BETONY

Betony is a beautiful restaurant.  It is an unlikely oasis for this stretch of midtown, where reputable dining destinations are few and far between.  The address used to be Pushkin, a spinoff of the Muscovite original and decorated with a typical Russian decadence and flair.  Betony retains the gorgeous fundamentals of its predecessor, trimming the excess and spiffing them up, offering a New American menu full of locavore whimsy.  The high-ceilinged room looks like a cross between a cathedral and a barn, and the sophisticated elegance of the
former and the soulful rusticity of the latter are also evident in the menu.  It is named after the botanical betony, a flowering herb that claims healing properties, and it also folklorically purported to fend of evil spirits and bad luck.  Fortunately, any demons jinxing the location seemed to have picked up and run when Eleven Madison alums Eamon Rockey and Executive Chef Bryce Shuman took over, and thus Betony itself is up and running, too, but in a graceful, eloquent cadence.

Fine dining this is, inarguably, but there is a relaxed conviviality here.  The cuisine makes good use of modern tweaks and techniques, but the heart of the food lies in impeccable ingredients and an artful composition of ingredients.   We began with a generous bowl of tempura fried pickled peppers (I'm not how much a peck is, but there were a LOT of peppers here) with an unctuous yogurt dip flavored with cucumber

and fennel.  The first section of the menu from which these came is designated finger food, but these crispy little morsels will demand a lot from napkin, given their greasiness.  A tasty greasiness it is, but messy without utensils, and a little voluminous for my appetite.   Even sharing, this dish could be halved.  I wonder if chef Shuman must have some nostalgic reason for these, because they don't quite seem in keeping with the sophistication of the rest of the menu.  Which works for me, since one each a red and green pepper were enough, and I was happy getting to

subsequent courses.   In perfect proportion, contrarily, are delicate sandwich-ettes of crushed zucchini, balancing precariously on the edges of their crisp gruyere wafers.  The shredded squash is dense and salty, tinged with mint, and makes for impeccable little mouthfuls.   Similarly, diaphanous puffed rice crackers (horizontal, these) cup a dollop of creamy yogurt underneath a tiny curlicue of cucumber and a dab of mild trout roe,  sporting jaunty sprigs of fennel like Yankee Doodle's feather.

A small palais nettoyant arrived in a shallow earthenware bowl, remarkably potent for its diminutive size.  Fresh, crisp orbs of watermelon float within a clear puddle of gelatinous cucumber, saline enough to keep things savory but with a fresh, aqueous sweetness perfect to prepare the palate for courses ahead.

Cucumber salad before......

.....and during.

These that followed were similarly cool and light: a cucumber salad began simply as thin ribbons of myriad varietals of cuke, furled into a mounded labyrinth.  But here was a glimmer of that transformative alchemny, as a flurry of buttermilk "snow" was sprinkled atop tableside, creating a wispy fog that dissolved into a pearly glaze, the infused caraway contributing a pickly flavor more than the nutty rye of the seed itself.  A lilliputian pickled cucumber from Farmer Lee Jones himself garnishes the plate: Betony celebrates the immaculate quality of his precious produce as well as anyone possibly could.

A grain salad might have toed the line of hippie food with its bountiful flourish of sprouts, were it not for a luxuriously rich and creamy labne that rendered intensely flavorful barley and groats to come together tasting emphatically more decadent than its prudish ingredients might
insinuate. The opposite effect came into play with the potato gnocchi, a dish normally tending towards to heavy side, but these pillowy dumplings were light as clouds, pooled in a thin, summery corn puree studded with fat kernels, tiny

 plugs of baby corn chopped through the cob, and

 thin slips of the same sliced lengthwise.  Sprigs of succulent purslane decorated the dish, adding freshness and fancy, and flecks of chili powder added just a kiss of heat.  

An entree of poached black bass arrived skin-on, it silvery scales edged in black made me wish you could use fish skin for boots.  Its flesh was just as luxurious, mild and tender as it sloped into a pool infused with tomatillos, bedecked with gossamer sliced of summer squash, and one, fat roasted plank that tasted as nutty as the toasted pignoli suspended in the broth.    The roasted chicken, the test of a true chef, boasted that rich, pure flavor one strives for in such a simple dish, paired with humble turnips and fancy chanterelles in lashings of savory gravy I wish they could

 bottle and sell by the quart.   The chicken comes with a bonus side- hearty farrow with shredded dandelion greens and confit breast meat, a silky quail egg oozing to anoint the grains, warm and nourishing as a grandma's hug. 

Another palate cleanser is bequeathed, this one even more wonderful: a thin disc of compressed honeydew infused with spearmint floats in a cool buttermilk cream with a frosty melon sorbet.  It's an absolutely perfect  pause to begin desserts, exhilaratingly fresh and inspired.  

 Although I was slightly less impressed with the desserts.  The plating seemed a bit forced, while the flavors weren't much more than as expected.  A "blueberry parfait" was splayed onto a plate, the plump berries teamed with a fruity mousse and scoop of gelato.  A poppy seed wafer was crumbled atop, its unique flavor coming across a somewhat pasty and stale (which it might not have had the disparate elements actually been layered, parfait-like).  A roasted apricot nestled up against apricot sorbet, bedded in granola and topped with a crisp shard of almond tuile.  They were both pleasant, but lacked the wow-factor of the rest of the menu.  And the rest of the menu certainly does have wow in it.

Betony could hold its own in any neighborhood, but its particularly welcome here on the upper cusp of midtown.  Its novel, inspired cocktail menu makes it as perfect a destination for drinks after work as it is for a special dinner, reasonable enough for everyday and fancy enough for occasions.  So I think they can keep the betony to use for tabletop posies:  there doesn't seem to be any jinx left to ward off.

     41 West 57th Street                                                                              +   1.212.465.2400