| RESTAURANT REVIEWS by Tom Steele from OUR TOWN and MANHATTAN SPIRIT
Eli's Restaurant |
| Eli’s Restaurant 1411 Third Avenue at 80th Street (212) 717-9798 Appetizers: $8-15 Entrées: $19-32 Eli Zabar is one of New York’s most beloved food entrepreneurs. Who wouldn’t love the guy who brought such great breads—and olives and cheeses and seafood and meats—to the Upper East Side? Eventually unsatisfied merely to purvey glorious foods at his venerated Vinegar Factory, he began opening a few restaurants—E.A.T. Café and Across the Street. The latter went through several chefs before finding in Scott Bieber precisely the right match for Eli’s adamantine vision of ideal restaurant fare: absolutely seasonal, and completely market driven, meaning driven by Eli’s markets and greenhouses and indefatigable bakery. Bieber recently made the eleven-block trek south from the late Across the Street to the bigger and better Eli’s Restaurant, which is beside and above the spotless and beautifully stocked Eli’s Manhattan market. The bi-level space features long, clean lines, and those wonderful Max Escher-esque tiles are carefully inlaid all across the floors. Earth tones prevail: Wheat and pastel green high-backed leather banquettes line the north wall; spaciously placed tables are clothed in matching wheat; the recessed ceiling provides gentle, even lighting that spreads a certain warmth throughout the space. Gorgeous forest-clearing tapestries are hung where appropriate to soften the space. The loping bar at the rear southeast sparkles with a most orderly wine cellar above it. The wine list, overseen by the enchanting Mary Lish, features eclectic yet specific bottles that successfully connect the flavors of Bieber’s magical food with the wonders of wine. Lish has managed to get ahold of several bottles of premier cru Mercurey burgundy from 1993, with a variable nose that eventually settles on light black cherry, and a nice, dry finish. Service is swift, graceful, and highly informed. Hillary, our delightful server, is herself a first-class cook, and knows all about what Bieber is up to. And there’s a lot to know, for despite the fact that only seven or eight entrées are offered, every last ingredient and how it is used is crucial. The menu changes daily, with only a few signature selections retained. One of the central features of Eli’s Manhattan—and Restaurant—is the astonishing seafood procured by Joe Catalano, the acknowledged prince of shellfish. His chilly Saltaire oysters (from Nova Scotia) are the sweetest I’ve ever tasted—sweeter, even, than Fanny Bays—with a lightly saline/cucumber finish. The buttered slices of soft rye sourdough and a stingingly fresh shallot mignionette sauce are both so good I kept right on eating them long after the oysters had vanished. Bieber’s steak tartare is an exhilarating revivification. A huddle of relatively large (1/8") cubes of top round (instead of the usual bland tenderloin) are in a voluptuous tangle with shallots, lemon, and olive oil—and that’s it: no raw egg, no tabasco, no capers, no minced parsley. The pristine result is surprisingly tangy. Infant arugula flutter about the rest of the plate, and gaufrette potato crisps are stabbed into the tartare. Huge heirloom hydroponic tomatoes—red, yellow, and green—are grown in the greenhouse above the Vinegar Factory, where plenty dry heat from the bakery below can waft across the happy heirlooms. I don’t expect to taste anything like these again until high August! Stone Church Farm, the small Hudson Valley poultry farm known to produce some of the finest organic chickens in America, provides chicken exclusively to Zabar’s Restaurant. Currently, poussin is available. Due to the youth of the bird, it can be a rather drab dining experience. Not here: The poussin is rubbed with fine olive oil and fresh herbs, then broil-roasted to a fare-thee-well, resulting in crisp skin and juicy flesh with flavors that go right to the bone. The butterflied bird flounces on a bed of endlessly smooth, buttery mashed Yukon Golds. Glazed, slender baby carrots lend the right rooty plushness. Braised-for-days Osso Buco, a pudgy wedge of veal shank brimming with slow flavors, is surrounded by a high ring of risotto that Hillary told us is made with nano rice, a stubby grain that remains toothsome while lending just the right starchy creaminess to the minced carrots and turnips and parsnips. "Gregg’s" cheese board, proudly laid out at the bar, features 15-20 French cheese, any of which is sure to produce a glow on your cheeks. A nice funky reblochon goes well with an earthy chevre, but there are no "wrong" combinations possible here. A stout I-dare-you crock of crème fraîche arrives with desserts. Banana caramel layer cake is even richer and thicker than you think it’s going to be, but go ahead—slather it with that damned crème fraîche, even if a scoop of perfect vanilla ice cream already gilds the plate. Quince tart is caramelized perfection, with the quince slices retaining sweet integrity in a pâte brisée shell. From Lish’s provident winelist, to Catalano’s seafood wizardry, to Bieber’s abiding trust of his superb ingredients and his brilliant culinary intuitions, Eli’s Resturant is a special, special place. BACK TO TOP |
| Serafina on Lafayette 393 Lafayette Street, at East Fourth Street (212) 995-9595 Appetizers: $5-20 (most under $15) Pasta: $9.75-22 Pizza: $10-20 Entrées: $16-29 In a majestic, soaring space of 11,000 square feet (the former Fairbanks Building) at the northeast corner of Lafayette and East Fourth Streets (just across from Tower Video), restaurateurs extraordinaires Vittorio Assaf and Fabio Granato and their past-master chef Giorgio Rocchi have brought their sensationally delicious Serafina act downtown. It took two years just to get the space; the landlord was actually seduced by Serafina’s irresistible pizza, and by the time he became a regular customer at the group’s East 61st Street restaurant, a deal was in the making. The décor is a resplendent, distinctly European amalgamation of the contemporary and the ancient. The space has been divided into a huge dining room and a swank bar/lounge, and an equally huge back ballroom for private functions. Jocose frescoes (just like those uptown) and flowers and beautiful old bricks are everywhere; the high barrel-vaulted ceiling is handsomely lit; capacious booths line the entire south wall; floor-to-ceiling plate glass runs along the entire west wall on either side of the gallant entryway. Central to the dining room is a huge wood-burning grill and a wood-burning pizza oven that rival any in Manhattan. The uptown menu formula has been tremendously successful, and its reception downtown has been no less passionate. All the signature dishes are there: the whole branzino baked in a thick casing of Sicilian salt, the risotto made with Veuve Clicquot champagne and pungent black truffles, the pizza al caviale, with sliced boiled potatoes, crème fraîche, and salmon caviar (or beluga, for an additional $39). I began with another of chef Rocchi’s signature dishes: carpaccio d’aragosta. A huge white plate is completely covered with cool razor-thin slices of sweet braised lobster tail. These are given an ardent drizzling of a creamy, eggy dressing, and at the center of the plate is a fleshy salad of arugula, roasted corn kernels, mushrooms, and sliced hearts of palm. You begin with a timid forkful of a lobster slice, and end by scooping up entire ecstatic mouthfuls of the tail meat, alternating with the earthy arugula salad. After its auspicious uptown debut several years ago, this remains the most fascinating carpaccio in town. Another of the seven carpaccios offered is made with that practically sacred kobe beef: The pampered Japanese cattle are massaged with sake and fed lots of beer, resulting in unutterably tender meat that retails here for about $95 a pound. Rocchi plates it with a rice wine and quail egg sauce, and lilts the center of the plate with a watercress/wild mushroom salad under a generous draping of parmigiano-reggiano. Serafina is well-known for its designer pizzas, both at the uptown restaurant and the absolutely delightful Serafina Fabulous Pizza (on Madison at 79th Street). I’ve tried most of the 19 varieties, from standard Margherita to a robiola cheese/black truffle number, and simply put, you can’t go wrong. They’re light enough to make the perfect intracourse. This time around, I tucked into a spectacular pie with a cracker-thin, smoky crust, mozzarella, smoked salmon, and a skittering of fresh dill. The extra-thick slices of salmon are laid on last, after the pizza is out of the searing oven, and their thickness prevents them from "cooking" on the blistering cheese. My shoulders sank in salmon ecstasy as I devoured the entire 1 1/2-foot pie in mere minutes. I could cheerfully do one of these every day. Conspicuously fresh tagliolini "di Cortina" is a very eggy, toothsome pasta preparation. The tagliolini are the color and shape of limp straw in a golden Tuscan sunset. They are in a blissful engulfment of cream, peas, sliced mushrooms, prosciutto, and great hunks of roasted chicken breast. As you can well imagine, that wood-burning oven does wonders for rack of lamb. Four extravagantly thick, juicy rack chops, trimmed and Frenched to the bone, are rubbed with rosemary (born to adorn lamb) and roasted in that scorching oven, then plated on a ring of sliced tomatoes with a heap of mashed russet potatoes. An ironically delicious, lightly dressed cucumber dicing crowns the lamb—a rather Greek touch. Desserts are also superbly wrought. Torta di limone features one of those deeply Italian crusts perfected by the fairly nearby Veniero’s: brown and soft and buttery, and filled with a luscious lemon cream. A crisp pastry cup of lemon sherbet joins the fun. And panna cotta—more or less the dessert of the moment in Manhattan—has an exuberant jiggle that flaunts the tiny specks of Madagascar vanilla beans. Purely presented on a huge plate with a snowy dusting of powdered sugar, this, too, I would happily engorge on a daily basis. How wonderful that, in tune with its noctural neighborhood, Serafina is open until 3 a.m. on weekends, and until 1 a.m. during the week, 365 days a year. How lucky for me, since I live nearby: I’ll never go to bed hungry again! BACK TO TOP |
| Le Perigord 405 East 52nd Street between First Ave. and FDR Drive (212) 755-6244 Prix Fixe dinner: $57 For thirty years, Le Perigord has, with cheery dignity, whetted and slaked the appetites of the panoply of the pretty and/or important people who visit—and return often. The plush, roomy space invites you to feel intensely grown-up and not a little European. Sprays of flowers, topiaries, and palms are carefully appointed, and there’s a fresh ripe rose on each table. The tiny track lights on the low ceiling flatter everything in view. Strategically placed mirrored columns encourage cruising the room for the inevitable celebrities and United Nations dignitaries. Presiding with peacock pride and flair is owner Georges Briguet; the sort of host you rarely encounter any more, he is the very definition of bonhomie. And in the kitchen is chef Pascal Coudouy, who brings a lively lavishness to everything he touches. The first thing you notice when you enter Le Perigord is the groaning buffet froid: jumbo shrimp, curvaceous sliced cucumbers dressed to the nines, perfect peppers, the biggest asparagus—peeled—I’ve ever seen, supple smoked salmon, and a huge striped bass, poached to supreme tenderness. Also featured is an array of house-made charcuterie (pâtés, rillettes, and terrines), a French culinary tradition since 1526. To get matters nicely underway, begin with a unique apertif: a flute of pousse grappière, which you won’t find anywhere else in town. The restaurant makes and distills its own armagnac, a resonant brandy with apple notes, and for this concoction, it is lavishly blended with fine champagne. Tuck into a selection from that buffet, or, even more extravagantly, opt for thick slices of fresh duck foie gras, seared and placed on a coaxing tomato confit with a scattering of crushed pistachios. Wonderful, too, is a croustillant (a sort of French spring roll) stuffed with stinging fresh goat cheese, generous morsels of smoked duck, all balanced by bits of prune. This is cut into manageable quarters and covered with silky green mâche. Two robust butterflied quail are grilled rare and luscious and juicy, then arranged in a dance around a truffled risotto for the gods, as creamy and succulent as short-grain rice could ever be. The risotto is stabbed with a disc of frico (fried parmigianno-reggiano), and the plate is finished with a Périgourdine sauce, a rich brown gravy that features plenty of the black truffles for which the Perigord region of France is so treasured. The entire preparation reminds you why you eat in restaurants in the first place. So do grilled venison loin medallions, placed around an inverted timbale of moist mashed potatoes amid perfectly cooked haricorts verts. Nodules of foie gras mousse haunt each venison medallion, just as brandy whispers across the pepper sauce. You’ll still have room for Floating Island, that irresistible crème anglaise pool with a raft of meringue drizzled with caramelized sugar. If no one had been looking, I might well have licked my plate. But you’ll also have room for an individual soufflé, piping hot in its one-and-a-half-cup ramekin. Unalloyed by pour-in sauce, the fluffy flavors—chocolate, grand marnier, or that splendid armagnac—go right on giving to the last spoonful. It’s always so good to return to French cooking at its finest. BACK TO TOP |
| La Reserve 4 West 49th Street, at Rockefeller Center (212) 247-2993 Prix fixe dinner: $54 With its soaring ceilings, extravagant art nouveau tulip chandeliers, ample dining rooms, and vast oil painted murals of geese and ducks fluttering about sunny marshlands, La Reserve is an endlessly poised, elegant space in the glittering heart of Rockefeller Center. A staggering aggregation of sparkling mirror panels with frosted cherry blossoms is suspended over the bar at the entryway. Further inside, a wall of beveled mirrors makes a dramatic partition at the end of the primary dining room, separating it from a sizeable companion room. (I’m told that the place will be "refreshed" early next year—new carpeting, re-upholstering for the immense banquettes, and such.) Place settings sustain the marsh/reserve theme with signature refinement. As you can imagine, quite plush people come here. The suave staff, an all-male revue in full black tie, moves gracefully and swiftly around the restaurant, never too formal to be friendly. Our server Alex made precisely the right suggestions; he knows the menu and wine list intimately, and his passionate connection with the restaurant is palpable. Chef Dominique Payraudeau has mastered every aspect of classic French cooking, and more than a few personal spins make traditional masterpieces his own. Warm and toothsome individual ficelles arrive with plenty of sweet butter. Payraudeau sent out a lagniappe: huddling next to a soupçon of fluffy salmon mousse with a teaspoon of sevruga cavair is a curled slender slice of some of the most succulent smoked salmon I’ve tasted all year. "It’s house smoked," Alex explained. "Less salty that way." Indeed. Payraudeau has reimagined escargot by arranging the plump, juicy snails in their earthy burgundy ragout around a creamily reconstituted dried salt cod brandade redolent of leeks: a completely distinctive rendition, and one that may well spoil future escargot preparations for me. Seared foie gras is just insanely good, and Payraudeau makes it even better, studding the fat slices with morsels of oven-dried tomato and pomegranate buds, and plating it all in a tangy cider brandy sauce that perfectly counterpoints the rich liver. A red onion marmalade brings you back down to earth just in time. Petite nage de fruit de mer could whimsically be translated as "fruits of the sea having a little swim." Here you have lobster tail chunks, sea scallops, mussels, littleneck clams, and shrimp all frolicking in a creamy pond of a shellfish potage reduction. The flavors spread themselves out across your entire mouth, proudly reminding you that French cooking really is the best, after all. Florida red snapper had to have been swimming in the Gulf of Mexico the morning of the day it was served to me. I’ve never had fresher snapper outside of Florida. The plump filet is given a gentle, smoky grilling skin side down, then it is side-sauced with a lightly lemon-zested caper/tomato/shallot liaison. A smashingly cheesy potato and arborio rice cake finishes the dish. L’assiette de chasseur (hunter’s plate) flaunts Payraudeau’s considerable prowess with meats. Venison medallions with an attitude—not the usual docile domesticated flesh, but a taste of all outdoors—are partnered with similarly untamed (but in no way gamey) duck breast and a slab of that incredible foie gras. Gleeful tart cherries are on hand, and sautéed spinach and red cabbage in a lively stock reduction lend an earthy balance to this showpiece. Desserts are right up to the level of everything that preceded them. Fluffy chocolate soufflé is perfect, with distant rumors of coffee, leaving your entire being begging for more. A warm beggar’s purse of phyllo dough, set upon crème anglaise, is stuffed with wildly rich dark chocolate ganache, and brandied cherries tarten up matters. If you’re feeling extravagant on the weekend, but can’t face a $75 brunch at the Plaza, La Reserve offers an unlimited (French) champagne brunch for a mere $40. Meanwhile, dinner there tonight would be a splendid idea. BACK TO TOP |
| Patria 250 Park Avenue South, at 20th Street (212) 777-6211 Prix fixe: 3 courses, $54 When Patria unlocked its revolving door for the first time, on Valentine’s Day in 1994, it became the epicenter of the Nuevo Latino revolution, which hit Manhattan with about the same force as hurricane sushi back in the 1970s. Food magazines (mostly based here), cookbooks (mostly assembled here), and above all, menus across town suddenly acquired at least a partial Spanish accent, and ingredients like chipotle peppers, plantains, manchego cheese, yuca, and chorizo sausage began appearing in mainstream Manhattan supermarkets. It is generally agreed that Patria’s founding chef, Douglas Rodriguez, led this Nuevo Latino revolution. Now his old friend Andrew DiCataldo has assumed that leadership. (The two were roommates at Johnson & Wales way back when, and DiCataldo became Patria’s chef de cuisine in 1995.) The menu has been considerably rethought and reinvigorated, and eager diners are rushing to the Flatiron district in swarms. Patria has a loopy, tipsy décor filled with voluptuous curves. Thanks to the soaring ceiling, there are three levels past the gorgeous marble bar. Wraparound windows run from the floor to the ceiling all along the vast corner location at 20th and Park Avenue South. This much glass means that much noise getting a lot of bounce, but you’re here for a party, not a poetry reading. Kick off that party with a mojito, a deceptively smooth blend of rum, mint leaves, sugar cane, and lime juice served in a tall, narrow glass. Your maître-d’ and wine director is the dapper Jorge Liloy; he would be pleased to guide you carefully through his list of over 500 bottles. Tender fresh breads are brought, and so is a mortar filled with whole roasted garlic cloves, soft butter, and cream cheese. A pestle is provided for you to enjoy mashing and blending the spread. Presentations are dramatic, but never overwhelming. Tuna ceviche is delivered in a split coconut nested in finely crushed ice. The sashimi-grade tuna is cubed and stirred with minced lemon grass, lime leaves, and Thai basil, then dappled with ginger-spanked young coconut water, resulting in a delightful balance of dazzling flavors. One of Patria’s new signature dishes is Peruvian ceviche tiradito, a cunning, limey mélange of various chunks of fin fish flesh, minced red onion, and cilantro, all stepped up with stinging minced peppers. This is served in a glass blowfish bowl that’s plated with corn nuts and demented popcorn to clear the palate between briney bites. Soothing sweet potato triangles are along for this wildly delicious ride. A special appetizer the evening we visited sounded—and certainly was—irresistible: a venison empanada. Morel mushrooms are emulsified into a yielding vinaigrette for a salsify, watercress, red onion, cherry tomato salad in which the empanada is tenderly cradled. The turnover crust is buckwheat; when it is pierced, the voluptuous venison filling, singing in a Rioja gravy, tumbles out. A triumphant seafood parihuela is served in a low wide bowl. Prominent is a split jumbo lobster tail that’s been cautiously roasted before it is placed in this ruddy stew of sweet clams, mussels, bay scallops, calamari rings, al dente white beans, tomatoes, chorizo, and insistent, slash-and-burn panca peppers—thus, a kind of Peruvian bouillabaisse for the hopelessly pampered. "Suckling pig combo" features two graceful bone-on baby rib chops (deluxe finger food, indeed), and a leg that’s been rubbed in deep, dark spices and watchfully braised. Well-dressed mustard greens with an encirclement of thick red bean broth and a low stack of yuca con cachucha mojo complete this remarkable "combo." Pastry chef Gilles Delaloy (who sweetened Cena and Peacock Alley in his day) is having the time of his life, pulling together desserts like pineapple-coconut "ceviche," for which the flesh of those two tropical staples is seasoned with cilnantro oil and coconut milk, and served with a piña colada granita. And he uses a criss-cross pattern of sweet red pepper marmalade and avocado banana salsa to deepen the various chocolates involved in his chocolate satanico—a chocolate biscuit dappled with soft chocolate cream. This festive Flatiron hot spot offers especially creative and scrumptious fare guaranteed to arouse even the most jaded palate. BACK TO TOP |
| Fireman’s of Brooklyn 1081 Third Avenue, between E. 63rd and 64th Streets (212) 838-7570 Appetizers: $6.95-11.95 Entrées: $11.95-28.95 Hot on the heels of his smashing and enduring successes Brooklyn Diner, Redeye Grill, Trattoria Dell’Arte, and Fiorello’s, restaurateur Shelly Fireman has finally lent his very good name to one of his creations. Given the painstaking and heartfelt efforts that went into imagining and creating this place, it would be strange not to bestow his personal stamp. The restaurant is awash in nostalgia, with a pronounced Brooklyn accent. Visible from the street are huge vintage photographs of Coney Island, backlit with bright golden light. Then you notice the nearly life-sized bronze casts of the two guys who brought the Brooklyn Dodgers to the pinnacle of the 1955 World Series, pitcher Johnny Podres and catcher Roy Campanella. Peering further inside, you can even make out the two gigantic lobster tubs, which boast extremely sophisticated filtration systems (water is purified continually as it whooshes through ultraviolet radiation). What is not discernible from the street is the vastness of the beautiful sunken space, which seats 185 in several capacious areas fitted with extremely roomy booths, all clothed and papered and ready for some very serious seafood consumption. Somehow, the breezy tease of Brooklyn itself magically pervades the restaurant. Moving swiftly through this space is one of the most efficient—yet easygoing—staffs I’ve encountered, from top (handsome managing director Jeffrey Boros) to the fussy bussing staff. Our server, Caesar, was delightfully capable and, like most Manhattan waiters, a fellow with many other talents as well. I dearly love any place that lets me know right from the bread basket that I’m in for fresh and exciting fare. The restaurant’s biscuits will soon become famous, mark my words: They are like savory Scottish scones, warm and intensely buttery, yet light as cotton candy. If you ask your waiter nicely (beg!), he’ll see to it that another round of biscuits arrives, as soon as the next batch is out of the oven. To refer to chef Michael Collier’s clam chowder as "New England-style" would falsely imply that it is a milky, bland stew. No, this is a deeply briny, sinewy, well-reduced soup, studded with a melting pat of butter and strewn with minced fresh clams and diced potatoes that retain full flavor and textural integrity. A goblet of bulbous oyster crackers beckons nearby. Go for Coopers Creek Riesling, available by the glass; its slightly fizzy deportment yields to an array of clean flavors that perfectly partner anything on this seafood-dominated menu. Malpeque oysters are sweet and hyaline, with light banana notes. This time of year, they’re plumping up nicely, just like the littleneck clams, which are, in turn, particularly pungent and juicy, giving good contrast to the oysters. Order them in tandem. Only a chef as prodigious as Collier could produce crab cakes with an interior suppleness that rivals that of lightly seared foie gras, yet bulging with sweet crabby flavors. They’re tightly breaded with a slash of cayenne, and deep-fried to seal them so that there is an explosion of tenderness in each bite. Perfect, piping-hot, skin-on skinny French fries are given a good salting to make them particularly addictive. Absolutely not to be missed: the diminutively designated "lobster roll." I lived in New England long enough to devour lobster rolls all the way up and down the eastern seaboard, and this is the best I’ve had. It’s not something you would—or could—pick up and take a bite from. For one thing, the split and toasted and buttered roll and its luscious booty are swimming in an engulfment of succulent, loose home-made mayonnaise. The fresh lobster meat (mostly claw and tail) retains its wondrous chew to the last eager mouthful. This alone would make Fireman’s of Brooklyn a regular stop on any serious seafood lover’s dance card. Add those perfect shoestring fries, and that regular stop becomes weekly. Beautiful and rich halibut meunière features a thick length of that flavorful fish in a lemony brown butter sauce with tantalizations of capers, paper-thin toasted almond slices, and shattered scallions. Pastry chef Donald Garcia has plenty of freshly whipped cream up his sleeve, especially when it comes to the banana cream pie that actually made three waiters sigh as they passed the table. Thick with ripe bananas bound by a yieldy custard that maximizes texture and flavor, it made me sigh, too. Strawberry Vermont cream cheesecake is a full four inches high—not counting the jumbo strawberries—with a hazelnut-studded crusting that clings voraciously to the rich, eggy cheesecake. In this city of great seafood, Fireman’s of Brooklyn shoots directly to the front ranks. BACK TO TOP |
| The Alamo 304 East 48th Street, near Second Avenue (212) 759-0590 Appetizers: $6.95-12.95 (most well under $10) Entrées: $10.95-16.95 The Alamo has been kicking along since 1985, but none of my foodie friends had ever heard of it, and neither had I, which is pretty remarkable, given how hung up I am on Mexican food. Granted, Alamo’s in a neighborhood—northern United Nations—that’s a detour for most of us, but that’s no excuse, because so are Nobu and Chanterelle and Danube. I’m delighted to divulge this inadvertently kept secret. The Alamo is large and deep and just lively enough, featuring a welcome abundance of luxuriously roomy booths on two levels. Glimmering strings of white Christmas tree lights are hung throughout the place, illuminating colorful murals of Pancho Villa, Zapata, and Mexican landscapes. Framed Mexican artifacts are everywhere. The enormous bar features the largest selection of tequilas I’ve ever seen anywhere—over 70: silvers and golds, infused and even on tap! In Adan Cortes, owner Nelson Portela has found an uncompromising, exacting, and delightfully indulgent Mexican chef. Everything—but everything—is fresh; there is no freezer, except for ice creams. At full throttle, the kitchen produces a prodigious array of authentic Mexican and Tex-Mex dishes. Portela also makes certain that his entire staff is fully conversant in Mexican foods and ingredients. Our server, Vince, made some important recommendations, and saw to it that our food was spicy, as requested. He even picked for us the very silkiest "sipping tequila"—El Tesoro, absolutely even, without the slightest bite, and so smoothe you could easily and unwittingly sip away until you suddenly saw your grandmother’s face. I can’t remember better Margaritas (straight up or on the rocks, please): real lime juice (I wonder how many bushels of limes Alamo goes through every night) darkened—not sweetened—by triple sec, and for once you can really taste the tequila. They achieve the perfect reverberation of sweet and sour, all as chilly as Oaxacan night air. A large basket of freshly fried tortilla chips is accompanied by two damnably irresistible dipping salsas: a chunky tomato/onion/cilantro affair, and a nice pool of limey tomatillo sauce. In vain have I searched Manhattan for the ideal stuffed jalapeño peppers—until I darkened the portals of The Alamo that night. Nothing I’ve ever had comes close. Beginning with whole spicy jalapeños—not that iniquitous new breed of "mild" jalapeños that have all the kick of a piece of Kleenex—chef Cortes opens and overstuffs them with Muenster cheese—not cream cheese, nor cheddar, nor Jack: Muenster is less greasy and more flavorful when melted. (You may order them with chopped chorizos, if you wish.) These he completely coats in a feathery egg batter and plunges them into searing oil, sealing them completely and cooking them until they bloat like little blond balloons. I swear, I’m going to return to The Alamo, order three rounds of jalapeños rellenos—make that four—and achieve true rapture. Not that these could overshadow the astonishing Fiesta Platter: a groaning platter of frijoles nachos; scrumptious Mexican pizza; baby tacos smaller than your thumb; ruddy chorizos in white flour tortilla blankets; a row of devilish taquitos; nice, gooey chicken quesadilla; and perfect, chunky guacamole—plenty for three, at just $9.95. Shrimp a la Plancha is a platter of countless butterflied large shrimp that have been rubbed with garlic and char-grilled in the shell to produce a gush of shrimp flavors you’d forgotten. From the Mexican side of the border, try Pollo Pipian Verde, with green chilis, minced pumpkin seeds, and tomatillos splurging over watchfully grilled chicken tenders, all waiting for you to wrap in steamed flour tortillas. Fluffy Mexican rice and black frijoles and a perfect cheese enchilada complete this dish. Then there’s El Dorado, from Texas, of course. A hunk of filet mignon is split and hugged by thick slices of bacon, then grilled over an open flame (rare, please), and plated in a succulent red wine pepper sauce alongside two Brazilian lobster tails fairly bursting out of their shells. Shoestring fried potatos, waffle chips, a chicken tamale, and broccoli under a gooey melt of chihuahua cheese complete this orgy of flavors and textures. I refuse to believe that just anyone could eat all this. I brought along my most intrepid and ravenous friend, and while he eventually prevailed (declaring it an utterly delightful battle), he could only ruefully blink at the spoonful of perfect flan I offered him. Thus, the next time that ineluctable hankering for Mexican food hits, you would do very, very well to remember The Alamo. BACK TO TOP |
| Jack’s Fifth 8 West 58th Street, near Fifth Avenue (212) 750-7474 Appetizers: $7-16 Entrées: $17-31 Once in a great while, a restaurant opens with everything so well in place and so right—from location to décor to maître-d’ to staff to chef to pastry chef—that a wonderful sense of permanence is immediately achieved. One month old Jack’s Fifth is such a restaurant. At one of the most coveted addresses in Manhattan—across the street from the Plaza Hotel, next to the Paris Cinema, a dozen paces from Bergdorf Goodman—Jack’s Fifth is named in memory of the uptown restaurant Jack’s (where chef Herb Wilson once cooked), the proximity to Fifth Avenue, and the Jacks- (and Jills-) of-all-trades whose enlarged vintage photographs deck the walls with such eccentric aplomb: riveters, biologists, cops, architects, musicians, and so forth. Consultant Edward Schoenfeld and architect Larry Bogdanow have created a roomy, hauntingly swank space that gives off a golden, romantic glow and a good whiff of nostalgia that’s abetted by the softened big-band music piped in. Handsomely upholstered high-backed "booths" have an ingenious semi-circular design to afford nearly total privacy—something most New Yorkers crave above all else. A huge spray of pussy willows and other-worldly flowers anchors the central rotary banquette cluster. Executive chef Herb Wilson brings the ideal pedigree to this luxurious space, having passed triumphantly through the kitchens of Gerard Pangaud and Les Frères Troisgros (Michelin two- and three-star restaurants in France), then, among others, Jack’s (for four years) and Le Refuge (for six) before he opened Zut! and, in 1996, the beguiling Bambou, New York’s first upscale Caribbean restaurant. For Jack’s Fifth, he has created a contemporary American menu with all the becoming and extravagant touches you’d expect to find from a chef with this enviable tenure. Mention must be made of what a delightful maître-d’ Jack’s Fifth has in John Kaufman: dapper, cordial, utterly helpful, and best of all, completely unpretentious. He oversees a smiling, totally focused staff with pleasure. Nearly everything we tasted all evening went perfectly with a bottle of Carl Graff Piesporter Michelsborg Riesling (1998), a flinty, complex wine just honeyed enough to balance the initial light sting. Like all good Rieslings, this one changes on the palate—a virtual shape-shifter. Feathery fresh breads with crispy crusts—especially an olive studded roll—are yeasty and yielding in texture. From the ample raw bar, we lassoed some Wellfleet oysters, characteristically saline and silky, and as pure and chilly and hale as the very Atlantic itself right about now. A huge wedge of hazelnut-crusted seared foie gras is served in a figgy engulfment with utterly voluptuous results. A nearby heap of frisée with lardons is dressed in a nice salty vinaigrette. Oxtail is served in a similarly thick pair of sections, having been browned and braised with root vegetables and slow-roasted tomatoes, all in a stir of tender red beans with chervil sprigs poked in all the right places. Diver sea scallops a full two inches in diameter and nearly an inch high are carefully seared and thoughtfully sauced in a slightly spicy red pepper coulis. A spill of large pearl cous-cous keeps everything nice and moist and warm. A nice, salty, thick herb crust has been rubbed into the willing flesh of a large lamb rack. After a light roasting, the rack is carved, and you are given three large chops to play with, along with a generous root vegetable ragout. A coconut jus sneaks its way in and keeps everything very interesting. (Presumably, chef Wilson discovered how well lamb and coconut marry during his recent days at the Caribbean Bambou.) Pastry chef Heather Carlucci came up through the ranks of some of the best kitchens in New York, including Mondrian, Union Square Café, Mad 61, the Monkey Bar, the Sony Club, and, most recently, the exalted JUdson Grill. Her lemon meringue parfait is intense, flecked with citric pulp and sided by a rich coconut sorbet. Guava granita sustains the Caribbean accent. A pair of thick rummy chestnuts are plated with pumpkin panna cotta and a light saboyan. With its mere rumors of pumpkin, the nice, jiggly custard is an uncloying homage to Manhattan’s current love affair with panna cotta. Both desserts are presented with signature geometric force. This is a kitchen—and a restaurant—singing with flavors and fresh ideas. And I know you’ll join me in hoping that Jack’s Fifth’s clever design leads the way to more privacy in restaurants. BACK TO TOP |
| Atlas 40 Central Park South between Fifth and Sixth Avenues (212) 759-9191 Lunch appetizers: $8-12 Salad course: $14-19 Main course: $14-18 Desserts: $8 At just eight weeks old, lucky Atlas already has everything imaginable going for it: a gifted and remarkably ambidextrous chef and a delightfully whimsical pastry chef who have both hit an enviably even stride; a carefully thought-through but never overwrought menu; a universal and highly versatile wine list; an astute and attractive staff; plush décor in a roomy, complex, medium-sized space; and a consummate view of Central Park right out the restaurant’s glass north wall. I thought Atlas would make the perfect place for lunch on a sunny November afternoon, with the park’s foliage at peak tinge, and sure enough, I was lucky, too. Banquettes run throughout the beautifully paneled space (as a matter of fact, a large photograph of the curvaceous crimson banquette at Atlas’s entryway just festooned a peculiar New York Times feature on banquettes in restaurants). The gorgeous sloping bar is matched with federal/teal upholstered barstools. Marbleized floors match the marbleized menu jackets. Chef Thomas Beres leapfrogs from cuisine to cuisine with the greatest of ease, from superb garlicky French fries to pristine sashimi, from chicken liver croquettes as fragrant as Indian samosas to grilled portobello shawarma, always with elegant presentations—each dish even seems to have its very own plate or platter. Challah bread balls, as light and fluffy as cotton candy, are brought with a tangy red onion spread dribbled with lime juice; I wish all breads brought before meals were this light—and irresistible. The perfect opening: A spread of oysters (Damon Island/Canada and Sakonnet/Rhode Island) and clams (littleneck), tucked into crushed ice on a large platter, with a zippy mignionette granité on hand to step them up, and tiny pickled cherry tomatoes with horseradish. The Sakonnets are subtle, with traces of cucumber and leather, and the Damon Islands are bright and clear as the light spackling the crimson maple twenty yards away. The young littlenecks are uncommonly smooth and calming. Those chicken liver croquettes, with their distinctly Indian taste and texture, are ameliorated by an ivory-golden curry; a watercress/frisée salad is similarly dressed with a curry-carrot vinaigrette. Silky slices of house-cured wasabi gravlax and barely seared tuna loin crusted with black and white sesame seeds are lined up on a large Japanese platter, with sautéed shiitakes huddled in one corner, just below a trio of caviars (black and red flying fish roe, and whitefish roe with a good jolt of fresh ginger) and a large tumble of tatsoi and mizuna dressed with a mild miso vinaigrette. A gigantic patty of rough-ground buffalo—3/4 of a pound, anyway—evokes burgers of yore. Buffalo proudly retains the deep, beefy flavor that American meats used to have before the food police had most of the savory fat bred out of our livestock. Ironically, buffalo is naturally so low-fat that it must be cooked rare or it will "seize," and all the flavor will be lost. Chef Beres sears the burger and it rests, fairly breathing, under a slab of gruyère, next to a Lincoln-log stack of finger-thick fries dredged in garlic butter. There’s a dipping ramekin of sturdy basil ketchup on the platter, along with a spread of red onion, tomatoes, and pickles should you be brave enough to build yourself a sandwich with the tender bread under the burger. A thick, pale omelette stuffed with tangy chèvre and sautéed leeks is topped with flash-fried leek chiffonade and sided by truly spectacular home-fried cubed potatoes shot through with sliced black olives, slow-roasted tomatoes, and tender choppings of artichoke heart. Several slices of applewood smoked bacon, lean and luscious, completes the dish with a flourish. Pastry chef Richard Gaetano has some delightful tricks up his sleeve. A banana pudding parfait in a martini glass he calls "Gone Bananas" features a chocolate Curious George fooling around on top with a lengthwise loopy banana chip. And Gaetano’s "Central Park Cheesecake" is light and fluffy, but also very rich and satisfying. A sultry red plum compote is flung over the high slice. Lunch simply has no right to be this good. Suffice it to say that I can’t wait to return to Atlast for dinner. BACK TO TOP |
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