[Pigging by Wilfrid:June 2, 2008]
Akhtar Nawab, chef and co-owner of Elettaria, and once chef at craftbar, had been packing diners to the ceiling at E.U. off Avenue B until his departure at the beginning of the year.
And sure enough, fans of his cuisine, and of "serious" cocktails from the Death & Co school, followed him in droves when this spot, named for a cardamom pod, opened among thigh-length boot and tattoo boutiques on trashy West Eighth Street.
Early reports of crowds and volume kept me well away, but a change of plans one evening led my thoughts in Elettaria's direction, and I decided to find out if the ambience was now tolerable.
It was, pretty much. The restaurant remains briskly busy, with a young, model-ridden crowd - tall women, short dresses - but there were spaces at the bar, and one or two unfilled tables even at peak time. The low wood ceiling, which makes it much cozier than a Bar Blanc, seems to deaden the noise - which I'd rate as no more than mildly intrusive.
The long space is divided democratically, more or less 50-50, between the bar with its plush stools, and the dining room with its more spartan banquettes. The overall effect makes the dining room appear small, the completely open and sizzling kitchen providing an animated back-drop, and suddenly bursts of smoke and flame, at the far end of the space. They will need good AC, come the height summer.
Nothing is more à la mode in Manhattan this season than "Tiki" drinks. I wouldn't be surprised to find the Cosmo replaced by a Zombie in a skull in Sex and the City. The precise connotation of "Tiki" at the city's more self-consciously elite cocktail destinations is not exactly clear to me. Trader Vic-style trappings are thankfully eschewed: drinks at Elettaria are not served in shrunken heads with umbrellas. And not a grass-skirted mixologist in site.
If anything, "Tiki" currently seems to mean a predilection for relatively long-drinks, on the rocks, based on rum - preferably aged, premium rums, of course. And indeed a blood orange Daquiri was a special the evening I dined there.
I started in more restrained form with a :"Jane Russell", which strikes me as an unnecessarily pneumatic handle for what is essentially a Manhattan. To be precise, this neat, chilled heart-starter involves Russell’s & Rittenhouse Ryes, Carpano Antica, Benedictine, Grand Marnier, and Mole Bitters. Tasty it was, although it makes me raise an eyebrow. I use Antica at home, and might have suspected its presence. The rye whisky base was a welcome change from bourbon. But a palate of furiously forensic abilities would be required, I think, to detect two different ryes in the mix; and as far as I'm concerned, the supporting cast of sweet liqueurs was undetectable (they must be present in miniscule amounts), except that the drink was sweeter than usual.
The Navy Grog was the "Tiki" offering I sampled; again, a blend of three rums where surely one or two would do; made refreshing with grapefruit juice, sweetened with honey, and enlarged with soda. Nice on a summer day, I'd think. The Electric Ladyland, bright and dinky in a little champagne goblet, was the least sweet of the libations I tried, despite the alleged use of "lime jam". It had some acidity, and some fizz from the champagne.
Food decisions were difficult. I could have ordered everything on the appetizer menu, from curried rabbit samosas to asparagus and smoked pork. Crab meat resala offered a restrained portion of seasoned meat, tossed with brown-toasted gnocchi. A smear of onion sauce, some crisp fried herbs (parsley?) as garnish. I have been wrong before, and will be again, but I doubt the meat was scooped fresh from the shell of a just-cracked crab.
Much better was the crunchy fried quail.
It doesn't take a genius to offer you a quail leg-and-thigh done up like Southern fried chicken. Where the chef showed some class here was producing the breast portions, medium-rare and succulent - moist, even - with the same crackling coat. A little soft quail egg was available to pop over the bacony frisée salad. I was only looking for a dipping sauce - perhaps something raita-like. I note the menu mentions a pomengranate molasses among the dish's components: its presence wasn't obvious.
The remains of the sweetbreads in the background: a green salad, and sweetness from slivers of pineapple. Nicely executed.
Elettaria shares two quirks with Ducasse's Benoit. Portion-size is unpredictable, tending toward enormous; and it likes to give you things which won't fit on the table. The quail is offered as an appetizer, priced for one person, but sized pretty much for two - and perhaps meant for two, as it arrived with plates to share. And served on a weighty rectangular serving platter. The mains were practically served on glass planks. I understand the cost of doing business in Manhattan, and reality compels restaurants to shrink tables and pack them close. It's a hard trick to - at the same time - multiply the number of glasses used at dinner and expand the size of menus, plates and table decorations.
With an array of cutlery, water, a water bottle, bread basket (nice hot naan with a cucumber sauce), bread plates, regular plates and serving platters, I was catching stuff as it fell most of the evening, and retrieving stray spoons from my lap. God knows where I'd have put a bottle of wine.
Suckling pig was a special. The server didn't say it was a dish for two. I guess it was - it was priced in the upper thirties and was vast.
Big hunks of baby pig, hacked heartily onto the plate, the skin certainly crisp enough. The garnish was a market treat: lashings of peas, al dente ramps (and I know, everyone suddenly thinks ramps are so last year!). My only reservation was that this, and to some extent the other dishes, arrived not cold but not hot either. Kind of warm enough not to be sent back. This was inexplicable, with the grill blasting waves of heat across the restaurant; perhaps the food was being held too long under the heat lamps. Of course, serving it yourself onto a cool plate promoted quick cooling.
In the photo of the pork, you can see a hearty rice dish. This was pretty much a biryani, mixing tender dark pheasant meat with fragrant basmati rice. It was one component in the pheasant entrée.
There's the rest. The best part of the bird, I think, and the breast in particular expertly roasted, juicy as the quail. The failure was the leg, which seemed to have been cooked separately, braised or baked, and was very dry, with a black sticky skin which seemed to have some sucked up some unrecognizable marinade.
Again, one puzzles over the menu's intentions. This dish was priced in the twenties: surely for one. But only a Diamond Jim Brady could regard a bird and a bucket of rice, with extra meat, as his personal domain.
Advice: if you go, and you should, share the dishes and spend money on the cocktails.
As for the kitchen's style, I have to give credit to the cab-driver who picked me up outside. He mentioned that the restaurant was always busy and asked me what type of food it served. I mentioned chef Nawab's background, and did my best to explain it (more tersely than here). "Ah," mused the cabbie. "Sounds like Tabla. I like Tabla. I must go there."
And you know what? He wasn't far wrong.
Elettaria has a good web-site right here.
