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

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

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

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

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

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

VIA CAROTA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 SENZA PRENOTAZIONE

LITTLE BEET TABLE

Gluten-free?  Who cares.  Franklin Becker's newest opener, Little Beet Table is just plain good, regardless of its dietetic contingencies.  Truthfully, we didn't order a whole lot that would've been hampered by a gluten-restriction, but I'll leave that review to someone who cares about it.  With only 1% of the American population afflicted with the disorder, it is quite The Thing as of late.  So Becker is very savvy to capitalize on the hoopla,  and even if not personally affected by the sensitivity, he was
 adamant about creating a restaurant that celebrates healthful eating.  In fact, there seems not to be gluten-free designation anywhere on the website or menu, which makes me wonder whether that ship was abandoned, or whether he just didn't want to make it the sole focus.  At any rate, it is not why one should go to Little Beet Table (or grab lunch at its baby sister, The Little Beet, a fast casual spot in midtown with the same focus).  Becker's a fantastic chef, and this is what make both Beets winners.

 Despite the curiosity as to what the Union Square Greenmarket could muster up in late December to comprise the Farmer's Market original, we opted for choices from the Vegetables and Sides (not sure what the differentiation is)  section as starters.  Grilled beets featured a slight excess of pumpkin-seed almond granola, but with just a gentle Taylor Swift-caliber shake of that off, the dish came together seamlessly, greek yogurt tangily countering the deep-winter sweetness of the bi-colored beetroot, and the remaining granola
contributing a pleasant nuttiness.  True to its categorization, however, roasted sweet potatoes would've served better as accompaniments, for on their own, they are little one-dimensional-  although their smoked sea salt compounds the oven's char to a very delicious dimension.    Even lighter than the
 vegetables was a special appetizer of the evening, delicate sea scallops just kissed with sizzling hot oil so as to firm them up ever so gently, just shy of fully raw or cooked, and enlivened by bright nubs of citrus.  They melted as readily on the tongue as the grapefruit bits burst in juiciness.







The cheekily titled LBT (BLT or LGBT? Ha. I know; Little Beet Table) Burger is the only dish that hints at a gluten concession, and even it specifies being served on "free" bread, which is either to say that that is presumably the brand name of gluten-free bread they're using, or else a special deal of buy-burger-get-bun-free... or ELSE the menu IS, in fact, so gluten-free that they won't even write the word gluten on the menu.  At any rate, I digress.  We didn't order that, anyways, but I did order up the local sea bass cooked a la plancha, seasoned with fennel and
 served with a scallion pebre, which turns out to be a delectable Chilean condiment of hashed up coriander and
 onion, much like a chimichurri but looser and chunkier here, the chopped scallion tender and pungent.   It's a solid example of Becker's cookery, simple and pure, but expertly executed, each ingredient flavorful in its own right.  That left it to pair well with  any and all of the side

 dishes, of which we chose a chile and lemon flecked mushroom saute, and brussels sprouts with their own dash of chili and sea salt, both simple but flawless.... and ample.  I love a generous side dish.  A salmon entree also played well with these, its own accoutrement of avocado caponata just enough to serve as a condiment, although a savorily-sweet compliment to the buttery fleshed fish.





Dessert was the only indication that I can hope to attribute its weaknesses to lack of gluten, although pot-roasted apples could've been properly cooked with no regard to its leaden topping.   This may be a hallmark of haroseth, a Jewish term that describes the apple-walnut mixture on the menu, but the sandy, pasty crust lay in a slab atop, only salvaged by the rich drizzle of caramel and quick-melting lash of Battenkill cream atop, that encouraged the components to cooperate a little better with each other.   But in terms of cooperation, everything else at The Beet falls in line, gluten-free or full.  It's not a venue that elicits excitement so much as satisfaction, but in terms of the latter, Little Beet Table offers up a worthy seat.

333 PARK AVENUE SOUTH

tel.  212-466-3330

Diversion: PDX/OLYMPIC PROVISIONS

Olympic Provisions is the quintessential Portland restaurant of 2010. A snarky, understated, bare-bones celebration of carnivorey. (M)EAT flashes in marquis block letters as you enter through the old fashioned wooden door, past the meat hook coast hangers on the painted wall, and into the cement-floored, bare-beamed, garage-like "dining room". A long counter separates the cooking from the eating, but because of the limited number of tables and inescapable no-reservations policy, you're as likely as not to catch a seat there, which puts you about two and half feet away from your meal throughout its preparation. As an added bonus, you can ogle the chefs' exquisite tatooage, another Portland standard. There is also a narrow communal table towards the far end, but it stands chairless, as will you if you opt to dine there. Now, I'm all for minimalism, but I do like to be seated to enjoy my meal. I can eat standing up at the kitchen counter at home (though probably rarely this well), which made the bar a more appealing option.

There are no cocktails (probably that would be deemed a little frou-frou for this restaurant/market), but the wine list is positively enormous. I was drawn to an unfamiliar Picpoul de Pinet solely by the way the charming name rolled off the tongue, and our super-friendly, highly knowledgeable and helpful server recommended it as well. Coincidentally, the word means "lip-stinging", because of it's voluptuous lemony tartness. I could not stop saying the name all night. We started off with a cute little plate of pickly things: some ribs of rhubarb which made nice finger food, sweet bread and butter chips, crunchy onions and traditional cornichons. They're a good balance for the rich little bites of cheese and a variety of salumi and charcuterie listed individually for making up a personalized antipasto-type starter. A side of cold, citrus-spiked beets came next, teamed with chunky green olives and buttery quartered avocados. These were the best of the veggie dishes on hand that evening, the rest of which failed to enjoy the same indulgent love as the cooked dishes and meats. Brussels sprouts were a bit disappointing, frankly: a voluminous haystack of leafed-out sprouts mingling with more of those olives and juicy thin slices of sunchoke dressed with anchovy vinaigrette. It was a perfectly acceptable salad, admittedly, but unexpectedly raw, and thus dousing all the anticipation of the deeply roasted, hearty little cabbages I was jonesing for. We had considered also a side of lacinato kale, but upon its deliverance to another diner, saw that it, too, was a raw chiffonade and opted against. I guess one could appreciate the minimalist preparations as a refreshing counter to the more substantial courses, but I found them wanting. Notably, I now see some more interesting options under the Vegetable Dish section of the menu online, like braised turnips and seared leeks, but none were on offer that night. Perhaps the chef read my mind.

On a higher note (like, Mt. Hood high) comes the kitchen's proficiency with meat and heat. Rich, stewed octopus in tomatoey sauce thick with beans and bacon arrived steaming from its earthenware bowl. I wanted more bread for the sauce.... as well as just more of the dish, period, even though it was of reasonable proportions. Just as wonderful was a meaty sugo topped with crisped cubes of firm polenta and a generousshaving of grana. Speaking of proportions, this was an inverted take on a traditional polenta al sugo, featuring the saucy meat (meaty sauce?) and using the humble cornmeal as an accoutrement. Our server recommended just two dishes per person, but looking back, I think that didn't include the vegetable ones, and I felt like I definitely had room for more food after what we ordered here. I saw the roasted cod destined for someone else's plate, as well as a ground lamb with Moroccan flavors, that I would definitely return for. Even a chicken with braised greens, beans, lemon and chile would warrant a repeat visit, and that is CHICKEN. I never order chicken. But it looked amazing. Instead, we utilized our remaining appetite to enjoy a delightful citrus tart, plump with lemon curd in a buttery crust and topped with impossibly juicy wedges of grapefruit and mandarin orange, and festively sprinkled with glimmering pomegranate seeds. Another tempting option was a scoop of dense black walnut ice cream, served affogato-style in a warmed vin santo... that just might serve as dessert if and when I get back to order that chicken.


107 SE Washington St.
Portland, OR 97214

info@olympicprovisions.com

503-954-3663

Diversion: PDX/LAURELHURST MARKET

"Keep Portland Weird!" is painted in huge, white block letters upon a brick wall across the street from the new Laurelhurst Market: new as in the old market of the same name was a bodega of sorts, of dubious legitimacy, purveying an even sketchier array of random commodities . But the Market in its current incarnation exhibits neither nefarious quality, now a restaurant of outstanding repute which also houses a small, locavore-esque butcher shop where you can purchase the meatier comestibles available on the restaurant's menu, as well as sandwiches (made with fresh, local Fleur de Lis bread) and beverages to eat in or take away. Despite the spare, industrial decor and exposed ceiling beams that arch across the dining room from the market to the bar, the interior is warm, rustic and inviting. Little twinkly votive candles and lights glowing off a collection of shiny pots and pans in the open kitchen create a convivial atmosphere. Just in front, chef David Kriefels keeps a hawk-eyed watch on each plate from mis to service, maintaining superlative quality control
certainly not exclusive solely to those beans (You know, the ones your mother would have made if she loved you, which is what is charmingly noted at the bottom of the menu). The no-reservations policy ubiquitous to Portland's casual dining scene fuels a steady crowd at the small bar, which boasts a nice little cast of cocktails and a very reasonably priced wine list, heavy on the reds. They even had a mourvedre (which I've been dying to try) by the glass: a plush, fruity little varietal from the centuries old grape that is enjoying a resurgence in popularity, and the one they poured here proves why.

Laurelhurst Market is primarily a steak house, but almost anything on the offer has such robust flavor that you won't miss meat even if you don't order it. A spa-sounding endive and grapefruit salad
with Dungeness and chervil flaunted those crisp, juicy leaves lavished with rich, sweet morsels of crab, brightened with citrus and nestled in a creamy, smooth puree of sunchokes. All those sprightly ingredients join forces to a decadent effect. We bumped a side dish of perfectly roasted beets with pistachios up to appetizer status, and while their strawberry gastrique was mostly undetectable but for a meager puddle hidden underneath, it did pair quite winsomely with the salad (though, admittedly, we should have left it in its side dish category where it would've performed more deftly. Note to self: obey the chef!).

The menu breaks mains down into steaks and entrees, the former including every-which-cut of bovinity imaginable, where you can choose your cut from the daily offerings which , although specified a la carte, arrive with thoughtful accoutrements. They are a little veggie-scant, though, which provides a tremendous opportunity to take advantage of the solid array of ridiculously good side dishes. I definitely could've made a superb repast simply with a tasting plate of three or four of them. The steak frites arrive with a mountain of exceptional hand cut fries, and I saw some enormous Walla Walla sweet onion rings crowning the ribeye at the next table. Neither of those, however, could have been appreciably better than the brussels sprouts, uber-roasted to an almost melting tenderness, charred crispy on the edges by no stinginess of heat and oil, although they were supposed to have been prepared with lemon, anchovy and piment d'espelette, which if they were was with a very subtle hand.

Entrees include more meat, a few poultries, and a daily fish, prepared with a few more creative liberties than the steaks, and put the emphasis on umami-rich ingredients like mushrooms, wine-based sauces, truffles, and rich reductions.
Tournedos of filet mignon, the most expensive dish on the menu at $36 (but well worth it!) justifies its price with a rich lobe of fois gras, scored and sprinkled with a crispy nest of delicate celeriac frites, surrounded by a moat of truffled sherry gastrique upon a creamy potato puree. As rich and regal as it might sound, it tasted even voluptuously more so, fancifully toeing the line of excess but remaining just a crispy frite's-width shy. Idaho rainbow troutshone as the daily catch, hearty enough to rival the meats: two generous skin-on filets splayed atop a savory-sweet puree of butternut squash, and roasted chunks of fennel, parsnips and apple… an absolute bargain for a mere $20.

Desserts are wholly unnecessary here, but equally unmissable. Most are classics or riffs thereof: an affogato uses a rich chocolate sorbet instead of vanilla gelato, a superlative tarte tatin is buttery beneath melting vanilla bean ice cream. A little homework, however, nudged us toward a dulce de leche cheesecake with jammy Oregon huckleberries, described by
some internet commentator (with whom I cannot argue) as "knee-buckling". The substantial crumby graham cracker crust cradles dense creamy cheesecake, caramelly sweet with a smooth milky tang. This dessert has been on the menu since the beginning, and our waitress assured us it isn't going anywhere (be thankful). Just as good was a dense bread pudding, rife with tangy dried cherries and crusty on the edges of its little individual ramekin, and topped with a sweet mascarpone cream, whipped into weightlessness.

I'm amazed they can consistently produce food this exceptional at such reasonable prices. As does a good sister restaurant, it vigorously inspires a visit to Simpatica Dining Hall upon my next return to Portland. If this is the city's version of weird, I'm all for it. I guess, like they say, you can't take the trailer out of the girl.





Laurelhurst Market
3155 E. Burnside, Portland OR 97214
restaurant 503-206-3097
butcher shop 503-206-3099

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

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