West Branch

[ewindels]

Fellow denizens of the perpetually restaurant-challenged Upper West Side were no doubt as excited as I at the prospect of a crop of new properties mentioned in the fall previews. Bloomingdale Road, which I visited some weeks ago, was too depressing an experience to comment on here. West Branch, Tom Valenti's new joint in the space formerly occupied by Fishes Eddy on the southeast corner of Broadway and 77th, proved two nights ago to be not much of an improvement.

The low ambitions of the proprietors are announced when you enter the crowded bar area, crowned by a giant flat screen TV. The inner rooms are not much better. The décor suggests the input of Home Depot: cheap generic paneling and light fixtures, and paintings from an Artist Warehouse Sale. The noise level, by the time we left, was clamorous. None of which would really matter if the food took your attention away from all this. Which it doesn't. Gougeres were pale, flaccid coins, though a little longer bake might have enhanced the wan cheese flavor. In my sleep I can make better. The bread basket consists of two oblongs of a doughy, yeasty type of roll, which was fine. I didn't give the wine list a thorough perusal: what I skimmed looked like the sort of generic, wide-ranging offerings probably considered mandatory at mid-level restaurants these days. A 04 viognier from South Africa turned out to be a very decent pick, particularly at $32.

Haricots verts with button mushrooms tasted solely of the crème fraiche in which they were dressed. A pate de campagne, served with crisp toast triangles and properly nose-searing mustard, was one of the blandest things I've ever had, devoid of any hint of liver or spice or anything other than bland pork. The entrees range from the mid-20's to the mid-30's, and come mostly unadorned: sides are extra. Trout was slightly overcooked, and any inherent flavor it might have had was masked by the bright caper sauce. A blanquette de veau was correct if unremarkable. At the table next to us, we watched a man sawing away at the steak au poivre in a manner that suggested less sanglande than cement. The fries with it were big chubby American steak fries, a disappointment.

The dessert menu didn't strike any interesting notes, and the most seasonally appealing offering -- an apple beignet -- turned out to be a small hard puck tasting exclusively of grease, accompanied by some diced sautéed apple and floating in a wan apple water. To make up for it we had a glass each of the Pol Roger, at $18 a pop.

As its early days, service is still being fine tuned. Other than frequent demands from the busboys as to whether we were done, there were no major glitches, though a server who doesn't know how to pronounce viognier gives one pause, and twice we had to wave him down to get refills on said wine.

Total for two with tip came to $200, for which money you could wander 10 blocks south and have an infinitely better experience at Bar Boulud.