Feature

Gael Greene's Where To Eat In 2001

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.