[Pigging by Wilfrid: February 1, 2010]
My recent review of Brooklyn Star actually started out as a scheme to compare its meatloaf sandwich with the much-touted version at nearby restaurant Rye.
As it happened, by the time I'd chased the first of the two sandwiches with a dish of pig's tails, and then dipped into an unplanned bowl of tripe chili, the prospect of a facing a second meat torpedo the same evening was daunting.
(The Havermeyer cocktail)
Instead I settled for dipping into Rye's short but interesting cocktail list and found myself admiring the sturdy wooden bar with comfortably wide stools, the tin ceiling, the tiled floor, and the general Edison lamp-lit old-world solidity of the place. This is how I expect a restaurant to look; although it has to be admitted that this reverie took place during one of those rare hours Rye is not packed to the rafters.
It looked like it opened around the same time as Gage & Tollner's. An effective illusion, as in fact it's a painstaking recreation of an old-looking restaurant (althought the bar itself actually is a century old). As long as it's done well, though - see Balthazar - who cares? I decided I should return.
Not as easy as it sounds, because with the exception of two, splendid, white clothed round tables for six, Rye is fashionably unreservable. Indeed, I was forced to abort one attempt, foolishly made at weekend prime time, when I coudl scarcely get a foot in the door. Even a late evening attempt resulted in a half hour wait at a nearby beer bar before a table opened up (you might expect to wait at Rye's own bar, but that is the most crowded part of the restaurant).
The dining room has a rear section, which is actually something of a haven when the front room is heaving. (Dimly lit too, and thus hostile to photography.) I loved the details of the place when I could finally sit back and examine them.
A mix of attractive tableware. Lots of old cruet sets in different shapes and sizes. Crisp napkins. Neatly aproned servers. All very reassuring. There are oysters too, which fits the look of the place, so I had a couple just to keep my glass of cava company.
Tempted by rillettes made with house-cured duck, my commitment to a main-course cassoulet swung the decision toward the sturgeon. This seems to be one of those places where, if it can be home-made, it is; and so the sturgeon was house-smoked.
In the low light, the structure of the dish was initially puzzling. The well-dressed frisée was evident, as was the sunny quail egg (big quail, I mused), but I couldn't right away find the sturgeon. Digging down I discovered it layered with thin slices of marinated potato. A refreshing dish, lifted by the silkiness of the egg yolk breaking over it.
I also got a taste of artichoke stew with beans, a hearty winter-warmer of an appetizer.
Cassoulet is a risky order for me. I learned to make the dish myself long ago (even, yes, curing my own duck), and I measure restaurant renditions against my own modest expertise. Chef Rachou's famous cassoulet at La Côte Basque was an expensive exception to the general rule that the dish shouldn't be eaten in New York restaurants. Too often the fault was briskness of preparation: al dente beans, ingredients barely introduced to each other. This cardinal fault is avoided at Rye, where the composition is good if not stellar. Slice of Toulouse sausage lurk beneath the breadcrumb crust; the beans were well enough done; my main disappointment was that the duck - doubtless house-cured - appeared as pieces of meat mixed into the general maelstrom. I'd have liked a leg.
Perhaps I am unduly puritanical, but brussel sprouts, no. I like brussel sprouts, and these were good ones, but just as there is no crying in baseball, there is no brussel sprout in cassoulet. (Apologies for the photo, but it was very dark.)
The rightly lauded meatloaf sandwich finally confronted me on a different occasion. Not content with a conventional mix of pork, veal and beef, chef Cal Elliott (of Dressler and Dumont fame) uses short rib and then works his beloved duck into the mix. I am not saying you can readily distinguish the duck, but the overall effect is unusually rich, smooth and sticky, glazed in the reduced cooking juices.
Slices of this shining indulgence are served on a firm, chewy roll - something in the direction of ciabatta - which is firm enough to contain matters, at least until the latter stages of consumption when I had to turn the beast upside down and rely on the crusty top slice to hold together. Napkins are needed.
The sandwich is garnished with buttermilk-fried onion petals, nice enough when hot but turning cold very quickly.
I only tried one dessert, a lemon pudding with a texture somewhere between a flan and an Italian cheesecake, if that makes sense. Light and tangy as it should be.
The wine-list has Williamsburg prices, most bottles falling in the thirty-plus to sixty-plus range. An inexpensive Rhone from Domaine d'Andézon was all the cassoulet needed. Cocktails ($10) are taken seriously, and the list of house recommendations is sensibly short and biased toward the classic. I can recommend the Old Fashioned, as well as the Havermeyer (named for the street around the corner) - essentially a Manhattan made with Rittenhouse Rye with the interesting addition of fino sherry. I did have a drink with a smoked ingredient too, the details of which are erased from my memory: it was like a liquid kipper.
The popularity of Rye doubtless derives in part from the scarcity of alternatives in a neighborhood where most of the eating is rock and roll casual. Unlike Brooklyn Star, which offered at least a couple of dishes hard to find - and beat - elsewhere - nothing I ate at Rye astonished me. But everything, and moreover the whole ambience and approach of the place, was entirely pleasing - and with several entrées, including the cassoulet, in the teens - very gently priced.
Good luck getting in.
Here's the website.
