With what might be the best restaurant logo of all time, Crown Shy opened up with a quiet murmur worthy of its arboreal nomenclature. It is uber-on trend with this name and its references: every book I read seems to involve trees as characters as important as the humans, and I keep hearing musings about how we are just beginning to understand how trees communicate with one another, and that they are much more sentient than perhaps previously acknowledged (if you're confused here, read The Secret Life of Trees, and/or The Overstory). Alternatively, book a table at Crown Shy, which takes its name from its location in two ways: located at 70 Pine Street among the looming skyscrapers of the Financial District, the term Crown Shy refers to how the canopy of trees of some species never quite touch, remaining just shy of leaf-to-leaf contact, which hypothetically reduces cross-contamination of pests as well as leaving enough sunlight to filter down so that organisms beneath them can thrive. The lofty buildings of Manhattan can often appear to exhibit this tendency, their penthouses stretching well into the sky, while obviously remaining parallel, their tops seem almost to be approach one another, leaving just slivers of sky to the masses below. So that logo, stretched from the length of homepage, over the top of the matchbook and down the whole side of the menu is ingenious, and illustrates the creativity, ingenuity, consideration and precision that has been invested in every element of the restaurant.
Aside from the room itself, that is, that shows its very obvious bones of tis predecessors, a corporate banking firm. The ceilings are lofty, the gangly chandeliers sparse but intriguing, and the room well lit and calm. It's a landmarked building, too, so perhaps they've done as much as they could to shake the corporate vibe that preceded it. They certainly made inroads at softening up the interior, the open kitchen helping out in that respect immensely,
especially when enthusiastic huzzahs erupt from the team (I'm not sure what inspired the intermittent cheers, but they did add a levity to the situation). Still, it has a sort of awkward layout, as well as a labyrinthian path to the restrooms and a sedate ambiance. This latter attribute isn't necessarily negative, though, and it certainly allows the focus to remain on the food. But as the menu is formatted for sharing, or so it would seem, sometimes the magic of each individual dish gets a little blurred, whereas some of this food might be better appreciated in a tasting menu format. But that's only because the food is that good, and I don't want you to miss anything. The Eleven Mad influence can be sensed throughout, the iconic culinary insinuation where Bocuse D'Or winning chef James Kent cooked before partnering with Jeff Katz of Del Posto in this new FiDi venture.
A bronze-crusted tubular-shaped monkey bread welcomed us, sprinkled with pungent seeds, and its cottony-soft interior steaming hot just waiting to melt salt-sprinkled yogurt butter, unctuous and rich, into its tender crumb. On the contrary, an icy plate of chilled oysters with shiso and cucumber were as fresh
and bracing as could be. These were from the first section of the menu, intended as snacky type bites, from which we also tried the red snapper crudo, a precision dice of the most pristinely fresh fish kissed with
which to scoop it up. Ivory cones of jicama are arranged in gorgeous furls, creating a ruffled bouquet planted into a salty puree of green chickpeas studded with some left whole and enlivened with fluttery shaving of pecorino.
From the following section of small plates, wesolicited our server to help in deciding between blistered snap peas and an oddly intriguing sounding concoction of charred carrots and clams, of which he guided us to the former, but assured us it wouldn't be excessive to have both. Which was simply providential, because while those peas were delicious with their wasabi and lime, the carrots were the best dish of the night. The roots themselves must have had a Brix
measurement that is off the charts, aggressively roasted even sweeter, and then bathed in a foamy, salty age of chowder, studded with chewy bits of razor clam and a flurry of lemon thyme. It was surprising, novel, unique, and utterly magical. More char found its way onto hunks of octopus teamed up with chorizo and those hypebeasts of the season, spring ramps. The flavor of the dish overall was masterful, its ruddy oil pooling beneath robust and fragrant with the young allium, but my tablemates stole all the octopus before I got to it as I was hypnotized with the carrots, so I only tasted the chorizo, which for it's own sake was excellent. I would guess by the unanimously clean plates that the octopus was just as worthy, and an exquisitely beautiful plate as well. 
We ordered so much food, but the bill did not escalate too dauntingly, as it might easily have; the prices up to that point hovered under the twenty dollar mark. Larger, entree-esque portions stretch up to $59, but that's for a two-person short rib that could easily serve four or more with a smattering from the prior categories. A whole branzino was gracefully butterflied atop an herby mire smoothed with avocado, and topped with gossamer slices of radish, red, black and white. The fish was flaky and moist, super fresh and flavorful. I know most branzino is farmed these days, but either they've nailed the
I desperately wanted three out of the four listed desserts, but we had really topped ourselves out on the savories. But honestly, a sticky toffee pudding with apple sorbet, a buttermilk panna cotta or most alluring, the pineapple pavlova each had my name anagrammed across the span of them. There's also a chocolate tart for the chocophiles (more for you) with a syrupy grape reduction, as well as an assortment of ice creams that could justify a visit on their own: roasted banana with caramel and peanut butter or a divine-sounding satsuma orange with toasted marshmallow. Take that, Taiyaki.
70 Pine Street
tel. (212) 517-1932
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