Augieland

Nutshelling Momofuku Ko & Terroir

I don’t review places that expect they might get a review from me. I just feel they treat me differently so you may not have the experience I do. I also don’t review free food cause what kind of 21^st century American conceit would it be to think anything less than positively about the gift of food, especially food made by talented chefs?

Group Momofuku and group Hearth both know me on a first name basis and are aware of the blog, thusly you haven’t heard a lot about all the great meals I have had at Insieme and Ssam Bar. This doesn’t seem to matter much anyway, other people that write love these guys so it would probably only be interesting if I were going against the grain, and I am not; I very much enjoy eating at the restaurants of both groups.

My love for David Chang’s food, which spans most of what I have tried, can be reduced to my love for apples and bacon. So far there have been three versions of an apple and bacon salad at Momofuku Ssam and all have been great, the current apple kimchee with crumbled bacon being the best. You just gotta love anyone who works to evolve something fundamentally perfect and simple to begin with without complicating it.

My love of Marco Canora’s food can also be reduced to a single dish, even though I have been pleased by most all that he has served me: gnocchi. His little potato dumplings, with butter, a good amount of sea salt, and pepper just make me very happy. Paired with one of Paul Grieco’s aromatic whites they are perfect.

It just doesn’t make sense for me to try to review the experience I had the other night when I went from a free “friends and family” tasting menu at Chang’s new Momofuku Ko to drinks and a snack at team Hearth’s new wine bar Terroir. I am too predisposed to liking them to fairly assess.

My only risk was of having expectations too high, and honestly I was very satisfied by both. Both teams are offering a different experience from their existing places without straying too far from the groove they rock in. Neither is McNally doing Italian.

Basically, in a nutshell, my first impressions were:

Momofuku Ko: if you like the other Momofukus but have wished for more refinement you will like Ko. The base flavors are the same yet more refined and developed, the room is similar yet less rambunctious. Most importantly, the chefs are still right there.

Terroir: if you have ever thought, “I would love some of Marco’s food, like his cotechino, but don’t want to sit down for a multi-course meal at Hearth or Insieme” now there is an easier option. Terroir is simply Paul’s wine and snackier versions of Marco’s food at elevated bars in a happy space. Here too, most importantly, the chefs are still right there.

So one has tightened up, but just a touch, and the other has relaxed, but just a touch. Who wouldn’t want these options from the guys that actually get it?

Adour Alain Ducasse 262 Henningillian stars

if you'd have told me one of the line cooks at Bouley got sick of waiting to be made sous-chef and went out on his own after 6 months, i would have expected the tasting menu i was served at Ducasse last night.

Inn At Little Washington 652 Relaisiilian stars

“Do you know these guys? They have what some consider the best restaurant in America…” I would almost never ignore this statement. But while sitting in the cigar room at Del Frisco’s on a night that someone had closed it to throw a party for chefs in town for the Beard awards, of course I dropped my Romeo y Julieta in the ashtray and said “no, please introduce me.” Although I hadn’t recognized the gentlemen by face, as I was introduced to Patrick O’Connell and Reinhardt Lynch I knew exactly what restaurant the introducer meant. It was Inn At Little Washington, and of course I had heard of it.

At that time (remember we were in the cigar room of a New York restaurant so quite some time ago) I had a short hit list of destination restaurants to get to. Foodies I had come to respect purported the best restaurants around with American-born chefs to be, in no particular order: Trotter’s in Chicago, the Laundry in Yountville, and the Inn in Washington, Virginia. That was then. These days Alinea strongly commands my focus of food-related travel so I needed not only motivation for a food trip that could be done in a weekend, but a reason not to see Bestfriend and find out what Grant is up to these days (besides having been afflicted with cancer of the irony).

The occasion was Roar’s Birthday and a time in our life with a stronger than usual desire for respite rather than excitement. We needed indulgence so thorough that we would feel vacationed, even though all we would have done in reality was have a sleepover. We were also willing to pay for it, having saved some money recently with all vacation time related to family or weddings.

A two hour and forty minute Amtrak ride from NYC brought us to a rental car desk in Washington, DC. A drive of a little more than an hour from there brought us to rolling hills of farm country and, with the final direction from the rental GPS of “turn right and proceed point four miles to destination on right,” we were right were we needed to be.

About fifteen minutes after turning the rental over to the valets we were in a sumptuously appointed room deciding in which order we should nap on the featherbed-topped mattress under the damask cover on the second floor of our room, bathe in the deep jacuzzi tub, or return to the living room for afternoon tea service.

As time for travel has shortened, Roar and I have started placing a higher premium on comforts, like good sheets and good towels. The Inn is not cheap by anyone’s standards but it feels like the kind of place where the significant portion of the yield has been plowed back into making it better and better, or at least was in the beginning. At this point nothing is missed or overlooked, so plunking in bed was most tempting, but the truth is Chef O’Connell’s food is why we were here for the night rather than at all the other destinations easily accessible in four travel hours from NYC, so tea it was.

Tea was really just an extension of the pampering appointments the Inn offers and we needed. It was simple and relaxed, while feeling dignified. Cumin-dusted nuts, a Silver Needle White for me and a Russian Country for Roar with a few tasty tea-sized morsels: lemon cream tart topped with fresh raspberries, maple cookie, salted oatmeal raisin cookie, house smoked salmon with cucumber, and a country ham on chive biscuit with mascarpone pepper jelly. All exceptional and served on comfortingly fine china, a decisive transition from travel to destination.

After baths that involved salts and the donning of more appropriate dining attire, we proceeded back downstairs for dinner. I was greeted with a white carnation boutonniere, explained as a house tradition, and led to a two-top in a row of about four in the first of a series of dining rooms. At table we found dinner menus topped with a birthday wish for Roar and two glasses of champagne. A note written in someone’s pleasant hand on an Inn at Little Washington card informed us the bubbles were sent by our friend Outback from NYC.

Champagne consumed, we turned to dinner choices. Roar was clearly in a particular mood because for the first time in our nine years of dining together she asked if we could skip the tasting menu due to three things on the prix fixe menu she found desirable. Since I found as many offerings attractive I deemed it a fine choice.

The meal started with four lagniappes served on flattened Chinese soupspoons. A beet and horseradish mousse with a sprinkling of American caviar, a tiny ball of pear flesh wrapped in prosciutto, a parmesan cream on basil oil, and tuna with a micro green and some crisped something. For some reason our table for two was served only one of each. This did not seem unique; every table of two near us (they are close enough that you are aware of most of the intimacies of your neighbors) seemed to receive the same service. A strange decision, because if these bites are not shared the best result is one of the diners wishing she hadn’t missed one or the other if it is well received. Or you can do what we did, which was try to split them only to have a pear ball roll down the front of my shirt.

Amuse was duck consommé, which showed that the savory flavors of the mirepoix trilogy live longest into the winter months. A deep mahogany liquid served in a demitasse cup with perfect clarity redolent of roasted late autumn game, consumed in three quick sips. It made me wish for quarts to help through the change of season cold I was shaking most of the week leading up to dinner.

For the first course, I chose Crispy Maryland Crabcakes with a Trio of Sauces: Garden Sorrel, Classic Tartar, and Roasted Red Pepper. The cakes themselves were perfectly light with a slight crisp edge yielding to a creamy mash of crab. I can’t really report on how good or bad the crabmeat tasted because, as served, it was impossible to discern without some form of garnish. Whatever they were it’s flavors were light enough that even the dill fronds garnishing overpowered them, let alone the sauces better suited to a fried cod type dish.

Second, I chose Burgundy Truffle Dusted Diver’s Scallop on Cauliflower Puree. Sometimes black French truffles and sweet fresh scallops combine and find in each other a flavor profile reminiscent of the cleanest, sweetest drinking water, which they did in this dish. These light, clean flavors were perfectly suited to foil the richness of the cauliflower purée and a pool of beurre rouge so intense it was meaty. A great course.

For the main, unable to resist the word “pretending” on the menu, I chose Pepper Crusted Tuna Pretending to be a Filet Mignon Capped with Seared Duck Foie Gras on Charred Onions with a Burgundy Butter Sauce. I don’t know what I was thinking. I am not a guy intrigued by tuna’s ability to play the role of meat. I like tuna loin for its umami qualities, not its sanguine. I like my foie unctuous, not heavy. I hate the idea of beurre rouge so thick with demi-glace it doesn’t blend with the oil released from seared foie, and I hate any of this on a fish course. These, however, are aspects to be expected when fish imagines it is meat. I know a bunch of people that would have loved this dish and I will suggest it to them because it is exactly what the menu promised and I should have known myself better than to order it.

The service was the perfect illustration of politeness and ebullience, however it was not necessarily deft. For example, the stemware was the late seventies versions of “white” and “red.” When our ‘96 Meursault Perrieres was served and I asked to have it in the burgundy shaped (“red”) glass they were more than pleased to accommodate but it wasn’t their instinct to use/offer it.

The room is intimate and not un-bordello-like, if the ladies of eve in the town were very successful and paid a lot of attention to touches like ceiling decoration, which I guess they would. As mentioned, you are very close to your neighbors and the space feels as full as it could. At the same time it is romantic, and what you learn from the intimacy is that everyone (really) is celebrating something on the occasion of his or her meal at the Inn. During ours we learned four of the couples seated in our proximity were out for a birthday, two were anniversaries (one of which was a seventh, this couple the closest of all).

Having let Roar have all the Virginia ham fun at dinner, for breakfast the following morning I chose Eggs Benedict because this local delicacy was featured in the role of Canadian bacon. I never quite figured out what caused the hollandaise to be pink but I very much enjoyed its assertive acidity. The eggs were properly poached, which is to say when pierced they released a copious amount of yellow fluid, but not clear, and it sat atop the hearts of English muffins, trimmed to be just the right size for the small package that topped them.

Although Lutèce will always be important, thirty years into Soltner’s reign was anything he was doing less significant? Of course it was. He had accomplished so much that everyone copied him, many so successfully that, first or not, his innovations seemed humdrum late in his run. While his regulars demanded he never change, chefs after him with just as much talent were copying, updating, and reinterpreting him, often at better prices.

There is little doubt of O’Connell’s significance, and his skill in defining and refining what is now largely (thanks to him and a few select others) accepted as American cuisine. The food I had was first-rate, but short of exceptional. I am not sure if it was because I was still a little sick. Possibly I have had too much food by the generations that have followed in O’Connell’s footsteps. Maybe being in New York jades my judgment (they were very proud of their cheese cart and it was impressive but if you go to Murray’s once a week Epoisses and Brunet are less exciting than I imagine they are if you don’t enjoy our proximity to a couple of the world’s greatest cheese shops). Or it could just be that the Chef is relaxing, having been at the top for quite a while. I do wish I had gone for my first time fifteen years ago when it first topped my list of places to go.

All things considered, I remember our night at the Inn as almost magical and I recommend it highly as a close to perfect oasis doable in fifty hours from away New York, but I would do a couple of things differently.

Firstly, I would visit in the spring through autumn seasons – American food works best when our gardens are in action.

Second, I would definitely get the tasting menu. On my own I chose light, light, heavy, and Roar went heavy, heavy, light, leaving neither of us satisfied with the progression.

The entire experience was wonderful. The lodging was nothing short of superb and I blame myself as much as anything else for the points of dinner that fell short. So any time I need someone else to get me the heck out of the moment by immersing me in opulent comfort this will top my places to go train, unwind and enjoy. But if I am looking to be excited on a trip and care only about dining, well then it’s to Chicago I will fly.

Bleecker Street Pizza, 840 Canorajillian stars

I was recently confronted by a chef I respect hugely and call friend for limiting the scope of my attention to the new and unique, which of course I think is unfair.

To address the chef who was dressing down me and other bloggers (I only speak for Augieland) for having unattainable expectations of ingenuity, creativity and uniqueness, I will simply say all I care about is authenticity. In Augieland there are two types of restaurants, those at which you want to be a regular and those where you don’t.

I have not figured out a simple way to explain it, the closest I have come is that regular places feel like they are opened by people for whom it is the only thing they could imagine doing, while the rest of the places are there because people think they can make money. Legitimacy lies in the belief that talent will be the driving force behind success and the money it brings. JGV, Hearth, Boqueria, Lil Owl, and Bleecker Street Pizza win my allegiance and attention over Per Se, Morandi, the Waverly Inn, and the various Ray’s.

It is a certain je ne sais quoi I have yet to capture in description, but I know it when I feel it and try to relay it on this site. Is the waiter reciting a script or does he comprehend what makes this dish unique? Is the chef aping current trends trying to capture parts of the “food dollar” or is he making the dish he has had a thousand ways the way he individually can?

I find value in a place so unique in some aspect – ambiance, food, service, attention – that it becomes part of the experience. My friends and I are very enthusiastic diners that can find fun in almost any situation, so allegiance boils down to places that contribute to a good time. Could we have had the same time at a handful of other places based solely on our enthusiasm and, if so, why come to this one again? Lupa has it, Centovini doesn’t.

Food need not be fine, new, fancy, complex, or even fussy; it needs be good and genuine. Which brings me to the Nonna Maria. A couple weeks ago, after a big and very pleasing round of appetizers with a group of friends at Employees Only, it occurred to me we were only a block or so from Bleecker Street Pizza which Flaviviridae had purported to be the best in New York, so we could easily stop in and sample it. We did and it was, by far the best pizza I have had in a long time.

Pizza Types:
1 the traditional slice pie (plain pie): seasoned tomato sauce, crispy crust, grated factory cheese, benefiting from a double cooking process (like Joe’s, most places in Brooklyn, and my secret dark horse Don Pepi in Penn Station)
2 the classic pie (Margherita pie): blazing hot ovens, far simpler sauce, sliced fresh mozzarella (like Grimaldi’s, Una Pizza Napoletana, and John’s)
3 the creative pie: people calling pies loosely based on these other two served on flat bread pizza (like Otto, Gonzo, and Two Boots)
* there is no such thing as a Chicago pizza, what they have is awesome but it is some long slow-baked bread product somewhere between foccacia, Sicilian pie, and lasagna which through some grievous error was branded as pizza.
** nothing that advertises on national television is a pizza. Pizza is regional, unique even by the block around here.

People often believe themselves smarter than the three types or fail by not realizing that the genius in all is the quality of the simple products used. Often you will hear people say “flour, water, canned tomatoes, dried herbs, and mozzarella is all it takes. The ingredients can be had as cheaply as $1.20 a pie and you can sell them for like twenty bucks; it’s a no brainer.”  It never goes very well. An acceptance of this thinking of course has led to the general mediocrity that allows chain stores to flourish. No one who has ever had a Di Fara’s pie would acknowledge Papa John’s as a like food stuff.

I had largely accepted that, as there are two kinds of restaurants in my world, there were two types of pizza – great, and not worth my time – and that within the great category were many things for many reasons with no one potentially elbowing out the other as absolute best.  Then I had the Nonna Maria.

It seems the Nonna can be all things to all people, or at least all people with a base enjoyment of tomatoes and salt. As a caveat, I see the marriage of salt and tomatoes as a given and a wonderful given. One seems to be an extension of the other. You can over-salt a tomato, but it happens after much more salt than just about any other food (char-grilled beef maybe being the other). 

Good pizza starts with good crust, crust with a crunch on the outside and a chew to its center that deserves some great descriptor like pasta has in al dente. Sauce should be about the tang of ripe tomatoes in tune with its condiment. A pizza using mass produced mozzarella should bring more flavor with its sauce, a pizza using finer fresh cheese (which usually goes hand in hand with olive oils as a flavor source) should limit the complexity of its sauce so as not to overpower these more subtle ingredients. Over all other things it is about balance. There should not be so much sauce it dribbles off the crust, there should not be so much cheese that the crust cannot retain its integrity under the weight, there should not be so much topping that you know there is sauce because you feel it slapping against your chin or lap attached to falling bits. Great pizza is sublime harmony.

The Nonna has a thin and crunchy crust straight out of the oven the first time, topped with a seasoned sauce with a consistency more hand-crushed then pureed, rife with fresh herbs and fresh garlic, topped with parmesan and fresh mozzarella. The parmesan adds the depth to balance the herbs and fresh garlic in the sauce, allowing it to please at the slice pie level. The fresh mozzarella sits between thick swaths of pie with little more going on than perfectly ripe tomatoes that are slightly sweet (although this may be creditable to the sweet onion bits, I suspect they add a little sugar), very zippy, and properly and unapologetically salted, pleasing the classic pie types.

The Nonna is available by the slice, yet is somehow as good delivered (I have had a dozen since Flaviviridae first introduced me). There is none of the scorching on the crust that indicates crazy heat in the oven, yet it starts crunchy/chewy and gets more crunchy as it cools which leads to an awkward phase when warm that loosens back up when cold. All in all, the remembered sensation is of steamy tomato-y essence complimented as it is best with things like fresh basil, oregano leaves, olive oil, milky cheese, garlic, warm bread, salty parmesan, and salt. It is a unique and special dish.

We have all heard the old saying that pizza is like sex: great pizza is great, and bad pizza is still pretty good (accepting that whoever said that did not mean Domino’s). I think it nails the trouble I have in qualifying restaurants and I guess why this pie is so much better than the others I have had made in a similar manner. Why do I love Gramercy Tavern and Gotham and not Union Square Cafe and Blue Water Grill? On paper they are not that dissimilar, but go to all four as an enthusiastic diner and you will see what I mean.

L'Impero 543 modernoillian stars

Bhodie and I were due for a meal with Kumatae. What we knew was he worked in midtown and liked Italian, so it seemed easy enough to choose Alto. While discussing the place and its chef/owner, Scott Conant, L’Impero (his other restaurant in Tudor City) came up, as it will. Kumatae explained he lived in Tudor city two doors from L’Impero and had never been.

Alto is a sleek cool room in a part of town where people work; L’Impero is a warm inviting room in a part of town where people live. Both serve Scott’s food, which is that of a modern chef with strong Italian roots (which is not to say modern Italian, think Keller and French) and the difference in distance was negligible to me so we decided to leave the decision for the day of as to which mood we were in. At noon it was snowing.

All I promised was that L’Impero would be a good restaurant for a guy from Tudor city who likes Italian food, on a snowy night. Then, while waiting at the bar we bumped into Chris Cannon, Scott’s partner on his way to some affair. This afforded he and I the time discuss a wine event we had both attended some four nights previously called La Paulée. La Paulée is not the kind of thing that can be described efficiently. Suffice it to say it is a glorious night of true hedonism, and exactly the type of thing you want fresh in the mind of management when their establishment is about to feed you. Chris offered to let the house plan our path, I requested they pair wines, and then this happened:

Marinated Pacific Yellowtail sea salt, olio di zenzero and red onion: spicy gingery oil, pink sea salt, and a tiny dice of red onion combined to offer piquant spikes drawing out the umame qualities in this pristine slice of fish. Yellowfin Tuna cucumber and ricci di mare emulsion: where the condiment of the yellowtail contrasted to draw richness from the fish, here cucumber combined with sea urchin and a rounder oil to play up the fish’s beef-by-way of the sea notes. A dead split between my compatriots for which was better.

Pairing: Petit Arvine 2005 Grosjean Freres "Vigne Rovette" Vallee d'Aosta as round as the fish was but with enough linear acidity to contrast the fish’s richness, aromatic like an Alsatian Riesling or Pinot Gris while remaining slightly more reserved.

Seared Sardine “Crostini” spicy beets, meyer lemon and grape salad: flavors I associate with soar, a fillet of sardine the skin crisped, on a pressed piece of toast with an agrodolce mix of sweet beets, sour lemons, aromatic vinegar, roasted pine nuts, and halved grapes; this was as light as the strong flavored fish oils of sardines can be and still be respected as sardines. The viscosity perceived in the fish’s flavor and texture were drawn out with heat, earthy sweetness, citric sour, the meatiness of the nuts, crispness of its own skin, and the light crunch of white toast.

Pairing: Manzanilla Amontillada Oloroso, "Almacenista 1/21 Jurado" Emilio Lustau definitely the pairing of the evening, an almost excruciatingly dry red sherry with balsam, pine, and walnut notes, it pulled meatiness from the pine nuts while otherwise being austere and tight enough for the components of the dish to bounce off of.

Crispy Sweetbreads Brussels Sprouts, salsify guanciale and potato puree: if only the six year old me could see this me loving thymus, mini cabbage, pork jowl, and salsify (I was always ok with whipped potatoes), I am not sure how he would react, but I am pretty sure all I would tell mini-me is “you will mature and you will see.” Various types of crunch: bits of sweetbread immersion fried till the outer layer crackled housing the rich sweet creaminess of this gland, crisp leaves of Brussels sprouts with their astringent, waxy greenness, crispy/chewy lardons of guanciale, and toothsome salsify, all playing off a smear of buttery smooth potatoes themselves contrasted by syrupy vinegar.

Pairing: Falanghina 2004 Cantine Farro "Cigliate" Campagna, crisp itself with precise enough acids to enrich the qualities of the meats but not draw the bitterness that can lie within them or the dish’s other components. Stone fruit aromas danced with the flavor that I would describe as fry.

Scallion Risotto balsamic glazed eel: I know the things that flavor the rice are what should be interesting here, but the striking sensations I remember from this are actually textures. Luxuriant creamy greenness surrounding individual rice kernels, each with a bite just short of crunch, topped with a lush fillet of eel that behaved as a base in combination with the notes of sweet and sour, with the slightest acerbic scorched touch in its glaze.

Pairing: Ribolla Gialla 2004 Antico Broilo Friuli light and fruity with melon notes, it flitted about right above this rich dish, dipping in to turn green melon with the rice and orange melon with the fish.

Roasted Striped Bass lobster, fregola and baby turnips and smoked bacon: I imagine cooked only on the skin side, a small fillet with crunchy skin and perfect flesh, with turnip’s bite and fregola’s chew dressed with a lobster foam. Yep foam and yep Italian; any other way of saucing would have lost this dish its lightness, and without the sauce it would not have had the gravity to play in the progression of courses. As it was served, it had the certain depth of flavor the rest of this meal displayed as well as the play in contrasting textures.

Pairing: Canaiolo 2000 Castello di Modanella Poggio 'Aiole Toscana: throughout this report the as yet unsung hero was our sommelier, James. Grooving on grapes and regions not necessarily untrodden but most certainly paths less traveled, he provided thoughtful evocative pairings, each well reasoned and explained. This meal could not have happened without these wines. Here, one of the traditionally constituent grapes of Chianti gets to play alone, with bright acidity and red fruit flavors suited to the beautiful layer of melted fat between skin and flesh on the fish, without tannin to mess up the higher notes of the lobster and herbs.

Duck and Foie Gras Agnolotti moscato passito di sardegna reduction & House-Made Spaghetti tomato and fresh basil: served together this is the ying and yang of pasta majesty. Both simple, one decadent, one zippy, both showing off the pasta over its dressing. The dish served each of us was the agnolotti which in its gamey richness is one of the best arguments for duck and all its parts as an ingredient I can think of. And then, as if to say the beauty of pasta is simplicity, the most simple of spaghetti “pomodoro” is refined to be what it always should be – a chewy noodle with a thin glaze of tomatoes’ essence with enough salt to coax its acidic zing and peppery basil notes making it seem even more simple.

Pairing: Recioto della Valpolicella Bertani "Valpantena" obviously chosen as hedonistic accompaniment for the duck, stewed autumnal fruits and spices came together as if prune juice and mulling spice had been reduced and trapped in a raisin, then stored in a cedar room. There were layers and layers of flavor and aroma always favoring the tarry over the sweet and constantly adding dimension to the opulent pillows of game.

Moist Roasted Vermont Capretto artichoke, speck and potato “groestle” here the chef has pulled out the ring mold and stacked toothsome bits of goat (at least three discernable cuts represented) studded with bits of smoky pork and the meat of artichoke hearts, on a potato cake. It is hard to separate this one from its wine except to say this would get someone that says they won’t to like goat.

Pairing: Barolo 1988 Bruno Giacosa "Villero" Piemonte at this moment in time in this bottle the flavors of this wine are pulling apart from each other, cedar, dripping cherry, sweet black tea tannins, tarragon, and so standing more alone than together and each note choosing the part of the dish it was best suited to. Glorious in its decay the combination was perfect.

Cheese: Robiola Bosnia with spicy marinated grapes, and Tillimook Burn with figs poached in chamomile and mustard seed syrup. I tend to prefer my cheese on a utensil with little accompaniment, however a couple of places have such exactly paired and perfect condiments that I must concede some things other than wine and forks can pair well. Both of these offered sweet and piquant foils in tune with the rich and funky notes of their cheeses.

Pairing: Primitivo 1959 Antonio Ferrari "Solaria Jonica" the story on this one is as good as the wine and almost as long as that of La Paulée. Find someone that knows it and have him tell it to you while you sip, but hurry because the wine will run out and then all we’ll have is the story.

Olive Oil Cake: dense, moist and nice but not getting me in the dessert camp.

Pairing: Grappa di Cammomila Marolo I don’t know why anyone would want to appreciate grappa, it’s a horrible habit that equally trades the power for blinding drunkenness with a somewhat medicinal relief from overeating, beating even Jagermeister for the most often repeated flavor memory the morning after. That being said, if you still want to develop an appreciation this is probably a wonderful jump-off point. The best grappas tend to have subtle flavors of woods and brambles that are not unlike tea; infusing this one with chamomile ends up working like training wheels for the nuances to be found.

When I first reported on Alto I enjoyed my meal as well as my anonymity immensely. I haven’t seen cause to update that opinion because that report brought me to the group’s attention and my opinion has not changed. I think Scott’s food is unique for its melding of Italian tradition and modern technique. Where some make their food the way Italians would here in New York, and others make Italian food the way French chefs would, Scott makes fine modern cuisine that is nothing but Italian.

Chris knows about Augieland, and he also knows that I don’t generally report on places that know I write a blog. Maybe he thought his place could blow me away so fully I couldn’t help but write, maybe he was just taking care of another enthusiastic diner he had recently shared a food and wine passion with at an over-the-top gala event. Whatever his inclination, this meal was flawless. Seldom have I experienced any cuisine at this level, especially Italian. Before dinner, Kumatae explained he didn’t like talking about food much except maybe while eating. The next day little else was discussed.

The Inn Lw12, 762 gueuledeboisillian stars

Disco fries: anyone in the world who considers himself into food should be aware of these. I have only had them in the culinary Meccas that are the diners of the Jersey Shore still open when the bars close, but I am sure every town has a version and a cool name for them. If yours doesn’t, move. Truly genius food stuff, they are basically steak-cut French fries placed on an oval stoneware plate and topped with a couple of squares of yellow American cheese product. The dish is thrown under a salamander until the cheese is limp enough to lay on the fries but not melt (I am not sure that this type of cheese has a melting point that is attainable before that of the fries and the plate so this seems the standard level of warmth). This combination is then topped with the thick brown gravy and its skin intended for open-faced roast beef sandwiches and Blue Plate meatloaf. When dining with dainty companions there is also a version with the gravy in a soup cup on the side.

Poutine: the first time I heard of poutine was in the back of a black car in the wee hours of the morning en route to the neighborhood from a house party in Brooklyn. Bubby suggested we reroute the car to Montreal for the most amazing drunk food ever, French fries topped with cheese curds and brown gravy. To date I have never been to Canada to sample this product but I have ordered when it comes up here, each time to be assured by Bubby it was nowhere near as good as the one that awaited us had we made the drive to the great white north. I very much enjoyed a dish called poutine at Shopsin’s on a couple of hungover mornings, but like disco fries I imagine the magic of poutine is in their ability to temper the hangover effects of a long ambitious night of consumption when ingested on the way to bed, not from.

I was always sure I would get talked into this Canadian road trip one day and when Bubby gifted me with the cookbook of Au Pied de Cochon last November it was pretty much cinched we would be going soon. Then I learned of the imminent opening of a place called The Inn Little West Tweflth and saw a way to delay the trip till the summer.

When I called The Inn Lw12 I remembered to ask if they really had poutine and if they would have Beaujolais (it is what Pied seems to recommend as pairing well). In my eagerness to try the version of poutine made by a Canadian restaurant in New York under the influence of Daniel Boulud what I forgot to ask was if they were open, which is why when Bubby and I showed up Tuesday night they had to explain they weren’t. They were soft opening to feel out the space with a limited menu and beverage choice for friends and family. After some pleading they said they would slide two of us into the bar and we could order but couldn’t hold it against them if we chose something they had run out of because they had planned to serve about seventy that night and were well past that long before we showed up.

In general I avoid reporting on places that haven’t opened, but as restaurants like Waverly Inn and L’Atelier shade the lines of open or not I have amended my rule for scrutiny to what is being charged. If a place is open and expecting full price for what they are serving I feel they are subject to my full expectations of a restaurant. Inn Lw12 was a gray area, they were charging full price for what they were offering, but on my first visit there was still craft paper in the windows and I watched them turn away people that hadn’t been on the phone that AM. My instinct was to give them space and save reporting for a couple of weeks but they so impressed me during their version of the soft open I figure I will sing their praises.

It has always seemed to me discounting prices while you get up to speed would be fair. If you run a new restaurant and you expect inevitable glitches, accommodate your guests in some way -- free desserts, a round of drinks, fifteen percent off, whatever, but say thank you to members of the general public that aren’t friends and family for letting you learn on us.

At the top of my current list for ways to do this, having eaten twice at Inn Lw12, is the limited menu approach. As the restaurant got up to speed they only offered one cocktail, a caipirinha-like thing, and they made it well (but expensively), they had a passable red and white wine but not an entire list, and they had seven starters and seven entrees. A small enough program, it would seem, to properly concentrate, yet large enough to actually cause the place to run its paces. It went so well Tuesday with Bubby that I begged my way back in Thursday with Pichon, Helmet, and Chakka, only to find Bubby and Luh at the bar. Both times we sat in the bar area, once at the bar and once at a bar- height table at its end. This isn’t a sampling of all they will be doing but rather what they were:

NIGHT ONE Tuesday PRE-OPENING:

Crispy Pig’s Trotter with Mustard, Frisée and Lentil du Puy: sandwiched between two squares of pressed white toast were bits of roasted pig’s foot, rich and sweet without the abundance of gelatinous fat you would expect, surrounded by strips of wafer thin crispy pork skin, a scattering of dark green French lentils, and frisée, dressed vinegar-y enough to draw natural sweetness from the pig, but not so much that the other ingredients’ flavors and textural contrasts were overshadowed.

Salad of Salmon Confit, Citrus Escabache and Winter Leaves: Salmon cooked slowly and gently enough that none of the volatile fats were upset making for wonderful cubes of redolent, supple, rich orange flesh in the salad with this almost perfect sampling of what should be some of the greatest fish out there, which sadly often isn’t these days. Vinegary fennel escabeche, decent flakes of maldon sea salt, a mélange of fine herbs spread through mixed lettuces, layers of sliced fennel bulb, and citrus sections all played to this strong representation. A faultless salad, I ordered two more of them on the second visit and the five of us who have shared them so far all concur.

Grilled Lamb Burger, Harissa Mayonnaise and Chick Pea Fries: ground lamb formed in a patty around herbed goat cheese, grilled on a bun with LTM and a smoky, piquant mayo. More of the mayo on the side added zip to creamy cubes of chick pea puree (with the consistence of a loose polenta) dusted in corn meal and fried golden.

Poutine: medium-gauge fries topped with white cheese curd served in a cast-iron dish and broiled so the corners of the fries on top had a little blackening on their edges. To me the dish tasted like disco fries with far better gravy (more meat-flavored than brown-flavored) and saltier cheese, both of which I appreciated. Bubby declared it the right flavor but the wrong look. So I guess I am still due a roadtrip, but I am glad to have this arrow in the quiver of ammo against late night stumbles while at home anyway; they are pretty tasty.

NIGHT TWO Thursday PRE-OPENING (This night I did call ahead to be sure of a place and was happy upon my arrival to find my name horribly misspelled in the computer, allowing me to rest easy that I had received the same treatment any enthusiastic diner would, and nothing special because of Augieland.)

Duck Barley Soup with Savoy Cabbage, and Winter Roots: bits of duck leg meat in a rich broth perfumed with tarragon, laden with baby turnips (and/or parsnips), mirepoix, and wilted lettuce-y leaves of cabbage. More often than not I have been served tarragon in dishes with various iodine crustaceans and it gets soapy when not handled most carefully. Here it was definitely abundant but was pleasingly suited to these flavors; I will be playing with it at home.

Organic Berkshire Pork Chop with Braised Endive and Pear: a roasted chop coated with a lovely slightly sweet/slightly sour almost Asian barbeque-type sauce, it was succulent and juicy, with a great play between the roasted bits of pork and the sauce.

I also tasted Veal Tongue and Cheek with Coco Beans, Pearl onions, and Parsley; Pan Fried Monkfish with Fennel Polenta and Pine Nut Gremolata; Garganalli Pasta with Chanterelles, Rocket Pesto and Parmesan; Cheese plate; and have nothing but appreciation for and nice things to say about them all.

What will happen when The Inn Lw12 opens full bore? I am not sure so I won’t say. I will say that I have been to many preview nights at many restaurants around town and have never been as impressed. The room is comfortable, warm and convivial without being over the top, the service was the same, and the food existed at a level that was far above the relaxed atmosphere and prices. I suspect this place will end up very crowded just because it is small and even a modicum of success will cause it to be tight. The calm confidence in preview seems to suggest that will be ok.

It is about time for the followers of trend to figure out that their leaders have already left MePa, and thusly places that have survived on proximity to skill rather than skill should start to fall out of favor. As this happens and those of us that eat dare our way back into that recently overcrowded pool, this will be one of my dive-in points.

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.