[Pigging by Wilfrid: September 8, 2008]
It's a coincidence that the first restaurant up for review on my return from Spain is a seafood restaurant - Esca by chef David Pasternak, out of the Bastianich-Batali stable.
It's fair to say that there's not a restaurant in the city (in the States?) which could measure up to Rias de Galicia, where astronomical prices at least command impeccable ingredients, deftly prepared.
Nevertheless, Esca has been on my re-visit list for some months now. Indeed, it's far from easy to secure a table at a reasonable time, so when a reservation popped up in the run-up to Labor Day I grabbed it.
Full disclosure: I haven't eaten at Esca in a long time, the last meal being a poor affair which ranged from crudi smothered with overpowering oil and salt to bacalao so incompetently prepared as to be inedible.
On the one hand, subsequent word-of-mouth had re-affirmed my negative view. On the other hand, David Pasternak has been the subject of a series of profiles praising his skill in sourcing high quality fish and his mastery in preparing it.
I sensed that avoiding the restaurant's Italian fripperies and seeking the best of the catch, simply cooked, might result in an enjoyable meal. On the evidence presented, I was wrong. The crudi are a fulcrum of the tasting menu, so I stuck with the carte. I eschewed such potential traps as agrodulce and geoduck; what could go wrong with roast shrimp? (Note that by 8.30, a number of appetizers and some of the mains were finished; which speaks well of commitment to freshness, but narrows the diner's choice).
Not a lot. It was a pleasant appetizer, the shrimp small and a bit cottony. A comparison with shrimp I bought and cooked myself in Barcelona would do these no credit - a comparison with the shrimp served at Rias de Galicia is unthinkable. No whiff of a knockout here.
In his immortal story, "Up In the Old Hotel", Joe Mitchell described the fare served at Sloppy Louie's - an actual Fulton seaport restaurant, which closed some ten years ago. Sloppy Louie served any part of the fish you could name, fresh from the market, and plain cooked. Mitchell singles out fish cheeks for particular praise, describing them as "delicious little morsels", and so I felt entitled to test Pasternak's crisp-fried halibut cheeks.
These were fairly pleasant - toothsome white fish in a light tempura-ish batter. The dish reminded me a little of the fried cod milt at Sakagura (if you don't know, don't ask).
I had a dim memory of an enjoyable spaghetti dish with uni, the first time I'd eaten here, and so I split a pasta featuring uni in the sauce to follow the appetizers. The maccheroni came in thick, wiry strands, touched here and there with smooth uni. Some crabmeat was alleged to lurk in the dish, but suffice to say that its presence didn't overwhelm me.
I am aware that pasta is preferred al dente in polite circles, especially the rough, rustic maccheroni ala chitarra. This was as al dente as anyone could wish. Chew, chew, chew. I was pleased I had only to eat a half portion.
Committed before I walked through the door to ordering a whole fish from the (daily changing) menu, I still felt the celebrated sourcing could redeem the meal. From a choice of, I think, four - including a couple of snappers - I chose the salt-baked sea bass for two. Arguably a mistake, as this is something of a signature dish; to be found on the menu, I presume, as much in response to diner demand as to market quality.
My heart sank a little when I saw it served to an adjacent table. A platter bearing a substantial, fish-shaped mound of salt is briefly presented, then swept away to a central serving area where a captain (I presume, I couldn't see) discards everything except a pair of diminutive filets. My personal idea of a whole fish, I confess, tends to include skin and bones, the nice bits inside the head, and perhaps the tail too - but clearly there's a long line of precedent for this fancy style of presentation.
But it was worse than that. When my order arrived, I discovered the filet swimming in a pool of oil. The fish itself was cottony, arguably overcooked, and inevitably boasted no flavor but that of oil. It had the kind of texture (avert your eyes if you're squeamish) that makes it sort of stick to your teeth while you chew it.
The sea bass is priced at just over $30 a head and is, as I said, a signature dish of the restaurant. The price is not crazy. In my neighborhood, you can pay more than $20 for a whole fish at Tides, slightly less at Back Forty. But whether at Tides or Back Forty, not to mention Pearl Oyster Bar, I've never had a whole fish quite this disappointing. Vegetables, ordered separately, featured stone cold eggplant (I am guessing the temperature was intended), some beans and a few dry-ish potatoes.
Now, as for service, I do object to being double-teamed. Our primary server was friendly and voluble (although I can live without being asked "How are things working out?"). But his questions and comments over my right shoulder were supplemented through the first part of the evening by another waiter's duplicative requests for reassurance over my left shoulder. It was all quite startling. The highlight of the meal was unquestionably the wine, a delicious golden-hued white from Montemarino, recommended by the sommelier. The only challenge was getting hold of it.
The bottle sat, appropriately, in an ice bucket somewhere out of sight. The problem was that our servers' interest in our table diminished once the meal had been sold and served. I eventually had to flag one down and ask for the rest of the wine to be poured. He thought there wasn't any, but was persuaded to go and check. This is my glass after his return.
No dessert. The enduring popularity of this restaurant should be bewildering. I fear it isn't. I fear it's a combination of some diners' dim memories of what really great fish can taste like, combined with other diners' impossibly high level of tolerance for mediocre cooking and service at a restaurant which is nevertheless fashionable and of a fashionable pedigree. It's off the list.
