UNCLE BOON'S

It speaks realms as to how good Uncle Boon's  is for catapulting me out of the sour mood I amassed waiting for table... or actually more precisely waiting for my friend that made it so that we had to wait for a table.  And honestly, the wait wasn't that long, but since they do not (understandably) seat incomplete parties, waiting for my tardy second half  (who had disconcertingly left for the restaurant before I did) mounted my irritation.  There're no reservations at Uncle Boon's, but that should not give you reservations about going.  Head in on the early side of things and you can circumvent too extenuated of a wait- although they'll prove your wait worth your while in the end.

Dark and cavernous, the room was already bustling by seven, but there were tables to be had.  Had my  dining companion exhibited any sort of punctuality, we would have been seated instantaneously.  Instead, we suffered a bit of a wait: there is the option of giving your number to the receptionist and while away your time at Sweet & Vicious next door, if that's up your alley.  Otherwise, we stood outside in the refreshing briskness until it got a little too brisk, and then transferred inside for the remainder to join the bump and grind of the vivacious bar scene.  Our fifteen minutes passed and the receptionist notified us that after another ten our table would be ready, then ushered us into a cozy back room (watch your head on that chandelier) and into a comfortable crimson leather booth.

Even longer longer than the wait to be seated was the amount of time it took to decide what to order: pretty much everything looks outstanding.  We decided on a few dishes, figuring we could always add more.  But the one thing that really bugged me is that in the small-plates dining format, one dish should not have to sing

 acapella in wait for something else to come out and accompany it.  Some stellar grilled baby octopus arrived first, but five simple cephalopods on a plate seemed a little stark.  They were immaculate, to be sure, their bulbous heads tender, but inflected with the beachy char that incinerated their delicate tendrils to a crispy end.  All the "Charcoal Grilled Goodies" are served with a bright lime, chile and garlic dipping sauce that would taste good on pretty much everything except maybe chocolate mousse.  But they were lonely, and it took forever for more of our orders to arrive, which was a serious demerit in my
 book.   After a spell, we were bequeathed a deceptively beige dish of traditional crab fried rice, that seemed less fried than a moist and pliant pilaf, rife with enormous chunks of mild crab meat and scented with lime and generous tufts of cilantro.  Cilantro is Boon's parsley: it's on pretty much everything and improves pretty much everything.  Although the crispy duck leg in soy anise broth was hard to improve upon.  Duck, not being my favorite protein, was lean and fall-off-the-bone tender, and the broth was so profoundly delicious it begged for a more efficient method of consumption, but we made due with the wide

 soup spoons.  I also had to wonder why more things don't use duck broth, although the flavor was decidedly richer and deeper than ubiquitous chicken broth.  Caramelized tangerine added a toasty, sweet tang to its umami-richness.




Sauteed water spinach with garlic, yellow soybeans and chilies made a fantastic counter to the fried rice, although it arrived halfway after we were done with it.  You get a lot of it as a side
dish, easily shareable by two if not more, which might be deceptive from its price tag of six dollars.  Alternatively, broiled bay scallops in a chuu chee sauce screamed out for plain white rice, its creamy, coconut-thickened curry tamping the intensity of its fire, but once it came forth, it came on like a

 bulldozer.  Spicy water spinach isn't the best counter for its forceful heat, but we hardly needed to order rice with the abudance of comestables already on the table.... except for that strangely enough, we weren't really unthinkably full.  In fact, as the scallops arrived, my companion (not such a fan of their spiciness) decided he still had room for another dish, and we couldn't resist the crispy skate, given its designation as a Traditional Celebratory Food.  Uncles Boon's does feel like a celebration.  Although it took so long for the skate to arrive that the rest of our vittles finally hit their destination, and we were hardly hungry enough to even make a dent in the ruthlesslessly funky concoction.  The wild ginger sauce, bean sprouts and herbs were overshadowed by pungent fermented cabbage and a tangle of miniscule, potent baby mackerels, with their crooked little inch-long bodies and macabre, jaw-dominated heads, although they were conveniently cordoned off to the side in order to be able to nudge them into forkfuls to taste (for which mine needed little).  Slithery rice noodles buoyed the fish above the brashly seasoned broth.

 tangy and pungent in that mysteriously briney Southeast Asian fashion, garnished with a halved, hard-cooked egg whose yolk was almost candied to a brilliant yellow.  I'm not sure what this dish celebrates, but its no typical American holiday.  It's exotic and foreign, like the pagan roots of Halloween.  Intriguing and tantalizing, if not necessarily something you'd want to eat every day.




As for dessert, on the other hand, the warm, bruleed tapioca pudding IS something I could imagine consuming daily- or at least frequently.  I'm not sure I've ever had a warm tapioca, and this treatment with its candied brown-sugar crust contrasted an earthy, porridge-y flavor, enhanced by a smattering of fresh, ruby pomegranate seeds.  A slightly less sweet version would be a respectable breakfast, and we had stayed so long it was about to become that.  Boon's is a fooderati's hotspot, but it retains a homey coziness above all that buzz: literally, a boon on all fronts.

      7 Spring Street 
      tel. 1(646) 370-6650

Best of 2013/DISHES

To the best of my memory, these were some of the highlight dishes I experienced in 2013.  I hope I didn't leave anyone out, but, at least, these ten should be applauded.

1.  Grouper in a Gruner Sauce from The Marrow
2.  Sauteed Wild Mushrooms from Carbone
3.  Coles y Coliflor from Salinas
4.  Skate, chermoula, cauliflower, leeks from Pearl & Ash
5.  Dover sole with Tamarind Brown Butter from Le Bernardin
6.  Cornbread sundae from Odd Fellows Ice Cream Shoppe
7.  Huevos Revueltos with Smoked Trout from Alder
8.  Garden: Vegetables and Fruits en Cocotte from The Elm
9.  Short Rib tacos at ABC Cocina
10.  Soft Scrambled Eggs at Mission Cantina

CONGRATULATIONS.

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.

JOE'S SHANGHAI

Why is every out-of-towner determined to patronize good ol' Joe's Shanghai?  Sure, they have good soup dumplings (although a perfunctory Google search shows Nice Green Bo's to be better, and I think I personally prefer Grand Sichuan for their thinner skins).  The rest of their menu is definitely serviceable, but no grand jetes better than many other joints in Chinatown- lo, even your own neighborhood.  That said, I followed my L.A. friends (no chef of name or rapport would pave my route to this Pell Street dive.  I'm in no way wincing in regret, but not overtly enthusiastic either.  It's solid Chinese to sate the craving, but nothing that's gonna catalpult you.)

But Joe's has a somewhat festive conviviality about it.  Much of this stems from the no-reservation policy, so a dense throng of hungry dumpling-seekers chronically mob the entrance, providing that wait-worthy desirability effect.  We are given a number, this time #4 (a foreboding number in Chinese, sounding almost exactly like the word for "death" and superstitiously unlucky).  So with the 45 minute prospected wait time, we ducked across the street to see about foot massages to pass the time, but by the time there were empty salon chairs, our wait time had reduced itself to ten minutes, and we forewent the foot-rubs for our coveted table.  I guess four is only unlucky if you are actually Chinese.  Joe's waitstaff has the reputation of being surly and curt, but I find it to be more a smugness in the knowledge that they have what you want, and are probably profiting marvelously off of it, given the absolutely NO frills digs and service (they don't even have fortune cookies... yeah, I KNOW fortune cookies aren't authentic, but that doesn't make them any less fun.)  So we bark out our orders, always far too much food that somehow practically always all gets consumed regardless.  This time, I got to try crab dumplings, which taste almost exactly like the pork  (and seem to BE mostly pork),but with a subtle hint of ocean.

Pork is the classic, though, and one steamer basket holds eight, big, plush ones.  Two per person of any variety definitely tamp excessive appetite.  The charred green beans are a classic, slick with oil and a hint of sweet, salty soy.  They're great, but this time we went for a seasonal special of bok choy, a brothy saute of greens and garlic, leaves tender and stalks that remained gently crisp and juicy.

There are all the classics and then some, the menu extensive on both the Chinese-American and authentic Chinese offerings.  The food isn't off the charts, but I've never had a truly bad dish here, either.  We got lucky with a splendid mushroom dish: gravy slicked, meaty black mushrooms (like behemoth shiitakes) that got snatched up before I could snap a photo.  Vegetable chow mein is a saucy toss of an ingredient bonanza, and if the noodles taste a little too "spaghetti", the soy-rich sauce and bamboo shoots will put you back, if not to Shanghai proper, at least to Pell Street.  There are all sorts of stir-fries, noodles, rice-based dishes, vegetables and categories of proteins.  Orange chicken are the standard sugary nuggets- not my kind of dish to be sure, but another that of which no leftovers remained.  And that's about the bottom line of Joe's: it's got something for everyone, capable cooks, and is a NYC tourist's delight.  Now if they would only start providing fortune cookies.

9 Pell Street

Phone: 212-233-8888 

The Ripper Strikes Again

Last night, I lied. I specifically stated, in situ, that dinners like these... these extravagantly-wrought, expensive, prix-fixe productions are those that I really prefer to endeavor upon perhaps once a year. Okay, biannually. Or whatever... like- seasonally. Yes, four times a year would be sufficient. Otherwise, I really like a meat and two sides (so to speak). But it HAD been awhile, and thus, I was due.

The invitation popped up quite our of the blue. I was reassured by my invitee that there was no ulterior motive: no proposal nor nefarious attempt to impress. Just a chef from out of town, who'd always wanted to go to Le Bernardin, and me, the ambitious appetite with an attenuated pocketbook. I've met Eric Ripert, admired his work, his reputation, his philosophy. Heck, I have even eaten a bite of orecchiete from Marea off of his own fork. But to Le Bernardin I'd never been, until last night. I have to admit, first impressions were a bit of a let down. The room looks a bit dark and dated: I'd be surprised if they weren't up for a renovation in the near future (probably depending on global economic recovery). Heavy on wood and a bit hotel-esque, I suppose I expected a room more magnificent. But as I would find out, the cuisine more than compensates.

I had narrowed down my choices preprandially online, an attempt to mitigate some selection anxiety. (I didn't trust myself on the spot.) My companion took the easy out, opting for a chef's choice prix-fixe, which luckily also included many from my list. But I had too many snuffed out that could've been disappointing to miss, so I bravely chose my three. Having surmounted that hurdle, the first dish to arrive was independent of our direction, anyways. An amuse-bouche of sweet prawn perched upon a puree of spaghetti squash (interesting annihilation of the unique stringiness of the vegetable, but a deeply squashy flavor persevered, as well as a few shreds for texture, and the puree was really frothed to almost foamy proportions). There was an enigmatic nuance of what I proposed might be chorizo (my friend suggestion citrus), but whatever it was perfectly complemented what was decidedly the sweetest and most delicious shrimp I have ever relished. It set the bar (at Olympic-gold levels) for the rest of the repast.

Le Bernardin sits in the no-man's-land of midtown, easily missable to an unknowing passerby. The street-side windows are swathed in opaque curtains, and a nondescript charcoal grey awning hoods the turnstile entrance. But as soon as those doors
usher you inside, a hostess appears as if from out of nowhere, relieving you of coats and umbrellas, and somehow too, it feels, of your wordly concerns. From that point on, you rest in Chef Ripert's able hands. Especially so if you opt for the chef's choice or seasonal tasting menus, but equally so if you want to make a few decisions yourself. Despite the breadth of the menu, it is virtually impossible to err. It is, however, recommended you stick to the piscine side of things. My first (and only) misstep, was indulging my vegephilia by ordering the cauliflower "couscous" with roasted seasonal vegetables. Not that is was bad, per se, but it was #1) quite as described, and #2) relatively forgettable. The warm salad of seasonable vegetables was't warm, the cauliflower mince below was reminiscent of sauerkraut, and it just didn't sing. It didn't capitalize on the sweetness of vegetables by roasting them, instead relying on the contrast of raw and fried, but to no significant end. From the Simply Raw category came a signature dish of thinly pounded tuna, suggestively shaped and swathed over a plank of rich fois gras and flecked with shaved herbs. I could elaborate on the yonic metaphor of the dish's composition, but I'll leave this to your imagination.

Things were getting more exciting as the second courses arrived. The chef selection (which had also made my cut) was from the Barely Touched section, charred octopus with fermented black bean and pear sauce vierge: a play of salty funk and fresh sweetness. The tentacles themselves was a tad overcooked, giving it the tiniest bit too much chew, but overall the flavors of the dish played winningly off each other, at times melding and harmonizing and others bobbing off one another like a perfectly choreographed ballet. My second was a sophisticated poached turbot with wild mushrooms and spiced squab jus with a black truffle custard. The latter was served in
a separate porcelain urn, sizable enough to suggest a bonus course by itself. The collop of fish appeared even pearlier in color against the fulvous broth, rich in meaty aroma from the squab, and with the luxuriant addition of the black truffle custard became a truly remarkable plate. I was pretty happy, too, spooning up heaps of smooth, eggy custard into my mouth by itself, and my friend was jealous as the perfume of the jus and truffles wafted towards him.

He got me back, though, with our third courses (both of which arrived from the Lightly Cooked segment of the menu, which definitely harbored the greatest number of temptations for my own tastes). Hiramasa (yellowtail kingfish) was served in a plank, sliced diagonally like a small pork
tenderloin, and just as hearty and flavorful. Served aside a redolent truffled risotto with spring vegetables and more truffles in a buttery emulsion beneath, it was my turn to drool over his order. (Luckily, my arm is long and my spoon unfettered.) However, I don't feel like spring has quite arrived, and neither does Mother Nature. Thus "spring vegetables" consisted of a carrot dice and some leafed out brussels sprouts, which spoke to me more of mid-winter than the onset of Daylight Savings Time. Despite the misnomer, is was a scrumptious and luxurious dish, comfort food of the highest echelon. My choice was a paupiette of skate and langoustines, prodigious enough to make me think I might actually make out with leftovers, but so exquisite to eat that I couldn't restrain myself from consuming every last morsel. The skate, so often crusted and sauteed, was left unadorned, simply pocketing a single, impossibly tender langoustine, and gently baked like a mammoth, piscine calzone. Tiny, artfully curled pickled radishes reclined atop, and small shiitake mushroom caps orbited the fish, buoyed by a brown-butter tinged dashi broth, which reminded me forcefully of a dish I had a winter's past at Bouley (although there the fish was a simple filet of halibut), but more balanced in flavor, simultaneously more delicate and more decadent. It was a dish that disallowed any ordering remorse.

Michael Laiskonis is in charge of the sweet side of things as our meal edged to a close. We were counseled in our dessert selections: it is that difficult to choose. We opted for "Citrus" and "Black Sesame-Cherry". Menu descriptions, both sweet and savory, are minimalist. They are succinct lists of the dish's main components, so as to adequately suggest a flavor profile without giving away all the bells and whistles. Thus, a lime "parfait" arrived as a rectangle of puckery Key lime pie topped with juicy grapefruit-tequila sorbet, and crowned with a disc of crisp meringue. Dotted about the plate were kisses of avocado puree and mint: lilliputian flavor enhancers which also served as playful embellishment. The most intriguing part of the second dessert were the pair of cherry spheres. From a distance, they looked like slick, glazed Bing cherries, but in actuality were a puree of three different cherry varieties, magically gelatinized into fruity yolks that burst like Tidal Wave gum (but that tasted of the Platonic Ideal of cherry). Black sesame presented in a panna cotta, sludgy in color but profoundly nutty in flavor and smooth as cream on the palate, and in a tiny pain de Genes, which normally features almonds, but black sesame pinch-hits in a small cake beneath the orb of mandarin sorbet. Still yet followed a small plate of gourmandises, which we were instructed to enjoy from right to left: a tiny, cream-filled profiterole, a white chocolate demi-tasse filled with nuts and caramel, a burnt-sugar, custard-filled brioche that tasted of France, and milk chocolate dome filled with salted caramel. That is, if my memory can be trusted after all the glorious indulgence of the evening (doubtful). Which brought me to ruminate on my statement that began the evening, when I truly believed that a dinner like that, rife with pomp and decadence, would be sufficient quarterly. Instead, there are so many dishes left undiscovered, so many wonderments about a novel sauce, an unexpected pairing, an unfamiliar ingredient that was in one of the dishes I didn't try, that I would go back in a heartbeat. I suppose that is the mark of a truly great restaurant. It's certainly not a "been there, done that" attraction. Odds are against having serendipitously chosen the sole trifecta of superlative dishes, and the appetite's imagination begins to wonder what other tricks Chef Ripert might have up his sleeve. You know, for the next time. Should the opportunity present itself.


Le Bernardin
155 W 51st St
New York, NY 10019

(212) 554-1515

IL McMULINO's

A twenty-seven rating from Zagat, bold recommendations from both weekend-warrior foodies and trusted, published ones alike, over twenty years of staying power in the toughest dining city on the planet... but not so fast. There seems to be some cracks in the blades of the windmill at Il Mulino.


Or maybe I needed to have ordered the veal parm; that's the one thing everybody seems set on raving about. But a restaurant cannot sustain this level of acclaim and only be able to perform with one dish, so I will proceed. Il Mulino seems to have become the McDonald's of hyper-expensive restaurants, with locations in Aspen, Vegas, Atlanta, San Juan, etc., etc. Here in the city, the dining room appears to have retained its original decor, circa 1981, and perhaps some of its original waiters, judging from the from the wrinkles in their worn but welcoming countenances. It feels much like a grandmother's home (I almost expected to smell mothballs) when she had all the family over, except for these seated parties aren't your aunts and cousins. We made our way towards a cozy table near the back, dodging a fugitive branch of cherry blossom, a premature harbinger of a spring that is still a long ways off, illustrated by the foot of snow outside. But the menus echo the same brash disregard for seasonality as do the floral arrangements, featuring asparagus and artichokes, fresh tomatoes and zucchini. And, no, I don't think every restaurant in Manhattan has to be a mecca of the locavore, seasonal mantra, but it just makes the place seem all the more out of touch. Almost immediately, a smattering of plates were doled out robotically: delicate slices of peppery salami, salty hunks of parmigiano-reggiano, and juicy, messy tomato crostini with boatloads of garlic and a single, forlorn mussel, along with tall, rectangular menus that spoke for only about fifty percent of the offerings at hand. Our waiter arrived to impart the rest of them, a list of specials no less complicated than a State of the Union address, and with talking points possibly even more difficult to remember. None of our questions couldn't he answer, but they got all mixed up trying to remember whether the cappellini went with frutti di mare or tomato-porcini, or whether the Ligurian-style was for the branzino or salmon. When the specials are as expansive as the regular menu, there's certainly no shame in a nice little printout.


After a tectonic struggle navigating the menu, first courses came out in good time, but in less appealing form. My fiore di zucca (I know, I admit I was testing them a bit) were sodden (obviously frozen), chewy flowers, but more poignantly, stuffed with an abundant cheesiness instead of the porcini and vegetable mix that I'm sure
had been described from that inexhaustible specials list. Although I wouldn't wholly trust my memory; there was just too much to remember. Unless your a regular there, ordering tried-and-true favorites along with maybe one special that piqued your interest, the verbal list just becomes a jumble. And so, the cheese-filledfiori were tough to cut (doing so just smooshed out the insides) and bathed in a garlicky, buttery sauce. Scallops were simply cooked, barely seasoned and entirely forgettable aside from their impressive size. A little mound of garlicky spinach helped liven them up to some degree. Which reminds me, almost everything here is swathed in garlic, surprising for such a destination-date place. In fact, I felt quite out of place in that my birthday isn't 'til June, and throughout the course of the evening six rounds of "Happy Birthday" jubilantly burst out, once each at just about every table but ours. I should've pretended to be a Capricorn just to feel more like part of the group. Spinach salad was similarly unastonishing. The baby leaves of spinach were tender enough and it was generous with mushrooms, but the dressing bland and scant on bacon.

Entrees were, unfortunately, similarly underwhelming. But big!! Really, really big! The cappellini (which DID end up coming
with the frutti di mare) was an enormous bowl of pasta, slightly undercooked and noticeably underseasoned. Topped with a bucket of shellfish and seafood, the plain pasta just spoke of really nothing, in particular. Dover sole was presented first skin-on, baked whole, then whisked away to be fileted in private, reemerging with the sheen of Meuniere that got a little gummy, sticking more easily to the fork than to the tender flesh of the fish. Lonesome on the plate as it was, I had a side of broccoli raab. The overcooked vegetable sort of disintegrated into a pool of oil in which it swam, again heavy on the garlic and salt.

Not that there was room for it, since portions defy real Italian proportions, catering instead to American-Italian abundance, but since I was there, decided to see what the desserts had to say for themselves. Not that we didn't see them all at the entrance upon arrival, exposed to the blasts of frigid air each time the front door opened. Probably this would've more been detrimental to less hulking specimens. On the comparitively lighter side were poached pears with zabaglione. Dastardly sweet pears, carved table-side (of course), placed in a star configuration around marshmallowy cream.No better than maybe one-bite yummy due to its excessive sugariness, especially after the heft of the meal. The tiramisu, on the other hand, was pretty darned great. Not so rummy as it too often is, but light and pillowy and strong on coffee and cocoa flavors instead of boozy sweet. Super fancy, architectural, expensive-looking outsourced birthday cakes were arriving right and left, along with rousing renditions of their accompanying anthem, which certainly helped define the place for what it is: the Carmine's of the Trustafarians. Our bill, with not a single drop of alcohol (aside from that in the tiramisu) came to over $350 (including tax and tip) for two people. Absurd. I'd dine out three times and thrice better in dozens of joints. For a historic place with such an apparent following, I'm glad to have checked it off my list (especially since it happened off my dime), but only for knowing what I know now. If ever it were, Il Mulino ain't what it used to be.




86 West 3rd Street

212.673.3783

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

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