ewindels

A, thanks for this. Details!! Were you in the countryside? Where did you go? Where did you stay? I will definitely spend a night in Llubjlana before flying back, but were you outside the city at all?

What a treat to revisit this restaurant after several years and find it not only just as excellent as the original visits, but a blissful oasis in the clamorous scene that is New York dining lately. Here to my mind is the perfect dining out experience: small, quiet, subdued, elegant, Veritas eschews the current vogue for garishness, din, gimmicky food and preening, inept service. Best of all, chef Scott Bryant actually works there, and actually in the kitchen: surely a revolutionary idea amongst his colleagues most of whom haven’t seen the inside of their kitchens in eons in their frantic pursuit of book deals, television appearances, party invitations, merchandise tie-ins, etc. Happily there is little revolutionary in Bryant’s cooking, either conceptually or executionally. The menu consists of high quality ingredients treated straight-forwardly but with a deluxe touch. Of course the point of the food is to pair it with a selection from the absurdly thick wine list, which for the novice oenophile (me) was so intimidating that after peeking quickly into it I retreated in terror and put ourselves in the hands of the sommelier, who couldn’t have been nicer and recommended a terrific white Burgundy. We were also comped a round of dessert wines: a port, a Tokaj, and two somethings which by that time in the meal I couldn’t remember anyway! What can I say? Everything was superb. The chilled gazpacho surpassed any version I’ve had before, the ricotta ravioli were sublime, the warm asparagus were luscious, and my crisp sweetbreads (no, not deep fried as insinuated on the Sweetbreads thread but expertly sautéed) were quite simply perfect, bathed in a rich black truffle sauce so decadent that I almost licked the plate. My three companions all had fish entrees: two cods and one striped bass. Not being a fish connoisseur I can only say that they were all lovely, even if I thought the saffron aioli on the bass was the best part of the dish. Not one of them could hold a candle to my short ribs, which were so silky and luscious they made me giggle. Quality didn’t slack at the desserts: honey roasted nectarines, the chocolate soufflé (really a molten chocolate cake); the black pepper shortcake (somewhat low on the strawberries but satisfying nonetheless), and a dish of berry sorbet so flavorful it has us pounding the table. $120 a person with tax and tip. This included three drinks at the table and my separate single glass of cabernet franc. A trifle given the overall excellence of the experience. If you haven't been, go. Now.

I just had these last night at an all-out spectacular dinner at Veritas, and cannot urge enthusiasts enough to run down and sample them as well. Superb. Even the offalphones at the table (why is it people are convinced that sweetbreads are really brains?), whom I shamed into trying teeny bites, were impressed.

I will be hosting a conference in Portoroz on the Adriatic first week in October, and am contemplating driving around Slovenia for a day or two afterwards, ending up in Ljublana. I figured, after leaving Portoroz, one night somewhere on the road and one night in Ljublana before flying back to the States, and I would love to visit wineries or places of interest or ANYTHING (Foodandwine magainze recently did a little blurb on the resurgence of the Slovenian wine industry and in particular the use of amphorae for aging). Any suggestions and recommendations are heartily welcome (including any suggestions for Portoroz -- hotel food is always so depressing!).

Worst. Restaurant. Ever. Picture a giant TGIF, in both looks and atmosphere. (Devotees of Landmarc need only imagine Busters across the street to know the kind of crowd I’m talking about). Our table, despite my protests, was located right across from the packed bar, from which cro magnan bellows occasionally erupted. That was about all you could hear in the din – even our waiter had to have us repeat our orders several times before he could comprehend them. That was on the rare occasions that we actually saw him. We were seated at 7:20PM. It took a good ten minutes to get drink orders in, and another ten to receive them. We had to flag down our own water. Finally we got our orders in, and then we waited. And waited. And waited. For fun we try to order some wine. Our waiter is nowhere to be found, so we flag down a bus boy, who sends over another waiter, who sends over a sommelier, and then our waiter turns up asking what we need. You get the idea. The staff is very light on actual waiters, heavy on bus boys who hurry about in a state of perpetual confusion. We also amuse ourselves by observing the various arguments breaking out between tables of People Who Think They’re Somebody and management. There is much stalking around and finger waving and gesticulating, which over the roar is pretty much the only way to communicate. Conversation is futile. An hour after sitting down, our appetizers finally arrived. (See the full menu here). The best that can be said is that they were inoffensive. The clam and sweet potato chowder was a gummy, orange stew that was fine if unmemorable. Same for the crab cake (one, by the way, not very large, for $14). The lobster avocado “cocktail” tasted solely of tarragon, and weakly of that – of lobster or avocado there was no flavor. My artisanal ham tasting was cute: the same Smithfield ham three times paired with poached peaches, a miniature poppy seed biscuit, and the third pairing I couldn’t identify – I think it was cheese of some sort. By now we’re on to our second bottle of Alvarinho (very nice, by the way, a 2004 Acuatas (sp?), because we’re… waiting. And waiting. Meanwhile Flay flits about, schmoozing and visiting this table or that. He never actually enters the kitchen that we can tell (and boy are we keeping track). We’ve now been at the table an hour and a half. Where are our entrees, we finally beg our waiter on one of his rare appearances. Five minutes more, we’re told. Ten minutes later a host appears to tell us it will be another ten minutes. Fifteen minutes later the food finally appears, raucously overcooked and tepid (for those with a taste for the grotesque, they were: completely tasteless salmon, a pork chop the size of a brick and much the same consistency, and snapper with the texture of a radial tire). This put me over the edge. We got a manager and complained bitterly, were offered an apology and a promise of free food, which we amended by informing him that we weren’t paying for the booze either. After dutifully trying to swallow a few more bites of the inedible food, we stood up, collected our things and walked out. No one stopped us, or better yet apologized. Now I’m usually disposed to think as kindly of a restaurant as possible, but after this if you paid me I wouldn’t enter another Flay property again (even Bolo, which I enjoyed very much). The place has been open three months, but I’ve been to opening nights of first time restauranteurs that were a better experience than this mess. For someone with several long-running properties in New York, there’s no excuse for this (nor was one ever offered). And that’s just our own specific experience: add on to that the raucous sports bar atmosphere and the mind numbing din. I’m well aware that there are lots of people who would love this place, and out-of-towners, particularly the type of over-aged frat-boy businessman with which the place was stuffed last night, will no doubt feel right at home. For people out for a culinary experience of any kind, save your money, your ears and your nerves and go anywhere else.

I cannot second enough Sam's enthusiasm for Regional. I can't imagine having a better time than we did Wednesday night. Terrific food, better wine, even better company. I will however just add the "disclaimer", not of course really needed for gulleters, who would automatically appreciate such a place, but maybe for their guests: our terrific and charming waiter mentioned he was relieved by our enthusiasm, as they've received complaints from some customers that what they're serving is "not real italian food." This isn't entirely surprising: the neighborhood is not known for its culinary broadness, either in its denizens or offerings, which makes Regional such a welcome treat. But if you or yours are expecting huge portions of heavily sauced overcooked pasta a la Carmins or Olive Garden, this ain't it (thank goodness). And in case we didn't make it clear: those fritters? Heaven isn't the word.

Adam Platt of New York magazine reviews Alto.

David, just curious: did the crowd look local to you, or, as in the night we were there, like they'd been trucked in? I.e. the crowd on opening night looked like they had made a wrong turn on the way to Ibiza (and thirty years too late, at that).

Alton Brown's "Instant" Pancake Mix recipe from foodtv.com is pretty good, though I don't profess to be a connoisseur.

Last night was not a night to comment on the decor, of which we couldn't see much cause of the crowd. I will say that it seems designed to heighten the din (tiles) which ought to be rethought. Basically it struck me as Pastis but on the cheap. My comment on our well-known frugality was more on the lines of: you may not want to spend your money until this place has their act together, which is at the very least a few weeks off, unless you're feeling particularly generous and accomodating.

Add to the "I will never again..." thread (which, by the way, is guaranteed to provide a good laugh if you ever need one): "I will never again try a restaurant on opening night if I am not a close friend or relation of one of the owners / backers / managers / senior kitchen staff." When the Times wrote that yesterday was the opening for this new addition to our neighborhood (Broadway between 104th and 105th streets) we kind of assumed that they'd been doing prior friends and family testing. Wrong. For this reason, it would be totally unfair to comment on our experience. I feel it only decent, however, to warn fellow denizens of our neighborhood, renowned for their frugality and their outrage at any perception of ill-usage, that we mutually agreed the place needs at least a month -- if not two -- to get it's act together. Here's hoping Cafe de Soleil winds up being another progressive culinary addition to a neighborhood still sorely in need. If, however, you do decide to try it out any time soon -- bring ear plugs.

Need a bottle of red wine to go with my beef for dinner, something good and robust, search through my dimly lit wine rack, ah! this one says "Pinot Noir" on the label, sweet. Pop the cork, pour into the glass... gee, this pinot's awfully pale and pink, that's kind of strange, let me look at the bottle again. Well, the color would be explained by the fact that it's a ROSÉ of pinot noir... not reeeeeeeeeeally going to work with the beef. Better make good vinegar....

Magnolia (of whose cupcakes I am not a fan, dry as toast and shortening frosting) has spawned several off shoots, one of which, Billy's on Ninth Avenue between 21st and 22nd, offers cupcakes which are IMO a substantial improvement over its progenitor. The cake was rich and moist, and the simple buttercream not nearly as overwhelming as Cupcake Cafe's (which is great on the first bite and dizzying thereafter).

Fans of Scott Conant’s work at L’Impero will want to run, not walk, to his new property, Alto, tucked at the back of a plaza on 53rd between Fifth and Madison. bergerka and I hightailed it there last night to take advantage of a deal through April 23rd of 25% off the food (not inclusive of booze or tax). Go this week if at all possible. Designed by L’Impero’s Vincente Wolf, Alto’s sleek, sophisticated interior brings to mind an Armani suit: clean, masculine lines, dark slate-grey interiors with cool accents throughout the variegated downstairs seating areas, the tables offset by the same tall, lean candle holders as its sister restaurant. In place of L’Impero’s gauzy draperies, Alto features floor to ceiling glass walls displaying their wine collection. Upstairs are private rooms that can be divided according to size and necessity. This is high-end dining: lots of formal but cordial attention with a “Ciao” from each new server (and there’s lots of them), multiple changes of cutlery and plate (the Riedel-esque water glasses are particularly fetching), detailed explanations as each dish is set down. This latter comes in handy: neither of us knew what half the stuff on the menu was (and at this early stage, even some of the staff is still getting it down). All those bottles in the wall are the real deal, verified in the limited but impressive wine list. But be prepared to shell out: while I only got a cursory skim of the list, and that with the sommelier hovering over me, I saw maybe a handful of bottles under $100, and not many more under $500. (I was also left with the impression that the list skewed very heavily toward France, which seemed odd for an ostensibly Italian restaurant.) That said, the very nice sommelier, realizing that we weren’t in a position to pay the equivalent of a year’s rent for one bottle, very cordially spent much time hearing our preferences and recommending different reasonable options, and the final choice – a $46 Chateau de Montmirail Cuvée des Deux Freres 2000 – couldn’t have been lovelier. There is also a short list of terrific cocktails, which plays off the Italian side of the restaurant. Kathleen’s Pesche Piamontese, with rum, peach, soda and lemon, was a light and lovely girlie drink in the best sense. My Milano – Torino featured Campari accented with Punt y mes, lemon juice and champagne, a more two-fisted number with a nice bite to it. The gimmick here is the cooking of the Alto Adige region in north eastern Italy – Italian with Swiss and Austrian accents. The menu can be viewed here. It seems balanced pretty evenly between teutonic and italian. There’s a choice between a four course $68 (starter, a pasta, a secondo and dessert) and a seven course $150 prix fixe. Only the seriously edacious should attempt the latter – for all that the portions are delicate, both Kathleen are I were stuffed after our four courses. Bread choices include pretzel, potato, pumpernickel with raisin, rye with nuts and seeds – all fine if not overly memorable. The amuse consisted of a single Kumomoto oyster, ostensibly with a hint of horseradish (which I couldn’t detect) and the tiniest dice of green apple, and a small quenelle of dense, pungent bacalao. A recent convert to snails, Kathleen jumped on the braised lumache with porcini mushrooms, polenta and black truffles, a seriously luxurious dish. My smoked goose liver “carpaccio” with the barest drizzle of green tomato mostarda takes liverwurst to ethereal heights. Plin “Ca’cimpero” were sumptuous miniscule pasta rounds filled with veal, chicken and pork in “parmigiano foam” with carrots and teeny morels. “Tajarin” (super-thin hand-made fettucini) were accented with julienned zucchini, prawns and mussels and served in a thick, rich “froth” of sea urchin, which brought just a hint of brininess. A dish of guinea hen – the poached breast soft and velvety, the leg roasted with crispy skin, in an emulsion (read “foam”) of foie gras with speck and asparagus beans – packed serious, earthy poultry flavor. My pork also came two ways – a roasted loin with a small rectangle of guanciale cooked sous vide, caramelized cabbage and potato “schupfnudeln”(small, oblong, chewy, potato spätzle). The continuing trend among younger chefs of cooking meats very rare is one about which I have mixed feelings, and I wasn’t crazy about it where the pork loin was concerned. That aside the dish is a winner. You couldn’t pick two more perfect ways to end the meal (or any other, for that matter) than the Tyrolean Chocolate Pudding – yet another take on the perpetual soft-centered chocolate cake, but this one actually gets it right – in a pool of vanilla foam (anyone counting?), and the rhubarb strudel: small nuggets of flaky dough filled with tangy rhubarb in a luscious crème anglaise studded with absurdly killer strawberries (where did they find these at this time of year???). The adornment of a star shaped by mandolined strawberry slices, their centers touching concentrically and then slow dried in the oven, excited Kathleen’s particular admiration. Total with tax and tip came to $110 a person, a bargain for this level of quality. Gimmicks aside (all those foams, so four years ago), this is stellar cooking on a rich and imaginative level.

The need for a pre-Lincoln Center dinner brought me back to Café Grey last night. Only eight months since its eagerly anticipated opening, the place was deserted when I got there, and was pretty much still so by the time I left at 7:30. Several very casually dressed groups wandered in during their exploration of the Vertical Retail Space, poked their heads in the dining room, and then crept sheepishly back out. One can’t help wondering whether the unwelcoming décor – that sepulchral bar with its glacial temperatures, and the blinding glitz of the main dining room – put them off, or the formal aspect of the place. This is a real shame, because they’re missing out on food that is as happily dazzling as the design around it isn’t – better even than I remembered from my first visit, when my group was slightly overwhelmed by the whole experience. Tucked comfortably into a banquette in the largely empty bar, without the glare of the main room and the bustle of the service to distract me, I was better able to concentrate on and appreciate the terrific cuisine Chef Kunz is turning out. A sweet & sour lemongrass nage all but made me gasp with each bite: a rich velvety fish stock flavored with galangal, lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, a whisper of chile, pineapple and lime juices, the whole so perfect that the bay scallops and lobster struck me as superfluous and actually distracting. A combo of crisped pork shank and tamarind-glazed slow cooked pork belly, served atop sauerkraut in a champagne sauce with crisp fried slices of scallion, was a circus of textures and flavors – maybe too many of both for some, but not for me. It was a pleasure to savor each and switch from one to the other, and I was sorry to see the plate taken away. I had a glass of a crisp, lean Veltlinger with it, not necessarily a great pairing with this very busy food but delightful on its own. Did I have room for dessert? Nope. Did that stop me? Yeah, right. The hazelnut floating island, suspended in a pool of rich crème anglaise and tangy rhubarb, was a gossamer tower of barely cohered meringue, that looked like it might float away entirely like soap suds with one breath. Café Grey provides the quintessential example of the True Gulleterers’ creed: ignore everything around you, focus solely on what’s on your plate, and life is glorious. At Café Grey this is definitely the approach to take, and the food is certainly worth it.

Run out of dazzlingly hip new restaurants in which to preen? Your brand new Laboutins still languishing in their box with no suitable venue of display? Your just-tailored Seize-sur-vingt gathering dust in the closet? Per Se too last year for you, ADNY too Trump Casino, the very thought of the Meatpacking District giving you the hives? Despair no more, hungerers after the ineffable and elegant: spackle that face and pop on those pumps and make a beeline for The Modern, Danny Meyer’s long- and eagerly anticipated contribution to the recently re-opened Museum of Modern Art. Make like Alice down the rabbit hole, following the long, winding, white glass wall into the large, lively, glamorously lit bar area, which last week was stuffed with Fendi-suited entertainment execs and scruffy, disheveled artistic types. Grab a place at the bar and order something from the slim but decent pickings of the wines by the glass, or a tolerable cocktail from one of the very young bartenders. Then glide through the crowds into the oasis of the cool, quiet, spare and minimalistically elegant main dining room, where the sedate and subdued vibe is more than made up for by the lustrous view of MOMA’s sculpture garden, which even in bleak late winter looks stunning and no doubt will be even more so once the foliage arrives. Like Per Se, all the tables have the view. (Note that jackets are supposedly required for men in the main room, but at least two gentlemen that we saw weren't wearing any, though the elegance of the venue definitely merits them.) Torture yourself by perusing the menu here: it’s worth it. Two companions and I sampled the following: - Sautéed Sullivan County foie gras with “beereweka” fruit chutney, pain d’epices and Trappist Ale reduction - Foie gras terrine marbled with roasted artichokes and green peppercorns - Chilled Maine lobster salad with black radish, celery, and Thai long peppercorn sorbet - Chorizo crusted Chatham cod with white coco bean puree and harissa oil - Buffalo tenderloin poached in spiced cabernet with roasted endive and shallot-pepper jus - Roasted wild boar chop with rutabaga “choucroute”, red currants and potato terrine - Chocolate soufflé, vanilla and pistachio ice cream, chocolate sorbet - Passion fruit ravioli, coconut tapioca and pistachio parfait - A milk chocolate hazelnut terrine special, not listed on the menu I will spare readers the long verbiage about the excellence of each individual dish and simply say that everything was magnificent, with special commendation for the foie gras terrine and the wild boar chop, which was like sex on a plate. When requested to recommend a reasonably priced red to cover our three entrees, the sommelier couldn’t have been nicer (the staff at Daniel could takes some lessons here) and helped us settle on a Casavecchia ’98 from Langhe, which was superb (and which would probably have been even better served via one of the Schott Zwiesel decanters so prevalent at other tables, but that’s purely a stylistic wish). Topped off with dessert wines and mignardises, the entire experience was first rate top to bottom, and more than worth the $140 a person it cost us. I understand bets are being taken on the Times rating the place will earn. My guess is three: while excellent, I can’t say that the Modern quite reaches the stratosphere of current four star places like Per Se or Jean Georges. That doesn’t make it any less worth the visit (the mini-loaf of lemon glazed pound cake as you exit is a terrific touch), though next time I definitely want to try the bar area, very distinctive from the main room in its livelier atmosphere and separate menu.

TARTINE!

I will never forget my first experience, close on fifteen years ago, with Tartine and their frites, which at the time were cooked in pure beef tallow (they have since, I understand, had to abandon this practice due to cost, but no doubt someone can confirm or dispute this). Mind you, both my and my friend's dishes already came with a heavy heaping (and the butter saturated sauces with our respective entrees didn't hurt) but we were both so blown away that we ordered another platefull. Sex should only be that good. I distinctly remember us both pounding the table, gasping for air, tears in our eyes -- think Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally." Of course we were both sick for days afterward. Since then, either I've become more jaded (impossible to conceive, I know) or they actually have altered the process, but their frites don't produce quite the same effect any more (no doubt much to the relief of Tartine's staff). Still the best that I can think of in NY, though. On a side-note: the fries at 107 West (Broadway and 107th Street) are outstanding, particularly given that I usually have them delivered and therefore not right out of the fryer: thin, crispy, deep golden brown. Don't know how they do it.

Essayed Mario and Joe's latest on Friday, Jan. 7 pre-theater. As I was late and my companion even more so, they didn't hold the table for us but accomodated us in the bar, which was fine, tho I wouldn't want to repeat it -- small space, teeny tables, arrivals (most of them pretty hefty) crowding in on you, and incessant gelid blasts from the door. Service was still getting it's act together -- there was noticeable confusion about who at what table got which order. Prices were more or less comparable with Landmarc -- a carafe of wine equalling a third of a bottle was $13, luscious chicken liver mousse with toast was $10, and a lamb shank the size of a radial tire was $20, well braised, meaty, flavorful, a decent helping of potatoes on the side. My companion's pork chop was equally good. If you're in the far west Theater District, this will probably be a dependable and nifty place to eat.

The predecessors of these two places in Miami and Bangkok are hugely popular. Quality of food, needless to say, is not a high priority.

In addition to their standard pugliese, which I am always happy to run into at so many of the city's better dining establishments, both locations are now carrying little cookies called lumaca, which NY mag describes as looking "like a rugalach that’s been run over by a bike messenger, but it tastes a lot better than that. Layered with chopped walnuts, cinnamon, raisins, and apricot jam, and possessing a slightly caramelized palmier-like dough, it could easily pass muster on your bubbe’s Hanukkah table." These are way tasty.

And in a nod to Fatguy's espousal of lower publicity establishments, allow me to laud Sal & Carmine's pizza, on Broadway between 101 and 102, in existence probably since Washington last visited Manhattan. Just two blocks from my apartment this place is a perennial danger to my waistline. Not being the fanatic connoisseur of authentic this-or-that styles of pizza as some of my esteemed gullet colleagues, I will vouch for this as my favorite old-fashioned slice shop, and would be seconded by the almost constant line of customers stuffed in their doorway.

Made my first visit, solo, to Felidia last night, which has been open since 1981, so I think it qualifies. Terrific experience, I would love to go back with a larger group for greater sampling of the menu (and soon, please, to partake of the 30-egg yolk pasta with white truffles, hello). A glass of Etna Spumante to accompany my perfectly sauteed, crispy sweetbreads with roasted cauliflower, and a glass of earthy, pungent Barbera to go with the enormous bowl of bittersweet chocolate parpadelle with wild boar ragu. The garlicky, salty flatbreads alone would have made me happy. The staff couldn't have been nicer. Never having been before, I can't say whether the place is holding up -- I'll let you know on my next visit .

Inspired by Bruni's rave, I tried Couvron the Tuesday before Christmas with three friends. Mixed impressions. Let's get the nitpicking out of the way: - The LOCATION, down a dark and grim (at least at night) stretch of Greenwich Street and 10 steps from the West Side Highway, is not convenient to public transportation. - The SERVICE, at least when we there, was severly understaffed. Right now their money's going into kitchen staff, leaving only Mdm. La Proprietresse and one lone waiter to do all the front of house, bar, table orders, serving, and busing. While the place was only half full, this still meant 20-30 minute waits between courses, which is a little much for this A.D.D.er. - The WINE LIST, while extensive and impressive, is severely overpriced, e.g. the bottle of Qupe 2001 Syrah we had was $75. At Landmarc a half bottle of the same is $18. You do the math. (Yeah, yeah, I know all about restaurants having to do markups on the hooch to survive, but let's get real.) - The MENU PRICING also struck me was too expensive for what we got. $32 for a delicate plate of lamb is more Daniel pricing than a home-done boite in the lower Village. Now to the good stuff: - The place is charming and warm in a casual, home-done manner (Mdm. La Proprietress did all the decor, including the physical work, herself). The fully lit Christmas tree in the window was a welcome touch, and any place that plays the King's College Choir singing carols through the evening is a hit in my book (at least during the holidays). The tables are cosy and decorated with cute porcelain candle holders (schlepped, like everything else, from Oregon). - The service, if stretched, was nonetheless charming. - The food is terrific. (The full menu can be seen here). A special of cream of chestnut soup was rich and velvety and deeply flavored. Chilled celery root puree with crispy potato discs and italian white truffle oil, served in a martini glass, was a playful take on chips and dip. The foie gras was just what foie gras should be -- deeeeeeelicious. The duck breast was perfectly done, as was my loin, rack and tenderloin of lamb (even though it was a delicate portion, but see my gripe about pricing above). The grilled tenderloin of beef with short ribs, garlic potato gratin and white asparagus stew was every bit as decadent and wonderful as it sounds. We split two desserts and were comped a third (one of our party is a friend of the owners). With tax and tip, I believe the bill came to $80 for the three of us, which is not bad, but did leave us with the impression that prices were a little higher than the total experience warranted. Notwithstanding, the experience was lovely, and one can only wish this adventurous and enterprising group well in the cutthroat and merciless world of New York restauranting. If you're in the neighborhood and have the money to spend, by all means make a visit -- you won't be disappointed.

Ate there last summer (2004) -- dreadful food, cheap overpriced wine. Eat someplace else first.