[Pigging by Wilfrid: December 3, 2012]
This review is very much a work in progress, mainly because the plats du jour at Le Philosophe have been calling to me in siren tones.
But I've yet to order one. I specifically targeted Monday's tête de veau, but the chef couldn't make it because his supplier had sent him a head "without the skin."
This NoHo space used to be Hung Ry (it's next door to Mile End Sandwich), and it's still a fairly austere, concrete bunker of a room, with plain chairs and tables and an industrial bar. The kitchen is open, the ceiling is high; it could get loud if it gets busy, but it's early days for that.
In keeping with the name, a mural of French philosophes decorates the room. I played the guessing game -- here a Foucault, there a Descartes, Deleuze in a dapper hat, an improbably romantic portrait of a young Sartre.
And is that Derrida under the counter? Yes, it is. I was surprised that there were many, apparently contemporary figures I couldn't name. I'd love to see the answers.
The menu is easier, especially if you're the sort of person who would order items like pig's feet, bone marrow, foie gras, cassoulet, and coq au vin for a last supper.
Unashamedly hearty? Potentially, but chef Aita approaches matters with delicacy. The stuffed pig's trotter, for example, eschews all the little bones and cartilage which some feet fans treasure. Instead, you get something like slices of zampone, an Italian sausage made by stuffing a cotechino-like mixture into a boned pig's foot.
Aita leaves the skin on here, making for that very special stickiness which marries so well with lentils. The lentils are punctuated here by cubes of celeriac, and there's a sprinkling of some kind of pleasant black truffle product. A generous starter, and priced accordingly ($17).
Thought and care goes into the frog's legs too. The legs are served off the bone, tiny nuggets of thigh meat, and might almost be overlooked among the accompaniments: tender slices of sunchoke, hen of the woods.
The watercress sauce is just the kind of garish green sauce which doesn't appeal to my senses, but this was a tasty version -- garlicky and not bitter, as it can be. A composed dish, with no one ingredient playing boss.
Disappointed (as was the kitchen) by the absence of calf's head, I compensated by ordering a blanquette de veau. This is true cuisine bourgeois, and it can be heavy and bland in the wrong hands. I don't know what cut of veal the kitchen here uses, but it's appropriately marbled with fat, keeping the cubes of meat nicely juicy. Again, the other items on the plate played an equal role to the protein, especially the tender baby turnips.
Simple rice, the grains separate, is the proper accompaniment.
I can't tell you much about the turbot, because I didn't get to taste it, but reports were positive. I did sample foie gras terrine from someone else's plate, and it was correct.
My heart still races for duck à l'Orange, a dish unfairly consigned to history in favor of all kinds of near-raw rubbery duck experiences with weird spice rubs. The menu invites you to order your duck cooked to your taste, and mine was rushed to the table a little pinker than I'd asked for. But it was decent duck, the sauce light and tart -- no sickly-sweet disaster here.
Again, those delicious little turnips; but a ridiculously small scrape of mousseline potatoes. Potatoesare cheap. If you're going to serve them, serve them -- maybe in a side dish, like the rice.
The wine-list was non-existent when I visited. Literally. You could get a glass of white or red (serviceable Malbec in the latter case the first time I dined there, serviceable Bordeaux the second time). This will surely receive attention. You might want to ask about BYO, and you might also want to call to check the tête de veau showed up.
Not a restaurant to cross oceans for, but serious assaults on traditional French bistro food are rare enough (places which lazily cater to the steak-frites crowd are ten a penny). Maybe I should go back for the cassoulet.
The website, like the wine-list, is not ready yet.
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