did not expect the new oak and deep extraction of in the ’03 Paul Achs Pinot Noir, it was still light enough to pair with my fish while having enough round red fruit on the palate to go with my companions’ duck and lamb.

The general experience at Danube was one of competence at a fine level. The room, the service, the wine and the food all operated on a very good to excellent plane, adding to a pleasant evening mostly by never interjecting themselves and distracting from our enjoyment of the room, the food, the wine, and the conversation.

The group I dined with was all people I know from business. We comfortably lingered over dinner for about four hours and Danube did an exceptional job of being slightly lavish, slightly fine, slightly unique but above all unobtrusive and comfortable. All aspects were commendable and could easily have become the focus of our evening but never intruded on our space at their table.

In the long run I suspect I will definitely return to Danube, but I also suspect it will be on a date with Wife.  Places as good as it is at encouraging long languid enjoyment of time spent with others are few and far between these days so it would seem best suited to enjoying dining with a comfortable companion.

Picholine, 112 septentrionalilian stars

So Helmet says, “You want to go to Picholine with me, Misspooz, Pichon, Ringwald, and Deputy?”
So I say, “There is nothing I like more than fine dining with you guys, and the last time I ate at Picholine I was very impressed by the food, although I found the room a little stodgy; that was like 4 years ago.”
So Helmet says, “I bought the dinner at a charity auction and it expires soon. I also hear they have completely remodeled the stodgy interior and revamped the menu so we’re going to go, you should come.”
So I say, “Revamped the menu? They still have wild game and that insane cheese cart, right?”
So Helmet says, “Yea geez (Helmet likes to talk British every now and then) relax, its all still there and according to Bruni it’s better.”
So I say, “Well you have piqued my interest. I will break my natural 23rd street northern boundary and trek up to the hyperborean wilds of the greater Lincoln Center area with you.” 

So it went a little something like this:

Simply put, the redesign is a study in purple. Enough shades that as you walk around you are reminded of how many names you know for the color: amethyst, aubergine, eggplant, heliotrope, lavender, lilac, magenta, mulberry, orchid, perse, plum, pomegranate, puce, violaceous, violet, and wine all come to mind as you glance about. While the paint is indeed fresh and the finish new, the room is not necessarily reinvented. It is still a room best suited to the well-heeled upper-what-ever-side Wasps to don their bowties and sup while discussing opera fundraising, just in mauve instead of dandelion.

The menu is new and fresh, with a strangely confounding simplicity. There are nine options branded “Preludes,” three Pastas offered (one being a risotto), four Day Boat selections and another four decisions From the Land. The setup is you get two courses for sixty-five dollars and may add more from the selections for fifteen dollars a pick. There are also five winter black truffle preparations available at a premium I didn’t really understand, explained on the insert as (25.suppl./35.suppl.) and a seven course chef’s menu mainly comprised of dishes offered throughout the menu.

As written there were not many courses I was not interested in trying so after some horse-trading and negotiations I ended up sampling as follows:

Amuse: Brandade croquette, cauliflower crème with lemon gel and parmesan crisp, and stripped bass ceviche with shiso and bergamot. The cauliflower bite was more crème than cauliflower and so rich it robbed the lemon film of most of its acidity. The brandade was fried crisp and light with a touch of aioli. The ceviche was so much more about the bergamot and shiso flavors than the fish that the fish role could have probably been played by most any cold soft chew. Liking bergamot and shiso I wasn’t bothered, but I might switch these flavors with a crème so the light lemon was on the fish and the stronger aromas were tempered by the crème.

First course, was a divided with Helmet, the SEA URCHIN PANNA COTTA, Chilled Ocean Consommé and Caviar, an exceptional dish. The panna cotta was complimented by a quenelle of caviar, some sea greens, and a cooled gel of lobster and mussel stock. Alongside were potato crisps topped with dried sea beans and greens. Great sea urchin dishes taste like the sunlit top of a beautiful sea, the danger is that when the urchins themselves are not immaculate or are over-manipulated they can taste brackish. Here it all comes together perfectly, staying light and pure while definitely of the ocean. Not to foreshadow the report, but even if all else was miserable I would probably go back for this. The second half of the first course was “BACON AND EGGS” Polenta, Tuna Bacon and Truffle Toasts: cubes of smoked tuna belly studded polenta topped with a poached egg (firm from being brought to table in a covered dish) and dusted with tiny indiscernible slivers of fried something (I would guess potatoes but not confidently). A stick-to-your-ribs variation on breakfast flavors it was a good course, probably perceived as more brutish than it deserves because it was eaten in concert with the Uni.

Second course, was shared with Misspooz, STRACCIATA, Sweet Maine Shrimp, Escargots and Hazelnuts. Homemade noodles tossed with shrimp that had been sprinkled with something crunchy, buttery snails, toasted hazelnuts, with wonderfully flavorful micro-celery all tied together by an herby pesto of sorts. The shrimp and snails were quite nice especially served together, with the snail’s chewy, buttery, earthiness contrasting the crisp, sweet saline pop of shrimp flesh, both well complimented by the greens and the dressing. The pasta however was overdone/chewy, and the dish suffered for it. The other choice in this round was LARDED DIVER SEA SCALLOPS, Chestnut and Almond Milk from the BLACK WINTER TRUFFLE DISHES supplemental portion. Wilted lettuce, a buttery almond foam, generous slivers of black truffle, and chewy yet still sweet chestnuts scattered about two plump scallops cooked until crisp on the outside with a pleasingly dense bite. A nice dish, it read slightly better than it translated.

In the third spot, Pichon, Helmet, and I selected one of each of the three options of WILD SCOTTISH GAME BIRDS (birdshot may be present) which the kitchen kindly third-ed  for us so we didn’t need to swap plates all over the place. From lightest to deepest in color as well as flavor were partridge, pheasant, and woodpigeon all roasted and served with brussels sprout leaves, roasted apple, roasted mushrooms, and tortellini stuffed with the game birds’ legs, all dressed with game bird stock. Growing up I was often forced to eat birds my father had shot, and the bright spot in the days before my palate matured enough to crave the sanguine gaminess of wild meats was finding the BB’s embedded in parts. Sadly I found no shot in these offerings. The dishes were quite nice, the broth doing an admirable job of compensating for the dry-ish meats. On a return visit I would go for just woodpigeon of these three offerings, or whatever was gamiest on that day. Picholine does a wonderful thing being one of the few places that offers truly wild birds and once you have committed to that they should be gamey with an oomph which is lost as you work through the lighter options.

Fourth round was a division with Pichon, with me insisting on the HEIRLOOM CHICKEN “KIEV,” Braised Mushrooms and Liquid Foie Gras because Frank Bruni had mentioned it both in the review and his year-end roundup. Having now read the words “liquid foie gras” for a third time I couldn’t see past it. Sadly the dish was bad. What poured forth when the waiter pressed a long pointed chopstick into the flakey fried yellow crunchies encasing the chicken breast had the consistency of a broken hollandaise. Clear fat with beige globules flowed onto skin that had set on a pool of mushroom demiglace between the kitchen and the table. Not only was there none of the unctuous poetry that should go with “liquid foie gras,” but rather a bland oleaginous weight that caused both Pichon and me to stop eating with stomachaches. (If Bruni was served this dish as I was and gave this place three stars he loves the color purple more than Prince, or has a stomach/palate made of iron). The other dish in this series was WAYGU RIB-EYE, Cépe Mousseline and Tempura Celery. The mousseline is probably worth remarking on, but the rest of the dish seemed mediocre, mostly due to a lack of salt, and I won’t comment further due to the association with the Kiev.

After some quick self-medicating with a few drams of grappa and an amaro I was fit enough to face the cheese cart, a collection so loved and well managed that it almost causes me to forgive the occasions of badness and mediocrity that happened between the brilliance of the Uni and here.

Max McCalman has a passion for cheese that translates as almost fetishistic, and the presentation of the cart is worth the price of a dinner. Still discombobulated from the Kiev, I put myself in his hands simply asking he provide me with a sampling of cheeses so funky you would believe they were created by angry deranged lunatics at an asylum on an island a safe distance from humanity. What he produced were: DURRUS, a cow milk cheese from Co. Cork, soft with floral and milky flavor; KRÜMMENSWILER FÖRSTERKÄSE, a cow milk cheese from Canton Thurgau, Switzerland, soft with a spicy mustard flavor; and VACHERIN FRIBOURGEOIS, a cow milk cheese from western Switzerland, firm with pronounced acidulous taste; which were horrible enough to heal me and the KRÜMMENSWILER FÖRSTERKÄSE was so absolutely ghastly that I asked for a second dish, which in turn got me treated to some in a doggy bag on the way out.

All in all my first Picholine foray which was prior to its reinvention is a good, albeit hazy memory. This fresh experience really straddled the gambit from spectacular to bad. Will I go back? Probably. The cheese program and game meats alone make this a unique enough place to merit a second shot. Combined with my fond memory I am pretty sure it will happen. Either way I am very glad this was not my first and only experience.

Chef's Table in Restaurant Gordon Ramsay at the London, 194 gratlillian stars from 12/10/06

As exciting as a guy hitting a homerun in the late innings to cinch a victory is, my favorite version of the American pastime is the few and far between games when every player on both teams plays every out expertly executing the fundamentals. Dining at the Chef’s table at Restaurant Gordon Ramsay is that kind of exhilarating.

At the East end of Chef Ramsay’s rather expansive and beautiful kitchen, set in a recessed compartment, raised two steps, is a sleek black stone table flanked on three sides by a plush leather banquette and white privacy glass making the perfect vantage for six diners to observe the brigade of chefs at the pass, meticulously assembling food for them and the forty-five or so patrons in the dining room. 

Helmet, Misspooz, and I arrived about half an hour ahead of Pichon, Tourelles, and Ringwald and were sat in the London bar to wait with some complimentary champagne, toasts and spreads. The champagne was ’98 Dom Perignon, the toast was thin rounds of an airy baguette, and the spreads were chicken liver and foie mousse topped with Sauternes gellée and truffled cream cheese. In this bit of service lay the metaphor for the evening.

The London bar was largely populated by some kind of corporate party of people milling about with cocktails and enjoying passed hors d’oeuvres. In the middle of this crowd of folks enjoying being at a hot spot and reveling in each other and the Christmas season, a little oasis was provided us with our own server, sommelier, and some of the quintessential provisions of fineness. As they do Ramsay as a chef, I know some people enjoy poo-pooing Dom Perignon as a brand rather than a great wine. At times I have been one of them (towards the wine not the chef, him I had little knowledge of before a month ago), but experience shows that when treated with sober reflection and contemplation of the product’s merits, it is usually revealed to be consistently estimable even to the naysayer.

When this type of product is supported by others of high quality, the sublime becomes possible, and just as the truffle aroma infused cream and the rich liver spread drew complexity from the champagne, the talented staff, exemplary execution, fine product, and attention to detail drew enthusiasm from us, making for an exquisite experience unlike many I have had.

When Pichon, Tourelles, and Ringwald arrived they joined us at our banquette, adrift in the sea of travel agents or whatever they were, to finish off our bottle of champagne. Two more classic accompaniments were provided at this point as well: parmesan cheese crisps with sliced black truffle, and a plate of cured pig. The crisps were pleasant, but the cooking process magnified the cheese’s inherent saltiness, overshadowing whatever the truffles would have brought. The charcuterie consisted of a coppa, which was also a little overpowered by salt, and fine examples of sopressata and prosciutto.

With the champers and snacks plundered, we were led through the London bar and the main dining room, down a hall with a wine wall and up the two-steps to the dais from which we would survey and dine. It all started with a discussion of allergies, avoidances, and wine. For wine we simply asked that sense and decorum be used in an attempt to provide the most enjoyable pairings, for food, well you read the blog, you know this crowd eats any and everything, so it all went a little something like this:

Marinated beetroot with goat and ricotta cheese and toasted pinenuts: the beets’ earthy sweetness, the lightly lactic zing of the chevre, the toasty aromas of the nuts, came together with the astringency of micro greens and beet syrup in what should have been a small, two bite amuse that I tried to extend to four and ended up making a beautiful, pink messy amalgam of crunchy slices of beet, soft cheese, and the waxy bite of the nuts.

Red mullet with fennel, pink grapefruit and fresh herb vinaigrette: the crunch of the seared side of this fillet and the flavors drawn out from such intense heating would probably have allowed it to stand alone impressively. Instead, aspects of its accoutrements happily drew attention to different parts of this tidy whole: the bits of pink grapefruit popping with acidity, accenting the richness of the sub-skin fat; the raw olive oil warmed by the fillet’s heat providing warm tomato leaf notes to the tender flesh. Each of the individual herbs in the vinaigrette showing strongly in separate bites, combined with the bitter accent of citrus zest pervasive in the dish and made more dramatic by a pairing with Rudi Pichler, Weissenkirchner Achleithan, Riesling, Austria, 2005, made for perfection in this little fillet.

Ballotine of hamhock and foie gras with granny smith and cider vinaigrette: no matter how they are prepared pig’s trotters are rich unlike anything else. My sense here is that these were cured and reconstituted because they have all the meaty richness of a pig’s joint without the oleaginous cartilage that usually goes hand in hand with ham hock preparations. Studding the dry richness of the ballotine were flavors of cornichons, capers, and foie, in supporting roles never overpowering the salty pork bits the dish was about. Dressing (also in accent roles) were thin slices of green apple under and a salad of herbs over. Château Suiduiraut, “S” de Suiduiraut, Bordeaux Superioré, France, 2004 provided rich stone fruit and melon flavors as well as muted acidity to the course.

Seared hand dived scallops, with cauliflower and golden-raisin purée, cauliflower beignets: I think the proper name for this cut would be a steak. The scallop was cut vertically and seared on its sides. Years of being served scallops cut medially led me to expect this was the case here, so it was only after the third bite that I realized I was cutting cross grain and if I simply shifted my line of attack 45º the texture would change from sinewy to pleasingly plump and dense. Accompanying the scallop were cauliflower florets fried in a tempura-like crust, a mélange of cracked peppers, and a thick caramel with deep raisin sweetness which played as well with the Domaine Skouras’ Moscofilero’s, Peleponese Islands, Greece, 2005, spicy, rich, structure as the did the scallops.

Roasted foie gras with caramelised hazelnuts, with pear purée with champagne and honey vinaigrette: recently I have been preferring the creamy richness of slow-roasted foie over the scorched exterior/fatty inside textural results of intense fast heat. This doesn’t change the fact that the fast heat method is still the classic preparation and therefore fit in this meal well. Crunchy filberts’ roasted sweetness presented a stark contrast, while adding another layer of richness. The notes of the pear purée were pretty successfully swooped into the flavors of a cocktail paired to this dish, Chapel Down, Sparkling wine, Kent, England, Rosé, N.V. with pear liqueur, cubed pear and apple crisps, a heady libation layering constituent flavors of the dish, which traded some of the booziness of the liqueur with the fattiness of the foie to keep this from being a crippling course.

Turbot with red and yellow pepper confit with chorizo, topped with calamari, scallops and bacon, with artichokes: the fish and the accompanying fine dice of textures would have been light enough to disappear were it not for the perfect cask and paprika vinegary notes of the fleshy pile of peppers they rested on. Nora de Neve, Rias Biaxas, Spain, 2004, Albariño, with far more body than any Albariño I have yet had, walked the middle line hand in hand with bacon and bits of nut to tie the lightness of the sea to the lightness of the Spanish kitchen.

The truth is, four out of five food preparations in the world of fine dining are actually better suited to white wines than red and if you ask a good sommelier to just pair as well as can be done you will end up with a lot more white than red. Sure you can do red, and the same good sommelier will always find a red to go with just about anything other than oysters, but if you want the best pairing you will end up white heavy. Therefore, late in a meal about subtlety, nuance, and layered flavors, there can be genius in the simplicity of a classic red course. Roasted Château Briand, celeriac purée and roasted root vegetables: sooner or later if you are sitting down in a British man’s French restaurant, simple pleasure can be found in well roasted beef, traditional fixings, and a good bottle of Claret. This straightforward dish was carved tableside and accompanied perfectly by Château Gloria, St. Julien, Bordeaux, 2000.

Vacherin Mont D’or cheese with salad and walnut bread: warmed under a Salamander in its wood and served tableside, scooped into tiny bowls, it played more to a lighter home ammonia side of the funk rather than a barnyard one. This was a ripe, pungent round that probably was as funky as decorum lets be served in a fine restaurant, with buttery leather and wood notes making it well suited to a slightly sweet, perfectly acidic A. Margine, Tradittionalle, Brut, Premier Cru, Demi-sec, Champagne, France.

While I enjoyed a second and third serving of the cheese the table had:

Caramelised pineapple purée, vanilla yoghurt with pineapple granité, candied cilantro and coconut tuile.

Palet D’or and Gin Gelée and passion fruit cream: I tasted this one and found the stiffness of the jellies pleasing, as was the not cloying Cuvée Beerenauslese, Kracher, Austria, 2005 which tied up our wine parings beautifully.

Chocolate Fondant a souflee that won me over by remembering it was more an egg dish than a chocolate dish.

Having now dined at Ramsay at the London twice, I found some similarities between the first night in the dining room and this night in the kitchen. Both times I was very impressed by technique, quality, value, and excellence of service. The big difference between opening night and week three can only be described as soul. The first time felt like the motivation was survival, whereas this time it seemed to be as simple and noble as the quest for perfection.

The line in classic French cuisine between good and exceptional is perfect execution, and often even the most discerning diner will forgive lackluster and at times even poor performance because perfection cannot be an every time thing. Which makes the times when everything hits exactly right remarkable. Even though both my meals at Gordon Ramsay at the London have felt like absolute bargains in comparison to their competition as I have experienced it around the city and the world, the price still falls in the realm of luxury dining and I forgive little until trust has been built. This was an exquisite meal and, taken in concert with my first foray, the restaurant has definitely impressed me.

Hawthorne effect in full swing, The chef’s Table at Restaurant Gordon Ramsay shines under a watchful eye. Symbiosis exists between a staff being considered and those observers offered intimate proximity from which to study. Chef’s tables by nature exist on a different plane than even the tables in the dining room of the same restaurant. That being said, no phenomenon can make bad food taste good or poor parings synergistic.

Was my opinion affected by having the opportunity to watch the kitchen perform, and to involve myself with the people striving to make the best possible meal that can be had? Of course it was. Substituting in the role of front waiter was executive chef Neil Ferguson who presented, explained, and served each of these courses. The wine pairings were selected and served by wine director Gregory Condes. Thoughts and choices were explained and discussed in a pleasant, unhurried manner by both gentlemen without a pushed sense of agenda. The food was remarkable, the juice was an extension of the perfection. Even a devotee of the new and exciting has to admit that there is clearly a reason someone in this day and age would strive for classical excellence; in a word, when done correctly, it is exquisite.