gaf

Klary, thanks for the suggestions on this and on other threads. I just returned from a week in Amsterdam with a range of food memories. The finest memory was a wonderful chocolateria in the Jordaan area - west of Central Station. Jordino has some really wonderful marzipan treats (a concoction of figs, chocolate and marzipan, and one of dates, chocolate, and marzipan. The other desserts were equally good. Their ice cream, in contrast, was only fair. Jordino Haarlemmerdijk 25 020-420-3255 A second worthy dining adventure was the Surinaam-Indian eatery Wan Pipel at Albert Cuypstraat 140 (020-671-8001). This small restaurant is behind the shops at the Cuypstraat street market. There are a number of Surinam-Chinese restaurants along Cuypstraat, but much of the food at these restaurants (according to the menu) seem Chinese in design. Wan Pipel is more South Asian. We ordered Roti Lams (Lamb Roti), Baka Bana (baked banana), lapis (a red and white coconut dessert), samosa, and a kip pastei (a chicken pastry). I cannot suggest that this was the most fantastic Indo-Caribbean meal I've had, but I enjoyed the food, the hospitality, and the bustling market. Wan Pipel Albert Cuypstraaat 140 020-671-8001 We also enjoyed Pygma Lion, a South African restaurant on Nieuwe Spiegelstraat. The food was less Afrikaans that I imagined it would be, and I was less taken by the game (zebra, oryx, etc.) with nouvelle sauces. But I did enjoy the fish cakes, the guinea fowl liver with hot sauce, and a coconut-pumpkin soup. They need a better selection of South African wines and more traditional Afrikaans dishes. It is a small, friendly restaurant. It is in a space that once was home to a gallery named Pygmalion, and thus the name Pygma Lion. Pygma Lion 5a Nieuwe Spiegelstraat We also ate two Indonesian meals: at Tempo Doeloe and at Blue Pepper. Tempo Doeloe is the more traditional in design (batik) and cuisine, and we had a 25 course rijsttafel. Unfortunately my party didn't like heat, and I would have preferred more spice. Even the medium spicy dishes lack much pepper (this is, of course, Amsterdam!). I would recommend the restaurant, however, mostly for the experience but also secondarily for the food. The other was Blue Pepper, which is a very contemporary, stylish space with Indonesian-inflected dishes. The design of the food was compelling as well, although the combinations were not memorable. Still, it was a quite satisfying meal, even though t was a good deal more expensive than Tempo Doeloe. For more traditional rijsttafel TD is a good choice, BP is an interesting up-scale restaurant that grounds its new cuisine on Indonesian flavors. Tempo Doeloe Utrechtstraat 75 020-625-6718 Blue Pepper Nassaukade 366 Pancake Bakery was quite good for traditional (and not so traditional) Dutch pancakes (they have a collection of "international" pancakes). My apple and cheese baked pancake was excellent, particularly for the first night of my visit, when I needed a light repast. Pancake Bakery Prinsengracht 191 020-625-1333 Two disappointments Sluizer on Utrechtstraat (near Tempo Doeloe) is a nothing special outpost of international cuisine. D'Vijff Vlieghen [The Five Flies] (Spuistraat 294-302, 020-530-4060) was a restaurant that I first went to in 1959 when I was nine. The restaurant is a Dutch "theme park - a series of nine rooms that each in their own way captures images of Dutch history. As a nine year old, I ordered Duck l'Orange (and how Dutch is "[House of] Orange" Sauce!), and I was transfixed and transformed. It is the first "gourmet" food that I can recall (perhaps in that it suggested that a main course can be dessert!). When I returned in the 1980s, the food was OK. Now in 2006, it is awful. Dish after dish was poorly cooked, poorly conceived, and filled with off-tastes and cheap ingredients (A four course tasting menu was only 38 Euros, so you get what you pay for). The service was no better than the food (we had to keep asking for water). Very disappointing. I thought that I would return again in 2030, but I'm having my doubts, even though I'm sure D'Vijff Vlieghen will still be around.

Sushi Cartel New York City Entry #90 Sushi Yasuda With the discussion of late of how Rev. Moon's Unification Church (through linked companies) controls the world's supply of raw fish, perhaps Americans should stop grousing about the Arab stranglehold on oil, and start glancing nervously towards the mysterious East for its domination over Omega3. Whether this is a source of concern, the articles in Chicago Tribune and elsewhere remind us again, should we need to be reminded, how little we know of the process by which food magically appears. When we learn - whether fish or foie gras, veal or venison - our nerves are on edge. So much of the good life depends upon a studied obliviousness, of turning our minds from the dirty work that permits us to clean our plate. As is said of legislation and sausage making, surveillance is dangerous for one's digestion. There is a politics everywhere. Discovering how food is brought to the table is enough to turn one's stomach and raise one's voice - and let us not even think about caviar. Ignorance makes dining possible. Sushi Yasuda depends on our willingness not to think too hard about raw fish and trades on our confidence in Chef Naomichi Yasuda. And that confidence is well-placed. Yasuda is the highest rated Japanese restaurant in Zagat 2006 - the fifth highest overall - higher rated than such notables as Masa, Sugiyama, and Nobu. Yasuda, however, is not among the fifty most popular, suggesting - accurately - that Yasuda is a restaurant for connoisseurs. Sushi Yasuda is also one of those serene spaces found in corners of New York. Laminated in light wood (perhaps a white oak, though no tree specialist I), it is not a jewel box, but a humidor. (Momofuku seems an off-kilter and microscopic tribute to Yasuda; Yasuda with the air squeezed out). Yasuda is one of the quietest, most civilized, most adult restaurants in New York. Unfortunately it is not a restaurant that bends over to please. A group of nine chowists attempted to make a reservation and were told that they only take reservations for parties up to six. Fine. Reservations were made for parties of five and four. Many restaurants would have directed us to two tables together or, better, moved them together on our arrival (such would not have been difficult). Instead, we were seated in opposite ends of the restaurant, as if to suggest that we would not be permitted to violate their rules. It seemed unnecessary, especially in a city so devoted to rule-bending. The service was certainly precise, but not as helpful as it might have been, a combination of distance and disdain. Still, we were there for the fish, which was always fresh and often exceptional, especially once the sushi arrived. None of our three appetizers were memorable. Best was the soft roll with young mackerel and sea bream. These were luscious bites of fish with a texture close to custard, an impressive opener. The flash fried prawns with green tea powder were nicely crunchy, a unique texture, although the taste was not much different from any lightly fried shrimp. Least impressive was a grilled Spanish mackerel, marinated in sweet sauce. Here the sauce did not live up to its billing and the fish the least compelling texture of the night, almost grainy. After these appetizers, we treated ourselves to a banquet of sushi and maki rolls. Chef Yasuda takes the quality of the fish so seriously that on the sushi/sashimi list he indicates what he recommends from his own list. He is like a server willing to second-guess the kitchen. In general, we obeyed his commands. Our choices included fluke, chum salmon roe, sea urchin (Maine), sea urchin (California), otoro, eel (anago), eel (unagi), peace passage oyster (perhaps from Hiroshima?), arctic char, king salmon, white king salmon, Tasmanian trout, kimedai, monkfish liver, orange clam, and then a few maki rolls, including toro, mitsuba (chervil), and ume (cherry/shiso). With one or two bites, a close reading is not to be had. But the quality was well-pleasing matched by its excellent rice. Perhaps not the most exquisite sushi, especially in contrast with a recent breakfast repast at the Tsukiji fish market in Tokyo, there were few missteps and several brilliant choices. I particularly enjoyed the Godly oyster sushi, the Maine sea urchin, flavored with a bit of sea salt and tasting like foie gras of the waves (and much better than a too creamy California version), a buttery fluke, the eel, and a most interesting, herbal chervil maki. Salmon and char were also at the high end. Less impressive was the toro maki and, as mentioned, the California urchin. At Sushi Yasuda, one must taste one's sushi before even thinking of dipping it. The chef adds what he conceives of as the proper amount of wasabi, and some of the bites had a rare heat. This is not fish and rice, but fish and rice and philosophy and care. With this my second visit to Sushi Yasuda, I find it a restaurant that is easier to respect than to love. And I do respect it. Perhaps the space cools my ardor, perhaps it is the service, or perhaps it is the maki and starters that sometimes sing and sometimes hum. The fish is exceptional and the chef is a master and, for us, with sake, tax and tip, the meal was well-priced at $90.00. Yet, I remember Sugiyama and Nobu with such fondness than despite my great and true admiration for the work of Chef Yasuda, I am next likely to think of contributing my tithe to the very Rev. Moon across town. Sushi Yasuda 204 East 43nd Street (at Third Avenue) Manhattan (Midtown) 212-972-1001 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

I stand corrected, the foul was transcendent - a grease stain must have covered my notes.

Stars Over Astoria New York City Entry #89 Kabab Café My initial excursion to the bustling village of Astoria was to dine at Mombar Café, whose decor I described - and still describe - as one of the wonders of the New York dining world. Soon several friends gently took me to task. They didn't deny - how could they? - that the ambiance at Mombar's was thoroughly otherworldly, a love sonnet from restauranteur to diner. However, they noted that just down the street Mustafa's brother, Ali, was a genius behind the stove. Let me not cause any quarrels between siblings - I understand that they cook together on occasion - but having returned from Kabab Café, I can attest that Ali is one of New York's star chefs. And he works his magic in a space that makes Momofuku or Prune - or Mombar - seem spacious by comparison. My Chicago home has a larger closet. The decor at Kabab nods in the direction of the odd and self-taught, but the cuisine is assured. Since four of our party of six knew Ali El-Sayed (after eating at KC once every diner knows Ali), we were treated to Ali's revelations. Kabab Café has a menu, but in practice it doesn't count for much. As appetizers we were presented with three plates: an Egyptian antipasto plate of light, fragrant and oddly shaped falafel, silky humus, and an array of crispy fried greens. It was splendid. A second plate contained slivers of woodsy mushroom tart in a crisp phyllo dough. The final appetizer was marinated sardines. Not the now trendy fresh sardines, but sardines in a marinate that never overpowered. While Ali offered goat in a pomegranate glaze, we selected duck two ways and a plate of fried tilapia. The grandest dish of the evening - one of the most heavenly duck preparations I have ever had - was Ali's "Marsh Duck," a perfectly stewed wild duck with accompaniments appropriate for such untamed meat, including caramelized green almonds, lotus root, and bamboo. These flavors demanded a new way of conceiving duck, a novel taste register. The second, domestic duck, roasted with honey and served with squash was memorable as well, although lacked the complexity of the first plate. Our tilapia, fried whole, was a sight to be seen, even if mild tilapia does not - and did not - have the evocative flavors of the poultry pair. Dessert was another combination plate: this time Ali's Egyptian sweets. Each was a honeyed success, particularly the bird's nest and his homemade yogurt. If there is a chef's Believe-It-Or-Not Chef Ali will surely receive the award for the most culinary miracles per square foot of kitchen. This is a tiny restaurant that no one who cares about the possibilities of cuisine can afford to pass. And Ali's Marsh Duck demands to be bronzed. Kabab Café 35-12 Steinway Street (near Astoria Boulevard) Queens (Astoria) 718-728-9858 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Sweet Brooklyn New York City Entry #88 Saul A friend of mine decreed that I needed some Brooklyn chow, so we braved the F train out to restaurant row on the Smith Street corridor, somewhere between Carroll Gardens, Boerum Hill, and Cobble Hill. (Jonathan Lethem can point to the subtle divisions, but I am lost). We chose Saul, one of the earlier outposts along this gentrified stretch, well-loved by Brooklyn Zagateers and known by crusty Manhattanites for the novelty of its Michelin star. Saul's allure makes us the bridge and tunnel crowd. Judging by Saul, Brooklyn dining reminds me of the best meals I have had in Minneapolis or St. Louis, filled with diner's pleasures. No putdown to be sure, but as has been noted Saul is inventive without being experimental. If you do not expect to be walloped in the gut or in the wallet, you will eat well. Chef Saul Bolton knows what we like, and if we are not confronted, we are indulged. The first glance tells the tale. Saul is a sleek but modest space. The exposed brick and paper tablecloths say much about what argue is the best dining in the borough (if one doesn't count The River Café or Peter Luger or DiFara). Saul is less art than craft, and the prices (for both food and wine) match. Put another way, the food at Saul doesn't seem to be in dialogue with the current trends across the river; it merely aims to satisfy. The innovations are thoughtful, but don't amount to a philosophy of the plate. We began with an amuse (or more properly a starter) of the signature carrot-ginger soup with chive creme fraiche. The overriding sensation was a velvet tranquility. The ginger was an undertone. Although it was presented as carrot-ginger, I had to wonder how much ginger was present (on the menu, it is listed as "carrot soup"). My appetizer was duck confit with Anson Mills grits, pickled ramps, and green fava beans. Perhaps the dish suffered slightly from being overly sweet (a problem throughout the dinner - and often evident in restaurants distant from New York, where chefs have learned that the surest way to please diners is to remember, following Mary Poppins, that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down). The sweet pickled ramps and what may have been a honey glaze made for a dish that was easy to eat and perhaps a bit too easy to savor. Most intriguing were the jade green al dente favas. The dish was well-made, but not a challenge. Saul's candied creativity was on display in my main course, a nightly special: Rabbit loin and rack of rabbit (a very miniaturized rack) with chestnut honey puree, caramelized endive, frisee and green apple, served with a cider reduction. Here was a main course dessert. I particularly admired the clever frisee with apple. The chestnut puree added a distinctive herbal note, but verged on cloying. Admittedly the number of diners who would object to having a three courses of dessert might be tiny indeed. My dessert was also sweet and good. (My companion ordered the Goat Cheese Panna Cotta, which was not sweet, he attested; that might be a better choice for those who felt a saccharine buzz). My choice was a poached bosc pear in a saffron scented passion fruit cream, and a macadamia nut crunch dulce de leche ice cream. I couldn't taste much promised saffron; the plate was all fruit and nuts. The passion fruit and macadamia nuts echoed the surf on Smith Street. I enjoyed each sweet mouthful. And yet I felt that chef Bolton pandered to my pleasures. This is a restaurant for eaters, not for chefs, not for critics. Saul does not rely on a theory of the table, merely the practice of an evening's delight. Crossing the river is to travel from art to craft. For Manhattanites the East River is as wide as the Mississippi. Saul 140 Smith Street (at Bergen Street) Brooklyn (Boerum Hill) 718-935-9844 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Low Down New York City Entry #87 La Esquina The demimonde of New York was abuzz. A buzz. A hidden restaurant had opened in a rundown basement, and the best thing was . . . you could not make reservations. You had to be known or know the right someone. Some publicist deserves a Oscar. Who wouldn't salivate to dine in a club that wouldn't have them as a member? To enter La Esquina, "The Corner," located a stone's throw from SoHo in Nolita (North of Little Italy), one passes through a guarded door, reading "Employees Only," leading to a walk through the busy kitchen and into an underground scene. In due course, the phone number was publicized, and La Esquina now counterfeits its own image. Still, if it does not serve Mexican cuisine that is either distinguished or authentic, the basement is a blast. As has been described, here is Latin chic or, perhaps, sheik. We sat across from a tile rendition of a erotic pano, an image based on cloth drawn by Hispanic prisoners. The painfully loud music and shadowy bar captured the Downtown ethos as filtered through Veracruz. We ate in a dungeon of fantasy, whitewashed brick walls and faded arches. Even if conversation was a lost art, the crowds and servers were bubbling and merry, and the food promptly prepared. We ordered Ceviche Tostados and Cochinita Pibil Tacos (pulled pork, shredded cabbage, picked onions, and jalapeno). The tostados were acidic and the tacos slightly dry, but we were flying too high to critique. As a main course I selected Camarones a la Plancha, Mayan shrimp with honey, lime glaze, over corn salad. I was well-pleased by the glaze and the large moist prawns. Perhaps the corn salad could have been further drained, but I was sucking down the ambiance. The spareribs and fried plantain sufficed without being evocative. At $100 for three, La Esquina stands at some considerable distance from a corner taqueria. It merely plays one on TV. Mexican cuisine has not been one of the strengths of the New York ethnic dining scene; for that Los Angeles or Chicago is the ticket. La Esquina doesn't push far in that direction. Across the street from SoHo, La Esquina is environmental art. Yet, its rough charm is abundant, and when that is not sufficient, just imagine all of those suckers who couldn't have the pleasure. La Esquina 106 Kenmare Street (at Lafayette Street) Manhattan (Nolita) 646-613-7100 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

American Night New York City Entry #86 Tocqueville With the abundance of fine chefs in the neighborhood, Union Square qualifies as Toque-ville. However, there is only one Tocqueville, a newly expanded and ostensibly more ambitious eatery off the square, co-owned by the wife-and-husband team of Jo-Ann Makovitzky and Brazilian-born chef Marco Moreira. I cannot emulate America's finest social critic Alexis de Tocqueville, the author of Democracy in America, a work of genius that underscored our paradoxical striving for status and equality, for community and for selfhood, while not ignoring our sometimes problematic cuisine. Such themes still resonate as the work edges toward its bicentennial in 2035. If I cannot match this astute Frenchman, at least I can ask the question of what message is being sent when the restaurant was christened. Surely restaurants need not mean in order to be, but for a social scientist, this moniker is a tease. Moreira describes his philosophy by suggesting "purchasing the world's best seasonal ingredients and enhancing their natural flavors will produce fresh, innovative dishes." Soothing, but a such a philosophy would be embraced most of New York's ambitious chefs. It's my motto, too. One wonders why a restaurant named Tocqueville does not embrace the majesty of the American west (or Midwest) of which the Frenchman was so impressed. (While wondering, why name a gin martini the Volstead, after Minnesota Congressman Andrew Volstead, the sponsor of the act that enforced prohibition; perhaps the martini had more punch than the wit). No matter, call the place Chungking Charlie's as long as the experience is ecstatic. Makovitzky and Moreira announce that they designed the restaurant themselves. On entering one is reminded of the old adage, "the lawyer who represents himself has a fool as a client," although perhaps we might alter this to "the lawyer who operates on himself has a fool for a patient." Doctor or lawyer, restaurant designers can sleep soundly. For an elegant restaurant, the Tocqueville space is one of the least impressive around. The fabrics of browns, tans, and creams seem tired and numb before even a few months have passed. The room felt sleepy. And judging by the john, Tocqueville has a way to go. When I opened the door to Tocqueville I was startled. The lobby was deserted. I waited. Finally I walked back to the bar and found the hostess. Odd hospitality for a restaurant that hopes to break into New York's top echelon. The service needed improvement as well. The staff was uncertain about what could be served with their five-course tasting menu. The dishes were on the a la carte menu, but the decision was the chef's. If so, announce his preferences. We chose to choose. It would be nice to report that despite limitations, the food was inspiring. Or it might be dramatic to discover that the food was god-awful. In truth, neither claim would do justice to the evening. Our choices were pleasing without transcending; they blurred with much competently prepared modern cuisine. One had the touch of genius. One resonated on my bleech-o-meter. Our amuse set the tone: a nicely plump mussel over microgreens with a bit of saffron vinaigrette. The bite was agreeable, not sharply redolent of saffron, but a smooth taste. Perhaps a stronger mark of saffron would have created gustatory engagement, not a passing gulp. The enchanting presentation was a Slowly-Poached Araucana Farm Egg, served with Parmesan-infused poultry bouillon, paysanne (thinly sliced) root vegetables, and black truffles. Stock can be theology, edging toward the divine. In this case the liquor was powerfully evocative of earth and root. Although the egg was prettily poached, it played a secondary role in a dish that pointed to a liquid dawn. It was superb. California Sea Urchin and Angel Hair Carbonara with soy, lime, and sea lettuce needs tweaking. The sea urchin and pasta made a nice match, even if the accompaniments were less strongly evident than I had expected and the noodles were not prepared al dente. While the dish in its current state is not a classic, through a weakness of texture and a timidity of taste, it served well as a starter. The better of the two entrees was Seared Diver Sea Scallops and Foie Gras with forest mushrooms, artichokes and apple cider balsamic vinegar, another in the sea and farm school of entrees. To describe the dish as nothing special seems to damn a dish that's only offense was in lacking electricity. Same old, same old can be a compliment, as it is here. The flavors of the accompaniments were not so intense to direct attention from what was, in truth, properly prepared foie gras and scallops in a rich balsamic jus. Put differently, this is not a dish of genius, but of talent. The same cannot be said of the Roast Suckling Pig with Collard Green Mousseline, Crispy Mandioc, and Farofa da Bebe, a misguided entree. Given that this is the only dish of the evening that pays explicit tribute to the chef's Brazilian heritage, a grand and complex cuisine, its failure was particularly disappointing. The plate was anchored by chunks of ham, shoulder, and belly. I admired the crispy pigskin - what a football that must be - however, the belly was too fatty, and had it not been for a shred or two of pork, it would have been elemental lard: to eat this dish is to pig out. The pig was the most appetizing element of this perplexing adventure. The idea of collard green mousseline has a certain appeal, but not when it tastes like weary spinach puree. Mandioc is a cassava plant, a source of tapioca. Here it added little but a slight textural interest, designed to play off the farofa. Unfortunately one wished less attention to the mound of farofa, toasted mandioc flour, an Amazonian stable. The grain was dried out and wan. Although culinary soil is a molecular texture at WD-50 (loved not always wisely but too well), this dirt had faced drought; some pork drippings would have been welcome. That Chef Moreira might someday create a Brazilian-inflected cuisine is intriguing, but this dish is not a model. Both desserts were sweetly prosaic. I enjoyed the Caramel Apple Confit, a deconstructed apple tart with walnut linzer and a mild caramelized green apple ice cream. The smear of apple butter nodded to Dufrasne or Collichio, but none of the flavors proved exciting or intense. Surely critics require a richer vocabulary to denote pleasant. How about good? The second dessert Mango Creme Brulee with Cardamon, Kaffir Lime and Lemongrass suggests that more is less. At the heart was a brulee that didn't crackle or pop, but only soothed. Without an ideal centerpiece, the assorted exotic tastes were frou-frou. Too much happening in a dish that must perfect the simple things. Given my diverse reactions, I imagine that if one chooses well, an extremely fine meal is to be had at Tocqueville. Perhaps Chef Moreira will not demonstrate the complexity of our native spirit, but his efforts reveal a Brazilian-born chef working to good effect. Tonight genius was found in an egg, the symbolic heart of the universe. As we finished, the staff watched us sauntering to the entrance. Again we stood alone. Now I opened the cloakroom door, grabbed my hat, and strolled into a perfect American night. Tocqueville One East 15th Street (at Fifth Avenue) Manhattan (Union Square) 212-647-1515 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Sushi Virgins New York City Entry #85 Jewel Bako My younger son and his friend are what we in the reviewing biz call "sushi virgins." When I learned that they would be spending spring break with me in New York, my initial question targeted dining. I didn't have profuse hopes for the response. As my older son once announced, his sib would make a great vegetarian if only he ate vegetables. He seemed to live on air, chips, Sprite, macaroni, and the odd taco. So I was startled when the response was "Japanese." Adolescents change rapidly in college, even if not all changes are comforting to parents. But never should one stare a gift squid in the mouth. After all, my son had been treasurer of his college's anime club: that should count for something! For dinner I selected Jewel Bako. Choosing JB in the heart of the East Village was designed to demonstrate that, despite my pate (not paté), I could register on the hip-o-meter. And Jewel Bako is known as both refined and straight-forward. It is more traditional than new age sushitoriums such as Sushi of Gari, and at a price that if things went south would avoid intense pain. As their sushi is flown in from Tsukiji, I knew that our sushi would be hyper-fresh. What I had not realized that neither had ever tasted sushi, and while they were game for the experience, perhaps shabu-shabu or tempura was what had been imagined. Jewel Bako (or Jewel Box) is exquisite. On entering one of the front rooms with their sleek vaults, one feels one has entered a piscatory cathedral, a synagogue of the seas. The arched ceiling creates a space as inspiring as any small restaurant of my acquaintance. The slate and river stones gives JB a natural serenity. Jewel Bako is not a space to canoodle, but it is precisely the place to repose while thinking wistfully and tranquilly of the object of a canoodle. And as of this week Jewel Bako has a sib, Degustation, a newly opened tapas bar, the work of the same designer and owner. They are cross-continental "Siamese" twins, conjoined at the front hall. In our dinner, some compromises were essential. We avoided the counter. It is not only watching sausage being made that can be disconcerting. Such an education is for the next visit. With the exception of sturdy, fungal miso soup with chives and a dessert plate, we ordered only sushi. The rice served as a familiar comfort. I ordered the ten piece Chef's Omakase Sushi menu, my son's friend the eight piece selection of sushi served with a sushi roll. I ordered otoro, hamachi, salmon, and snow crab for my son. Sushi with training wheels. We began with an amuse of eel surrounded by a bit of omelet. I was pleasantly surprised by the crunchy texture of the bite, and happy that my guests enjoyed the taste. (Their chopstick skills indicated that their experiences of Chinese food are more extensive than their knowledge of sushi). I was served raw scallop, sea urchin, sea eel, shrimp, jack mackerel, otoro, king salmon, hamachi, fluke, and needlefish. As I could tell their preferences (salmon, for instance), some trading ensued. Most pieces were served straight-on with perhaps a band of jalapeno or a dot of hot sauce or a few sesame seeds. But most were rice, a dab of wasabi, and fish. No dipsy-doodles. Although the sushi, even the omakase, was not challenging, it was pure and fine. I particularly enjoyed the otoro (of course), the sea urchin, and the fluke. Jewel Bako serves sushi that is estimable and reputable. The trio of desserts, in contrast, were barely passable. The chocolate mousse cake was distressingly slimy, the green tea cheesecake was dry and dense; only the lychee sorbet proved satisfying. Although I wish that I can declare responsibility for the enslavement of two sushi addicts, such a claim must await further developments. My son ate his pieces, and two others, and decided that six pieces made a comfortable meal. His friend started strong, but during the meal looked wan, not finishing her pieces. But the time we reached my building, her distress was evident, and much of the chef's handiwork reappeared at an awkward moment. She rests as I blog. For some, sushi is slimy and slippery and slick and unthinkable. But there must be a first time for all pleasures. As we recall. Jewel Bako 239 East 5th Street (at Second Avenue) Manhattan (East Village) 212-979-1012 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Attention Please New York City Entry #84 Sugiyama Restaurants can be good or they can be grand, and the difference can be summed up in a single word: attention. Recently some friends and I ate at Sugiyama, a restaurant that is, by all accounts, one of the prime kaiseki restaurants in New York, that Japanese cuisine that channels seasonal cuisine, tied closely to market availability. Having just returned from a pair of astonishing kaiseki meals in Kyoto (at Kinmata and at Yutaka), I can report my meal that Sugiyama was quite as rapturous. In both of those wonderful Japanese meals I had the full attention of the chef. For the first I ate in my room at the lovely Kinmata ryokan (an elegant and historic Japanese inn), served by the chef; at the second a colleague and I were the only diners at a superior establishment where my companion had a connection with the proprietor. At Sugiyama, the three of us were not dinning alone, but we held down a corner of the counter, having an up-close and personal view of the action. As one of us was a longtime friend, well-known to chef Nao Sugiyama and his staff and family, our meal was appropriately sublime. The chef was at our service, laughing, joking, gossiping, and creating a meal filled with surprise and cunning. In such a situation, one cannot generalize from the vigilant service, but the staff seemed attentive to all. If only it had been comped, I could have returned once a week to taste the chef's work as the seasons and their meals evolve! But such gratification does not come cheap. (Because the meal was off-menu and I missed some explanations my descriptions may be inexact and rough). Sugiyama is an engaging space. It lacks the stark refinement of Masa or Sushi Yasuda or the lapidary brilliance of Jewel Bako, but it pleases. Not one of the stellar Manhattan rooms, Sugiyama has its design charms, cherry, birch, tatami, and black and white river stones abound. To start we were presented with a trio of small appetizers, fish pate, roe with spinach, and, the last, a tactile masterpiece of sea urchin and raw quail egg to be quaffed with a smug smile of delight. The urchin and egg cocktail was sublime even if it required a touch of bravery in our age of avian flu. These amuses were shortly followed by a severely fresh plate of sashimi - otoro, salmon, squid, kamachi (I believe this was kamachi-kama or yellowtail collar), oyster, tai (sea bream), sea urchin, scallop, and squid. These delicacies were at Tsukiji fish market yesterday and frolicking in the waves the morn before. I have never had an oyster fresher than the kumamoto oyster, a texture to which even oyster haters must admit fealty, and the otoro, kamachi, and scallop were no less distinguished. However, for me, perhaps the most startling and monumental was a little pile of spring green wasabi, a treat as fresh as the fish and so different from the contents of wasabi packets. If I cannot always judge the precise freshness of fish, the same can't be said of my wasabi. Little things can matter so much. Sugiyama wasabi is now my desired complement for matzo for Passover 2006: no more crimson horseradish at seder. Chef Nao's third course was a panoply of small appetizers: white fish cake, omelet, tuna cake, edamame, a bit of shiso, a little fried crab that was a miniaturist's dream, and one of the night's delight, a small cube of bayberry wine jelly, surrounding a small tart fruit (peach?), what Jell-O could become in the hands of genius. Next appeared a clear dashi soup, pure smoke and sea. Dashi is a soup stock traditionally made from kelp and bonito flakes (the latter newly arrived we were informed). Floating in this Japanese broth were little egg cakes and rice cakes, flowers and hearts. Simple, elegant, and composed with traditional art. Now is lobster time, served with a bouquet of sea urchin roe, mushroom, red pepper, and asparagus. I admired the pure tastes of the ingredients, but confess that this was a less startling dish, not a remarkable treatment of lobster in a city whose caress of crustaceans makes it seem Kennebunkport on the Hudson. We tucked into the chef's sushi and maki selection. I especially relished the maki that combined shrimp and cucumber. The lovely bonito was a delightful treat. Yet, truly unforgettable was a simple pile of fresh bamboo that was to be dipped in a tart yuzu sauce. Then kobe-style beef (from a Japanese owned-ranch in Texas, I believe). To ogle a cube of "kobe" is to understand the meaning of marbled. Lines of red and white composed what might have been a Jackson Pollock production, had the Dripper been as enamored of protein as he was of pigment. On a heated iron bowl we placed mushrooms, pepper, and cubes of meat worth their weight in truffle. The doneness was left to each of us, and when my internal clock was ticking the melting meat was cow-butter. The additional butter pat was what Thorstein Veblen might have derided as gustatory emulation had he encountered the Japanese leisure class. Unlike Western meals, Japanese dinners slide to a close without explosions of caloric luxury. We received a palate cleanser: a subtle mushroom soup, served with a rice, vegetable, and fish mixture, served in a traditional leaf (reminiscent of fine dim sum) and pickled vegetables. Finally appeared a gift of grapefruit compote in wine jelly - sweet, sour, and creamy. At Japanese restaurants there is no tradition of pastry chef: one meal, one chef. Perhaps other diners at Sugiyama will not be treated to a dinner of such precise calibration. Yet, the basic structure of Chef Nao's kaiseki meal will surely be recognizable by others. And if, like us, one sits at the counter, the show of artistry deepens one's appreciation of a meal in which a chef's performance is as aesthetic as the product. At many Western restaurants a chef can train assistants to carry out the tasks of cooking while s/he travels, promoting the brand. Such a division of labor is hardly possible in a culture in which the doing of perfection is at the heart of cuisine, techniques that reach for eternity. An absent chef is no chef at all. Sugiyama 251 W. 55th Street (at 8th Avenue) Manhattan (Midtown) 212-956-0670 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Robert Sietsema is My God (and Elaine, Too) New York City Entry #83 Cock's Before my relocation to New York, my religiosity was rusty. I was a jack Unitarian. But now I have a God of my own device: Robert Sietsema, the restaurant critic of the Village Voice and author of The Food Lover's Guide to the Best Ethnic Eating in New York City. Every night before bed, I read a few chapters and verses, and carry the writ close to my heart. (Would it hurt if Thy future revelations included cross-streets?) Because if you must have Bajan food, what are you going to do? And I must have Bajan food. Although there are worse ways to spend a weekend than organizing an all-Carribean tour, Sietsema's three star recommendations more than suffice. For food from Barbados, we are directed to Cock's, located on a busy stretch of Nostrand Avenue in Brooklyn's Crown Heights. Cock's is a small, modestly decorated store front, presided over by Elaine, the excellent Bajan cook. (The restaurant is run by husband and wife). Our party of six constituted the only diners of the evening, although a stream of customers came in for take-out. Although Sietsema claimed (in 2003) that the restaurant serves everything on the menu ("It isn't one of those establishments where asking for something on the menu elicits, ‘Sorry, we're out of that'"), this was not true on the weekday night we visited (so much for inerrancy!). Roti, conkies, and puddin and souse (pig face) were not available, although we were told that many of the absent dishes were prepared on the weekend. Our party ordered family style, receiving a banquet for a mere $85.00. The finest dish of the evening - and surely one of the most miraculous of my stay - was Flying Fish with Coo Coo (and potatoes). The fish was expertly fried with a complex, spiced sauce. If only Le Bernardin's Eric Ripert could learn to fry fish with such divinity. Coo coo is a mass of buttery cornmeal porridge with hints of okra, resembling the best of polentas. We fought over the final bits of fish. This was a theological dish. Amen Elaine, amen Sietsema. While other dishes did not reach the soaring taste of fish, several were excellent. I particularly cherished the Cow Foot Soup (yup!) made with Provision, a mix of green banana, yam, and potato. Both oxtail and curried chicken were very creditable versions of these standards. At the end of the meal we were served fried cod balls, excellent cakes that would have been consumed with more gusto at the start of the evening. We also enjoyed an tasty salt fish (cod) stew, although the first few bites were the most compelling. Less successful was a somewhat dry jerk chicken and a pork stew. Rice and pigeon peas was standard, comparable to what might be found at most Afro-Carribean restaurants. As canonical as the flying fish was our serving of mauby, an ecstatically bittersweet drink from the bark of the mauby tree, mixed with sugar cane, cinnamon, and perhaps some anise. The drink starts candy sweet, but hits with a powerful and demanding bitter aftertaste. As the aftertaste struck, one needed another slug of sweet juice. Mauby is the roller coaster of pops. Cock's also prepares a blazing hot sauce available on request: peppers (Scotch Bonnet, I believe), Turmeric, Lime Juice, and Dry Mustard. It had heated, but the turmeric, mustard, and lime provided a richness than mere Scoville units cannot provide. We tried several cakes and cookies. My choice is the Current cake, fruity and syrupy, but I also enjoyed the Sugar Cake, a caloric coconut confection, colored red as velvet cake. Lead pipe is a heavy cookie-cake with a nutmeg-cinnamon flavor, the result we were told of a cook neglecting to add yeast in her dough (recommended for Passover!). This error produced pastries that are a local favorite, exemplifying the Bajan proverb, "Every Mistake is a Fashion." Fashion it may be, but I found it heavy and dry, although I plan to soak the remainder in a cup of tea. Cute name, though. I bend my head in veneration of those blessed sprites who make my life happier, fuller, and fatter. To discover Cock's - and many other off-center establishments, hidden in plain sight - make me realize how much I depend on the pointers and obsessions of eccentric strangers. Elaine is a culinary treasure. Perhaps her treasure hunter isn't supernatural, but the Food Lover's Guide comes damn close to intelligent design. Cock's 806 Nostrand Avenue (near Eastern Parkway) Brooklyn (Crown Heights) 718-771-8933 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Perhaps I missed it, but I didn't see one. They do. ←

Have It Our Way New York City Entry #82 Lupa After reviewing Otto and Babbo, I recognize that multo Mario fans are sprinkled throughout cyberspace, while others lack that je ne sais quoi that would permit the proper appreciation of the Batali style. To understand Lupa - as well as other Batali properties (I haven't tried Del Posto) - is to realize their goal: casual dining with flair. I haven't yet tasted a truly grand dish, but have eaten some good ones, all the time in the midst of booming rooms that magnified the ambient noise. If one prefers more subdued dining, off-off hours are the times to reserve. Lupa, our server informed us, somewhat aggrieved, is not really a Mario restaurant. He is a partner, but the menu was designed by Mark Ladner. Ladner has since decamped for Del Posto, but the menu remains his, and the webpage has not been updated to announce the new chef. Perhaps the kitchen lacks direction. Lupa fancies itself a trattoria, although one that edges towards pretentiousness, even while embracing its raucous charm. The ochres and oranges give bounce and pizzazz, but seem designed to create the illusion of informality. Despite - or because - of their appeal to Food Network refugees, much of the menu at Batali restaurants is in untranslated Italian: Sformato, Testa, Cece, Piccantino, Farrotto, Bavatte, Gaeta (The Lupa website has a glossary, but the menu does not; bring your laptop!). Granted these may be terms of the Roman street, but their presence on a Manhattan menu conveys a cultural elitism in the guise of creating authenticity, establishing Italy as an exotic Casbah. My dining companion had a number of crucial allergies, wheat among others. Given that Lupa presumes itself a neighborhood trattoria, I was startled that our server insisted that Ladner's recipes were sacred text. My companion had hoped to order sweetbreads but discovered that they were dredged in flour. Surely the kitchen does not dredge their sweetbreads before an order comes in, and so skipping this step would have been easy, even if it altered the platonic conception of the dish. At a casual eatery, the customer, not the chef, should be king. Not at Lupa. We finally assembled a suitable menu, but with a struggle. And a warning for those who wish a simple glass of wine, Lupa does not offer wine by the glass, one must select a mini-carafe: a glass and a half. We finally selected the Frutti Di Mare, a salad, two vegetables, a pasta and a fish and a dessert. The meal had its pleasures, both minor and substantial. Most enjoyable was the Crimini and Fennel Salad with Truffle Oil. The woodsy taste of the mushrooms (although crimini are cultivated and truffles are now in the process of being farmed) were well-suited to a marriage with the slightly bitter, herbal fennel. This simple, yet elegant treatment was the highpoint of the meal. Also enjoyable was an order of carrots coated with cumin and honey. If they were slightly sweet, the cumin prevented them from being cloying. A sweet and tangy Eggplant Caponata was very satisfactory as well, perhaps through a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. They lent a dulcet air to the meal. Several of the frutti di mare also passed muster. Particularly excellent were the Octopus with Black Cece (chickpeas with black squid ink, rosemary, and red chili) and a Bass Scabece with Arugula was made lovely by the tangy vinegar in which it was poached. The closing Panna Cotta with Honey and Laurel (and Dates?) was candied, pungent, and intense. Other dishes proved disappointing, notably our two main courses. I looked forward to Bucatini All' Amatriciana (a dish known to Babbo diners). The thick spaghetti was properly al dente, but the tomato sauce was rather pasty, and while the salt pork (presumably guanciale or cured pig jowls) was passionate, the hot pepper overwhelmed the robust pork. Although Batali restaurants often excel at pasta, this dish was not transcendent. The trout was poorly conceived. The trout and herbs were baked in a paper bag, but in the course of cooking the bag became waterlogged, and we found ourselves eating chewing wads of paper along with a trout that was adequate but never stirring. The tuna piccantino was too peppery to reveal the taste of the fish and was harsh and chill. Other dishes - Sardines with Cracked Wheat, Salt Cod with Gaeta Olives, and Escarole - were modest creations, pleasant to consume, but neither delicate nor powerful. Given its overall quality, Lupa's attitude seems unwarranted. One is made to feel that dining in this hectic room is an honor, but honor is not what it once was. Several dishes were flavorful and well-constructed, but why would one choose a restaurant that imagines itself a neighborhood joint when one can skip down the street to a joint that knows who it is. Lupa 170 Thompson Street (at Houston Street) Manhattan (Greenwich Village) 212-982-5089 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

My Sushi Problem New York City Entry #81 Sushi Seki I have a sushi problem. I am a promiscuous sushi eater. I consume sushi from the supermarket with as much relish as sushi from a four-star Tokyo restaurant (say, Kozue, at which I recently dined). Raw fish is like chips; I can't stop with one. And perhaps I am tone-deaf when it comes to maki and sashimi. It's all good. Soy, no soy. Wasabi from a tube or chopped fresh. Ginger fresh or preserved. It's one big happy deal. Thus, when I say that I really enjoyed my sushi platter at Sushi Seki, the busy, late-night fish emporium on the Upper East Side, let the buyer beware. Sushi Seki has more of the flavor of First Avenue than a Kyoto teahouse, and its noise may put off those who desire the quiet elegance of Sushi Yasuda. But the meal is fine. We began with an order of Shumai (Steamed Shrimp Dumplings), in which the dumpling was lighter and more impressive than the somewhat ordinary shrimp inside (I am not tone-deaf on the dumpling front). We also started with a delightful snow pea salad: a haystack of snowpeas in an assertive soy-garlic-onion sauce. But the main course was Seki's Original Special Recipe Sushi Platter. I can recommend the raw fish, the rolls, and the more intriguing chef-designed creations. Among the latter, I found a ethereal pile of snow crab wrapped in nori, a tomato and salmon sushi combo, and a toro tartare particularly memorable. The fish was, I recognize, several steps above that to be found at the Food Emporium. The maki rolls: avocado, salmon, and shrimp were all delicious, but only slightly more delicious than many rolls of my memory. Perhaps the two pieces that I will most treasure were a perfectly fresh, slightly sweet raw scallop and a breezy and herbal eggplant. Bass, red snapper, and salmon both hit the right note. I particularly admired the touches that made these bites special and visually startling, a tiny band of jalapeno, for instance. New York is fortunate to have a sushi culture: from Brighton Beach to Gristede's, and I am fortunate to indulge. True, my skills need to be sharpened to be able to distinguish among remarkably fresh fish, very fresh fish, fresh fish, and catfood, but it is an effort well-worth making, and Sushi Seki is a location well-worth the effort. Sushi Seki 1143 First Avenue (at 63rd Street) Manhattan (Upper East Side) 212-371-0238 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Daniel's Boon New York City Entry #80 Daniel Three years back my wife and I had a sparkling dinner at Chef Daniel Boulud's eponymous restaurant Daniel. The meal proceeded without a hitch, but without lasting effect. I recall the room - an elegant stage setting for the drama of cuisine - and the lustrous service. Of all of the grand New York restaurants, Daniel's space is the most theatrical. Despite the elegance of the setting, Daniel never feels stuffy, and the servers, refined but not snooty, set the tone. Yet, without the aid of a blog, I cannot recall a morsel. Recently a friend of mine and I returned to Restaurant Daniel, and the service is as smooth and sleek as ever, the flowers still bloom in profusion, the stage is set for dinner, but what of the food? Daniel Boulud is a perfectionist, and it may be a function of the fact that he was on spring break this week that I can report a few slips, and the possibility of dishes that will last in my memory. Perfectionists avoid the edges of creativity: Boulud produces dishes more silky than saucy. Sometimes the best indicator of the quality of a restaurant is in what seems simplest: soup and bread. Here Daniel (overseen by Chef de Cuisine Jean François Bruel and "Bread Baker" Mark Fiorentino) hits .500. Daniel's soups are as satiny and intensely flavored as one could imagine. We were served small cups of Daniel's signature English pea soup "a la Française" with bits of bacon and a creamy garlic soup with watercress and morels. Although my previous culinary memories have been rinsed clean, the ethereal garlic soup will surely remain for years. The subtlety of texture and taste of the soupman is what Chef Boulud is known for. He rules! Bread is, sadly, shabby. Although Daniel is one of the few restaurants that advertises their baker, our bread was hours from stale. We heard the clock ticking. We tried three varieties - raisin-walnut bread, olive roll, and sourdough - and none passed muster. They tasted like yesterday, and, in contrast to the beautiful bread display at Alain Ducasse, were out of character for a luxe restaurant. Two soups, three breads, a split verdict. The trio of amuses at Daniel was were not revelatory, but welcome. The gougere was pleasant, not intense, and revealed again a "bread problem," although the crispy Parmesan wafer was appreciated. Better were smoked salmon with lemon creme fraiche and a spoonful of pureed squash with avocado that was spicy without overwhelming. Unlike the competition, amuses at Daniel are not attempts to amaze, startle, or frighten, but simple, confident curtain raisers. I had convinced myself not to order the tasting menu, a decision that the restaurant supported by not permitting the full tasting menu on weekends and placing the most intriguing seasonal dishes on the daily menu. With Daniel's commitment to fresh ingredients, diners are well-advised to eat seasonal food. As March's lion became a lamb, we had our fill of cress, morels, fiddleheads, and, of course, spring lamb. I started with a seasonal appetizer, Roasted Sea Scallops with Blood Orange Glaze, Cardamon Mousseline, Turnip Fondant, and Shaved Botarga (a similar dish is listed on the webpage). This is an impressive combine, and a very rewarding one. I was surprised, given the claim that blood orange would be a glaze, at how unobtrusive it was. The dish was far less fruity and more rooted than I imagined from reading the menu. The cardamon mousse complimented the scallop beautifully and, surprisingly, brought out the sweetness of the seafood. The plate was precisely fashioned, and given that it is a full-size starter, was a pleasure to explore. My companion selected a delightful crayfish timbale also beautifully presented, and like the scallops, displayed seafood luscious in its freshness. As entree, I selected Colorado Rack of Lamb with Meyer Lemon Crust, Glazed Radishes and Avocado-Mint Chutney. As with my appetizer, I admired Daniel's composition. The lemon crust was an astute take on lamb, not too tart, but suggestive of the season. My lamb was cooked more than I preferred (I asked that it be cooked "as the chef wished" - tonight he wished to overcook it, or perhaps concluded that I was not the rare diner but only medium well). With the crust, a more moist lamb would have been more suited. The little logs of avocado-mint chutney were subtle and mild, less savory that they might have been in the hands of other chefs. Of the prix-fixe dishes, I was most taken by dessert, an angelic and blissful Champagne Mango Vacherin with Black Sesame Meringue "Ile Flotante" (floating island) and Lemon Thyme Anglaise. Next to the Vacherin, the parfait of "Ile Flotante" presented layers of egg white, thyme, and mango, the combination of fruit and herb was celestial. The snappy meringue was slightly sweet/slightly savory, and the mango had just hit its peak. Not ponderous or sugary, this dessert proved wise and crisp. Dessert at Daniel is no afterthought. Daniel is an essential Manhattan restaurant; a boon for New York diners. While grounded in French culinary techniques and modern sensibilities, it is not as Parisian as Alain Ducasse nor as Californian as Per Se; it is a happy outpost of an updated international cuisine. Daniel revels in a display of seasons, of technique, and of ingredients. Chef Boulud is not a big thinker; he is not revolutionizing contemporary cuisine. Rather his culinary explorations are based on the dish not on theory. No philosopher in the kitchen, Chef Boulud is a skilled synthesizer, borrowing, altering, ignoring, and searching for the best ingredients and most apt techniques. Chef Boulud's dishes never feel musty or nostalgic, but neither do they inspire tomorrow's cuisine. Daniel Boulud is a chef for now. Daniel 60 East 65th Street (at Madison Avenue) Manhattan (Upper East Side) 212-288-0033 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

I may have been out of control when I wrote that. But weening is a real word, if archaic, referring to thinking or believing. It has such a nice ring. Weaning is another matter.

Macroscopic Cuisine New York City Entry #79 Gilt Artistic movements pass through several stages. First, one finds brave experimenters, those who stretch the envelope to its limits, hoping that it will break asunder. But for movements to develop and to enlarge, practitioners must be more than bad boys. They must incorporate what is best of the new with what is best from the tradition. Novelty must become establishment. Over the past half-dozen years, at El Bulli, at Alinea, at Moto, at WD-50, each in their own way, the experimentalists have been developing what has variously been called microscopic cuisine, sci-fi cuisine, technocuisine or cuisine agape. With the opening of Gilt, Paul Liebrandt's new restaurant at the New York Palace Hotel, experimental cuisine is showing signs of coming of age. While I am not equally passionate about all of Chef Liebrandt's dishes, he has created a menu that merges technocuisine with classical tradition, revealing a chef in command of his faculties. The prix fixe menu is divided into two sides, "Classical" and "Modern," but it is in the Tasting Menu, "Le Menu," where the chef attempts to combine techniques. And it is not the food alone in which classical and modern interpenetrate, but in the space itself. The wood paneled room in the Villard Mansion is set off with red back-lighting, suggesting an otherworldly charm, a traditional setting that is cracked through the fire of illumination. I was impressed by the bravado of the synthesis, although the dining room, barely half-filled throughout the weekday evening, causes me to wonder whether this fusion appeals either to uptown or downtown. Gilt has been open several months now, so it was startling how little the staff seemed to know about the menu. On several occasions servers corrected themselves, and at least once claimed ingredients that could hardly have been in the dish I tasted. Not only were we not offered coffee, we were stiffed our complimentary macaroons. The staff was perfectly friendly, but there seemed a disconnect between the kitchen and the front of the house, confusion that could not be justified by a dinner rush. Gilt has taken to heart the heat over their infamous supplemental charges and the absence of modestly priced wines. Now only two dishes have supplemental charges, and several wines were priced in the mid-two-figures. Customers have spoken. Whether the damage is too great to repair, given the image of a restaurant too greedy for its own good, remains to be seen. My companion and I selected Le Menu, a eight course sequence that, in the end, amounted to a dozen courses. I have mixed feelings about Tasting Menus. When I dine with my wife and she can be hectored to share, I typically avoid the abundance of mini-plates. All too often - and certainly at Gilt - the small size of the plates works against an appreciation of the chef's skills. Every little thing is piled together: one can not appreciate a dish in a bite. Understanding a chef's work is a deliberative process. It is not only the cuisine that is microscopic, but with the dominance of the tasting menu, the plates are as well. On a second visit, I hope to watch Chef Liebrandt create on a larger canvas. What should one term the dish that precedes the amuse, an amusette? We began with two of them, a pair of odd constructions. Strangest was a little marshmallow, flavored by passion fruit and dusted with powered saffron and paprika. This petite pink cube was a alien mix of fruity and musty. Consuming it was a novel experience, and one that I still taste, but not one that provokes a hankering for a second. Paired with it was a tiny financier flavored with arugula and Stilton. I am not a fan of these often dry cakes, and the mix of green leaf and blue cheese didn't convert me. As a bite, it was passable, but not a creation that demanded a larger slice. Our amuse set things right. The oyster vicchyssoise was delicious, presented with, if memory serves, a Parmesan tortellini, butternut squash puree and lardon. This combination was a treat that made me regret that it was only an amuse. The oyster soup managed to be both airy and intensely spicy with a slight citrus aftertaste, never heavy handed. It was superb. Our first course, "Fluke with Salad of Porcini and Yuzu, Salad Burnet and Olive Oil Pebbles," revealed Chef Liebrandt's restrained play with molecular cuisine. The structure of the dish was sashimi-plus-salad. The citrus yuzu added a culinary twist. However, it was the olive oil pebbles, little beads of olive oil ice cream which slowly melted as the appetizer was consumed that was a cheery surprise. These dippin' dots seem the rage at establishments such as Chicago's Moto, often overused as the center of a dish, a statement of a young chef who feels he can do as he pleases. Liebrandt's is more restrained and more respectful of the structure of the dish. It was a masterful touch. Our second dish borrowed from the vaults of WD-50. We were served Foie Gras with "Vinette" Jelly and Black Olive in Textures. The olive was what the downtown monde might call "olive soil" and "Vinette Jelly" was described as being from huckleberries, although traditionally the glaze is made from barberries. Although not busy, the flavors, herbaceous and fruity, created one of the more appealing foie gras dishes I have tasted this year. The olive soil did not seem like the conceit that it would have been elsewhere, but more a flavor enhancer, a reconsideration of salt and pepper. The third course played with the idea of foam. Chef Liebrandt served Lobster with Smoked Haddock Foam, Almond Croquant, and what was labeled "Jus Vert" (presumably verjus, liquid from unripe fruits such as grapes). Oddly the servers suggested that the Jus Vert were the bits of asparagus and snow peas hiding under the lobster. With fresh lobster, complications tend to overwhelm the simple crustacean's flavor. I would have been pleased without the haddock foam. Granted this was the only foam of the night, and young chefs need to be given their due, but lobster deserves a classical treatment. John Dory with Black Truffles, Green Mango ‘Gnocchi,' Cauliflower, and Periwinkles is a clever treatment of seafood. I was amused by the tiny ‘winkles winking as they surrounded the Dory, and found the green mango wittily constructed as a jellied square with a taste slightly reminiscent of wasabi. However, such a wee dish was undercut by the multiple tastes presented. Of all Liebrandt's dishes, this was the one that might have worked best if larger, when the several tastes could be appreciated on their own. Prior to our poultry course, we were served a lovely sorbet, green apple and lemon verbena with extra-virgin olive oil, perched on an oyster shell. The touch of olive oil provided a depth of taste to the refreshing, straightforward sherbert. Our main course was Poularde with Spring Garlic Purée and Artichoke Laqué (we were informed that the artichoke was pureed, rather than lacquered). The star of this dish was an elegant leaf of Chinese broccoli, a crisp and slightly sweet leaf that dominated the plate. Without this construction, I found the dish pleasant but lacking in memories. The chicken leg was cooked properly and the garlic and artichoke matched nicely, but, leaf aside, there was nothing startling. Perhaps the most experimental course was the trio of cheeses: Goat Cheese with Hazelnut Financier, Gruyere with a White Chocolate Wafer, and Stilton with Muscat Grapes and Cocoa Nibs (chopped cacao beans, separated from their husks). These small bites of cheese were presented microscopic style and were suitably crazed in their taste combinations. As short tastes, they effectively deconstructed a classical cheese course. Next was a dessert of pure elegance: Lemongrass-champagne sorbet on white chocolate pudding with a bit of gold leaf on top - a fantasia of white and white. Such a clarifying dessert was most welcome. I was less taken with the clementine gelée with toasted almond sabayon and lychee sorbet. The clementines that should have been the acidic center of the dish seemed wan and soggy. I'd was tempted to imagined them canned, but the almond sabayon was nicely constructed and the lychee sorbet pungent. The final dessert was a degustation of chocolate, which my companion enjoyed. Avoiding caffeine, I was served a puzzling dessert, a lovely architectural conceit, but seemingly not as described. According to our server, I received a licorice charlotte (slabs of pineapple replaced the more traditional lady fingers) with rhubarb sorbet. Although the plate had a post-modern drizzle of deep black licorice syrup, I was perplexed by a pudding that had little licorice flavor, but tasted of cream and by a sorbet that seemed more yuzu than rhubarb. Perhaps by this point at night my tastes had dulled, but it was a singularly tame licorice. The dish was beautiful and nicely modulated, but a potent licorice charlotte would have been stirring. By the end of the meal, I discerned a weening desire to return. Although I admire Chef Liebrandt's vision, a tasting menu is not the best way to experience his skill. The dishes that were the most successful were those not jammed and cluttered. What was so impressive about Liebrandt's cuisine is that he doesn't experiment constantly, but realizes that a twist is sufficient to amaze. These twists are most startling in dishes where a diner was not faced with a new ingredient in each bite. Liebrandt is a chef whose creations deserve to be taken seriously and slowly: culinary foreplay before the climax. Gilt 455 Madison Avenue (at 50th Street) Manhattan (Midtown) 212-891-8100 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Cheese/Steak New York Entry #78 Artisanal Some out-of-town friends swear by Balthazar, and so when they were planning to visit Manhattan I suggested that we dine at Artisanal, Terrance Brennan's brassy cheeserie in Murray Hill. American brasseries - Balthazar, Les Halles, Pastis, and Artisanal - seem to result from the same design cookie cutter: walnut, porcelain, tile, posters; gold, maroon, black, and white. An American imaginary exists as to what a brasserie should be, not nearly the diversity found by the Seine. At a place like Artisanal - a competitor of Murray's as to the best cheese shop in the city (I give the edge to Murray's as to the diversity of their selection, their accompaniments, and their knowledgeable workers) - one is well-advised to focus on cheese. The high point of our meal was the pair of cheeses at the conclusion, a surprisingly spicy and pungent Munster and a luscious Brillat Savarin. Table service was friendly, although plates were whisked from the table before they were cleaned and our pleasant waitress was not fully conversant with the wine list. With the exception of some fine frites (not as luxurious as those at Les Halles), dishes that lacked cheese were pedestrian. I was unimpressed by Burgundy snails and pastry puffs on a bed of chopped onions. Neither the bread nor the onion added richness to the inoffensive slugs. The dish was bland and constrained. The hanger steak was similarly ordinary, pleasant and tasty, but not compellingly beefy. The garlic sausage was a roughly ground mass that lacked appeal, even with sturdy lentils. We treasured our gougeres: airy puffs whose lightness made their rich cheesy aroma all the more powerful. Aside from the post-prandial cheeses, the gougeres were the star of the evening. On this Sunday night our Artisanal cheese fondue was less ethereal. The problem was less the heated cheese itself - although it could have been heated more, filled with a bubbling mix of varieties - but with the accompaniments. Both the bread cubes and the cut apple seemed stale and tired: yesterday's products. Better was Onion Soup Artisanal, made with three cheeses and three onions. The topping was somewhat overcooked, but the liquid was both sweet and strong: chicken soup for the Gallic soul. At Artisanal the closer to raw cheese the better. I may return for a cheese plate with one of hundreds of wines by the glass. Otherwise, despite fair prices, food and service lack a strong profile. At Artisanal man must live by cheese alone. Artisanal 2 Park Avenue (at 32nd Street) Manhattan (Murray Hill) 212-725-8585 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

I hope at some point to try the bar area. I imagine that the menus will be different in scope, and perhaps will appeal to different tastes. However, the challenges with the dishes - which in many ways were quite compelling - were so consistent. This was by no means a poor or disappointing meal. It is very much a two star restaurant, deserving of its one Michellin star, and with the exception of the first incarnation of the Joy America restaurant on the top of the American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore (now sadly downscaled), it was the best museum food I've eaten.

Lost in Translation New York City Entry #76 The Modern When friends visiting New York inquire where they should eat, I ascertain how important is it that they have the very finest, very most creative food that this city has to offer. If they waver, I direct them to one of Danny Meyer's Union Square Hospitality Group Restaurants (Union Square Café, Gramercy Tavern, Tabla, Eleven Madison Park, Blue Smoke, and, now, The Modern). I know that they will be treated right. If they lack the critic's fork and tongue, they thank me. A case in point. Some friends and I were sitting in the Dining Room of The Modern, the ambitious high-end restaurant, and I noticed the slightest chip on the edge of my cocktail glass. As an altruist I pointed the flaw to our server, fearful that the next diner might be less amiable about this micro-nick. As our checks were presented, she informed us that the drink had been comped. Service at a Danny Meyer restaurant is not always glitch-free (there were gaps between some courses), but at his restaurants staff turn somersaults to keep diners satisfied. One is inspired to forgive. Chef Gabriel Kreuther, formerly at Atelier and sous-chef at Jean-Georges, oversees The Modern, the most ambitious of the Union Square restaurants. The space is spectacular. Most museums treat their culinary artists as day laborers and their cafeterias as mess halls, but not so at the new MOMA. This space is the most elegant at the museum. The bar area is tastefully designed, but it is the sleekly modernist dining room, hidden behind frosted glass, overlooking the Abby Rockefeller Sculpture Garden, that stuns. It overshadows the cuisine, although the food strives and struggles to rise to the occasion. Not since a visit to the River Café did I so desire to chew the scenery. And Chef Kreuther's food tries, it really tries. I found much of it satisfying and inventive without being compelling. Although the dishes as described are pungent, the pungency is often lost in translation. Our first amuse was a beggar's purse filled with morel mushrooms and sweet pea puree. This was a bright idea but a failed execution. One of the treats of eating morels is the texture of these fungal sponges. Chopping morels to fill a small pastry defeats their moral purpose. Add a grittiness (soil protein) and a slightly gummy pastry and the dinner started on uncertain footing. Our second amuse was a carrot-parsnip terrine with parsley and ginger foam (well, sauce, but it was foamily designated). This was a charming small plate, although the ginger barely registered in the taste profile. As was often the case throughout the evening the kitchen pulls its gustatory punches. I began with Escargots and "Potato Gateau" with Pearl Onions, Shiso and Parsley-Ginger Vinaigrette. The potato cake with bites of escargot was creative and satisfying, even if one recalled just why escargots are graced by a buttery-garlic bath. However, the vanishing shiso and (again) ginger seemed a cheat. I had been happily and compulsively eating shiso for the past two weeks in Japan and had become addicted to these magic, exotic leaves, a fragrant mélange of cilantro, cumin, and cinnamon. As a potato gateau, the dish worked, but as a taste symphony too many notes had been dropped. Tastes of my companions' Foie Gras Terrine and Tartare of Yellow Fin Tuna and Diver Scallops revealed a similar problem. The central ingredients were properly executed, but the accompaniments didn't add much. They were all roots and no wings. My entree was a splendid Long Island Duck Breast with Banyuls Jus (a thick reduction of wine from the Banyul region of Southwest France). The duck was perfect and it was enhanced by the deep jus, but where was the promised Black Truffle Marmalade. I demand more. As intriguing as the ingredients sounded, they were not calibrated. The truffle marmalade proved a marketing tease. I admired the "Fleischneke" - a hoop of duck confit in a pasta wrap - an inverted derma with meat on the inside. My companion's sturgeon was supposedly braised in pink (!) grapefruit juice, but although the fish was moist, one strained to find the slightly bitter citrus taste. We were provided two palate cleansers (counting the post-prandial treats, we each ordered the three course prix-fixe and received another seven gratis!). Best was the lemon geleé with passion fruit and mandarin sorbet, a symphony of tastes and textures (although more passion was called for). Less profound was a fromage blanc ice cream cone that proved less cleansing with a "raspberry" cone that had traded crispness for stickiness. As dessert I selected the Vanilla-Raspberry-Licorice Vacherin. The lovely creamy-crisp meringue leaves were napped with an elegant vanilla sauce and a compelling raspberry sorbet, but where was my licorice? I imagined a powerfully bitter-sweet tang, but everything was cream and crimson without black; all light lacking the hint of night. This kitchen is skittish of big flavors - an un-Bouley. The kitchen at The Modern is technically proficient, and they certainly can imagine a menu. For The Modern to compete with its setting or to compete with Tom Colicchio's Gramercy Tavern, Chef Kreuther (and Pastry Chef Marc Aumont) need the courage of their convictions. I was thrilled by the literary account of these dishes. But where are cooks who can translate words into deeds? The Modern (at MOMA) 9 West 53rd Street (at Fifth Avenue) Manhattan (Midtown) 212-333-1220 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Planet Kyoto New York City Entry #75 Nobu Why tinker with a sharp formula? A decade ago I ate an astonishing meal at Nobu, Nobu Matsuhisa's haute Japanese TriBeCa joint. The evening was a rare experience that changes how one thinks about the possibility of cuisine. Borrowing from Europe and South America, Chef Matsuhisa invented for many diners a new way to think of Asian flavors and textures. A decade later in hope of preparing my palate for a visit (my first) to Tokyo, Kyoto, and Hiroshima, I returned, and Nobu is as almost as good as it once was , even if it is a victim of how much it has changed the world of dining. Chef Nobu has tough competition, and several of his iron colleagues and students can challenge the master. And, of course, the restaurant has cloned itself endlessly, creating a formulaic cuisine - Planet Kyoto. Nobu is one of the wittiest restaurant spaces in the city. The sculptural trees that adorn the dining room suggest an ryokan set in a Japanese forest. It is dramatic without facile elegance, and it is never misses a thoughtful detail. Our waiter, pure American, was cheerful, knowledgeable and efficient. We selected the high-end omakase dinner to which we added a tempura dish, creating a menu of ten dishes. While a few dishes did not stun, there were no failures. After a dozen years, a weeding-out process is evident. Perhaps Nobu is resting on its well-earned laurels, and one sometimes suspects that the kitchen is not charged with the gas of imagination, but the best dishes still tingle. Although I rarely order or write about cocktails, the Matsuhisa Martini reflects the Nobu style. The mix of Level Vodka with sake, ginger and cucumber slices proved to be startlingly effective in awakening my palate. Not sticky sweet like many failed cocktails, these additions were quietly modulated. Our opening appetizer (Nobu doesn't provide an amuse) was toro (tuna belly) tartare with a powerful and wicked wasabi soy sauce and Sterling (white sturgeon) caviar. The tuna and soy were set in a tiny crucible placed atop a ball of crushed ice. The drama was evident. We were impressed knowing that this was a meal that had been carefully calibrated. The wasabi jus was a fiery accompaniment, skating near the edge of pleasure. Diners were not given a choice, it soaked the toro. Eat or starve! I ate with tears in my eyes and a song in my heart. Confronting Nobu, one must be brave. To the side, a Japanese mountain peach, the size of a raspberry. Designed as a palate cleanser, it was a reward for clearing one's blazing plate. The toro was quickly followed by a quartet of Kumamoto oysters, served with hot sesame oil, chives, ginger, and citrus soy sauce. This pile of oysters was sublime. I wondered whether sesame and citrus would be a match, but they were harmonious and in tune with oysters that were as perfect as bivalves could be. If the legions of phobes would be forced to eat these Kumamotos, a run on oysters would surely result. With its symphonies of pungent flavors, this was a star dish. Our third course was Kanpachi (young yellowtail) sashimi. It was served with sesame soy vinegar and a haystack of micro-fennel. We tried to divine the subtle flavor of the micro-greens, not imagining that the farmers at Nobu grew fields of tiny fennel shoots. The display was stirring, and the kanpachi fresh and pure. Our next course must have created by a lapidary with some slight assistance of a chef. We were served four slivers of Japanese red snapper, set in a pool of citrus (yuzu?) juice. On each slice was an aureole of forest green cilantro with a nip of bright chili sauce. One needed to nibble a morsel of the perfect fish before venturing into its combinations. The chili pepper provided a holy fire, an enchanted massacre. After the subtle dishes, we were reminded of the biting toro tartare. The fifth course changed the world. My two companions had never visited Nobu before, and so we were blessed by Chef Nobu's broiled black cod marinated in miso (four days to create the world). The cod was as buttery and sweet as one could imagine. Were it the naked cod, we would have spied heaven. However, Nobu's pickled onions are certainly the finest pickled onions that human hands ever touched, the foie gras was measured and devout, and the crispy Japanese mint leaf was transformed by a magician. That this dish has delighted so many diners for over a decade is a miracle. That it has changed the way New Yorkers have conceived of Japanese cuisine reveals that kitchens have cultural power. Nobu's Cod is a finalist for Dish of the Century. So ecstatic were we that the next plate - Kobe beef with a chili paste sauce, and red and yellow grape tomatoes on a lemon slice - was a disappointment. As one, we decided that the tomatoes were the chef's treat. Kobe beef is rather like truffles, foie gras, or caviar: unless used with inspiration, it announces conspicuous consumption. To suggest that the Kobe slices were "not bad" is to mock their precious pretensions, but we could have happily noshed on a bowl of tomatoes. Feeling a bit peckish after the beef - and not wishing the meal to end quite yet - we ordered Rock shrimp tempura with ponzu and chili pepper served with a mound of micro-mache. This transformed the possibilities of tempura, a culinary domain that I hope to explore during my stay in Japan. As all dishes at Nobu, the presentation was sublime, dramatic and precise. Sushi and soup is a transition to dessert. Our five pieces (otoro, belt fish, red snapper, king salmon, and orange clam) were exemplary, but after the rock shrimp, after the kumamoto oysters, after the miso cod, the sushi did not astonish, but only satisfied. As a palate cleanser sufficed. I was not enchanted by Pastry Chef Jessica Isaacs' desserts. Japan is not a dessert culture. Tokyo is not Paris - I'll report back if my visit upends my bias. We were first treated to a mango citrus granita. This bowl looked like jewels, and was topped with edible gold leaf, but tasted like a routine and awkwardly chunky snow cone. Our final sweet was a bento box composed of a Warm Valrhona Chocolate Souffle Cake with Shiso Syrup, White Chocolate Sauce and Green Tea Ice Cream. The elegance of the dessert critiqued the humble bento box. Ho ho. I licked the smooth and mild ice cream, but was left cold by the warm cake. I should not indulge in caffeine, often a struggle. Tonight, after a few small bites of a rich but ordinary cake I lacked desire to violate doctor's orders. Nobu is an essential restaurant, the rising sun lighting TriBeCa. To be sure there is danger of Nobu becoming Hard Rock Café, but until cod is endangered, Nobu will remain more wonderland than Disneyland. Nobu 105 Hudson Street (at Franklin St.) Manhattan (TriBeCa) 212-219-0500 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

We all wish Alex and Urena the best. And hopefully I tried to indicate what I really liked and what I didn't, and the problematics of the restaurant. The point, as in the title, is that in the hothouse of New York dining, chefs are able to open their own places in locations that demand a string of high spending clients before they are fully ready. We push chefs too hard in always searching for the next new thing. And many chefs go along. I am suggesting that it might be better for a chef like Alex to work on his vision in a lower-rent arena, and even using less expensive (but still very high quality) ingredients until he is ready, has confidence, has an established clientele, and big pocket investors. How many high end restaurants can this market support, and will they flock to Urena at Flatiron prices. Time will tell. I hope that every chef succeeds beyond his/her - and my - wildest dreams. And, as I noted, if I gave stars I would rate the cuisine with its ups and downs as two star quality.

Hurried Chef New York City Entry #74 Ureña It is said that half of newly birthed restaurants do not celebrate their second birthday. I question the basis for this somber and dispiriting statistic. Perhaps it is proclaimed by chefs who wish to raise the drawbridge after they cross. This is one of the army of factoids too good to be false. Despite my doubts as to the certainty of the evaporating restaurant, it recognizes a partial reality. If diamonds are forever, beaneries are not. And yet every young chef believes that s/he will be the exception. So we find Ureña, the newly opened redoubt of Chef/Owner Alex Ureña, formerly chef at Suba, Marseilles, and, for a glittering moment with Dan Barber at Blue Hill. Ureña is formerly of River Café, Jo Jo, Bouley, La Caravelle, La Côte Basque, and El Bulli. Can't this man keep a job? It takes the labor of mundane repetition to learn from masters. Can one soak up enough as a culinary tourist? Except for his lengthy, early training in Bouley (Alex Ureña started working in restaurants shortly after he landed in New York from the Dominican Republic at age fifteen), Ureña is a gastronomic butterfly. He has worked many years, but he is still a young cook. Too green to be an owner if baseball were his sport. Even callow W was grayer. Ureña has been exposed to much and has talent in abundance, but as yet he lacks capital and a distinctive culinary vision. Adding Spanish ingredients, though wise, does not a cuisine make. Ureña's space is, as has been noted, one of the least impressive rooms for a restaurant of its ambition. With the exception of impressive toilets, everything is done on the cheap. A devout aesthete might chose to eat on the pot. The tables are laid out to insure that a service will be an obstacle course. On this nearly deserted midweek night the close quarters represent a triumph of hope over experience. Ureña's servers are still learning their craft. We were served flat water in place of sparkling, our server didn't know whether the panko bread crumbs were wheat-based, some dishes were poorly described, and we weren't offered coffee at the proper moment. The service was cheerful, but training remains: perhaps established servers perceive that Ureña is not here for the long haul. No doubt with time - if time there is - this will be sorted out. Ureña's cuisine had both real successes, a few errors, and many satisfying attempts. With a $100 nine course chef's tasting menu, this is a few steps below elite dining, but the price suggests a seriousness of purpose. The style is Manhattan Moderne by means of Barcelona: a blending of Blue Hill and Bouley, with perhaps a bit of El Bulli as seasoning, although the Iberian influence is most noticeable in the occasional choice of ingredients: chorizo, chicharon, manchego, and saffron. Despite suggestions that Ureña is an outpost of molecular cuisine (New York magazine suggests it is "the kind of place that assumes a certain foodie familiarity with phrases like mustard paper and chorizo emulsion"), the restaurant doesn't provoke or bewilder. This is no WD-51. Were Alex Ureña an Impressionist, he would be a Sisley, not a Monet, a synthesizer. Ureña still a young man's restaurant, short on a unique culinary style. Perhaps he has been over-exposed. Too much is buzzing in his brain - a result none of the many satisfying dishes seemed like a signature dish. Chef Ureña might have been better advised to open a little place in Williamsburg where he could sharpen his ideas of cuisine. (If only I was his down-market investor!). Away from the Manhattan hothouse would provide time and space and resources to develop an identity and a following, and to experience joy in the process. Ureña is a two star restaurant in a two-bit space. There is much more to achieve. We ordered the chef's tasting menu (nine courses, plus amuses), and the chef attempted to dazzle us: for most courses the table was served two different preparations that demanded sharing. I hoped we might remain friends through the meal. Eventually some fifteen dishes were served. I appreciated this bounty, but I couldn't help feeling as I espied empty tables that for the kitchen it was us or ennui. The meal with pair of amusi: Creamy Potato-Fennel Soup and Mussels Escabiche with Pickled Onion. Both were sterling and better by being served together. The soup, so smooth and sumptuous, needed the jolt from the bivalve ceviche. I loved the pungent pickled onion and basil reduction underlying the mussels, making this one of the best and most assured bites of the night. The opening packed a one-two punch. This duo was followed by two appetizers. First, a luscious Ostra Escabeche of Marinated oysters, saimfaina brunoise (a vegetable mix, akin to ratatouille), and smoked oyster gelee foam. In such a mix with oysters the foam brought out and stood apart from the oyster's texture, and the vegetables added a tartness that mixed well with the slightly briny oysters. This was certainly one of the finest raw oyster combinations that I have had, comparable only to the starter at Aquavit. The Salt Cod Mousse (Baccalao) with flake cod salad, and microgreens with grapefruit, was less compelling. The combination of salt and sour proved intriguing - a potentially clever dish - but less satisfying than its mate with a texture that demanded more crunch. Our house smoked tuna was a breather. I was impressed by its straight-forward luxuriousness with its onions and greens. If it was not novelty on a plate, it was a subtle take on gravlox. The dish was both a picturesque and harmonious. Not every dish needs to strain at the edge of the envelope of flavor. The next pair was warm seafood. Shrimp over Manchego Rice (rice with Spanish sheep's milk cheese)is Spanish for Shrimp on Cheese Grits. Although not wild, it was a startling and effective mixture, mild and robust, and we loved it. Its partner was Nantucket Sea Scallop with Parsnip Purée and Chorizo Sauce. Chef Ureña presented yet another shotgun marriage of trough and brine. The chorizo sauce should have had more of a smack, and its diffidence emphasized the blandness of the purée. The scallop was well cooked, but was not backed by a strong flavor combination. It was pleasant as a quiet companion to the shrimp. Two fish dishes followed. I admired the marinated and sauteed mahi mahi with a ginger aromatic sauce over spinach with a portobello confit. This was a delicate and subtle dish, only marred by a slight saltiness. The ginger aromatic was compelling and framed the beefy mahi mahi. The roasted flounder with glazed celery root, honshemiji mushrooms, manchego and arugula mousse with a grapefruit and elder flower sauce was too busy. Even reading the ingredients is exhausting. On small plates simplicity is often essential. On a larger canvas this construction might allow for a quieter appreciation of ingredients, but here the dish was riotous. Our fifth course continued the chef's emphasis on seafood, but, in contrast to some earlier efforts, these were undistinguished. The steamed lobster with pickled rhubarb purée, glazed salisfy, and blood orange sauce might have been a high point of the meal. Instead, it was upended by an sickly sweet sauce of goopy consistency. I recognized sweet-and-sour chicken from a small town Chinese take-out. What a waste of a blood orange. What a waste of a lobster. The chicharon (pork rind) crusted halibut with Japanese panko bread crumbs, yellow candied beets, onion soubise, zucchini, and saffron mussel sauce was also a bungle. The flavors were muddied. The fish was fine, but the tastes, as served, lacked distinctive definition. Again, the problem may have been this chef needs a larger canvas than what a tasting menu can provide. Finally we reached our meat course. I thought that the seared duck breast with Savoy cabbage, bacon, dried apricots, and star anise scented sauce was one of the finest plates of the night. Chef Ureña was confidently playing with duck cliches. The duck itself was seared and intense, and the star anise sauce brought a striking bitter-sweetness to the breast. The dried apricots and cabbage proved an inspired match (perhaps add chanterelles), and the complexity of the dish didn't mash together. Many of the plates, but particularly this, had a Blue Hill aspect, closer than to the games of molecularism. I enjoyed the roasted lamb chop with cashew nut purée, Swiss chard, and oyster mushrooms. Although the idea of a cashew nut purée was an intriguing conceit, it didn't add much to the lamb but was intriguing by itsef. Ultimately this dish stood successfully on the quality of the well-cooked chop. The pastry chef at Ureña is Caryn Stabinsky, formerly at WD-50. Because of the allegies of a tablemate, we were not served her signature dessert, "breakfast" (desayuno) - wheat toast cake, Bulgarian feta, maple caramel, with rosemary ice cream, but it seemed more intriguing than the three choices provided. Our first dessert was an oddity: dill yogurt sorbet with Meyer lemon curd and sea salt. The dill yogurt was unexpected. Curious if not quite compelling. Chef Stabinsky was indulging herself at our expense. Second was almond ice cream over candied almonds with piccolo (?) pepper sauce. The almond ice cream over almonds was almost dessert-normal, fully admirable, but to gain our attention pepper sauce was dribbled around. I didn't find that it added much other than an demand that a diner pay attention to the musing of a chef. The final dessert was beet panna cotta, chocolate sauce, broken chocolate cookie with orange salt (salt again!), and sour cream ice cream. The beet panna cotta was a treat - pungent, mild and sweet in a bite. The rest of the plate, deconstructed as it was, held nothing so much as a bit of this and that. The beet panna cotta was a special crimson delight, richly made and happily consumed. Our dinner contained many gratifying moments: a little blue hill overlooking Barcelona. Chef Ureña's attempt to add a Spanish accent - a tilda - to a American cuisiñe of localism is to be hailed. And yet perhaps this establishment has opened a decade early. Chef Ureña is still developing a style, but his outpost is so close to such established and mature restaurants like Craft, Gotham Bar and Grill, Blue Hill, and Grammercy Tavern that it suffers by comparison. I hope - and suspect - that someday I will boast that I tasted Alex Ureña's early independent efforts. If, as some suggest, Ureña lacks the resources and readiness to become established Downtown, I would follow this chef to cheaper digs across bridge and tunnel or to the outer hustings of Manhattan. Ureña 37 East 28th Street (at Madison Avenue) Manhattan (Flatiron) 212-213-2328 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

You mean I have to go to another of Mario's restaurants! Actually Lupa and Casa Mono are on my list, and I might just want to see the air conditioning unit at Del Posto.

Babbling Babbo New York City Entry #73 Stepping over the threshold at Babbo, Mario Batali's flagship restaurant is to be placed in the midst of a scrum. The obstacles at the narrow entrance demand bravery and resolve. Yet, such layout conveys the message that Babbo in its bar and beyond is a happening place. Even when seated, the sounds from the front meld with the background music to create a sense of occasion. Babbo is a restaurant that is shaken, not stirred. The Babbo space is known to older New Yorkers as the long-standing home of the Coach House, one of the more elegant examples of mid-century dining. The decor has been updated, and is quite handsome, although it is one of so many Manhattan restaurants where the flower arrangement is King. By the end of the evening as the ruggers at the bar decamped, it was actually a restful environment at which to dine. Service was efficient and helpful throughout the evening - servers, sommelier, and runners. And yet what is one to make of the food. What does one tell an energetic B-plus student why there is no gold star today. With the exception of a failed dessert, the dishes were in the upper quintile: 650 culinary SATs. Yet, not a single dish proved astonishing, although the combination of ingredients - as well as Mario's buzz - indicated that this was the goal. True, my companions and I - tough graders all - did not assay the Tasting Menus (either pasta or "traditional"). Ignore the buzz, and this is a respectable and amiable restaurant that uses Italian ingredients (and Italian labels) to persuade diners that something "big" is at work. Yet, at the end the dishes are neither transcendent creations nor sublime Italian renditions. Our amuse modeled the evening: a plate of herbed chickpeas on toast. The dish was unpolished but flavorful. It was not the kind of amuse that shows off the culinary virtuosity of a chef, but a dish that indicates that the meal will jolt one's tongue. Antipasto was Warm Lamb's Tongue Vinaigrette with Chanterelles and a Three Minute Egg. I had recently enjoyed a home-made and perfectly prepared lamb's tongue served with a curried mayonnaise. Babbo's version was busy by comparison. I finished the dish with gusto, but the pungent vinegar buzz was excessive. While I did espy chanterelles, a portion of the mushrooms were other varietals. As a starter, it was a gratifying choice; one completed with a smile, but slightly out of balance. As Primo (Pasta) our table shared "Beef Cheek Ravioli with Crushed Squab Liver and Black Truffles." I didn't smell many truffles, although at $21 tartufo chunks were not in the bargain. The problem was less the slight tubers and not the al dente ravioli, but the flavor excess of a mix of cheek and liver. Babbo is not a restaurant that serves quiet dishes. This dish was as loud and rough as the bar scene. Its robustness was to my liking, but its brusque quality suggests a kitchen that shouts rather than whispers. As Secondi, I selected Prawns with White Beans, Leeks, and Spicy Mint Oil. The quartet of prawns were glorious and architectural, and grilled expertly. The plate was newly-minted. I grinned at the mixture of mint and heat, even if the rather mushy beans seemed odd strangers. The plate was the highpoint of the evening, even if its flavors were as jagged as those before. The happier Dolce was Babbo's Chocolate Hazelnut Cake with Orange Sauce and Hazelnut Gelato. Even Batali's harshest critics acknowledge that his staff is skilled at Gelati, and the Hazelnut Gelato was no exception. My bite of Chocolate Cake was rich and moist, and surely satisfying for those who are cocoa nuts. Tasting Gelato di Castagne (Chestnut Gelato) with Bigue (pastry shells) and Chestnut Honey, I imagined a terrorist had infiltrated the kitchen. This was one of the least appealing bites I have eaten. Something must have gone wrong, given that the server had waxed poetic about the dish. It tasted as if someone had ladled Campari - or perhaps Listerine - over the Gelato. With a little experimentation it was clear that the culprit was the sauce (the chestnut gelato was, of course, first-rate). Our server at first was as mystified as I, but eventually the good sport inquired of the kitchen, and came out holding a bottle of Chestnut Honey, noting cheerfully "It's either that or poison." Good choice. The honey tasted as nasty as the dessert. Our mystery was solved. Why innocent diners were treated to this odd concoction without warning remains Mario's mystery or perhaps that of his Pastry Chef Gina DePalma. Given that it is a recent addition to a beloved list of sweets, it will surely be trundled off to dessert purgatory. To deny the pleasures of Babbo would be unfair to Mario, Joe Bastianich - and their Executive Chef Frank Langello - and - God Knows! - Joe and Mario have enough real estate problems without diners piling on. Still, one has to wonder whether, despite the hoo-hah, Batali is the Italian chef of his generation. Iron chef he may be, but can Babbo rise above the babbling of a bombastic publicity machine? Babbo 110 Waverly Place (at 6th Avenue) Manhattan (Greenwich Village) 212-777-0303 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Sripraphai, although it has an extensive menu (including photos of their dishes), does not have a dessert menu (we asked). That suggests that if they used to consider desserts their reason for being, that rationale has weakened. But we agree that Sripraphai is not the place for dessert (they do have Banana - and Taro - Sticky Rice: which I bought to take home on FG's earlier recommendation, and tonight trust I will enjoy it).