FASHION WEEK DINING OPTIONS

No longer will you be able to just nip into one of the Bouluds for a bite during the shows, as NYFW has moved its primary location to Moynihan Station at 360 West  33d.  Dining options are of a distinctly different feel than the were up at Lincoln Center, but there are many more options at an array of price points.  Here are some of my favorites:

1.  Txikito  Stellar, seasonal Basque tapas and a cozy, low-key atmosphere.  Super beverage-friendly, as a good tapas place must be.   240 9th Avenue.   And if wine is of greater importance to you than the meal, its sister restaurant El Quinto Pino is just right around the corner.

2.  Tia Pol  A geographically more expansive take on tapas,  but no less authentic or wonderful.   205 10th Avenue

3.  Trestle on Tenth  Central European cuisine in the heart of Chelsea.  If the temperatures (will PLEASE!) moderate, they have a lovely garden as well.   242 10th Avenue

4.  Co.  has the best pizza in the 'hood.  (If pizza will be your provisions backstage, please do not feed the models a crappy slice.  Get pies from Co.)  Great salads round out the menu.  230 9th Avenye

5.  The Red Cat has been a Chelsea staple since '99, but it's still going strong.  Super seasonal American cuisine from Jimmy Bradley that spans from creative to classic.  227 10th Avenue

6.  Porchlight  In addition to being a master of hospitality, Danny Meyer's Midas Touch seems to embody a bit of prescience as well.  Here, the vibe is lively and the food snacky, but it's destined to be a Fashion Week hotspot given its proximity to Moynihan and the team behind it.  And depending on the day, it's open 'til midnight or 2AM, so get ready to party on the porch.  271 11th Avenue

7.  Grand Sichuan International is apparently now Chelsea Chinese, which is a less reliable-sounding name, but the reviews I see seem to hint that the quality remains.  It won't be the best Chinese food you'd ever have, but they serve some particularly tasty vittles (the soup dumplings are note-worthy, and even some of the more experimental dishes are solid).  They don't seem to have a website, but I think that actually lends to their authenticity.  229 9th Avenue

Anyways, if you attend fashion week all seven days, that gives you one destination per day.  There are many more reliable joints in the neighborhood, so feel free to explore (Chelseans are discriminating).  And if you're headed to Skylight or Milk, I'll try and get some recommendations up before the end of the shows.   For now, you're on your own down there.  But if you read some prior posts here on Follow the Chef NYC, you'll find quite a few worthy destinations in the Meatpacking District, where Milk Studios are located.

MISSION CANTINA: Preview

I like to let a place settle in before risking a meal there, and since I've never even been to either or any of Danny Bowien's other places (missionchinesefood.com here in the city, or the original in San Francisco), I wasn't planning on being the guinea pig here at all.  It really wasn't even on my radar yet but for mentions in the press... heck, as of writing this, it's still not even technically OPEN yet.  But that's all basically moot, 'cause Bowien and company have hit the ground running, and if my meal at Cantina is even marginally indicative of what this man is capable of, a mission to Mission Chinese Food just jumped to the top of my list.

There was concern as to whether he could pull off Mexican given his Asian credentials.  But he IS from San Francisco (Mexi-central), and seems to have embraced their dexterity with the cuisine effortlessly.  The crowd that night was almost as awe-inspiring as the food to come: fellow Californian Alice Waters was in the house, bi-coastal superstar Andy Ricker, global phenom Rene Redzepi, New York celebri-chefs Frankies Castronuovo and Falcinelli, and Jean-Georges vet and t.v. sugar-boy Johnny Iuzzini.  He had some top shelf tastebuds to impress.  I can only imagine they all were.  There might not be such a celebrity line-up when you finally score your table among the only thirty seats offered at any given moment, but then again there might be.  Bowien has accumulated quite a following after the success of MCF, and  has become something of a celebrity in his own right.

First thing to hit the table were thick-cut crunchy tortilla chips made in house, their hearty, corny aroma wafting from the paper-lined cup.  Tortillas are made on site; you can see them rolling off the conveyer belt through the window to the spacious kitchen.  The kitchen actually takes up about 50% of the real estate - but then, there's important work being done here.   The rest of the room glows with neon, colorful lacy flags adorn the ceiling, and a dazzling floor of imported Mexican tiles conclude the sensory assault below your feet.  An energetic soundtrack bolsters the mood even further.  The energy is palpable, and it translates throughout the space and the cuisine.  Like those chips: hot, thick and salty- perfect vessels for a bright, zesty salsa flaunting bits of char on juicy chunks of red and green tomato.  Just enough are provided to titillate your appetite, and although you'll want more, save room for everything yet to come.  You'll want to try as many things as possible.

Grilled Romaine

Menu's still not up online, but from memory it's broken up into small, appetizer plates, tacos, mains and sides.  I'm not one to judge a scallop and beef heart ceviche, but my dining companion deemed it a little underseasoned: mostly it went uneaten.  Grilled romaine had a haunting, spicy punch that took its time to hit.  It was a little watery, and although served with a lemon wedge certainly already had all the acid it needed without any additional spritz.  Things immediately looked up with a novel egg dish: a soft scramble studded with pert rings of strikingly red chile and a blanket of unctuous caviar, straddled by a generous swath of uni all

Eggs, eggs and gonads.  And skin.  On a tortilla. With chiles.

piled on top a tortilla.  Diaphanous shards of weightless chicharrones imparted their
salty crunch when crumbled into the steaming egg.  Or eggs, that is.  Or egg and eggs and gonads.  Whatever.  Visually stunning, and none the less so on the palate, I'm guessing the foodie press is going to love this one.

Lamb Taco

On a more traditional note, tacos are ordered individually, so we chose one lamb and one mushroom, which were two of the best things all night.  Lamb shoulder was meaty and rich, with hardly a trace of gamey lanolin, and roasted into crunchy chunks and tender morsels mixed together underneath a scattering of cilantro, chunked tomatoes and smooth Mexican crema.  Another featured earthy hongos, flavorful enough on their own that with the toothsome, fragrant tortilla it needed little adornment.  Pickled charred cauliflower is a perfect accompaniment to a whole roasted chicken (for two, or more), itself also brined, rendering its flesh brilliantly tender,

Whole roasted chicken

snowy white under the bluish toned lighting.  The magnificent bird is served on a bed of porridge-y rice, its chewy, creamy grains studded with meaty chunks of pork, sweet golden raisins and a smattering of fragrant mint leaves.  Paired

Pickled charred cauliflower

with the
 lettuce and/or cauliflower, its a shareable dish that could feasibly serve up to four.

So far, no sweets.  We took it upon ourselves to offer up a bevy of suggestions in keeping with a Mexican theme, but even if fried ice cream does end up on the menu, I'm not sure I can take credit (however much I'd love to).  I'd certainly be happy if it did.   (Churros were being tossed around as an option.)  Thing is with Bowien is that with his incredible talent and cross-continental success, he's as humble and accomodating as anyone I've ever met.  His only problem here might be getting people to leave.  With the tight quarters, turnover could be an issue: it's not the kinda place you want to dine-and-dash.  I could've stayed there all night,
 nursing one of their speciality cocktails (a mellow vodka based tipple with yuzu and mint was as good a stans-in for dessert as it was an apertif), grooving the tunes, watching Jenny McCarthy projectile-squirt mustard onto a hotdog in front of the bustling open kitchen, and basically enjoying the show.  Because dinner at Mission Cantina isn't just a great meal- it's a bit of a party.  So while Jenny won't last, Danny Bowien most certainly will.








172 Orchard Street
No Phone or Website Yet.
Opens November 20.

Northern Spy Food Co. Could Try a Little Harder

I keep straying from my modus operandi here. I get swayed by places that are doing what I like them to do- the prettiness of the book cover, and forget that I'm to focus on the author (so to speak). And sometimes they live up (in those cases, bless them.) But I ended up at Northern Spy Food Co., a restaurant I've actually been wanting to get to for months (Alphabet City! So far!!) and it unfortunately reminded me of why I did name my blog as such; there's a reason to put your faith in a trustworthy cook.

Not that Northern Spy is all bad. Or bad at all, really. In fact, there is some very tasty fare to be had amidst the rustically designed dining room. Outdoor park-style benches and folding chairs sidle up to small wooden tables with paper napkins and unremarkable utensils. Our waitress had the lovely glow and smooth skin of a country maid, but was about as nice as the gristly barn-hand. My companion noted that she greeted us with a phatic inquiry of how we were doing, but failed to even give us time to proffer a response. I kept waiting for her to soften up and be as nice as the space demanded, but either she was having a bad day or it just wasn't in her. Either way, it didn't help the overall experience.

The menu boasts the locals and the sustainables (the website has a list of their purveyors), and many of the dishes share a lot of the same ingredients, so you'll want to plan a bit what you order so as not to get too much of the same stuff over and over again. We started with a freekeh "risotto", a young wheatberry not dissimilar to barley, perfectly cooked to retain its nuttiness and toothsome chew, and bound in a cheesy cream sauce rife with chunks of zucchini and kabocha. The earthiness of the grain and the heft of the veggies balanced the undeniable richness of the mascarpone; this was one of the better dishes. A chiffonade of kale with crunchy roasted almonds, pecorino and clothbound cheddar (they are big on their clothbound cheddar), is nothing more than a sum of it's parts, and maybe even less so. A hefty pour of oil and abundant shaved pecorino dressed a rather enormous pile of raw kale, which hid some roasted almonds, curds of cheddar and a couple of cubes of delicata squash, but a lack of salt or acid rendered it simply ho-hum. Plus it was very difficult to fork up as the kale wouldn't quite succumb to the tine of the fork, but slipped off if you attempted a scooping method. City Bakery does a similar version of this salad, using all of the above ingredients minus the cheddar and some of the oil, and plus slivers of red onion and a sprinkle of salt... and it is exceptional. It can be done, it's just not up to snuff here. You might be better off with the kabocha squash soup which smelled heavenly bypassing our table for the next in the hands of our surly-ish waitress.

Mains tend even more rustic: good sturdy autumnal fare with two pork dishes, a chicken, a fish, and a vegetarian dish. The latter, polenta with wild mushrooms and two sunny-side up eggs sounded (and looked) simple but delicious, but wasn't one of our waitress's top recommendations, so we opted instead for the daily catch (striped bass) and a special of olive oil-poached

squid and mussels with beans and carrots. The bass (skin-on) was pan-seared, nice and flakey with a perfectly crisped skin. Yummy melted cipolline onions, puree of celeriac and some chunks of that root roasted. There was supposed to be some fennel in there somewhere (the bulb? the seed?) but I failed to detect it anywhere. But, it was a nice dish. I've just been having such good luck with squid lately that I was excited for this dish, but it didn't live up to my expectations. The squid was a little fishy, the beans slightly undercooked and overwhelmingly salty to boot. The mussels were the only exception... plump and meaty little specimens much fresher than their tentacled brethren, which were initially almost a deterrent to ordering it (mussels aren't my absolute faves), but saved what there was of saving in an otherwise disappointing dish. A side of green beans (these were the only real vegetable side. A request for a portion of brussels sprouts that were on the menu accompanying the Hudson Valley pork was denied, stating that it wasn't even worth asking the chef... he would not do it. This is not Le Bernardin, my friends, and I was not asking for truffles. They are little cabbages. This did not seem to be an extraordinary demand. But apparently, it was.) were tasty, though, if a bit too oily, but bright green and kicked up with some sauteed onion and pungent anchovy. Nice beans, but they'll never make up for the loss of the sprouts.

Desserts are stronger. There was a lovely little coupe of pumpkin mousse capped with a caramelized tuile of pecan, a cheesecake, cookies, tarts and pies. We opted for the latter, a lattice-topped apple with vanilla ice cream and some

superfluous oat crumby-dusty stuff atop. A solid pie (an good crust, thick, but flaky and buttery and crunched with big crystals of sparkly coarse sugar) fulfills all pie expectations, proportionately more crust than filling, if you like it that way. It could have been warmed, howver, and in retrospect the mousse was probably more interesting. Rich, intense coffee arrives in heavy white porcelain mugs from Strongtree, Hudson Valley's small-batch roaster of organic, heirloom beans.

We snagged the last two top upon arrival; the restaurant was full and stayed so throughout the course of the evening. Full enough that when one of the other waiters tried to navigate an armful of coats to check in back that she gently brushed our waitress's head with the errant sleeve of a parka, drawing visible ire and a vigorous roll of the eyes from her. She was such a pretty thing; such a disposition did not become her. But that's kind of how I felt about the restaurant itself. Despite the 23 in Zagat and a nod in the back listings of Edible, I can't give the accolades I had hoped. I so much wanted to love it! But no matter my admiration of their aesthetic and responsible sourcing, if the foods not up to snuff I can't become a follower. Some of the energies of doing the right thing need to be diverted into the preparation. That's not to say that if I ever found myself in the far reaches of Alphabet City needing sustenance that I wouldn't give it another try (perhaps stick the the meatier options? Or balk our server's suggestion and go veggie?), but from that visit I couldn't justify the voyage.

Oh yeah. The chef is Nathan Foot. Next time I will be aware of THAT first, and the rest should follow.

Northern Spy Food Co.
511 East 12th Street (between Ave. A and Ave B)
tel. 212-228-5100

Kin Shop: Harold's 2.0

It seemed a fitting destination spot since our post-prandial plan was to go see The Social Network, and Chef Harold Dieterle is not my real life friend- but he is my Facebook friend. Kin Shop, his new Asian-hawker food style restaurant, is also conveniently located near enough the theatre we were attending, so we went for an early meal before the show (an easy enough walk-in at that early hour). The popularity of food celebrities right now made it that such an attempt a later hour might've been impossible, as the dining room filled up briskly after the approximate seven p.m. chime. I wish I could say that it was because of the food, but despite some stellar dishes, I experienced more kinks with the menu than hits. That said, I think this is a perfect example of why experienced, published (read: paid) food critics wouldn't proffer a review without at least two revisits, because it very well may have just been a circumstance of poor ordering that left me with my lackluster appraisal. But since I am not one of those, my appraisal is as follows. It's more difficult to critique a place when you are in fond admiration of its creator (see earlier review of Perilla), but also helps no one to gloss over the faults as I found them. Anyways, I think the hallmark of a good chef is to take the criticism as it is doled and at least consider it, even if it's not coming from a Bruni or Sietsema. Like I said, I can only judge with the tongue that came along with the head I was born with.

Kin Shop has only been open a month or so at best, so perhaps its still working out some of its kinks. The name means both "to eat" in Thai as well as a nod to it's kinship and proximity to Dieterle's first restaurant, Perilla. The room is a painted a watery cool, lovely, with paisley-esque murals in muted shades of teal and seafoam, heavy grey marble counters and white-washed exposed brick framing a brightly lit, steely open kitchen. The staff is gracious and welcoming, friendly if not overly helpful on some of the more technical issues. It was nice to see the chef himself attending to some of the diners (probably friends), and inspecting many of the dishes as they made their way out of the kitchen. However, it might have behooved him to have actually dirtied that stark white apron with a bit of hands-on, because despite the notable prettiness of presentation, much of what we tried had glaring flavor flaws that could've been easily amended had he been taking a greater part in their production rather than noticeably attentive to his Blackberry.
But let's not get off on the wrong foot, because some of what we had was remarkably good. The eponymous Kin & Tonic cocktail was a perfect riff on the classic, novel with the addition of cucumber, cilantro, and splash of St. Germaine, but not sweet as to render itself a combative pairing with food. Our first dish was by far the best, an order enthusiastically encouraged by the very personable bartender. Squid Ink and Hot Oil soup arrived fragrant and steaming with a glistening inkiness that would rival the first few weeks of the BP Oil spill. And its effects on your lips and tongue (while transient) are no less impressive. This might not be the best dish to order on a first date if your are a little self-conscious about your appearance, but as long as that's not an issue, but taste is exponentially more subtle than the appearance. The ocean-salty black-as-sin broth punched with garlic buoys generous rounds of tender squid stuffed with a brisket forcemeat. A fine mince of water chestnut sinks to the bottom but spoons up to catch crisp julienned green beans that both give a little crunch to the silky broth and morsels of seafood. The menu denotes spiciness with an asterisk for an offending dishes, but this one just kisses the brink of heat making you take enough time with each spoonful to appreciate the sexy farrago of
flavors. It also served as the saviour to a flop of an eggplant dish, which found tough chunks of mostly undercooked, totally underseasoned vegetable coated with tiny "rice pearls" which looked and tasted a lot like toasted millet, but unfortunately less nuttiness. A very nice looking dish (it reminded me of how tiny nonpareils give a shimmery delicateness to confections), but if you've ever tried raw eggplant out of curiosity, it's not something you'd look forward to repeating. That said, if you threw the whole lot into the squid soup… well, suffice it to say I kind of wish I'd've just done that.

The menu boasts quite a few curries and noodle dishes, but there was a seabass braise with matsutake mushrooms that sort of hollered out at me, so we opted for that as a main, as well as the Phuket grilled shrimp (priced per piece). There was no way of knowing that "wet curry" meant soup-style, and after the squid ink soup… well, that's a lot of liquid. The broth also robbed the fungi of all their personality, making them spongey little floaters swimming in a bland stock bobbled with some out-of-place chunks of juicy rambutan and a characterless hunk of fish that had a fairly nice flake going for it, but little else. Plus, I don't want to pay $26 for that much water. Perhaps all the salt, umami and funk got used up in the side dish of Asian greens, which were tasty enough as long as each bite included a hefty hunk of waterchestnut, but much too salty without. To me, though, saltiness is forgivable; I prefer the slight err to the saline side than pasty insipidness. Again, dump those greens in with the fish and the balance is achieved. This much reformatting, however, cannot be expected of the diner, nor such serendipitous order-pairing. Each dish passed underneath Dieterle's watchful eye, but you can't taste the flavors with your cornea. It's too early for him to get sloppy and expect to glide along on the wings of his notoriety. The prawn was a big meaty sucker, but somewhat overcooked to toughness, and again a little salty. The nutty sauce served in its own little white porcelain pitcher aside, redolent with floral peppercorns and a hint of fishy funk, with a nice squeeze of lime countered a little of that, but shouldn't have had to. Dessert list is a pretty minimal proposal, with only one real constructed dessert (a passion fruit steamed pudding) and a smattering of sorbets and ice creams with appropriate Asian flavor profiles (galangal, kaffir lime, Thai iced tea, etc.).

The possibility does remain, however, that we just ordered poorly. Some of the restaurant's flaws reminded me much of the old John Dory, soon (as early as tonight?) to reopen in its new location near its kin, The Breslin at The Ace Hotel. The former Dory suffered from an excess of flavor, saltiness and heft in too many of the dishes, making individual meals difficult to navigate. While certain plates provide a sort of gluttonous delight, their powerful flavors often fight with one another. It suffered its fateful demise, in my opinion, because of those faults, but as I hope its reincarnation proves, is not an unsalvageable concept- just one in need of some revamping to figure itself out. So it is with Kin Shop, which I hope will remedy its current missteps and emerge the stronger sibling as a result (and avoid painful relocation such like the Dory). Dietere's got it in him, he just has to make sure he's guiding the ship and not just going along for the ride.

kin shop
469 6th avenue
between 11th st & 12th st
1 212 675 4295

The KINGSWOOD

Deviating from my typical modus operandus of following the chef, last night I destined my dining to Kingswood. For some inexplicable reason, it is one of those kind of sceney, trendy joint that I actually wanted to go to. I guess part of it has to do with that it is located on the same street where is my very first New York apartment, on West 10th. It also used to house a really excellent restaurant (Jefferson Grill) before its latest incarnation. Jefferson Grill was New American, and though Kingswood purports itself to be Aussie-influenced, I think some of its predecessor's influence survived the fire. Well, its latest incarnation after it burned down and then rebuilt. I never visited prior to its incineration, and with the burning hot summer reaching its climax, it seemed appropriate to do so now.
Walking past the glass front facade, the Kingswood is almost always bustling and lively, and great smells emanate from the hood vents. It's not categorically a chef-driven restaurant per se, but it kept calling me, so I figured it was worth a shot.
Packed house, as usual, and it pretty much just busier as the night progressed. We started with a seasonal special, a rather bountiful salad of asparagus, multi-hued cherry tomatoes and myriad little lettuces. Slightly overdressed, perhaps, but a pretty nice summer salad. Late dinner that it was, we split the starter and headed off to the main courses. Purportedly the "best mussels in the city" by a friend of my friend, we went for those first. Rich in a coconut curry with enough cilantro to carpet a small forest, these were, surprisingly, some really excellent mussels. Not a bad one in the bowl, each crustacean meaty and mild, tender and plump. The broth was spiked with jalapeno to add muscle to the mussels and cut any extraneous sweetness of the coconut. A return-worthy dish. My halibut, on the other hand, was solid, but not exceptionally memorable. Generous amount of fish, lightly sauteed, and bedded with a slightly Asian flavored melange of spinach and snow peas. Tasty, if a bit oily, but good enough. Good enough for a joint with a vibe, with lovely diners and lovelier staff, whom are all perfectly attentive if not particularly doting. The room is a bit raucous; the noise levels can compete with conversation, but it's all pretty much to be expected. Fashionably low-lit (and thus the abysmal photography), bare bulbs, plain votives and rustic wood tables constitute the decor. But in good company, of which I undoubtedly enjoyed, and good spirits (of both varieties), this is established little restaurant with tasty food. A destination for ambiance and experience, if not so much for brag-worthy cuisine. The food is good enough, though, that we stayed even for dessert: a slightly too gelatinized panna cotta with a sidekick of apricot coulis. It was sweet, and cool, but the apricot were strangely bland even as they are coming into their peak season. Two big almond biscotti came along for the ride, but I would've preferred a buttery shortbread or almond tuile... something with a little more pizzazz.
And I guess that's sort of the synopsis of the restaurant, where the energy and verve is more in the crowd and the space than on the plate, but neither seems to suffer much in each other's company, and the food actually seems to benefit. I come away from Kingswood kinda liking the place (perhaps it's a bit of that Aussie charm), and wouldn't even disfavor a repeat visit, were it to present itself.

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.

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.

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.