[Pigging by Wilfrid: December 7, 2007]
Well, it's a little out of my way, Lower East Side to Upper West Side and back being one of the less convenient directions to take in Manhattan.
Indeed, I remember I waited months, in 19 before visiting Ouest and Aix (as it then was) one after the other, in a burst of enthusiasm.
And I didn't like either of them and never went back.
There was a more optimistic air to the Telepan venture, though, as I'd often eaten his food at JUdson Grill, often enough on an eerily quiet weekend evening, the huge, high space (now Bar Americain) having been deserted by the workday crowds.
At JUdson, chef Bill was a booster for the greenmarket, and served a nice plate of Ted Blew's pork from Union Square. I suppose he was in the vanguard of the movement we are supposed to call "locavore" - or someone who eats a place. And indeed the theme at his eponymous dining rooms, a step or two from Central Park West, remains a fashionable celebration of fresh, seasonal ingredients.
Having heard many good reports, my first dinner here was delayed by the relative inconvenience - add up to thirty bucks for a two-way cab ride or try to get across town on the subway - and also by hints that popular nights were unpleasantly slammed and noisy.
In fact, I found the space soothing - spaces, I should say, a series of pastel-colored rooms, which I was fortunate to enjoy on one of the restaurant's quieter evenings. I deliberately headed for the post-Thanksgiving lull.
The menu famously has a section of "mid-courses" between appetizers and mains (it also has a to share section, but I wasn't sure if foie gras donuts for the table sounded tempting or scary). In fact, rather than adding small-plate/tapa confusion to proceedings, this simply allows the diner to order a proper dinner of three savory courses, followed by cheese and/or dessert - $64 - although the pricing system gets complicated once you deviate from the menu's set pattern.
I didn't get to taste much of the house-cured ham, but the crisply grilled pieces of quail served over it were as good as one could wish.
Groping for a light start to the meal, I dutifully ordered a salad, the marinated beet salad. I like beets. Having been inattentive with the menu, I was pleasantly surprised to find them supported by what in my youth I'd have called a rissole - a breaded cake stuffed with some kind of pig; hock, it transpired. Further pork, in the form of guanciale, served as a garnish.
A similarly breaded fritter showed up as the risotto cake served over a mélange of artichoke hearts, beans and hearts of palm. This wasn't my choice, but somehow I ended up eating most of it. It was well-done, but not my kind of plate. The rice cake being pleasantly savory but essentially a starch, the dish lacked a focal ingredient; and I don't think I'd be inclined to serve artichoke hearts and hearts of palm together, poetic though it might seem.
Within the constraints of local sourcing, the pairing of hot and cold foie was very successful. The seared slice came as part of a Derridean club sandwich, together with duck "prosciutto" filling in for bacon. Pieces of apple set in a light gelée made a thoughtful change from an everyday sticky fruit coulis.
Thus far, the meal was the modest but polished performance for which I'd hoped. Sadly, the entrées were deflating. As far as the fish went, it was a very, very small serving.
I've recently been very pleased to see more and more Manhattan restaurants serving whole fish, sometimes - hallelujah - with head and tail. Now, you can't do that for every denizen of the deep, but this wild striped bass was a return of the limp-white-rectangle with a vengeance.
The menu had advertised simply "sunchokes" - a vegetable I like - but in fact the fish was surprised by a sunchoke sauce, thickish in consistency and overpowering in flavor. Spinach didn't cheer things up much. I wonder if the roast trout might have been a better choice?
What truly surprised me was the misconceived - I thought - heritage pork entrée. I expected this kitchen to be a safe pair of hands with this meat, and indeed the quality wasn't a problem. A small piece of grainy house-made sausage partnered a small piece of, I think, lightly smoked loin, and another small slice of...something else (not an ear, anyway), and a little cube of fatty - not crispy - belly.
What was crispy was the spaetzle, a heap of it, strung with strands of a thick, rich reduction. The balance of the dish tilted toward all-out assault, and the rations of sweet pork were lost in the sticky crunchiness. I can't quite put my finger on why, the overall effect was kind of fast-food-ish; the last thing, I'm sure, the kitchen intended.
Perhaps it was the Thanskgiving hangover, but it was necessary to button-hole servers to get explanations of dishes, and I didn't always bother. That's why my description of the pig parts is incomplete. We did get the lowdown on the cheeses, though.
Consider Bardwell, the sweetly named Vermont cow's milk; Bayley Hazen blue; the Gran Queso from Wisconsin; and and Colorado's Haystack Peak. A thoughtful enough selection.
And happy wine choice, the recently released '99 Chateau Musar. Wisely decanted for sediment, it needed little encouragement to release a fanfare of dark fruits, chocolate and spice. It was a good choice for pork and cheese, and even with the mark-up it seemed well priced for a wine of such individual character ($85, and you can find it retail anywhere between $35 and $45).