EMPELLON COCINA

It'd been awhile since I visited a restaurant for the first time and designated it one I'd unequivocably go back to.   Empellon Cocina is TOTALLY go-backable.

  Alex Stupak opened Cocina not long after his success with Tacqueria, but Cocina is a little more stylish... more entree-driven and perhaps slightly more whimsical, although I love Tacqueria too.  Stupak has a grand and unique style, exhibited in his food and the restaurant itself.  The room, sparsely lit with flickery candles and illuminated painting of a beautifully painted Dia de los Muertos-painted woman, exudes an electric, haunting energy, like there is surprise lurking around the candlelit corners.  And, as luck has it, there is.

There are many dishes I would come back for that I didn't sample this first time around:  I so intended to order the squid with black mole and sour orange mayonnaise that by the time it came to order,  I too familiarly overlooked it, like a misplaced object you look at so many times that when you actually need it, you forget that it's there.   I regret forgetting to get it.  I wasn't left with too much wanting after tasting the roasted carrots we got instead, though.   A smokey mole poblano countered their sweetness acquired by a long repose in a hot oven; yogurt and watercress jumped in with a bright tang.  They were pretty, too, studded with a seedy coat and nestling low in a
deep white bowl smeared eerily with a ruddy smudge.  So presentation plays a huge part here, like the big flat banana leaf splayed beneath gently steamed chanterelles dispersed atop a rectangular pabulum of mild, smooth masa polenta, then enlivened with a chipotle-Surryano ham salsa to bring things back up to speed.  Do not bypass the guacamole as your standard appetite-busting chip condiment.  Stupak's guacamole (we tried the pistachio version with masa crisps) is bright and unctuous, flecked with jalapenos and nuts, it almost seems whipped rather than mashed, its texture so silky and fluffy.   And the masa crisps themselves, nutty and hearty, but light, are tremendous on their own.   The salsas (all made in-house) are a rainbow of hues and run the gamut of Scovilles: they range from fruity-juicy to incendiary.  In fact, the hottest one (the Habanera) hits the
 palate with citrus and herbs... and it is only in its after-burn that your taste buds will begin to spasm in protest.  The salsa verde might have been my favorite, though, and also leaves your palate capable of sensing the rest of your meal.  The Tomatillo-Chipotle is a winner, too, smoky and robust, and the smoked cashew has a rich, creamy intrigue.  Order all seven of the jewel-toned lovelies and they might start the party themselves, especially if you're in a decent sized group.  Otherwise, they're fun to play with adding dollops to different dishes, although the well-seasoned concoctions hardly need your amateur adultery.  Go with the
melted Tetilla with shrimp and tomate frito and you might appreciate a couple spoonfuls of salsa the cut the gluttonously rich, stringy cheese.  Served in a searing hot cast iron pan with stacked tortillas, this appetizer is so hearty that unless your either don't plan on finishing it, or are sharing it amongst four or more, it will seriously cut into your main course appetite.  It's like a chewy, scoopable Mexican fondue.  It's delicious.  It is not on Jenny Craig.

Luckily, we showed some restraint leaving a generous amount of the tetilla unconsumed, because entrees demand your full attention (and un-full stomachs).  A thick Wagyu flat iron wallowed in its juices next to a pile of sunny yellow corn, more chewy than creamed, under a flurry of crumbly Mexican cheese.  Crisp, tender tamal fries  are another good receptacle for the salsas, and to soak up more of the
meaty drippings.  A slim filet of black bass lay moist and succulent under its crisped skin, augmented by tiny, crunchy chilaquiles mingled with black beans (which were slightly underdone- kind of
an undesirable kind of crunchy) and richly roasted crowns of
 romanesco.  Leaves of cilantro and rings of chiles compound the Latin flavors, and are probably the verdes component, which are traditionally part of the salsa of the chilaquiles.  But there was no loss in the minor separation.

Stupak's wife, Lauren Resler, stuck with her pastry background (Alex began with pastry at such esteemed kitchen as Alinea and WD-50 ) is in charge of sweets at Empellon.  Trying to decide between the myriad appealing options, we took both our waiter's and chef Stupak's recommendations for the
 pumpkin seed cake.    I suppose I was expecting a more pumpkiny, cakey treat, rather that the layers of pastry and a pumpkin seed-type of marzipan that arrived.  A brown butter sauce glazed the plate along with a drove of juicy triangles of pineapple and lilliputian dollops of whipped cream.   Resler's desserts have a haphazard excess to them, the plates frenetic with drops and drizzles, small mountains of cream and pools of sauce, but it doesn't diminish their tastiness.   I couldn't quite make sense of all of the elements put together, but there were delicious components.  And the desserts definitely perpetuate the creative whimsy that Alex executes on the savory side.

I don't know of another Mexican in the city that channels the authenticity of the original cuisine with such fireworks as there are at Empellon Cocina.  It's not surprising that the tables are full at prime time,  prior and aft, and that the chefs come here after-hours and bee-line there from out of town.  Empellon seeks to discover, interpret and share a love for Mexican cuisine.   Having discovered Cocina, I've interpreted Stupak's cuisine... and I share the love.

105 1ST AVENUE, NEW YORK NY 10003

212.780.0999

THE BEATRICE INN

QUALITY ALERTS!!!  The following review is probably unreliable at best:  the chef has changed at the hands of the management, and the food has apparently taken a drastic turn for the worse.  I'm sure the service remains consistent as I described, so I'm not heartily recommending a visit to this joint.




Bypassing the hype over re-opening buzz, celebrity sightings and it's proprietor's notoriety, I wanted to visit The Beatrice Inn's new incarnation strictly for the pedigree of its new chef, Per Se alum Brian Nasworthy.   I wanted to see what he could do juggling a Kellerian background with a steakhouse-esque format in a trendy, celeb-attracting restaurant on the outskirts of the clubby Meatpacking District.  Open just a few weeks, it's a tough table to procure.  And maybe even tougher to enter once you get there: the door to the west that would appear to be the entrance, underneath the bright neon sign,  is a non-working locked mirage of a door.  The actual entrance to the right, poorly lit, leads down the cement stairs to a cramped vestibule.  Opening that door (by yourself, and it's a bit heavy), however, reveals a smiling maitre d', a comely bar and low ceilings reminiscent of its sister, The Waverly Inn nearby.


Like The Waverly, The Beatrice feigns to be a little full of herself, but at the heart of it all is a pretty solid neighborhood restaurant.  The suspendered waitstaff is charming and affable, but they do enforce their "no photography" disclosure printed squarely on the menu... so I'm making due with some images stolen from Nasworthy's iPhone  posts- other than that, you'll have to use your imagination.  Or else, come for a visit yourself.   You shouldn't be disappointed with your meal, as long as you can afford it and like what's printed on the menu.  Portions are a little skimpy: meat-heavy, to be sure, in true steakhouse form.  And you can't change

Duck pastrami for a salad

 around things on that menu, either.  Chef has them as he wants them, so extra this-or-that or sans-something will be frowned upon.  But he has the plates pretty well thought out, and they are pleasant.  A crunchy wedge salad is fortified with toasty crouton thins and a heavy flurry of Oregon blue.  Surprisingly sweet cherry tomato "raisins" and  thin rings of pickled onion brighten an herby cumin-spiked dressing studded with miniscule baby radishes.  It's a pretty and tasty salad (now Romaine, not iceberg as pictured).   Duck pastrami features in another salad of frisee and mache.  Rich duck breast is spice-rubbed and sliced thick, bedded in a zesty caper-studded sauce gribiche hidden beneath a tumble of greens and crispy fried shallots.

A little like The Waverly's mac 'n cheese (without that exorbitant price tag), The Beatrice isn't too fancy to offer up a burger, and it's a tasty one at that.  The very convex patty and rounded bun demand a good squish to compress it to the constaints of one's jaw, but then the cushiony meat and pillowy bun acquiesce agreeably.  A thin layer of melted white cheddar and the flavorful Prime dry-aged burger blend make up for the thick slice of mealy tomato, but given that it's November, I wouldn't consider that a major flaw.  A landslide of hot, crisp and salty fries cover the remainder of the plate.  On the cheffier side, two delicate lamb chops balance against each other atop a smoky eggplant puree, braised artichokes and cubes of grilled eggplant rounding things out.  Three hulking scallops were richly seared but just this side of rare inside.  Poised amongst a smattering of baby brussels sprouts and shreds of matsutake mushroom, there weren't enough sprouts to share, really, and no side dishes are offered.  Which may have inspired the ordering that burger after our entrees.  Yes, there were just two of us, but half of that us had a voraciously insatiable appetite.  (We did not, however, finish all of the fries.  There was some dignity upheld.)

Not enough, however, to keep from ordering dessert.  And I'm glad I did, because the salted caramel apple creme brulee was excellent.  Tiny nuggets of crisp apple studded the delicate creme, a tactic I've never experienced before.  It was a nice touch to the rich pudding, which was unfortunately a bit weighed down with its thick brulee crust, but the crumbles of salt crystals atop gave the coating a bit of grown-up appeal.    A strong, hearty coffee would have helped melt the sticky sweet, but the joe on hand was a generic-tasting brew.   There is a sundae on hand as well, described as a classic rendition, as well as an assortment of sorbets and cookies.

Lucky for us, Beatrice isn't the snob she could have been.  At least the telephone number is listed and somebody actually picks up.  The exclusivity of The Waverly only shows up here in fits and starts, and is mostly forgiveable.  You might not be able to construct the meal exactly as you want it, but thoes leave you with a little less visual excitement, but maybe my words will inspire you to see what she looks like in person.

285 West 12th Street  New York, NY 10014
(646) 896-1804

LE BERNARDIN

It is no surprise that whenever imported chefs visit New York, they choose Le Bernardin for a meal.  There are few other restaurants that function at this level, this consistently, continuing to please, inspire, surprise and satisfy each and every guest that can afford the experience.   It is nothing but wonderful, as well, that this success comes to a chef and gentlemen, Eric Ripert, that is quite simply the Platonic ideal of both.  His Chef de Cuisine at Le Bernardin, Chris Muller, prevails the same culinary acumen, as Ripert's empire gently expands.  And now with the recent renovation of the dining room, the impressive decor lives up to the overall experience.

The spectacular painting of a tumultuous sea threatens to crash from the wall, and is prescient of the seafood-centric menu.   Like the ocean, dishes can be powerful and surprising, or calm and tranquil, but always boundless in depth and soul.   Likewise, the global influences are as expansive as the vastness of the sea.  The technique and finesse is inarguably French, but there are Asian, Latin, Mediterranean, African flavors- you name it.   And while the kitchen would graciously acquiesce requests for meats or vegetables, the most heightened experience will occur succumbing to the whim of the chef's tasting menu.  A la carte wouldn't disappoint though, either: you would have to order items to which you had an established aversion in order to even approximate disappointment at Le Bernardin (and even then, you might decide you actually ended up liking just those things you thought you did not).


Single, pure-white orchids decorate each table, as elemental and exotic as the courses to be had.  Seated at the glowing, white linened table, the pearlescent chargers glimmer under a warm spotlit beam. We enjoyed a smooth, creamy potted salmon flecked with chives atop crusty rolls from a
selection of artisanal breads by the hottest oven of the moment, Maison Kayser in nearby Yorkville.  The chargers themselves are admirable conversation pieces, with rims beaded like droplets of seaspray.  These are soon whisked away as your first course arrives.  I began with Barely Touched (preceding this is the Almost Raw section which I tend to circumvent) sea scallops, sliced into coins and warmed to firm their texture just
slightly.  They floated atop a buttery lime-shiso broth, anointed with dots of shiitake-miso jus and precious shards of crisp snow pea.

While wine pairing was offered, I chose to to restrain myself to one glass, and was bequeathed a crisp Austrian Gruner Veltliner that exquisitely accompanied each course, and somehow magically retained its gentle coolness throughout the meal (which lasted a solid three hours).  That was a welcome attribute for the second dish, octopus charred "a la plancha" with a piquante tomato sauce vierge and a fan of crisp fennel, emulsions of vegetal green olive and pungent black garlic daubed into a paisley underneath.   From Lightly Cooked arrived a
 roasted black bass, a generous hunk of pristine skin-crisped fish amidst a golden pool of Peruvian chicha sauce, inspired by Ripert's recent trip to Peru.  The slight funk of fermented corn was spliced with lime, and then joined by buttery chunks of acorn squash ceviche garnished with shishito pepper. 

Our final savory course was a spectacular grand finale: a Dover sole in its glorious winter fattiness that it dons seasonally as the local waters cool.  Chef Muller was almost as rhapsodic about the quality of that fish alone as I was about its preparation.  The filets were sauteed to a deep golden brown, resulting a crisped edge that seemed to hold together its meltingly tender flesh.  It stretched languidly in an exquisite tamarind brown
 butter, one of those sauces that will resonate in my memory with no foreseeable terminus.  It was a dish so grand, so sumptuous, that its accompaniment of beautifully perfumed basmati rice was served aside so as not to distract from the exalted fish, adorned with rich pistachios and almonds, onyx currants and ruby-toned barberry, and a crinkle of gold leaf to appear worthy of its companion.

After such grandiosity, our first dessert displayed a refreshing humility and simplicity.  A small garnet plum topped with sake sorbet was flanked by sastrugas of gingery foam with tiny leaflets of shiso, a dollop of zesty plum sorbet atop a small square of light, spongey cake.  Not to be outdone, however, a playful composition of chocolate and popcorn followed.  A bar a thick, smooth Madagascan ganache balanced crisp kernels of caramel corn,  candied peanuts and a crisp sugary tuile, its extravagance balanced by a small quenelle of creamy popcorn ice cream, reminding us there is still fun to be had amid all this luxury.  Finally... well, next-to-finally arrived more child's play: two squares of buttery, nutty sablee
hugging hazelnut gelato, but so as not to trivialize things too much, it is presented in a flourish of silver foil, somehow elevating a simple ice cream sandwich to something exceptional.  Needing not a morsel more, the actually-final dessert came as a trio of tiny dense pumpkin cakes, moist and spiced... although perhaps gilding the lily.  Or the orchid, as it were.  But if ever there were a restaurant to live up to a little pomp, this is the New York Times four-starred,  Michelin three-starred, highest-Zagat ranked candidate to do so.

155 West 51st Street
 tel.    212.554.1515

CASA MONO

Casa Mono was on that fated list, nearly a decade ago, that ended up introducing me to this world below the salamander of which I have become so enamored.  Mike Colameco's Food Talk on WOR Radio hosted a contest rewarding the first caller to pronounce their top ten restaurants in New York.  Some way or another, Colameco
and I ended up sharing a meal at a short-lived steakhouse in Times Square, a day before Thanksgiving, with a pair of A-list chefs sharing a table for four.  And he is the one who began to nurture in me this passion for all things culinary.  At any rate, I hadn't been back to Casa Mono since it first qualified for that list, and I'm happy to report that this monkey is swinging as strong as ever.

And this is my assessment even having taken menu suggestions from a waiter whose palate I belatedly found to be diametrically opposed to mine.  (Note to self: if I'm going to take recommendations from a stranger, it would behoove me to ask  first what is their favorite food.  If the response is pork belly, or mackerel, or even macaroni and cheese, it should raise a red flag that our tastebuds might vibrate on different wavelengths.  I did not ask.  Let the orderer beware.)  Suffice it to say that the minimalist descriptions paired with the suggestions from our waiter culminated in presenting some dishes I would not have otherwise chosen to involve myself with.  This was not the case, however, with the blackened beet dish with which we

began.  They were charred and smokey, encrusted with a savory, seedy granola and paired with smooth curds of cana de cabra.  A side of brussels sprouts were halved, slicked with oil and simply roasted, retaining the vegetal splendor of their emerald green outer leaves but seared dark on their faces and tender inside.
The baby squid with local corn grits (a waiter-recommendation) had the little chunks of octopod breaded and fried like popcorn shrimp (an unexpected treatment) dotting the periphery of an exquisite bed of dense grits draped with a voluptuous poached egg.
 I would have preferred the squid grilled or sauteed, that way the pan juice would lend continuity with the rest of the dish, but it's sometimes a little difficult to know what is coming gauging from the stark menu listings: the longest entry has but nine words total.  The same scenario presented itself with the rabbit, which arrived as two deboned hunks of juicy meat, chicken-fried worthy of the Colonel,

with an anticucho of its gizzards spanning the divide.  Grilled spears of carrot straddled the rabbit, and a habanero-spiked cuajada (a yogurty smear of unctuous milk curd) cushioned structure and contributed a zesty brightness.  I was dissuaded from a cod cheek pil pil, which I'm pretty sure I would've been happier with: I like saucy and complex, and I think Waiter likes meaty and fried.  At any rate, we found common ground with the seared scallops with pumpernickel gazpacho, which was salty and
 bold, novel with its punch of caraway and rich, nutty crusted seafood.    Crisp little toasts of marbled rye and crisp, raw celery stalks slanted amongst the scallops and anchored in the 'gazpacho', which was really more of a caraway-inflected tomato and bread crumb puree, and bound with a ribbon of zesty pickled ***.  Deciding between a side of sauteed setas and a more innovative-sounding option of artichokes with mint, I listened again to  Waiter.  While the mushrooms were a lovely mix, perfectly
 cooked and flecked with herbs, I bet the artichokes would've been more interesting.  For some reason, I kept outsourcing the task I usually revel to undertake, and it was shooting me in the foot.  That said, even with suboptimal ordering, the meal at Casa Mono impressed again and again.  The room is simultaneously intimate and lively, reflecting the care and precision, yet rustic boldness of the food  And my menu mishaps might just inspire me to allow much less time to elapse before a return visit.  Because even after all these years, I'd still put Casa Mono on my Top Ten List.

52 Irving Place at 17th street
tel.  212.253.2773

COLICCHIO & SONS/Taproom

Colicchio & Sons kept coming up in foodie circle conversations, which is notable at least in that it is no newbie: the restaurant opened its west Chelsea doors in 2008.  It's been open long enough to have been on and off my go-to list for awhile, but when an opportunity to dine at the Taproom arose, I thought it would be the perfect test-run for the main dining room, which definitely a big-ticket affair.  Tom Colicchio is the headliner here, but researching a bit the restaurant's website, the functioning chefs James Tracey and Luke Bergman are also ably pedigreed.  The address's prior incarnation, Craftsteak, may have its ghosts haunting the space, however: both menus are distinctly protein-centric.  There's hardly a vegetarian option on either menu, which is at odds with how I interpreted their manifesto. The elements of simplicity, however, are in full swing, and the attempt at a Danny Meyer-style graciousness, is well-evident.   Whether or not they do this on all fronts, they are certainly aiming to please.


And mostly they do.  The trick was navigating the menu. I was not dining with a bunch of rabbit-food eaters, either, but a lot of people want a salad or soup to begin- of which there was one on the entire menu.  So of a table of five, four beet salads were ordered, and I ventured out for variation with seared sea scallops.  Which were actually a lot more interesting than the beets, which were pretty much.... well, just beets.  There were dollops of goat cheese (of course) and shards of julienned pear strewn across quartered golden and ruby varieties.  But it wasn't anything to get too excited about.  But at least they were vegetables, which are notably scarce anywhere on the menu.  Scallops had a touch more panache.  Seared and plonked atop a
thick puree of butternut squash they were, festooned with crisply fried leaves of brussels sprouts masquerading as verdant potato chips (again, not totaling one whole, so hardly contributing to your five-a-day).    The other appetizers consisted of chilled options, oysters and
 a seafood platter, and a beef tartare.  P.E.I. mussels in a tomato-ginger broth was large enough- and flavorful enough- to stand in as an entree, wading in zesty tomato broth spiked with ginger.    Terrine, cassoulet and and stuffed quail rounded out the first courses, so it is sort of go meat, or go home.   The more I sussed the situation out, the more I saw that the Taproom is definitely tap-oriented "bar" food (although elevated), instead of what I was expecting of a more casual version of the dining room.    And that tap should be taken advantage of: I sampled a gorgeous seasonal hefeweizen that tasted almost not like beer at all but caramel, bananas and spice.  It went down smooth and easy- a good thing since it was a full pour in a very, very tall glass.

Entrees go well with the finery of the tap, but exhibit a similar paucity of produce as the appetizers:  a mushroom and taleggio pizza was all taleggio and almost no 'shroom, and if there was any shaved white truffle atop was so faint it was lost in the unspecified pesto that appeared instead.  The burger, on the other hand, was big enough to lose yourself in, and that would've been a decent fate.    The juicy pink patty was smothered in Drunk Onions and pecorino, and sided with chips of both the darkly russet, kettle-cooked potato variety and bread-and-butter pickled.  The tender, sesame-seeded bun gave good grip and didn't over-starch the meat.  And of course, skate was on the menu and consequently ordered....

as well for the fact that it was sided with some welcome roasted cauliflower as for my predilection for this fish.  And it was great, just flour-dusted enough to enhance its texture, and bedecked with pungent little caperberries and two tiny sections of grapefruit to counter the roasty richness of both the brown butter and the unctuously smooth puree beneath.   And speaking of rich, a pork belly entree (which unlike the mussels, seemed more appetizer-sized)

 (but, then again, how much pork belly can one consume?) (unless you're not Josh Ozersky?) (Sorry, I digress), sided with crispy panzanella croutons and a Lilliputian head of romaine.



Onto desserts, none of which tantalized from their descriptions, but we nevertheless tried two.  A butterscotch panna cotta tasted more like its accompanying pumpkin ice cream than butterscotch, and the pudding was more moussey than traditional panna cotta.

It was covered in a sort of rubbery cranberry gelee that not only didn't taste like cranberry: it barely tasted of anything.  The best part was the delicate pepita brittle, appropriately shaped like a Phoenix rising from the rest of the lackluster concoction.  Zeppole were better, but heavy finishers for such a solid savory menu.  The powdered sugar orbs teamed up with a creamy milk chocolate ice cream and a luscious orange-butter sauce in which to dip them.

Nothing wasn't good here in the Taproom, but it certainly didn't live up to the buzz I anticipated. Using it as a gauge for the main dining room I think was an error:  signs indicate they are saving all their sparklers for the main dining room.  The Taproom is perfectly sufficient for a tasty dinner in a gorgeous room (fulfill your fruit and veggie quota elsewhere) with well-choreographed service.  So instead of dissuading me from wanting to experience the Colicchio & Sons dining room, the underwhelm actually bolstered my interest.  Tom's magic is lurking in that grand space somewhere, and something makes me think it is on the opposite side of the glass walss of the elevated wine cellar.

The Taproom
85 10th Avenue

tel 1(212) 400-6699 ‎

COLONIE

My new friend Andrew Cote, the notorious New York beekeeper, recommended I watch the movie "Colony", a recent  documentary on the demise of the honeybee population.  Ever since I saw it, I've had a different colony on my mind: the one out in Brooklyn's picturesque Brooklyn Heights neighborhood.  Its sister restaurant, Governor, recently received two sparklers from the New York Times, but I forgot about it before setting out to Colonie... on the early side, of course, because Colonie is another one of those no-rezzie Brooklyn spots that'll run up your tab waiting at bar if you get there at prime time.  We, instead, were seated swiftly, ushered past the bar

 up front past a nice, frondy living wall of ferns and coleus and spider plants, to the dining room  beyond.  There are tables at the periphery, but we sat right at the counter surrounding the kitchen- and got to experience a little bit of the incendiary heat that these guys suffer through (or revel in?) whilst creating their magic.  On a balmier night, the emanating heat might be somewhat unpleasant, but this evening a bit of autumn chill had begun to set in, and the stove's constant fire                of tnnn            added to the  coziness of the room.

We also got a little preview of what kind of food Colonie is dishing out.  The name comes from Brooklyn's original nomenclature of Bruijkleen Colonie, from the Dutch, and the food boasts a similar, hearty and rustic traditional flair.  Simply put, there is no fear of butter and sauce, of salt and seasoning.  In fact, if you do NOT want to know how much butter and salt go into your vittles, you might think about requesting a table out of direct view.  All the food we tried was robustly flavored, tipping the scales on the heavy side but evening things out with seasonal produce and the freshest

of ingredients.  Starting off lightly, we tried a modest beet salad, a melange of both golden and ruby, settled on a white porcelain plate smeared with a mustardy violet-scented beet puree which added novelty to its simplicity.  Nudging a little heartier were a small dish of ricotta gnudi with Sweet
100 cherry tomatoes, saucy little gems that burst (sometimes too enthusiastically) their juiciness over the tender dumplings.  Nicoise olives were minced over top, with snips of fresh basil, but nary a lick of sauce or dressing to provide coverage.  Luckily, the tender little pillows were unashamed to display themselves in their full splendor.




I'm not saying that there isn't care and finesse in Colonie's cuisine: plating a dish of seared scallops with sugar snaps and tiny carrots evidenced the usage of tweezers.  My halibut, however, came simply sauteed to bronze, squat atop a garlicky chiffonade of black kale, just softened with heat.  The pan juices werethickened and drizzled on top, and given a littering of bottarga.  Hanger steak was a classic preparation, served with a pungent garlic

and devastatingly good fries, irregularly cut so that some are crisp as the devil, some tender and spud-y, some skin-on, some center cut: something for everyone.  Served, these are, with a demure little crock of nothing less than Sir Kensington's ketchup (of Brooklyn, of course).    Goes without saying we couldn't resist a side of brussels sprouts, but these fried specimens almost had all the brussel cooked right out of
them, tasting more like savory popcorn than a vegetable, although nonetheless tasty for it.  Just very rich; the big bowl was unfinishable.  Colonie's vegetables prove even dirt candy can be "junk food".  Cauliflower in brown butter evidenced the wild abandon of butter usage: a huge knob of
butter hit the cast iron skillet, then another, then three meaty knuckles of the vegetable and a handful of plump caperberries.  Seared to a crust on each side, then slid with all its buttery lubrication onto a rectangular dish studded with crispy croutons, and veiled with a grating of lemon zest and a fat, silvery anchovy reposed languidly atop.

And with that, dessert was rendered superfluous, especially since the offerings at hand followed the lusty tract of the savories:  an apple tart or stone fruit cobbler might have retained its appeal, but sticky date cake, doughnuts or chocolate fondant waxed all too leadenly jejune to attract much enthusiasm.  Luckily, my generously poured Arneis lasted throughout the meal, and the final sips warmed to the room, taking on a sweetness masked by its initial chill.  With the richness of the meal, this was all the dessert I needed.

127 Atlantic Avenue

(718) 855-7500

info@colonienyc.com