[Pigging by Wilfrid: April 8, 2013]
How many times have I climbed the winding streets of Montmartre, towards the little square near the Sacré-Cœur? How many times have I stopped at small restaurants in the narrow streets, and enjoyed good, reliable bistro food?
French bistro food is enjoying a startling revival in New York right now-- see Le Philosophe, for example--a trend which threatens to reach its apogee when Andrew Carmellini opens Lafayette.
That's why my first meal there was taken early on a weekday evening. Until 7pm, at least, it's possible to enjoy the charming ambience of the upstairs dining room (some tables are squeezed in downstairs too). As soon as the crowd builds, the short bar (about eight seats, with two bar-tenders jammed elbow-to-elbow behind it), and the entrance to the restaurant becomes hard to navigate. The porch formed by two doors is tight enough as it is; impassable when occupied by an idiot on a cellphone.
On my second visit, the interior door had been removed, whether in acknowledgement of the awkwardness, or in expectation of warmer weather, I can't say.
There's a shelf with stools in the front window, but once seated at a table, it's a comfortable little restaurant. In fact, I am tempted to say I liked everything about it, except--to my surprise--the food.
Let's pause for some good news. The cocktails I tried were consistently excellent. The Mifflin Street Moonlight (above), based on Meyer lemon-infused vodka, kicks off on the palate like an Aviation--citrusy and bright--but instead of the medicinal sting of Maraschino, follows through with Strega, honey and ginger.
Rye'n'Parker Swag was yet another entrant in the grown-up Manhattan genre: Redemption rye, three unusual liqueurs, and a pandan leaf infusion (in the rye?).
I liked the look of the Paris Campari and soda, served terrace-café-like on a silver tray: a neat set of Campari with grapefruit bitters, a separate glass containing ice and lemon peel, and a small bottle of Perrier water. On the other hand, I didn't like the name of the All Day Long, All Day Strong (really?), but I enjoyed drinking it: mint-infused bourbon, Campari, Carpano Antica, bitters allegedly made with A1 steak sauce (I say allegedly, because that particular accent was happily unnoticeable).
Montmartre has the trappings of a fancier restaurant than it is. Service is attentive, with a startling Danny Meyer-ish enthusiasm ("How is that dish coming into focus for you?). Meals--even a single course at the bar--are preceded by an amuse and followed by a chocolate truffle or two. A tiny mouthful of beef tongue with pickled onion was light on the advertised horse radish, but pleasant.
Appetizers on the menu are preceded by a list of snacks for the table. Cassava crisps were great--big, puff-up chips, like the chicharrones at Empellón Cocina. They were served over a creamy eggplant caponata. Messy to eat, but a fine cocktail accompaniment.
Some of the composed dishes I tried were much less successful--and inexplicably so, given the excellence of Tien Ho's work with the Momofuku empire, and his previous grounding in French technique at Café Gray and Café Boulud. "Escargots sauvage"--wild snails, I presume, but small ones, with not much special about them--was an unbalanced and unimpressive plate. The meagre snails were served lukewarm in, I guess, some butter.
They were joined on the plate by a slightly warmer slab of garlic sausage. Suffice to say, if it's made inhouse, it needn't be. These ingredients were then overwhelmed by quite a lot of hot spinach. If you want to mask the flavor of a few snails, a heap of spinach is a good way to do it.
I'd heard good things about the blanquette de veau, a dish Le Philosophe is currently acing. Again, the conception was strange; the execution was lacking too.
The dish is a classic of the cuisine bourgeoise: veal braised in a creamy white sauce, flavored with herbs. It's usually served with rice or pasta, which serves as a vehicle for the rich sauce. If it's to be reinvented, it needs to be reinvented with care. This was more like a waterzooi. The slices of veal were impeccably tender, but they were sitting in a very thin, yellowish broth at the bottom of a saucepan. They were also underseasoned: I addeded much salt from the dish on the table. A thin soup if not my idea of a blanquette sauce.
Just to make things tricker, the carb accompaniment--spaetzle in this case--was served in a separate bowl, as if to keep it strictly separate from the sauce. I spent some time spooning sauce from the saucepan over the spaetzle, which were strangely greasy (finished in meat fat?), and had all the salt the veal lacked, and more.
Sometimes a kitchen's work is so disappointing that you swear off the place immediately. This time, I was so convinced it could do better that I return a few days later, and took a different route through the menu, visiting the fish section.
Generous hunks of skate wing, off the bone, were lightly breaded, and served over a neat choucroute studded with soft strips of bacon. This was more like it. The fish was firm, fresh, and properly seasoned. The sour cabbage balanced it neatly.
It's early days for Montmartre, but the capability for some assured cooking is surely there.
One final gripe: the wines by the glass are terrible. Or at least, you might not mind the Côtes-du-Rhône Les Garrigues at its retail price of $7.99 a bottle, but you resent paying more than that for a glass (served, appropriately enough for vin ordinaire, in a tumbler). The Chinon was more objectionably priced still, and not pleasant. Stick to the cocktails.
Food prices are tolerable: snacks in single digits, appetizers teens, mains twenties to thirties; and there are plats du jour, like a $54 (for two) cassoulet. I wouldn't be surprised if a very good restaurant emerges from what currently seems a project not quite ready for prime time. But you may want to let the crowds die down and the kitchen settle in.
Website (currently down): www.montmartrenyc.com/.
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