[Pigging by Wilfrid: July 20, 2007]
So you can't wait and take the dishes in the order they are served. Here it is:
(Crispy tête de veau)
Go and eat it right away, because nobody in the city except you and me (baby) is going to understand the transcendent glory of that crisp, hot, fragrant gelatine.
But before we tuck in our bibs and get greasy.
L'Atelier de Joel Robuchon, let's face it, is part of a chain; a chain which stretches from Paris to London, Tokyo and Las Vegas. Maybe Ulan Bator too, I don't know. One looks, therefore, for flair and sophistication which will lift any particular instance of the restaurant above the formulaic and make it worthy of Robuchon's name.
I think it's fair to say that Robuchon's debut in New York (in a rear corner mezzanine of the stunning Four Seasons hotel) was received with less hostility than that of Ducasse, and less derision than that of Gordon Ramsay. Nevertheless, it didn't set the town alight. Frankula bemusedly handed it three stars in the Times, but the restaurant hasn't been talked about - not even by the global diners who raved about the original Paris incarnation.
For one thing, it just isn't a luxury restaurant, as Ducasse at the Essex House - like it or not - clearly was. A high, dark, serious counter surrounds the kitchen on three sides (although the kitchen also recedes, keeping the chef well away from hoi polloi). There are tables - some tables - without linen, napkins in casual rings, looking very hotel-like. It is hard to imagine (with good reason, as we shall see), settling down to a four hour grand bouffe in one of the booths. And the restaurant doesn't encourage this; in fact, in many ways, it's a tapas bar with four star prices.
For another thing, signature dishes had, on previous visits, failed to deliver knockout blows. Langoustines en papilotte were precisely realised, but for some reason didn't pack the flavor of recently sampled grilled langoustine at Degustation downtown (although I am sure someone could demonstrate to me that the Robuchon bugs were of splendid and expensive provenance). The foie terrine layered with eel was tasty, but almost cloyingly so. Crispy frog legs were not a revelation; nor were the famous Robuchon potatoes, in all their gloopiness.
The menu is divided between a list of petits plats and a page of appetizers and entreés of more substantial dimensions. There is a tasting menu too, and I was inclined to order in that direction on my last visit. For some reason, though, I felt that a Robuchon-brand dinner should not be about kobe beef. I also feared the poached cod, which for anyone English always has an air of the hospital about it.
I reverted to the carte and, on a steamy hot night, ordered some light and refreshing plates. Lobster in turnip ravioli showed first:
Cold lobster, of course, wrapped in slivers of the vegetable which toppled off on being tackled. A palate cleanser, although it made me think of the remarkable tricks Sarma Melngailis can do with raw vegetable "pasta" at Pure Food & Wine. The mood at the bar is not as sombre as it once was. There is a following of regulars on bumptious terms with the cheery mistress of the counter. Oh how we chuckled as we uncovered a misunderstanding in the order. I had commanded the tarte de fenouille, and she had - almost as a matter of inevitability - summoned the trademark cuisses de grenouille. The latter were returned to the chef (a stern young man, at that distance anyway), and replaced with a bright salad of fennel and smoked salmon. A thin wafer of something beneath was considered the "tarte" element. I hadn't really wanted a smoked salmon salad, and in this case the other ingredients, including the osetra caviar, were no match for a bombardment of fennel slices.
I suppose fennel is in season, as it made its licorishy presence faintly felt in the third dish, a velvety fennel broth, room temperature to warm, swimming with excellent sea urchin. This time, the quality of the ingredient made itself known.
The mistress of the counter caught me eating some of the decorative fennel seeds. I sneaked some seaweed too, but the seeds were better. A very good dish, and at $35 for a portion that size, so it should be.
By coincidence, Evelyn, an eminent expert, had some critical words to say this week about an experience at the Las Vegas Robuchon (Mouthfulsfood): "the courses came out basically on top of each other [and] it was obvious that some of them had been held in the kitchen till the previous course was cleared." The meal, it seems, was something of a sprint until she took control. This reminded me that I'd had a similar sinking feeling at the start of my dinner, as the service set off like a high-speed omakase at a busy sushi counter. I was less affected than Evelyn, only because only the last of my savory courses was a hot dish. A salad can be held a little while. But at this level and these prices, the diner should be able to relax.
Aiding relaxation, in my case, was a Chassagne-Montrachet from Ramonet, of recent year, honeyed, but with a sufficiently astringent finish. My notes are inadequate, but whichever Ramonet it was, it was ambitiously priced at $120 the half bottle. For the meat course, I shifted to a Gevrey-Chambertin by Frédéric Magnien, ruinously expensive even by the glass; I have to say, it was very good indeed. It tasted like burgundy in Burgundy tastes, which is sadly rare in New York. With champagne, suffice to say that the wine cost was more than the food. Another caution.
Okay, smack your lips. Here comes the cavalry.
This dish raised the entire meal, and saved it from being another example of good ingredients well cooked but lacking distinction. Tête de veau, as we agreed, crispy, as the menu promised, piping hot. Skillfully constructed too, the head meat arranged into a kind of roulade surrounded by a gelatinous fringe. Think positively of the gelatine: it is opulent. The meat within is tender, well-seasoned. And atop the beast, a gribiche garnish, rather than sauce - finely minced capers, tiny cubes of hard-boiled egg. The dish is accompanied, astonishingly for such a restaurant, but aptly, by a pot of mustard. And the gloopy potatoes too.
This was from the entreé menu, and something of a rib-sticker. I somehow found room for the average cheeses, but I was perched there thinking about Henri Soule and Sirio Maccioni. Monsieur Soule was before my time, but he had a custom, it seems, which Maccioni maintained. At the super-fancy Manhattan restaurant, Le Pavillon, Soule had the kitchen prepare certain off-menu dishes of rustic heartiness, which he himself enjoyed and recommended to select customers. At Le Cirque 2000, similarly, one could sometimes find out about some short ribs or tripe. I fear the tête de veau will soon be no more than a memory on 57th Street. The only other restaurant in town where I recall it offered - as a light salad, with leeks - is L'Absinthe. But right now it is a distinguished dish, and I only wonder what else that stern young chef might serve if he could go off-brand more often.
Actually, I know what he'd like to serve. As soon as I sat down, I noticed behind him a high rotisserie, only one large, cooked bird spitted on it. Seeing nothing about this on the menu, I asked the mistress of the counter. "It's just for show," she confided. "Although sometimes the chef says he'll serve it to a customer he doesn't like." And as the line jumped and squeaked "Oui, chef!" in unison, I almost believed her.
Comments on this article are welcome at Mouthfulsfood.
