26 Seats: Move Over, Move Over

[Pigging by Wilfrid:  February 4, 2013]

I've been too busy recently to make serious dinner plans--a state of affairs likely to continue next week too, with a long-range business trip looming.  So I can only write about a place where I happened, quite by chance, to end up.

26 Seats has been on Avenue B as long as I can remember; certainly since before I moved to the neighborhood, some twelve years ago.  Looking online, I think it dates back to 1998.  But I'd never eaten there.

I'd eaten at Back Forty and both the branches of Mercadito, I'd drunk my fill at Manitoba's and Lakeside Lounge, made myself ill at Radio Perfectioo (it's closed).  But 26 Seats I'd always ignored. 

It looked like--and it is--a tiny French bistro,  and I never heard people talking about it, and so...

And then just the other night, it was ice cold in the street, I'd walked too far, I was tired and hungry, and the blackboard outside said cassoulet.  I was sold.

It's a pretty little room, long and narrow, but not as cramped as the name suggests.  A couple of tables were occupied; French and a middle European language I couldn't identify were being spoken.  I was invited to sit at a large table; then moved because a party had just called and asked for it; then commiserated with because the party suddenly canceled.

Finally settled, I ordered "champagne," which--it was clear from the list--was an inexpensive sparkler, and the cassoulet.

I silenced my craving for rillettes or the saucisson de Lyon, neither of which properly precede a cassoulet, and asked for the crottin de Chavignol salad.  Properly warmed slices of goat cheese, on croutons, over a deep tangle of leaves.

When the cassoulet arrived--immense and very brown, in a deep bowl--it was immediately evident that the chef is a firm believer in the breadcrumb stage.  This means scattered dry breadcrumbs over the surface of the beans before finishing the dish.  I dug deep, and churned the bread around, and found chunks of juicy pork, and some garlic sausage which seemed very familiar (I'm sure I've bought and eaten it before).

The basic test of a cassoulet--one flunked by too many New York versions--is that the beans should be thoroughly tender, but not mushy.  These were just fine.  The duck leg, if not strictly a confit (preserved) was tenderly braised.  The dish was very peppery.

It was also very hot, but it seems to be a mark of distinction to serve cassoulet so hot it can't be eaten for ten minutes.  Jarnac used to serve a dangerously over-heated rendition.  But altogether it was good enough, despite an insipid red wine, for a chill winter evening.

Oh, of course, I think I can make a better cassoulet, but it takes all day, and then there's the dishes to wash.