[Pigging: By Wilfrid: May 4, 2007)
Bobby Flay, holding a glass of Pechuga mezcal in one hand and a copy of his newly published book "Boy Loses Grill" in the other, stood in a bright corner of the bar between two attractive but fading blondes who spoke incessantly to him about Rachael Ray, television and big, bold flavors. But he said nothing; he had been silent during much of the evening, except now in this, his New York flagship on a Saturday evening, he seemed even more distant, staring out through what would once have been smoke into a large room, two-level beyond the bar where dozens of young couples sat huddled around small tables, chugging Mexican beer and wrestling with their orders of chipotle glazed ribeye. Bobby Flay has a cold.
(A happy ending for a Mesa Grill shrimp tamal)
No. No, of course he doesn't (or if he did, how would I know?). I just wanted to be Gay Talese for a moment. But yes, Bobby was in the crowded bar, moving easily from one clutch of admirers to the next, posing for photographs. Then he was back in the kitchen, gliding between stations behind the huge window, systematically tasting every prepared sauce. Even from our Siberian eyrie, he was unmistakeable. You knew he was there. The shock of red-hair (less abundant when viewed from above), the almost frozen boyish grin. And everywhere, throughout the space, the incessant pop of flash bulbs.
Bobby is always there. In one or other kitchen of his trio of New York restaurants - Mesa Grill, Bolo and Bar Americain. On the street. Shuffling sauce bottles in local Garden of Edens (Gardens of Eden?). At book signings. At the Miami Beach Food and Wine Festival; not just at his own presentation, but at others too, flirting with Nigella Lawson. I guess he's a presence at the remote postings of his empire too: Bobby Flay Steak in Atlantic City (did he consider Flay Filet?); even Mesa Grill in the Bahamas. He may not be Frank Sinatra, but he's a recognizable media hot-spot. He is an oeuvre: books, programs, appearances. And he is also, actually and in practice, a chef.
The food at Bolo, his allegedly Spanish creation in Gramercy Park, has changed little since I last ate there - oh, five or six years ago. The addition of a short list of tapas was an acknowledgement of fashion (and was followed by a somewhat startling award of three stars by William Grimes at the Times). The lobster has shrunk, but lobster will be shrinking everywhere with the current depletion of stocks. This had been a kind of unlucky restaurant for me when I lived in the neighborhood. Once I was kept waiting so long for my table, and so generously ployed with complimentary cocktails, that I could remember nothing of the dinner the next morning. Or afternoon. On another occasion, my guest ordered the rabbit dish without any of the sauces, then sent it back as under-flavored. A recent visit improved modestly on those experiences.
Four tapas can be chosen for $16, which is at least not a silly price for tapas. The crispy frog leg (seen everywhere in New York this season) was sort of throwaway. The sherried and honeyed duck liver suffered from being duck liver - but four bucks doesn't buy you foie gras. The best salt cod fritter (or bunuelo de bacalao) in the city right now can be found, not at Bolo, but on Savoy's lunchtime menu. But from the appetizer section of the menu, a hit: baked Manchego with a slightly sweet yellow romesco source. It came sizzling, and was unapproachably dangerous for a while, then tasty and comforting.
The paella used to come with a big half-o'-lobster perched on top. No longer. I tried the arroz negro, which boasted lobster, and found some small chunks. The grilled shrimps served over the rice were meaty, and the rice was entirely up to Spanish standard - creepily purple-black, well seasoned, framed by a Flayesque green halo, a green onion vinaigrette. One of the signatures of Flay's presentation is some kind of colorful oil, leaching (in a nice way) around the perimeter of the main ingredients. Red, green, yellow, black. The cheese plate coincided with a lively discussion of Manhattan schools, and thus flew unfairly under the radar. All Spanish, and nothing wrong with it. It was noticeable that you can eat a substantial meal here for under $100 a head, including respectable wine; almost unique among Manhattan three star restaurants.
Where Bolo was healthily busy, Bar Americain, like Mesa Grill, was a cataclysm. Three deep at reception and bar, tables packed and swiftly turning. And the crowd was, if possible, even less local - visibly and volubly* on vacation. Shuffled to a small table for two along the side wall, I set about wincing and expecting the worst. Frontline service was defiantly good (and just as well, as our waiter turned out to be a member of Mouthfuls). The busboys were in don't-care-slam-the-plate mode, though. Food came out fast, and ranged cheerfully from pretty good to slapdash.
A weighty chicken entree was aggressively, violenty peppery - a harsh black pepper and vinegar sauce rendering moot the claim that the bird had been smoked. Red snapper Florida style was constrastingly correct. The style turned out to be a riff on Boulud's old potato-scaled bass trick, only this time the scales were formed from plantain shavings. These had been preceded by a few oysters, an unremarkable chowder, and two dishes which enjoyably nutshelled the Flay approach. Threatened by an overwhelming tasting of three seafood cocktails, I shrewdly settled for one: crab and coconut. A large glass of cool white stuff duly arrived. Initial taste was sweet, a little cloying - then the background spicing kicked in. It was consumed not only with increasing pleasure, but also with the recognition that this was just the kind of dish one might watch being constructed on a TV show, and then replicate with some success at home. Crabmeat. Add mango. Add cilantro. Add coconut. Add sweetcorn. Some scoops of endive to serve as "wafers". A little chili something-or-other for bite. Party food? Yes, and refreshing and nicely balanced.
The johnnycake with bbq duck, a large but light corn flatbread heaped with mahogany meat, echoed a Mesa Grill standard, the duck-stuffed bluecorn pancake. At Bar Americain, the duck was tasty but somewhat dry. 
At Mesa Grill it was succulent, and the haloes were duly present: red (ancho chili), green (star anise) and brown (basso profundo of molasses). I have been eating this dish for a decade, I guess, and enjoyed it again - even perched on the balcony overlooking the show, even surrounded by testosteroned parties of big guys clutching forks in one fist, bottles of beer in the other. 
It's a steakhouse. Each of these restaurants is a steakhouse; except that the steaks are rubbed with flavorings, there's always a whole fish, and the appetizers (primarily) present the southwestern flourishes with which Flay is rightly associated.
So, meat and potatoes at Mesa - a filet with an appropriate level of spice rub, a well-executed wild boar special. 
And to add a little ballast, a truly enjoyable dessert. Yet another pancake, oozing this time with dulce de leche and smoked vanilla.
And the lights flashed, and Bobby moved through the bar again, but he did not, unless I was dreaming, pull up a stool next to two preened and polished blondes in their middle thirties, pour himself a couple of fingers of Black Maple Hill 16 year old and, as a hush fell on the room, begin to croon "In the wee small hours of the morning/while the whole wide world is fast asleep/you lie awake, and think about the girl..."
But you knew he was there. Inflame yourself further at BobbyFlay.com.
*Bruni attack.
