[Pigging by Wilfrid: November 24, 2008]
Diamond Jim Brady would love this grand old joint. I rather liked it myself.
This may not be the most obvious season to be launching a dramatic, costly, somewhat classic French restaurant, with lashings of caviar and truffles. But at least the task is accomplished with aplomb.
Diamond Jim Brady is reputed to have owned a stomach eight times the size of a normal person, accounting for his ability to follow several dozen oysters and a few lobsters with any number of roast game birds for dinner. Fortunately, his bank account was outsize too (his nickname derives from the thirty complete sets of jewelry he owned, and doubtless wore). The Oak Room's fortunes probably depend on how many Diamond Jims are left standing in Manhattan a year from now, although on the occasion I dined there most of the customers seemed to be temporary residents of the Plaza's remaining hotel rooms.
I enjoyed my dinner during the soft opening week, a period during which it's a matter of courtesy to extent lenience when commenting on service issues or kitchen glitches. In fact, there were none. Rarely have I seen a restaurant of this ambition run so smoothly in its first days of operation. From waiters to the sommelier, I only have glowing reports to give.
As for the chef, Joël Antunes, who left the kitchen of his eponymous Atlanta restaurant (he remains a partner) to re-launch the Plaza's Oak Room, I have distant and very fond memories of his cooking at the swanky London restaurant Les Saveurs back in the 1990s. Before that, he had trained with Bocuse and the Troisgros brothers; following that, he spent a decade in Atlanta, at the Buckhead Ritz-Carlton before opening a place of his own. This is cooking with a serious pedigree.
The menu contains extraordinary temptations (and I don't mean the truffles au supplement - $40 for black, $80 for white). Seared abalone with spaetzle is not a choice you come across every day, and it tempted me strongly. Our waiter spoke warmly of the foie torchon with raisins. And then there was the pata negra from Spain, and sturdy winter starters like lamb ragout with cous cous.
Sweetbreads were chosen and were exemplary, in a velvety reduction with braised shallots and a contrasting slice of apple. The deep white pot in which they were served seemed to be the standard vessel for first courses, and my marginal complaint about the restaurant's style is that these dishes, like the wide, deep bowls in which entrées appeared, are impractical. They always have been, since they became popular in the 1980s. They make the food hard to get at.
And the snail "Antiboise" I eventually selected was well worth getting at. Indeed, it was quite the most unusual and deliciously balanced dish I've eaten in a long time. The appellation "Antiboise" simply means in the style of Antibes (I did look it up), so we must take it on trust that this is how the folk of Antibes like to eat their snails. Seriously, it does imply the use of olives and olive oil, and dark Taggiasche olives featured in this dish, mimicking in appearance the toothsome black snails. I still give Craft top marks for sourcing snails in New York, but these were not bad at all.
The surprise in the dish was the incorporation of small, sweet, skinless grapes. You might think this would clash with the earthy snail-olives combination; on the contrary, it delivered sensationally harmonious mouthfuls. The broth was light and buttery.
Heritage pork prepared several different ways is not quite such a surprising offering in Manhattan, 2008. I can only commend the skill in preparation. The pork was good, notably sweet. The samples included a slice of belly, a piece of loin, a cabbage leaf stuffed with meat, and a quite terrific, coarse, herby house-made sausage.
After some deliberation, I decided to splurge on the Tournedos Rossini, a legendary dish from the Escoffier playbook. Arguably over-priced at $62 (most entrées are around $38 to $42), it does of course feature a slab of seared foie capping the beef filet. I thought it might have exhibited some significant slices of black truffle too, but there wasn't much more than a dusting, and there was more truffle flavor in the sauce. It was accompanied by little potato cakes, which the menu calls "blinis", and it was rich and good, if less eventful than the pork dish.
The restored Oak Room is a space of baronial grandeur. Imagine the panelled dining room at the New York Palace (formerly Le Cirque 2000, now Gilt), but with a ceiling three times as high. This is a cathedral of a restaurant, with a massive brassy chandelier and soft leather banquettes. Spotlights subtly concealed in ceiling fixtures cast a flattering light. This is a restaurant of great luxury, as the guides used to say.
In the circumstances, who could resist the flamboyant absurdity of the chocolate cigar dessert? It came with a tonka bean ice cream, although I thought use of tonka beans in food was still prohibited. I survived.
The pineapple napoleon was an exercise in lightness and delicacy.
I have hinted subtly at the food costs here. The wine list, consistent with the restaurant's tone, is also very expensive indeed. One of the wisest moves management could make here is to adopt a "market" selection of less expensive wines, because difficulty in finding bottles under $100 is going to act as a deterrent to diners. Drew Nieporent's Corton strikes a smart balance between a deep list of cellar treasures, and an honest choice of reasonable country wines. Even Alain Ducasse's former restaurant at The Essex House eventually added a few bargains to its horrendously marked-up list.
I don't say the mark-ups at The Oak Room are unfair. Thrice retail is standard in this city. The difficulty lies in the preponderance of Bordeaux, Burgundy and iconic Italians on the list. Even turning to Spain, I found little but Vega Sicilia, Alion and Hacienda Monasteria. Consulting with the sommelier, I ordered a Burgundy village wine from a good maker, Roumier's 2002 Chambolle-Musigny. It was splendid; essence of Burgundy. But for a village wine, it cost a packet (and again, it was not severely marked-up).
I have spent several years deploring the decline in standards at New York's highest level of dining. It had seemed to me matters had actually declined since the late '90s. The irony is that signs of a revival - Corton and The Oak Room strike me as two of the best high-end openings in years - comes just as the pips start to squeak. I wish Chef Antunes and his troops all the luck they deserve.
