[Pigging by Wilfrid: March 5, 2014]
Things done changed, as the bard said. Certainly they have around the part of Harlem where Saint Nicholas Avenue crossed Adam Clayton Powell Jr and Frederick Douglass Boulevards.
No more than twelve years ago, the neighborhood was ghostly by day and night; shops had names scrawled on cardboard sheets taped to the windows. These days, it's stomping again. Practically.
Also, we now have The Cecil, a moderately ambitious restaurant adjacent to a renascent Minton's jazz club (same owners, chef, and kitchen). I say "moderately," because while The Cecil's menu makes a studied proffer about the African diaspora--and service is smooth and professional--there are big concessions to casual dining like mini hot dogs, sliders, and a wok bar. (Curiously, Minton's, the club, is where you go for the $90 tasting menu).
But even the hot dogs have the African diaspora going on: there's a veal hot dog yassa, and Gullah shrimp sliders. The wine-list too--but what that means is not just listing some South African wines, but also wines from California and Oregon from wine-makers of African heritage.
If it starts to seem a bit strained, consider the "Afro Asian American" oxtail dumplings. The dumplings themselves--delicious, by the way--reminded me of nothing more than the oxtail ravioli Alain Allegretti served at his eponymous Flatiron joint. "Italian Provençal"? Four of them, fat and juicy, with a light apple curry sauce, chewy-crisp taro root, and various leaves.
An heirloom beet salad looked very pretty, but wasn't punchily flavored, and its recipient wondered whether there was supposed to be something special about brussel sprouts the size of peas.
If chef Alexander Smalls' menu is less studiously devoted to regional African food than that at Marcus Samuelsson's much-missed pan-African experiment, Merkato, there's nothing restrained in the color, panache and sheer size of his work. For meat-eaters, anyway. Most tables were ordering the towering Wagyu burger. I was impressed to receive, essentially, half a guinea hen, neatly cooked inside a crackling, cinnamon-scented crusted.
The plate was strewn with al dente red beans and dressed frisée lettuce. Roast sweet potato came in wafer-thin slices, but there was too much meat for me to pine for a side of plantains or chili fries.
It was curious that the only dish which seemed to lack heft was the vegetable roti platter (vegetables, as a rule, still being cheaper than guinea hen, lamb, or wild bass. It was only $19 (most mains are around $26), but one felt the restaurant could charge a couple of bucks more and fill the plate up.
Squash and eggplant were the featured players. The jollof rice, which framed them, was strangely vinegary.
But this shouldn't sound too downbeat. The place is much easier to book than the more accomplished Red Rooster, but it was hopping on a weekend evening. The bar in front is especially lively, and deafeningly loud; fortunately, the music is fainter in the dining room--but it's still a place where you'll be raising your voice across the table.
A nice addition to the neighborhood, at the very least. And looking around the room, not just at the diversity of the crowd, but the much greater age range than at the typical new restaurant in Brooklyn, I wondered again which neighborhood I was in.
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