DANIEL

Flawless.
I want to capitulate with that, but this would leave too much up to the uninitiated's imagination.  Daniel Boulud's flagship institution needs neither more accolades nor additional recommendations: procuring a table is already a daunting feat of extraordinary preplanning.  But to those who have never visited, and now that I am lucky enough to have done so, I have never been so inspired to write a review.

From the sidewalk, the illuminated overhang beckons like a glowing marquee on the mostly residential side street on the upper east side.  You are welcomed into a serene lobby, with dark wood. plush carpet and pearly ivory finishes.  I had a chance to wait for my tablemate at the more casual bar, where a devastatingly handsome bartender set down an icy goblet of water without a word, and presented a wine/cocktail list with a dashing smile.  The wine list is expansive, and expensive, but this should come as no shock: Daniel is fine dining at its very finest.  Soon, we were complete and ushered to our table in the
serene, elegantly low-lit dining room, our table just beneath an enormous bouquet of pale orchids.  Beverage menus were provided immediately, but the dinner menus took a moment more to arrive, perhaps allowing for a chance to take in the beauty of the room- and before being completely mesmerized by the food.  Once our orders were taken, the courses began to arrive almost without hesitation.  This was made possible by an array of complimentary amuses, the first of

 which was a meticulous trio including a progression from a lilliputian study in broccoli romesco and asparagus, a
creamy lightly-curried vegetable puree and a tiny raw cube of mild, exquisitely fresh sashimi-style fish.  The first revelation, however, came in the form of a cloud-light puff of carrot mousse,  pooled in a verdant herbal oil with a smear of a nutty, grainy mustard.  I would easily have taken a bigger portion of this as an appetizer without regret.... except for that when my appetizer did arrive, it was just as wonderful.

A Tasting of Heirloom Tomatoes began with an ample cup of cool, brothy soup, reminiscent in flavor of a gently sweet spaghetti sauce.  It was playfully crowned with a thick head of coral foam, and studded with a fine dice of crunchy cucumber which sank to the bottom, given the broth textural diversity at both poles.  It sat next to three compressed bricks of different varietals, topped with tiny cubes of sweet, nutty Coomersdale cheese and a smattering of pungent herbs.   Compressing intensified the already intense peak-season fruit, creating a toothsome yet juicy texture.  An aspic of octopus terrine finished the ensemble, tender bits of tentacle suspended in luxuriously savory gelatin to daub in a rivulet of zesty chorizo oil, which also availed itself winningly to a dunk in the soup.   Marinated Sea Scallops are sliced thinly atop a bright puree of sorrel spiked with
sancho pepper.  The scallops, raw,  were meltingly creamy, their ivory translucence emphasized by verdant drop of emerald chive oil and the vegetal sorrel.  Crispy wisps of smoked potato rose in defiance of gravity, anchored in luxurious piles of Northern Light caviar, as decadent a dish as its ethereal lightness would allow.



Of course, we are just beginning.  Daniel offers either a tasting menu (usually seven courses with a wine pairing option) or a prix-fixe (which is currently $125 for three courses).  As we were having a late dinner to begin with, the tasting menu would've edged into the early morning hours, so with our prix-fixe, we were onto our second course... although with all the amuses it felt as if we had practically already dined.  But the courses to arrive were so exquisite as to reopen any appetite with vigorous aplomb.  Savory Stuffed Dover Sole lay on a bed of pea puree so pea-y as to challenge one's original concept as to what a pea even tastes like.
These were the pea-iest of peas, raked into a zen rectangle reminiscent of the sand in a Japanese rock garden.  Spilled over the puree was a savory gastrique studded with additional English peas, brilliantly green in contrast to the delicate, snowy white sole.  A savory parmesan crisp flecked with shavings of Iberico ham slanted over the dish, riddled with a garden of pea blossoms and edible flowers, unmistakably sourced from The Chef's Garden, the finest purveyor of specialty produce.   As a Pacific Northwesterner, I thought I preferred Alaskan halibut, but this Grilled Maine Halibut rivaled any that from Ketchikan, lean and meaty, and charred with smoky marks from grill.   The two parallel planks of fish sandwiched dense coils of braised romaine, salty and vegetal, alternated with deeply caramelized onions, so intensified that I first mistook them for beets in the dim lighting of the dining room.  This, in fact, is my one and only qualm with all of Daniel: the lighting is sophisticated and elegant, almost reassuring in it's soothing quality.  But in terms of photographing food (I fault this wholly for the grainy injustice my little powerhouse of a point-and-shoot did to this gorgeous food), and
 just seeing what you are eating, the light is unfortunately murky.  And food like this!!  Food like THIS deserves spotlights, marquee lighting, search lights... moonbeams.  The halibut was so good in its lusty chicken jus spiced with vadouvan, and from this picture you could hardly intuit its marvel.   The dining room was not so long ago renovated, but the one thing I think still remains imperfect is the lighting (Boulud might hit up Colicchio and ask how he rigged his up at Craft).  Obviously, there is nothing here to hide.



Least of all the desserts, which will fight amongst themselves for the honor of most beautiful, and battle with themselves whether they are more beautiful.... or more delicious.  The Peche Tahitienne featured a demi-orb of luscious poached fruit underneath a cloak of smooth vanilla custard, a physical feat I'm not quite sure how was accomplished. Never the mind, though, as as spoon slid through it like a hot knife in butter, spooning with it an icy daub of pine honey wheatgrass granite.  The brilliant green shards glittered against the creamy smoothness of peaches' couverture, melting a bright earthiness into the sweet richness of the fruit.   Fraises des Bois et Coquelicots was a showcase of the most extraordinary strawberries, tiny in size but herculean in flavor.  They balanced with a small quenelle

 of sorbet upon buttery rounds of sugar cookie,  alongside another that held an unctuous mousse of ricotta, thick and sweet, whipped just this short of butter it was so dense and creamy.  A dainty sprinkle of poppy seeds accounted for the coquelicots contribution as far as I could discern: the dish might more aptly be called Fraises des Bois and Crack Ricotta Mousse.  But lest I digress from the elegance and sophistication of the dessert, a third dessert presented itself compliments of the house: a celebratory grand-geste from the kitchen as our server had overheard us mention an anniversary we had reached, and although we weren't technically celebrating it, that kind of prescient generosity is only found in restaurants of this caliber.  Now, since we didn't order it I can't be certain, but I believe it was the Fleur

de Cafe.  I recall orange and coffee inflected flavors in creamy-dense fudgey bites, but my recollection dulls as the hour had grown late- and one can take but so much gastronomic stimuli.  But a dinner at Daniel does not terminate just because the kitchen should technically be closed, one's appetite has long past reached over-saturation, and only the clingiest of clingers-on still lingered in their comfortably plush seats.  A trio of sweet friandises accompanied the final drops of a thickly smooth and pleasantly bitter decaf espresso (as if my food coma alone would not ease me swiftly to sleep), a tiny barquette of cassis atop a nutty shortbread, a shockingly sweet-tart jam-filled kumquat gelee and ... oh  well.  There was something else.  And then there were minuscule chocolates... scented with mint, orange, coffee, pistachio.  I think.  It all became a blur, despite the brilliance and purity of the flavors we enjoyed.  Daniel is worth every star it has merited from Michelin (three), the New York Times (three) and Zagat (they don't do stars, but it would translate to 3.5), and mine- whereas I don't do stars, either, but I'll give Daniel as many stars as he's put in my eyes.

60 East 65th StreetNew York, NY 10065
(212) 288-0033

CHERCHE MIDI

Shane McBride was tapped for Keith McNally's new incarnation of the old Pulino's space, although he unfortunately takes Fridays, the night I came in, off.  The room and the crowd is recognizable from its prior state, somewhat whitened and lightened up, but the arching ceilings, packed tables and teeming bar endure.  The reservation was tough to come by, procured over a week in advance and chosen only because it was the earliest available table not at 5pm or 10pm.  McNally has that kind of
 following, though, especially perhaps now that Pastis is shuttered (temporarily?  We will see.)  From what I assess, McNally opens a place and the masses will follow, but does the food measure up?

I'm more familiar with McBride running in meat-centric circles: our initial encounter was at his highbrow chophouse called 7Square, which was fantastic but short-lived.  The next time I saw him was at Craftsteak, which morphed into Colicchio & Sons, where its namesake owner took over and changed focus of the place.  With that, the dishes that shine from the broad-based French menu at Cherche Midi are the steak-ier ones.  The menu itself is diverse, and our waiter cute and friendly if a bit unpolished, had some daily specials to offer as well.  He stuttered nervously through them, but needn't have been so jittery: he got through with flying colors.  We chose one of them to try, a fat, fresh crabcake perched atop a summery succotash of juicy corn kernels and bright cherry tomatoes, enriched by a creamy sauce and a flounce of fresh-cut herbs.  It was crisp of coat, packed with fresh, mild crab, and big enough to serve as a light entree (perhaps with a selection from the side dishes), or as a substantial starter as it is intended.  It wouldn't be out of place at a steakhouse, so its success made sense.

A beet salad is a similar mainstay, but this version was less successful, although the locally sourced beets made a striking splay of color on the plate.  Oily to a fault, the thinly sliced rounds suction-cupped somewhat to the plate, although flopping the discs into parcels to include a pistachio, a frond of chervil and a flabby slice of bland brebis  made eating the dish a little more fun, if not very exciting.  Another appetizer, the pan-roasted fois gras was definitely not my style, but it was most definitely his.  The seared crust took on a salty, crisp bacon-like quality, the fat lobe oozing its melting fat into a delectable warm compote of

poached rhubarb, its tangy character absolutely crucial in cutting the voluminous fat of the fois.  A small buttery brioche vaulted this diminutively sized dish into a caloric monstrosity, but for afficionados of duck liver, there may not exist a finer presentation.  My tablemate pondered ordering a second: strictly against any sage doctor's order.

Had I recalled McBride's carnivorous resume, I might have opted for one of the four meatier entrees- our neighbor's burger next door looked enticing: a prime rib blend with bacon marmalade, roasted mushrooms and aged French gruyere, just to keep things from looking too American.  But it was a warm summer day, made all the more obvious by the blinding setting sun reflecting in a blaze though the unshaded windows (if you visit Cherche before the sun has set, either opt for a west-facing table or bring your sunglasses to protect your retinas until the couche de soleil.)  The sunlight alone was bright enough, but with all that white tile and signature McNally bistro mirrors, it threatens to burn green glowing floaters into your vision.  

As for my entree, my love of skate steered me toward his bone-in version, served with an onion-fennel soubise, which bordered on soggy.  The flavors were good, if muted, but the effect of the dish felt restrained, as if he was hesitant to put as much punch into a seafood dish as I know he does with his meats.  The wing pulled easily off the bone, and its edges feigned crispness, but instead most of the crunch came from delightful tiny croutons sprinkled about the dish along with a smattering of emerald chives.   It wasn't any bit a disaster, but it wasn't particularly astounding either.  We toyed between a side dish of shallot-roasted mushrooms and the whole roasted cauliflower, and were guided toward the latter.
Now this was an interesting dish:  from the picture, you can see it is smothered in its sauce gribiche- which would typically be extremely heavy.  But in a strange turn of whimsy, the sauce is vegan, formulated from lentils, but retains a rich enough feel to turn the humble vegetable into a  indulgent-feeling treat.   Sauce'll do that to you: a good sauce atones many missteps.






Speaking of sauce, our raspberry souffle was probably good enough without it, but the puffy, powdered-sugar dusted confection was cleaved tableside, and anointed with a cool douse from a small pitcher of cream.  The warm souffle enveloped the cream as it integrated into the fluffy custard.  I couldn't decide whether the best bites were the toasty, marshmallowy cap or the jammy  bottom, where tangy bits of raspberry swam in a  juicy syrup.





So despite the francophilic inclinations, I recommend thinking of Cherche Midi as a steakhouse.  It has all the makings of one if you order accordingly, and this is where you will find McBride's work at its finest.

 282 Bowery

New York City 10012

(212) 226-3055

CIRCO

This wasn't my first time to Circo, nor will it be my last.  It was, however, a visit experiencing Circo at the top of its game:  Chef Alfio Longo balances the rusticity of his upbringing in a small town outside of Florence with a worldly resume of cooking experience, creating an ingredient-driven Tuscan menu that showcases elegant but soulful Italian cuisine.    Their summer al fresco veranda opens up ontp the relatively quiet side street of 55th, making it an absolutely ideal destination during this so-far mild summer.  To be sure, I've never had a bad meal at Circo, but now with Chef Longo at the helm, it seems to have really hit its stride.  Circo is beautiful restaurant inside, its whimsical circus decor complemented by the immaculate attention to detail from its proprietors, the gracious and iconic Maccioni family.  But on one of the few gorgeously temperate summer evenings that New York offers up every season, a table outside and a new summer menu elevated the experience even further.



I don't know what was more beautiful: the twinkling lights glowing through the chilled blue water goblets, or the velvety blue sky just starting to show a handful of faint summer stars.  But soon a bubbling glass of prosecco would arrive with its own kind of sparkle, and a basket of warm focaccia and crisp, spindly breadsticks.  We started with the Mare Nostrum, a substantial composition of exquisitely fresh octopus and squid grilled a la plancha, garnished with sweet, pristine halves of cherry tomato and arugula fronds, the plate daubed with colorful, flavorful sauces and a striking contrast of squid ink.  A small crostino, crisp

 and buttery, held a garlicky mince of sauteed clam, providing a perfect sampling of the fruits of a Tuscan sea.



Circo offers an impressive array of housemade pastas, and knowing it would be hard to choose from between temptations, also for the option to select any two varieties plated in half-portions.  Thus, I tried pillowy, milky cheese ravioli draped with market-fresh zucchini blossoms and abundant shavings of luxurious, aromatic white summer truffle.  Alongside sat a fat pici tinted with squid ink: voluptuous, thick-twisted noodles sauced in savory, chili-flecked seafood ragu- a lusty and robust tangle of flavor.

Sticking with the light, summery theme, we finished off with a salt-baked, whole orata, moist and flaky, dressed simply with a drizzle of verdant Tuscan olive oil and a splay of pungent capers and minced herbs.   An array of perfectly cooked grilled vegetables kept company on the plate: toothsome, sweet fennel, nutty zucchini, a zesty cipollini onion and fruity red bell pepper among them.  This is the kind of dish Milos across the street serves to its fawning masses, but of poorer quality and at twice the price.  Circo's version is simplicity at its finest.


While I wasn't sure I needed dessert after all of that, the masterpiece that arrived- just a single cannoli with a perfectly round orb of tart blood orange sorbet- was so whimsically decorated and artfully plated that it felt fit for royalty.  Which, in perfect keeping with any and all of the restaurants of the Maccioni Group, is how this night left me feeling, too.

212.265.3636 | 120 West 55th St New York, 

GATO

Much to my sister's disappointment, Bobby Flay was not in the house.  She had read that he was notably present in the kitchen since it's opening, and he had been... up until a very flattering two-star review from Mr. Wells.  That said, he's got his little kitty (Gato means cat in Spanish) up and running like a well-oiled machine that seems to be simply purring even in his physical absence.

We were warmly welcomed, seated immediately.  The room was pretty full when we arrived, and just got fuller and fuller as the evening progressed, the bar seeming to reach maximum capacity and boisterous energy penetrating all corners.  The noise level isn't for the faint of ear: conversation can be arduous if you're hesitant to raise your voice a bit.  But all this bustle kind of adds to the festive atmosphere.  After all, Flay isn't known for white tablecloths and tuxedoed waiters, and his food is just as kick-back and punched up.  There are a lot of items on the menu, making it tough to decide for a deuce although magnificent for big groups.... or big appetites.  Our first dish was the roasted octopus: my tablemate and  I both assess that chefs have really mastered the cephalopod.  I feel like historically I was served either chewy rubber or fishy mush, but I haven't had a bad octopus dish anywhere in recent

 history, and Gato's is no exception.  It's a marvelously fat tentacle, roasted fork-tender and wallowing in pools of ruddy sour orange and vibrant oregano sauces, topped with two mild padron peppers and shards of thick, meaty bacon. Surf and turf and fruit and veg.... and this was just one little appetizer.  Next up, some veggies kept our appetites from topping out too quickly: perfectly charred broccolini boasted feathery toasted florets and tender, sweet stalks.  This sometimes bitter vegetable confuted that unfortunate tendency, and its bed of crunchy corn and buxom cherry tomato halves gave it a
dose of bright, summery appeal.  Its relative, roasted cauliflower, was profoundly richer, roasted to a buttery bronze and saturated in a bold, salty agrodolce spiked with capers and judicious sprinkle of fruity pepper rounds, which although the menu states as padrons, these little vermillion  beauties had to be some other kicky variety.   This was the first dish that made me glad that although Flay has spread his wings far and wide, he has not yet achieved the ubiquity of commercialism that would require him to post nutritional information on his menus: I would fear the caloric impact of that cauliflower.  But even more than that, the crispy potatoes are a force to be reckoned with: their crunchy-fried, thick
 parmegiano-crusted coating must have measured half the girth of each chunk of spud, heady with smoked paprika and capped with the rich, golden yolk of a poached egg.   I would ply this against any fast food offering in terms of RDA sticker-shock; it should come with a defibrillator, an NC-17 rating, and at least three other people to share it with.  Although as excessive as it is, it's also really profoundly tasty: all things in moderation, and for this dish, that means quantity.  'Cause in creating it,  Bobby forgot to use any moderation at all.


Plunging onward, we tackled a few of the entrees, and the paella lives up to the hype: that soccarat rivals any I've ever had, rendering the lack of any of the classic ingredients like chorizo or clams completely irrelevant.  Tangy, vinegary bits of tender kale, chewy morsels of wild mushroom  and immaculately
crispy baby artichokes had every bit as much flavor as that iconic Spanish forcemeat, and with
another egg, poached and whisked into the ensemble, it wanted for nothing.  Our waiter was impeccably helpful, gracious and amicable, and while he was probably entirely correct in steering us towards the lighter dish of orata grilled under a slurry of piquillo pesto, I was left full of curiosity about the buzzed-about rabbit stew with carrots and fregula sarda, but just as full in appetite to prevent doing anything about it.



Because also this was (yet another!) birthday dinner, Gato graciously provided a blue and white striped candle for my blackberry crostato with rhubarb gelato.  I regret to say that my taste buds may have been partially blitzed after the onslaught of salty, savory, spicy and sassy food, but the blackberries were plump and juicy and the cool rhubarb gelato whispered subtly as it melted into the buttery crust, sparkling with sugar.  Nobody sang me the birthday song, but there was a festive soundtrack bumping throughout the course of the night, making things feel enough like a party.  And Bobby should proudly be celebrating with Gato, too: the Iron Chef wins again.

324 LAFAYETTE ST, NEW YORK CITY 10012 | P: (212)334-6400

THE PAVILION

I was thrilled to experience the food of Wayne Nish soon as I heard he was to be the chef at the controversial new restaurant reopening in Union Square.  But perhaps some of the controversy rubbed off on him, and prior to its debut, Nish and the restaurant had already parted ways.  I would like to think that some of his influence survived, however, for much to my surprise, the food at The Pavilion was surprisingly good, despite them not really having a designated chef, so far as I could tell.  Our server imparted the name of the man in the kitchen, but it rang no bells and I can find no mention of him on their website, so I'm assuming it's a capable cook taking Nish's contribution and running with it.



And on an atypically temperate summer night,with the bonus of a lively, cooling breeze, there are few more desirable outdoor dining destinations than this renovated atrium of The Pavilion in Union Square.  Personally, dining outside for me in New York is exponentially more appealing in theory than in practice.  You either have noxious exhaust fumes, raucous passersby, revoltingly thick humidity, unpredictable temperature swings, and less attention from servers that are prudently investing the majority of their efforts inside where the air is cool and dry and clean and the atmosphere just all together more civil.  But we hit the lottery that night given all the possible variables, and the palm-frondy, airy dining room was absolutely as attractive and comfortable as is could ever be, and with an open table for two available, to boot.

Getting a table was sort of a crapshoot, too, because despite attempting to secure a spot via Open Table (malfunctioning) and calling (incessant rings unanswered), we showed up sans reservation.  We were seated quickly enough; the restaurant was maybe 70% full.  Offered a cocktail, one summery mojito for the gentleman, which seemed in good keeping with the environs.  I opted for wine, and our waiter suggested one of their three roses by the glass.  I chose a Gruner instead .... but he brought me the rose anyways.   I sincerely think he just misheard my order, but he queried "I thought we agreed on the rose??", while I didn't agree on anything... I had simply ordered a Gruner.  At any rate, he whisked it away somewhat brusquely, but them probably realizing there was no benefit in my duping him, realized it was an honest miscommunication and returned with the correct beverage and a gracious apology.  But it was an odd little kerfuffle, and was unfortunately not the only misstep throughout the course of the evening.

The menu itself is well-rounded, although a little less produce-centric than I had expected given it's proximity to the city best farmer's market.  The side dishes offered only a spicy kale as a vegetable: the others were all potatoes and macaroni.  We began with wild mushroom crostini, which seemed the easiest of the bunch to share.  Which would have been true had the Italian been correct, as crostini is plural and implies two or more little toasts, i.e. perfectly divisible.  Instead, what arrived was a crostinO: one big piece groaning with mushrooms and mantled with a fat, organic poached egg- it's golden yolk oozing from atop into the pools of olive oil and balsamic.  Not an insurmountable misnomer.  I had a knife.  But since we had specifically chosen it so we could each have a crostino, the error struck me.  Also, the strangely orange truffle butter that accompanied it off to the side in its own dish was not only superfluous (I mean, where are you going to put truffle butter on this already decadently composed app?) but wholly forgotten until they took the plate away, and then I saw that strange little crock, untouched.  Oh, well.  It was delicious and adequately lubricated, with zero need for more anything, let alone truffle or butter.   With this, our waiter said our entrees would be arriving soon.

A little less than one lifetime later, our waiter reappeared with another crostino.  I mean, maybe that's why the menu said crostini: you get one crostino and then a half an hour later, another one?  No: it was simply another fuddled maneuver, either intended for another table or someone didn't check our completed order off the list.  Normally, most places would offer it as a freebie, since technically I think it has to get thrown out once it was set on our table, but instead our confused server asked if we were sure we had already had our appetizer (yes, I'm pretty sure I already ate that), and he retracted like a puppy, tail between legs.  Two lifetimes later, our entrees finally arrived.  Suffice it to say that the attractive surroundings became increasingly imperative as the service verged on buffoonery.  Thankfully the food, too, wasn't a disappointment to have waited around for.  Hanger steak arrived perfectly medium as requested, just barely pink to the middle and grilled to a flavorful crust.  A lip-smackingly saucy bordelaise pooled beneath around a bed of chive-flecked mashed potatoes, which may have not been the summeriest of dishes, but with the lethargy of service, an evening cool had settled and it seemed perfectly befitting of the clime.   Both entrees came bedecked in a bale's worth of sprouty garnish: this

 seemed the most vigorous nod to greenmarket produce.  My snapper was deftly sauteed, and surrounded by a liquidy coulis of haricot, which somewhat masked the quality (or lack thereof... who knows?) the peak-season vegetable, but roasted radishes and sunchokes (also somewhat of a surprise, since the menu stated "artichokes" and while I expected real ones, the Jerusalem variety were not disappointing, and made no mention whatsoever of radishes).  The coulis was bright and vegetal, the tubers earthy, and the snapper fresh and supple.   Really, the food itself leaves little to complain about.

The dessert menu is extensive, under the charge of Terri Dreisbach.  I passed over the coconut mousse with black sesame cake and rhubarb despite my adoration of piefruit, because on the contrary, I'm not such a huge fan of coconut.  The buttermilk and berries are what convinced me of the summer berry verrine, a glass coupe showcasing ripe raspberries and blackberries atop creamy buttermilk panna cotta.  A nutty crumble of of almonds and a cool scoop of pistachio gelato topped off the concoction, with enough diverse elements to keep your attention as the gelato melts into the pudding and the fruit juices assimilate into a creamy, fruity slurry that beckons until the glass is empty.

With the tragic closing of Union Square cafe nearby, I think The Pavilion will help pick up some of its slack.  While on no level is it the same caliber restaurant as was Danny Meyer's and Michael Romano's iconic establishment, this new Pavilion, for what it is.... for WHERE it is, is an altogether pretty enjoyable spot.

20 Union Square West
New York, New York  — 10003
212-677-7818

Located at the North End of Union Square Park at 17th Street

BACCHANAL

I was happy to hear that chef Scott Bryan has a new home after his departure from the  lovely Apiary: I really liked that place.  Prior to that he was at the helm of Veritas, a laudable and elegant restaurant that was probably under recognized for its entire existence.  Bacchanal continues his wine-centric culinary expertise, where his wonderful ability to balance light and bright with touch of luxury shines, here deep down on the gritty cusp of the Bowery.

The room simply designed, raw and garage-y but with touches of whimsy, like the fanciful scrolls on the ceiling connecting the wiring between suspended lamps and twinkling, sparse lighting.    While it is scarcely windowed, something in the lighting or the openess of the room and exposed concrete, make it feel like a party being thrown in an abandoned warehouse.  But when the food arrives, Chef Bryan's culinary artistry shines through beyond the capacity of any house party.   As a result of this, I'd wager Bacchanal is here to stay.

Summer 2014

Despite the deep and vast wine list, we both started with cocktails, mine the wonderfully seasonal Summer 2014, blending absinthe, sherry and aquavit with snap peas, lemon thyme, and verjus, which although my tablemate likened it to "drinking salad", it appealed to me immensely.  It was a tad too sweet:  perfection would be achieved if we could take the sugar down a notch, and if my dining companion thinks it tastes like salad, well, he shouldn't be dousing his greens in simple syrup either.  Their Old Fashioned with a boulder of smoked ice would've knocked my dad's socks off; actually, I would recommend Bacchanal for cocktails alone, the drink menu is so broad and appealing.

But that's to stray from the real genius of the restaurant: Bryan's food. We started off with the refreshingest of refreshing chilled corn soup, tumbled with halved cherry tomatoes and subtly bumped with zesty roasted poblanos, an immaculate balance of sweet and earthy, tang and heat, with a crunchy slurry of plump, fresh corn kernels hovering underneath the smooth, basil-flecked surface.  Toying between the fennel & crimini salad and an appetizer of roasted beets, our server steered me towards the latter.  The dense, sweet beets hid underneath a tumble of frisee, and although the beets-and-chevre

photo credit: Katherine S. of Yelp

combo is nothing new, this one hit all the right notes, adding precious marcona almonds for a nutty crunch and heft.  I suppose I sort of wished for a cheese variant, or some novel tweak, but this was a flawless rendition of the classic, if not much different from many great examples you may have tried.


Our waiter passed by frequently, dispersing a noticeable number of annoyingly cliched scripts, like "how does everything look?" and kept offering his "help" with everything from additional beverages to Anything in General, etc.  I guess if you notice someone is saying something too often or it inspires discomfort, there's something to be worked on.  And the service was attentive and friendly: ours just needed to polish his verbage.  But by the time we were "helped" to our entrees, all linguistic woes were forgotten: both plates we tried were outstanding.  The Test of a Great Chef, the roasted chicken, was all out
perfect.  The meat was so tender and flavorful it could've been spooned, the polenta underneath that is intended for a spoon as creamy and corny as the grain allows.  I kept stealing chanterelles from my tablemate's plate (this was his entree), defending myself by offering him a few manilas from my cod.  Not that I wanted to sacrifice many of the plumply meaty clams that bedecked my plate, but those mushrooms in that madeira jus were just magnetic.  And the clams were plentiful, as well as the hunk of Atlantic cod sizable enough to fulfill protein requirements on its own.  Bronzed to a golden crust, it luxuriated in a buttery, garlicky broth, thickened with a dense white bean puree than dissolved into the rich saline broth,  just screaming to be swabbed up with hunks of the fresh, chewy slices of excellent, thick-cut bread provided.  Both entrees had such

profound umami qualities that my mouth is watering all over again just writing this.  Bryan isn't testing the spectrum of inventive gastronomy here, but what he makes tastes really, really good.  I mean REALLY good.  I was glad we had gone veggie in our appetizers because there aren't any sides listed on the menu, but somehow the table aside ours had a dish a fat, grilled asparagus topped with fricasseed mushrooms... where did those come from??? Our waiter sheepishly replied they were a special of the night, but theirs had been the last portion, and although one might try to avert my attention from roasted vegetable matter anywhere in a forty-foot vicinity, you'd be unsuccessful.  The lucky table that snagged it actually offered me a spear, but I (my unadvisably mannered side) politely refused, regretting it to this day.  It looked outstanding, though.


To console myself for the minimal veg, we opted for a fruity dessert of peach tart tatin with creme fraiche ice cream and caramel, although the empting assortment of dessert-worthy cocktails was commensurately tempting.  But the tart was  impressive, profoundly caramelly and heavily dusted in confectioner's sugar.  The puff pastry fought the fork a little too assertively, overwhelming the intensely peachy peach slices and their small dose of ice cream- I might tweak the proportions of this dessert somewhat, but the flavors were spot-on.   As was the case with the entire meal at Bacchanal: in terms of Tests of Great Chefs, Scott Bryan passes magna cum laude.

146 BOWERY

NEW YORK, NY 10013

646.355.1840