[Pigging by Wilfrid: October 17, 2011]
There was a time (2008, in fact) when I thought it might still be possible to defend the barricades of gastronomy and grown-up dining against the assault of the comfort-food-smackdown barbarians.
I was wrong. The walls fell and we are now overrun with the amateurish posing as the hip, the infantile as the casual, and the obvious as the novel, all dressed up in PR rages and even talked up by people like Andrew Carmellini who should know much better.
Is there a light glimmering in the darkness?
I must admit that after eating what seemed an endless series of entirely cack-handed meals this year in various bar-cum-grills, touted by the Interwebs, and nervous of the decidely mixed quality of Taavo Somer's previous ventures (Peels, Freeman's), I approached Isa pessimistically. Word on its opening carte had been downbeat. In fact, the first time I ventured there, I had determined to retreat to Brooklyn Star or Le Comptoir if it looked too crazed and unappealing.
Actually, it looked very appealing indeed. It's a lovely renovation of a 1900 three story corner redbrick on a quiet stretch of Wythe in Williamsburg. The Williamsburger (sic) is just across the street. The windows glow invitingly on a dark evening (it's a dark street) and this will be a glorious retreat once winter sets in. Whatever Somer's credentials as restaurateur, he certainly has an eye. The interior - in effect two adjacent storefronts - has exposed brick walls and a heavy wooden ceiling which does a wonderful job of sponging up the din of conversation.
There are stacks of logs here and there, sprigs of twigs and bundles of leaves. It's an eminently stylish farmhouse interior. To your left, as you enter, communal tables stretched before a wholly open kitchen. To your right, the darker bar, still bereft of alcohol (yes, BYO until the license comes through), and individual tables. It's walk-in; the greeters are charming - in fact service throughout is of a very high standard - and I haven't yet waited more than ten minutes to be seated.
I can only review, of course, what Isa is doing now: which is a multi-course set meal (with a few choices) for $50. The menu, which changes daily, is described as a "test," and when questioned the staff couldn't tell me if the restaurant would continue with this format, revert to a carte, or run a carte and prix fixe together. But don't wait and see: go now. This kitchen seizes the current dining clichés of local, sustainable, seasonal (yes, they grow their own green things) and executes them with unprecedented refinement. This is foraged food plated by an artist.
Anyways... The current dining structure offers three small plates, a choice of two appetizers, a choice of one meat or one fish dish, and a choice of two desserts. The first tastes which arrive will scare hearty trenchermen and have them planning on a burger across the street as a digestif, but the meat plates are robust enough to anchor the menu, and flavors throughout are rich and striking.
A prime example is a dish which caught diners' eyes when it appeared on the opening menu here, "sardines, olives, skeleton." Yes, menu descriptions are laconic. The dish sets out the most delicate filet of sardine, sweetly pickled in the style of matjes herring, surrounded by a few tiny purple olivers. Straddling the dish, the fish's angry, displaced skeleton, complete with head, deep fried. Velvety meets crunchy, from the same little critter. A lesson in textures, with salt, sweet, sour and boldly fishy at war in the flavor profile.
Balance the dish's honest aggression with bites of first-rate home-made bread. The soda bread is as good as the excellent version offered at Knife + Fork. There's a fine, chewy sourdough too. Butter - typically of the restaurant - is dusted with crunchy fennel seeds. The bread portion is disarmingly small, but I saw other diners order and receive second helpings.
In fact, the bread serving is one thing which wrong-footed me when I first took a seat here. The ambience is so warmly rustic that you anticipate a loaf on the table with a pound of butter, while rabbits and chickens roast on spits in the background. You anticipate hunks of sausage with lentils, duck with beans. Maybe it takes a couple of visits to settle back into an entirely different, much more austere vision of country cooking.
No trough of pork terrine then, but a sliver, served on a piece of crispbread, with dabbed purées of chickpea and intensely flavored parsnip. You want to pick it apart, analyze it, but really it's a one-bite taste, crunchy, creamy and vegetal.
One dish which appeared each time I visited - and the only dish so far which I don't much like - is daikon with kombu and, allegedly, horseradish. Maybe this would work as a palate-cleanser; if there was less of it. Discs of daikon planted in a very runny dressing, striped with plasticky kelp. The kombu is hard to cut, quite hard to bite. Trying to spear the daikon with a fork makes it adhere to the saucer through suction. Then the saucer tips over and you get wet. It's a harshly spicy dish, which I imagine is the work of the horseradish - but there's not much horseradish flavor. I wish they'd rethink this.
The kitchen need not rethink its way with tartares. The duck tartare appetizer is another contender in the dishes of the year list. Finely chopped duck meat, not utterly raw but gently marinated, dark and creamy, and set off with neat sunchoke crisps. I could eat bags of the latter, an entrée sized portion of the former. I missed the duck on my next visit, when it had been replaced by a beef tartare I'm sure is dandy. But at least I had no excuse for avoiding a dish which truly expresses the essence of the place.
The leaves of fall. Maybe the greenest thing I've ever eaten. A varity of leaves - sweet potato, kale, young collard - sprinkled with house-made granola for texture and slight sweetness to offset the subtly differing levels of bitterness. The more delicate leaves are sprayed with a light vinaigrette. The meatier leaves - and some of these leaves fight back - are smeared with what at first seemed to be a Caesar salad dressing. In fact, it's creamy cashew cheese, kicked up with tiny shreds of dried shrimp.
You have to experience this. A carpet of full-flavored vegetation layered with crunch and creaminess and a focused dish after-taste. This is spectacular invention within the locavore (etc) template, but it's also food which makes you smile with satisfaction and surprise.
As does the meat. First time around, I sucked up a plate of suckling pig, the little coins of loin quite distinct in texture and flavor from the soft, fleshy leg-meat. It reminded me of one of the best pig dishes I've eaten in New York, pork of exceptional sweetness acquired by David Bouley from a neighboring farmer.
On my next visit, terrific ribeye. No asking how I wanted it cooked: it had to be this way. Rare in the center, crisped on the surface, with delicious, hot fat. If you thought you were eating light, this fills your boots. Dandelion leaves (this restaurant has leaves), pickled leeks, a variety of beets, and a smudge of marrow butter. I don't know where the ribeye is sourced, but it would not be embarrassed by comparison with that served at Minetta Tavern.
Look at that gay smear of beetiness across the rim of the dish. The plating here repeatedly reminded me of WD-50.
Desserts are refreshing. The concord grape sorbet was dark and maturely refreshing, partnered with wood sorrel, crushed walnuts and lovage.
Lemon mousse formed pretty waves on a bed of crunchy black sesame seeds and a base of mascarpone. A few huckleberries were lurking in there too.
I don't know how long Isa will maintain its current format. There is evident benefit in having no fewer than six line cooks focusing meticulously on a tightly edited menu. That's evidence of a serious investment by the owners.
And although Peels is an enjoyable restaurant, you should in no way think of Isa as the latest in a series of ventures beginning with Freeman's. This something on a wholly different level. Chef Ignacio Mattos, after a long run at Il Buco, is being allowed to follow his muse. And despite the forced label of "primitive modernism," a beguiling muse she is.
I totally ate those leaves, see?
No website yet as far as I can see.
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