Ritz Bites

Best Manners: Blue Hill NYC

A few weeks after our fabulous anniversary dinner at Blue Hill this summer, I was surprised by an extra gesture that arrived in the mail: a real, actual paper thank you note!

I've gotten thank you cards from stores and eager salespeople, but never a restaurant. Way to earn extra points in my book. Anyone who's ever given me a gift knows I'm a bit of an OCD fascist when it comes to thank you etiquette. (And to those with whom I have lapsed in this department, I'm sincerely sorry. I'm happy to mail you an apology.) I might be a quasi-environmentalist who prefers to eliminate paper waste, but I love pretty paper products and will never be offended by receiving a thank you card via US Mail, even if the message is on the terse and impersonal side.

  This unbleached recycled card made the memories of the farm-to-table meal at the cozy Village restaurant linger that much more deliciously in my mind: the poached egg salad with corn and mushrooms and gently blanketed with translucent crudo ribbons; pork chop served with a hunk of crisp pork belly and green peas; and rustic lamb. The pretentious, overly precious "cherry tomatoes on the fence" amuse bouche trick? A little less so.

I can't, however, remember when or how I gave them my home address; maybe I signed a comment card? Dunno. Too much Charbonniere 2004 Chateauneuf du Pape.

Update: my sister waited in line for the hay ride at the Stone Barns Harvest Festival today behind  behind Jon friggin' Stewart and his family. Clearly Blue Hill is pleasing important people in the right places. Forget about little ol' me. I wonder what Dan Barber & Co send Mr. Stewart...

Blue Hill NYC
75 Washington Pl
New York, NY 10011
212.539.1776

The higher end of a weekend in San Francisco

Because I haven't spent a ton of time in San Francisco, especially in recent years, it was time to hit some of the classics. But asking for advice from friends and colleagues was quickly overwhelming.

Too many places. Too much good food. Too hard to decide. (Big problems, I know.) So I left it to fate, and my  trusty eater brother-in-arms MOP noticed a rez at Jardiniere on the Saturday night. I'm glad to cede OpenTable.com stalking to someone whose taste in food I trust.

Jardiniere's been around long enough that the taxi drivers know where it is, but it's not played out. At least not to my foreign SoCal eyes. The Nouveau touches, like the swag iron railings, make it feel like Fancy Special Occasion Place but also fun. I wish more restaurants had a balcony with such panoramic good views of other eaters and the room.

The menu again presented more tough choices, a situation for which the tasting menu took care of everything. And thankfully, everything was great. If only there weren't so many other restaurants to hit up on the next trip, I'd gladly go back just to order the luscious potato gnocchi with lobster, chanterelles and shallot jus topped with just about the best bread crumbs I'd ever tasted; the duck breast with blackberries, farro, and foie gras terrine; and the interesting wine pairings that totally did us in.

The meal felt like a perfect meeting of Northern California and France. If only international relations were this triumphant.

When I told Cicely that our other dinner plan included dinner at Zuni, she pointed out its CP-equivalent iconic status in her mind. Shame on me for never having been! (She didn't really say that. Instead I thought it.)

Compared to Jardiniere, Zuni's menu was well, not as exciting. But it's an impeccably sourced, sustainable apples and oranges comparison. Zuni is closer to the level of what a highly competent home cook can make, many of whom I know are Zuni fans.

Yet its comfort and sincerity is 100% Bay Area (4% "health surcharge" for the city's universal health care program!), and the food will never go out of style. Roasted chicken with bread salad, mustard greens, and pine nuts and currants (a Catalonia-inspired riff I often borrow) is indeed firmly in the Judy Rodgers canon. The crazy $48 price tag for a chicken who lived a happy life is also pure current day S.F. 

I've done my foodie duty. And just shot my street cred by using that word.
 

Gordon Ramsay on the 46th Floor

The next few posts will be about getting through the backlog of our trip to NYC.

Is it fair to judge a chef and restaurant by the quality of room service?

In this case, I say sure. As Gordon Ramsay prepares to open the doors to his latest Sunset Boulevard outpost, I won't rush to experience his West Coast digs. I've already had a brush with the GR kitchen at the hotel where we camped out at for a few days in New York last week. The London NYC houses Gordon's eponymous restaurant, and all other food options lower on the hierarchy apparently have something to do with the man himself and his Michelin starred kitchens.

Now, I LOVE room service. My Eloise fantasies often trump any common sense about it. Food delivered to the room is ususally cold, bland, poorly textured, or all of the above. But hey -- it's always fun.

Frank Bruni's dream assignment that was published last year set my expectations of The London's "in room dining" quite high. Out of the six hotels where he sampled room service, The London ranked top. Since we can't go out much, good room service (and roomy suites) appealed when booking our stay. I suspect, however, that perhaps Mr. Bruni didn't check in under a pseudonym.

Dinner brought to the 46th floor on a Friday night was certainly several cuts above average. Yet service was fine, nothing to write home about. That tray of food pictured above fed me, a 19-month-old, and a four-year-old. It consisted of an overly dressed Caesar salad that made me feel slightly ill, a very tasty chicken breast with delectably crisp skin and rich mushrooms, creamed potatoes (think butter with some potatoes mixed in for good measure), green peas, and a glass of ABC pinot.  [Yes! Jim Clendenen still has that amazing hair in his glam shot.] It came on simple elegant dishes placed on ubiquitous Chilewich place mats. 

It cost $100. At least the chicken was excellent, and if it was cold, that was at least partially my fault since the kids have to get fed first. I'm sure what's served in the dining room is immeasurably better than in the privacy of your own room. But still... Breakfast in the dining room the next morning? Our trio ate very modestly (scrambled eggs, one order French toast, coffee, juice) for $64. In less than 24 hours I was exasperated by the Midtown tourist economy.

We'll see what happens when GR (maybe) comes to L.A. this week.

It's Craft(y), it's just my type

Going to Craft without my camera was an absent-minded move. But since it's not a dainty kind of place with an excruciatingly delicate plating style, let me set the scene of the table: plates and cast iron cauldrons heaped full of direct, single-ingredient focused, rich dishes that all tasted amazing on a rainy Los Angeles night. I wasn't even cranky about waiting half and hour for our table. The ginger-spiked sidecar helped ease that situation, too.

Sometimes I love not quite knowing what to expect when I order a dish and finding out what a cryptic or, realistically, pretentious description yields. Then other times it's more satisfying to know that what you see is what you'll get, especially with the understanding that you'll get the best ingredients and preparation. Since it'd been a while since my last Big Fancy Dinner, the latter worked best for my wants and needs. I didn't want to be let down or confused, and I was neither at Craft. I would be happy with almost everything on the menu , so we had to order the family style items with laser beam focus.

Choosing once was hard enough. What to do next time? Re-experience the extraordinary surprising juicy Peruvian octopus with thick Greek yogurt, molten tender short ribs, perfectly roasted beet salad, and creative duck egg/ waffle combo? Not to mention the meaty and silky hen of the woods mushrooms and Brussels sprouts with thick hunks of crisp bacon. Best to go with more friends willing to blow a wad to revisit these faves, and try to make a dent in the wide (literally) menu. (I now understand why it's the best utilitarian agent power lunch spot for people who eat there several times a week.)

Despite early criticisms of exorbitant prices, ordering right doesn't mean having to wash dishes given Craft's brand of swanky, expense account eating. We even had a few morsels left over. Our four first courses, three seconds, and two sides formula worked out just fine. I'm certainly not saying it's not expensive, though.   

Oh, and we can't forget the final touches. Sweet, sweet dessert made us swoon, including an amuse bouche that tasted like liquid cheesecake with mango bits. Will someone further east in L.A. please make a meyer lemon chiboust that's as airy and delectable as Craft's, and paired with funky goods like fluffy, complexly textured coconut cake and thyme sorbet? I'm not a donut fanatic, but those went fast at our table and were instant buddies with the sarsaparilla, maple bacon, and creamsicle ice creams and sorbets. 

Regarding the fruit of the vine, I'll be going to Mission Wines to pick up some Betts & Scholl Grenache Chronique. Given the intensity and range of Craft's menu, it's a tall order to pick versatile wines, but this lighter, not overly ripe one hit all the right notes. Plus you gotta love a wine named for Dr. Dre.

To end things right, the parting gift was a warm fuzzy in the cold corporate environment of Century City. Maybe There Ain't No Such Thing as Free Food an Expensive Meal (T.A.N.S.T.A.F.F.E.M.), but the moist carrot raisin muffins gave us a bonus perk of something else predictably delicious to savor the next morning.

WTF took us so long? Campanile Writers' Soup Kitchen

It's February and week I've-lost-count of the WGA Strike. For a while now, Mark Peel has graciously offered the Writers' Soup Kitchen at Campanile featuring prix fixe dinners on Wednesday for $18. The special isn't exclusively for writers only; merely one guest per table has to be a Guild member for all party members to partake.

Apparently WSK nights have been packed ever since this special meal began, but then there are the idiots like us who procrastinate. Thinking about all the typically delicious Campanile food we ate last Wednesday, all I can say is -- dumb move to have waited so long. 

It's an amazing deal. My tangy sidecar cost about half of the $18 meal, and the difference between one dinner and a glass of wine is marginal. We weren't drinking enough to get the $25 bottle paired with the menu, but a friend of ours a couple tables over gave us a glass. (If you're a writer or just know a lot of writers, be prepared to see many familiar faces.) They're giving away the store!

Both the creamy fennel and butternut squash soups started off the meal on the right wintery note. The half grilled chicken was succulent and perfectly charred. The fries vanished, fast. Veal scallopini
isn't my thing, but as far as Italo-Americano classics go, there wasn't anything to complain about. I loved the beluga lentils and pancetta chunks served with the moist and rich mahi mahi. And to finish, small scoops of each vanilla and chocolate gelato tucked together in ebony/ivory harmony and one biscotto are all one needs for dessert.

I still take issue with the name of the meal, but am grateful for the restaurant's largess. And will gladly take advantage of this minor silver lining of the strike again, especially since time might be running out.

A night of exacting perfection in Midtown: Four Seasons and Le Bernardin

Mies van der Rohe and Eric Ripert have a lot in common.  They're exacting about their respective crafts, uncompromising in vision, and dedicated to the honest yet inventive use of materials/ingredients.  Philip Johnson, too, to a limited extent.

So it made sense to kick off our big Date Night with drinks at the Four Seasons.  A dream come true for me.  I got to sit with the old guys who were knocking back a few after managing their hedge funds.  Or so I assume. I mean, they were wearing bow ties.  Otherwise, who could these people be?

The space has aged a bit more than I would think, sort of in that midcentury modern institutional way.  But it's still a timeless classic, and I had the feeling of standing on hallowed ground.  If only the sublime Rothkos were actually in their intended home. 

I can't vouch for the food, but the restaurant is still meticulous about every detail.  The toilet paper in the women's restroom bathes in soft incandescent glow underneath custom marble light fixtures.  Never seen that touch before.  Drinks come from the old school boy's club of Manhattan bartending; no freshly squeezed juice cocktails found here.  Then it's on to the new wave of perfection...

Thanks to recent episodes of Top Chef, the general public is more familiar than ever with he of the resplendent silver mane, steely sexy gaze, and the thick French-accented gentle voice.  While not quite yet at Mario levels, the revered Eric Ripert seems to maintain a very busy media schedule.   

The Le Bernardin tasting menu is a march of flawless technique and sophistication I will NEVER be able to cook myself.  I'm easily impressed by all the finishing flourishes, whether it's a staggeringly subtle lemongrass infusion poured around a perfect hunk of poached halibut, or heavy red wine brandy sauce and truffled potato emulsion added to the hearty roasted monkfish, which is also prettied up with a few judiciously added fava beans, black trumpet mushrooms, and one Brussels sprout leaf.  Thin textured skate, which I'd never experienced as anything particularly special, comes alive with razor-thin mango slices, and quiet spicy pepper and lime notes.  Only the supple octopus amuse bouche and the intriguing corn themed dessert were delivered to the table as-is. 

This kind of quality comes at a price, of course.  New record: $30 for a glass of wine, of which I can purchase a bottle for just twice that amount at Wally's.  Ouch.  I do, however, thank them for introducing us to the remarkable Muscat Grand Cru Spiegel from Domaine Dirler-Cade.  I loved it as much as the peekytoe crab with shaved cauliflower and mustard emulsion, its companion dish.

Unfortunately, Midtown sets the tone of the restaurant.  Ample expense accounts are easing the pain of most of those three and four-figure meals being eaten on that Tuesday night.  There's an uptightness (duh) to the business formal wood and leather-laden room. 

I can't really sit back and breathe easy -- comfort isn't Le Bernardin's forte, neither in attitude nor cuisine (which isn't to say we received rude service.  Quite the contrary.)  The sommeliers wear medallions that double as tasting cups, which are prizes from a competition.  Yes, we KNOW you know your shit. 

At the end of the night I ended up with three prized matchbooks to add my collection.  That Four Seasons martini gave me the courage to march into 21 Club, making the evening an experience of a Midtown classic restaurant trifecta.

Four Seasons
99 East 52nd Street, NY 10022

212.754.9494

Le Bernardin
155 West 51st Street (between 6th & 7th Aves.), NY 10019
212.554.1515

Black, white and red all over: Murano on Melrose

The days of ticky tacky newspaper decoupages that plastered the walls at 9010 Melrose Avenue near Doheny are a distant memory.  That's because the large space has been a revolving door of restaurants since the West coast outpost of Cafe Figaro closed sometime in the late 80s or early 90s.  The latest incarnation, an urbane bar/lounge called Murano, is the most extreme design tabula rasa yet.

All the major elements get a check in the "it totally works" box: thin metal alloy piers that modulate the facade, contrasting spotless white surfaces and ebonized floors, a few silver glitter-slathered walls, comfy chairs, and Lucite bar stools.  Best are the dramatic scarlet and black glass lighting fixtures that honor the restaurant's namesake.  Think upscale South Beach and Palm Springs -- a smattering of alter-kakers included.  But the ten lively WeHo boys in our group who were there to celebrate a friend's birthday (plus me and the hubby) were more the target audience. 

A panzanella centered around polenta with heirloom tomatoes, cubes of cucumbers, plus a bit of burrata topped with microgreens needed streamlining.  (On a related note, I must stop confusing panzanella with anchovy-dressed Roman puntarelle!)  In an effort to bring all our main courses at once, the flat iron steak arrived lukewarm; the meat was a little tough and even for me too salty, but the potato galette and pile of spinach were extremely satisfying.  Both dishes, however, seem like they're stuck in the time when Balsamic vinegar was the most exciting Italian ingredient to hit our shores since Parmesan and olive oil, and kitchens everywhere were reducing it by the gallon.  I liked the clean white fish served next to a generous pile creamy leeks.  Murano's portions are generous, plus the Veuve and pinot grigio were flowing heavily enough to somehow eliminate interest in dessert.  We all took small bites of a cute little flourless chocolate cake.

There's a nice specialty cocktail menu, but the wine list isn't terribly interesting.  We're also in $14 cocktail territory here.  Really?  $14?  When did that price become OK outside of a hotel bar, especially for drinks without fresh squeezed juices?

Criticisms aside, it was the most fun group dinner in recent memory (which, admittedly, I generally hate), mostly because of the company.  But I can't discount the setting.  If we go back, it'll be to enjoy the slick-as-a-mofo room in daylight for brunch. 

Murano
9010 Melrose Avenue
West Hollywood 90069
310.246.9118

Photo from Citysearch.

We got in!: Osteria Mozza

When talking about Osteria Mozza, there aren't any nasty rumors to put to rest nor much criticism at all, really.  I was ready to drink the Kool-Aid before the long anticipated restaurant finally opened, and now I've swilled and chugged.   

First off, let me state for the record that Marissa is a VERY good friend for giving us her Wednesday night reservation as a wedding anniversary present.  (She also tried to pre-arrange another gift for us there that didn't work out due to a staff snafu, but for both gestures she deserves a major thank you.)  She's been there more than anyone save for the two major restaurant critics in town, yet if I were her I'd hoard any chance to go back.

As Marissa pointed out, the well-organized menu with its four main sections (antipasti, mozzarella bar, primi and secondi, plus contorni and dessert) is like the best of Nancy meets the best of Mario.  The mozzarella bar is clearly Nancy's domain, from which she oversees the bins of latticini freschi and a dizzying number of accompaniments.  The majority of the antipasti and mozzarella menu section offerings are focused on seasonal ingredients and the whole farmers' market thing, but make no mistake -- pig trotters and testa make an appearance.   Ah, the hand of Mario becomes apparent.

Then Mario swoops in (um, make that THUDS in) with the meaty stuffed pastas, sauces, and protein-focused entrées listed on the primi and secondi pages.   

All items are under the $30 mark, which nearly feels damn well charitable in this restaurant market.  But don't worry -- there are plenty of things to spend money on.  And note that the pasta portions border on the skimpy side.

Tender octopus pieces remind me of the incredible stuff we had at Babbo a couple years ago, but I prefer like the delicate sweetness that rings through the lemony bed of celery, potatoes and chives to the pepper medley served on Waverly Place.  The affetati misti showcase Papa Armandino's handiwork, including magically melting lardo, but the gnocchi fritti side falls flat.  In the world of fried savory dough, I'd rather have sopapillas slathered with honey in New Mexico.  The delicious crusty bread works great enough.

The quasi-open faced sandwiches are the real show stoppers.  Burratta Burricotti topped with currants, pine nuts, bread crumbs and braised artichokes is definitely best eaten before the hot little number with bacon, escarole and carmelized shallots.  The only bummer is the first one is gone so fast.  There's some disagreement about the second item, and while the crisp bacon is really intense, I still love the smoky/slightly bitter combo of ingredients.

Pasta offerings stick a few classics.  No beef cheek ravioli or other complicated items here.  Or so it seems.  Ask the waiter and you'll get a ton of information about what's what, and the image of the food's simplicity evaporates.  (This is one seriously well trained and informed staff.)  For instance, the menu says "Agnolotti, burro e salvia."  All it takes it one simple question to learn the pillowy wonders are stuffed with a mixture of veal, salami, and a couple other meats, and the garganelle al ragù contains some homemade fennel sausage.  Ah, so that helps explain its incredible lingering depth.    

Of all the desserts, rosemary fritters with olive oil gelato -- a slightly savory, herb-based concoction -- beckons the loudest.   I haven't had gelato this creamy and subtle since Grom in New York; I'd gladly eat the cakes' soft crumbling texture  again for breakfast the next day.  The elegant rosemary brittle ribbon that joins the two components could have been made by a former Chihuly disciple who abandoned the glass trade to work in pastry.

My two biggest -- and essentially major only -- criticisms: 1) it's fuh-reeeezing in there, and 2) pleasant dinner music The Who doth not make.  I know Mario likes to rock out with his er, smock out.  And while the White Stripes and R.E.M. are fine (though the selection of the latter was, alas, later dull Warner Bros. material), Roger Daltrey's screaming pitch doesn't make me feel good.  So by extension the strains of "Won't Get Fooled Again" don't help people look prettier, the wall colors more complimentary, the sauces taste any richer or the charcuterie more luscious.

We'll be headed to the lively mozzarella bar counter next time.  Those deluxe sheets of burnished marble look like half of Carrara's export for the year was earmarked for Mozza's dining surfaces.  It's the best vantage point from which to watch the action taking place beneath the double height ceilings (the mezzanine level from the previous occupant was removed), dark woods, pin-spot lighting and soft glowing pendant fixtures.  Plus no one has to sit with his back to the restaurant facing the Mobil station across the street (sorry, H).

Osteria Mozza's got that fabulous busy urban restaurant buzz, and believe you me, there are no signs of it fading any time soon.

Osteria Mozza
6602 Melrose Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90038
323.297.0100 (good luck with that!)

It's delightful, it's delicious, it's delectable: it's Daniel

If I were to write a properly complete post about our sumptuous, over the top, fantasy-fulfilling six-course tasting menu dinner at Daniel it would a) be too damn long, and b) not reveal much about this lauded New York fancy pants French restaurant. 

Here are some highlights instead.

I had my first $22 cocktail.*  It wasn't that great.  The bartender needed to spend some time on the beach in Rio sampling $1.5o drinks before charging this much for a passion fruit caipirinha that was light on the fruit and too sour.

My handbag got its own seat.  At Daniel, they don't want those cherished Birkins or this season's Dior Gauchos to touch the floor, so purses are placed on a patterned velvet upholstered stool.  I thought my trusty Kate Spade brown leather shoulder bag was the cheapest accessory in the Chanel-studded room; that was until my sister handed me the blue plastic pencil case my mom gave her to re-purpose as a clutch.  Even though it could've been Prada's experiment with synthetics for all they knew, it didn't get its own stool, so we shared.  And H's man purse had to rest on the floor.  Talk about discrimination. 

Peekytoe crab, again?  At Daniel it came with avocado "carotte fondante", lime gelée, and cilantro mousseline.  I know folks now yawn at the mere mention of molecular gastronomy, but this stuff would wake most people up.  I felt like I was truly eating carrot-flavored air.  Pretty cool.

While H was more adventurous and got the frog legs with foie gras stuffed morels, fava beans and spring garlic -- if you're gonna try them, where better else to do it? -- Ali and I sheepishly selected the tomme de l'Abbaye de Tamié tortellini.  Definitely the wussier of that course's options (she was getting the fish tasting menu anyway), but I had no regrets.  A remarkable cheese-stuffed pasta with Serrano ham, broccoli rabe, and chanterelles in the hands of the most skilled chefs was far, far from prosaic.  Both dishes were heavy on the zingy savory emulsions.

Somewhere between these courses the man himself came out of the kitchen to work the room.  Yet we didn't get the Wolfgang moment I expected, when the famous chef graciously makes the rounds and introduces himself to almost everyone, making his customers feel cool and VIPish for a few seconds.  Instead Mr. Bouloud was strategically dispatched to select tables, following the discreet instructions of a man who I assume is the captain.  It was just like the scene in The Devil Wears Prada, in which Andie saves the day at the gala by knowing who's who for Miranda, and Emily is both humiliated and relieved. 

Even though we were seated in the main pit area at what seemed like a good table, we got snubbed.  Daniel talked to a couple heavy-set guys with comb-overs, old blazers and their elderly female dining companion at the table next to us.   They spoke French and English, so maybe they were French paper industry titans or something obscure that nonetheless makes them important, even if they don't look it.  I guess the West Coast can be more egalitarian, after all.

More fish, with larger portions than I expected... Typical of this meal.

On to the heavy shit.  The stewed peppers overwhelmed lovely slices of Colorado lamb; nothing was ruined, it just made me hyper-aware of my hyper-awareness of all peppers.  (Green bell pepper is the one vegetable I flat out dislike.)  As would be expected, Daniel gets on the best quality of meat, and when cooked rare it showcased the subtle fat marbles and smooth flesh.  That being said, lamb didn't outshine the braised short ribs and seared rib eye that comprised the duo of dry aged beef (pictured).  Dark, heavy, manly.  I kept stealing little bits of the tempura "allumette" potatoes.  I wish we could've ordered an entire side order of them, kitchen and appetites permitting.

 

I love banana-featured sweets, but they're usually mushy or funky -- often on purpose, like a good banana cream pie.  Daniel did away with all of that, which I'm sure comes as a surprise to no one.  The carmelized banana showed off some crazy fruit alchemy and architectural plating skills.  A pool of caramel sauce filled the artful negative space between the crisp fruit with chantilly and the three perfect oval scoops of vanilla ice cream.  Ingredients were manipulated into smooth, horizontal sculptural effects for the chocolate-praline crémeux and dark chocolate ice cream. 

But the best part of dessert had almost nothing to do with the pastry.  We ate almost all of the hot-from-the-oven mini madelines, except for the one H set aside to save for his coffee.  It then got swept away by an overzealous busser.  A polite mention of the incident resulted in yet another full batch of fresh cookies delivered to our table, even though we only needed one or two more.  How sad to let the uneaten cookies go to waste, so I asked to take them home.  Instead of a to-go package, however, I was given a claim check number.  I politely thanked the waiter, yet was confused. 

In an effort to preserve my dignity, it turned out the cookies were waiting for me at coat check. 

Lesson learned: the staff at Daniel cares about protecting their customers' images as non-doggy bag people as much as they do the bottoms of handbags.

Daniel
60 E. 65th Street
New York, NY 10021
212.288.0033

* Correction: The wines by the glass were in the mid-$20 range. Cocktails were mid- to high teens.

Spring colors in bloom: Eleven Madison Park

May in New York is an awesome time of year.  The trees and flowers are exploding in color and texture.  People are in a good mood.

Lunch at Eleven Madison Park, perhaps the most staid of the Danny Meyer Empire, elegantly and quietly captured this exuberance.  All of our dishes celebrated the season, and even better, matched each other. 

It was the most color-coordinated meal I've ever had. I can't pull off wearing grapefruit-toned pinks, pale yellows, or peachy oranges, but I'm happy to eat foods in those colors.  Especially while in a spacious room flooded with light from adjacent Madison Square Park and enlivened by fanciful bands of Deco ornament along the walls and ceiling.

While on the fussy side, lunch this time around was better than the dinner I had there a few years ago.  That doesn't mean, however, that extreme care and attention to visual detail trump flavor.  (I wonder if all those suited-up Credit Suisse bankers they must serve find some of the food to look too, um, delicate.)

Everything we ordered was so damn pleasing to the eye.  Not in that Portale stacked up, Delirious New York way, but airy and delicate and sprightly.  Spring greens perked up the creamy, soft colors, like with the refreshing cold white asparagus soup with a ball of peekytoe crab.  It was a shame to bust up the grilled scallops with citrus and potato pieces, which looked like they were having a springtime lawn party, complete with cute little party hats.  But it all tasted too perfectly seasonal and the preparation was on-the-nose. 

Not all the food is for pussies.  You can also have meat with a side of meat.  I didn't know the beef tenderloin with Bordelaise sauce came with a small lump of sweet, rich osso buco ragu served over a lump of saffron-laced risotto alla milanese.  Had the tenderloin not been so supple and amazing, it would've been an eating indurance test.  I'm so craving that top-crusted, velvety disc as I write this.  Saffron made another appearance in the light sauce surrounding the loup de mer fillet, which was finished off with a nice zing of onions, peppers and citrus.

We took our waiter's advice and stuck with the fennel ice cream served with the panna cotta instead of substituting it with vanilla.  (I only like fennel when it's cooked down so that the anise taste disappears, or occasionally I'll enjoy it sliced very thin in salads.)  I'd never think ice cream would be a good use of this tricky vegetable.  But somehow it evoked a blooming vegetable garden in a good way, not in the sucky licorice way.  Covered with OCD-style peeled blood red oranges, the panna cotta was close to the platonic ideal (for me, anyway), and the sauce streaks kept it in the visual theme of our meal.   

When I saw the pistachio macaron pass by after we finished, I knew skipping it was a mistake.   So what if the green fell somewhere else on the color wheel. 

Eleven Madison Park
11 Madison Avenue
New York 10010
212.889.0905