PEELS: It is Very Appealing

And then there are the times that you don't follow the chef, but things still turn out swimmingly. That's not to say that I ended up at Peels entirely by happenstance: the team is from Freemans,of which I am extremely fond, and the location is much more conveniently situated than it's brethren. In fact, the impossible-to-miss marquis lighting cries out in a a flashy, carnival-bright kind of way- you can almost imagine it starting to blink like a pinball machine on tilt- while the restaurant itself is rustic and understated. Welcomely, though, the signage is a beacon to the delights within.
We arrived early under hurricane-threatening skies, uncertain whether Peels followed Freemans discouragement of reservations. But the place was relatively empty (unsurprisingly for the hour and clime) so we were seated immediately upon slightly too high bar stools at a long wooden communal table, with convenient purse hooks on the opposing wall (love those hooks, even more so when they are underneath the table). The floors are dark, the woodwork white-washed, a long bar spanning the length of the room, and for the first time in ages, the rare, concealed kitchen. The magic was happening, this time, behind a pair of jaunty swinging doors.
And speaking of jaunty, the waiters sport an eclectic mix of stripey shirts and flower-print vests... and apparently pretty much whatever else they want. The bartender had her hair in a funny droopy loop on one side, and it's this kind of whimsical nonchalance that kind of sets the stage for the menu. At a glance, nothing particularly earthshaking. The descriptions are, in fact, fairly minimal. Had the food arrived with such a lack of pomp, we were in for some severe disappointment. In fact, I was here with my sister from San Fransisco, and I intentionally chose somewhere I thought would be nice and buzzy. Since the crowd was thinner than Donald Trump's combover, I was a little tense. But as soon as the poblano corn soup showed up in its cute little squat tureen, the perfume alone alleviated all my concerns. The broth was thinner than I'd expected, but the flavor so rife with corn and riddled with little pungent, pickley things that it more than compensated. And that was even before the powerful kick of the poblano made its delayed introduction... a glorious, smoky afterburn with some serious turbocharge.

Making our way through the menu was a little sticky, though. Peels has only been open for a month and a half, and our waiter pronounced himself a newcomer on the already new scene, although was oddly training another waiter who followed him adhesively throughout the entire evening. To his credit, he never answered a question he didn't know. To his fault, he didn't know a lot. This resulted in myriad trips back to the kitchen to ask what the chef's name was (Preston Madson)/what his market vegetables were/what the fruit was in the crisp/etc. But he was genuine, and helpful, and just-the-right-friendly so as to make up for the lack of polish (hopefully his trainee won't think that's standard run-of-show). Plus, he looked cute in his funny yellow rose vest.

The standout dish of the evening (of the year?? I'm
NOT kidding!) was another app.: Montauk squid a la plancha with padron peppers, lime and cilantro. Again, not so much to go on, and I guess I was expecting a simple grilled squid with a bit of peppery salad. But this squid, this squid was so expertly grilled and then formed into a sculpture so beautiful you might wonder if Madson apprenticed under Chilhuly. The tentacles were perfectly tender and meaty on a bed of gently peppery roasted padrons, who's sumptuous juice pooled below into a zesty, umami-rich sauce, sparked with lime and cilantro. With this, Peels established itself as not only cool-because-it's-Freemans' cousin-cool, but just downright awesome.

Prices are mid-range, but portions aren't skimpy, and the flavors robust. The fresh fried chicken is a rather enormous portion of poultry (the menu states "birds", but I'm pretty sure that there is only a substantial piece of one on a single plate at any given time), with a full ear of roasted corn and chunks of juicy watermelon. This is one of those last-hurrahs of summer kind of dishes, and on a stormy night of a calendar tumbling into fall, it probably won't be around much longer. Maine Diver scallops, however, given their flexible
garniture of market vegetables (which after consulting the chef, turned out to be a warmed melange of barely cooked fennel, carrots and radishes) should stick around, and the highlight is definitely in the seafood here as opposed to the salad beneath. A nice, bright little farrago of fresh veggies, but nothing to write home about. The scallops, though, were seared golden, napped with a tangy-rich confit of yellow tomato jam, and six big ones in number, which could be worth a note to Mom. Or at least enough to share one whole one with your sister across the table.

I like how this place seems to celebrate Americana without kitsch or gimmicks. America's kind of struggling right now, right? So it's a good reminder that there's still a lot to be proud of here, be it patchwork quilted cotton vests or the abundance of sweet corn, okra, local seafood and charcuterie, grassfed-beef and cave-aged cheddar. But the Eton fool was enough to pull
me out a Norman Rockwell calendar, a marvelous rendition of the English pudding of scrumptious summer berries (black and blue- too bad it wasn't called a Bruised Fool), crushed meringues, plush yogurt mousse and lemon verbena ice cream. After all, if we were going to channel in the British for the final note, we might as well grasp at the last vestige of the summer's harvest as well. This was a fantastic decision (although the warm fruit crisp sounded tempting as well).

The name of the restaurant provides the only remaining uncertainty. Even the waiter (add this to the list) didn't know, but on this one he couldn't find out, either. I like to think it's like the "nose to tail" of market produce, like "core to peel". Or peeled down to the essence, all riff-raff filtered out and only the good stuff left. The other option might be that is like a peeled off cohort of Freemans. At any rate, I'm not much for repeat performances in regards to restaurant visitation, but I can definitely see myself back here, all things considered.

So I guess I am following the chef here too, after all.

325 Bowery (Corner of 2nd St.)
New York City, NY 10003
646-602-7015

Bad Things Happen When You Break Your Own Rules

I'm supposed to follow my rule, which is to follow the chefs, but sometimes I get distracted. Of course, sometimes it is inevitable, like when my friend invited me to a restaurant re-opening that really was really better off shuttered. Planet 212 in Chelsea, who's room is disturbingly incongruous, with loud music and vacant servers, and such choice items on the menu as scallops with mushroom ravioli atop a heap of mashed potatoes (are the channeling "Big Night"?). It was just one bad dish worse than it's antecessor. The room is gaudy and poorly lit, revealing Christmas-light simulations of Siamese decor and offensively pink walls, as well as dark, shadowy nooks. The chairs are uncomfortable and the servers don't know what the hell is going on. (We had to ask the owner just to get the check, after five inquiries to various waiters came to no good end.) Plus, they skimped so much on the alcohol in their juicy-juice cocktails that you couldn't even achieve an improved perspective via beer goggles. Hopefully, their re-opening openness won't last long.

My next misstep ensued from being drawn in by The Smile. More aptly, it should be named The Yawn. If your mom in Nebraska cooked this well, you might be content. But in a restaurant, especially one in this city, you've got bigger britches to fill. The room is darling, mostly repurposed and salvaged furnishings, rustic wooden tables/floors/ceilings, and dried flowers and a homey hodgepodge of painting and bric-a-brac. But that's where all the fun ends. We began with a bright little salad of
shaved fennel, black radish, pomegranate and goat cheese, which was no better than a simple sum of it's parts- the radish was bitey but not particularly tempered by the crumbles of mediocre cheese, and the fennel wasn't particularly sweet (our waitress defended this explaining the end of its seasonality, which was also given as the reason that despite it being listed as a side dish, braised with preserved lemon, it was not available as such. She said it was a typo, but in that they did HAVE the fennel, it was a pretty lame excuse). Instead, we turned our attention to a side of roasted broccoli with garlic butter and brown sugar. My mind conjured up images of oven-charred florets roasted into nuttiness, sparked with a kick of garlic and the caramelized sweetness of brown sugar. Instead, what arrived was six steamed florets, cooked just to the point of optimum nutritiveness, I am sure- like how you cook it at home because you know that's what is best for you, but was in no way roasted, and not what I go out to eat. Furthermore, if there was any butter, garlic or brown sugar on those babies they were apportioned with a VERY stingy hand. I think on the first
spring I tasted a hint of garlic, and the last one might have been a teency bit sweet, but basically, it was six small sprigs of blanched broccoli, at about .95 a pop. I wish I could say the entrees we ordered bucked the trend, but instead, a small piece of overcooked haddock lurked inside an impressive envelope of parchment, and the mushrooms ... oh, make that mushroom (one single one... maybe two) were julienned to feign abundance, but instead ruining its texture and filching it of any flavor, like tepid soaked fungus. The spiced tomato sauce with the lamb meatballs was laudable, but the the meatballs could have been pretty much any ground protein, bereft of any distinct lambiness, or really much flavor whatsoever.

There are desserts to be had, but nothing that looked very inspired. A brownie with gelato, berries and cream, or an actually quite repugnant sounding Nutella and brie baguette. None of those sounded like they would encourage more of smile that we already weren't sporting, so we simply called it a night. And now I reiterate to myself to reason I follow chefs and not just whims... to leave The Smile without a smile is no happy feat, indeed.


PT212 30 W 24th St
Phone: (212) 727-7026


26 Bond StBtwn Lafayette St & Bowery
Phone: (646) 329-5836

BRAEBURN: A Choice Apple in the Big Apple

I've been following this chef, literally, for over five years. My first encounter with him was thanks to his pastry chef at the time, my friend Bill Yosses, who has since gone on to the lofty position of White House pastry chef. Yes, he makes Barack's apple pie. Those were the days when grocery chain Citarella was also a restaurant, which then was renamed Josephs, from which the chef, Brian Bistrong, has now gone on to open his own place, Braeburn. Just a stone's throw from the painfully trendy meatpacking district (also of yore), its aesthetic is anything but. A bucolic charm is hidden inside windows obfuscated by real trunks of slender, stripy, peely-barked birch trees and sheer white chiffon drapery. Solid wooden planks deck the walls above soft leather banquettes, the warm lighting reflected by mirrored strips,
and an enormous painting of a soft-hued farmhouse stretches across the entire north wall. Braeburn takes local seasonality seriously, and Chef Bistrong know his way around it.

I didn't detect any foams or "pearls" on the menu, but that doesn't mean Braeburn is want for innovation. The menu hints towards "comfort food", but is much more refined and sophisticated than to be constrained by that overused nomenclature (I mean, honestly, what good food isn't comforting?) It starts of with h'ors d'oeuvres, which span from an open-faced corned beef short rib mini-wich, with a juicy slab of the tenderest meat piqued with saucy little cornichons on a quaint square of rye, to a warm, juicy, tempura-battered cherry tomato that literally bursts out from its crisp golden crust, gently smudged with a creamy basil aioli. These are tiny bites, and well worth sharing. Appetizers top out with the warm Rhode Island squid salad. It's a warm, messy tumble of frisee and grilled squid, flecked with chunks of piquillo pepper and meaty grilled ham, gently flavored with green olives and lemon, flawed only by a slightly heavy hand pouring the oil (which can be overlooked). It's quite a salad, rustic and elemental, in a somehow complex and sexy way. Chilled zucchini soup (hot salad, cold soup) is a sumptuos, velvety emerald puree of local zukes, heaped with sweet lumps of crabmeat and dusted with a toasty, curry-like spice. The flavor is sensuous yet verdant, rich yet delicate, almost fluffy in texture, with a luxurious mouthfeel. A supremely good soup.

Skate was on offer, and as my go-to fish, it got to-ed. Lightly crusted and perfectly cooked, the wing did suffer from that unfortunate fate of being served in a broth, thus sogging up the whole ordeal within moments. The fish is perched high enough
atop the mound of vegetables upon serving, but eventually succumbs to the dampness below. The flavors are excellent, though: a vinegary salad of crunchy cucumbers and breakfast radishes spiked with mustard and chili oil for pep make a superb counter for the mild fish... had it the bowl been drained of it juicy liquid. (Am I the only person that notices this all-too-common occurrence?) A robust concoction of roasted lobster shells, chorizo and spring onions make for the hearty broth with roasted seabass, however, and without a crisp crust to maintain, the two complement one another without issue. In that I often order fish, an assertive preparation is most heartily appreciated from time to time. In fact, maybe I AM the only one who notices the broth debacle, because my dining companion preferred my skate (in fact, quite raved about it long after the fact), and I his bass, in the rare instance of a mutually gratifying plate-swap. The best entree, however, you might have to plan a little bit for. Wednesday's special (Braeburn offers daily specials with seasonal availability, but this one should hold strong through winter) of buttermilk fried chicken is a negamaki-style thigh bundled around a spring onion, and bound in its shatterably crisp skin. The meat is so tender and juicy it virtually melts, and the skin fried so crisp it practically follows suit. Beneath this masterpiece lies a savory little nest of collards and black eyed peas, a southern nod, perfectly executed. Too bad, in fact, that this isn't offered as side dish, because the Chinese broccoli we ordered was less successful: slightly acrid tasting which was helped not at all by lemon and chili, a texture a bit gristly and fibrous. It tasted much like scorned health food.

Desserts, on the other hand, are brilliant, and tend toward decadence, if anything. A humble peach cobbler might be the best one I've ever had (you might recall how it saved the day after an abysmal meal at Yerba Buena Perry?), akin to that of Vandaag, but with gently floral nudge to the crumbed topping and a more traditional, but equally delicious buttermilk ice cream swathed atop. Similarly homey is the Southern banana pudding, a luxurious custard with slices of fresh banana topped with a thick, creamy chantilly, and swirled throughout with a ribbon of rich caramel. This is no Jello pudding cup. Depending on your tastes, the "Almond Joy" is another riff on a classic, but while inarguably two-bite bliss, cleaning up the whole thing might require enlisting the entire dining room. It is, how would you say it... substantial. And by that I mean a bit leaden, but if chocolate and coconut is your thing, it'll knock your socks off.... it is a zenith of the two.

Upon departing, the charming waitress doles out a small plastic pouch of two little chocolate cookies. I always love the party favor, and although these biscuits aren't particularly memorable in and of themselves (Well, maybe you're supposed to eat them on the way home, but given how Braeburn puts out, it's more likely than not that you're gastro-pacity will pretty much be maxed out. At any rate, as I consumed them a day later, my position stands.), but I also doubt that you'll need much badgering to conjure of up fond recollections of your repast at Braeburn.


117 Perry Street 1.212.255.0696

VANDAAG: A Dutch Corton. Or Momofuku. Or just a great restaurant.

"Vandaag is today!" the website proudly states. Today in Dutch, that is, probably one of the more pronounceable words in the language (and intelligible even if you can't quite get the guttual throat-clearing intonation at the end). And you should go, today, because the food here is just as exotic to the New York dining scene as is that language to your average Yankee. Today's market specialities, put in a Dutch context, are what drives this menu. We get Phillip Kirschen-Clarke channelling his mentors from WD-50 and Corton, but livening things up with Northern European nuances and a more rustic downscale, downtown vibe.

The room is airy, spacious, neat. Not quite stark, but uncluttered and streamlined, like good Dutch architecture. Fantastic shade-stripped wire lamp "chandeliers" drop from the ceiling and add a glow to a cool lines of the dining room. Simple graphic signage from the Netherlands appear throughout the space. There isn't a lot of frilliness around, but the menu shines with unfamiliar ingredients and creative flourish.

Ingredients you would associate with the region abound, but are put on the plate in ways you never even thought to think of. Wild arugula, grassy and full of bite, is paired with beets (classic), but flavored with bitters and shouldering
a rather enormous plank of slab bacon, of which the fat, even, is superbly meaty. I'm not a huge proponent of offal (of all the possible things to eat, sushi and offal are most definitely below the bottom of my list), but I had to try the lamb sweetbreads here, just tempted from the scent. Golden crisp on the outside, and tenderly juicy "meat".. err, organ?, these little ovine frittered critters are a must-have. These morsels are nestled in with crunchy grapes and pale leaves of chicory, and a few flecks of fiery Holland chiles (don't sequester all of them to a single bite), to counter their richness, which is tantamount. You could easily share this appetizer to guarantee room for following courses, whereas the lighter beets are probably better off hoarding.

The best entree I tried was the big bowl of little neck clams. Again, I guess I usually don't think of clams as a main course, but what the heck- I already broke my offal rule, so just roll with me. These shellfish are heartened by a substantial broth enriched with aquavit (keepin' it Scandinavian), parsnip frites (think moules et frites), allepo pepper (add some kick) and vanilla (mellow things out). All united, they sang together. The shells made lovely little vessels with which to ladle up the broth, most of which I stole from its primary
orderer. My entree of silver ribbonfish was described by our waiter as a "flaky white fish", which is most definitely is not. Splayed languidly across the plate, you might mistake it for an errant piece of chrome. It is THAT shiny, but definitely more the texture of a meaty sturgeon, and eel-like in proportion. They are certainly something to see: http://www.traveladventures.org/continents/asia/noryangjin-fish-market10.shtml. And while it's not my favorite fish ever, it was tasty enough, well cooked, and it's mustardy sauce paired well with the accompanying potatoes. The curly shards of fried carrot, however, tasted stale, and of old oil, all of which but the first bite were left on the plate. Come fall (fast approaching), novel ingredients now on the menu like mead, wit beer, pickles and mustards are going to turn even more appealing. Like in the side of dandelion greens, slightly fibrous from undercooking, but deliciously anointed with genever (a Dutch gin) and native gouda, make for some tasty greens. Also our dessert, a superlative peach crisp, was spiked with lambic and napped with a nutty oaten layer, but the real highlight was the curry ice cream, probably inspired by a peach chutney, that melted its sweety-savory richness into the luscious baked fruit like a silky cloak from a far-off land.

Speaking of far off lands, the lavatory, although requiring that unideal trip downstairs to visit, is one of the city's best loos: spacious, uncluttered, clean as a whip, with lovely lemony liquid soap and amusing pictures upon the shiny, forest green tiled walls. A broad wooden counter spans one side below a huge spotless mirror, and lighting you can alter to obtain a personally flattering level light. You'll look great, at least in the restroom, and while your dining upstairs, (while I'm sure the lighting is equally forgiving), the last thing you'll be thinking about is how you look.

VANDAAG 103 Second Avenue
1.212.253.0470

CHOPTANK: Safe From the Chopping Block

Since Le Bernardin is way out of my price range (and I'm not expecting to get proposed to in the foreseeable future), I sought out a protege of One of the Great Ones (Eric Ripert) as a more bill-friendly destination. Matthew Shaefer jumped ship from the Michelin-starred seafood mecca to The Mermaid Inn (see review here), and now partnering with Josh Morgan in a steakhouse-style fish joint that swaps out the bovine for the piscine.

The heavily planked walls create the feeling of a swanky ship's galley, hung
with nautical maps, serene portraits of maritime
captains (I thought this one-> above our table, bore a striking resemblance to Mayor Bloomberg, although my dining companion begged to differ), and postcards from seaside vacation spots. Rough brown paper rolls out over the table tops (most of which were full that evening), so bring along some pens or crayons and create a masterpiece while you dine. The vibe here is easy enough to allow this to be an inoffensive pasttime. The menu is pretty easy, too, and full of simple classics and some craveable renditions. They'll start you off with some excellent, Old Bay-seasoned, uber-crunchy potato chips, but bypass the weirdly pink crab dip, which is a sturdy block of crab-flecked cream cheese, tasty enough in and of itself, but far too dense to hold up to the chips, which are fine on their own. There are much better things to eat on the menu anyways, so save your appetite. For turf's sake, pickled turnips and crunchy roasted pecans decorate lightly dressed leaves of bitter arugula for a pretty summer salad. A meaty roast of foresty mushrooms
are flecked with humble dandelion greens and enriched by a golden, melty yolk just waiting to release its richness into the fungi.

Hinting toward the surfier side of things, white gazpacho (an increasingly available albino version of the classic) is a smooth puree, mildly sweet with almonds, bobbing with an ample toss of fresh crabmeat and amped up with tiny pools of spicy chorizo oil. For the most part, portion size and preparation give a nod to the "Chop" aspect of the name, while ingredients are focused on the "Tank". Schaefer definitely does not follow in the delicate footsteps of The Ripper, who is notorious for precious finesse and mi-cuit cooking style. Here, the flavors are robust, with very little horsing around- and if anything, he tends to overcook things. Skate, however, was sauteed to a crispy golden brown, and refreshingly NOT served in a soggifying broth that is practically omnipresent with this species for some dumb reason. The edges had a bit of crunch, and the large wing with drizzled with a savory caper brown butter.. no surprises, no flaws. The undercooked spaetzle on the side was somewhat oily and flavorless, however, but I was happy enough with the fish to dismiss it without much impact. Plus, we had a lovely side of juicy, plump green beans that tasted of my mom's garden to pick up the slack. Just steamed haricots with a hint of lemon and butter that you could eat with your fingers (well, at least we did. Emily Post said it's okay.) A broth worked wonders with the seabass, on the other hand, in another gutsy preparation with savory blackeyed peas cooked with smokey bacon, joined by several cockles whose shells were useful in ladling up both broth and beans. Here, even more of the soupy base would've worked. The skate worked perfectly with an exquisite riesling - the Gotham Project (apparently this Gothamite was what they were creating it for.. I really loved this wine) from North Fork, slightly tart, juicy and honeyed, and the bass went well with a wheaty, hoppy beer.

Desserts change daily, and are on the traditional side, mostly tweaked cookie, cake and ice cream deals. We were gently tempted by a couple of the offerings, but bellies were really full enough not to require it. Speaking of appetites, they do an All-You-Can-Eat crab feed, served with market sides and steamed 'taters, which I WOULD be tempted to return for. But there seems to be some price disparity, however, because I've seen it advertised for $50, while on the website it states $65... which I'd say is about $20 too much, unless you can REALLY get your claws out, and crab in.
Gives crabmeat stuffing a whole new meaning.

MACAO Trading Co.: A Transporting Experience

New York is a city that applauds itself for seeming inescapable: you get here and can't leave (want to or not), are endeared to it from a visitor's perspective, can't really replicate the New Yorkedness of it anywhere else, or you can't afford to stay here, but neither can you afford to move. It's these times when a restaurant like Macao Trading Co. is the most appealing. Located on the cusp of TriBeCa and SoHo, upon crossing its threshold it immediately feels like a red light district of East Asia, circa 1940s. And the food is no less transcendent, evolving from the talented hands of the Employees Only family and world-renowned chef David Waltuck of ex-Chanterelle prowess, to the capable hands of head chef Joshua Blakely.

Even if there wasn't (and I think there was), one pictures low-slung ceiling fans slowly pushing around thickly tropical air (it wasn't; it's perfectly cool and comfortable), with silk-clad women of dubious repute skulking in banquettes (there weren't those, either, but there were some perfectly lovely girls in silky blouses and shorts), and smoking long, cinnamon colored cigarettes (obviously, also absent given its ban seven years ago). Still, you feel that way. There are globes and buddhas, maps and valises, all beckoning you towards another time and place. The menu is a conglomerate of Asian and Portuguese inspired dishes, probably stemming from traditional recipes with a modern twist and some American tempering. And despite the sultry surroundings, food is served "family style", although with big appetites or a propensity for doggie bags, you could also wing it individually. Whatever its roots, most of it is delicious. We started with a dozen oysters, meaty specimens from Washington state. Inarguably fresh, but big enough to require a little coaxing on the way down- and they all went down. Jade dumplings, on the other hand, were a bit on the heavy side, though of good crab and shrimp flavor erupting from a jade green wrapper. Grilled Hawaiian blue prawns were sauced in a kicky garlic refrito joined with chopped, roasted cashews for crunch. Fresh lime juice sparkled in the dressing of a watercress salad, crunchy with shaved fennel and endive, slicked just enough to render the greens manageable with chopsticks, without being too slippery. Platters, plates and bowls are an eclectic mix of various china patterns, with colorful borders that charmingly frame unpretentious presentations. The African stew of organic chicken is a whole small bird, expertly braised in a redolent curry with a subtle nudge of coconut, bits of shredded spinach and smattered with whole leaves of fresh cilantro. Five meaty diver scallops nestle in a Malaysian style curry, heartened with toothsome bits of country ham and strewn with slivers of crisp pea shoots. For a carnivorous option, we opted for the Creekstone Strip (kudos on the sourcing, boys), a daunting 16 ounce slab cooked exactly to our
specification, and paired with chili-flecked braised kale that impregnated some of its spice into the meat's juices. We really
didn't have to be finishing all of this, in terms of sheer hunger, but it really wanted to be eaten. Even the side dish of dry fried green beans, plump specimens of the most brilliant green hue, which could've been cooked a tad more (when I see "dry fried", I think of a more tender, desiccated treatment) but flecked with such tasty bits of chili and peanuts, was licked clean. In fact, the restaurant was Point B after having attended a small wedding ceremony, where a gloriously gluttonous cookies and cream ice cream cake sacrificed itself for the cake-cutting ceremony, so dessert was an antipasto to the meal at Macao. There are some simple dessert options at the restaurant, (the fried milk with honey citrus salad sounded especially tempting), but with bellies full in inverse order, we settled with finishing off our lovely second carafe of summery Spanish rose, and reentered the reality of a swampy New York summer evening, that somehow, consequently, seemed perfectly wonderful.

Il Matto: Revisited

The term "crazy" is madly overused as of late. It has come to mean just about everything.... busy, excessive, stupid, disorganized, messy, or the superlative. At 281 Church Street, it takes on a different sense: aside from being the a play on the chef's name (Matteo Boglione) as well as his nickname (The Madman), the craziness here translates into a whimsical sensibility that permeates the restaurant. The room is spacious and stark, but riddled with a distracting rectangle of white and red track lighting, giving a slightly disco feel. An enormous mural of an abstract octopus, graffiti-style, covers the south wall, and an eclectic mix of mismatched banquettes, rough-hewn wooden chairs, and sleek, white plastic tables contribute a sense of playful schizophrenia, echoed by the flip-flopped font of the restaurant logo and menu lettering. The room seems to give permission not to take things too seriously, but once service begins, there is some seriously good stuff going on here. Opened by the very Italian chef and his team of very Italian Italians, the food is no traditional spaghetti pomodoro, but that doesn't mean it lacks sincerity. This guy is doing whatever he wants to do, which, in most cases, leads to laudable results.

The menu showcases a bit of artistry itself, scribbled with illustrative caricatures of the mascot octopus, seasonal vegetables and featured ingredients. A perfect example of Boglione's strength is a parmesan panna cotta, a creamy rich custard of pungent parmesan napped with a sugary crust underneath a drizzle of reduced balsamic and melty wad of carmelized onions... an unexpectedly savory concoction disguised as a creme brulee, which, despite its substantiative ingredients, sits rather lightly in its little white porcelain cup. It is a marvelously decadent spoonful (or four). Similarly, a soup of mozzarella di bufala is poured into a rich moat around a playful tomato granita. I found waiting for the granita to melt into the soup was optimal- if not, the icy texture fought a bit with the creamy broth. But once integrated, and plonked with a crunchy frittura of lightly crusted artichoke and a basil crouton, its a warrants an audible moan of pleasure (which one might actually hear too, because noise levels inside the dining room cater to conversation more than cacophony). But everyone knows cheese tastes good, so a wonderfully earthy croquette of artichoke shows he can do more. Mysteriously lacking much of anything to hold them together, the earthy green orbs are basically pure artichoke, with a slightly crisped exterior holding them together, partnered with creamy dollops of ethereally light ricotta, the plate zig-zagged with a brilliant sauce of saffron and summer truffle. Okay, so we haven't fully escaped the realm of formaggio, which again finds itself (this time soft pillows of fresh mozzarella) in an arugula salad with gigantic porcinis and more
truffle. There is also a hearty grain salad of farro, artichoke, tomato and pecorino, which is text-book healthy but also surprisingly addictive. Nutty kernels of farro (an ancient grain also known as emmer wheat) find fast friends with earthy artichoke and salty cheese, freshened up with minced tomato.

Main courses continue on their novel path. Gnocchi (typically made of potato), are formed from a base of pate a choux, which renders them the softest, smoothest, meltiest gnocchetti you've ever had. Granted, the nero di seppia that flavors them gives them somewhat of black licorice gumdrop-appearance, but eyes closed and spooned up with thick crabmeat ragout, you won't have a chance to make that mistake. Fazzoletti are big enough to warrant two bites each, and generously stuffed with more mozzarella di bufala, sauced with tomato and capped with half-moons of fried eggplant. This is another forte of the chef.... he, admittedly, likes his frittadini.. Not once did I get a sodden or greasy morsel, however, as he has somehow mastered the technique of frying things into a state lighter than the original (now if he could just fry away the calorie count...).

Secondi-style mains were hit and miss, although I hear some of these kinks
have already worked themselves out. The filetto di manzo (filet mignon) with shockingly undercooked, although the bone marrow sauce and accompanying spears of asparagus were perfect, so I'd guess a few more minutes on the fire would atone all sins. So, too, I found the Ventresca di Tonno, although I
assume that in this case it is more my deviant preference of tuna cooked through than the chef's error. However, this didn't hold forth as my favorite dish, anyways; none of the components appeared to have much to do with one another, too much fried (both the artichoke slices and the cotechino... I mean, really, breading and frying sausage??), although the eggplant cream was memorably tasty. There is a noticeable paucity of vegetables for my taste as well, where dirt candy is more likely to find itself battered or decorative, or surrendered as a sauce. Better (and more vegetabled!) was the olive-crusted capesante (una "p"... inside joke), with char-grilled golden beets and meaty
porcinis, and a tableside addition of milky almond foam smoothing everything together. I actually didn't need the olive crusting on the scallops, though, as it came across a little muddy, with only mild olive and more sawdust flavor, and the dish would be just as great (or greater) without it. Best of all, however, was the filetto di maiale: a fork tender cut of juicy pork (what am I becoming, Frank Bruni??) with a crazy good fonduta di parmigiano
(there we go) and juicier still grilled peaches. The pressed spinach salad was neither pressed nor particularly interesting; it could have done with a quick saltato in padella, or perhaps a little more time underneath the "press". Whatever that might have accomplished.

Dolci are limited, but fantastic. A few of the tipples from Christina Bini's ace cocktail program could easily fill in as a dessert, too, expanding your options. The Pasolini, a Cat in The Hat frappe of raspberry and ricotta with frangelico and brandy would contend any of the listed dessert options. That said, a molten chocolate cake was flawless, a syrupy, gooey cocoa puck oozing into a pool of milky cream. No, not mind-blowingly creative, but sinfully good. Better even than that, though, and probably the prime example of Boglione's skill and creative whimsy, is a millefoglie di melanzane: sweetened discs of baked eggplant layered with a vanilla custard and puffy nuggets of crispy almond brittle. Maybe this is where you make up for the lack of greenery in your dinner, when you can finesse a dessert of blue-ribbon caliber out of a vegetable. Which might seem a little crazy, depending on your definition.