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Scoops 6: Italian Ice Edition New York City Entry #105 With summer fully in place, I have been scurrying through the boroughs, tracking down the premier Italian ices: specifically Staten Island's Ralph's (with two outlets in Queens), Brooklyn's L&B Spumoni Gardens, and Queens' Lemon Ice King of Corona. Although it would be nice to report a race to the finish, in fact the outcome was never in doubt. It is said that Frank Sinatra used to have his driver trek to Corona for Lemon Ice. Ol' Blue Eyes sure knew his ices. LIKC makes the Italian Ice of one's dreams. The ice is finely pulverized, leaving no chunks. The only texture comes from tiny bits of fruit, not so large as to become frozen. Whether one is consuming lemon, melon, peach, vanilla chip, cherry, or strawberry, the flavor is intense and pure. On any day, there are likely to be two dozen choices. As LIKC is about ten blocks from the nearest subway line (the 7), one works up a sweat that only a LIKC ice can satisfy. Famously the Lemon Ice King does not permit mixing of flavors, so it has become my habit (and it is becoming a habit) to purchase three small cups. If getting to LIKC is a hike, Ralph's requires a car, taxi, or a Staten Island bus. Like LIKC, ices are served through the front window. And like LIKC, Ralph's has some two dozen (some water-based - the one's I tried - and some milk-based). I was impressed by the depth of flavor - I ordered Sour Cherry and Cantaloupe. The intensity of the cherry was remarkable. However, small chunks of ice remained in each. Should one prefer an ice that edges toward a snow cone, Ralph's will surely suit. Most disappointing was the watermelon ice that I had at Brooklyn's L&B Spumoni Gardens (the spumoni ice cream was just fine, although the Sicilian square pizza slice was a bit salty for my taste. L&B is more a restaurant than an icery - but they, too have a front window to make one's purchases). Neither the flavor or texture made my trip to Gravesend worth repeating. When one describes the flavor of an Italian ice as "subtle," one knows trouble is afoot. I give L&B credit for providing something cool on a hot day, but I'll stick with spumoni. Lemon Ice King of Corona 52-02 108th Street (at Corona Avenue) Queens (Corona) 718-699-5133 L&B Spumoni Gardens 2725 86th Street (at West 10th Street and Avenue V) Brooklyn (Gravesend) 718-449-6921 Ralph's Famous Italian Ices 501 Port Richmond Avenue (at Catherine Street) Staten Island (Port Richmond) 718-273-3675 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Great Expectations New York City Entry #104 Falai My night's quest for the perfect Italian restaurant continues. Halfway through a recent dinner at Falai, I thought that the contest might have reached its finale, but, alas, not quite yet. Paradise requires astonishing entrees, not only bravura performances in the preliminaries. Falai is a small, vest-pocket restaurant, owned and operated by Iacopo (YA-capo) Falai on the Lower East Side's rendition of restaurant row along Clinton Street, near Rivington. The restaurant is compact although not precisely jammed, and is nicely decorated in shades of white, gray, and brown. The space feels more open than it has any right to be architecturally, although the noise level from neighborly yolps is challenging. Falai's service is cordial, the staff comely, and the atmosphere a cross between Downtown and Milan. The space does not feel luxe, so much as energized, and on a Thursday evening the small restaurant was packed and somewhat humid. Falai has become a destination. (It is a destination with a nearby bakery - Panetteria at 79 Clinton. If my roll with flavorful black kale was typical, the bakery is a destination, too). Our meals began with confidence and brilliance. Chef Falai presented one of the most startling amuses around. We were served a small cup filled with white: a danger of judging a cook by his cover. Here was apple mousse, mascarpone cheese, bits of red onion, and black caviar. It was splendid. The apple and mascarpone transformed what might otherwise have been a tired caviar cliche into magic. Fruit and caviar are no longer an unheard of pair. My antipasto matched the amuse in style and zing: Polenta Bianca with Chicken Liver, Dried Dates and Chanterelles. What insight into the possibilities of food! Let no man fear chicken livers. The dates and chanterelles added a rich and startling fruitiness to the crisp polenta and pillowy liver. A companion's Polipo (Octopus) with Cannellini Bean Puree, Candied Celery, Olive Oil, and Fried Sage was evocative as well. As pasta I selected Foiade: short strips of pasta, wild mushrooms with beef jus, and baby spinach (with a few fig slivers). Here was another admirable dish that was less startling in its flavor combination - although the strips of fig added surprise - but no less sturdy for that. The al dente pasta had the rich, buttery flour that one expects in such a creation, and the mushrooms - a theme of Chef Falai's cuisine - were a dusky plus. But then we reached the Carne course, that moment in the evening when chefs from Batali on down seem to lose their map. My Manzo - Short Ribs with Chanterelles, Parsnips, and Scallion Brulee - was unfortunately dry. I admired the bravery of a scallion brulee, which, if it was not a true brulee, made a nice pudding. Yet, the ribs lacked a distinct flavor. This was not entirely a failed dish, yet not an ethereal one, and a fair distance from what had appeared previously. There seemed no flair in technique to balance the heavy solidity of the beef. The consensus of my dinner partners was that their courses - pesce and carne - added no "extra" to the ordinary. Dolci are classed as "Classici" and "Non Classici." Celery Cake with Strawberry and Rhubarb with Milk Gelato was among the latter. The dish was strongly reminiscent of Strawberry Shortcake; any celery taste had been muted. This was not a dessert that showed the same spark of the antipasti, although it was conventionally sweet and fruity. Does Falai's early courses reveal the true vision of a grandly small restaurant or whether the final courses better depicted an establishment that belongs in the solid middle of the tangle of Italian joints on this tempestuous Isle. Falai Cucina Italiana 68 Clinton Street (near Rivington) Manhattan (Lower East Side) 212-253-1960 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Regular Guys New York City Entry #103 Chanterelle All year I have been waiting for an occasion to return to Chanterelle, Karen and David Waltuck's smooth outpost in TriBeCa. A decade ago I had a most pleasant evening (after the restaurant had moved to Harrison Street). Perhaps most impressive about my evening were the remarkable floral displays (once designed by Karen Waltuck, but now outsourced). The gold-maize walls and the space between tables created a lightness of spirit that was conducive to bright dining. And the service then - and now - was silken and congenial. The art works in the small entrance conveyed that here were restauranteurs of class. Of course, when one begins a review discussing the ambiance and the service, one might fret about the food. And it must be admitted that at Chanterelle, the package may be more impressive than any dish within it. Some have scorned the cuisine at Chanterelle as "boring." This is not a sentiment that I accept - my meals now and then were satisfying. Yet, the plates do not snap and crackle. If this is not your father's cuisine, it is your older brother's. As much as I enjoy dining at Chantrelle, if I had to select a last meal, it would be from Jean-Georges or per se or, should I wish to puzzle my guards, from Moto. My return visit was courtesy of two friends who are long-time regulars. Such good friends of the restaurant are they that Sommelier Roger Dagorn arrived on a Sunday evening, hobbling on crutches. Roger's wine selections were first rate, even though I hold no brief as an oenophile. We began with a Nicolas Joly Savennieres La Roches aux Moines "Clos de la Bergerie" 2003, a Loire wine that tasted to me like a Sauterne with the sugar removed but with a honeyed aftertaste. Our red was an Ata Rangi Pinot Noir 2002 from Martinborough, New Zealand. Its smoothness matched my white tuna. Perhaps our table was more fussed over than is typical. Even my blogger's camera doesn't get me such attention. Being a regular has its advantages. We began with a pair of amuses: a duck spring roll with hoisin sauce and a chilled watercress soup with Parmesan palmiers. I found these starters surprising. Such choices gave ammunition to critics who argue that Chanterelle eschews kitchen creativity. The crisp spring roll was perfectly fine, but no more compelling than that to be found at most upscale Chinese restaurants. One wondered what was the point of producing such an ordinary dish. Could it have been take out? The watercress soup was better - vivid green - a tangy herbal broth with a rich, meaty stock. Yet, it too pointed to satisfaction, rather than thrills. Tonight was the final evening of Chanterelle's late spring menu (May 22nd - June 25th) and after so much practice no technical flubs marred the evening. As appetizer I selected Fresh Pea Ravioli with Sweet Onions (!) Sauce and Smoked Pork Reduction. From other reviews, I gather that Chef Waltuck is partial to spring peas. The ravioli itself was intense - a splendid vegetable dish. I was less taken by the accompaniments, which detracted from both the aesthetic center and the taste contour of the dish. The pea puree was too pure to have the distraction of pork and fried onions. My wife selected "Sauteed Zucchini Blossom Filled with Lobster and Shrimp." The lobster-shrimp was a quenelle filling. It was exceptionally flavorful and beautifully presented, but stuffed in a zucchini blossom, it edged towards a culinary cliche. For those who missed the culinary trends of the 1980s, Chanterelle will startle. But perhaps it is not fair to deny oneself gastronomy's greatest hits. It was a difficult choice between Grilled White Tuna with Red Wine Risotto and a Noisettes of Lamb with Thyme and Goat Cheese. Both seemed fairly traditional, but I was curious as to how a red wine risotto might match the tuna. If it was not a stunner, the match was a happy one, and the tuna was cooked to the proper moment. White tuna is not as flavorful as a big eye tuna, but that only made the red wine risotto more potent. It was a well-conceived dish, but one that seemed satisfied with the dominance of its sturdy rice. As my wife treasures shellfish, she selected the Chesapeake Bay Softshell Crabs with Young Ginger and Chinese Chive Coulis. This was perhaps the most striking dish of the evening. In keeping with the ability of the kitchen to present food simply, the crabs were not mushy as they often can be, but suitably crispy. Neither the chive or ginger overpowered the dish. The crabs had center stage, simply presented but with the subtle addition of herb and spice. Although I didn't copy the names of the cheeses served in our pre-dessert course, I had a powerful blue, nutty Gruyere, and creamy Brie. The pear and kumquat compotes both were worthy additions. I particularly enjoyed my wife's Warm Vanilla Brown Butter Almond Cake with Cherry Compote. The mixture of cherry and almond was a pleasure. We are not in Will Goldfarb/Sam Mason territory, but the dessert shared the bright elegance of the room. The cake was dense, the compote sweet, what was not to like? My Apricot, Almond and Crème Fraiche Tart with Basil Ice Cream was particularly notable for the intensity of the basil. The tart itself was a high-end composition that one might pick up at the most ambitious neighborhood bakeries. No complaints, even if I felt that this reflected the desserts that were common - and praiseworthy - when Chanterelle opened. Every restaurant has shaped by its birth. When one enters Chez Panisse, one steps into 1971; for the Four Seasons it is always 1959, and at French Laundry forever 1994. Chanterelle opened its doors in 1979 at a moment in which the American simplicity of produce was merging with French nouvelle cuisine: two approaches that incorporated a purity of taste. Perhaps Chanterelle could use a jolt of energy to enliven its cuisine, to recognize Century W. But after twenty-seven years its continuing civility is welcome. It is easy to understand how Chanterelle, more that most luxe restaurants, could be that special spot that gathers a coterie of regulars. Not overrun with trend-setters, Chanterelle keeps purring along, not strutting on a highwire, but strolling down the boulevard. Chanterelle 2 Harrison Street Manhattan (TriBeCa) 212-966-6960 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Breathing Room New York City Entry #102 Veritas Whenever I fly, I think about New York restaurants. The same economic malaise that has turned jets into cattle cars has transformed many restaurants, even those with soaring aspirations, into sardine cans. Perhaps one can understand this desire with downtown boîtes like Prune, Momofuku, or Fatty Crab where sweat is part of the equity, yet the intimacy of strangers can be quite disconcerting at a restaurant like Veritas with its $76 three-course prix fixe and its tempting and extensive reserve list. Veritas is a restaurant where one can easily spend $200+/person, yet hear more of one's neighbors' conversations than that of one's partner. With tables tightly arranged along a banquette, the acoustics are not designed for private intimacies. The frugality of interior real estate does much to hide the real human virtues of Veritas. Perhaps the economics of rent seeking demands such a packing, but one can't help but think that here is a case in which less is more. Were a goodly quarter of the tables to vanish, Veritas would become a strikingly serene restaurant. One wall of the quiet, elegant room displays a set of contemporary paintings hung on exposed brick; opposite are niches filled with exquisite glass bowls and vases. The staff manages the tight space with aplomb. We appreciated the sommelier who directed us to a Clos Rougeard Saumer Champigny "Les Poyeaux" 2001, a Cabernet Franc that we would have been unlikely to select but that matched the meal with grace, substance, and a light but firm touch. As for the food, for a restaurant that is known for its wine list, Chef Scott Bryan does quite well. His menu is not designed to distract from the grape, but his dishes have a modest flair, and with a three course prix fixe, presenting eight appetizers and eight entrees (and two specials), the kitchen staff will not be overly challenged. None of the dishes were transcendent, but both the appetizers and entrees were well-conceived and stalwart. An amuse of Marinated Calamari, Eggplant Caviar, and Herbs was both modest and charming. The micro squids were tender and the eggplant (reprised in the entree) added an intriguing smoky flavor. I wouldn't consume eggplant and squid all night, but this was a bright and flavorful start. Chilled Lobster Salad with Smashed Avocado, Peppercress, Ruby Red Grapefruit and Ginger ($8 supplement) seemed ideal on paper. The tastes promised a challenging combination. In execution, the appetizer was worthy but not sublime. The shellfish was hidden by a haystack of cress, and the avocado was, as promised, smashed into paste. Although the grapefruit and ginger added impish complexity to the lobster, the dish might have been brilliant with a more inspired presentation. I enjoyed my Roasted Saddle of Lamb with Provençal Vegetables (a modified ratatouille of eggplant and summer squash), Flageolet Bean Purée, Garlic Confit, and Rosemary. These were ingredients that blended well, and if they weren't daring, they matched a robust red wine. The lamb, cooked medium rare, was intense and perfectly tender. It was a most satisfying late spring entree. Pastry Chef Dalia Jurgensen's dessert demonstrated excess caution. Fresh Raspberry Tart with Toasted Almond Milk Ice was strikingly mundane. A tart of similar quality could have been had at dozens of quality bakeries throughout this town. Nothing was wrong, but there was no zest, no value added. The Almond Milk Ice was a puzzle. With a rich tart, why skimp with a skim gelato. The ice was thin and there was no deep flavor to compensate for the absence of dairy fat. It was a scoop that one might expect at a self-denying vegetarian bistro. The strength of Veritas is its cellar, and we regretted that we only shared a single bottle. The courses, sturdy enough not to distract, demonstrate that food goes with wine, and not only the reverse. But after learning of the lives of our neighbors, we had to wonder whether at Veritas the wine has more room to breathe than the customers. Veritas 43 East 20th Street (at Broadway) Manhattan (Flatiron) 212-353-3700 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Breather New York City Entry #101 Country The servers at Country, Chef Geoffrey Zakarian's new hotel restaurant, think of themselves as representatives of a glorious, dramatic, luxe restaurant. And they are right. Someone should inform the kitchen. All too often, such as A Voce, the creativity of the cooks leaves the servers in the dust, but at Country it is the food that requires panache. The service at this newly opened restaurant at the Carlton Hotel near Madison Park is as slick, convivial, and confident as that at any four star restaurant. The kitchen's handiwork, while never failing, lacks the flair of genius. The space, like the service, claims attention. Country has high ceilings, commodious seating, and some astonishing glass art. True, the name conveys little, other than it is not Zakarian's Town, but whatever one might expect from a rustic appellation, Country is urbane, serving genteel food. However, no single dish persuaded my companions and me that a return is essential. The problem was not Executive Chef Doug Psaltis's gaffes, but a deficit of delight, an absence of astonishment. Psaltis is a B+ chef. Psaltis is a pro at synthesizing high-middle cuisine, creating a restaurant free of complaint. Indeed, the high point of the evening was Country's "Carlton House Rolls," a soft, comforting, and polished bread modeled on the Parker House brand. We began with a trio of canapés. The best was a lovely caviar-mint-cream mille feuille. How could a bite could carry so much flavor. The other two were pleasant enough: chewy Japanese mushrooms swathed in bacon and a tiny, creamy spinach gougere. As amuse, Chef Psaltis sent a beignet of frog's leg over garlic puree. The leg was moist and flavorful, but not a preparation that startled. The dish was structured so that the evocative garlic did not appear until the frog was consumed. Most striking was the silver on which the amuse appeared - a stunning lilypad with a cute and shining toad. When the plate overshadows what is on top, chefs should reconsider. As first course of the spring prix fixe, I selected the Cepe Tart with Parmesan, Arugula, and Tomato Confit. Great tarts merge ingredients into a singular experience. In eating these preparation, the deconstruction was obvious, if unintended. While satisfying, there was not a woodsy oneness. The topping fell apart on the folk, emphasizing that the whole was less than the sum of some noble parts. Ouefs au Plat was the chef's tribute to Ham ‘n' Eggs, and it was a sturdy tribute with Berkshire Pork Confit, a Soft Boiled Egg, and Morels. Once again, the ingredients were superior, but they didn't combine into a transcendent experience. The plate was one thing after another. This was not a dish to return to the kitchen, but neither did it require an encore. As a main course, I selected a somewhat pedestrian Grilled Spring Chicken with Pinenuts, Bitter Greens, and Panisses (squares of starch of garbanzo bean flour). I wish that the chef had been more generous with both the bitter greens and the pinenuts, forcing us to consider the drama of taste. I particularly missed a play of bitter with the mild meaty sweetness of a good young bird. But this complexity was lacking in a dish that was comforting, but not challenging. It was a dish that few could dislike, but few would fall for. It was an entree for those who like their chicken without theory. As palate cleanser the kitchen sent a champagne gelee with strawberry sorbet and raspberry sections. The sorbet was tart, but neither the gelee or the berry was an inspired texture. I would have preferred a naked scoop of strawberry. Almond Pithivier ended the evening. I love repeating "pithivier" (or did until I learned the weight of cholesterol involved). A pithivier is a puff pastry tart, often served with frangipane, and is a remarkably dense and rich construction. At Country, one selects accompaniments. I chose a somewhat ordinary vanilla ice cream and quite potent whiskey and cream sauce. Here was an dessert without reproach, but without inspiration. Country is a restaurant where the front and back of the house do not quite match. In a more modest space, Country would satisfy. The dishes have appeal, the ingredients please, and the flavors are pure, if mild. Doug Psaltis's food would pass muster at all but the most ambitious houses. Too bad no one told the savvy servers that they could take a breather. Country 90 Madison Avenue (at 29th Street in the Carlton Hotel) Manhattan (Gramercy Park) 212-889-7100 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Diner's Friend New York City Entry #100 Jovia Jovia is so close to where I live and work that in the months I have been in town I have never stopped in. A chef is without honor on his own block. Perhaps Jovia has seemed too much a neighborhood joint (I have not treated Daniel similarly, although its distance is no greater). However, recently a friend suggested that we break for lunch and we hied off to Josh DeChellis's Italian-accented establishment for their $24.07 lunch prix fixe. If Jovia does not provide the finest meal or even the finest lunch, it surely is the champion prix fixe. A happy occasion for tongue and wallet. Cheap at twice the price. Jovia's upstairs dining room is light and serious, and as with many restaurants in these days of global warming particularly striking for its floral arrangements, nicely accentuating the browns and creams. One can tell uptown dining from downtown by the space between the tables: Jovia is designed for the private tete-a-tete. Lunch opened with a perfectly lovely Tortellini en Brodo, served with Duck, Ramazzotti, and Aged Provolone. This soup was majestic because of a spectacular broth, a stock days in the making; it was dense and powerful. The tortellini with duck were perfectly honorable, but it was the consomme that was majestic. I puzzle over the presence of ramazzotti, a popular bitter Italian aperitif. The soup certainly didn't taste of bitter herbs, but perhaps it was an undertone, providing the soup a complexity and power. Or perhaps ramazzotti refers to some esoteric ingredient below the Google radar. The main course was a well-cooked Sauteed Skate with Paprika Marinated Vegetables. The skate had a lovely breading that seemed to be corn-meal. Together the moist fish and somewhat grainy coating evoked sand and sea. The vegetables were hearty though ordinary, perhaps to be expected in a prix fixe, cooked al dente but without surprise. The meal concluded with Crispy Fritti Bellissima: Lavender Scented Brioche with Orange Blossom Creme, Chocolate Sauce (not listed on the menu), and a Tangerine Creamsicle Crema Gelato. I found these cream puffs the least compelling of the trio of courses. Part of the problem was technical. Biting into a puff, the cream squirted in a joyous mess. Attempting to dip the pastry in shallow pools of liquid, created more glop. The lavender scent of the brioche was mild, and the chocolate sauce was not dense and dark, but the orange blossom creme was bright and tart. The tangerine creamsicle was, as one might imagine, a somewhat odd - although not entirely unpleasant - conceit. So often restaurants persuade diners through their prix fixe that their cooking is sallow and pallid. Jovia deserves credit for selecting compelling dishes as loss leaders. Josh DeChellis has acquired a sterling reputation as a rising young chef, first at Sumille and now at Jovia. By demonstrating that meals at Jovia can be frugal and flavorful, he proves himself the diner's friend. Jovia 135 East 62nd Street (at Lexington Avenue) Manhattan (Upper East Side) 212-752-6000 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Good question, and I don't know the answer. Also, I didn't check to see whether the gratuity covers wine or whether there is an extra gratuity. I should have checked.

Per Se Redux New York City Entry #99 Perhaps the most sincere compliment I can pay Per Se is that I didn't much care for the "Ravigote" Dressing on the White Asparagus. Earlier I decided not to re-review restaurants (WD-50 has been the sole exception), and did not bring a camera. Lunch at Per Se is very much like - indeed, precisely like - dinner with the same menus at the same price (a three hour lollapalooza): it is the perfect dinner for those who recent arrivals afraid of the effects of a jetlagged evening. My compliment is not a back-handed one - Jonathan Benno's other preparations were within hailing distance of perfection. But this sauce, supposedly Velouté with shallots, chives, and tarragon, tasted like an uptown version of a mayonnaise blanketing macaroni salad. The accompaniment, a sunny-side up quail egg in a toasted brioche ring ("Toad in the Hole"), was unpolluted by its partner, and was enchanting. Given this was lunch, my companion and I selected the "Tasting of Vegetables" (although fruits and vegetables would have been more precise), believing that a lightness of spirit suited the noon hour. As I was forcibly reminded at my last meal at Trotter's, an inspired chef sees vegetables as an opportunity, not a constraint. I shall contain my euphoric waxing, only noting that if my finest New York meal was at Per Se, my second finest New York meal was at Per Se as well. And I won't tolerate debate over which was which. The service left no cause for complaint. A brief recap: Amuse: Black pepper tuile with tomato confit over eggplant caviar. Each element blended superbly and each had a sparkling, noticeable herbal ingredient. Perhaps the first bite of the tuile suggested that the cookie might soon become moist, but beyond that bite the tuile was suitably crisp. First: Chilled Yellow Pepper Soup with Roasted Sweet Peppers, Niçoise Olives and Rosemary-Infused Extra Virgin Olive Oil. A luminous golden soup with a scoop of peppers and olives as a mix-in. A transcendent soup that combined a sweetness with an herbal twang. Second: "Dégustation" of Early Summer Melons with Tahitian Vanilla Bean-Scented Fennel Bulb, Sauternes "Gelée" and "Fines Herbes." (Note the quotation marks). The most beautiful dish in the galaxy! What produce and what subtle transformations! Watermelon, honeydew, and some melons whose names were unfamilar. What might Benno do to durian? Perhaps someday we shall learn the answer from a chef who treats aroma as a key to dining. Third: "Toad in Hole" with Sunny-Side Up Quail Egg, Toasted "Brioche", Garden Mâche, Braised Holland White Asparaus and "Ravigote" Dressing. (Note, again, the quotation marks). As described. Fourth: "Confit" of New Crop Potatoes with Pickled Pearl Onion Shoots, Garlic Scrapes, Ramps, and Red Onion "Gastrique." Chef, let's kill the "quotation marks." What might Lynne Truss say as we eat shoots and leaves? Yet, not a wasted punctuation mark was to be found on the plate, a display of root vegetables that harkened back to the melon artistry. Perhaps garlic "scrapes" are a bit "precious;" sure am good, though. Fifth: "Risi e Bisi" with "Carnaroli Risotto Biologico", Sugar Snap Peas, Pea Tendrils and "Parmigiano Reggiano." I'm beaten into submission. (Note to TK: commas in the U.S. are placed inside quotation marks.) Sprinkle your menu with marks, just keep the rice and peas perfect. This sinuous, silky risotto was unworldly. Never stop. Sixth: Forest Mushroom "Crêpe" with Herb Roasted Hen-of-the-Woods Mushroom and Field Mizuna with Madeira Cream Sauce. Actually a pair of crepes but who is counting? And why so casual with Hen-of-the-Woods, what about "Grifola frondosa" or at least Maitake? Another splendid dish. Which comes first the dense pasta or the crisp fungus? I give credit to the Madeira. This is a dish that is so robust that one believes that Maitake is the other white meat. Seventh: "Crozier Blue" with Celery Branch, Kumquat "Confiture", (sigh), Tellicherry Pepper Shortbread, Cutting Celery and Balsamic Glaze. The cheese on its shortbread was as pungent and as fungal as the Hen-of-the-Woods, but what amazed was the array of celery and kumquat. A remarkable offering. Eighth: "Vitre Glacée" with Napa Valley White Verjus "Ice", Red Verjus "Foam", Muscat Grapes and Raisin "Purée." This lovely dessert consisted of a slanting sheet of white verjus ice, just thin enough that it broke with the touch of spoon and melted on the tongue. Below was as spicy and luscious a pool of grape liquid as might be found this side of Napa. Ninth: I chose to replace the "Black Forest" dessert (six quotation marks for those counting) with a Banana Pepper Tuile with Raspberries, Blackberries, and Berry Sorbet. This dish echoed the elegance of the melon and root vegetables. A tuile for all jobs. Tenth (a lagniappe): Peach Panna Cotta and Vanilla Bean Creme Brulée, the former a stunning rendition of peaches and cream; the latter shaming the many pretenders whose sugar does not snap, crackle or pop. What can one say to a restaurant whose greatest need is a proofreader? How about: try me. Per Se 10 Columbus Circle (Time Warner Building) Manhattan (Columbus Circle) 212-823-9335 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

FYI, I have a review of Chikalicious and Room 4 Dessert on the Room 4 Dessert thread. Room 4 Dessert Egullet thread

Niche-aclious New York City Entry #98 Chikalicious / Room 4 Dessert For the past three months I have mused on the emergence of the dessert bar. With the announcement that Sam Mason, the celebrity pastry chef at WD-50, is set to open his own aerie later this year, these sweet spots are reaching critical mass. These bars present a "tasting menu" of small desserts, supplemented with sweet or fortified wine, tea or coffee. The dessert bars are intimate (read: cramped) rooms that bow to the pressures of New York real estate. They are dominated by counters where diners watch the staff prepare the sweets, making the experience a spun-sugar equivalent to a sushi bar. Their iron pastry chefs take center stage. Both Chikalicious in the East Village and Room 4 Dessert in SoHo follow this formula. I have now eaten at Chikalicious twice and Room 4 Dessert once, and both are satisfying, even if the presentations, while creative, lack the visual and gustatory fireworks of the elaborated creations of our most regal chefs. Chikalicious, managed by Chef Chika Tillman and her husband Don, conveys a double meaning. A repository of chicklets. The gender ratio evidences girl power. The restaurant with twenty seats, is decorated in shades of white - a granite counter top, leatherette stools, painted brick. At Chikalicious one receives an amuse, a dessert, and three petit fours. I was particularly impressed by the amuses I received: first, Granny Smith Apple Sorbet over Camomile Gelee and, on my second visit, Frozen Honey Custard over Blackberry Gelee. Chef Chika is partial to gelee and sometimes overuses this preparation, but these two were well-chosen and matched with the frozen dessert, proved less of an amuse than a first course. Chika has a way with fruit, making the meal an airy delight, not a heavy afterthought. The first dessert was one of the better sweets of the year: Coconut Sorbet on Grapefruit Terrine with Coconut Tuile and Black Pepper Syrup. This was a fearless plate with grapefruit and black pepper syrup droplets. In other hands, it could have faltered, but this night I found it a compelling synthesis of tastes. My second dessert was effective, but less imposing: Strawberry Sorbet with Brown Sugar Panna Cotta and Lemongrass Agar Agar Gelee. One agar would have sufficed. Agar agar (aka agar) is a gelatin from red algae, advertised as the "queen of the jelling agents." Here the rectangles of gelee lacked a strong presence, a jello without punch. The sorbet was luscious, but the strawberry ice and sweet brown sugar panna cotta belonged in different presentations. The main dessert is followed by a trio of "petit fours" (petit threes?). Chika's marshmallow in coconut is a buoyant sweet, easily swallowed. A pecan sandie and a chocolate chocolate chip cake wedge were both passable. Best among the petit fours were two lapidary tarts: one Key Lime Creme Fraiche, the second Almond Amaretto Cream. Although tiny, these dime-sized dollops contained dollars of joy. Room 4 Dessert, presided over by the former Cru pastry chef Will Goldfarb is more attuned to the niceties of culinary theory. Whereas Chikalicious might float away on the morning air, Room 4 Dessert is a creation of the long SoHo night. A narrow room in browns and blacks, its dark counter is dramatically accented by orange Murano hanging lamps. Perhaps R4D is not truly an outpost of molecularism, but Chef Goldfarb plays with ideas as much as food. The wit in the restaurant's moniker is that diners receive a flight of 4 thematic desserts (along with optional wines, liquors, teas, and coffees). The night of my visit Chef Goldfarb presented a string of four red desserts, an homage to Pierre Gagnaire. When chefs pay homage to role models, one knows that a community of theory is firmly in place. I selected the "PACK," a tasting menu of pistachio, apricot, cherry, and kirsch, and was pleased by the chef's work. Because Chef Goldfarb is creating on a small scale, none of the items proved miraculous. The cherise confiture consisted of a small jar of very well-made jam. Best was a forceful kirsch sabayon, served over pieces of dried apricot, and nicely combined with the confiture. Strikingly successful was a moist pistachio moelleux, a soft, olive-green cake with pistachio cream. I was less impressed with the apricot sorbet, lacking a potent fruit flavor, but sited elegantly on a bed of crushed almond candy. Neither Chikalicious nor Room 4 Dessert is yet a destination restaurant, but both provide a lovely evening's close. They are pioneers in a trend that allow nighthawks to get their breakfast sugar fix and spaces for others who do not wish our public evenings to end quite yet. Chikalicious 203 East 10th Street (at Second Avenue) Manhattan (East Village) 212-995-9511 Room 4 Dessert 17 Cleveland Place (at Kenmare Street) Manhattan (SoHo) 212-941-5405 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Some Things New York City Entry #96 Le Veau d'Or Any restaurant that has survived in the tumultuous New York restaurant scene for seventy years must have learned a thing or two. And so we come to Le Veau d'Or, a French bistro, opened in 1937, a stone's throw from Bloomingdale (although perhaps Bloomie's was the new kid on the block). Le Veau d'Or was my parents' favorite restaurant. They dined monthly, and during my adolescence brought me several times a year. It was touching and deeply symbolic of Le Veau d'Or that I could greet several of the same staff after decades. Robert, the old school maitre d', has lost some hair and some spring in his step, but he might say the same of me. In a real sense it was here that I came to appreciate French cuisine. Again and again as we reminisced I was counseled, "the place hasn't changed a bit." How true. New York diners judge their eateries by the restrooms, and these tiny closets have not been spruced up since before I last dined. The banquettes are still red leather from bistro central, and the objets d'art on the wall are those etchings that men of a certain age once invited lithesome inamorata to their quarters to inspect. The menu with its classics - Coq au Vin, Vichyssoise, Frog's Legs, Escargot, Baked Meringue - harbors plates that were classic in the interwar years. For certain diners, like my parents, Le Veau d'Or was a welcoming community, classic but never challenging. What might they say of WD-50 and its psychotic antics? Judging by our fellow diners this remains true. Le Veau d'Or has suffered the affront of no longer being rated in Zagat's (the Le Pain Quotidien chain makes the list, as does Starbucks). Yet the restaurant is well-attended on a weeknight by older couples who look for an place where everyone knows their name and which is affordable on a budget (with tax, tip, and wine the three course meal was $60). This means, of course, that Le Veau d'Or has chosen to be straight-jacketed by its market niche. But how is the food? Slathered in nostalgia. My companions and I ordered classic bistro food, and were we to measure by strict critical standards, this Golden Calf is not fatted. While never offensive, one could taste the rust of time. My Soupe à l'oignon Gratinee does not rely on a rich beef stock, simmering for three days. It tasted warm and wan. The cheese and bread did evoke French farmhouse preparations. The soup was not so different than what one might expect at an rather adequate ocean liner banquet. The pate was dense but not distinguished. As a main course I selected one of the specials (yes, they have specials, although traditional ones), Sweetbreads with Cream and Mushrooms. The dish was soothing, if a bit mushy, and the mushrooms had surely nestled inside a can; the potatoes au gratin were slightly overcooked, but nicely creamy. The Canard Rôti aux Cerises was a rather tough old bird, napped with a cherry sauce that was sweet without much complexity. (Probably a dish I once ordered on the theory that each course should be dessert). Steamed mussels were not as plump as the sea contains. Desserts continued the string. My Peche Melba, as classic as bistro cuisine can be, was sweet, but marred by canned peaches and middling vanilla ice cream. Oeufs a la Neige (Floating Islands) was sweet enough, but lacked a divinely light consistency. Best was a intense chocolate mousse that seemed as if it might have been just scraped from egg beaters. Le Veau d'Or's modestly priced wine list does not list vineyards. One chooses varietals, and hopes for the best. We ordered a buttery Meursault that turned out to be a Clos du Cromin 2003 for $60. The restaurant offered a 1994 Chateau Beychevelle for $110. As a critic, I must present the restaurant as it might appear to others, but I must confess that despite my complaints, I was gladdened that Le Veau d'Or still serves and has a clientele. The service was occasional, the food passable, and the ambience shadowy, but this was my culinary home. In 1965 Le Veau d'Or was much as it is now, never glittering or accomplished, not Le Grenouille. Perhaps in 1937 it was the same. Some things never change. Yet, dining in the dusky room brought a happiness - a suffused glow - that recognizes that sons can't live on soupe à l'oignon alone. Le Veau d'Or 129 East 60th Street (at Lexington Avenue) Manhattan (Midtown) 212-838-8133 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

I'm showing my ignorance, but I thought "confit" meant "cooked in its own fat." There is no fat in grapefruit, so what does "grapefruit confit" mean? ← Oh well, you're right. I meant that it was a compote, not a confit. But grapefruit confit is evocative.

Grown Up New York City Entry #95 Jean Georges If asked to design a New York restaurant that represents all the best of high-end dining, I would surely be accused of plagiarism. I would have created Jean Georges. Although not a restaurant of perfection (more later), Jean Georges does so much so well, and does so with panache, enticement, geniality and a marriage of classicism and fusion. This is a restaurant that deserves all the stars that twinkle over Columbus Circle. What is perhaps most notable about the cuisine of Jean-Georges Vongerichten - the man has a hyphen, his restaurant doesn't - is that its mark is the synthesis and intensification of contemporary styles. This is not a cuisine of extremes: of purity, of experimentation, of minimalism, or of flavor contrasts. Rather it is a cuisine of the dish, a cuisine that takes flavor and visual appeal as the essence of dining, bowing sometimes towards minimalism (the turbot), at other times to molecularism (carrot soup with passion fruit foam), occasionally nodding to Asian fusion (broiled squab in a light and lively five spice sauce), and at still other times to a cuisine that plays with tough and overwhelming flavors (bitter caramel custard with grapefruit confit). Not Bouley, Ducasse, or Keller, Vongerichten (and his chef de cuisine Mark Lapico) reads them all. Perhaps his preference for synthesis will limit his influence: we have mini-Waters, Bouleys, Adrias, or Trotters, but at this moment, in this town, there is no one whom I would trust more to conceive my dinner. That Jean-Georges lords over an empire of many cuisines is alternatively impressive and troubling, as he flits from the simple and happy elegance of Perry Street, to the creative bistro JoJo, to the grim Spice Market. The Times recently announced that architecture is the art that we fight over, and diners do have their preferences. I found the red dungeon of Bouley taxing; Daniel, elegant but stagy; and Alain Ducasse, monarchical. Excluding the magical and mad Mombar, the Egyptian café in Astoria, a paradise of outsider art, the clean squared design of Jean Georges - by way of über-designer Adam Tihany - is perhaps my favorite dining space. With its creams, whites, grays, and tans, this is a space that doesn't distract from the food, but every so often one gasps at its placid sophistication. The large picture windows that look out over Columbus Circle made the room feel warm with spring. Our service was not only flawless, but filled with charm. (My foremost gripe resulted from the staff's startling generosity). I was particularly gratified by the sommelier's suggestion of wine selections, fining a perfect (and reasonably priced) Chateauneuf du Pape in some basement warren. We began with a trio of astonishing amuses. A splendid sashimi of salmon toro (what would surely be otoro at a sushi bar) with an olive oil gelee and crunchy soy was as luxuriant as one could imagine a fish, but with sufficient ornamentation that one knew this was not the Tsujiki fish market. Nudging the salmon, was a small spoon, a ticking flavor bomb: a cute and juicy strawberry slice with a bit of dill and a smear of Roquefort cheese. I would not have imagined that the combination of bleu and berry would have been as evocative as it became, but I will make the trek to Fairway to attempt an impossible re-creation. We save the best for last, a dish that should have been a travesty, a calamity, a sick joke. Here was essence of carrot soup with tarragon and passion fruit foam. When life passes in front of my lips, a few gustatory memories will remain. This will be one of them. (A strawberry soup from Nougatine will be another). Chef Vongericten or his executive chef were inspired to combine the airy passion fruit with the rich solidity of carrot puree to demonstrate their talent to recognize a compelling synergy. At Jean Georges, diners choose between two tasting menus - his classic dishes and (in May) a spring menu - or a four course prix fixe. We were tempted by some prix fixe dishes, but, as we were Jean Georges virgins we decided to assay his classic seductions, a menu that, we were told, has continuously been offered since the opening. We began with one of the dishes for which Jean Georges is best known: a witty roe conceit. Eggs on egg. In a scooped out brown egg shell, the chef partially cooks the yolk, covers it with a vodka creme fraiche and stuffs the cooked egg white back, and covers the opening with eggs from California farm-raised sturgeon (an Osetra-like caviar). If not the most dramatic taste of the evening, the dish was a triumph of Faberge indulgence wed to gustatory theory. Here was a reconstruction of a caviar repast but with such flair that one had to love the man. Scallops with Caramelized Cauliflower and Caper-Raisin Emulsion left one crying for more. This dish played on essences. The pair of scallops were perfectly presented with a floret of cauliflower on top, surrounded by a pool of deep, biting caper-raisin emulsion. We wondered whether that exotic bite was from curry or from mustard, to be told that it was vinegar that revealed the flavors. The Young Garlic Soup with Thyme and Sauteed Frog's Legs was the least compelling main dish. The combination of the garlic with curly cress, chive blossoms, tarragon, and chicken stock was harsh, particularly the mix of garlic and a somewhat salty stock. Others at my table vouched for its quality, but I felt the flavors lacked harmony. Jean Georges' Turbot with Chateau Chalon Sauce showed that a dish of essences could be startling and revealing. Here was a triangular filet napped by a better than perfect sauce: caramelized carrots to the highest power. On top of the mild turbot sat a pointillist line of micro-cubed tomato and zucchini. As pretty as a postcard and with better mouthfeel than chewed cardboard. A miminalist classic. Lobster Tartine with Lemongrass and Fenugreek Broth and Pea Shoots was brilliant in its fusion. I adored the broth with its heady Orientalist fantasy. This appeared a simple dish on the plate, but its complexity was revealed on the tongue, and in shades of green and red (echoing the turbot's garnish), the tartine stood out visually as well as through the aroma that Jean-Georges so loves. It is getting repetitive to remark how blessed are these dishes, but the broiled squab, onion compote, corn pancake with foie gras was a fitting pre-dessert close (no palate cleanser is served). The foie gras atop the johnnycake wasn't necessary, the pancake was simply too exquisite. This was another dish in which Chef Vongerichten relied on his Asian spicekit, adding a five spice jus, a wedge of preserved Meyer lemon, and a dusting of five spice powder. Unlike the turbot which played with minimalism, this was a dish of complexity, lushness, and surprise. Dessert at Jean-Georges under the guidance of Chef Patissier Johnny Iuzzini requires that the diner selects a quartet of choices (the same forced choice as evident at Room 4 Dessert): a tasting menu within a tasting menu. Tonight we could select among Citrus, Chocolate, Rhubarb, and Exotic Fruit and be served a plate divided into quadrants. I selected the first and was pleased I did. Of the quartet, my preference was Bitter Caramel Custard with Grapefruit Confit. What a brave corps of cooks to advertise their gall. Bitter tastes are underutilized, but not here. This dessert combined quinine tang with the sharpness of grapefruit. Bitter on bitter with enough acid and sugar to make the dish sublime. The blood orange sorbet with tarragon jus used the herb in a way that would have been unimaginable moments before serving. The simple combination of savors was profound, revealing a chef who knows his way in the physic garden. The kumquat strudel with chartreuse ice cream made fine use of an underappreciated citrus. Why wife's parental homestead was favored with a kumquat tree, and we would often snack on these potent orange marbles. Tonight I skipped down memory lane. The ice cream was flavored with Chartreuse liqueur, but rather than the bright expected yellow-green hue, the custard was a pale cream, possibly flavored by Yellow Chartreuse. The fourth dessert was a Creme Fraiche Cheesecake with Meyer Lemon Jam. It was tasty, but not superior to a slice from S&S or Junior's. When presented with the dessert list, a companion sighed, "I wish we could have all sixteen dishes." To our surprise - and at first to our pleasure - our server brought out the quartet of Exotic Fruit desserts. This was Jean Georges' undoing. Only one of these desserts was a pleasing treat, and one was roadkill. Who would have guessed that such things might have been hidden in the recesses of Vongerichten's kitchen? I approve the Passion Fruit-Mint Sorbet with Coconut and Petit Beurre. Flambee Banana with Crispy Phyllo was pleasant although not startling. The chef's Grilled Golden Pineapple with Cumin Meringue, Curry, and Cilantro had too much exotic spice for a dessert treat. And then there was Chilled Mango Lhassi with Tropical Fruits and Carrot Froth. For our amuse we were served a divine Carrot Soup with Passion Fruit foam. This dessert was the starter's Bizarro Double. It was nasty. How could tastes and textures (thick and rough) create an axis of evil? Fortunately petit macaroons quickly effaced that malevolent memory. Perhaps at that time of the night, it was us or the disposal. I vote for the plumbing. But let us not hold such munificence against a restaurant too ready to please. Jean Georges does what four-star dining must do, dispense joy: the pleasure of being there, of seeing that, of being treated so, and of eating much. Given its success, diners might regret that Chef Vongerichten has chosen to spend less time in his kitchens. He is an endowed professor who chose to be a Dean. Such colleagues create the conditions for others to excel, but one wonders what might result if they were back in the lab. Having chosen the Jean Georges classic menu, the quality of current innovations in the kitchen remain to be tested. Can genius be franchised? Perhaps, but one rather wishes that it need not be. Still, even without Chef Vongerichten behind the kitchen door, Jean Georges the restaurant is purring and grinning. When the cat is away, these mice play as if they are kittens. Jean Georges 1 Central Park West (at 60th Street) Manhattan (Columbus Circle) 212-299-3900 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

In the Roberto's thread, we have had an interesting discussion of restaurants that systematically do some things better than others. I was at the Peking Duck House yesterday, and it is a classic case. The Peking Duck (should it be Beijing Duck?) was very enjoyable and prepared tableside. The remainder of the food we ordered was strictly ordinary (the crispy sea bass was quite tasty, but the rest was standard issue). The nice thing about the PDH is that they announce their skills up front - let the buyer beware - and the rest of the menu is for those who have been roped into diner by duck lovers. The appetizers were OK, but with the exception of the fish, the other main courses (beef with broccoli, fried chicken, fried rice, crispy beans, etc.) are only distractions.

Look at the liquid the veal is sitting in; that is not sauce but tomato water. And while the presentation might be acceptable for a red gravy Italian, the dish, photographed as the plate arrived, is not the presentation that you would expect from a really exceptional restaurant. But to reiterate, we enjoyed our appetizer very much, an the pasta was cooked nicely al dente.

I have, of course, been following the thread with great (and personal) interest. First, I was told (at lunch) that they did not serve half orders of pasta (as, for instance, A Voce does). But they do wrap things up. A central issue on the thread is what do we expect from a chef. We seem to have a consensus that the Secondi are not as good as the Pasta and Risotto at Roberto's, and this was clearly my experience. (We can debate how "not as good" they are). After all, we are not talking about particular dishes, but about classes of dishes, and we are suggesting not just that Roberto's had an off-lunch, but that this experience is in some measure characteristic. So the question for the Chef (and not just him, but many chefs where diners share a consensus that one part of the menu is better than the other), is a) does s/he not know? b) does s/he not care?, or c) can s/he not do any better? I hope (and again I'm not talking about any particular restaurant) that B is not the case. The role of the critic is to insure that A does not apply. And then we are left with C, the reality of differential skills and talents, which is always and forever the lot of the artist who is all-too-human.

Jason, Interesting point. But by showing three images, you don't really answer your own point about the "type" of food in which Roberto's excels. I would be curious if, when faced with a specials board with many dishes, what decision rules would you use to make a choice. For an Italian restuarant not to excell in Veal Scallopine sets the bar somewhat low, but as you can see from the photo, this was not a success. Roberto's certainly has its fans, and the ingrediants were superior, but at this lunch, the mains didn't hold up. I'm not sure what rules would have predicted that soft shell crabs would be soggy. gaf

Authenticitology New York City Entry #94 Roberto's Before my recent lunch at Roberto's, the Zagat's 27 restaurant near Arthur Avenue, I imagined that my review would write itself. I could stick it to Mario. Here in the Belmont neighborhood of the Bronx was an exquisitely authentic Italian cuisine, unavailable in the boot of Manhattan. Sometimes reality sticks its Roman nose in one's plot. Italian restaurants come in two flavors: not the red South verse white North, but those that trade on the inspiration of the chef and those whose inspiration is from tradition. Some Italian restaurants are marketed through celebrity, others through legend. Roberto's, something of a hybrid, slants towards the latter. It is not that Executive Chef Roberto Paciullo is an unknown, and Roberto's is known for its creative daily specials, hardly the mark of a red-gravy Sicilian (Chef Roberto hails from south of Naples). Roberto's is a more adventurous enterprise than most of its neighbors, such as the down-home Dominicks. Roberto's is a stylish, white-tablecloth place with exposed brick walls, decorated in tones of gray and yellow, even if it wishes to trade in hominess by its stout refusal to take reservations and keeps a chalkboard for its specials. To be fair, some fine restaurants falter at lunch, when the evening crew - and sometimes the chef - are away. And the meal was hardly distressing, but the main course specials were undistinguished. Our meal was on a different order than the satisfactions of Dominicks, but not so impressive to demand a visit on a busy Saturday night without reservations. Our appetizer was the comfortable zenith of our lunch: Insalata di Bocconcini: Bite-size Mozzarella, Roasted Pepper, Sundried Tomatoes, Sopressata, and Spiedini alla Romano (thin wedges of baked cheese sandwich) over Mixed Greens. Quality ingredients, carefully prepared and presented. However, with the exception of the buttery Spiedini, the plate didn't require the fire's touch. We chose a daily pasta special, Mezzanelli with Fava Beans, Cherry Tomatoes, and Pecorino. The Mezzanelli, a thick rod, was properly cooked, although the exploded cherry tomatoes did not stand the heat well, providing a squishiness in what otherwise might have been a sturdy dish with excellent al dente favas. Entrees were moist flubs. My companion ordered Soft-Shell Crabs with Spinach. But rather than lightly and crispy fried, the crabs were sodden, a failure that the soggy spinach did not hide. Veal Scallopine with Mortadella, Peppers, and Scamorza (a curd cheese from cow's milk) was a casual mistake. I recognized and appreciated the quality of the ingredients, but the plate edged toward the sloppy and gloppy. As with the crab, the dish had a watery excess. The veal was a high-quality product, as was the cheese and mortadella. The problem was preparation, perhaps a novice dishwasher was filling in this weekday lunch. Many excuses can be made for this beloved restaurant. And I am tempted to embrace all to preserve my ardor for authenticity. But considering our entrees, Roberto's is not our fantasies. As in so much of the Bronx, what IS nips the heels of what MIGHT BE. Roberto's 603 Crescent Avenue (near Arthur Avenue) Bronx (Belmont) 718-733-9503 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Blame it on Bruni New York City Entry #93 A Voce A few weeks back we reserved a table for a Tuesday night at A Voce, Andrew Carmellini's sleek new Italian restaurant on Madison Park. We imagined a quiet evening at a restaurant that was gaining its bearings. Reservations were easily had, even if A Voce coolly required that diners (at least for our party of five) sign a contract, not just provide a credit card number. One must return a reservations form, scrawled in blood. What has happened to the gossamer trust between diner and restauranteur? When questioned, the reservationist asserted that ninety percent of New York restaurants have the same requirement. As a student of Italian geography, I can only respond "Bologna." By the time our evening arrived, Frank Bruni had just revealed his quixotic three-star musings in the Times and the restaurant was overwhelmed. Perhaps a restaurant whose name translates as "word of mouth" expected a slowly gathering fame, not the shock of anointment. In truth, the kitchen fared better than the floor. Service was as disorganized and as thoughtless as any I have experienced. A hostess neglected to provide claim checks. Our server attempted to push a $100 bottle of wine as a first choice without asking about our price preference. Appetizers and pasta were served simultaneously, leaving no room on the table (was this a hint to eat quickly? - perhaps, but we were ignored for long stretches). Both our shared dessert and shared contorno were served without separate plates. As a fellow klutz, I give a pass to the dropped salad. But if this night is an indication, this staff is not ready for prime time. One wonders if tranquility rules a week ago. The receipt of three stars by an affordable restaurant generates what in polite circles might be termed a feeding frenzy. With sixty-somethings holding court at the tables and thirty-somethings surrounding the bar, A Voce was juggling a generational divide, two clienteles in a single space. Much has been made that A Voce does not look "Italian." One can not guess the cuisine from the decor, but the comfort and polish of the space - Eames swivel chairs, leather table tops, and a beautiful sculptural with orange back-lighting - provides a theatrical flair. If the cuisine shies away from slickness, it does not attempt Arthur Avenue authenticity. This is a chef's cuisine, not a nation's. A Voce has a culinary style, marrying hardy provincialism and the elegance of Café Boulud, Chef Carmellini's former employer. If the dishes do not always reach the happy rococo imaginings of Mr. Bruni, this was a most satisfying evening in culinary terms. Our table began with a trio of appetizers. Order the Grilled Asparagus Parmigiana, served with Fried Farm Egg, Duck Bresaola (a dry-cured duck breast, borrowed from Babbo's bag of tricks), and white truffles. May is asparagus's moment. Despite the extravagance of the ingredients the dish was substantial, not fussy. The egg, cooked so it wiggled, combined eagerly with the grilled spears of spring. This plate was the star of the evening. The Duck Meatballs with Dried Cherry Mostarda (a mustard-based fruit glaze) provided a pleasant interlude. After five months in Uppsala, I am well-trained in Swedish meatballs and lingonberries, and this enjoyable taste didn't much surpass what I had been frequently served at lunch mess, but the mustard provided a kick. The duck wasn't much superior to well-ground beef, even if the meat was lighter and more complex in its gaminess. Roasted Beet Salad with Hazelnuts, Gorgonzola Dolce, and Barolo Vinegar completed the starters. The beets were stellar, although the salad itself was a simple high-end beet salad, a rendition not so different from my own preparations. We ordered two pasta dishes (the ones that mysteriously appeared with our appetizers). The better of the two was Homemade Pappardelle with Lamb Bolognese, Mint, and Sheep's Ricotta. The pasta was dense and rich, another dish removed from the stove at its moment of glory; the Ricotta was admirable as well. Chef Carmellini could have been more generous with his mint, a choice that would have provided an exotic flair. Potato Gnocchi with Spring Peas and Prosciutto was composed of tiny pearls of spud and peas, lovely in its presentation. The taste was straightforward - gnocchi, ham, and peas in a cream sauce. No complaints, but not much memory. Steamed Black Sea Bass with Shrimp Polpettini (petite shrimp balls), New Potatoes and Basil-Shellfish Broth was nearly seafood soup with the unadvertised but welcome addition of cockles and mussels. This was another precisely timed dish, and was most notable for its sublime herbal broth. The polpettini and potatoes didn't add much to the dish, but perhaps a potage of bass, bivalves, and broth might have seemed thin gruel to others; I would have been entranced. As a side dish we ordered Funghi Trifolati: Spring Mushrooms with Garlic and Herbs, sauteed in Olive Oil (prepared in the truffle style). Chef Carmellini combined three mushroom species (Blewits, Trumpets, and Hen of the Woods, each available to dedicated ‘shroomers). (Our server assured us that morels were not included in this spring mix because of their prohibitive cost, but Blewits, autumn funghi, are rarer in the May wilds than morels). To say that I can cook up a mess of mushrooms equal in clarity is not to deny my dusky enjoyment. Pastry Chef April Robinson's dessert list disappointed. The night we dined, most desserts (excepting the sorbet and a panna cotta) were made with chocolate or coffee, a caffeinated bias. The Vanilla-Yogurt Panna Cotta with Saba Vinegar (a sweet, thick vinegar, akin to balsamic) and Raspberries was passably smooth, but, even with the vinegar, was rather bland. Italian cuisine rarely reveals the subtlety of the French. The robustness that diners cherish also poses a barrier to transcendence. And so Chef Carmellini suffers for his cuisine. As much as I enjoyed dinner, A Voce is not evocative in the way that Café Boulud is, but perhaps this is a company that Chef Carmellini prefers not to keep. And, on this warm spring evening, A Voce crashed from the curse of the sated critic. The crush of humanity that resulted cracked service. Signore Bruni has recently passed time as a server; perhaps he could have shown penance for his good deed by lending an ink-stained hand. A Voce 41 Madison Avenue (at 26th Street) Manhattan (Flatiron) 212-545-8555 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Too Good Burgers New York City Entry #92 Burger Joint at the Parker Meridien and db Bistro Moderne at the City Club Hotel Hamburgers are nothing to sneeze at. It is not for nothing that the American fast food industry applied their Fordist techniques most successfully to those pucks of beef. Seemingly anyone can flip a burger, making it the ideal entry job for teens whom no parent would think of trusting with the family meal. However, everything can be upscaled, transformed into a luxury good, a source of what social theorist Thorstein Veblen spoke of as pecuniary emulation. Burgers are no exception. This past week I slipped into two hotel restaurants to see what all of the fuss is about. Over the past year I have had a few noteworthy burgers, including those at Donovan's (an extraordinarily fulfilling, juicy burger at an archetypal, convivial Irish neighborhood bar in Woodside, Queens), Better Burger (a better-than-average fast food effort) and Burke in the Box (a cute conceit at Bloomingdale's), but none that I have written about. (Perhaps I should try the burger at Peter Luger's Steakhouse, but that seems such a damn waste). Hamburgers are among the most American of foods: steak on a bun, and even when they are not at their best, they can be intensely satisfying. Perhaps the most notorious celebrity burger in Manhattan is "The Original db Burger," a $29 platter of excess, the Paris Hilton of beefcake: "Sirloin Burger Filled with Braised Short Ribs, Foie Grass and Black Truffle on a Parmesan Bun with Pommes Frites." But where is the beluga and Tasmanian leatherwood honey? No diner could possibly doubt the damage of this fare to one's own liver - or the elegance of the luxe room in which it is served. One could hardly spend a year in Manhattan without a db Burger and a bit of sushi at Masa (more on this later), if one hopes to understand how capitalist inequalities are tottering. Daniel Boulud and his Chef de Cuisine Oliver Muller serve a composition that truly deserves the label "concoction." After finishing I felt like a nervous ten year old who has just exited the Cyclone, glad that he had a story to tell and relieved it was over. Chef Daniel, has anyone ordered the db Burger twice? Why? I do not disdain the experience. It was luscious and I will remember the foie gras, short ribs, and truffles, and I have a tale about a burger priced $28 above a White Castle slider. The Burger Joint at Le Parker is reached by entering a curtained area off the lobby of this upscale hotel. The experience has the feel of finding La Esquina, the hidden SoHo Mexican dungeon, a space whose concealment swells the arch desire to Be There! (At 10:30 p.m. on a weeknight I faced no long line.) Unlike the db Burger, Burger Joint does not carry the weight of Chef Daniel's reputation. It is a high-end burger, ground top sirloin and shoulder. Mine nicely grilled with some charring. I requested my burger rare, but it was, by my standard, medium-rare. I am perfectly happy with medium-rare hamburgers. Ordering rare insures that I will not receive a grey medium. Perhaps the Burger Joint did not produce a Platonic burger, but at $5.50 it was estimable. It did not match the beauty of the perfectly cooked burger at Donovan's, just good sirloin cooked without pretense, and presented rare, served by barmen who are not just marking time, and, of course, at the Meridien there was no Guinness Stout on hand to complete the perfection. db Bistro Moderne 55 West 44th Street (at 6th Avenue) Manhattan (Midtown) 212-391-2400 Burger Joint Hotel Le Parker Meridien 118 West 57th Street (at 7th Avenue) Manhattan (Midtown) 212-708-7414 Donovan's Pub 5724 Roosevelt Ave. (at Skillman Avenue) Queens (Woodside) 718-429-9339 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

I went to Dirty Bird this evening, and what I liked best was the reduced salt. So much fried chicken is a sodium delivery system. Alison and Slade make up for this with a mild mix of what tastes like Indian spices. I also like the crispiness of the coating on the fried chicken, although it wasn't as rich (read: fatty) as some I have had down south; I imagine that the "health" claims is somehow connected with a reduced level of fat. My cornbread with scallions was very hot (wrapped in aluminum foil, the package was alomost too hot to handle - someone got the message), and I found it delicious. The dirty was bland and uninteresting. It would not pass muster in shacks on the bayou.

I was told not. My go-to place for marzipan in New York is now Hinsch's in Bay Ridge. (8518 5th Avenue, Brooklyn, 718-748-2854).

My point was that it is unlikely that Eleven Madison Park will get THREE Michelin stars (a Michelin trifecta). It is inevitable that Humm will get one at Eleven, and (in my judgement) he deserves a second. I wasn't aware that there was so much turmoil in the turnover, but the restaurant seemed to be purring nicely. The price point at Eleven Madison Park is less than half that at Per Se, and at times it does show, but de gustibus non disputandum.

Fennel Fantasia New York City Entry #91 Eleven Madison Park When a restaurant manages to scale the heights of its potential - to discover its G spot - critics must be of two minds. Gone is the opportunity to slip in those cutting bon mots that readers treasure. Great great great makes a tinny sound. But when a restaurant that once was passable becomes within spitting distance of perfect, there is a story to tell. Eleven Madison Park was designed to be the high-end of the Danny Meyer portfolio. Yet, despite an art deco nod to extravagance, it never reached its promise. The food was critiqued as pedestrian, or at least not sufficiently startling as to capture the heart of high-concept diners. (I had not dined at Eleven previously.) This is a sour back story of a glorious present. Danny Meyer, the George Steinbrenner of New York dining, bought himself the Barry Bonds of the Bay cuisine (Not the most apt metaphor these days, but much rare chemistry and raw power is involved.) The cross-continental hiring of Daniel Humm, the Swiss-born chef, formerly working wonders at San Francisco's Campton Place, was inspired. Campton was perhaps the finest of San Francisco restaurants (although I can't compare Campton to Restaurant Gary Danko). This deal is as inspired as the culinary sensibility that Humm brings. When such cookery is blended with the preternaturally gracious, cheerful, and (usually) attentive service at a Danny Meyer restaurant, the results are bound to astound. Eleven Madison had been the recipient of the 2004 James Beard Award for Service. At the time this honor may have felt like being named Miss Congeniality at the Playboy Club, but tonight our main server, Adam, was world-class in charm, not through Franco-haughty efficiency, but with all of the ingratiating jocular charms of New York wit. The service was as cheering as the food. Of the over 100 meals, I have eaten this year, Eleven ranks second, just behind Per Se (is all great cuisine left coastal?), and when one realizes that the tasting menus are $75.00 (four course, plus at least four concealed courses), the ratio of joy/dollar ranks just behind Papaya King. As a matter of culinary politics, Eleven Madison Park is probably not a candidate for a Michelin trifecta. The room, through striking with its distant, elegant ceiling, lacks the gravitas of a three-star temple and, judging by my dinner, Humm and Meyer might not need to tweak the dishes, but double the charges. Chef Humm offers three four-course tasting menus: an aquatic, seasonal, and garden (vegetarian) menu - the latter relatively uncommon in Gotham, but de rigueur by the Bay. My companion and I both selected the first (this was not a circumstance in which I could demand half a plate). Before we reached our amuse, we were amused by five appetizettes. I can't recall so many firecrackers on the same plate. The aspect of Chef Humm's cooking that is so impressive is that he seems throughly comfortable with ideas of molecular cuisine, but never does he pay obeisance to these post-modern demand. Twice we spied foam, but each time the foam made a case for its presence. In this Humm belongs in the same category as Thomas Keller. Perhaps because of the lower price point, the food was less fussy, if equally flavorful. Possibly some of the "touches" were missing, but the heart was beating as strongly. First, we were treated to an airy foie gras pate. Having just learned that my Chicago City Council has decided to deny us foie gras (their "live and let liver" policy), I must consume as I can. But this was a more like the pates one used to eat when goose liver was the organ of choice, not heated bits of liver, but a smooth pate of infinite grace. Next was what is likely the finest sweetbread that I have eaten. (Calories are not to be counted). This buttery, crispy sweetbread was surrounded with rich brick dough (a thin wheat dough) and a bit of chive. Even those who profess a distaste for sweetbreads could offer no complaint here. As satisfying a pair of bites as might be imagined, and a reminder that with crispy genius, food can sometimes be auditory as well as mastering the other four senses. In the midst of the line up was raw Bigeye Tuna. Very nice, but that is not what made this dish worthy. It sat on a slice of raw fennel (with more fennel to come) with a dusting of fennel pollen and a little fennel confit. The slightly bitter edge of this petit four was a profound contrast to the foie gras and sweetbreads. Fourth was a Hummdinger: a small piece of Swiss bunderfleish (dry, salted beef) blanketing a bit of pickled radish. This jewel (one bite this time) boldly combined salt and sour in a way that reminded a diner that, like the most creative molecular chef, Chef Humm is not afraid of big, bad, bold combinations - and he gets them right. Finally a galette napped with a goat cheese mousse and a touch of Meyer lemon jam. Once again the flavors were brazen and heroic: the jam sliced through the sometimes unctuous creaminess of goat cheese. We imagined that this quintet would constitute our amuse, but Chef Humm had other ideas. At Eleven things come in numerical sequences, and our amuse twinned tomato. I was stunned by a sherry tomato sorbet with a comb of potato gaufrette. Forget the gaufrette, the sorbet was essence of tomato: a perfect cooler by the Tomato Ice King of Madison Park. Ice cream for adults, just ready for a steamy afternoon. My first taste of the sorbet's partner disappointed: a green gazpacho - green tomatoes, tomatillos, avocado, romaine, cucumber, and zucchini, blended into a light, bright green liquid. The soup tasted bland and thick until the sour, vinegary aftertaste hit. This radiant sourness emerged just as I was concluding that the gazpacho was nothing special. Few chefs are skilled enough trust aftertastes. I might propose a lighter version of the soup, but this was something special. We still were not ready for the first dish on our tasting menu. Next was perhaps the highpoint of the meal: a fantasia in fennel - a sly salad of fennel raw, cured, shaved, pickled, pollinated, sprouted, and served in beignets, dressed with chive oil and lemon vinaigrette, coupled with small sections of blood orange. I admire a chef who is willing to play with tastes on the bitter register: bondage and discipline for the foodie set. (Sadly I lack an image of this beautifully presented dish). After this, the menu. First listed was "Maine Diver Scallops ‘En Chaud-Froid' with Osetra Caviar." A pair of scallops one hot, one cold, each with crowned with osetra caviar. The hot scallop was napped with a rich lobster bouillabaisse; the cold was served with a cauliflower mousse on a pool of cream. I was amazed that a scallop could taste so different with smartly distinct preparations. Perhaps I preferred the warm scallop, but the cool preparation was delightful as well, and together the flavors revealed the force of thoughtful synthesis. Our second aquatic course was centered on Blue Hawaiian Prawns, perhaps a tribute to The King, and one that truly honors Sir Elvis. This shrimp on steroids was served in a saffron consommé with tastes of green apple and ginger. This dish was pure in conception and in its execution. Another brave and splendid dish. With all of these flavors flowing about one might wonder about muddy flavors, but the flavors were clear and distinct, and even though it was served on a tasting menu, the plate was large enough to satisfy with all the tastes evident. The centerpiece of our dinner was a Butter Poached Nova Scotia Lobster with Chantenay Carrots (Who knew of carrot varietals?), orange-soy sauce, and a touch of Gewürztraminer-sea urchin foam. This was another in a string of valiant and compelling plates. Chef Humm has a way with vegetables - the carrots were splendid. The mix of lobster, orange, Gewürztraminer and uni was entrancing - rich and slightly puckery. Humm's dishes are recognizably modern, but still hold to classic techniques of flavor and presentation. Following was our third amuse (or was it our eighth), a palate cleanser in the form of a raspberry soup with almond meringue and clear vanilla ice cream. Perhaps one could dismiss this dish as only delicious, but it was a dessert that is suitable for daily consumption. Finally appeared a triptych of Meyer Lemon: a meringue tart, a warm Chiboust (lemon custard) with ginger cookies, and a scoop of lemon-basil sorbet with kaffir lime. I found the tart less special than its companions, particularly the ethereal custard, but pastry chef Nicole Kaplan can match Chef Humm bite for bite. Perhaps these were not grand, glorious, and evocative desserts, startling with surprises, but they reflected a serious of purpose as evident at the end of the meal as at the start. Eleven Madison Park is, today, a signature New York restaurant. If we place Per Se on a shelf in the heavens, Eleven Madison provides as much brilliance as any meal I have had, and at its price it is without any peer. Even if restaurants critics cannot slip in the nasty bon mot, Eleven Madison Park makes a writerly diner grin. Eleven Madison Park 11 Madison Avenue (at 24th Street) Manhattan (Flatiron) 212-889-0905 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

They closed in mid-April. The rent became too high, and it was time - they thought, I didn't - to close up shop. An end of an era. More traumatic for me than the closing of the Second Avenue Deli.