What To Do When You Forget the Mermaid Parade Until Too Late...

Each year, I promise myself anew that I am going to strut my fins in the annual Mermaid Parade in Coney Island, and every year it arrives before I can get my shells and netting together for a mermiform. Instead, I went to The Mermaid Inn in the East Village.
I always hear the Inn dubbed as the "poor man's Bernardin", which really isn't a good categorization of the place at all. It's much more of a Pearl Oyster Bar/Mary's Fish Camp option. Cute little breezy white table-clothed joint with t-shirted waiters and potted plants. (Do not, I repeat: do NOT take your s.o. here for a significant anniversary or wedding proposal expecting the elegance of Monsieur Ripert. Not here.) That said, it's a fantastic little fish-focused eatery with some robust and soulful preparations and a great selection of diverse piscinery.
Raw bar options are unforgettably fresh, if not particularly innovative. But they needn't be; freshness trumps novelty. And the rest of the menu bumps up the flavor factor immensely, so it's not a bad way to start. An asparagus salad featured expertly grilled stalks, nutty and tender, spiked with some bitey arugula and mellowed with a smear of rich herb aioli. A pretty perfect asparagus dish. Most of the rest of the apps toe the nautical line: lobster bisque and peekytoe crab cakes, crisp calamari or steamed mussels, all competent.
Had to go for the skate again (hey: as long as they've got it, so will I.) Anyways, it allows for a very meticulous comparison, and I have to say this dish ranks up there with some of the best. It was a hugely ample portion, in a classic brown butter sautee, and rounded out with garlicky spinach and an (over?) abundance of what was dubbed crispy potato- actually potato-chippish planks, and probably much too many. I irresponsibly forgot my camera this time, but the website's own Photo Gallery (http://www.themermaidnyc.com/index.php) gives perfect visuals, and also an accurate view of the substantial portion size here.
They cap you off complementary with a little demi-tasse of homemade chocolate pudding, which even as a non-chocolate-dessert person, I think could use a lot more chocolateyness. There's no dessert menu, so that's your only option for a sweet finish. The portion sizes of apps and entrees are big enough though, so that dessert here (if ever it could be) might be a bit of an after-thought, anyways. And it is creamy enough to get you through.
Service is present and chipper, just right for the space. It's hard not to love it here, the tasty food, convivial atmosphere, and lively E.V. surroundings.
And while it won't make up for my shameful absence yet again from this year's parade, I at least got my mermaid on culinarily. And NEXT year......

Pulino's Doesn't Need You

The most recent venture of Keith McNally will be as popular as all of his ever are, with scant exception. It will be a Balthazar, a Pastis. He somehow knows how to open that kind of restaurant there, and the food needn't even keep up with the buzz. Which exactly what appears to be happening at Pulino's, despite the laudable resume and indubitable talent of it's San Fransisco celebri-chef, Nate Appleman.
Now, I have it on good word that Nate can cook; this I don't doubt. But it seems with the volume that he's forced to put out (and quite possibly the unfamiliar genre, the restaurant being Italian, and this being New York), none of his talent is showing through. A few dishes are serviceable. By far the best thing I've found thus far has been a simple wood grilled asparagus appetizer,
languidly strewn across a white porcelain plate, melted silky leeks nestled within. A gently truffled ricotta cushioned the vegetables and added an air of luxury. A salad of woodsy escarole with sugar snap peas and hen of the woods mushrooms was a little rough; the greens were just a tad beyond tender, the mushrooms slightly too tough, and the garlic pangrattato atop just little scratchy, which combined made the salad a laborious chew, although not entirely untasty.

Moving on to entrees, the pizza (supposedly the restaurant's purpose) needed to sampled. That was too bad. We went for simple: the margherita. The crust had a nice flavor and chew, but that's pretty much all the pie had going for it. The mozzarella atop had become rubbery puddles of not particularly flavorful cheese, and the tomato sauce was either: a) past it's prime, b) an insipid, unseasoned afterthough, or c) both. A few basil leaves couldn't salvage the pie. Roasted scallops were even less successful. The shellfish themselves were fresh, but again a little chewy (Dinner at Pulino's! Free Mandibular Yoga included!), and they had absolutely nothing to do with copious amounts of very juicy grapefruit and smattering of radicchio leaves, which had no business pairing with the truckload of generic, green olive slices dumped on top. There was nothing to tie it together or meld the ingredients into a dish. They just happened to find themselves together on the plate.
And if you venture here, you'll find yourself together with the hoards of the everyone elses that have also ventured here, and will inevitably continue to do so. The room is bustling and convivial. Servers finagle their way between tables, countless waiting diners and a simply mad bar scene, from which arises a cacophonous level of noise. And even with the forgettable food, the place has pizzazz. You kind of want to come back, just to watch the hot chefs in the hot kitchen, that hot guy waiting for his Negroni, and that nod from the maitre d' that you've finally procured that hot-ticket table. And you'll find something to eat. It's just that that won't be the reason you're there.
Which is why dessert got bypassed. My restaurant radar clicked into full gear and pointed us towards The Village Tart a few blocks south and west. It's Lesly Bernard's quaint little sweet and savory bistro, in collaboration with Pichet Ong. Quite the opposite from the scene at Pulino's, the Tart was relatively empty but for us and a chic table of four by the window. That allowed for admiring the lovely collection of eclectic mirrors and a more intimate rapport with our undistracted waiter. Just one dessert to share would suffice, and finally fill the lingering dissatisfaction from dinner. Coupled with excellent coffee from Intelligentsia, we dove into the Strawberries and Cream Tart, a parfait-style coupe of custardy cream and chantilly with lots of sliced strawberries, buttery chunks of pate frisee and roasty, caramelized pistachios. Perhaps the late hour (now approaching midnight) accounted for the sparsity of clientele, but it was noticeable contrast to the chaotic scene not a half an hour earlier. So unlike Pulino's that verges on a stampede, The Village Tart DOES need you.

RECETTE

I loved Jarnac. It was just on the outskirts of the MPD, so if you were unfortunately caught thereabouts, you could still find marvelous sustenance just to the south, and not have to waste your money and appetite on the chi-chi, trendy, sceney restaurants of the 'hood. But when it suffered the fate as have so many places recently, I was poignantly curious about its latest reincarnation. Jesse Schenker took the helm, and thus was born Recette.
The room has stayed fairly true to form; perhaps the curtains are a bit whiter and the floors tinted a bit deeper, but it's a small space with not too much room for extravagances. So Schenker focuses that attention on the plate, instead. According to his wife, Hannah, there has been some local to-do about the un-Jarnac-ness of the restaurant, which served very generous portions at an unexpectedly moderate price. Recette's menu is apparently more small-plate based, but without disclosure of such, and with prices comparable to those of its predecessor, one might (easily) assume that these are normal appetizer/entree sized offerings. Now, I am no Josh Ozersky, so for me to leave a restaurant hungry is notable, but honestly, I can't really argue against the neighborhooders on this. In order to get fed, the bill will approach proportions much more substantial than any single dish. But I cannot unearth a single issue with any of dishes themselves, who's recipes (recettes) are creative and immaculately executed. It really bring a new brilliance to the West Village.

Early June allows for the onslaught of tomato season, and an exquisite salad of heirlooms with peektoe and burrata did all components justice. It was slicked with a slightly gelatinous glaze of mild citrus and basil seeds, which made for an absolutely stunning dish visually and no less so in flavor.
Lobster risotto was atypically loose, rather than the thicker, gummier porridges more commonly found. But the rice was perfectly cooked, and the brothiness of the summer-truffle inflected sauce provided dipping-fodder for the chewy bread, thus
making a slightly skimpy portion much more fulfilling. Maybe there was a little lemon, certainly some butter for nuttiness, but mostly sumptuous chunks of lobster and heady truffle... a fantastic dish.
So too was the roasted halibut with Spring's trifecta: asparagus, artichokes and morels. Two chunks of the most excellent


heart of the choke, three skinny asparagus tips, a smattering of sliced morels abutting a nugget of snowy fish atop a truffly dollop of foam, I cannot find a fault with this dish. Except that it was gone in four bites. Fortunately for my vegephilia, we ordered also a charming little cocotte the season's best, which wasn't mind-altering but was a welcome addition simply in terms of heft.
Perhaps some of this precious sizing has to do with the heritage of the pastry chef, Christina Tosi (who fledges from Per Se). Or at least she is a very apt fit. A dessert of passionfruit torte was literally the size of half an Oreo. While profoundly good, it was almost too scant to muster up a spoonful of the tantalizing raspberry sorbet, creamy passionfruit custard, tiny, lightly chewy chunks of pineapple and a bite of the nutty disc of crust at once unless you consumed the whole affair in a single mouthful (which with a proper utensil would have been entirely possible).
Now, if you know (and now you do!) to order accordingly, you can have a boast-worthy, memorable experience here. Just think of it along the lines of Per Se, and while you'll be in charge of creating your own run-of-show, the comparative price tag will let you make out like a bandit.

SORELLA

Sorella is (yet another) new joint on the LES. But that's not at all to disparage it; we need new ones opening as quickly as all the other ones are shuttering down. The name comes from the chefs- two best friends that apparently feel like sisters (Sorella is "sister" in Italian). The exterior facade is a flat wall created from what appears to be salvaged wooden wine bottle storage frames, which is in good keeping with their desire to decorate with "as much friggin' wine paraphernalia as possible". You'll miss it if you don't know where you're going, as it tends to look almost boarded up itself, in the coolest possible way. Plus, there is a glass pane above the door with the name etched in gold, a nice balance to the stark facade.
Which is basically how the whole restaurant goes. It is a dichotomy of masculine and feminine, of profundity and frivolity. The front bar area is dark and loungey, with a thick heavy counter, but the back dining room is lighter and airier, with a whimsical
glass ceiling and dangly hand-made pink crystal "chandeliers". Funny little plants abound, as do caricatures of little girls, and all things porcine. The servers are wonderfully helpful, whisking about the room to attend to each patron, and your napkin is always perfectly refolded upon a return from the restroom. But this brisk attentiveness is a quirky juxtaposition with their un-uniformed outfits of Tom's shoes and cut-offs, thinly worn tee-shirts and ubiquitous tatouage. The menu subsists mostly of "qualcosina"- their translation of tapas to quirky Italian. Three entree options are also offered on a daily basis, which are (slightly) more substantial, and substantially more pricey. The fact that the chefs are women, however, does not imply that the food is in any way as dainty as the decor: quite the contrary, in fact. It is almost as if they are trying to out-macho the machos, which they basically accomplish on all counts. ( Or else they just like it that way.)
The food here are robust. Not to say there aren't herbal hints (such as the earthy mint touch in a lamb tajarin, and lovely
pickled cherries in a bountiful arugula salad) an very thoughtful, balanced flavors. But meat and butter abound: short rib agnolotti are nothing more than that, not that exciting,

and simply dusted with cheese and a couple fried leaves of sage. Some exquisite Ligurian anchovies served with a smear of garlicky lemon butter and a deliciously nutty cracker flatbread are similarly tantalizing, but salty and substantial. That lamb tajarin is a creamy tangle of noodles and ragu, buttery and cheesy and full of nuts.
Salads boasted nuts and cheeses and flavorful dressings.
For a main, we opted for one of the daily special's of a porcini crusted halibut. This was a modest portion of fish,


perfectly cooked with slices of roasted peach and littered with some mild shredded greens, an odd pairing that worked marvelously, but was notably amped up with generous lashings of butter and a salty, mushrooms flecked sauce that kicked any "spa-cuisine" right out of that expectedly light fruit-garnished fish dish. Also, for a whopping $34 was shockingly similar to the size of the "qualcosinas". Which is, well, saying qualcosa.
I again (as at Morandi) caught brussels sprouts on their way out in vernal genuflection, but these were no dietetic vegetables. Smothered in a mustardy apple-flecked cream, these sprouts were halved and virtually blackened in butter, and paired with an almost 1:1 ratio with bacon.
Trying to go light on dessert, we opted for a semifreddo with raspberries. This was a gorgeous little dessert, and the the least

gluttonous choice of the night. It needed a little time for the semi- to nudge out the freddo- to soften up, but was a lovely summery pudding. Coffee is Counter Culture: thick and chocolately and served in big, cups. Of course. This food, my friends, is not for the faint of heart.

ABC's of J.G.: ABC Kitchen

The cavernous reaches of ABC Carpet and Home brim with an eclectic mix of new and old, reasonable to astronomically priced, and every possible textile known to mankind. Within it's sprawling, barn-like interior, Jean Georges has found an apt haven for his latest venture, a farm-to-table, local-seasonal dining hall with many of the same attributes, called, simply, ABC Kitchen. This is one of few of Vongerichten's establishments that forgoes using his name in any manner in the nomenclature, instead adopting the title of this iconic New York City shopping destination and simply adding the designation of a kitchen to differentiate it from store. It is, also, a humble name, and ABC (of all Vongerichten's restaurants), is an unpretentious display of fine ingredients and uncomplicated execution, quite reminiscent of the store itself.

That's not to say that the food is simple and predictable... quite the contrary. But it is those things, relatively speaking, for J.G. The dining room unfolds behind the first floor of the store, through glass doors and past a dimly lit bar. Exposed concrete pillars support a wooden beamed ceiling, from which filament bulbs suspend on uncovered cords. There are charming miniature bud vases on each table filled with a few simple sprigs of seasonal flora. Sleek white chairs contrast with the rural decor, adding a hint of modernity which will be reflected in the menu as well. All the flatware, glassware, and dinnerware are a mismatched hodgepodge of lovely china you might have found pieces of in your grandmother's dining room. There is music wafting above from somewhere, indecipherable above a somewhat cacophonous noise level, and the partially exposed kitchen reflects a glow from the wood burning oven off the steel hoods and countertops. In front of that stands a heavy wooden table bearing the fruits of the market, and what will soon appear upon your plate.



ABC's menu is a smattering of options: you can eat almost any way you please, from small plates to sharing large ones, a classic multi-course meal or perhaps just a pizza and some sides. These will change so frequently that the menu I had found online was already obsolete, despite the restaurant only having been open for a matter of weeks. But this shouldn't dissuade anyone. There are ample choices, and really nary a dud in the mix. Chef Dan Kluger (New York native) masters what J.G.V. mapped out. A lemony scallop carpaccio with just a tiny kick of horseradish is as fresh and summery as an ocean could produce. The first dish order were the I fiddleheads I spied on a neighboring table, and their nutty, vegetal brilliance was only nudged with a little butter and salt, served with a thick wedge of lemon, but really held their own without it. Equally brilliant was a bowl of roasted beets, slightly tangy with pickled ramps and nestled

into a bed of thick yogurt. A sprightly mix of slivered snowpeas on leaves of endive with more lemon (citrus is a prevalent flavor) and perhaps a little too much parmesan was still a bright and refreshing little salad.
What read on the menu to be a most decadent and sumptuous morel and wild mushroom pizza with farm eggs and a salty crumble of cheese was actually the most lackluster dish sampled. The crust was just a little thick, the mushrooms just a little past their prime, and all of the aforementioned somewhat wanting of a sprinkle of salt (at the table in a precious white porcelain dish and a spoon so tiny and cute it just about breaks your heart). In all honesty, perhaps on it's own with a glass of rose it might've been a decent pie, but it just didn't stand up to the level of the rest of the cookery. A peekytoe crab toast, on the other hand, was almost looked over, and despite it's austere description, was quite a gluttonous crostino of heavily buttered, super crusty and chewy sourbread toast, generously mounded with sweet, fresh lumps of peekytoe joined by a smooth aioli flecked with chives. It was an outstanding dish, and too, could serve as a meal in itself, maybe with a side of those fiddleheads and a glass of gewurtztraminer off the extensive wine list.



Main courses showed just as much opportunity. There were four fishes, a chicken, a pork, a steak and a burger. We stayed piscine (which is fairly typical for me) with a chili-spiked black seabass, served with buttery-fleshed red potatoes and jalapeno flecked spinach. The crispy fish skin was just elevated above the broth to preserve it's integrity, and the snowy white fish flaked effortlessly into the robust broth... a masterful dish. A silken halibut filet was steamed just past what Eric Ripert would deem cooked enough (which I never think is quite enough) to what might be the mostly perfectly cooked piece of fish I have ever had. It was buoyed up by an thickened broth of pureed asparagus, dotted with silky chunks of cool avocado and meaty quartered shiitakes. I do think mushrooms lose a lot when served in broths, but this is a negligible shortcoming. A generous flush of lime zest completes the green backdrop for the halibut's pristine white flesh.









Though bursting at the seams, I cannot pass up rhubarb when it presents itself, and the buttery shortbread crust and perfectly tangy compote below did not disappoint. Even the espresso was magnificent; a roasty, bold but smooth tasse pulled short and strong, a three sip finale to end an almost flawless meal.

Mary's is a Pearl, Pearl is a Diamond

Mary's Fish Camp has been on my list for ages; I've been to Pearl Oyster Bar (its nemesis) a couple of times, and it is absolutely perfect for what it is, tries to be, and wants to be. Mary's, too, has that same bare-bones fish shack vibe, and definitely whisks you out of the city on a summery seabreeze. The menu is printed and plasticized, but the specials and the wine are quaintly scribbled on big chalkboards on two walls, which avoids any neck craning. We ended up here on the very last day before Mary would morph into her spring menu, so while some of the dishes didn't quite harmonize with the season, there were some of my favorite ingredients amongst the offerings, so I can't complain.

Starting with a beet salad (with some unmentioned, unpitted black olives lurking amongst the beets as a potential tooth-shattering dental liability)
was a nicely robust salad, if slightly on the oily side. Unnecessary, with unusually delicious fried chickpeas and thin shavings of ricotta salad... that extra oil could have been negated. Conch beignets, on the other hand, weren't greasy at all, but frittering out such a nice novel seafood always seems a mild tragedy. Served with two tiny slices of key lime (which would've been muchly more appreciated in two thick wedges), which also spiked a luscious aioli.
My entree, a last hurrah of winter, was a gorgeous piece of skate,


lightly breaded and soused in a balsamic brown butter, would've been exponentially more welcome on a nippy fall day than the first steamer of a NYC summer, but even so, it was supremely good. Perched atop a very generous pile of leafed out brussels sprouts leaves and less successful puree of garbanzos, this dish was big enough for two, paired with weightier starters and maybe a veggie side to split. Speaking of side dishes, the grilled vegetables that can pair with the whole fish offerings (of which there are many) were a simple grill of fennel, tomato, summer squashes, onion and eggplant. The onion was undercooked, leaving it a little harsh, but otherwise a solid (if not particularly memorable) side. Again, this is of shareable proportions.
The signs of spring popped up on the dessert menu. There was a tempting key lime concoction, and an enormous hot fudge sundae, but I couldn't see anything but the strawberry shortcake, after what has been a rather trying and lengthy winter. For me, shortcake should only be one thing, although is often subbed out with spongecake, pound cake or (worst of the worst!) angel food cake. But this one was it: the perfectly flaky buttermilk biscuit, with crunchy granules of coarse sugar crusting it up, a wonderfully ungummy strawberry jus and big slices of berry, sandwiching a barely sweet chantilly. It was second only to my mom's. You'll see by the photo that digging in began before I remembered to take its portrait.
So back to the title, I really enjoyed Mary's. I think Pearl's execution is slightly more finessed, but honestly, 'twixt the two of them. you'd have to struggle to err. I know there is a long summer ahead (technically we're not even there yet), but know for a fact I'll be looking forward to that skate reappearing on the menu come fall.

Minetta Tavern

Admittedly, I am not a steak kind of a girl. It's all well and fine, I have no problem with a good, conscientiously raised, grass-fed piece of meat, I just prefer other proteins. Bruni, Ozersky and Sifton can have all the T-Bones and pork belly they want, Jack Sprat-esquely speaking. So perhaps that was my first misstep in visiting Minetta Tavern, because honestly, it's really little more than an uber-sceney steakhouse. Not that there's anything wrong with that. And frankly, none of the food was bad- it was mostly quite good. Good, not great, and for a place you have to call three weeks in advance for a rezzie, frankly I was expecting a tad bit more. Plus, our waitress suffered a bit of a breakdown prior to even receiving our appetizers, so I can't say I'm buying into all the rage.
We ordered after lengthy perusal of the menu. It's not hugely descriptive, but since our waitress could offer little more than "oh, it's very nice" when asked about a particular selection, we're lucky we made out as well as we did. I ordered a seasonal asparagus salad, served on an exceptional ricotta mousse with a lemony kick and an abundance a marcona almonds. Lovely, although not exceptionally generous. My companion went seasonal, too, with a soft shell crab sautee with fiddleheads and morels (of which I stole all I could get my fork into). That was okay, because his steak was big enough for two (the Flatiron... not the ribeye for two). Ordered medium rare, it arrived barely that, with a slick, salty crust and a(n underdone to my taste) juicy, if not exceptionally flavorful, flesh. My cabillaud en papillote was much skimpier, and REALLY scant of any of the vegetable components ( I was really looking forward to the honshimeji). Lucky for that, I did order a side of spinach. Fresh, garlicky, sauteed spinach. Described as such, arrived as such. Nothing deleterious, nothing exceptional.
The biggest disappointment, however, was our wine escapade. I am NOT that well-versed in wines. There are a handful which I most normally appreciate, and those I remember by name. Of course, none of those were on the list. So I asked our charming waitress what she might offer, given my entree selection, preferred varietals, and a smattering of adjectives: juicy, fruit-forward, not oaky, floral, not too acidic and green were a few I usually toss out. She said she'd bring me a taste of the chardonnay to see if I liked it; I said that sounded perfect. It was oaky. It was minerally. It was not my favorite. So she said, turning on her heel, that she'd just bring me a sauvignon blanc (to taste, first). I swear she brought me back the same glass. Before I could even get a word out, she gauged the expression on my face, whisked the glass, the bottle and her attitude as fast away from our table as she could, straight over to the maitre d'. Who, glancing back at our deer-in-the-headlights/what-the-hell-just-happened expressions, must have correctly ascertained the situation. He summoned the sommelier (most obviously what our waitress should have done to begin with), and he most charmingly offered to bring five glassed of tiny pours to determine one I'd like to drink. How can you turn that down? Now, after tasting the first two, I'd already had probably more than I would've drunk from any glass I'd ordered anyways, and the third was a passable (from what I could even taste at that point), lovely pink rose. I told him I'd just have a glass of that... it was fine, it was perfect. He really wanted me to continue on with the flight, but honestly I think it was all starting to taste the same. He began to turn away to fetch a full glass of the rose, when he returned, and said he'd like to leave the Choice #4; he thought I would really like it. So, with my full glass of rose accanto, I smelled the #4. Citrus, floral, grassy perfume arose from the glass, and a juice bite hit with the first sip. Now THAT was my wine! A Cayuga from upstate (who knew?).
After all of that, and the rest of the perfectly serviceable meal, we had pre-ordered the souffle' (Grand Marnier), which presented itself big and eggy. It was... perfectly serviceably.
Of all the components of my meal at Minetta, that Cayuga (and the sommelier) took a starring role.