gaf

Pronouncement Sripraphai New York City Entry #72 In a city as varied and as disputatious as New York, to find unanimity on anything is as rare as coming upon a parking spot. Yet, as far as Thai restaurants are concerned, one name is on everyone's lips - even if that name is routinely garbled. Sripraphai, located in the heart of Woodside, Queens, a few blocks down from the Jackson Heights subway stop. One imagines that the staff keeps a list detailing how customers scramble three simple syllables - two dozen entries would be a start. The menu helpfully provides the correct pronunciation (See-PRA-Pie). Since opening Sripraphai has expanded, and in its current incarnation, it has a simple elegance, particularly in the back area away from the front door (it also has a garden for summer visitors). Sripraphai now also has a liquor license, and serve some Thai wine and beer. But the restaurant remains efficient, we turned over in just above an hour, having spent a mere $24 apiece. I learned Thai food in Chicago, which along with Los Angeles, is reputed to be the American nucleus of Thai cuisine. The most creative menus in Chicago are "secret menus" - once written in Thai script, but now translated for their Anglo patrons (see Silapaahaan - an essential Chicago dining companion). I was impressed by the food served at Sripraphai, but often felt that the dishes were improved and subtler versions of dishes found at serious Thai restaurants, rather than some of the incandescent dishes found in Chicago at Siam House, Sticky Rice, TAC Quick, or Spoon Thai (try the Exploded Catfish Salad), or the haute Thai appetizers at Arun's. This should not suggest disappointment. Our dishes (at a level of heat between medium and "Thai spicy") ranged from quite good to superb. We began with papaya salad with crispy catfish meat. The texture of the strings of green fruit were delightful as was the crispy coating, an ethereal fat. As wonderful as the coating was, little catfish graced the plate. A better balance between fish and crisp was called for. Sripraphai is rightly known for their tom-yum pork leg soup (a hot and sour soup). The broth was exquisite. Light and full of heat. The fatty pork leg was less to consume than to perfume the perfect stock. I dream of unhurried, unsullied, immaculate pork leg consomme. Our quartet ordered three main courses: roasted duck in hot and spicy sauce with Thai eggplant and bamboo shoots, jungle curry (a red curry) with beef and mixed vegetables, and fried soft-shell crab with green curry, pineapple, pumpkin, and long beans. Of the three, the green curry grabbed our attention. It is startling that a dish can be simultaneously hot and subtle, but this green curry made it seem easy. Sharing one order, we didn't consume quite enough of the beautiful crab, but the sauce and vegetables made up for the absence. The vegetables reminded me of the accompaniments at the most storied haute restaurants. The other two dishes were superior examples of Thai cuisine, but recognizable. I enjoyed the well-cooked eggplant, which mixed nicely with the fatty duck. The jungle curry was rich with spice, even if recognizable from dishes at other Thai restaurants. Dessert at Sripraphai is an afterthought. We ordered pumpkin custard, a simple sweet which only disappointed because of its profound predecessors. Better stroll to the nearby Paraguayan-Uruguayan (??) bakery a few blocks along Roosevelt Avenue. I make no claim to have conducted a census of Thai food in New York, but cannot quibble over the conventional wisdom. Dinner at Sripraphai was not transformative, but it was powerfully good; an establishment easy to reach and easy to love, but hard to pronounce. Sripraphai 64-13 39th Avenue (off Roosevelt Avenue) Queens (Woodside) 718-899-9599 Closed Wednesdays My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Cruisine New York City Entry #71 A spectre is haunting Downtown, the spectre of Community. A gaggle of Manhattan chefs (often tied to the strings and strains of Bouleywood) have concluded that if they cannot pump their plates with a clashing cornucopia of ingredients, they will lack creative cachet among their consorts. The strategy of this club stands in stark contrast to those who embrace the Cuisine of Essences. There are Stakes in Tocque-ville. Chefs have choices. When they select a personal cuisine, they embrace a gustatory team. And Cru's Chef Shea Gallante reveals and revels in his apprenticeship at the red mothership Bouley. Cru is known for its extensive wine list (a two volume encyclopedia with some 3,500 bottles), and so perhaps cuisine is a lagniappe. It inhabits a space on lower Fifth Avenue known as a cemetery of cuisine. Its current incarnation is a somewhat uninspiring clubby space, neither stunning nor repellent, with woods and leathers, browns, tans, and golds. Our service was attentive, although our waitress pushed us from the wine tasting to a more substantial bottle. Perhaps she was right. Our five small glasses were just fine, if not especially memorable, but we did not have to play oenophile roulette. In general, at Cru the simpler the dish, the more satisfying. What, aside from throwing up one's hands, is one to do with a dish that mixes Burrata cheese, truffles, dates, caviar, and chive-olive crisps. We started with a set of amuses. Cru is a restaurant in which one might make a meal of what arrives before the appetizer. Our first amuse was a carrot horn filled with goat cheese and green apple puree. While the cheese and apple blend was smooth and tart, the mixture had been piped in too soon, and the carrot was not fully crisp. We were next served three small bites, a lovely, startling, inspired one-bite Cubano "sandwich," miniaturism at its finest; a squash truffle with Fontina and cocoa nibs, light on the chocolate but a pleasant starter; and an ordinary goat cheese cup. This trio was followed by a salmon spring roll with creme fraiche, simple, clever, profound, and very satisfying. Before our tasting menu, we selected a trio of crudos: Kinme Dai (with Micro Shiso, Red Salt, and Olive Oil), Arctic Char (with Smoked Pepper, Apple, Endive, and Vanilla Oil), and Langoustine (with Green Papaya-Truffle Salad, Gooseberry and Gin Sauce). I particularly admired how the truffles managed to perfume the langoustine and a lovely, subtle Kinme Dai, in which the salt framed the taste of the fish. Despite a certain frou-frou-arie, it was salt and truffle that made these bits of sashimi memorable. The crudo remain the most elegant and compelling moment of this winter night. I decided to avoid Beets, Roasted, Foamed and Pureed with "Micro Bull's Blood" (micro bull's blood is not a plot device in "Honey, We Shrunk Pamplona," but a micro-green; beet foam is, presumably, just that). My choice was Roasted Diver Scallops with Celery-Almond Pesto, Passion Fruit Nage, Scallions, and Speck. A critical problem with such dishes on a tasting menu is that portions are so petit that the contrasting flavors get mashed in a short half-dozen bites. I didn't taste much of the passion fruit nage, except perhaps as an underlying off-taste. On a larger field, the ingredients might have mixed better. Here the Scallops and Speck dominated (This is another dish that bows to the new culinary cliche of pork and sea: Trough and Brine). I enjoyed the dish, but mostly from its core tastes. The second dish was less successful: Sea Bass with wild mushroom goulash, watercress, and coconut puree. Coconut, mushroom, and bass did not make a compelling mix, and the sea bass as served was covered by skin soppy and chewy, not crisp. The dish was unappealing. One must wonder, why - other than the ability to make a claim for excess - did Chef Gallante feel that this dish would work. The other second course choices seemed in my reading to suffer from the same precarious brinksmanship. The pasta improved my mood. Ricotta Cavatelli, scented with Clove, White Bolognese and Confit Leeks was cooked al dente. I wish Chef Gallante had been more generous with the "clove scent." Perhaps he used an atomizer, stopping short of actually adding a corporeal clove. In contrast to the additions in the first two courses, cloves seemed a profound and inspired addition. I wish it had perfumed the plate, just as the truffle perfumed the langoustine. "Maine Lobster, Quince Purée, Orzo with Porcini, Smoked Tuna and Tarragon" nicely reveals the challenges of Shea Gallante's Bouleyesque cuisine. Here is a small dish: lobster, fruit, pasta, mushrooms, smoked fish, herbs. Eight bites and onwards. Inevitably things - here the quince and tuna - get lost. Wouldn't perfectly cooked lobster, orzo, porcini and tarragon be nice? Perhaps Tom Keller or David Bouley can pull off these complex combines, but Chef Gallante hasn't yet mastered the puzzling art of culinary intricacy. Our cleanser was Honeycrisp Apple Consommé with Yogurt Sorbet and Yuzu Cloud. The apple soup was simple and simply outstanding. The yuzu cloud - a cute fuzz - wasn't necessary in this modest dish, but it was fun, and the sorbet was well-made. When first opened, Cru received paeans and brickbats for Will Goldfarb's Dada Desserts. He is a memory (the current inhabitant of the sweets stand is Tiffany MacIsaac), but judging by my dessert - Sweet Potato Beignet with Huckleberry Compote, Vanilla-Pernod Ice Cream, and Boylan's Root Beer - Cru may be a little gun-shy. I thoroughly enjoyed my Root Beer-Pernod float, but found the beignet doughy and boring. In this two-desserts-in-one, the liquid half triumphed. So many cunning young chefs are plying their trade in Manhattan 2006, and Chef Gallante must be counted as one of the Crew. Yet, with the exception of his impressive Crudo, none of the dishes will long remain in my memory. Their busyness, striking when one reads the bill of fare, become a burden on the plate. One surely shouldn't condemn Chef Bouley because his followers lack his genius, yet a certain malign influence is evident. Of course, such is the power of influence. Admirers will be inspired, working as best they can, until they realize that the greatest honor they can pay a mentor is not to do him one better. Chef Gallante needs to create a Cruisine. Cru 24 Fifth Avenue (at 9th Street) Manhattan (Greenwich Village) 212-529-1700 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Airs and Stars New York City Entry #70 It took several courses before I "got" Devi, the mbitious Indian restaurant, set smack in the Union Square restaurant district. I had considered Devi and Tabla as rough equals in New York's culinary space. Indeed, both have tasting menus and according to Zagat's their price points are not vastly different (outside Z's world, the difference is significantly wider, with Devi the less expensive). Restaurants may gain or suffer by these implicit comparisons, hard to shake. Devi does have airs - any restaurant that provides alternate tasting menus, and that advertises their chefs - Pastry Chef Surbhi Sahni, and Chefs Suvir Saran and Hemant Mathur - asks us to take them seriously. Yet, Devi's professed intent to create authentic regional Indian home cooking places their goal betwixt haute cuisine and street food. Devi is not Tabla in looks or culinary style. Its decor, service, and cuisine is more humble than Danny Meyer's pleasure palace on Madison Square. This is not to suggest that Devi's food doesn't alternately satisfy and amaze, but it represents a modest cuisine, not a grand one. Its ambitions are somewhere between Curry Row and Savile Row. The decor is an upgrade of the Indian-restaurant-in-a-box; gauzy, gaudy, gossamer, and rosy, not a candidate for Architectural Digest. And with a six course tasting menu, we were out the door in under a hundred minutes. On this snowy evening, staff weren't turning tables (the restaurant was largely empty), but their efficiency was nervy. In contrast to Tabla with its imagined place in an international culinary universe, Devi is about is creative and impressive as an ethnic restaurant can be in New York (and quite possibly anywhere, given the quality of ingredients available on this magic island). Selecting from the two tasting menus, our combined menu consisted of: Fried Cashew Ball (our amuse) Calcutta Jhaal Muri: Rice Puffs, Red Onions, Chickpeas, Green Chilies, Mustard Oil, and Lemon Juice Salmon Crab Cakes: Tomato Chutney Mayonnaise Sweet Potato Chaat: Sweet Potatoes, Toasted Cumin, Chaat Masala, Lime Juice Aloo Bonda: Potatoes, Mustard Seeds, Curry Leaves, Ginger, Hot Pepper, Tumeric, Urad Dal, Chickpea Flour Tandoori Quail: Spicy Fig Chutney Grilled Scallops: Roasted Red Pepper Chutney, Manchurian Cauliflower, Spicy Bitter-Orange Marmalade Mirchi Wali Machhi: Halibut, Roasted Pepper Chutney, Spiced Radish Rice Manchurian Cauliflower: Spicy Garlic Infused Tomato Sauce, Scallions Mirch Ka Salan Aur Puri: Preen Bell and Hot Peppers, Coconut, Peanuts, and Tamarind Curry with Puri Bread Tandoori Prawns: Eggplant Pickle, Crispy Okra Tandoor-Grilled Lamb Chops: Sweet and Sour Pear Chutney, Spiced Potatoes Jackfruit Biryaani: Basmati Rice, Potatoes and Whole Spices, Yogurt Sauce, Okra Chips Emperor's Morsel: Crispy Saffron Bread Pudding, Cardamon Cream, Candied Almonds Pistachio Kulfi: Indian Ice Cream, Candied Pistachio, Citrus Soup This is quite a spread, and at $60 for six courses, by no means unreasonable. Chef Saran and Mathur push the envelope of Indian cuisine, but never puncture it. Despite their creativity, they reject a fusion cuisine, but remain fully planted in the varied regional cuisines of India (the restaurant does not inform diners of the regional components of the cuisine, leaving the impression that the culinary choices are undifferentiated). With several tandoori dishes, a heavy use of peppers, and multiple chutneys, dishes tend to blur. The most memorable creation, given this array, is among the most modest. Chefs Saran and Mathur's crispy okra might better be labeled okra frites. The crispy fried strips of okra were magnificent. Okra is one of American's uniquely despised vegetables - abhorred for its repulsive slimy sludge - but if okra were served so cleverly it would challenge potato chips for America's heart. I also admired the tandoori prawns that shared a plate with the okra. This dish was the star of the evening. The pair of crab cakes were suffused with pleasure. They were cooked simply in a surprisingly subtle tomato chutney mayonnaise. They were sublime. The tandoor-grilled lamb chop with a vibrant sweet and sour pear chutney was exceptional as well, even if the spiced potato seemed standard issue. The flavors of the Grilled Scallops were complex, particularly with the bitter-orange marmalade. Of the two desserts, the Crispy Saffron Bread Pudding was superior with the addition of crunchy candied almonds on a canvas of saffron. Other dishes proved less successful. Those on the Vegetarian Tasting Menu did not match the skill shown with meat and fish. The cashew amuse was a spicy bite of not-much. Manchurian Cauliflower, slathered in ketchup was sickly sweet, and no match for a superb, ketchup-free version I enjoyed at Chinese Mirch. The Biryaani lacked much of a punch (also true of spiced radish rice). For some reason, Devi was not successful with rice dishes, seemingly a standard of Indian cuisine. While I happily sipped the citrus soup served with the Pistachio Kulfi, I found the ice cream less compelling than that available from dozens of unassuming stands in Jackson Heights. Devi rides high in comparison with Indian restaurants throughout the five boroughs. I was fully satisfied with what might well have been the best "ethnic cuisine" of my New York stay. This is no backhanded compliment, although these ambitious chefs might, perhaps, take it as one. I grieve over the absence of a glittering Michelin star for Tabla; the stars that Devi deserves are those twinklers on a clear winter night, admired while walking home from Union Square tickled and astounded by what Indian cuisine in the right hands can reveal. Devi 8 East 18th Street Manhattan (Union Square) 212-691-1300 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Thanks for the correction. I searched to find out who the Executive Chef was. On the Bouley website under Publications (not under Danube) Mario is described as "Executive Chef." Just shows the trouble one gets in by believing what one reads on the Net. I guess he was when East of Paris was published.

So Blue New York City Entry #69 Walking into David Bouley's Austrian restaurant, Danube, is a joke. One faces an azure wall: Blue Danube. Situated at the crossroads of Bouleywood - near Upstairs, the Bakery and Market, and the scarlet mother church - Danube is surely among the most glittering and compelling restaurant spaces in Manhattan. One has a disconcerting sense that the space sells, not the dishes. The webpage begins, "Danube restaurant, which received the number one ranking for decor in the Zagat Survey of New York City Restaurants, was created by Chef David Bouley in collaboration with Parisian designer Jacques Garcia and New York architect Kevin White." Well, first things first. Bouley's Chef de Cuisine, Mario Lohniger, is not mentioned. Lohniger is the potted plant hid by Fin de Siecle Art Nouveau wallpaper, curtains, and furniture. Having recently had a fine meal at Kurt Gutenbrunner's Wallsé, the pair beg for comparison. Gutenbrunner expands from the core of Austrian cooking tradition. He strives for a New Austrian cuisine. On the basis of nine courses on the Danube's Seasonal Menu, an Austrian influence was only lightly felt. To be sure, Danube also offers an "Austrian menu" (two dishes of which appeared on the seasonal tasting menu), and these dishes sound more mittel European. However, in contrast to Wallsé, Danube is more subtle; its aspirations are higher (with a modestly higher price point). Danube's are busier, filled with touches and curlicues, crowded with ingredients. Perhaps the dishes are only slightly more memorable at Danube, but they were certainly intended to be. Service was more refined with more staff than strictly needed. At Danube one doesn't get to know one's waiter. Service is a team sport. Dining with my wife, I thought that I would be clever. She ordered the Tasting Menu, and I ordered the Chef's Seasonal Degustation Menu ("available upon request"). This suggested that the chef's inspiration would be based on Greenmarket availability. I could see his mental synapses firing. Instead, the degustation was a longer version of the tasting menu with a few dishes cribbed from other menus. I should have asked, or, better yet, been told. The Amuse Bouche started in Bouley fashion with a smash of flavor: a bit of fresh salmon, a touch of creme fraiche, a fleck of pickled cucumber, and a dab of grainy mustard. With these ingredients, I checked to see that I wasn't at Aquavit, but no, this compelling bite had the deep tastes that Chef Bouley favors. I began with a signature dish, "Freshly Harpooned Sashimi Quality Bluefin Tuna and Hamachi with Key Lime Pickled Onion with Organic Roasted Beets and Horseradish Fromage Blanc." As beautiful as this dish appeared on the plate, it improved in the mouth. It gathered big tastes, and demonstrated that they could work in harmony. I prized the exquisite beets and horseradish baton. The composition with the tuna and hamachi was irresistible. If it was not notable Germanic, it was sublime. Next arrived "Pan Seared Diver Sea Scallop and New England Crabmeat with a Paradeiser Coriander and Lemon Thyme Sauce." Paradeiser is Austrian, it is true, but the tastes would only be known to diners in Wien. It is not part of the imagined Austrian flavor profile. The sauce, Viennese or not, was remarkable. The scallop was ordinary, but the lush and spring-like Paradeiser worked magic. Thyme waits for no man. "Gently Heated Wild King Salmon with Stryrian "Wruzelgemüse" (Zucchini, Yellow Squash and Chives), Apple Rosemary Purée and Horseradish-Chive Sauce" was less stirring, in part because of the aftertaste of horseradish from the first dish. Here the horseradish was combined with the mild salmon, and was overwhelming. This small dish had too many flavors in play, leaving a mush confederation. The least satisfactory dish of the night was "Maine Day Boat Lobster with Salted Spinach, Mango, Saffron Curry Broth, Hon-Shimeji Mushrooms, and Coconut Foam. Just the ingredients suggest the problem. Chef Bouley doesn't believe in the cuisine of essences; at his most naughty, he proffers a hectic cuisine. The dish most notably failed as a textural composition. I found the both shimeji mushrooms and the foam slimy. Add an embarrassing, if excusable, bit of shell, demonstrating the authenticity of the lobster. This dish could best be admired from afar. My fifth dish was recruited from the Austrian menu, "Carinthia ‘Schlutzkrapfen' High Altitude Austrian Cheese Ravioli with Harvest Corn Foam, Maitake Mushrooms, Spinach, and Pumpkin Seeds." Given that Schlutzkrapfen is German ravioli, this high-falutin' label explains that I was served Carinthian High Altitude Ravioli Ravioli. Had my server a stronger command of English I might have inquired about the relative advantages of high and low altitude ravioli, but that query must wait. Here Bouley's mash was a happy one. I particularly admired the addition of the meaty Maitake Mushrooms and the corn sauce, melding definitively with the cheese pasta. The meat plate, "Roasted Rack of Colorado Lamb with Organic Barley, Glazed Asparagus, Roasted Cippolini Onion and Fresh Tarragon Lamb Sauce," was a work of art. As with the scallop, the sauce was magnificent. Chef Bouley is a budding herbalist. The tarragon jus proved to be one of the strongest accompaniments to a rack of lamb in my memory. This dish triumphed because the center and periphery belonged together, not as strangers in the night. One expected that a restaurant like Danube would serve tender Lamb, but the tender barley was an inspiration. As a palate cleanser I was served "Elderflower Gelée with Lemon Verbena Sorbet with Blood Orange Slices." The dish was a sourpuss. If it was not striking, it effectively scrubbed one's tongue. I was unimpressed with the sorbet, which had an off-texture. Perhaps it soaked up some of the gelatinous elderflowers, but it lacked the gracious smoothness of the best sorbet. My two desserts were represented Danube at its most and least triumphant (I find no indicator of the identity of our pastry chef). Tahitian Vanilla Parfait with Pumpkin Seed Oil, Poached Seckel Pear and Pomegranate Seeds was attractive, but not appealing. The marshmallow-like burnt caramel topping was salty and stringy, the ice cream was more heavily frozen than optimal, and - perhaps from the pumpkin seed oil - I noticed an off-bitter taste. In contrast the Crispy Caramel Strudel with Bartlett Pears, Aged Balsamic and Moscato D'Asti Ice Cream was a pleasure. The strudel was Austrian mille-feuille to which the sweet old vinegar brought an electric jolt. This ice cream was as dreamy as the vanilla ice cream had been lumpen. I will not soon forget the combination. Despite the frequently exceptional food, it is hard not to feel that Danube is a conceit. A strutting peacock restaurant makes diners forget that designers and architects stand behind chefs, not before them. Not every restauranteur needs a Calatrava. Certainly a stunning decor contributes to feeling repose or amazement, but one should be wowed by the plates. This night, sometimes yes, sometimes no. Yet, when I reread my report of an earlier meal at Bouley, I realize that I now rhapsodize about that meal more than my text might suggest. Some meals rise in recall, others fade. Perhaps a sense of occasion matters more than we might imagine. We chew the scenery. Could Shoeless Joe's adage be true: Build it and we will come. Danube 30 Hudson Street (at Duane Street) Manhattan (TriBeCa) 212-791-3771 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Slacker New York City Entry #68 Brasserie Les Halles has amassed its share of critics. With über-celebrity-chef Anthony Bourdain as its animating spirit, skepticism is served slathered in butter. Since the publication of Kitchen Confidential in 2000, Bourdain has been more of a marketing phenomenon than chef, and judging from his account, even when he was a cook, he was a player; stovework bowed to other pursuits of the evening. A few years before the appearance of Kitchen Confidential with its grand guignol yarns of culinary hijinks, I published Kitchens, a description of work in restaurant backstages, populated with men and women of a serious mien. I watched as M. Bourdain became a millionaire, while I remained, uh, a thousandaire. My imagined adventure in the wilds of TV-land was not seen fit for cancellation. "Survivor Gourmet" seemed the perfect accompaniment for the Food Network. Two teams dropped on a tropical island compete for culinary superiority. I remain convinced that an audience is waiting to watch Richard Hatch whip up a mess o' grubs in the altogether. I come to my review with several deadly sins in play. Les Halles strives for adequacy. It usually achieves its goal, creating a thoughtless cuisine. The usual failings of a misbegotten restaurant were muted. On a Tuesday night this faux brasserie was not as loud as its reputation. Granted our server appeared and disappeared at odd moments, sometimes hovering, sometimes invisible, but we didn't wait unduly for our meal. Les Halles, not as carefully designed as Balthazar, charms as it mimics American cultural images of French brasseries. Walnut paneling and framed posters lend a touch of the Parisian night. If it felt faintly inauthentic, it was not unpleasantly so. Les Halles has a maudlin appeal. Duck Confit with Frisée Salad could not stand up to a close inspection. The duck liver pate (assuredly not foie gras) and duck leg were soft, mild, and fatty. Simple and adequate. It was an appetizer that didn't interrupt our conversation for a culinary mind-meld. The same applied to Hanger Steak and Frites with Shallot Sauce. How many ways to say inoffensive. Hanger steak is not a tender cut of meat, but it is flavorful, and so it served its purpose. Although Les Halles is known for its freedom spuds, Burger King comes pretty close. This generous portion was satisfying, fried in peanut oil, and they were crisp through and through. They just didn't crackle, pop, or snap. I puzzled over the shallot sauce, which I assumed would be a buerre blanc, but turned out to be barbeque sauce with chopped shallots - an odd mix that hid any subtlety that the shallots might have contributed. For dessert, we chose Crème Brulee. The caramelized topping was just fine, if not remarkably crackly, but the creamy custard had a slight lemon off-taste (perhaps it was an unadvertised lemon brulee). The portion was so ample that four diners shared the ramekin, not quite finishing the pudding. I have been trying to cut back on calories, but often it is hard to resist cleaning my plate. I had no trouble with this arduous resolution at Les Halles. I didn't desire to return dishes, but neither did I feel a need to finish them. At Les Halles, 60% suffices. A critic can find much carp about. But I can't deny that I enjoyed the evening, and not only because of my company. Les Halles has figured out just what it must do to get by. It is the slacker of New York City bistros, skating by on roguish charm and good looks. Brasserie Les Halles 411 Park Avenue South (at 29th Street) Manhattan (Gramercy Park) 212-679-4111 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Roots and Wings New York City Entry #67 Wallsé is Aquavit on Strudel. Chef Kurt Gutenbrunner takes Austria as his inspiration, just as Aquavit is Stockholm on the Hudson. Labeling Wallsé Austrian as precise as suggesting that Tabla is a Delhi deli. New York takes indigenous cuisines, reaches for a mixer, and turns on the juice. The outcome is recognizable, if cracked. At its best, the mash is sublime. Wallsé, in the heart of the West Village, serves nicely as a poster child for post-fusion cuisine. Whereas once restaurants competed to see how many continents could be contained on a plate, chefs are now drawing on their heritage and on their international training. They show their roots and wings. The Wallsé space is as pleasing as any upper-middle restaurant. The two rooms are filled with contemporary art (works by Julian Schnabel and Alfred Olin, among others), pieces that set off the white brick walls and black carpeting. If the room was once minimalist, today it bounces and sizzles with color and drips. Perhaps it is Germanic clockwork, but the staff rushed us through dinner. Our appetizers arrived moments after the order went in, and the time between appetizer and entree was barely sufficient to lay down our forks. No amuse for us. We had the impression that our 7:00 table was to be turned over by 9:00. If two seatings are required, early reservations should be scheduled at 6:30 and later ones set for 9:30. The crowd at the bar suggested that the late shift might have applauded our exit. Restaurant clocks should always measure soft time. I began with Spicy Lobster Soup with Lobster Ravioli. The dish was admirable, but not orgasmic. It didn't tingle. The liquid had nice heat, but the spicing was too heavy on the salt. The soup had a roughness that didn't detract from the pleasure of its dense lobster, but served as a marker that this was not David Bouley's kitchen. The ravioli was pure lobster and laudable, although its purity was overwhelmed by the competing spice. It was an commendable broth, a step from distinguished. Crispy Cod Strudel with Braised Leeks and Black Truffle Sauce is a marriage of the Outer Banks and the Inner Ring. Let no one castigate cod in the hands of Chef Gutenbrunner. Cod, when cooked properly, is ocean essence. Forget salmon, swordfish, or trout. Cod is Fish. And this was a beautiful piece, framed with delicacy by the braised leeks. Given this headstart, I was disappointed with the strudel. The top was properly crisp, but the pastry base was thin and soggy. The black truffle sauce must have existed in the chef's imagination, because it was absent on the diner's plate. Perhaps he used an atomizer. With work, this could be a classic dish. Dessert began with a scoop of marzipan sorbet. This is not a misprint. Not gelato. Sorbet. I admired that the pastry chef Pierre Reboule (if he is still the dessert chef, he is not listed on the website) was willing forgo a heavy sugar base. This was iced almond, not sticky toffee. The startling and remarkable Green Apple and Celery Sorbet with Horseradish, Sea Salt, and Olive Oil was triumphant. Having recently eaten dessert flavored with sea salt and olive oil at Otto, what seemed a curiosity is fast becoming a trend. Of all the dishes that shouldn't work, this combine ranks high. Yet, the sweet, hot, salty, and bitter ingredients not only collaborated, but fused. This choral cuisine will long vibrate on my tongue. I tremble at the chef's inspiration. As we were leaving my companion and I agreed that despite the bum's rush and despite a few culinary infelicities, Wallsé is a restaurant to which we would return. The room is striking and the menu is filled with surprises that we have only began to explore. New Yorkers are blessed by restaurant workers converging here from the World Beyond. Chefs and dishwashers deserve our gratitude for their mettle, showing pluck to provide for Gotham's table. Wallsé 344 West 11th Street Manhattan (West Village) 212-352-2300 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

No one mentioned a problem with using flash. It seemed a non-issue.

Terminal Condition New York Entry #66 Does anyone eat at Otto twice? A friend and I visited Molto Mario Batali's pizzeria/enoteca last Friday night ans asked this question. Otto fashions itself an Italian train station, loud and crowded. Diners are called to table on an arrival board. By the time our entree arrived, I was ready to embark. All that was lacking was fumes. Granted this was Friday evening but the acoustics touted sign language and aspirin. One party at a table near us were screaming at each other, not a domestic tiff, but the only way to converse. With each table howling we caught snatches of conversation throughout the room. We could everyone but each other. This dazed reality puts the lie to my opening query: crowds do find Otto energizing. But after visiting numerous establishments in which I was the grayest head in the room, youthful buzz is not necessarily a cause of complaint. But at Otto the chaos is contagious at the tables and perhaps in the kitchen. Service was cheerful, and we appreciated the sommelier making wise suggestions for two carafes of wine. When the server brought anchovies in place of parsnips - a mistake anyone could make! - they quickly apologized, letting us keep the fish. We did feel pressure to turn the table, particularly from an overeager busboy, who felt that a clean table was more to be treasured than a clean plate. The food, which some admire, was hit and miss. We began with Anchovies, Breadcrumbs and Scallions; Roasted Beets and Saba; and Parsnips "Agrodolce." A fine line exists between respecting the culinary sophistication of diners and organizational pomposity. Agrodolce and Saba (sweet-and-sour sauce and boiled white grape must, respectively) felt pretentious, especially in a restaurant aiming at a wide audience. Best of the trio were the parsnips. Both the sweetness and the sourness revealed complexity of this often ignored root vegetable. It was the most completely satisfying selection of the evening, a creation that appeared simple but was built upon levels of taste. Our chunks of beets were inoffensive, and not deeply flavored. The anchovies were deliciously fresh, but this pesce was sabotaged by stale cubes of bread (by no means "crumbs," just crummy). And the bread brought to our table was far from hot and chewy. Bread is the canary in the mine of Italian kitchens. When the bread dies, call the coroner. Our pizza was Fennel and Bottarga - tomato, fennel, bottarga (salted tuna roe), pecorino, and mozzarella. The thin crust was too dry, and the topping lacked pizzazz. I love fennel's bitter bite, but this tang was not much evident; neither was the salty bottarga. The topping was a thin gruel of cheese and tomato. Our pasta, Linguine with Broccoli Rabe, Pine Nuts, and Garlic was unbalanced. The pesto was dominated by the taste of ground broccoli. The pasta was, as promised al dente (we were advised - warned - of this), but, as with the pizza, the flavor combinations were off. Dessert was on the right track. Olive Oil Coppetta (a small cup, or Italian Sundae) was composed of olive oil gelato, tangerine sorbet, blood orange, dried cherries, capezzana olive oil, and Maldon sea salt. Batali deserves iron points for his spunk in advertising sea salt in a dessert, but his fortitude paid dividends. Dessert was the only moment in which one could see the chef's mind at work. Batali extended the range of dessert flavors beyond what might be considered decent. He begins from strength with his tangerine sorbet and, especially, the subtle and sublime olive oil gelato, and adds the contrasting tastes of olive oil, oranges, cherries, and salt. It is inspired. If every course could have been dessert, I would have accepted my malaise as the price of genius. Otto is a cross between a roadhouse and madhouse, and not dazzling enough for its bedlam. Perhaps a quieter moment would have been more auspicious, but the craziness seems integral to the meaning of Otto. Its volcanic tumult is molten Mario. Otto, pronounced Oh-toe, might otherwise be whispered Uh-oh. Otto One Fifth Avenue (at 8th Street) Manhattan (Greenwich Village) 212-995-9559 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Pan, I'm a mushroom lover as well, and if I had been given a plate of sauteed mushrooms, I would have been in heaven. Indeed, one of my most memorable dishes was a plate of mushooms in cream sauce and dill, served in a Polish restaurant that had entirely run out of meat. However, I found the dish (of which I had twp bites - it was my companion's - to use a technical term, gloppy. But I don't much like pot pies (Swanson's or others) very much in any event.

Chelsea Lullaby New York Entry #65 A lot of good cooking is to be had. As a critic with but eleven months of New York eating before my retreat to Chicago, I select restaurants others recommend. They are my tasters. Sometimes I am brazenly disappointed - as at Spice Market - but typically my meals waver between very good and excellent with a handful of outstanding restaurants. The challenge is not to produce pleasant food, but to be transcendent. I average about one such dish a week. Proprietors attempt to gain attention by constructing a narrative to differentiate themselves from the competition. This is certainly true at Cookshop, a new restaurant on Chelsea's restaurant row from the creators of Five Points. Chef Marc Meyer (and Chef de Cuisine Joel Haugh) have persuaded themselves - and they may be correct - that we diners desire indigenous American foodstuffs. When ingredients combine authenticity and moral virtue, so much the better. This is "honest" cuisine. The website asserts, "‘The butcher and the baker were the first chefs, if you ask me,' states Chef Marc Meyer, whose culinary passions run deep for sustainable ingredients, humanely raised animals and the support of local farmers and artisans. The menu . . . stays true to Meyer's respect for the earth and its bounty." Well, gag me with a spoon. Cookshop's niche is the Virtuous Gourmet, a category that apparently captures Frank Bruni of the Times, who asserts that Cookshop is "a place where eating well and doing good find common ground." Oink. Fortunately for my appetite this syrupy benevolence and honied amity was not pushed by our waitress, whose service was as winsome as it was casual. Yes, clues were on the menu and chalkboard, but we didn't let decency spoil our evening. And one could not read the chef's ideology from the room, a modernist L-shaped space that was a symphony in whites, tans, and burgundy, but with a noise level that matched. Diners on the long side of the L had an open view of an efficient display kitchen, where ducks were eviscerated with respect. We began with one of Cookshop's famed snacks, fried spiced hominy. The dried corn kernels were expertly fried and bravely spiced: a sonorous chile popcorn. The first bites were astonishing. But as we talked, these pellets became increasingly stale and pulpy. Our first bite was transfixing, our last disheartening, and perhaps half the plate remained. A lot goes a short way. Starters were first-rate. I selected Grilled Montauk Squid, White Runner Beans, and Salsa Verde. I am not sure that I am comforted to learn that squid reside off the beaches of Long Island, but after tonight there was one less. And it was sweet and tender: essence of squid. The salsa verde had a mild but dense spiciness. The salsa was short on the chile, but long on the garlic and onion. It modestly called out the flavor of the squid. I expected runner beans that resembled green beans, but these were closer to lima beans or perhaps lupini. They had a slight snap to them, and I enjoyed them quite as long as beans deserve to be enjoyed. As a second starter, we selected wood-roasted razor clams, fingerling potatoes, green olives, and preserved Meyer lemon. The idea of cooking razor clams over wood was a puzzle. Nothing wrong, but I couldn't taste mesquite or maple. The choice seemed more poetic than practical. What made this dish successful was the pungency of the preserved lemon and green olive, added to the tender clams. This dish was flavor-full. Perhaps the fingerlings were excess, but the dish was satisfying-plus. The most appealing entree was "Chile Braised Grass-Fed Short Ribs, Georgia White Speckled Grits and Fried Onions." Ah-ha, Cookshop was going global. No so. The ribs were braised in Chile, not from Chile. The spice, however, was so tamed that I was unawares of its heat until I taunted our waitress about the Southern Cone. The barbeque sauce was tangy and thick, although not complex. I slurped the creamy grits, mixing easily with the sauce. The airy fried onions began well, but like fried food generally, had a fleeting perfection. The other entree, Black Trumpet, Maitake, Hedgehog Mushroom, and Root Vegetable Pot Pie, may have been morally uplifting, but not uplifting as cuisine. A disappointment. For dessert, I chose Meyer Lemon Marmalade and Almond Frangipane Tart. Normally this is served with Mascarpone Ice Cream, but I pleaded for Blood Orange Sorbet. The tart was straight up marzipan with a tinge of citrus; it was candy pie. The sorbet did not equal its companion. Not silky smooth, the scoop was icy and not bloody acidic. No one to blame but the blogger. As we were leaving, the women at the next table, seeing my note-taking, provided a evaluation, "Good, but didn't knock my socks off." (She was wearing stockings.) Her conclusion had a non-blogger's truth. With the exception of the pot pie, I enjoyed the dishes, and particularly admired the early minutes of the hominy and the two appetizers. Yet, Cookshop is much like many other medium-priced restaurants found throughout New York neighborhoods. The food is creative, fun, and satisfying, but is limited by constraints of cost and inspiration. Without its moral narrative Cookshop is what much middle-level food has become. An ingredient here, an ingredient there, blanketed in a lullaby crooned by a weary chef. Cookshop 156 10th Avenue (at 20th Street) Manhattan (Chelsea) 212-924-4440 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Restaurant Week New York Entry #64 One of the more peculiar events in New York - a town filled with the jolting and the eccentric - is Restaurant Week. Here restaurants advertise special lunches (at $24.07 - get it?) (and some dinners - at $35.00) that allow some restaurants to pack their tables serving meals that cost the same as the prix fixe that they offer the weeks before and after and for others to allow their chefs to snooze at the stove with dishes conventional and spare. The week provides an excuse for Bridge and Tunnel tourists to descend on Manhattan restaurants, filling each chair, and causing chaos throughout. But if it works, go for it. To embrace this marketing triumph, some friends and I chose lunch at Fleur de Sel. Fleur de Sel [gourmet sea salt] has a daily prix fixe three course lunch menu at $25.00, so we saved a cool $0.93 - or, as New Yorkers might say, that and $1.07 can get you on the subway. [A four course lunch with a cheese plate is served for $42.00.] Undeniably Fleur de Sel is a graceful restaurant. Even on a rainy day, Fleur's interior space is sunny Brittany. Its colorful prints, flower arrangements, and bright tones is a pick-me-up. The dining room is a small space with a lithe French country feel. At some restaurants, one feels that the lunch specials are a come-on, a loss leader, to get diners in the door where they learn of the good stuff at inflated prices. Lunch at Fleur de Sel is an honorable occasion. Yes, the vanilla lobster salad with truffle mayonnaise and sugar cane/coffee marinated pork chops were reserved for our betters, but during Restaurant Week, perhaps no lobster or sugar cane were needed in the larder. I started with the finest soup I have had in New York (recalling that the once amazing Soup Kitchen International is now a metastasizing franchise). Chef Cyril Renaud's parsnip soup with roasted chestnut/parsley ravioli was exquisite. The bits of truffle - black and white - was the kitchen's gift to diners. While I rarely order truffles, when used moderately, they perfume a plate. The liquid was straight-up butter, cream, and parsnip: a January bracer. The ravioli was more Valhalla than Venice. I could eat these pasta pouches all afternoon. This parsnip soup, so well rooted, is one of the finest libations I can image. My entree was Pan-Seared Drum Fish with Baby Carrots and Mushrooms in a Lobster Whisky Emulsion. Our server explained that Drum Fish is related to seabass, a claim that I have no reason to doubt except that I seem to be told that every fish is related to seabass. Drum Fish are carnivores so they get what they deserve. However, the description of this dish promises more than the plate delivers. It was a satisfying alliance of fish and vegetables. However, the emulsion didn't have much of an impact. The fish was rich (Fleur de Sel is a butter peddler), but it was an earthbound contrast to the transcendent soup Dessert was Raspberry Feuilleté with a White Chocolate Caramel Ganache. Sandwiched between two thin wafers was a layer of plump berries. Spooned on top of this edifice was a ganache glob, icing posing as sorbet. Eating ganache is licking the beaters when the frosting is done, slightly less challenging but equally indulgent. Fleur de Sel is stomach - not heart - friendly. However, as rich as the burnt sugar ganache was, the dessert was routine: a plate of calories, not of memories. To imagine this lunch, alternately sparkling and pleasant, served for $24 is to demonstrate that bargains endure. And New Yorkers believe that bargains are their right. The first $24 purchase - the mythic sale which all New York schoolchildren learn is their birthright - was the purchase of the island itself by Peter Minuit from the Lenape Indians. But times change. Today $24 would not be enough to buy a pound of fleur de sel. Thankfully butter is cheaper than salt. Fleur de Sel 5 East 20th Street (at Fifth Avenue) Manhattan (Union Square) 212-460-9100 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Shabby Chic New York City Entry #63 When preparing to leave chef Zac Pelaccio's 5 Ninth (on the edge of the Meatpacking District), a diner is given a postcard image of the neighborhood from a century back. An elevated train line is being raised in a district that had seen better days. This is still another quarter of laboring New York. The el has been and gone, and the district thrives mixing townhouses and industrial spaces: Dancehall Gotham. Such a vision of history is shared to evoke nostalgia for a world that customers can barely imagine, while they consume skate marinated in lemongrass and monkfish braised with Sichuan bean paste. The wacky strain between the authentic and the postmodern is palpable, as in so many gentrifying corners of Manhattan. From the outside 5 Ninth's townhouse seems edging towards condemnation. Entering one realizes that the restaurant has been carefully contrived to that end. The design team was challenged to create a workingman's restaurant that the beau monde could love. Everything from the carefully constructed wood planks to the airless bathrooms tries to persuade that we are in 1906. Everything until the menu arrives. We soon learn that this is contemporary American cuisine filtered through Singapore nights. Not a single item - even for sentiment sake - could be imagined by the one-time residents of Gansevoort Street. Fingerling potatoes, honey tangerines, and always radicchio? Still, in 2006 these treats are perhaps not so exotic. While Pelaccio develops a distinctive flavor palette, Nouveau Amerasian, he operates within the constraints of Manhattanite cuisine. And, at its best, his choices are impressive. Best of the three courses was my appetizer, Veal Bacon and Egg Congee, cooked in a clay pot with Chili Paste and Shiitake mushrooms. I had recently dined at Chinatown's Congee Village, and found this to be a shrewd reconstruction of the more traditional porridge. The congee had a discerning artfulness not found in Chinese country cuisine, and the veal bacon was explosive with taste. Pelaccio's traditional preparation made this one of the most impressive fusion efforts that I have recently encountered. As an entree I selected the Loup de Mer (a variety of seabass), steamed, and served with chili lime paste, ginger, and cilantro and bok choy greens. The fish, otherwise well cooked, was swimming in a soupy essence that detracted from the plate, making the ginger, cilantro, and greens watery and limp. With less liquid this would have been a much improved dish, although even so, the sushi-grade ginger dominated. I admired the idea for dessert, persimmon cake and coulis, served with cashew-vanilla ice cream. The nuts added an odd saltiness to the vanilla scoop, which at its best should have a purity of taste. The persimmon cake was tasty, particularly when its slight dry cakiness was combined with the ice cream or the persimmon dice. Pelaccio evoked an haute Asian dessert. With a little custard tinkering and some cake moistening, this would have been a startling ending. Unlike Pelaccio's more hectic Fatty Crab around the corner, 5 Ninth is a restaurant that directs attention to his culinary choices. If 5 Ninth can't quite decide whether it aspires to the exotic street life of old New York or of old Kuala Lumpur, we can suffer the chef his shabby fantasies. In the end it is our own culinary fantasies that may transform Gansevoort into the chic of Araby. 5 Ninth 5 Ninth Avenue (at Gansevoort St.) Manhattan (Meatpacking District) 212-929-9460 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

I didn't find a flavor decifit. As I noted, it seemed very Bouley-ish in having bigger flavors. But, of course, restaurants change and dishes differ.

Theme Park New York City Entry #62 Often restauranteurs are convinced that good food does not suffice. One needs a theme to snare diners. One designs a fantasy to find a market niche. Most notably this is true of such restaurants as Hard Rock Café, Trader Vic's, Ninja, or, most dramatically, the memorable Forum of the Twelve Caesars. Walking into many restaurants, feels like landing in Las Vegas. All is hyper-reality, each table a simulacrum. Mas (farmhouse) is a restaurant that doesn't need tricks, its kitchen is a treat. Yet, Mas fitfully pretends that it is a farmhouse in a village in Provence, not a hip space in the Village in Manhattan. Menus and business cards are emblazoned "Mas (farmhouse)." For many diners Mas echoes Hispanic culture, and indeed Mas is a favored Nuevo Latino destination in Chicago. New York's Mas leans French - it also leans late. Mas is one of the few places in New York to dine rather than to feed at three a.m. Problem is that, aside from their parenthesis (farmhouse), the proprietors of Mas do not seem committed to their fantasia. Granted there are some design touches, notably rustic wooded walls and the restaurant does rely on a few other Provencal design features, but its heart owes more to Bouley, where chef Galen Zamarra apprenticed. Once seated, the pseudo-rustic charm that the name conjures shades into a comely and refined rendition of a provincial bistro. One never feels for a moment that one is being served by farm wenches. The servers, though not wenches, have their charms, and service was congenial and helpful throughout. The staff tried so hard to be helpful that one might have imagined that Mas was part of Danny Meyer's chain. Certainly one of the changes that I have noticed, despite several ill-starred evenings, is how much more friendly and service-oriented are servers at a wide range of New York restaurants than I had recalled. The pleasure I used to take in slamming staff has been stolen from me. One sometimes steps into the Carnegie Deli just to gain a whiff of the old days when the waiter was king. Today a waiter is a cross of counselor, tout, and jester. Only the bread is crusty. We were started with an amuse bouche. The presentation seemed modest, but contained a wallop. Smoked finnan haddie in a potato puff with sunchoke relish and saffron aioli is one powerful bite. As we were to admire again and again throughout the evening, these are dishes with big flavors. The finnan haddie was passionately smoky - Tallulah Bankhead on a plate. Add the sunchoke relish and the saffron aioli, and this opener shook one's palate. Of our appetizers, the outstanding issue was Roasted Beets, baked with Goat Cheese, Baby Greens, Almonds, and Cucumbers. This is probably the finest vegetarian dish I have had this year. It was deeply pungent with a set of textures that continued to crackle and surprise. Even without the goat cheese, the beets, almonds and cucumber could have pleased. Each ingredient was perfect, as was the color medley on the plate. Also highly proficient and elegant was Trout Piscator, a Neversink River Rainbow Trout (from the Catskills), stuffed with Watercress and Smoked Trout, Apple Salad and Horseradish Dressing. This was a beautiful and lush dish, a dish that owes much to the Bouley style, revealing a chef not afraid of flavor and unafraid of treating the plate as a frame. Chef Zamarra has bigger plates ahead of him. My appetizer, Yellowtail Tartar with Paddlefish Caviar with Apples, Pickled Onion and Tarragon was the least compelling of the trio. I found the tartar pleasant - competent but not a gifted presentation - but I admired the flavors of the apple, onion, and tarragon. If it didn't succeed like the Piscator, it was a dish in the same register. As entree I selected the Pork Loin with Polenta and Stew of Escargot. Of our dishes this was the least successful. The hunks of pork were notably overcooked and a dense cut. I enjoyed the polenta, and found the mix of escargot an amusing concoction, but at its heart stood a not-quite-tender loin. Fortunately the Roast Duck with Bahri Date Puree, Sauteed Brussel Sprouts and Chestnuts was one of the better duck treatments I have tasted and surely the best thing to happen to Brussels sprouts since Lambic beer and eel pie. Duck with fruit and nuts is mince pie on the plate, a profound combination of flavors. Dessert brought Warm Almond and Quince Tart with Spiced Red Wine Reduction and Yogurt Sorbet, a pleasant ending. The sorbet was somewhat less creamy and rich than I expected - more an ice than a cream - but the wine reduction brought out the flavor of the quince to its advantage. Mas (farmhouse) is a restaurant with charm. Its space is snug and romantic, blend of French rustic and New York slick, with service that demonstrates that neither winters or New Yorkers are cold. Mas need not strain to be a concept restaurant; Chef Zamarra has the panache to cook in a white box or around a campfire. Mas (farmhouse) 39 Downing Street (at Bedford Street) Manhattan (West Village) 212-255-1790 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

I appreciate the leads. I will report back in May on my culinary travels. Oud Sluis looks excellent, but probably not on this trip.

Chufi, Checking on Michelin (not always the most reliable source, especially for one-star restaurants) I gather that the one-stars in Amsterdam are Christoph, Ciel Bleu, La Rive, Vermeer, and Yamazato. Are any of them really first rate? I see that D'Vijff Vlieghen lacks a star (I'm going anyhow). The three star restaurants in the Netherlands are Parkheuve in Rotterdam, DeLibrije in Zwolle, and Oud Sluis. Since I will be without a car, Sluis seems unlikely, but I would assume that Zwolle and Rotterdam are reachable by train, and I trust there are taxis. Do you have a sense of which would be a better choice. Is there something that the Red Guide might have missed. Even if you haven't eaten at these places, any gossip would be useful. Thanks.

Gumption New York City Entry #59 Some culinary artists are social butterflies. Any trendy breeze that musses their locks changes their aesthetic. They zig, then they zag. Whatever criticism one might make of Alfred Portale, the long-time chef at Gotham Bar and Grill, inconstancy is not among them. Portale was one of the key figure in the movement that reached its zenith in the 1980s to treat food as architecture: a form of vertical cuisine. In the history culinary fads and fashions, vertical cuisine seems a bit like a hiccup, but it was a moment that provoked astonishment and it literally provided chefs with a new dimension. It gave cooks air rights. One of the greatest meals of my life was a tribute to this architectural cuisine at 24 Miramar in Jacksonville, Florida (now, apparently, closed - the restaurant, not the city.) The man behind this design was Alfred Portale, and his Gotham Bar and Grill has impressed New Yorkers for two decades, a culinary philosophy for a city always looking up. Portale is a greater designer than chef, although this is not to denigrate his kitchen skills. His Village restaurant is one of the most stunningly elegant rooms in town, a room that demands examination from floor to ceiling. The floral arrangements are a tribute to the food or perhaps it is the reverse, but both are tributes to the transcending of gravity. Having had a very satisfying meal at Gotham some years ago, I recently visited at lunch. I rarely dine out at lunch, but this could well have been the impressive lunch during my New York stay even had I a larger sample. It is true that the flavors did not equal the visual impact, but lunch was not mere packaging, although one might wish that the waiters uncovered the dishes with a flourish to stun one's eyes and take one's breath. I began with the Warm Mushroom Salad with Frisée, Crisp Bacon, Aged Goat Cheese, and Sherry Vinaigrette. Portale presents a decolletage cuisine; one wonders what engineering feat holds it up. I was astonished. The grated Parmesan-like cheese covering the frisée hinted of snow on cedar. The problem was snow depth. The cheese overwhelmed the greens. If one shook the cheese off to the side (my eventual strategy), the dish was quite satisfying, but when Portale chooses between eye and tongue, the former always receives the nod. As a main course I selected Moroccan Spiced Rack of Lamb with Couscous Salad, Roasted Eggplant and Lemon-Black Pepper Jus. If there is a single food stuff that God placed on earth for the pleasure of Alfred Portale, it is surely rack of lamb, and the chef did not fail this gift. The plate was a roller-coaster of heights and depths, colors and textures. The lamb was superb, as was its jus. I was less impressed by the couscous and eggplant, which to my taste, lacked the airy and mysterious spices of the Casbah. This was Bogart's Casablanca, not the Bey's. While the Apple Pecan Tart is the stunner among desserts, a an impossible crown of baked cream, I ordered Vanilla Roasted Pears with White Chocolate Polenta and Orange Saffron Ice Cream. Desserts at Gotham may be a bit less startling than main courses, if only because Vertical Cuisine seems have had a greater impact on pastry chefs, who have the luxury of building plates without the insistent pressure of servers and diners. Like many desserts, mine was a fantasia of shape and color. The pears and polenta were sumptuous. The orange saffron ice cream lacked the acidity that makes dessert a cleansing ritual. The idea of combining orange and saffron must have seemed inspired, but as served this inspiration became insipid. Gotham is one of the essential New York restaurants, and Portale an essential chef. As a diner I am grateful that he stokes the fire of the third dimension. Sometimes he forgets that taste is a fourth dimension - or the first dimension - but after twenty years he has persuaded many diners that cuisine can touch the heavens. Alfred Portale is Antoni Gaudi of the stove. Gotham Bar and Grill 12 East 12th Street (at Fifth Avenue) Manhattan (Greenwich Village) 212-620-7810 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Calibration New York City Entry #58 To appreciate a restaurant, one must gauge its intentions. Nowhere is this truer than at the venerable Union Square Café, which at 21 years of age has reached its maturity. At its start in 1985 (I dined there a few years later), USC brought a culinary flash downtown. The menu often reads as if it was the equivalent of the higher spread restaurants, even if the prices or the cheery ambiance was not. USC brought "gourmet" dining within the ambit of the exploding upper middle classes, newly minted professionals with taste (real or imagined). This was a New Class who rejected the stiff formality of the grand cuisine. As others have mentioned (Frank Bruni among them), USC was revolutionary in form and fashion. Although I sometimes speak of USC and Gramercy Tavern in the same breath, this claim is misleading, even if both are Danny Meyer restaurants, and are ranked #2 and #1 in popularity in the 2006 Zagat Guide. Tom Colicchio's GT is the more subtle, producing dishes that in their preparation can challenge three star restaurants - it is a chef's restaurant. USC is a lot of fun, serving robust dishes with interesting flavor combinations, but is limited by the preparations and the quality of their ingredients. Compared to GT, USC is (even) more casual and (even) more modestly priced, remembering of course that this is Union Square. (So informal is USC that there a Baby Changing Station in the Men's Room, a fact that says quite a lot about market niche.) Anyone who doubts that the highest quality ingredients can make a noticeable difference should spend an evening at USC after having visited a four-star restaurant (in my case, Per Se). To enjoy USC is to appreciate it for what it is: an upper-middle sanctum of the Haute. USC is a destination restaurant just as Bloomingdales is a destination emporium. Our trio began with a pair of appetizers. The Fried Calamari with Spicy Anchovy Mayonnaise was as advertised. The calamari was tender and good. The breading and mayo reminding me of Outback's Blooming Onion (a secret pleasure). Our other appetizer had more culinary ambition: Razor Clams and Cockle Pan Stew with White Wine Tomato Broth, Calabrese Sausage and Saffron Aioli. This was robust cooking. Despite the range of exotica, the dish was not subtle. The tastes screamed, not whispered. As I was enjoying it, I thought of how Alain Ducasse might have brought out the essence of rarely found razor clams or these hermaphroditic cockles. The delicacy of these bivalves was erased by the saucing. As a main course, I selected Seared Sea Scallops with Black Truffle, Chickpea Sauce, Braised Baby Artichoke, and Crispy Sunchoke Salad. This is quite an list and the mix was enjoyable, even if a bit of a hash in which flavors were lost. I was disappointed by the scallops, which were not of the highest quality (as well as being somewhat overcooked). This dish reflected both the virtues of USC and its weakness. Given mid-range restaurants, this is an impressive construction, it just wasn't transcendent. Even more than being slightly overcooked, it was over-designed. The main courses of my colleagues - crispy lemon pepper duck and tuna fillet mignon were enjoyed, but in both cases - duck and tuna - these were not proteins (or prices) of the very highest order. Our pair of desserts had something of the same quality. We selected Sticky Toffee Pudding with Cinnamon Ice Cream and Ginger-Butterscotch Sauce and Meyer Lemon Bread Pudding with Blood Orange Sorbet. I found both puddings to be heavy, edging toward leaden, but I thoroughly treasured the Blood Orange Sorbet. Once again the complexity of the dishes promise more than they deliver. On my return to Manhattan, I knew I had to return to USC on a night on which three courses and a manageable bill ($67/person) was what was needed. Danny Meyer (and his current chef Michael Romano) deserves honor for dumbing down haute cuisine. If this seems like a back-handed compliment, it is a front-handed compliment. To know what a restaurant can't do is as important as knowing what it can. Union Square Café 21 East 16th Street (off Union Square) Manhattan (Union Square) 212-243-4020 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Klary (and others), My wife and I will be in Amsterdam in April (for the first time in 20 years or so), and I appreciate the good advice on this lists. What I haven't seen much discussion of are the really top restaurants in Amsterdam. (Does Michelin put out a red guide?) When I first visited Amsterdam in 1959 (I'm not that old - I was nine), we ate at D'Vijff Vlieghen. It may have been my first (one of my first) gourmet restaurants. I remember eating Duck L'Orange (or what ever the Dutch might have called that hoary old dish) - and it was (for a 9 year old's palate) wonderful and the place was just a fantasy land. I returned in the 1980s, and it remained great fun (I didn't order the Duck). How is the restaurant these days? Are there any world class restaurants in the Netherlands? I'll be there for six nights and my wife and I will want restaurants at various price points. I have a good sense of the mid-range from all the posts. Thanks.

Admin: an archive of previous discussion on Per Se may be found here. Back Story New York City Entry #56 Critics often make their reputations by cruelly trashing a beloved restaurant, forcing their readers to attend to a snarling nitpicker all too pleased to demolish received wisdom. These are rabid eaters: their foam is not on the plate. If such is a reputational ploy, it is strategy on which I must pass in assessing Per Se. I march in lockstep with their clients, confessing that my taste buds lack the wisdom of venom. My dinner at Per Se was the best meal that I have yet eaten in this culinary capital. I will go one step further, before taking a step back. This was my first meal where all complaints deserve to be in small print. My caution is that should some culinary accountant ask me to compose the half dozen best dishes of my New York months, I doubt if any single dish would quite make that list. (Pace Jimmy Frey, I am fond of that petit-déjeuner in the Yountville slammer). After so many dinners that don't quite measure up, I face a challenge: should I dine promiscuously, tickled by Daniel, Alain, Jean-Georges, and their peers, or should I choose Per Se tomorrow, Thursday, Easter, and forever. Am I in love or is this passing fancy? I cannot claim to have eaten at the French Laundry (Hell, I can claim it, but not with thesmokinggun.com dogging my blog). When my wife and I had a dinner in Napa a decade ago, we had a sterling meal at Mustards Grill (who knew our options?). My dining companions had eaten with Tom Keller at the FL several times. For me, dinner at Per Se was a revelation: the back story of molecular cuisine. Keller is the missing link, the evolutionary connection, between Chez Panisse and Alinea (as infused by Ferran Adria). Others who have followed Keller's career can speak to his chain of innovation from the mandate of localism. The small courses, flavor clashes, and deconstructed dishes that now terrorize diners when in the wrong hands were all in evidence. (The meal was foam-free.) The difference was confidence. Chef Keller and his Per Se Chef de Cuisine Jonathan Benno are not experimenting on their diners; failures are in the disposal, not on the tasting menu. The fact that this was the Chef's Tasting Menu, reconceived each market day, made its gaffe-free quality astonishing. Further, these cooks know how to build a dinner. They are slightly too generous on their plates, but the meal demonstrated a harmonious progression. Chefs Keller and Benno have an agile ability to judge tastes and textures. Perhaps more surprising was that in almost every dish one ingredient, seemingly a side one, grabbed center stage, and proved to belong. The molecular chefs of today are Keller's children (or at least his nephews). Having eaten at Charlie Trotter, I had given more weight to the Chicagoan in creating a Cuisine Agape, but Keller demands his share, a share that I shall no longer deny him. To understand Grant Achatz's triumphs at Alinea is to realize his inspired union of Trotter and Keller, adding his own fixation on aroma and emotion. Surely Per Se is among the loveliest and calmest spaces in this bustling town. Every touch - the woods, stone, glass - was exquisitely chosen: Subtle, handsome, sumptuous, and restful. One might say that at this price it had better be, but Alain Ducasse, despite its pleasures, seems a bit dowdy in contrast. Per Se stands apart from restaurants that strive to push as many customers together: the Grateful Dead assumption that if we can no longer breathe, we must be having fun. Per Se is luxuriously filled with clean, still, quiet air. The staff, who famously are no longer cadging for tips, were as congenial and professional as could be. Had the coat checker not grabbed my fedora by its crown, I would have had no complaints. These men and women actually seemed happy serving at Per Se, an attitude that might suggest to natives that they are overpaid, but probably only means that the despite the location in the Time-Warner Center, Ted Turner's management style has yet to infect the fourth floor. We selected the Chef's Tasting Menu: Nine courses composed daily, plus a few extras. A reader is immediately snowed by an avalanche of quotation marks. All but one dish had something in quotation marks, in some cases as many as four. We were told that quotes were used around foreign ingredients ("tomme de brebis") and to indicate irony ("macaroni n' cheese" - and, since we are in Lynne Truss territory, isn't it "macaroni ‘n' cheese"?). Our menu novelist embraces the Condiment Theory of Punctuation: sprinkle marks liberally to bring out the flavor of the text. And while I have your attention, must every ingredient have a provenance? (This meal is sponsored by Cowart, Hallow, Four Story, and Hope Farms, each raising memories of Orwell's Manor Farm). I shiver that soon diners may be forced to watch a procession of marketing videos before the bread arrives. Just emblazon the napkins and be done with it. Dinner begin with an amuse: a black sesame tuile filled with raw salmon perched on creme fraiche. Such an opening was surprising in not shocking. It was a subtle transformation of bagels and lox: not New York Sunday morning, but modified through a Napa dawn. The black pepper tuile, with its thin cookie crunch, made the amuse delightful. It was just different enough to emphasize that the chef was carefully calibrating tastes and textures. Our opening course was the Per Se classic: "Oysters and Pearls": "Sabayon" of Pearl Tapioca with Island Creek Oysters and Russian Sevruga Caviar. With overfishing and Red Tide, we better scarf while we can. One imagines a taste profile when considering oysters and caviar: cool, slick, and just a bit fishy. But Chef Keller transformed this duo into a symphony of butter. I was startled at its grandeur, and that this richness did not seem cloying. The pearl tapioca provided an inspired echo of the sevruga, while soaking the butter, ready to explode. This dish not only deserves its repute, but deserves its quotation marks and deserves the Champagne that our sommelier suggested. As a second course Per Se offers a choice: a foie gras terrine ($30 supplement to a $210 meal) or for those delicate of culinary politics a Vidalia onion salad (for truly delicate flowers a vegetable tasting menu is offered). I selected the Moulard Duck "Terrine de Foie Gras," with Quince "Jam," Marcona Almond "Crumble," Flowering Quince Relish and Frisée Lettuce with Toasted "Brioche." If truth be told my choice was a ballot for quince, a fruit whose presence in the United States is a side-benefit of immigration reform. The terrine was smooth, but no better than any competent spread (and rather a lot of it). But the quince transformed the somewhat unctuous organ with its bouncy acidity. The true hero of the plate was the "Brioche" - a slide of brioche, an idealized version of Paris, Texas Toast. I was grateful that, having consumed much of my first plate of toast, a server appeared with a second order (now briefly held in my larder). In the corner of the plate were a constellation of the tiniest droplets of a balsamic vinegar. The image was fetching, permitting a few bites with this divine Italian molasses. By the third course we were getting serious: Sautéed Fillet of Red Mullet (Rouget, a small redfish) with Lima Beans, Piquillo and Serrano Ham with Seville Orange-Roasted Garlic Emulsion. Such a dish pays tribute to (or perhaps inspired) the faddish trend of combining pork and fish: the oink ‘n' gill school of cuisine. The rouget was perfectly cooked. Not a moment overcooked, and the ham added a spicy note that the sweet fish lacked. Again the centerpiece was unexpected: lima beans. Lima beans are the Rodney Dangerfield of legumes, and until now, I felt such treatment was well-deserved. Chefs Keller and Benno upended my beanism. Lima beans with a crunch? Yikes! They were delicious and mediated between the rouget and serrano ham. The kitchen might have been more generous with the orange-garlic emulsion but given the spotty treatment of fish at some of New York's finest restaurants, I was enchanted. "Macaroni ‘n' Cheese" with Nova Scotia Lobster "Cuit Sous Vide," Parmesan "Crisp," Creamy Lobster Broth and Mascarpone-Enriched Orzo could not have been richer, even had there been a last-minute infusion of Devon cream and a dab of schmaltz. I offer myself as a medical subject to test whether flavor is enhanced through a sous vide technique (a boil in the bag without the boil): would a blind tasting reveal a difference with lobster plunged in a Down East stock pot? However cooked, the homard gave its life for this cuit cuisine. The orzo when consumed separately was rich for my taste, but in the mix, it did just fine. The star of the plate was the "crisp": a cheesy chip of which one truly could not just eat one, except one was all we were offered. Sigh. Our pair of meat dishes were rabbit and veal, selections somewhat lighter than usual, a match for a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape. The rabbit was "Rillettes" of Hallow Farm's Rabbit with a "Ragoût of French Green Lentils, Celery Branch, Black Winter Truffles and Glazed Chestnuts. Of our dishes, I found this the least compelling. Served as a large brown marble, it had the taste of winter, somber, dusky, woodsy, nutty, and closed in. It was the dark heart of January cuisine. This dish was of the earth, not the heavens. I treasured the chestnuts and respected the soupy memories provoked by the green lentils, but I was soon ready for the veal. The veal, in contrast, flew by, no matter the cage in which its wrecked body may have been incarcerated. The menu describes this as Rib-Eye of Four Story Hill Farm's Nature Fed Veal with Black Trumpet Mushrooms, Thumbelina Carrots, Wilted Arrowleaf Spinach, and Red Pearl Potatoes with Veal "Jus." What the politics of "nature fed" might be the menu did not explain. Could it mean that Story Hill farmers did not feed the calf, an inspired marriage of cost-cutting and moralizing? Whatever. The upshot is that ‘ittle veal never became big ol' moo cow. Despite my speculations on the lifeworld of calves, I chose not to imagine wilted spinach, although I did glance down to see if mold was advertised. Despite my menu deconstruction, I enjoyed the large portion of veal, so much lighter than the rabbit. However, it was the trumpet mushrooms (black Chanterelles) that made this a treat for a winter night. Sometimes Per Se's dishes skirt the edge of complexity, but this was a simple, elegant preparation. Ignoring the adjectival arms race, the pinnacle of this dinner was simple veal, cooked in its own juices, with accompanying carrots, potatoes, mushrooms, and spinach. This is a canonical caress of perfect ingredients. Feeling that we might be a bit peckish at this point, cheese was on the agenda: Hope Farm's "Tomme de Brebis" with Corn Bread, "Julienne" of Granny Smith Apple and Bourbon-Maple Apple Butter. Tomme de Brebis is an Auvergne sheep milk cheese. One of my dining companions recalled it as a semi-soft cheese, but this was made of firmer stuff, a slightly sharp-sweet cheese, but one that was upstaged by the splendid apple butter, slightly liquored up and waiting for the sap to run. It was a lovely mix with the corn bread, the apple, and the cheese, permitting us to choose how to mix these options. Like the veal, this was a fundamentally simple dish, but one that deserved its placement on the menu. Our first dessert was Hayden Mango Sorbet with Braised Pineapple, Black Sesame "Nougatine" and Passion Fruit Syrup. While my sorbet was pungent and intense, it had a few stray bits of ice. But what amazed more than the sorbet was the strip of braised pineapple, looking all the word like a strip of fruity hamachi. One edge must have been dipped in a syrup (perhaps the above named passion fruit syrup). It was opulent and lush, and captured our hearts. A third in a sequence of simple tributes to excellence. Although the final dish on the Chef's Tasting Menu was a deconstructed version of "S'mores", I requested a chocolate-free closer: Sweet Garden Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese Icing, Candied Walnut "Crust," Black Raisin "Coulis" and Indonesian Cinnamon Ice Cream. With all those quotations, one knows that this too was an exercise in literary theory. It was once said that in contrast to cooks, bakers were chemists, today they are English majors. My wife makes a Platonic carrot cake, filled with rough-cut carrots and nuts, and I remain loyal to her inspirations. These cake bites were carrot flour and air, not farmstead sweets. Still, if one didn't mind eating a bite of this and a bite of that, this was a canny and sensuous dessert. (Per Se's pastry chef is Sébastien Rouxel). It reminded me of Sam Mason's desserts, more of what the best young pastry chefs do in their sleep. I was breathless at the microscopic carrot off to the corner, a mini-micro carrot cooked in orange juice, a lilliputian lagniappe placed as if to announce that "we will do anything to amaze." The final extra (before the mignardises) was a yogurt pot-de-creme with Quince Marmalade. I have admitted my partiality for quince, admitting it to our server, and I wondered whether the kitchen made this smooth treat for "me" (quotations intended). Being a French Laundry virgin (and a virgin at Bouchon and Bouchon Las Vegas, TK's Nevada food-porn palace), I can't claim experience in affairs de Keller. However, every life must have its start. What amazed me was less the treatment of the main ingredient, but the preparation of those that surrounded it. When I recall this meal, it will be through visions of quince, chestnuts, lima beans, Parmesan crisps, pineapple, and toast and butter. At the great restaurants, it is not doing the big things right, but doing the tiniest things astonishingly: a carrot that belongs in the halls of Ripley's Believe it or Not. Per Se 10 Columbus Circle (at 60th Street and 8th Avenue, 4th Floor) Manhattan (Time-Warner Center) 212-823-9335 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Is it true that after Tilapia the secret ingredient for next week will be Styrofoam Peanuts?

Rubenesque New York City Entry #55 Some restaurants demand that diners deny themselves. They are islands of restraint. For the past forty years chefs have retreated from a cuisine of excess. Classic haute cuisine was based on the assumption that if you asked about the calories, you can't afford them. If Fatty Crab is any indication, fat is back, and with a vengence. Regulars will inexorably be transformed from stark Giacometti fantasies to Rubenesque dreams. Super-duper models. Given that the night we ate at Fatty Crab most of our fellow diners were svelte-twenty-somethings - culikids - it seemed that they considered calories the way previous generations thought about tobacco. There will be years enough to quit. If this is hip, it is a heavy shank, indeed. A comparison of Fatty Crab and Momofuku across town seems inevitable (walk due east from the former and you reach the latter). Both restaurants target the same audience (if they're under thirty, can you trust ‘em?), neither accepts reservations, both sit snugly on a knife's edge of asphyxiation, both present dishes according to the kitchen's whim, avoiding the quaint notion of courses. Add to this that both offer Crafty renditions of Asian street food, outposts of youngish celebrity chefs (FC's chef Zak Pelaccio also runs the neighboring, elegant 5 Ninth), and that a smart $50 buys a night of inventive cuisine. For two restaurants that are so similar, they could hardly be more different. If restaurants can be divided into those that are ideational (Charlie Trotter, Alain Ducasse) and those that are sensate (Frontera Grill, Babbo), Momofuku is the former and Fatty Crab the latter. The former force diners to think about the food, the latter push them to dive in and indulge. Even the ambiance distinguishes the two. The deep red walls and wild decorations (standing fans on the ceiling) - and music - at FC contrasts with the stark oak walls and tables at Momofuku - just as the restrained noodles contrast with the rich cuts at Fatty Crab. Fatty Crab is intense energy - in decor and in cuisine. Even the staff hail from different corners of Our Youth: the scrubbed earnestness of our East Village servers contrasted with charming scrubbly and dyed staff in the Meatpacking District. Nothing was more symptomatic at Fatty Crab than the absence of knifes (forks and chopsticks were available); these were dishes where Sumo diners wrestled with cuts of meat (a knife is available on request). We began with Green Mango with Chili Sugar Salt, a dish that would have been most welcome as a palate cleanser in the midst of the dinner. Slices of sour mango were paired with a bowl of Asian Pixy Stick Powder. The sweet heat of the powder took the edge off the puckery sour mango. If it was not ideal as a starter, it would have provided a heartfelt break from the main courses. Soon after arrived fat salad: Watermelon Pickle and Crispy Pork. The chunks of Crispy Pork might better be characterized as crispy belly held together by the merest floss of meat. Was it ever luxurious. The cool and sexy watermelon pickles kept the plate from pure decadence but it was as close as might be found outside Crobar. This was a dish for the Book of Days. Short Rib Rendang, braised with kaffir lime, coconut and chili matched the salad in indulgence. The muscle was swaddled in a fluffly blanket of fat. The flavors of Malaysia cried out that the dish was exotic, but it really was the fat that captured and fixed these flavors, as fat always does. Although the dish had considerable heat, it was cooled by the solidity of the rib. By the time that Fatty Crab's Fatty Duck was brought to the table, we were beginning to get the point. Served alone, this vastly hedonist dish would have been (almost) as satisfying as the rib (although the wild gaminess of the duck was lost as brined and fried). I could appreciate how this dish could have been a fine entree when served with the green mango as a side, but in a temple of fat there were other Gods to worship. Black Grouper Masak Lemak with a sauce of chilies and potatoes, poached in coconut broth with bok choy and jalapeno was libertine as well. Even fish can have zaftig heft. I admired the mix of coconut broth and fish, glad that the fat did not smother the fish, even if by no magic could it pass weight watchers muster. Our final dish, the least successful, was a Sous Vide Chicken Breast (the technique of preparing meat by boiling in a vacuum bag) with rice, sweet soy, and chili-ginger sauce. By this time in the evening we appreciated just how much flavor fat can capture, and a lean dish seemed out of place. The dish was inoffensive, and the accompaniments attempted to jazz this austere poultry, but it seemed like cosmetic surgery: the least Crabby moment of the evening. To dine at Fatty Crab is to indulge in an intense, sweaty, and ardent cuisine. For those frolicking in middle age, Fatty Crab is like passion, not to be missed, but not every night if you please. Fatty Crab 643 Hudson Street (at Gansevoort Street) Manhattan (Meatpacking District) 212-352-3590 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Celebrity Infusion New York City Entry #54 Those passionate about cuisine sometimes must be reminded that restaurants serve many purposes. A fine evening can be had at an establishment where the food is not the purpose of dining. I was reminded of this truth at a meal I shared with some friends at Russian Samovar, the Theater District restaurant at which (I'm told) the dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov and the late poet Joseph Brodsky have been investors. With the demise of the legendary Russian Tearoom, Russian Samovar (and FireBird) are what is left of Russian high cuisine in Manhattan. (Brooklyn is a very different, and more complex, story). Russian Samovar is a restaurant favored by Russian expatriates and well as American celebrities (Laurie Anderson, Cindy Lauper, Susan Sontag, Anna Kournikova, and Liza Minnelli - I wish I were at THAT party!). My party included two Russian expatriates, both long-time American residents, and, even if the food was not glorious, the conversation was. And thanks to my hosts, the service was attentive. Russian Samovar is a room of Russian excess. The restaurants on Curry Row have nothing on the Samovar. The hanging lamps, red fabric with black fringe, provided a certain Russian je ne sais quoi. The restaurant is done in shades of red, white, gold, and black: Russian to the core. The walls are filled with sundry photographs and artwork that together prove to be a weirdly inspired marriage of Russian life and celebrity culture. Add to this the entertainment - the stylings of Russian pianist, Alexander Izbitzer, and one finds a temple of consumption, but one light years from Le Bernardin around the corner. Russian Samovar fashions their own vodka. Perhaps they don't rely on a bathtub in the basement, but the infusions are home-made. Among the choices are Tarragon, Garlic, Coriander, and Cranberry Vodka (the most popular). At the suggestion of a companion I ordered Horseradish Vodka, a peasant favorite. This libation was the high point of the evening, pungent while retaining the smooth fire of this fine liquor. As an appetizer spread, we ordered the Royal Baltic Fish Platter with Blini. The tray included salmon caviar, a small-egg sturgeon caviar, two types of marinated herring, smoked sturgeon and salmon. The herring was particularly enjoyable, the smoked salmon too thickly cut, but the blini, sturgeon and caviar perfectly presentable and satisfying (the vodka helped). The eggplant caviar that we ordered was smoky and pungent, even if this concoction is some distance from Caspian roe. My beef stroganoff was disappointing. Great stroganoff depends on tender filet; my beef was dry and overcooked - a tough cut for a tender dish. The noodles, sour cream, and mushrooms were as proffered, but with a second-class filet, it didn't merit much thought. More time to talk. For dessert we shared Natasha's apple cream cheese pie (apples and cinnamon over cream cheese, topped with almonds with a drizzled raspberry sauce). I was intrigued to learn that for many Russian men the name Natasha conjures images of a prostitute, but perhaps we shouldn't be too Freudian about pastries. Oh ho. As it was, the pie was sweet and tart; lush, if not carnal. Had I been dining alone, my list of complaints might have been heavy and sad. However, this evening deserves no rough critique. Should the stars (Ms. Lauper and Ms. Minnelli?) align, I might return to quaff garlic vodka with a twinkling starlet. Russian Samovar 256 W. 52nd Street (at 8th Avenue) Manhattan (Theater District) 212-757-0168 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Restaurant 101 New York City Entry #52 In Adam Platt's list of the 101 Best New York Restaurants 2005 in New York magazine, Momofuku concludes the list. Chef David Chang may well have breathed a sigh of relief that a line cook didn't put a little too much salt in Mr. Platt's ramen. Being #102 counts for nothing (being #97 might be almost as bad). In truth, finding additional customers is not Momofuku's problem, indeed a few more customers might bring the entire enterprise to its knees. I had called to inquire when the restaurant begins to fill up, knowing that reservations were not accepted. I was told (correctly) that we should arrive by 6:30. By 7:00 the doorway was filled, by 7:30 there were clumps of diners milling outside. And this was a weeknight in January. In the law of supply and demand, a certain equilibrium should develop. At some point these extra customers should decide that the restaurant - as worthy as the food is - is not worth the hassle, and in time, economists suggest - the number of diners should equal the number of seats, unless some queuing system is launched (read: reservations). A nouveau noodle bar, Momofuku is translated Lucky Peach, although that the name hints at another expression more widely heard on East Village streets. If some restaurants cater to blue-hairs, this is a restaurant that caters to purple and pink-hairs. We were the most seasoned customers by a generation. As we ate - and we wanted to eat deliberately to appreciate Chang's serious cuisine - I was awash in guilt, noticing the starving, if trendoid, young masses hungrily eying my seat. Granted Momofuku has been designed as a neighborhood noodle bar, but Chang is too large for his current space. Momofuku may currently be the best value of any restaurant in New York in its ratio of culinary creativity to cost. If the setting lacks the Orientalist fantasy of Spice Market, the cooking at Momofuku transcends their crosstown rival. Despite the conceit of serving original street-food, Chef Chang is ready for a larger canvas. If Chef Chang is still toiling at Momofuku in five years, we will all be the losers. Perhaps his moment is not here yet, but he should be preparing for his culinary bar mitzvah. He should have no reservations about a restaurant with reservations. Still, one takes restaurants as one gets them - in the case of Momofuku as a cramped space that makes airline seating seem positively spacious. This is a restaurant that could never hire an overweight server and barely could contain an overweight diner. The setting is striking with white oak walls and tables covered; one feels one is dining in a cross between a submarine and a casket. We began with sauteed baby tat-choi, a bok-choy relative. It was presented in a miso broth perfumed with garlic, onions, and dried chili pepper. As a vegetarian soup it was exquisite. Sheer, but with a sharp punch of chili. Seemingly modest, it was highly satisfying. We followed this with Momofuku's signature steamed buns with Berkshire pork. As an artistic creation these pork buns outshown any rival in Chinatown; as a matter of taste, they equal the best that Chinatown could offer. My only complaint was an overgenerous smear of its hoisin-like sauce. However, so satisfying was the construction that a chain of bun vendors wandering city streets would surely increase the sum total of the culinary happiness of New Yorkers. Through the vagaries of ordering, our three main courses turned out to be more similar than expected - each heavy on salt pork and each built on a poached egg. Had we selected better, the saltiness would have been less noticeable, but it is clear that Chef Chang is having a "fling" with smoked meats. Of the three, the most stellar was Yellow Grits and Ruby Red Shrimp with Bacon, Poached Egg, and Scallions. Chef Chang serves grits that are rather watery by Atlanta standards, something of a breakfast stew - but a dish that can be served throughout the day; it is timeless. Neither Southern nor Asian, these grits are a lucky peach of a dish. The Aged Country Ham and Masa Cakes with Red-Eye Gravy, Poached Egg, and Scallions, also works within - and against - a Southern breakfast grammar. We were tempted to label this South Korean Cuisine. Country ham with red-eye gravy (coffee with bacon grease) is not to everyone's taste. I love it in small doses, but it worked less well after tasting the bacon and grits, even if the masa cakes (a slightly heavier blini) and scallion supplies a quite inscrutable quality. We selected the Momofuku ramen - noodles, Berkshire pork belly and shoulder, poached egg, and scallions. I admired the broth, although this seemed the least creative of the three dishes. Ramen are such subtle threads that they can be hard to compare. I found these well-made, but not transfomative, and by this time the pork and egg combo was becoming same old, same old. As comfort food, the Momofuku ramen would cure East Village reveling, but I didn't feel that it amounted to destination dining. As dessert we ordered Kaffir Angel Food Cupcakes, served with nigori and dried cherry jam (the only dessert offered). The angel food was not as ethereal as some specimens, but the combination was good enough in a restaurant where desserts are an afterthought. The bill for these dishes (with barley tea, nigori sake, and tip) was $37/person, less than the cost of many lesser Manhattan entrees. What's not to like? Chef Chang is master of his domain. But he deserves a change to fly or fall in a restaurant that tests his mettle to produce dishes that will amaze and transfix - a restaurant with aisles. His deft touch with tat-choy, grits, and pork pork pork suggests a chef whose time may be near. Like the inspired novelist writing successful genre fiction, Chef Chang must decide his next move. Will we look back on these heady Momofuku days as the crucible of a master or a hint of what might have been? In the culinary countdown is Chef Chang satisfied at 101 - Adam Platt's worst best chef - or does he dream of an electric life among the single digits? Momofuku Noodle Bar 163 First Avenue (at 10th Street) Manhattan (East Village) 212-475-7899 My Webpage: Vealcheeks