6 posts tagged “new york”

My June trip was off to a crackin' start with LaBute and Perilla, and on day two I added art to the itinerary with a visit to the Met, then showing Frank Stella sculptures on the roof and a Paul Poiret retrospective. Fashion-challenged me, I'd never heard of Poiret, so the exhibit was a fascinating introduction to the man who created the hobble skirt. That item was an aberration: we can thank Poiret for condemning the corset and inventing more draped, movement-friendly women's wear, including the chemise dress and harem pants. (Coincidentally, I recently read in Juliet Nicolson's The Perfect Summer, about the English summer of 1911, that the season's debutantes were forbidden to wear trendy hobble skirts, as these prevented women from curtsying to the Queen.) Fickle fashion turned against Poiret as more modernist designers like Chanel rose. Poiret once met her on the street in the '20s, and seeing Chanel dressed all in black, he quipped, "For whom, madame, do you mourn?" "For you, monsieur," she retorted.

It's an old story: the important but self-important elder, the irreverent upstart. And in fact that was the story at my next stop for lunch, Ed's Lobster Bar in SoHo: weeks after my visit, chef Rebecca Charles of Pearl Oyster Bar sued Edward McFarland, the eponymous Ed and her former sous chef, for copyright infringement, claiming that he'd copied her restaurant, down to the Caesar salad recipe. "Total plagiarism," she called it. It was a strange and surprising accusation, the first instance I'd heard of a restaurant claiming that its entirety--concept, interior design, recipes--are intellectual property protected by the same laws that apply to art and published works. While I certainly favor protecting creative output, it does seem a step too far to claim copyright on a Caesar salad. After all, if there were such rights, shouldn't royalties go to the descendants of Caesar Cardini, who invented the salad and trademarked the recipe? (Oddly enough, the recipe was born in Tijuana in the '20s--around when Poiret met Chanel?--so that city has at least one item in the "pro" column to offset drunk Americans and donkey shows.)

In any event, the suit (now settled) was a couple weeks in the future when I visited Ed's. Indeed, I was present at a happier time--one waiter was telling the counter-barflies that the Post had just that day dubbed Ed's the best lobster roll in the city. That's a tall statement: lobster roll aficionados are, like pizza fans, martini wonks, and royal matchmakers, highly fussy when it comes to questions of provenance, pedigree, and authenticity. I am not an expert, but I can vouch that Pearl Oyster Bar and Mary's Fish Camp, both in the Village, make excellent models (and in the latter, you might also get served by Amy Sedaris, though I haven't).

 

So, let us consider the lobster, as David Foster Wallace says in a fine essay from Gourmet on the ethics of boiling live creatures for consumption. Lobster's a luxury ingredient these days, but not so long ago the Atlantic was so rich in crustaceans that they were considered a trash fish, lobstermen's children presumably peering into their shellfish-stuffed lunchboxes and tearily longing for Oscar Meyer or PB&J. As Wallace notes, some of the American colonies "had laws against serving lobster to inmates more than once a week, because it was thought to be cruel and unusual, like making people eat rats." The lobster roll seems to be a 20th century, working-class invention, a toasted hot dog bun filled with lobster meat dressed lightly with mayo or drawn butter and minimal additions. As with crabcakes, an excess of other stuff in the mix usually indicates an incompetent cook and/or a cheap bastard who doesn't want to fork over market price. And the market price is a pincer nip in the wallet: you'll pay north of $20 for a lobster roll, probably the higher end of the 20s in New York. Of course, as the price of lobster has gone upscale, so has its cooking, though with rolls you'll see the expense in thoughtful ingredient sourcing rather than Alinea-like plating.

Mr. McFarland attended the French Culinary Institute and worked at Le Cirque and Picholine, so he knows starry cuisine and has obviously chosen to focus on flavor without fuss, careful preparation and homey presentation. The lobster is in big chunks, giving you the texture of the meat and a mouthful of its flavor, and it's minimally dressed with a slaw-like thin mayo, served as per tradition on a light, toasted bun. On the side are crunchy, sea-salted fries, house-made tart pickles, and a delicious slaw that got my vote by including shallots and cornichons, a little vinegary bite to complement seafood and salt (a trio that any fish-and-chip fan can vouch is The Way Things Ought to Be). None of those sides tasted like an afterthought, as is so often the case at fish shacks. For those people who don't like lobster rolls (do they exist?), there's a full menu, including lobster pot pie ($22), a raw bar, and a daily blackboard list of fresh fishy goodness, which when I went included an oyster roll, steamed mussels, and a fluke sandwich.

I arrived at the beginning of lunch service and was one of the first to pull up a stool at the bar, but the place was full within 30 minutes, and I'd bet on it being a mob scene in the evening. Still, if you're up for some treyf trencher, you'd do well to elbow your way in. I'd be happy to have a lobster roll in my lunchbox and was stuffing in every bite on my generous plate, giving thanks to Monsieur Poiret for excommunicating the corset.

Venite ad me omnes qui stomacho laboretis, et ego restaurabo vos. That, says the Larousse Gastronomique, was the dog-Latin sign of one Boulanger, Parisian bouillon seller: "Come unto me, all you whose stomachs are aching, and I will restore you." With that sign, Boulanger set up the first restaurant around 1765, the word derived from restaurer, to restore. Again according to Larousse, "gastronome Brillat-Savarin referred to chocolate, red meat, and consomme as restaurants." Soup, meat, and chocolate? Sound restorative to me, though I would've added wine and cheese to that list, especially the decadent triple-cream named in honor of that gastronome.

If restaurants are the place for restoration, there are few cities equal to the R&R (riot & restoration) offered by New York. So, after my ex-employer requested my absence, I was quite happy to fly to Manhattan for a week of food, plays, and art. And yes, I am 13 months behind in my blogging--so much for taking advantage of the medium's immediacy.

For a theater-chow double-header, it's hard to beat Greenwich Village--midtown may have Broadway shows, but have you tried to get a good, non-extortionately-priced meal there? And don't get me started on the crowds; I'd rather get lost in the Village diagonallies than salmon up Seventh Avenue any day. Thus my first stop was Neil LaBute's In a Dark Dark House at the Lucille Lortel, followed by a late late dinner at Perilla on Jones Street.

Perilla had just opened the month before, the first restaurant from the first winner of Top Chef, Harold Dieterle, and accordingly it had a certain amount of buzz. That buzz, though, seems to be what Perilla is not about: it's not a velvet-rope, see-and-be-seen scene, nor is it an exotic-ingredient, specialized-servingware, extravagant-tasting-menu temple of cutting-edge cookery. Nope, Dieterle has dared to be humble, opening a cozy neighborhood restaurant with an unpretentious menu. And that's quite all right: fireworks aren't for every day.

I arrived early, but the staff behaved as if they were the ones causing inconvenience. They asked that I wait 10-15 minutes at the bar, where they graciously and unnecessarily comped my wine and the host kept checking on me. I was glad to have a few minutes to scan the place: a long bar with about 10 stools on the right, 18 tables and banquettes along the left and back, and an old-fashioned pressed-tin ceiling.

Once at my table, I started with peekytoe crab salad with mango, avocado, and ginger vinaigrette. That's not a groundbreaking combination (and sounds like something you'd find at a nontraditional sushi joint), but it was delicious, creamy rich in texture, appropriately light for a hot night. Perilla is a serrated-leaf plant from the mint family, more commonly known in the U.S. as shiso, but I didn't see any shiso that day, and this crab is the only Asian-esque dish that I can recall there. Besides his CIA training, Dieterle took a cooking sabbatical in Thailand, so those eastern influences do pop up on the menu.

Wagyu skirt steak was my entree, not a slab of meat but rillettes on a bed of spinach creamed with sunchokes, with shallots and chanterelles and a fruity steak sauce the consistency of apple butter. I thought the sauce was made from cherries or plums, but the waiter said it's just reduced beef jus and red wine. It beat the hell out of A1--I was looking around to see if I could sneak a plate-clearing swipe with my finger. I love creamed spinach, too, though had my doubts about substituing sunchoke for dairy, but it was smooth and tasty. (And sounded familiar: sure enough, that combination was one of Dieterle's Top Chef recipes.) The wagyu was tender, pink, and flavorful, as you'd expect from well-marbled beef. Wagyu refers to several types of Japanese cattle bred for a judicious amount of fat in their flesh; Kobe is a subset of Wagyu. My understanding is that much of what appears on American menus as "Wagyu" or "Kobe-style" beef actually comes from cattle that are domestic Wagyu-Angus hybrids. In short, I wonder if Wagyu and Kobe are becoming menu marketing words more than a guarantee of superior quality.

Though I love sweets, I couldn't resist getting the cheese course instead, with selections from down the street at Murray's. Accompanied by grilled bread and quince paste, the trio included moussey, three-milk La Tur, mild here but it can get mushroomy and slightly pungent as it ages; gouda-esque Prima Donna (there are three types; I'm guessing this was the fino); and Bayley-Hazen blue (from Jasper Hill Farm, producers of Constant Bliss, which is), tasting a bit murky compared to the bitchen Colston-Bassett stilton I'd had the night before (still my favorite blue). Then it turned out that I didn't have to sacrifice dessert, because Perilla brought two quarter-sized oatmeal-raisin cookies for petit fours.

Six months later I was back with my father and step-mother, who couldn't come up with a Christmas wish list and so got dinner instead. I didn't notice a ton of menu changes or many changes period, which was fine--the food and service were as good as the first time. (Sorry, by the way, that I didn't take photos.) I started with a special, celery root soup with wild mushroom garnish, which was exactly what a winter soup should be, hearty but refined. Next I had pancetta-wrapped pork tenderloin slices (pig squared, hurrah!) on rutabaga puree (a mite sweet), with brussels sprout leaves, walnuts, and a black mushroom custard. That sounds like a lot on the plate, but it was a reasonable amount. This was one of the first times I noticed brussels sprouts peeled like a head of lettuce, which I've seen several times since, even a salad made of sprout leaves (which poor prep cook drew short straw on that task?). Finally, I had a rockin' dessert: four square, compact, "vanilla-scented" donuts with sides of lemon curd and dark chocolate to dunk them into. Ooee, those were good, hot and fluffy and not too sugary, with the curd and the chocolate offering two completely different shades of astringence to give a flavor punch to the dough. I believe Perilla has had donut variations on the menu since opening, and I'd definitely go for them again.

You have a mind-boggling number of restaurant options in the Village (and I'll be writing up some of those soon...or someday), and Perilla wouldn't necessarily be my first recommendation. It would be on the shortlist, though--I enjoyed everything I had there. It's on the money if you're not out for a "destination" restaurant but for a comfortable, reliable, fairly priced neighborhood spot with quality ingredients and well-prepared dishes. And don't forget the donuts.

Joel Robuchon is one of the most revered chefs in France, and his Atelier in Paris has been a hit, popular for being more "casual" than your typical starred restaurant. It doesn't take reservations, for example, and you can sit at a counter and watch the kitchen work.

 

Now the Paris Atelier has a New York sibling in the Four Seasons hotel. I have to say, the decor did not wow me, a very slick, lacquered, '80s look in red and black, like a Nagel painting (see: the cover of Duran Duran's Rio). In short, not terribly casual and relaxing. The open kitchen is more theater than reality, in my opinion--I saw a lot of plating but not a lot of hot pans and hustling cooks; I'm betting there's a real kitchen in back where the sweat and steam happen. On the other hand, the prices are impressive, but not in the right way; you're paying entree prices for tapas-sized dishes.

All that said, the flavors are pretty good (the chestnut soup was to die for), and the presentations are beautiful. The photo at top left is a dish simply called "le crabe," two discs of avocado sandwiching crabmeat, with julienned apple on top and red pepper sauce.

 

But the most impressive was my $17 (!) dessert: le sucre. This pink orb is blown sugar, filled with a vanilla and berry brulee (more like a creme anglaise than a custard), vanilla ice cream, berries, and a potent kirsch gelatin (the clear cubes to the left of the sphere). Le sucre is always on the menu, but the flavors change--I just checked the menu online, and it's listing a violet and lychee version.

Well, it's nearly a month after my trip to New York, but there are a couple other restaurants I wanted to note. First, Gordon Ramsay, he of Hell's Kitchen, has landed in Gotham with two restaurants at the London Hotel: a formal dining room and a space at the London Bar. Recently, Michael Bauer blogged about having a crappy experience at London Bar, but I found it delicious and delightful.

 

You can order a la carte or can get a set lunch: $45 for three courses, $55 for four, $75 for the six-course chef's tasting menu. I went for broke and got the last. The photo at left is my appetizer, a beet and ricotta salad so pretty I hated to stick a fork in.

 

At right, you can see course five, the first of two desserts: apple trifle. That's a green apple gelee (cool, tart, and refreshing) topped by caramel, cream, and cider granite, and on the side a cinnamon donut filled with apple butter. It was utterly delicious; I hope it's still on the menu next time I'm there.

 

My friend Jade and I have been taking some courses at the new Cheese School of San Francisco, which is brilliant. If you live in the Bay Area, you're probably already familiar with Berkeley's Cheese Board and SF's Cowgirl Creamery and Cheese Plus.

In New York, cheese lovers should go to Artisanal and Murray's. Artisanal is your basic French brasserie, with the addition of a cheese counter in back--you can also book a table in the cheese cave, pictured.

But Murray's is the cheese shopper's Mecca, and I highly recommend the store's book. Some of the more delicious cheeses I tried:

• Pecorino foglie di noce, a mild, crumbly sheep's milk cheese wrapped in walnut leaves. Has just enough saltiness and tang to keep you coming back for another nibble.
• Jasper Hill's Bartlett Blue, cow's milk, on the milder end of blue cheeses. Only available winter and July.
• Quicke's cheddar, an English farmhouse cheddar, more earthy than sharp.
• Tarentaise, an aged cow's cheese from Vermont, a bit crystallized like a good cheddar, tastes like a more caramelized Gruyere.
• Under Milk Wood, a Welsh cow's milk cheese, mild and nutty.

 

I'm going to blog a few items from my week in New York. First up: dinner at Mario Batali's Esca, the seafood restaurant where he kicked off the crudo (Italian "sushi") craze.

Thanks to my poor photo, this looks like a dog's dinner, but I assure you it was quite delicious. It's gnocchi di zucca (pumpkin), with lobster, roasted sweet potato, sage, and pumpkin seeds. That sauce, which looks like a cross between gravy and caramel, is a chestnut cream, and it was to die for. I couldn't have had a better meal on a cold, wet December's night.