New York’s entrepreneurial marathon to maximize, market, brand, expand, and reinvent the bistro, café, canteen, tapas stand, and chop house is torrential. So many openings; so many threatened launches to come. In retrospect, the restaurant madness of the eighties seems almost tame. Not even a certified obsessed foodie, powered by an internal clock that says “time to eat” three times a day, can keep up. Escoffier and my trainer know how I’ve tried. So here it is: mad-cow stampede, saucier’s apprentices run amok, lamb’s-tongue vinaigrette, wasabi sorbet, foie gras-stuffed chicken wings. And yes, peanut-butter-bacon-and-banana means Elvis is in the house.
I’m dizzy from the splash of so many new places. What do you love?
I can’t wait to go back to Brasserie 8 1/2, where the floating stairway brings out the Lorelei Lee in me. I like seeing Léger and Matisse looming above my seared tuna, and am totally beguiled by how luscious bistro classics can be in chef Julian Alonzo’s skilled hands. And now there’s a new noon-to-midnight menu in the lounge, so I can drop by anytime on a whim for Alonzo’s lobster club sandwich or a croque monsieur, or thaw out with a glass of Burgundy and his steaming cassoulet.
We’ve never really spoken, but I know from the delicious excess at First, his downtown stand, that chef Sam DeMarco is a soul mate. The lunch lineup at District in the new Muse hotel proves it: lollipop buffalo wings paired with mini-burgers. Potato pierogi and a brisket sandwich. Five-dollar desserts. Nostalgia for the matinee busloads. Dinner is less playful but just as appealing in a quietly witty set by David Rockwell. There’s a luscious roast pork loin accessorized with foie gras-stuffed prunes. A paragon of a sirloin (is it the salt rub?) with bone-marrow pierogi. And old-fashioned cheesecake with huckleberry compote. There’s also a three-course pretheater prix fixe for $32. Another gift for theater hounds and businessmen at a loss for a grown-up lunch in mid-midtown is Triomphe in the Iroquois hotel. Chef Steven Zobel exercises genuine authority with such bistro classics as rabbit à la coq au vin and roasted chicken with lardons and artichokes.
What about the newly hatched talent?
True, it was late last year that I scouted the wunderkind Wylie Dufresne at 71 Clinton Fresh Food on a not-yet-gentrified stretch of the Lower East Side. Much to my amazement, Jean-Georges’s protégé has so far resisted all temptation to leave his bush-league perch. He continues to wow even the most demanding gourmands who win the lottery for his few tiny tables. Patricia Yeo’s delicious fusion daring in the urban rain forest that is AZ is this year’s triumph. Six months into the jungle, she seems even stronger and surer (though the room cries out for a lighting adjustment). Miso-glazed Chilean sea bass, the Sichuan-pepper salt-cured foie gras, marvelously fatty short ribs with taro gnocchi, and the seared tuna with braised oxtails in a port reduction are all major pleasures. And if you can resist the hot-fudge sundae (I’m not sure you should), lemon and tangerine ices with citrus-vodka-soaked fruits have just the pungency you want to cool your palate.
I hear you call yourself the Junk-food Queen. Where do you get your fix?
An allusion to my weakness for Jujyfruits, Drake’s crumb cake, and chocolate bridge mix. If you’re not a peanut-butter freak, you don’t need to know that I practically had to be dragged from Peanut Butter & Co. to be kept from gobbling a second half of the Elvis – a grilled peanut-butter sandwich with banana, honey, and bacon. I ordered it on whole wheat, even though I know Elvis would’ve preferred white. It comes garnished with potato chips and carrot sticks. (Just like Mom, sneaking in those carrot sticks.) They’ll even cut off the crusts for you.
F&B in Chelsea is clearly the Tiffany of fast food. (Is that the subliminal message of those robin’s-egg-blue walls?) I have friends who start and end the day here at one of the bleached-wood counters, dipping beignets (plump doughnut pillows), three to a $1.50 order, in a choice of sauces – caramel, chocolate, mango. I’ll take the apple fritters (no sugary dip needed) with cider. Or a split of champagne served in the bottle with a blue straw. Hot dogs come in a dozen guises, plus vegetarian. I like the Great Dane for its rémoulade and onion crisps on marinated cucumber, and the savory Sheep Dog (ratatouille and crumbled feta on lamb sausage). But it’s worth a stop for the superlative fries alone.
I can’t find my way around Chinatown. Help!
Now that Chinatown extends to Flushing and has almost gobbled up Little Italy, I get lost, too. And I hate when joints I loved get sloppy and rude. Happily, raves have not corrupted Chuen Ping Hui in his new post at Ping’s Seafood on Mott Street. Most nights, he’s stir-frying exotica in one wok and crisping bits of garlic and shallots to shower on fried calamari or sweet Dungeness crab in another. If it’s a choice between steamed oysters as big as linebackers or scallops in the shell drizzled with his pungent XO sauce, I must have both. And itsy silverfish tossed with dried squid, flowering chive, Chinese celery, and jícama slivers is a must. My Chinatown guru loves the pricey sautéed lobster on soft emu noodles (though I find it overcooked). Even vegetarian fried rice has the signature of the movie-star-handsome master I first discovered wowing local honchos with his banquet flash at Triple Eight Palace.
I’ve stumbled on remarkably rewarding dishes by throwing a dart at Funky Broome’s ambitious menu. And I like the agreeable attitude in this stark white storefront, zapped with chartreuse and lavender neon; I even like the fake flowers with fake dewdrops. I’d go back for the razor clams in black-bean sauce, the chopped chinese sausages with preserved vegetables, the Thai-style clam pot, and the marvelous wok-fried pork-stuffed lotus roots with noodles. Avoid hideous dumplings and spare ribs – they’re funky in the wrong way.
Call me shallow … I just want to be where it’s happening.
I’m not sure what you mean by it, but if you want to rub buns with the coven from the late Mortimer’s, you’d better trick Mario Buatta or Nan Kempner into taking you to Swifty’s. The kitchen’s pretty perky and everyone is welcome – yes, Phyllis, even you. Alas, there is rarely a vacant table. Orsay blooms defiantly and aggressively a few blocks uptown, having emerged from the rubble that was Mortimer’s itself with a definitive style statement. It seems to draw a mix of Upper East Siders feeding their decorators at lunch and their in-laws at dinner, wistful parvenus looking for a Bass or a Blass, and assorted flotsam who haven’t a clue and wouldn’t give a fig if they did. Nothing I tasted either thrilled or offended me – I couldn’t quite believe charlotte of marinated herring or lamb chops on Caesar salad, but what the hell. I like lamb chops and I like Caesar. It’s a shortcut.
Once shellacked and stoned but now AA or at least reasonably sober, the scattered survivors of the seventies parade their youngish sweeties at Tao – grateful for a vibrating hangout so close to home, yes, right here in midtown. I pretend I am joking when I tease one owner that the place looks like it used all the rejected tchotchkes from Ruby Foo’s. Still, I love the theatrical feel of the movie-house space and the pulsating beat – shades of Xenon and Studio redux. And if you kind of squint your eyes, the Buddha doesn’t look that lame. Executive chef Sam Hazen (partners here with Angelo & Maxie’s veteran Marc Packer) still had a lot of tweaking to do on the pan-Asian menu when I visited, but even so, we loved crisp-fried oysters in fabulous cucumber shiso nests, uzaku (a warmed dice of savory eel in a bowl), the charred Chilean sea bass, an angry dragon roll, our live-wire waiter, and small, almost melting chunks of Kobe beef with wasabi sauce.
For a certain crowd, Lotus is storm center. I couldn’t take the torturous din on my one visit and have yet to return. Though I’m happy for the astonishing resurrection of Mr. Chow – I’d forgotten how beautiful it is – I was only impressed by the cooking for about fifteen minutes. And I don’t derive validation by rubbing up against trust-fund debs and aging preppies, nor a hip-hop crew with drooping pants waiting for Puff Daddy.
On some nights, you have to show a room key or truly be on Hudson Cafeteria’s reservation list to get past the door muscle and ascend into Ian Schrager’s cleverest move yet. Who cares that the ceiling’s so close in the bar – Philippe Starck’s Adirondack fantasy is brilliant. And the library with its lilac pool table is three Knicks tall and marvelous too. Parked in the middle of a communal table for dinner, I am reminded of long afternoons at the library – only here there are oatmeal, coffee, and tomato cans on the shelves instead of books. Not expecting much from the food, I’m not at all disappointed. Indeed, the braised lamb shank on tomato risotto is respectable, and I love the pineapple upside-down cake with pecans, dried cherries, and cardamom.
Madison Square Park may be too far from home for the Upper East Side Euromachers expected to heat up Chazal, the bratty offspring of Ferrier and Bice. For me, it’s too dark to see the menu, too loud to speak, and I taste nothing I need to eat again. For a few minutes I’m sure the maître d’ is in love with me. Then I realize he can’t keep his hands off any of us.
Once I manage to feel my way down the last three unlit black steps at Chinoiserie (below the Hotel Giraffe), I can see it really looks hot. Even hellish. But that could just be because everything glows red. I struggle to read the menu in the glow of a candle floating amongst the rose petals in the shallow pond that marks the center of every table. Oops. The duck sauce tumbles in. Unhappily, chef Marc Murphy, who promised to be the next rage at the now-defunct La Fourchette, is in the dark here too. Pissaladière with fried dried shrimp? Creamy seafood spring rolls with tarragon essence? I don’t think so. What’s next? Egg-foo-yung sorbet?
Sometimes all I want is a major slab of meat.
Even before Jane Brody became my primary-care physician (back when neither of us had heard of cholesterol), I was just an underpaid scrivener forced to order from the right side of the menu and steak was a rare treat. Now at the mercy of so many auteur chefs foaming to top one another in audacity, I find myself humbled and fulfilled by a recognizable hunk of cow. Memorable encounters recently: a straightforward sirloin for two – simply perfect – at the Palm West. The still-quivering double porterhouse at Morton’s of Chicago. A smartly charred sirloin at Michael Jordan’s and a shockingly remarkable strip on an otherwise amateur night at Del Frisco’s.
But this year’s absolute knockouts are Baldoria’s seared mahogany 54-ounce rib chop ($67), bulging like a major biceps, that arrives naked on its cutting board, and the 54-ounce Manhattan cut for two at Shelly’s New York ($65). It comes “Shelly’s way” (with frizzled onions) or “the Florentine” (with arugula and balsamic vinegar) on a china platter. So okay, certain refined types will be offended by such muchness. Not me, though this marbled prime is so rich I rarely can handle more than one slice. I share with the table, then tote away what’s left for the first street person I see. Let me also shortlist the chili-rubbed sirloin at Tapika (love those chickpea fries) and the wood-oven sizzler my mate and I contentedly share at Beacon.
So many new steakhouses – any standouts from the herd?
Imitation is the most sincerely fattening flattery. I can barely keep up. But of those I’ve braved so far, Tuscan Steak – a grand duplex with a Cow Parade statue at the door and jaw-dropping family-style platters – looks like a possible winner. (If, that is, the house ever masters the pacing. We got hit with three courses all at once.) The place has the grand sweep and the vibe of its sibling, China Grill, plus the sexy airiness and wraparound-balcony bar of Asia de Cuba – in a neighborhood that needs it. Listen to your waiter, green as he is, when he warns you not to over-order. “Small” means big. “Large” must be meant for the Jets’ training table. The roasted-garlic purée is library paste, the mixed antipasto hit-and-miss. But our quartet agreed we’d return for white-truffle garlic bread, the slightly oversaucy Caesar with an anchovy for each of us, remarkably al dente tomato-strewn bucatini, and the marvelous 28-ounce Florentine T-bone, with a drift of smoked-onion mashed potatoes big enough to sink the Titanic.
Am I a wuss to worry about street food?
I’ve survived street-food crawls in Beijing, Hanoi, and even Rajasthan. But maybe it takes a reckless lifetime to build up immunity. Binge without fear on the sensational Indian snacks at Mirchi in the Village. Start with some chats (chat means “to lick” in Hindi): dahi batata poori (chutney-and-yogurt-topped potato in little pufflets), bhel poori (puffed rice tossed with onion, tomato, and all sorts of fragrant stuff), and mung jhinga (tamarind-sauced shrimp and sprouts). Then watch the chef do a Ringo with his spatula on the black metal griddle as he makes your spicy chicken or lamb tak-a-tak. Dhokla, chickpea-flour cakes from Gujarat, make an elegant contrast. You won’t need to count to know there are 30 red chilies on the fabulous jaipuri lal mass. Now we’ll see who’s a wuss.
I miss my breakfast on the Boulevard St-Germain.
Then sleepwalk to Pastis, yet another mirage by Keith McNally, on a cobblestone street of the meatpacking district. It’s not Balthazar, my bistro favorite, not as glamorous, not as reliable. But for goodness sake, it’s cheaper and the famous faces still inch through the throng to claim your spot while you wait a bit longer. And just like Balthazar, it’s a haven at breakfast weekdays. Borrow a paper or a French journal at the door and sip café au lait in a soup bowl, with a buttered tartine or a Balthazar pain au chocolat or eggs any way with home fries. (But be warned: The crew seemed maddeningly elusive and hungover one recent Saturday.)
I really owe this guy, and he only eats fish.
Go for broke and get your money’s worth at Le Bernardin, where chef Eric Ripert dives for new and deeper nuances of poetry all the time. His pure is never simple. It’s perfectly rare salmon in a pot-au- feu heady with thinnest sticks of fresh black truffle, or warm smoked Scottish salmon on green lentils in a sauce of black truffles and foie gras. It’s seared rare hamachi sprinkled with baby arugula and shaved fennel in a quirky sauce vierge of orange, pine nuts, and Parmesan. And when you’re feeling flush, order the salmon-and-caviar croque monsieur ($50 extra on the $77 prix fixe).
Sea creatures find a higher destiny at Cello, too. After one year, the deadly seriousness has relaxed – no need to whisper anymore. The $75 prix fixe dazzle begins with a tiny plop of intensely smoky brandade topped with caviar, encircled with a trickle of fruity green olive oil. Blue cheese in a scallop salad with walnuts, bacon, and infant greenery? Sounds awful. Au contraire. Acacia honey does something mystical to Chilean sea bass with parsnip purée. Rarely is lobster so tenderly grilled. (So the occasional overcooking is a surprise.) An aggressively tart carameline of lavender custard bathed in honey, lime juice, and zest clears the senses for a parade of desserts and small orange-blossom beignets that must be eaten warm.
If he’s a hopeless old fogy locked into clubhouse routine, widen his horizon with lunch at the Sea Grill, looking out at Prometheus and the skaters. He might feel, shall we say, rudely exposed sitting at that wide-angle picture window in the new streamline of frosted sea-foam glass. But he’ll relax once he settles on a cushy leather seat with his favorite highball and a patrician shrimp cocktail or a plump, barely adulterated crab cake while you indulge in sybaritic salmon-belly tartare. Dover sole à la plancha is just the old-fashioned classic he can handle. And insist he try chef Edward Brown’s crusty portobello fries.
By the way, when I don’t have friends with venture capital to invest in dinner, my guy and I share half a dozen raw-seafood plates at Esca, where the décor is nothing special but we love linguine with cockles, red-hot peppers, and pancetta, or bucatini with spicy baby octopus.
Who’s your hero of the year?
Douglas Rodriguez looms large, now that his seviche fixation at Chicama and a rambunctious riff on tapas at Pipa have ABC Home’s cash registers singing a salsa beat. As far as I can tell, someone hung a few oozing hams, and suddenly fusty old Miss Havisham’s Parlour looks like Madrid. On a Saturday night, Rodriguez rushes from Chicama’s sardine-packed bar to pandemonium at no-reservations Pipa. That clever house giveaway of sherry reminds us of long-ago sherry-fueled passions in Spain. So now we’re drinking our way through the inventory of nutty and pruny and sweet, happy with almost everything that hits our bare wood table, from savory flat breads and lush bacalao-filled crepas to meltingly tender octopus à la gallego, stuffed baby calamari in ink, and a mini-paella. If I had my way, I’d shave a dollar off every price (for the trauma of waiting) or take reservations.
Is there anything you won’t eat?
Cottage cheese is about it. Of course, I’ve never been confronted with dog or sheep’s eye. Loyal readers will testify that I’ve fought bitterly and in vain against herbs in dessert: bay-leaf sauce, candied cilantro, rosemary crème brûlée. Frankly, I’m floored by the fuss over British chef Paul Liebrandt’s nightmarish pairings at Atlas. Yet I’m forced to confess that the weirdest of all – wasabi sorbet with green apple, a scattered sea-salt crunch, and a drop of olive oil – is actually, against all odds, delicious. Seasoned sensibilities reject the very idea of langoustine and rouget tempura on pumpkin gelée in a bath of cinnamon beurre blanc, though I must admit it works. Alas, parsley-and-licorice soup does not. Nor did the poached quail egg with black-truffle tempura in a demitasse spoon. Or bland slices of veal and sweetbreads in caramelized tea jus. So many challenging tastes and dangerous liaisons leave me wanting to flee to a tuna-fish sandwich and trashy TV in my very own bed. Pray with me that our town’s copycat chefs don’t make this an irreversible trend.
I want to impress my boss with a new bivouac for breakfast.
One c.p.s. is making a spirited bid to lure early-morning kingpins and dealmakers to the Plaza with yogurt-fruit gratin and banana-raspberry pancakes, as well as the usual options. And a siege of new boutique hotels would love to flip your egg-white omelette. At District, in the Muse hotel, you can get fried eggs, bacon, and cheese on a kaiser roll with tater tots, or pumpkin waffles with chestnut butter. Oatmeal is just $4. Todd English ventures organic-carrot waffles with double-whipped goat cheese, roasted bananas-Foster polenta, and peanut-butter pancakes with cocoa butter at Olives in the Union Square W hotel. Heartbeat, at the W on Lex, coddles the prudent with “well-being” house-made organic granola with goat’s-milk yogurt, wheat-grass juice, and a smoothie with immunity supplement. Its “light pastel egg omelette” blends one measly yolk with three whites – not enough to alarm the nutrition police.
What ever happened to the Harlem renaissance you promised last January?
It took many moons to translate Jimmy Rodriguez’s exuberant dream into the stunning, glamorous, and, hey … actually functioning Jimmy’s Uptown on Seventh Avenue near 131st Street. We manage to drive by the unmarked duplex restaurant and jazz lounge four times before finally tripping in to a sweeping, rose-spotlit space with purple leather sofas, an onyx bar, and sheer white-fabric panels that disappear Starckly into the ceiling. Local fat cats and their downtown cronies claim the “Big Willy” table, so we settle into a tall white leather booth, a dining womb with a snazzy stretch lampshade above. While Harlem’s newish Amy Ruth’s and Miss Maude’s Spoonbread Too are cozily down-home, Jimmy’s has Stork Club ambition, midtown prices, and veteran Linda Japngie (Bouley, La Caravelle, Nicole’s) in the kitchen, dishing up soul and Caribbean favorites with exceptional savor and sophistication. Shrimp and lobster with avocado moho comes in a martini glass. Cabernet-braised short ribs sit beside malanga mash, and horseradish grits flank a grilled filet mignon. The chef’s tamarind-roasted salmon with quinoa and mustard greens is a rose-blush-rare marvel.
What’s new – and worth waiting for until they get it together?This is my don’t-go-unless-you-have-boundless-patience section.
From the raves for Dining Room, I knew that chef Mark Spangenthal had charmed fussy Upper East Siders with the same kitchen savvy that won me at the Screening Room. But fame takes a toll. It took two weeks of lobbying the reservationist to snag a spot before ten on a weeknight. Fame has paralyzed the place and worn nerves raw. We put up with 30 minutes of bumping and being bumped in the smoke-tinged oxygen of the tightly packed bar. At last, a table. The waiter seems overcommitted elsewhere. The kitchen creeps. “Is it possible our food is ready?” I beg. “I am just the waiter,” he snaps back, “not the cook.” I’m not too cranky to enjoy the down-to-earth, flavorful dishes on this cautiously contained little menu, but I won’t risk the bruising gridlock anytime soon.
Mark Strausman is still nursing his newborn Chinghalle through its whiny teething stage – though the meatpacking-district lemmings that crowd the bar seem content. I almost always love rooms that soar. This one looks a little Home Depot, and it’s too closely packed. Share a pizza and the crisp zucchini chips, grilled homemade boar sausage on beans, and diabolically rich baked cavatelli – Sicilian mischief in a casserole. At these prices, you might be willing to suffer a few too many arrogant Wall Streeters.
Karen and David Waltuck have finally got their budget-friendly bistro Le Zinc open not far from their splendiferous Chanterelle in TriBeCa. At the moment, the spot is spare and a bit sad, unfinished supposedly, and at an early tasting, the kitchen waffles. Will anyone besides dreamers and masochists want to taxi down from far-northern Zip Codes without a reservation (that’s policy)? But here are Mario Batali and Joe Bastianich escaping the demands of their own trattorie, on stools at the bar. I like the range of charcuteries and snacks and Grandma’s cooking – especially the duck-and-foie gras terrine, the curried onion fritters, the fabulous crisp duck wings, and brisket with carrots. And the low prices are forgiving. There’s even a $16 Mexican red my crew drank without complaint or morning regret.
Too bad the Union Square W hotel sabotaged itself by opening with the downstairs bar unfinished and Olives only half dressed. That left hordes of urban cowboys to loiter in the lobby assaulting unwary diners with a tornado din. But now the Rockwell Group has hung the velvet curtains and sound baffles, installed shades, banquettes, and hothouse flora. And let’s hope Boston’s matinee-idol chef Todd English may have found his natural New York inflection for his Big City debut. In a first dinner, I sense that he’s straining to knock our socks off with too many esoteric combinations, too many over-reduced sauces. Even so, enough of what I tasted early on gave me hope that he’d live up to his own great expectations … as well as ours. Watch for foie gras cappuccino, the foie gras-stuffed chicken wing, a porcini-dust-crusted Chilean-sea-bass special, a delicate cinnamon gratin, and the passion-fruit flan.
What one dish still haunts you?
I have more haunts than Shirley MacLaine. Voluptuous beef cheeks braised in red wine with garlic-chive spaetzle in a swirl of two sauces at Danube. Memories of short ribs and masterly hamburgers dance in my brain. Maybe I have mad cow. The treacherously lush macaroni at Commune incites macaroni mania: I crave macaroni soufflé at Jimmy’s Uptown, truffled macaroni in a tart at One c.p.s., macaroni with Gruyère and Parmesan (hold the foie gras) at the Hudson Cafeteria.
The earthy thrill of the year is Strip House’s wondrously crusty potato cake sprinkled with bits of raw garlic in the bawdy spirit of L’Ami Louis in Paris. And I’m still shivering from the delicious shock of Le Bernardin’s otherworldly marinière of mussels, cockles, raw clams, scallops, and sea urchins under a primordial foam in a puddle of buttery broth.
Dining well may be the best revenge, but it’s not all I live for.
I’m with you. That’s how it happens that eight of us gather early at B. B. King’s, eager to get the forking-around under way before the first transporting twang from tonight’s troupe of spirited old-timers. B. B. King’s doesn’t pack fans in like anchovies as so many music spots do, and the down-home grub is downright eatable. Indeed, the rock-shrimp popcorn is amazing – hot and greaseless. My pal’s pulled-pork sandwich is good enough, as is the tempura-fried calamari with rémoulade. The Cajun cobb (not in the least inhibited by memories of the Brown Derby’s) comes with smoked ham and bacon as well as deviled eggs as good as Mom’s. My too-easily-seducible will wavers, then forces me to quickly pass along the lush and oozing cheddar-baked macaroni to my tablemates.
I want to pop the question at dinner.
Small and dressed to the nines for the holidays, Restaurant Two Two Two has a table for two in the corner with just enough room to go down on one knee. The old-world glass, bisque dolls, and vintage toys stud half a dozen wreaths and almost obscure the green of the tree – which won’t be put away until after Valentine’s Day. Last spring, an installation of old and new Barbies was added to the mix. With collectible porcelain service plates and music boxes on every table, it is Victorian-parlor romantic. (An antidote to this sweetness hangs in the men’s room – photos of Barbie in bondage and Transvestite Ken.) Upper West Siders stop by for the $39 prix fixe (and a $29 pretheater menu), but there is also a treasury of truffles and foie gras for spendthrift gourmands. Call ahead and arrange for Barbie to wear your intended’s ring as a tiara.
You haven’t mentioned the eight-star generalissimo.It’s not fun to see a grown man eating crow. But hey … Manhattan needs conspicuous extravagance. (That is, unless stock speculators suddenly start jumping out of the few skyscraper windows that actually open.) Certainly, the chastised and subdued Alain Ducasse New York feels more like a Michelin supernova now that the kitchen has pulled up its socks. But what did we do to rate a waiter from the Sally Field school? He constantly interrupts, making us declare our love after every dish. And love it is, mostly: first, for the defiantly French little crab-cake amuse-bouche. Then head-over-heels for the silken woodcock, pheasant, and foie gras terrine with its small nest of celery root and black-truffle strings that launches my $160 autumn tasting menu. Just a few dime-size circles of white truffle dress up my chum’s opening pumpkin ravioli, but he’s booked on the $250 truffle express, and soon giant truffles, hand-shaven at our table, blanket everything in sight. (“Let the bitch choke on them,” I imagine Ducasse commanding from some faraway latitude as he jets off to sign his next deal.) Indeed, the two of us scrape aside a couple hundred dollars in rare fungus because the brilliantly seasoned diver scallops are much better naked. Our waiter wants us to skip cheese because dessert is so rich. What is Michelin’s ultimate lunch (ours costs $591) if one is not carried home in an ambulance? Ah, what glorious cheese. I’m already forgetting the disappointing venison. Luscious rhubarb clafouti. Grapefruit sorbet and granité … what a rush. Spectacular caramels in three flavors. One pear gel. It’s not yet as thrilling as Le Bernardin. But then, it is quieter.
Too much genius exhausts me: I want to wallow in comfort.
I’m omnivorous myself. Great fish and chips is hard to find. Clams Cassino takes the gold for me. I think there is genius of a sort in not overgilding the macaroni and cheese – a scattering of diced ham is simply perfect. Those are the dishes that draw me to Shelly’s New York. Not that feeding magnate Shelly Fireman is one to resist overgilding, as in the perfect burger gussied up with caramelized onions (loved it) and a slice of seared foie gras, or his latest decadence – the Über-rich foie gras pizza. (I may finally have found an indulgence too extravagant for me.) A green-apple martini sets the mood, but I’m nixing Fireman’s Jewish-mother overstuffed sushi as hopelessly lame. “He’s got everything else here. Why does he need to do sushi?” I cry to a friend who knows Fireman. He shakes his head. “He just can’t help it.”
What old haunts throb with new energy in the kitchen?
If you’ve eaten only once at Le Périgord since its 1964 debut, owner Georges Briguet will probably remember your face (if not your name) and find that you look not a day over 28. He’s looking younger, too – well, jauntier anyway – now that Jacques Qualin, once a sous-chef at Jean Georges and Jo Jo, is chasing some of the fustiness from the menu. An elegant terrine with rosy-rare char needs seasoning, but black olive and lemon give a kick to sweet and nutty, barely jelled Nantucket baby scallops on the $32 prix fixe. An unlikely crumbling of comte cheese gives a wonderful crunch to the signature turbot.
The Lenox Room has traded its temperamental wheat-grass plantings for a fleet of miniature taxis, buses, and police cars scattered about the room. But it gets the same grown-up crowd as always, and while the menu doesn’t seem radically changed, newly installed chef Georges Masraff has spiked the flavor levels, especially in the pan-seared Maine shrimp on sticky rice, the barbecue-glazed double pork chop, and the ginger-painted Chilean sea bass. But I’d come again just for the freshest, most perfect Caesar salad of the year.
The earthy country cooking of Provence is chef Philippe Roussel’s native language, and he’s brought Park Bistro back to life again.
What has become of the quiet little bistro around the corner?
If you hang your hat east of the Flatiron, you’ll want to discover soothing and solicitous Fleur de Sel, where Cyril Renaud, a practiced whisk (late of La Caravelle), now sports his toque. Our threesome is instantly seduced by the welcome and the uptown accents of the $28 lunch – creamy parsnip soup with little floats of chestnut ravioli, meltingly lush beef cheeks in a puddle of Pinot Noir sauce, tingling sorbets. “Those are the chef’s own watercolors on the wall,” the maître d’ boasts. Look for his Starry Night with an added figure: a smiley-faced Vincent van Gogh.
The critical cheers have folks vying for tables at Blue Hill, where the menu is also short and sophisticated. So don’t expect quiet, but do find the same eager freshness and expertise in this Village basement hideaway. There’s no naïveté in the kitchen, where a duo of chefs show how to cook, especially fish (minimally): Braised cod on mushrooms and caramelized leeks in a creamy pool with herring roe. Slow-cooked salmon on a pistou (that begs for a dash of salt). And delicately poached lobster on cabbage and salsify in carrot consommé. Impressive, too, is the lamb with remarkably tasty root vegetables, and the sliced hanger steak with brussels-sprout leaves, crosnes, and glazed parsnips.
How can I make sure I’ll get in on my own next time?
You had to call a friend of the house to get a table in the Grill Room at The Four Seasons for lunch. Show your colors. Order caviar. “For everyone?” co-owner Julian Niccolini may ask. “Yes, everyone.” In no time at all, Julian will have little Adirondacks of beluga piled on your table: $1,000. Your hand mustn’t shake as you sign the chit. Ask for his direct line. Julian is not likely to forget you.
What are your truly favorite favorites?
Faithful foodies have read this roster many times. But for the record: If you’re paying, I’ll get us a table at Le Bernardin, Gotham Bar & Grill, Jean Georges, Gramercy Tavern, Picholine, Daniel, Nobu, Shun Lee Palace, or Lespinasse (though at my last lunch, a few over-the-edge notions made me suspect that Christian Delouvrier might be a bit addled by so many huzzahs). Mere human that I am, I would prefer to loathe David Bouley’s restaurants after the emotional distress and humiliation he has inflicted on me. But I agree with my mate in his sum-up of dinner at Bouley Bakery: “Twice as good as Ducasse and half the price.” I prefer my Bouley in the rococo frippery of Danube. When it’s my credit card, you’ll find me at Balthazar, Pastis, Bond Street, Mesa Grill, Spartina. I wish Pearl Oyster Bar would clone itself on the Upper West Side. My local haunts are Ruby Foo’s, Café Fiorello, Shun Lee Cafe, and, most recently, Beacon. In my neighborhood, everyone delivers, but I only answer the door if it’s Shun Lee.
Is it possible to single out a favorite Italian?Lupa is primo, even though it’s miles away and oversubscribed. If anything, the kitchen in this raffish Roman trattoria just gets better, and the prices feel like a touch of charity in these greedy times. Sandro’s revival on Ninth Avenue brings crisp-fried baby artichokes, sea-urchin-scented ravioli, crisplets of calamaretti, spaghettini with lemon, and that Roman inevitable, bucatini amatriciana – all quite affordable. San Domenico’s alta cucina and Milanese swank have made it a standout for decades. The once-crisp décor has softened – it’s kind of namby-pamby now – but chef Odette Fada has lifted the kitchen to a stunning new high. Sea-bass raviolini, the house’s signature risotto mantecato, and the candele pasta in a rustic and spicy sausage sauce signal the breakthrough. Fada’s seasoning alchemy transforms simple borlotti bean soup with unshelled spelt and the stirring tomato-and-fish broth of the branzino. A balsamic-vinegar sauce has us ooh-ing over panna cotta. Even the biscotti are too good to leave behind.
No point scheming for that impossible reservation at Babbo unless you’re craving something weird. Not that the menu doesn’t offer enough that’s safe and familiar – fabulous cockles with red chilies in chive brodetto, grilled octopus in tangerine citronette, caramelized quail, or baby lamb chops. And I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a whole fish more elegantly boned and reconstructed. My point is that almost no one else dares tripe alla parmigiana, warm lamb’s tongue, calf’s head (testa) with waxy potatoes, and postage-stamp-size ravioli filled with calf’s brains. There’s so much delicious provocation on every plate for eye and tongue that even sissies may be willing to taste – especially if you pretend you aren’t sure what it is. Then lighten up with cranberry budino and ricotta gelato or refreshingly tart sorbets, a mélange of six in tiny footed dishes. On top of each a piece of fruit serves as an edible I.D. you don’t need because the ices are so intense.
Who are the grand old survivors?
After a decade of benign neglect, La Caravelle seems to have bounced back, taken up by a new generation entranced by the Grace Kelly tote, vintage Pucci, and anything made by Pauline Trigère. Le Cirque morphed into Le Cirque 2000 and lost a bit of its sheen when certain glossy regulars began eating around faithlessly. Now Cambodian chef Sottha Khunn and the mythic patissier Jacques Torres have said good-bye. But Sirio Maccioni has suffered crueler blows and come back like the phoenix. With all three of the Maccioni sons learning to dance the Sirio, Le Cirque will seem younger, too. The landmarked Four Seasons endures not just because of its boldness and beauty – thank you, Joe Baum; thanks, Philip Johnson; a bow to the Bronfman taste arbiter, Phyllis Lambert. It still simmers because a clutch of big cheeses makes the Grill Room lunch the toughest ticket in town, and sentimentalists like me still find the Pool Room a celebration.
But the evergreen prize goes to Elaine’s, clubhouse for writers, artists, journalists, and their victims, now striding into its fourth decade. On Election Night, fancy Republicans caucused in one corner while, in the other, boldface Democrats thronged on Harvey Weinstein’s dime. Of course, Elaine Kaufman doesn’t understand anyone wanting more than one joint. After all, this is where the party’s at. And she’s in the middle of it every night – coaching, cheering, feeding on great gossip, and sipping watered vodka.
What old haunts throb with new energy in the kitchen?
If you’ve eaten only once at Le Périgord since its 1964 debut, owner Georges Briguet will probably remember your face (if not your name) and find that you look not a day over 28. He’s looking younger, too – well, jauntier anyway – now that Jacques Qualin, once a sous-chef at Jean Georges and Jo Jo, is chasing some of the fustiness from the menu. An elegant terrine with rosy-rare char needs seasoning, but black olive and lemon give a kick to sweet and nutty, barely jelled Nantucket baby scallops on the $32 prix fixe. An unlikely crumbling of comte cheese gives a wonderful crunch to the signature turbot.
The Lenox Room has traded its temperamental wheat-grass plantings for a fleet of miniature taxis, buses, and police cars scattered about the room. But it gets the same grown-up crowd as always, and while the menu doesn’t seem radically changed, newly installed chef Georges Masraff has spiked the flavor levels, especially in the pan-seared Maine shrimp on sticky rice, the barbecue-glazed double pork chop, and the ginger-painted Chilean sea bass. But I’d come again just for the freshest, most perfect Caesar salad of the year.
The earthy country cooking of Provence is chef Philippe Roussel’s native language, and he’s brought Park Bistro back to life again.
What has become of the quiet little bistro around the corner?
If you hang your hat east of the Flatiron, you’ll want to discover soothing and solicitous Fleur de Sel, where Cyril Renaud, a practiced whisk (late of La Caravelle), now sports his toque. Our threesome is instantly seduced by the welcome and the uptown accents of the $28 lunch – creamy parsnip soup with little floats of chestnut ravioli, meltingly lush beef cheeks in a puddle of Pinot Noir sauce, tingling sorbets. “Those are the chef’s own watercolors on the wall,” the maître d’ boasts. Look for his Starry Night with an added figure: a smiley-faced Vincent van Gogh.
The critical cheers have folks vying for tables at Blue Hill, where the menu is also short and sophisticated. So don’t expect quiet, but do find the same eager freshness and expertise in this Village basement hideaway. There’s no naïveté in the kitchen, where a duo of chefs show how to cook, especially fish (minimally): Braised cod on mushrooms and caramelized leeks in a creamy pool with herring roe. Slow-cooked salmon on a pistou (that begs for a dash of salt). And delicately poached lobster on cabbage and salsify in carrot consommé. Impressive, too, is the lamb with remarkably tasty root vegetables, and the sliced hanger steak with brussels-sprout leaves, crosnes, and glazed parsnips.
How can I make sure I’ll get in on my own next time?
You had to call a friend of the house to get a table in the Grill Room at The Four Seasons for lunch. Show your colors. Order caviar. “For everyone?” co-owner Julian Niccolini may ask. “Yes, everyone.” In no time at all, Julian will have little Adirondacks of beluga piled on your table: $1,000. Your hand mustn’t shake as you sign the chit. Ask for his direct line. Julian is not likely to forget you.
What are your truly favorite favorites?
Faithful foodies have read this roster many times. But for the record: If you’re paying, I’ll get us a table at Le Bernardin, Gotham Bar & Grill, Jean Georges, Gramercy Tavern, Picholine, Daniel, Nobu, Shun Lee Palace, or Lespinasse (though at my last lunch, a few over-the-edge notions made me suspect that Christian Delouvrier might be a bit addled by so many huzzahs). Mere human that I am, I would prefer to loathe David Bouley’s restaurants after the emotional distress and humiliation he has inflicted on me. But I agree with my mate in his sum-up of dinner at Bouley Bakery: “Twice as good as Ducasse and half the price.” I prefer my Bouley in the rococo frippery of Danube. When it’s my credit card, you’ll find me at Balthazar, Pastis, Bond Street, Mesa Grill, Spartina. I wish Pearl Oyster Bar would clone itself on the Upper West Side. My local haunts are Ruby Foo’s, Café Fiorello, Shun Lee Cafe, and, most recently, Beacon. In my neighborhood, everyone delivers, but I only answer the door if it’s Shun Lee.
Is it possible to single out a favorite Italian?Lupa is primo, even though it’s miles away and oversubscribed. If anything, the kitchen in this raffish Roman trattoria just gets better, and the prices feel like a touch of charity in these greedy times. Sandro’s revival on Ninth Avenue brings crisp-fried baby artichokes, sea-urchin-scented ravioli, crisplets of calamaretti, spaghettini with lemon, and that Roman inevitable, bucatini amatriciana – all quite affordable. San Domenico’s alta cucina and Milanese swank have made it a standout for decades. The once-crisp décor has softened – it’s kind of namby-pamby now – but chef Odette Fada has lifted the kitchen to a stunning new high. Sea-bass raviolini, the house’s signature risotto mantecato, and the candele pasta in a rustic and spicy sausage sauce signal the breakthrough. Fada’s seasoning alchemy transforms simple borlotti bean soup with unshelled spelt and the stirring tomato-and-fish broth of the branzino. A balsamic-vinegar sauce has us ooh-ing over panna cotta. Even the biscotti are too good to leave behind.
No point scheming for that impossible reservation at Babbo unless you’re craving something weird. Not that the menu doesn’t offer enough that’s safe and familiar – fabulous cockles with red chilies in chive brodetto, grilled octopus in tangerine citronette, caramelized quail, or baby lamb chops. And I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a whole fish more elegantly boned and reconstructed. My point is that almost no one else dares tripe alla parmigiana, warm lamb’s tongue, calf’s head (testa) with waxy potatoes, and postage-stamp-size ravioli filled with calf’s brains. There’s so much delicious provocation on every plate for eye and tongue that even sissies may be willing to taste – especially if you pretend you aren’t sure what it is. Then lighten up with cranberry budino and ricotta gelato or refreshingly tart sorbets, a mélange of six in tiny footed dishes. On top of each a piece of fruit serves as an edible I.D. you don’t need because the ices are so intense.
Who are the grand old survivors?
After a decade of benign neglect, La Caravelle seems to have bounced back, taken up by a new generation entranced by the Grace Kelly tote, vintage Pucci, and anything made by Pauline Trigère. Le Cirque morphed into Le Cirque 2000 and lost a bit of its sheen when certain glossy regulars began eating around faithlessly. Now Cambodian chef Sottha Khunn and the mythic patissier Jacques Torres have said good-bye. But Sirio Maccioni has suffered crueler blows and come back like the phoenix. With all three of the Maccioni sons learning to dance the Sirio, Le Cirque will seem younger, too. The landmarked Four Seasons endures not just because of its boldness and beauty – thank you, Joe Baum; thanks, Philip Johnson; a bow to the Bronfman taste arbiter, Phyllis Lambert. It still simmers because a clutch of big cheeses makes the Grill Room lunch the toughest ticket in town, and sentimentalists like me still find the Pool Room a celebration.
But the evergreen prize goes to Elaine’s, clubhouse for writers, artists, journalists, and their victims, now striding into its fourth decade. On Election Night, fancy Republicans caucused in one corner while, in the other, boldface Democrats thronged on Harvey Weinstein’s dime. Of course, Elaine Kaufman doesn’t understand anyone wanting more than one joint. After all, this is where the party’s at. And she’s in the middle of it every night – coaching, cheering, feeding on great gossip, and sipping watered vodka.
What’s next?Cesare Casella – the chef-charmer with the rosemary sprig in his pocket who wowed us at Coco Pazzo – may actually open Beppe one of these days. He’s spent years trying to launch this showcase for the Tuscan traditions learned from his mother at Il Vipore in the hills above Lucca. With any luck, Tom Colicchio’s solo venture at Craft, opening in January on East 19th, won’t distract him seriously from running Gramercy Tavern’s kitchen. Terrance Brennan’s cheese-fixated Artisanal at 2 Park Avenue (due in February) is the labor of love I’m eager to see – especially since Adam Tihany is rethinking the space. It’s the spot where Tihany’s handsome Art Deco design for the late La Coupole helped spawn a succès fou that faded, which in turn made way for An American Place, now transplanted to East 50th across town. La ronde never quits.