[Pigging by Wilfrid: October 20, 2008]
The most anticipated restaurant opening of the Fall season has arrived: Paul Liebrandt, formerly of Atlas, Papillon and Gilt, cooking in the former and legendary Montrachet space, itself completely overhauled and restored as the creamy white jewel-box, Corton.
Two dinners indicated - and it doesn't much surprise me - that Liebrandt is still one of the most exciting chefs in town.
Whatever the legacy of Frank Bruni's reign as the Times restaurant critic, his uncomprehending two star dismissal of Liebrandt's work at Gilt, in the lovely Villard Houses space formerly occupied by Le Cirque 2000, was a travesty not soon to be forgotten or forgiven (to mimic Bruni's paid-per-word style).
Bruni identified Liebrandt - inappropriately - as a "proponent of avant-garde cuisine" and accused him of "gadgetry" and a taste for "eccentric" flavor combinations. The implication was one should expect an Adrià-style chemistry lesson instead of dinner, and at uptown prices. The kiss of death, and well summarized recently by David Chang in New York magazine: "You can like Paul or not like Paul, but he got two stars and that was a four-star restaurant, and ever since then no one's actually tried to shoot for the stars."
In fact, Bruni's angle demonstrated only a lack of familiarity with the mainstream of modern European dining rather than the El Bulli-derived revolutionary fringe. Liebrandt certainly utilized modern techniques and dramatic presentations, but primarily with the objective of displaying the versatility of his ingredients and his own imagination. Occasionally there were a bewildering number of plates on the table for any one course, but the effect was one of grand dining, not of participation in a molecular gastronomy class.
(Foie Gras, Beet Borscht Gelée, Blood Orange)
Certainly Corton may not be shooting for the four star accolade which Gilt deserved - service is assiduous, but less formal; the room is quite lovely - softly lit white walls with a pretty, leafy relief - and not at all stuffy; and prices are actually lower - $76 for the three course option, $110 for the tasting. But the food, from pastry chef Robert Truitt as well as Liebrandt, can already be ranked in the highest echelons. Jean-Georges or Bouley - let alone Daniel - would be far from ashamed to send out dishes of such creativity and precise execution.
Better than Per Se? Put it this way: PerSe is more than twice as expensive, and can only wish it were twice as good.
(Maine Lobster, Chanterelles, Toasted Hazelnut-Lobster Jus)
The approach at Corton is more restrained than Gilt, and inevitably so at a lower price point and without a legion of servers. The main lines of the cuisine are more classic. The elaborate, multi-dish complexity has been focussed down, not without benefit, to a complexity of detail on the single plate.
Among the highlights of the prix fixe, a bijou arch of cool foie terrine wrapped in a beet jelly. A lot of jelly comes out of this kitchen, and its a classy vehicle for flavors which contrast with and enhance the main ingredient. I didn't get much chance to sample another diner's lobster, but the rare tenderness justified the $9 supplement (the only supplement on the prix fixe).
The veal sweetbreads on the three course menu are sensationally good. I wonder if I am alone in finding the presentation of uncooked Violet Hill Farm eggs - however pretty - in a little iron pot faintly silly. Once poached, though, it's an excellent egg, its large yolk exploding over the just-caramelised pieces of sweetbread, interspersed with the occasional chunk of smoked bacon. The dish is crowned with some light, sweet vegetable crisps - carrot, I think.
(Squab, Chestnut Crème, Smoked Bacon, Pain d’Epices Milk)
I am surprised to report that on each occasion I dined at Corton, the main meat course was the knockout of the evening. I appreciate fine butchery, and the panache with which rare squab breast had been shaped into two velvety canons of gamey flesh was thrilling. The chestnut cream had a positively truffley note to it, and the single baton of pungent bacon accompanied a braised squab leg which melted from the bone (having eaten a four-legged quail at Elettaria last week, I suppose a one-legged squab was in my stars).
In the luxurious tasting menu, brininess is a key-note for Liebrandt. He even serves a seaweed butter (with breads I found disappointing, especially the a stiff cranberry toast). It makes sense in every way to pair sweet uni with briny kelp; for that is what konbu is - a variety, anyway. The lobe of uni was very good - Californian, I'd guess, from its color and fruity flavor, but that's me showing off. The kelp is rendered as a black-green gelee, dark as the ocean in Delacroix's Sea of Galilee; beneath, one discovers a soothing cauliflower puree. The sheer look of the thing will make this one of the trophy dishes of the season, but the balanced flavors are good too.
Citrus is another repeating note. I was excited by the prospect of the trout ballotine with white sturgeon caviar, as I like ocean trout, appreciate old-school French terms on a menu, and am not exactly averse to caviar. My dining companions gushed; I felt it was slightly tipped toward unnecessary citrussy sharpness. It was a little salty too, and together with the caviar it was all a bit too much for the delicacy of the fish. I was in a minority, though, and certainly would give it a second outing.
(Turbot, Spiced Almond Crust, Black Garlic, Citrus-Coconut Broth, Gnocchi with Serrano Ham)
The dreaded rectangle-of-white-fish course was more than salvaged by Liebrandt's gustatory imagination: it was a complete winner . The fish was good, and cooked how I selfishly like it - done to firmness, but not over-done. The subtle coconut broth, poured tableside naturally, sang with the almonds and mild spices. The black garlic, I should say, perched cheekily on the rim of the plate. I picked it up and nibbled. It's sweet, almost nutty: apparently the traditional Korean technique is to ferment the stuff in an earthenware pot, but I believe there are machines which do the trick too. The ham-flecked gnocchi were served on the side.
(Filet of Black Angus Beef, Beet, Oxtail, Fondant Potato)
If there's one upscale restaurant standby which can be as disappointing as a bland white fish course, it's the expertly cooked but otherwise unremarkable chunk of beef. How very boring that has been in a number of otherwise good restaurants.
Not here. This was the highlight of the meal, and other spendthrift fin becs will know how rarely one says that of the red meat course in a tasting menu. Honestly, it reminded me a little of Neil Ferguson's "beef, cabbage, onion" at Allen & Delancey, but there are a world of fine little touches here. Where Ferguson wraps his braised beef blade in cabbage, Liebrandt cooks richer oxtail to tenderness, and shrouds it in caul-fat, which adds savory flavor as it holds the meat together.
The first-rate filet - source? - is accented with a beetroot sauce rather than predictable red wine reduction. Some slivers of baby beet garnished the plate too. The fondant potatoes - a little turret of them - had a secret touch as well; a thin coating of dark aspic. I knew I liked it, but had to ask what it was: black truffle - an unshowy, effective addition.
(Selles-Sur-Cher, Sour Cherry Pâte de Fruit, Chickpea)
Does every tasting menu have one? A dish greeted with muted laughter as it is presented. Mea culpa - a sotto voce chorus of "the cheese has got its hat on, hip-hip-hip hooray" was uncalled for. This wedge of firm goat cheese from the Loire simply happened to be sporting a dainty boater, the rim a chickpea crisp, the crown a piece of sour cherry jelly.
Ingeniously, this crown had been carefully cut from the center of a slightly larger jelly just across the plate from the cheese. I confirmed that by lifting it from the hat and re-inserting it in the space from which it had been extracted. This was the main excitement of the dish as the cheese, far from the most exciting on the market in the first place, was served too cold.
Selles-sur-Cher can hold its own as part of a plate with other, contrasting cheeses, but it didn't hold this composition together. But I am even more critical of the scary composed cheese-plates I've been served at Per Se - Tomme with beetroot, for example, circa 2005. Casellula does them better. I'm happy to report that the cheese course which can be ordered from the prix fixe is more conventionally satisfying: an excellent piece of salty, tangy Comté and some Stilton were among the selections - temperature still, though, a little too cool.
Regular readers will know that my appetite and memory for the sweet conclusion to the meal can be wanting, but I found Truitt's desserts to be uniformly fine and enjoyable. The pre-dessert is a palate-cleansing blast of lychee and lemon. The first dessert proper in the tasting menu - a white sesame crème, with lemon, huckleberry, and toffee was a study in vibrant contrasts. Served in a white pot, and coming on a bit like chawan mushi, this was a revelation, with distinct layers of smooth sesame custard, sharp lemon, sweet hucklberries, and an irresistible upscale-Reese's layer of salty toffee crunch.
Not being much of a sweethound, the name gianduja meant nothing to me. It turns out to be chocolate with a high hazelnut paste content, and derives from Piedmont. Even more disturbing, my researches reveal that Nutella is much the same thing. I have successfully avoided Nutella most of my life, and I am only relieved the menu here didn't mention it; I recall having Nutella snuck up on me at the awful Mix restaurant when it was still open.
Here, I was happy picking away at the soft base of the dessert, which tasted of nuts and chocolate in turn, with the thought of Nutella far from my mind. The coconut gelato component was cool and fresh, and the sweetness of the gianduja was cut with a spiral of yuzu-flavored paste.
Both for the tasting and the regular menu, proceedings conclude with a generous selection of house-made chocolates and a choice of macarons - I recommend the green olive oil variety.
The wine-list is heavily French, but versatile. In fact, there are two lists. The restaurant's web-site provides a link to the twenty-five page reserve list of aged Burgundies and Californian price-bombs; these must be ordered in advance, because storage is off-site. The list in the dining room has plenty of three-figure Burgundies too, and leads off with a list from its namesake neighborhood of Corton. But to the restaurant's great credit, the list also featurs - prominently, not as an afterthought - thirty or more bottles of interesting French country wines priced under $60. Indeed, you can buy $30 bottles of wine here and not be bored with your choices.
I enjoyed the 2006 L. Crochet Sancerre, and was led by the sommelier to an appropriate Côtes du Rhône - the Rayas La Pialade, 2003 - for the tasting. With the prix fixe dinner I pushed the boat out a little further with an aromatic, fruit-forward, approachable Côte-Rôtie, the 2003 Duclaux. None of these bottles reached three figures, and none disappointed.
With the first-rate food, warm front-of-house management, not to mention the joy of watching Drew Nieporent bussing tables with aplomb, Corton has hit the ground running. Let's hope New York's demi-monde of critics and opinion-makers can keep up this time: we deserve this restaurant.
Find the web-site here.
