VAN DA

This place is charming, with a friendly, gracious staff, cool and comfortable surroundings and super tasty food.   But its possession of a Michelin star was what it put Van Da on our radar and drew us in, and I'm sorry to say there was little in our experience to merit it.  And that's not to say I don't recommend it, it is only to put that recommendation in proper perspective.


We arrived sans reservation, and despite there being two or three empty tables (presumably imminent reservations), we had to wait a spell before obtaining stools at the bar- absolutely sufficient.  The bartender took a little warming up, but once we had him on our side he was pleasant and engaging, and added a bit of personal attention to the experience.   He mixed up a snappy little cocktail, as well, although he seemed to be tiring of swizzling that Ho Chi Smokey that everyone seemed to be ordering, my tablemate included.

Ho Chi Smoke

To his credit, and in that we're in the East Village, the cocktail program is respectively strong.  A Turtle Tonic seems a bit like a spritzed-up mojito, and that Ho Chi Smokey spiked mezcal with chili and a shiso salt rim for its savory, zesty appeal.  The food menu itself is pretty concise, and vegetarians would have a tough time here, given that even the un-meaty sounding options usually include fish sauce or egg.  We started with the Banh Khot, decadent little cups of griddled turmeric-scented dough filled with a chunky mince of wild mushrooms anchored in coconut custard.  This was by far the best dish of the night, starting off strong and perhaps steering us to prematurely believe in that star.  But while everything else we tried was inarguably good, nothing was exceptional.  We had to
order the Cha Cha la Vong (how often do you get to say THAT?), and its tangle of pearly, thin noodles, crisped filet of branzino and flurry of dill and chopped peanuts was served with fish sauce and hot chili oil apart, so as to season to taste.  But not being that familiar with Vietnamese foods (at least in preparing them), I was a little cautionary to over-season with one or the other (or both), or even strike the right balance between them, and thus ended up eating most of the dish with just little dibs and dabs of funk or heat, and most bitefuls just amounted to noodles with a little fish.  You would think.... I 
would think a Michelin star would want each bite to achieve the ideal actualization of the dish, and that should be left up to the chef, not the diner.  The plate that arrived was basically unseasoned, the diner being left responsible for a decision that I wis would've been enacted in the kitchen.

Shaking Beef c/o Agnes C. on Yelp

Next we went for the Bo Luc Lac  (Shaking Beef), but it didn't really shake things up.  The beef, while plentiful, was pretty tough, simply seasoned alongside toothsome, round potatoes and crowned with fronds of watercress, deemed salad, but undressed.  I have to wonder if we wouldn't have been more successful with some of the noodle soups, like Bun Rieu with tofu and seafood, or Cao Lau's chewy noodles and pork cheeks.  But you can only eat so much in a given sitting, and you can't know before you order what might've been better.  Even our dessert, a perfectly adequate little panna cotta with crisp slices of persimmon (unfortunately not the meltingly custardy hachiyas, but the
sweet-when-crisp fuyu variety) was simply a plain, cool yogurty pudding with the fruit sliced atop.  Kinda yawn, eh?  Nothing we had would make me want to come back to Van Da, not even the Banh Khot, which I've had similar versions-ish of elsewhere, just as good and that would fill the same craving and have much more to offer in addition.

This place is good.   Okay-good, certainly nothing of it rang of Michelin-star good.  Did I miss something?  Or did Van Da?

234 East 4th Street
(Btwn Ave A & B)
New York, NY

www.vanda.nyc

Reservations: VanDaReservations@gmail.com

Phone: 917.994.4781

IL FIORISTA

Be it know before I even start writing this that I had an ultra-weird dining experience here at Il Fiorista that is in NO way indicative of its quality, but prevented me from ever even getting to the main courses.  That said, everything up until that point was spot-on, so the eventuality of my going back to finish the deal is an absolute.


The restaurant opened up just in September, a husband and wife team from Milan, situated smack-dab in the heart of the flower district (thus the name).  Bonus points for the floral focus on the menu, evident at pretty much every turn, and one can even purchase a bouquet from their talented on-site florists, who source local-ish-ly from upstate farms Allora and Treadlight, or register for a floral design class taught by the aforementioned.

The room is airy and well-lit, and despite my tablemate's (excessive?) palpable disdain over their polyester napkins, quite well-designed and attractive.  Small nosegays decorate the table, but the room is otherwise simple, spacious, serene.  Our waiter was quick to take a drinks order, but a little more lethargic in the delivery, which may have been the breaking point (after the napkin debacle) that caused my team to plow through pretty every appetizer on the menu, but then call it a night (much to my dismay, but I wasn't going to stay and have an entree solo).

At any rate, the menu is literally a list of temptiations, spanning from crackers and bread options to salads and onto heartier fare.  Seeded crackers were nearly pure seeds: nutty and crisp, the flavor compounded by a tasty sunflower dip fluttered with petals and shoots.  All the dishes were categorically lovely, the type you hate to muss up with your first forkful but then that sentiment quickly
 evaporates as soon as it hits your tongue.  Sweet potato sourdough steamed on arrival: a dark, moist and chewy loaf, buttery even before the butter, which was a gorgeous whip with buttermilk, anointed with a verdant oil.  The sweet, plush crumb melted in your mouth, and the the tangy buttermilk-butter melted into that.  It was simply dreamy.   A crudo of Montauk fluke was bright and fresh with tangy early harvest citrus and an alluring sprinkle of fennel

 pollen.  

I thought I would scorn the raw cauliflower in a roasted & raw composition, but they were buttery, tender florets, quite complimentary to the toasty roasted ones, richer and nuttier, and the pickly bits cute through those, a flurry of lovage topping the plate with gusto.  






A last hurrah of summer tomatoes wallowed in milky burrata, with toothsome hunks of sweet, roasted corn sliced fresh off the cob and sturdy crackers of blue corn on hand to cordon it all onto your spoon. The rye crumbs atop a chicory salad were a bit gritty, or sandy, but somehow in the end not in an off-putting way as they coalesced with earthy-sweet
 half-moons of Tokyo turnip spiked with a gently anchovy-scented dressing.  The geranium component, wherever it was supposed to have been, seemed to have been conspicuously absent from the concoction, unless as an edible herb it was somehow subtly tucked into the dressing.














Gorgeous ribbons of baby carrots wove themselves between roasted whole ones beneath, nestled into a carrot top pepian, a Guatemalan sauce thick with coriander and pistachios that might be the next zhoug.  The closest thing we got to an entree were spot prawns on polenta, really wonderful crustaceans for their own part, but simply sumptuous with the creamy spin roso polenta and a zippy hibiscus harissa, which added punch but not much heat.










My favorite dish, however,  might have been the one that never arrived, artichoke hearts with flageolet beans, speck and smoked olive oil.  I KNOW we ordered it, but I don't know why it never came, nor whether we were, in the end, billed for it, as my tablemate snatched the check for reasons at the time unbeknownst to me and proclaimed the dinner to be over.  (Turned out to be an emergency at home, but the evening had a thickly mysterious cloud hanging over it, with weirdness coming from every angle but the kitchen, so I didn't question it at the time.). At any rate, so far at least, those artichokes are still on the menu, as is the skate that was calling my name, a graffiti Japanese eggplant, and a heritage chicken with foraged mushrooms, red okra and mustard seeds.  The only thing left that bugged me is how Il Fiorista doesn't  follow the gender rules in Italian: it would seem it should be La Fiorista , or il Fioraio.  But hopefully I can address this upon my return, and regardless, it is an absolutely petty blunder in light of an exceptional meal.

17 W 26th St,
(646) 490-8240

CATCHSTEAK

Strange that I would end up at Catch Steak before Catch itself, given that the latter's piscine is much more my to my tastes, and has been around for years while Steak has been open just four days.  And while I am certainly not the most enthusiastic carnivore, I am, in fact, a huge fan
of chef Michael Vignola, whom I have met on multiple occasions at events, and most recently, as the chef at Strip House.  But Catch Steak isn't your typical steak house, it's a megalith of a clubsteraunt, flaunting both some serious square footage and the capacity to cater to the Meatpacking District's signature party crowd as well as the fancy, well-heeled guests at the Maritime hotel, in which it is housed, but isn't inextricably beholden.

The menu is a vast as the restaurant itself, which is comprised of compartmentalized dining spaces, as well as private rooms, cabanas, a second floor, a bar area.... what have you.  Like the mood it wants to promote, it's dark and clubby, cavernous in its expanse and with lots of little hiding places for possibly nefarious activity.  To note, towards the south end there is a Red Room... make of that what you will.  The staff looks more suited to be working at 1 Oak than a restaurant with food of this caliber, but they are actually very civil and gracious.  The sommelier was wearing a spray-painted on Herve Leger with far too much cleavage, but the girl knows her bottles, so pay attention.  Cocktails are well-balanced, clever and novel: there will be ingredients in them you've never heard of but whoever's making them does, so trust them.

Crab Cocktail

Same goes for the kitchen, because simply everything that came out of it was ace.  Not so much the novelty of ingredients, actually: this is a steakhouse, and the menu reads as such.  But after you sort through the raw bar options of exquisitely fresh seafood, hot and cold appetizers, and a couple of pastas, you'll land upon the meat section of the menu, where each cut is sourced with such precision that there are very few of duplicate provenance.   That said, some of the non-meat options were by far the most excellent (to me, but then again I'm always going to say that).  It would be hard, though, for even the most adamant carnivore not to agree with me on this in regards to the Colossal

Crab Cocktail featuring some of the sweetest, densest, and freshest lumps of crab meat nestled into a plush Old Bay espuma studded with thin discs of crunchy carrot.  I would go back for this dish alone.  And portion sizes are big enough that that wouldn't even be a ridiculous thing to do.  There was easily enough to share even though I didn't really wan to. But we did get a tremendous amount of food, so stomach capacity was by far the biggest potential problem of the night.  I even wanted to finish the Jumbo Shrimp cocktail, a dish I am always less than thrilled about, but these humongous specimens were, again, of such stellar quality, and the
kicky chili garlic oil served aside would taste fantastic on pretty much everything besides lime sherbet, quite easily the best shrimp I have had in memorable history.   Maine lobster tail was sweet and pliant, again, best zipped up with a drizzle of that oil, but pretty tasty too with a daub of creamy dijonnaise.    There is a blue fin tartare crowned with a bulbous golden cured egg yolk, and three different crudos from which to choose. These are good with the hand-stretched "Focaccia di Catch", which is more Carta di musica-crunchy than a traditional bready focaccia, and while it's shot through
with stracchino and a generous slick of olive oil, it is less taxing on the appetite than the doughy type, which is a welcome balance to the satiating fare.




From the Cold section of starters there are a few busy, loaded salads, and a lovely carpaccio of thinly sliced Italian red peppers, roasted down to the consistency of fruit leather and with all the tangy sweetness of it as well. The Hot apps offer BBQ glazed Alaskan King Crab, served in the shell, and was the one thing I felt could've been fresher.   The sweet potato churro, however, was
 superb- crispy and light on the outside, piped full of whipped sour cream and generously laden with Regiis Ova caviar.  I'm not a huge caviar fan but in this combo it was impeccable, salty, juicy lubrication to the richness of the churro- a fairly perfect decadent bite.

Of the two pastas, we tried the truffled agnolotti (the other was a spicy gigli, a ruffly wonder from Florence), described as simply a combination of ricotta and L.O.V.E., and while I'm guessing the latter had something to do with olive oil, those plush little pillows imparted the same sensation as one of the world's best hugs, too.

And then, meat.  Four categories, Japanese and American Wagyu, Prime and Dry-Aged separate the offerings, and as I mentioned before, they are all identified by their provenance.  So a Prime, bone-in filet comes from Waucama, Indiana, the 28-day dry-aged ribcage from Fort Morgan, Colorado, a soy-glazed Snake River gold label NY Strip from Bruneau, Idaho.  And then there are the imported Wagyus, each identified by its respective attributes and prefecture.  These are sold by the ounce; these are NOT CHEAP.  Nor are the domestic steaks, running from $45 to $72, so there's no way of getting in and out of CraftSteak on the cheap, but you will

 leave not only well-fed, but pampered, indulged, and satisfied on pretty much every level.  The meat is sublime, a carnivore's dream, and while I would have appreciated some organic and grass-fed options, I know these are not the fatty, marbled cuts prized by true beef afficionados, of which I am admittedly not one.  But it's hard not to love those peppery, crusty edges of the meat, dripping with the juices of a rare interior, intensely meaty and primal.

Snickers Baked Alaska before......

......and after.

Desserts are just a decadent, bridging nostalgia and technique, so think a soufflé, but of the cookies- and-cream variety, Baked Alaska swaddling a caramelly Snickers goo, and a mess of an apple cobbler crumble, elevated with creme fraiche ice cream and pecan strudel.  What with Luger's finally recognized as past its prime, Catch Steak has swooped in valiantly to fill the void.




88 9th Avenue 

212.858.8899

DIVERSION PDX: 1891 @ The Multnomah Athletic Club

Eater called 1891 The Best Portland Restaurant Where You'll Never Get to Eat.   For me, this statement proved erroneous on two counts: I can eat there (I'm a non-resident member), and it's only the best restaurant you'll never get into because I don't know of any other Portland restaurants with that kind of exclusivity (although Ataula's no-reservation system might be just as, or even more, off-putting).  Chef Phillipe Boulot may have spiffed things up from its prior incarnation, but there are quite a few snags that keep it from being much of anything to write home about.  Even if it IS where I consider "home" and I gave it a lot of concessions for nostalgia's sake.

We actually only even ended up there because of an hour and forty-five minute predicted wait time at the aforementioned Ataula, and at least we knew we'd have pretty good odds (though no guarantee) for table given its members-only status.  It was still fairly well occupied, mostly a mature clientele, but no one appeared post-workout in terms of dress- they adhere to a fairly strict dress code, in the restaurants and throughout the club.  The MAC has pretty much everything one would need to live, all-inclusively, within the facility, from the swimming pools, library, spectators porch looking out on to Providence Park, a gift shop, obviously every imaginable workout option, and myriad restaurants.  Aside from 1891, there's a seasonal outdoor bistro, Joe's Pub and a few snack shops.  Suffice it to say that the MAC prides itself on its amenities, so I had pretty high expectations going in, especially given Eater's rave and Boulot's reputation... but while the food was good, there was little to get excited about.



The room itself is quite pubby, low-lit with dark wood, and t.v.s above the bar, giving it much more of a bar-like feel than anything even close to fine dining, as which is seems to bill itself.  The menu is nicely arranged and offers enough variety, featuring some Oregonian specialties, but for the most part is fairly classic (read: generic). A few salads on hand included a pretty traditional Caesar, a Bacon & Bleu on butter leaf, and a beet salad with the predictable goat cheese, although this one was zinged up with a hint of
 horseradish, which nicely cut the sweetness of the beets.  Other starters included a French onion soup, gratinéed, some nice deviled eggs with Dungeness, and on a slightly more modern side, a crispy tofu and broccoli salad or tombo tuna poke.... nothing even remotely revolutionary in New York, but maybe a bit novel for Portland, and certainly in comparison with the rest of the menu.

And entree offering of roasted cauliflower was just the right size to be shared by the three of us, and might have been the highlight of the evening.  It was savorily sauced and meaty, tinged with delightfully crusty edges and smothered in a delicious salsa verde, bright, rich and herby.




From there, main plates feature local seafood varieties, like Columbia River sturgeon, silky black cod or a pristine halibut filet, the latter two quite univentively served with the same

Halibut

Black cod

 accoutrements, a confit of summer vegetables, squashes and eggplant, formed into a compact cylinder, and a light, silky cushion of polenta.   Since our dinner had been somewhat delayed by that Ataula debacle, my hunger got the best of me before I recalled to take a picture of our selections, which appear here partly consumed.  That said, portion sizes are
pretty  meager, much more in tune with the description and price points of the menu, but out of sync with the t.v. screens and pub-like ambiance.  The addition of a mi-cuit spinach with Japanese
 flavors and a sprinkle of sesame was a welcome supplement.  Prime Rib, as might be expected, was a more ample plate, teamed up with some fat stalks of grilled asparagus, some hearty mash and a fragrant au jus.


A rhubarb crumble that I had made the day before lured us back home, a more enticing sweet than the dessert options offered at 1891, and especially given the sort of lackluster quality of the meal.  I fully endorse the excellence of the food, but only with that weighty qualifier that the restaurant is in an athletic club.  Standing on its own two feet it just wasn't quite as stellar as the press had made it out to be.

Multnomah Athletic Club
1849 SW Salmon St.
Portland, OR 97205

Phone: 503-223-6251 

PASTIS

Just like the old location, the new Pastis is buzzy and as hard to get a table at as the old one.  And just like before, the scene and the name and the hype are much more of a draw than the food, although it certainly provides palatable sustenance to go along with the experience.   The food is at times quite good, and serviceable when it is not.  The dining room is slightly smaller than the original, as far as I recall, but the decor evokes the same, classic Parisian bistro atmosphere; the red banquettes, specials marked on mirrors, and an abundance of francophiles.  Even our server was a dashing French gentleman, adding a lot to the ambiance, and he paid good attention to us as well.


I arrived a little later than my tablemate, who had already made solid progress on a chilled, pistachio-studded pate, sided with zippy pickled onions, cornichons, and toasted hunks of rustic baguette.  I ordered an heirloom tomato salad sas my starter, but it didn't arrive until the entrees did, perhaps conceived as a side dish rather than a salad as I intended.  Instead, it served as an assiette, although in retrospect I wish I would've ordered one of those additionally, since I ate my tomatoes before getting to my entree, in which the vegetable component  seemed pretty scanty (here and in all cases).  They were lovely, juicy,

market-fresh tomatoes, however, of varying hues and degrees of fruitiness, speckled with fresh chervil and basil.

Hamburger à l'américaine c/o Nick Solares

My go-to source for all things meat related, and hamburgers in particular, Nick Solares had this to say about Pastis' rendition: "Cheeseburger à l’Américaine. Pastis. Believe the hype on this one. It’s an absolutely killer chef’ed up version of the classic double patty smash burger. "   So if you're the hamburger type, I 
would rank this one high.  We were a more piscine duo, my tablemate opting for moules
 frites , and I, the skate Moutarde.  The mussels were deep bowl of glossy black-shelled mollusks,
 submerged in a garlicky white wine broth touched with cream. They were sweet and plump, and fairly perfect as far as mussels go.  The frites were good, crisp and salty, the best ones showing a bit of skin. 






 
The same could not really be said for my skate, which was (inexplicably) served on the bone (make that bones), so my first forkful was an unexpected mouthful of pulpy skate riddled with a dozen twiggy, cartilaginous shards of its skeleton.  I don't mind things being served on the bone, normally, but skate is a lot of work to navigate that way, and I would've appreciated someone in the kitchen having done this for me.  Regardless, the diner should be informed upon ordering that that's what they will be served, so they can prepare accordingly.  The plate was a little monochromatic, sluiced in a creamy mustard sauce that could've used a little more zip, and bedded with spinach that had only just seen the heat of the fish atop it, and nothing more.  It wasn't a wholly unpalatable dish, just a little barren.  A little more kick to the sauce and some attention to the spinach would've imparted a little more intrigue to the skate , which having been steamed, displayed a sort of mushy texture that needed something on the plate to counter.  



The highlight of the meal was inarguably dessert.  I was torn between a Tarte Sablé à la mirtille, and the Biscuit Mirliton, but I chose the latter correctly- or at least not having known what I missed of the blueberry tart, was thrilled with my milliton discovery.   It is a beautiful almond-scent puck of cake, soaked in fragrant strawberry juices and a mess of berries, dolloped with barely sweetened cream, whipped enough for a bit of flounce but with all of its lusciously creamy heft.   Some toasted thinly sliced almonds atop gave crunch, gently sprinkled with powdered sugar.  I have never seen nor heard of a mirliton before that night, but apparently it has been around since 1800.  Perhaps for this introduction alone, I welcome back Pastis to the Meatpacking District with open arms.  I'm not sure if the rest of the experience is worth the battle to procure a table, but if you wait for the crowds to subside 'til a later hour and just come by for (at least this?) dessert, Pastis will live up to every expectation.

52 Gansevoort Street
Tel. 212-929-4844