At the Chef's Table with Dan Barber at Forager's Market (W.S.J.)

The Wall Street Journal is hosting a series of Chef's Table dinners, launching with Dan Barber of Blue Hill notoriety.  A champion of farm-to-table and then some, Chef Barber was on hand to discuss his new book, The Third Plate, a comprehensive look at the future of food from a very knowledgeable, fore-thinking and involved perspective.  Unfortunately, it was not he who cooked the actual meal, although Forger's Table chef Nickolas Martinez provided a superb repast using, utilizing showcasing and capitalizing on the marketiest of market-fresh ingredients.  A vegetable-centric meal, it was not wholly vegetarian, but it was wholly satisfying.  Which is basically the point of Barber's book: that we can be nourished and sated without the crutch of animal proteins, while certainly not abandoning their importance both culinarily and nutritively.

After a preamble, the microphone was opened up to seated diners for a Q&A, the Q's of which were mostly quite thoughtful, and the A's were throrough, to say the least.  Mr. Barber can get a little wordy, but it only reinforces his passion.  Luckily, we were served as he spoke and not after, so nobody was left to starve as the conversation evolved.  And certainly, starve we did not.  A welcome cocktail the sang the virtues of autumn: a hard apple cider and Core vodka concoction from Harvest Spirits in Valatie, NY.  It was simultaneously warming and refreshing, a bit spicy and boozy, with a nice apply sweetness. 

But summer not being far long gone, one of the hors d'oeuvres consisted of tiny cubed watermelon in a refreshing yuzu juice.  The other was a unctuous button of warm, creamy ricotta topped with a tangy tomato jam.  Little name tags designated our seats, and wines from Bonny Doon Vineyards in California were poured and refilled methodically: a jammy red Grenache and a lovely, clean Albarino, both wildly drinkable.   Seated, we were provided a hearty cheese and squash gougere, two-bite big and equally full of flavor.  The first course was a ruddy tomato-pepper gazpacho, latently peppery and drizzled with a vibrant herby oil.  Small, chewy croutons floated within, giving the smooth puree a bit of texture.    The main course was also of nightshades, a chunky Moroccan-spiced stew of meaty eggplant,
 topped with a wobbly, barely-poached 65 Degrees (the farm, not the temperature, although "rare" is it was, the cooking temperature probably didn't make it much above that) Forager's farm egg and a delicate crisp of blue buckwheat, one of the grains Barber champions.

Our dessert was so responsible any caloric impact I'm certain was entirely negated.  The whey used to poach the grapes was retained from the ricotta appetizer, a honeyed Bostock was made of day-old brioche from the market, and the plums and peaches reduced to a syrupy coulis were imperfect seconds.... perhaps eyesores for a grocery-worthy fruit display, but full of potent flavor.  Alongside was a little scoop of espresso ice cream, which I'd like to thing was made from brewed coffee that didn't get sold, but I'm totally making that up.

At any rate, the dinner was a hit, the evening, quite a success.  I took away (along with the bountiful gift bag), the important of popularizing a grain-based diet... not bagels and Uncle Ben's, of course.  But emmer and einkorn, quinoa and buckwheat, heirloom strains being reinvigorated by farmers, that are nutritious both to a human consumer and to the soils in which they grow.   I, personally, adored my question to Dan about
 flipping government subsidies away from big, commodity corn and soy producers to small, organic farms that practiced responsible crop rotation and sustainable farming techniques.  I even got a kudos from a fellow diner, which meant more to me than the fact the Chef Barber believes it's more important that chefs promulgate an emphasis on grain-based diets as the most sustainable, delicious and hip way to eat.  But hey.  He's the chef, and what do I call my blog, after all?

VIC'S

I had high hopes for Vic's, a market-driven new-ish-comer to Marc Meyer and Victoria Freeman's Cookshop restaurant group.  They're doing all the right things: fresh, farmer-inspired cuisine, friendly service and relaxed, unfussy decor in the comfortable space on Great Jones street that used to be Five Points.  The food is mostly prepared in a wood-burning oven, a delightful trend, by chef Hillary Sterling.  So Vic's has a lot going for it: strong reputation, solid sourcing and a female chef- all of which are assets in my book.  I'm assuming Vic is short for Victoria, and unfortunately like that abbreviation, some of the execution was similarly deficient at times.  Overall, I had a very enjoyable evening and a pleasant repast, although there were some noticeable shortcomings.

Our server, however, was en pointe: chipper and attentive.  We were offered house sparkling or still water immediately, and our orders taken in an unforced but timely manner.  We took her up on the bread that was offered but not automatically dispersed on the table.  I think this is a pretty good thing- for carbophobes, people with actual allergies, tempted dieters, or just those whoe don't need extra starch.  It's less wasteful.  That said, all of ours got devoured: thick, chewy slices with a faint sour and heavy, rustic crust.

The "Mercato" section of the menu featured a bounty of orchard-y treats, but those we chose read better on the menu than they were plated.  Beets, already sweet, had a sugary plum glaze and shreds of crisp raw fennel dusted with a little too much gritty black pepper.  Turnips, which I erroneously assumed would be roasted, were instead raw, fanned out beneath a shroud of robust pecorino grated with a heavy hand.  The mature turnips had a distinct bitterness which led to a powerful flavor rivalry between them, the cheese and a virile classic pesto.  I actually liked
 a bit of the cheese on the beets, and some crisp fennel to moderate the impact of the turnips, but with the very seasonal, rapidly changing menu, you  might have to come up with your own adaptations.


The Pizzas (made with New York state flour) have there own section, and the versions on the table next to us were deliciously fragrant.  The preparations riff on traditional without going too out-there: a little thyme and chili atop a pie with  soppressata and a white pie tinged green with zucchini and green chiles.   And while our neighbors tackles a pie apiece, one could easily be shared for a hearty dinner with a Mercato, Contorni or Antipasto side.  Entrees are similarly generous.   A big hunk of poached cod was delightfully flaky and flavorful, perched atop a bed of tasty kale and cannellini beans, but the beans  were woefully undercooked, giving them a powdery, crumbly quality and didn't allow their starches to properly thicken the broth beneath, which ended up too watery and thin.  While the fish itself was perfection, its underlings needed a little more time to catch up.  Now, for the flank steak we requested it rare, and they made good on that... I'm sure I heard a little mooing when the bushel of cress and peppy, harissa-spiked green
beans were toppled aside.  The exterior had a perfect, smoky-spiced char, and inside was quite possibly the textbook definition of rare.... too much for my tastes, but my tablemate gobbled it down excitedly.  This was good, because it allowed me to steal a few more of the green beans than I otherwise might have been able to: they were stellar- smoky and spicy.   Just for fun, we tried the eggplant and peppers from Contorni.  From what I could tell, any of the Contorni, Mercato and Antipasti could be interchangeable.  Antipasti are more varied and pricey while the other two are primarly vegetable-if-not-vegetarian, but there is definitely overlap.  The
 eggplant was slick and steamy, doing that thing that eggplant does so well, sopping up oil and flavor and using it to its best advantage.  The peppers exhibited unpredictable amounts of heat, the spicier of which made good use of chewy, oily croutons to tamp their intermittent fire.


Dessert was definitely a high point.  We were undecided among the choices, and while my dining companion was jonesing for the rich gianduja tart or chocolate-sauced ricotta bomboloni, our waitress sided with me on the honey semifreddo, much to my delight.  And with the size of it, she might as well've sat down and helped up finish it, because it's easily shareable for two and then some.   Inarguably luscious, though, it combines the simple elegance of the creamy semifreddo with the honey-almond croccante, achieving the homey nostalgia of toasted marshmallow, but impossibly cool and creamy.

Another highlight were, amusingly, the restrooms: the stall doors are white-washed shutters, the men's room walls painted in striking red with zebras, the ladies' the immersive peachy-pink of undulating flamingos.   It's a playful, thoughtful attention to detail that might be a little lacking in the menu itself.  But the thought is there in all aspects, and on many levels, that's a lot of what counts.

31 Great Jones Street
tel.  (212)253-5700

SESSANTA

John McDonald strikes again, keeping his focus downtown by taking over the old Kittichai space at 60 Thompson Street, and enlisting Chef Jordan Frosolone to reign over this new Sicilian in the Village.  I couldn't find an immediate translation for "frosolone", but I'm leaning towards fra sole, which would translate to "between a big sun".  I like this, accuracy notwithstanding, and it segues nicely with the number of untraditional spellings throughout the menu, which may just be attributed to quirks of the Sicilian dialect.  I never made it here when it was the popular Thai restaurant of yore, so I can't compare the room, but at Sessanta (adopting the easy nomenclature of the street number in Italian), it's hard to forget you are dining in a hotel.  Stripey wallpaper in ruddy
reds and browns coordinate with a red tiled floor, but somehow there is still an office-y boxiness to it.  An eclectic mix of art
hangs on the walls, some Italo-centric, some graphic and colorful.   But it gives you something to admire until menus arrive: that, along with the very attractive clientele that Mr. McDonald always seems to attract. 

 So the room gains appeal as it fills up, the lighting soft and warm so everyone looks even better.   A large skylight framed in frondy plants also breaks things up... and made we wonder how it was possible since the rest of the hotel rises above the ground floor restaurant.  But a little welcome appetizer arrives from the kitchen to distract me: a crunchy, toasted crostino topped with a warm, stewy compote of
summer squashes and eggplant, plush and sumptuous under a dusting a pungent parmesan.  Nothing revolutionary, but perfectly balanced and rich enough to warrant an  amuse-sized portion.  Ditto the steamy potato-cheese croquette: its crisp-fried exterior just substantial enough to encase its gooey, cheesy innards.  These are the kinds of things you want more and more of, but with dinner to follow are better kept in diminutive portions.

A salad of baby kale and romaine is moistened with just enough dressing to render the greens toothsome, shrouded in a feather-light grating of zesty pecorino nerello.  Chef is very conscientious of his cheese usage: there are dozens of unique Italian formaggi gracing different dishes, each paired thoughtfully with its cohorts, instead of just throwing parm on everything.  The pecorino here served as an assertive counterpoint for paper-thin, mild radishes and tender sweet beets cloched underneath.   A gorgeous fritto misto barely ensconced the variety of shrimp and vegetables in crunchy gossamer shells - even the lemon wedges were battered and fried, rendering them mild enough to munch along with everything else, bursting in your mouth with a gentle, tamed citrusiness.

On the other hand, there is nothing gentle about a deceptively light-sounding Schiaffuni Raviolo, with its baby leeks and zucchini.  I imagined this resulting in a summery, bikini-friendlier pasta dish, but the bright succotash of produce occluded an enormous noodle pocket, fat with cheese-amplified cheese, stretching oozy and luxe between forkfuls, bedecked with a fine dusting of more grated cheese, and topped with frico (more fried cheese).  It was fantastically tasty, for the few bites I could manage, but I bowed out before even conquering it halfway.  I had to wonder if this might now be more successful shrunken and doled out like the bruschetta and croquette, a mini-version amuse.

For an entree, secondo-style, I couldn't decide between meat and fish (the veal marsala read like the classic, appealingly so.  And our waiter recommended the branzino as a most popular item, but it felt a little "safe").  So I went for the two-birds-with-one-stone option: a surfy-turfy grilled swordfish served over pulled pork shoulder, some artichoke and carrot thrown in for good measure.  The fish was cut thick like a T-bone, and just as juicy.  The braising juices pooled deep below, begging for a starchy component to take advantage them, so I commandeered a bread basket- three slices of which just handled the overflow.  I think a thickened, gravy-er version might have worked better to prop up the fish over such a brothy sluice, although a very home-grown, round carrot nub and chunky artichokes did their part.  I'm a huge proponent of keeping the flesh above the fluid, so as not to sog things up.  But the flavors were outstanding: salty, meaty, umami-y.  And the sparsity of vegetables called for a side order of
something leafy: there are five sides listed on the menu, but only two seemed appropriately vegetative.  I went for the chard with garlic and lemon, which just edged out roasted zucchini with pignoli and mint (might've been a better choice, actually.  The chard was great, but now I'm curious about that squash, whereas with the chard I pretty much knew what I was getting myself into, tasty as it was).  Starchier options included roasted corn (complete with  more cheese), shell beans slicked in oil, and rosemary potatoes.

On the sweet side of things, desserts are pretty standard dessert-y with Italian elements.  Aside from cannoli,  flecked with chips of chocolate and pistachio, a chocolate pudding with salted cookie crumbs and candied cashews, or a rhubarb crisp with creme anglaise could have been on pretty much any menu.  They do have a cookie plate of assorted Sicilian specialities: Sicilians like their biscotti nutty, so there are versions with almonds, hazelnuts, pistachios or sesame.  All in all, Sessanta performs solidly.... I'd rank it much higher than it's street number out of a hundred, for sure.  And with Frosolone's sensibility, I'd say that the best is yet to come, with the heartier ingredients and appetites of fall and winter just waiting for his expertise.

60 Thompson Street
tel.  212-219-8119
info@sessantanyc.com

UNTITLED at The Whitney

Just the name Michael Anthony sets its own bar very high- a good thing for a restaurant that kind of doesn't have a name of its own.   In collaboration with iconic restaurateur Danny Meyer and situated in the renowned Whitney Museum, though, I could hardly keep my expectations from soaring.  The early word, however, had been hit and miss- most confoundingly, as it were, for the service.   But if those premature critiques had any merit to them at all, they would be attributed solely to opening jitters.  The service was as adept as the restaurant is lovely, and the food worthy in both taste and appearance of the masterpieces displayed in the museum adjacent.

The walls are glass, creating only nominal divide between indoor and outdoor seating (of which there is both).  By the time prime dining hour rolled around, not a table was empty in or out.  The waitstaff, flitting about briskly between the open kitchen and numerous tables, are smartly clad in black aprons and crisp white shirts: just like Chef Anthony himself, who was intent on quality control of everything coming out of the kitchen, and simultaneously keeping a watchful eye on diners and staff alike.

It's hard not to be distracted by the glory of the room itself, however, befitting of a restaurant in an art museum.  It is a lofty space, open and airy, beautiful in its simple lines.  As the sun sets, still at a rather late hour on this particular mid-summer evening, the mood changes significantly, adopting a magical effervescence that twinkling lights and dimmed lighting always does.

Pickly wonders.

Peas, please.

The food follows that same aesthetic, merging a whimsical artistry with Chef Anthony's signature seasonal focus and masterful technique.  Even a simple bowl of peas seemed special; toothsome orbs of brilliant green just kissed with fresh mint atop a thin swath of creamy, dense yogurt.  This was all about the peas, no bells and whistles, because they sang by themselves.  A small dish of lightly cured vegetables varied with each

litle bit, jicama with a sweet-sour bite, carrots with a pickly snap, and (the best) pale yellow beans with a zippy kick.  Another snack of zesty chickpea puree was served with crispy flatbread planks and  halved heirloom cherry tomatoes that leaked their luscious juices into the mix, creating rich and umami-laden mouthfuls that most hummus only dreams of.

The one dish I tried that night that didn't thrill me was a beet melange with verbena and yogurt, with  a surfeit of lush summer berries tipping the scales from salad to sweet .  It would work marvelously as a palate-cleanser, however, or a pre-dessert course. Keeping on the light and refreshing side, a slightly more substantial dish of cucumber, smashed and ribboned, lolled in an verdant,  oniony broth delicately elevated with a murmur a soy and sesame to enliven earthy buckwheat soba noodles tangled furtively

 underneath.    Fluke with radish, sorrel and lime was inarguably gorgeous enough to merit consideration for the Whitney's collection were it not so delightful going down: a study in the ethereal lightness of an ocean breeze.





As our entrees arrived, the sun bowed out, that magical ambiance filtered through the room.   The cupped overhead lights take on a lunar glow, and the spots refract off the steely glass creating a discernibly different feel.  It will be interested to see how winter temperatures will be handled: one wonders if that thick plate glass will be able to hold out the cold.  But on this balmy summer evening, that was the least of our concerns.  The focus now was on our main plates, my favorite
 being the tilefish served in a buttery corn puree and topped with diaphanous coins of summer squash- balancing
indulgently rich with the purity of summertime.  I wondered out loud where tilefish-such a wonderful fish (also recently sampled at Benoit) - had been all my life, and our waiter quickly interjected "In the Long Island Sound", verifying the local/sustainable aesthetic by which their seafood is procured.  On a meatier note, four big spare ribs were hearty and juicy, smoked in a peppery rub and kissed with the sweetness of an apricot glaze.  Alongside the entrees, we tried the pole beans with calamari and hazelnuts.  The beans, yellow and green, were cartoonishly long and fun to eat, a long, flat bean you have to cut into pieces to attain manageable bites.  They achieved a blistered char from an ephemeral pass on a ripping hot grill along with tiny, tender calamari, scorched until the tasted like bacon of the sea, all beach smoke and gently ocean salinity.
   And just when I thought things couldn't get any better, there were the turnips with green beans, pecorino and guanciale: a salty vegetable carbonara that countered the hearty decadence of that sauce with mild summer produce, taking it from much-too-much to lick-the-bowl clean.





Our dessert shared that characteristic, a simple sounding strawberry-poundcake ensemble, but the cake had been toasted so it's buttery edges crisped to golden, the berries so magnificently flavorful they shoudn't have been real, and all of this slathered in smooth ricotta puree bedecked with tiny pansies.  There are other similarly tempting dessert items, all of which tended away from the meticulous precision of the entree plating and focused on pure pleasure: a thick wedge of peanut butter cake drizzled with syrupy blueberries, or a crowd-pleasing megalith of a chocolate chip cookies served with its own little jar of gently sweet vanilla milk.   I mean, even in an art museum, pretty can only go so far... fortunately here, they've nailed both.   Untitled won't need to worry about finding a name- it has already mastered everything that counts.

 99 Gansevoort Street
New York, NY 10014
212-570-3670
info@untitledatthewhitney.com

VIA CAROTA

Easily could Via Carota's website be ilovecarota dot com, like its sister restaurant www.ilovebuvette.com.  Because I do (it's hard not to), both of them.  Carota is virtually Buvette italianofied by chefs Jodi Williams and Rita Sodi, in a slightly airier space than its brethren just steps away.  They share a no-reservations policy, but arriving early enough even on a near-perfectly weathered Monday night (there is limited outdoor seating, all of which was full) there was no wait for a table in the humbly decorated dining room, windows flung out to a busy West Village side street, glasses clinking and a soundtrack I would actually buy the whole of straight out.
 That breezy availability of table might change drastically as either the hour of day or day of week progressed... busier nights have seen easy hour and a half waits.  But we were whisked in and seated pleasantly, water glasses filled immediately, the default house-filtered tap gratis (as it should be).  Menus are furled up in small cubbies in the back of the rustic wooden chairs, listing simple small plates ideal for sharing, but feasibly molded into an app/entree format too, if desired.

The greatest hiccup at Carota is deciding: literally 80%+ of the menu I would've been thrilled to have on my fork. Jody Williams and Rita Sodi have whipped up a market-pending list of seasonal delicacies with something for virtually every palate. The opening segment of the menu is Verdure, boasting fifteen different garden delicacies, thoughtfully categorized according to price: the eponymous carrots, some salads and beans in the $13, and pricier seasonal harbingers at $16.    This might seem a little dear for vegetables, but the portions are generous, and
 they are immaculately prepared.   Gem-like chianti beets (weighing in the middle at $15) , shiny as rubies with their gentle slick of oil, are mingled with translucent coils of pickly white onion and creamy, crumbly ricotta salata.  The vegetables themselves aren't too trimmed and perfect, giving them a farmy sincerity that becomes perfect in its own right.  Funghi are a wild mix with a heady, earthy perfume, perfectly roasted so their rich flavor is augmented by a bit of chew.  They disguise a luxurious blob of smoky scamorza, but consume quickly, as it's

 decadently melty splendor has an abbreviated lifespan.  There were two versions of artichokes on the high end of the listings, and two asparagi , green and white, from which we chose the green.  Numerous spears boasted smoky grill marks, dabbed with creamy caprino and flecked with herbs.

There are four pastas on hand, all priced in the high teens, but substantial enough to more than justify the price.  A wild boar ragu bedecked floppy pappardelle, and there was a special tagliatelle described by our waitress, along with a handful of other daily off-the-menu specials in all categories.  (She had quite a bit to remember, as well as struggle with a pretty feeble grasp of the

 prolific Italian on the menu.  But she was very sweet and helpful... even if that required running back to the kitchen to inquire about a correct response.)  From the quartet of Pesce options we chose a grilled orata with escarole and flavorfully bitey green olives, simple and savory, fresh as could possibly be.  The firm-fleshed fish flaked perfectly, and there was ample vegetable to accompany cites.  Given Carota is pretty vegetable-driven, this was kind of a given.  Twice-cooked lamb ribs, however,  served with a stewy chicercia of chickpeas and tomatoes, was
 not only veggie scarce, but the only disappointment of the night, the lamb far too fatty with a paucity of meat.  I might've been happier with a simple grilled chicken.. or even just another selection of Verdure.  Which would've made the meal here even more reasonable, but price-wise Via Carota is still a very moderate establishment.  If your bill ends up too steep, you probably over-ordered.... or indulged in their exquisitely curated wine menu, that while offering bottles and glassees at both ends of the spectrum, always pads the bill.

I guess dessert wasn't quite as magnificent a finish as I might have wished for, either.  But a simple dish of wine-sweetened raspberries topped with a thick dollops of zabaglione was still pleasant.  The raspberries had that supermarket-perfect appearance, though, making me wish for the months to warm up past April and bring on farmer's market bounty of plush berries and drippy sink peaches.  While the rest of Via Carota's menu can accomodate all the fluctuations and variances of seasonality, desserts always shine brighter in summer's abundance.   So while the restaurant as a whole is already a definite crowd-pleaser, I anticipate summer is when she will really hit her sweet stride.

Dal lunedì al venerdì 11:00—24:00 Fine settimana 11:00—24:00

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