|Large modernist turtle shell|
The cocktail list included a very seasonal roster from which we choose hot toddy-type cider concoction, strong on its own with additional potency that comes with heated alcohol: it always seems to hit much harder. Delicious, though, tart and boozy. The cocktails are pricey, though, at $17 across the board, as is the wine list: the cheapest white was $19, spanning on up to $28. It seems mean-spirited (no pun intended), or lazy not to include more reasonably priced varietals, because great ones are out there. The food menus, millennial pink, have only about fifteen items on them, which your waiter will describe as if they are somehow formatted differently than any other menu in the city, but they are in fact, rather straightforward. I got the feeling they were trying too hard on several counts, both in the kitchen and the servers themselves, who might detail a few additional specials, and after doing so, ask if there are any questions. There were: one she answered with a response that clarified nothing, and on the other she was just
|Caramelized fennel and cinnamon ice cream|
As our reservation was relatively early, the hordes kept funneling throughout the course of the evening. So even as we were anticipating our check, more of the whole roasted chickens kept parading through the dining room, torched upon arrival for a bit of fireworks to close out the evening. I hadn't read the New York Times' review beforehand, so when I turned to my dining companion and asked "Do you smell pot?" I didn't even know I was borrowing from Pete Well's script. But I guess it is legal (-ish?) now, so not to worry. And whether it is that or just a well-run establishment with happy diners, Le Turtle sports a pretty chill vibe.