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

TELEPAN

I hate it when I can't decide where to go for dinner. This was one of those nights, and so I embraced my motto (follow that chef!) to its fullest, in an almost unprecedented revisit to an old favorite- and a chef who is definitely worth following around. Bill Telepan opened his eponymous restaurant about five years ago, an elegant farm-to-table establishment humbly decorated in subdued hues of soothing green and ivory, small flickering votives and oversize photographic murals of seasonal produce. I was last there an unforgiveable two years ago, but I still cannot forget the elements (nor the taste) of spring pea trio I enjoyed: spring pea ravioli, pea pancakes and a pea puree with tiny pea tendrils to garnish- a tribute to the quintessential harbinger of spring.

Here now, in the lingering persistence of winter, the menu challenges the paucity of produce and celebrates what there is still available. Ordering can be done a la carte, but it is penny-wise to opt for the four course prix-fixe at just $55 (especially when any two selections hover around the mid-forty mark), or five for $65 (wine pairing additional). Speaking of wine, the list (a heavy, metal-bound tome) is broad and diverse, with descriptive flavor profiles, geographical groupings and a special list of seasonal recommedations by sommelier Samuel Clifton. Telepan's wine list has received Wine Spectator's Best Award of Excellence four years running, so there are more than ample pairings for the exquisite dishes on hand, as well as guidance if you need it.

We began with a signature dish, house-smoked trout on buckwheat-potato blini. I'm not a huge fan of the appetizings, but the trout was lush and fresh, and the pancake below flavorful of buckwheat but tender from the spud. I loved my simple winter vegetable salad, conveniently chopped chicories, radicchio, shaved vegetables and apple. Generously portioned, as well, making the blini look pretty scrawny, but I was happy to share, mostly because I was anticipating my next course with gusto: a fallen polenta souffle with white corn hominy, shell beans and mushrooms. I wasn't as thrilled with its outcome as I had hoped. The polenta paired better with the sautee of collards beneath it than it did with the hominy and bean succotash: those made for heavy bedfellows. I wished the souffle was more souffle and less fallen, or that mushrooms featured more prominently in the succotash to juice things up a bit. Better (and vigorously comensating for any dearth of fungus) was the open ravioli: a delicate sheet of tender pasta laden with abundant mushrooms, flavored by nutty parmesan and a soft, farm-fresh egg who's golden yolk impregnated the dish with silky richness. This might be winter's incarnation of that spring pea trifecta.

Entrees were similarly inspired: expertly prepared, gorgeous to behold, and flawlessly flavored. Two plush diver's scallops perch atop a mound of unctuous egg linguine, perfumed with the sweetness of Meyer lemon and a kick of bitterness from broccoli
rabe. Better still was my striped bass: a compact hunk of meaty fish crusted golden on top and strewn with a savory tangle of sauteed wild mushrooms. Tucked underneath lay a nest of tender spinach surrounded by a moat of sunchoke puree, generously flecked with snipped herbs, culminating in quite a succinct little masterpiece on the plate.

Desserts were less groundbreaking, but not disappointing. There was a special contribution from a regular customer called Mildred's Cake: a fruitcake-esque concoction updated by pastry chef Larissa Raphael and paired with a buttermilk ice cream and a dollop of orange marmalade. We opted to see what Larissa could do on her own, though, with one order of caramelized
apple profiteroles, and one lemon cake. The profiteroles themselves were slightly tough, and the apples could have used a bit more fire to soften and caramelize them into dessert worthiness, but a lovely burnt sugar tuile added a playful touch and a melting scoop of vanilla ice cream really placated any shortcomings. The lemon cake arrived a dense little pudding redolent of citrus, crowned with spears of bitter orange zest and a subtle lime-flavored ice cream. The juiciest of pink grapefruits were chunked and dispersed about the periphery, like spritely little bulwarks protecting the cake from your fork. They wouldn't, however, survive for long. Both are delightful desserts, inarguably, but lack any unexpected tweak or depth of flavor that would have catapulted them into a higher realm. Pretty, though. A selection of Cookies & Confections is a shareable melange, featuring a delicate square of coconut cake, a sinfully rich chocolate truffle, and a variety of homey cookies and biscuits. Coffee is exceptional, though, coming from the humble Porto Rico Importers in the West Village.

Our waiter, however, provided my singular issue with the evening. While the service was gracious and attentive, our waiter had a grandiose air of theatrical disaffectedness; I'm not sure he ever once made eye contact with either one of us. He recited the special of the night with a sort of bored pomposity (repeated verbatim to the table next to us), as if he really DID wish he was performing that evening in the role that Harvey Weinstein stole right out from under him. It just didn't fit the warmth and elegance of Telepan, and was actually a little distracting. That takes away from what Telepan, and Bill himself, really is: a master in the execution of farm-to-table dining, elevated for discerning audiences, which retains the grace, charm, and humility of the farmer himself.

72 West 69 Street • New York, NY 10023 • 212.580.4300

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

AI FIORI

"A bit of fragrance always clings to the hand that gives you flowers." This ancient Chinese proverb is probably my favorite saying ever, and it's Michael White's newest restaurant, Ai Fiori, that is the incarnation of that bouquet. Located in a no-man's-land stretch of 5th Avenue just below Lord & Taylor, there is little else going on down the block. An unbroken stream of tchotchke tourist shops, fast food restaurants and chain drug stores taper off and is overcome by a glowing light of the Setai hotel, spilling out onto the sidewalk as you approach, and suddenly the ambiance of the mundane neighborhood transmutes into an entirely different experience. A uniformed doorman opens the door before you even realize he's seen you, and up you go to the staircase on your left into this most recent manifestation of White's culinary artistry.

The room is warmly lit, and bright spotlights mimic the way
sunlight filters through lofty tree branches in hours of gloaming. Flower and branch arrangements spring up throughout the dining room, and the motif continues with floral and nature-themed photographs. The sparsely populated dining room gave greater opportunity to admire the decor; at the early hour we arrived, only two other tables were seated. As the evening progressed, few more filled up. Part of this might be attributed to the temperature, topping out at about 16 degrees earlier in the day, and also that it was the first night ofRestaurant Week, in which Ai Fiori was not particpating, which I'm sure caused a dent in their reservation numbers. It's such a serene and inviting atmosphere, though, that the restaurant's emptiness was easily overlooked. That, in addition to the gracious staff, welcome and attentive (which well they should have been, given the workload for the evening). We perused the vast tome of a wine list, choosing a Dolcetta for the red and a spry little Muscat for white upon the recommendation of our dashing sommelier.

Briskly, a complimentary amuse-bouche was presented, a tall shot glass full of a frothy white soup our waiter described as... something unintelligible. I asked him to repeat it (twice) but any comprehension was lost in his thick Latin accent (Sencha? Like tea soup? . At any rate, it smelled heavenly, so instead of pestering him further we decided to figure it out ourselves. Bright, acidic notes of tart apple arrived first (good job, Luca) and I mused on the rest... turnip? No, artichoke! Oh, jerusalem artichoke... SUNCHOKE, not Sencha. It all made sense now. It might've been nice not to have to go through the guessing game, but in the end, it was rewarding to have independently nailed it with such precision. Then the empty glasses were whisked away, along with the impressive gilt chargers (you know those things are ex-pen-sive) and onto the main event.

I opted for the four course prix-fixe menu (really, a much better deal at $79 than a la carte), so I started light with a salad so lightly dressed I thought it
might levitate right off the plate. Any oiliness was indetectable, with just a perfect hint of sherry and salt, and surprisingly flavorful autumn greens. Striking leaves of Trevisano mingled with ruffly lettuces and thinly sliced wedges of pickled delicata squash and slips of sharp manchego so thin you could see through them. The kitchen shows mad dexterity with the mandolin, with many dishes augmented by ingredients sliced so impossibly thin you'd be afraid to break them- if it mattered. My companion chose sardines with ceci mille folie and a tomato confit so vivid in color it looked like ripe salmon roe.

Next up was Michael's strong suit: le paste. From the five on offer, the trofie nero stood out. And I'm glad it did, because when the inky twists arrived in their small, deep bowl, it was immediately obvious why he receives such accolades. The noodles were actually a little scary looking... in a slinky, seductive, even dangerous way. Or else like a slithering bowl of
glistening black worms, but either way it feels slightly scandalous to eat it... although a crime worth committing. Canoodling with the twisted squid-ink pasta were pearl-sized morsels of pristine scallops and curling tentacles of seppia, topped with a crunchy spritz of buttery spiced mollica (basically fried bread crumbs). Portions are the perfect mid-course size, supplying enough to fully appreciate all the layers of flavor but not enough to render your appetite defunct for the delicacies to come.

We both went for fish entrees, although in retrospect this is the perfect place for an occasional meat-eater to indulge in carne. Portion sizes are diminutive enough to avoid overstuffing, and he is really a master with the with heavier proteins. That said, he knows his way around the piscine, as well, having enough practice at the stellar Marea a mile north.
Branzino Nero a la plancha showcases three triangular medallions flanked by chorizo-stuffed piquilla peppers and slices of roasted fennel bulb. The skinned pepper comprised a flavor that wasn't my favorite, a bit mineral-heavy that reminded me of canned, and the stuffing was somewhat mushy, but the fish was expertly cooked, crisp of skin and tender of flesh, and the fennel was buttery and melting and sweet. Laid out on the plate, however, it was a bit of a study in geometry, and less gorgeous than all the other dishes we order or saw. A better option... nay, according to the NY Post, it is no less than The Greatest Dish in The World. Yes, people... the world. I wouldn't say that (I'm still partial to Psilakis), but this little plate was definitely the winner of the night. A butter poached lobster, hovering on that delicate edge of raw versus done, fork-tender and as white as the snow falling outside the big picture windows over 5th
Avenue. I actually sent it back to enjoy a little more time under the heat, as I still harbor a little sushi-anxiety and like my proteins cooked probably more than they should be. After asking whether it was adequately cooked, our server checked with the kitchen and answered in the affirmative, but said they would be more than happy to give it a little more fire if I preferred. Which I did, so they did, and it was all the better for it. (Service here is grand that way.) Regardless of your predilection of doneness, this dish is exceptional. Buttery Chateau Chalon sauce with a just a gentle lemony tang and tinge of white wine coddles chunks of lobster meat and a precious array of the tiniest root vegetables. Were plate-licking acceptable, it would have been justified, but instead any of the four varieties of dainty little rolls (I liked the seven grain) lessen the shame in mopping up that sauce.

Our waiter offered to replenish our wines for the third or fourth time, making it feel as if, especially on such a slow night, they were a bit desperate to fleece our tab by pushing the vino a little too enthusiastically. But soon they brought what we really wanted: the dessert menu. While there is a selection of a carefully curated cheeses, I prefer to investigate the talents on the sweet side. Deciding between a bright vacherin with persimmon and Meyer lemon, and a somewhat enigmatically titled Mandorle-Cremeux, we decided on the latter, richer option, befitting of the wintery clime.
Plus, what couldn't be wonderful about something basically called "almond creaminess"? What appeared before long was a small puck of thick white chocolate almond custard, with a cheesecake-like richness, bedecked with chewy morsels of candied citrus, tiny balls of juicy apple flesh and a drizzle of rosemary olive oil. A quenelle-shaped dollop of deep purple cassis sorbet is anchored atop by ribbons of apple, razor-thin and coaxed into curls. Even my white chocolate-averse dining companion swooned.

So Chef White appears to be continuing with his string of successes, even after having severed ties from his original pair which he left to his prior partner, Chris Cannon. How this taxed economy can support such lofty establishments still confuses me, but if anybody is able to pull it off, it is White. It's funny to imagine such a big guy, his sturdy fingers finessing such delicate creations, coming up with this precious food. But I'd guess some of his potency stems from the adage: his food feels like a gift (albeit one your pay significantly for), and the perfume that remains with him the sweet smell of success.

Ai Fiori
400 5th Ave, New York

Phone: (212) 613-8660

Blaue Gans

Expectations have an enormous effect on restaurant experiences. My familiarity with chef, Kurt Gutenbrunner, harkens back to a memorably good dinner at Wallse', an elegant, upscale Austrian bistro in the West Village. His reputation is strong, his experience vast, and his empire expanding. I perused the website prior to visiting Blaue Gans, so I felt like I had a decent grip on the experience to be had. This, unfortunately, did not turn out to be the case. Had I been aware of what kind of a joint this place is, I might just have opted elsewhere; I am, admittedly, not the best judge for a place that designates itself a wirstshaus. But the website was deceptively sophisticated, the photographed dishes primarily exceptions to a more rustic and meat-centric menu. (http://kg-ny.com ... Tell me what you think.) Somewhat limited by that in selection, I still tried to get a good take on what Gutenbrunner was doing here. And mostly I felt like he was probably paying more attention to his newly opened and hyper-buzzy Cafe Kristall.

The room is sparse, containing much of the decor left by its predecessor , Le Zinc. It suits a sausage-and-beer house more aptly than the aesthetic I had gleaned from the website, too; I almost expected to see gritty sawdust strewn across the unfinished hardwood floors when I looked down. But appearances can be deceptive, so we tucked into ordering as best we could. but not quite knowing whixh choices might be strongest. Thus, we opted from both ends of the spectrum. Beet salad with arugula was nicely executed, a zippy tangle of greens, lightly dressed, teamed up with sweet, tender beets. A more interesting salad option might be the red cabbage with apples, or bibb lettuce with pumpkin seeds, but I'm still trying to trying to overcome my apparent beet addiction. Fresh herbed spatzle was pretty generic, the dumplings perfectly cooked but dressed in a bland, creamy sauce scant of vegetables and bereft of herbs. And salt, for that matter, a sprinkle of which improved things substantially, but didn't elevate the dish much higher than buttered noodles.

The best bargain on the menu might be the Wurst Platter, at $18 for four impressive sausages nestled in a hearty bed of expert sauerkraut... not that acrid, bitey stuff you might have encountered prior, but luxurious, meltingly tender cabbage, slightly sweet and buttery rich with just a punch of vinegar to augment the cabbage's vegetal edge. Two generous dollops of mustard (one exquisite honey-sweet, the other a sharp grainy Dijon) flank a small haystack of finely shredded, snowy white horseradish. Turns out to be an inordinate amount of food, and quite nominally priced compared to the rest of the menu. Less satisfying was a wild striped bass with cauliflower, golden raisins and pignoli. The small florets of cauliflower remained noticeably firm, while they would've melded into the dish effortlessly had they been roasted along with the fish, which itself had a pronounced fishy flavor, as if yesterday or prior it might have also been on offer. Surrounding the fish puddled a rather insipid brothy sauce, not particularly flavorful of anything... maybe a thin cauliflower broth or a watered down bechamel, which was then aerated to a foam of nothingness sort of purposelessly deposited on top. The raisins just stood out as chewy. I can reimagine the dish, though, as how I was expecting it to appear, with toasted sprigs of tender cauliflower whose earthiness balanced the sugary raisins, plumped in the juices of the fish, and maybe a lofty puree of the creamed crucifer beneath. That was what I would've wanted from this place. Instead, the food came acoss a bit too plain.. all of the austere and less of the Austrian. Brussels sprouts with bacon should have been listed Bacon with brussels sprouts. Leafed-out little cabbages belied their scant volume; there were probably five entire sprouts there, deceptively puffed up in salad form, but there was a least one littlecubed lardon for each separate leaf of sprout, which for me, was painfully disproportionate. I guess a bacon fiend would rejoice. I can't figure out for the life of me why, as chefs scourge the planet and harvest prematurely just to procure baby vegetables, they insist on messing around with the one that nature created perfectly. Leave the brussels alone. Halve them, score them, but don't destroy their meaty texture by turning them into a pile of leaves.

If ever a dessert was to set things straight, however, raspberry nockerl stepped up to the plate. Three sumptuous mounds of marshmallowy meringue, perfectly golden and and smooth that would make the Taj Mahal blush. Underneath hovers a somewhat skimpy smear of raspberry compote, but brightly flavorful to compensate. Apple strudel is another crowd-pleaser. Our server informed us that a lot of people return after dinners elsewhere, solely to enjoy one of those two desserts. Which, in retrospect, might be a phenomenon that the chef should investigate a little more thoroughly.

Blaue Gans
139 Duane Street