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

Can Jet Blue and JFK hurry these plans along?

What a killer plan. Way to get the architecture/preservation nerds and the foodie jet set aligned! If only they could get this super duper terminal open by next week for our use.

Farewell to Florent...

My professional training and experience is entirely based on the fact that urban neighborhoods change. I accept and celebrate how things come, things go. Such are the endlessly fascinating and complicated cycles of city life.

Still, I'm really sad that Florent is no more.

Back in May, we received the best treatment I've ever had with kids in tow, anywhere. Crayons and coloring pages were brought to us, drinks were served in plastic cups (a moment of the practical trumping the environmental), frequent attention was paid to make sure we had all we needed.

The food satisfied young and old(er) alike. And relatively speaking, James was shockingly well-behaved; he stayed at the table the entire meal, which these days is unheard of. He somehow knew to not totally ruin the meal. My friend Rosanna hung in with us like a champ.

Did Florent Morellet envision his namesake all-hours restaurant as becoming that dreaded of all phrases, "kid friendly"? Of course not, but he stuck to restaurateursim as its best -- responding to the needs of his customers, whether outrageous drag queens or rowdy small kids. Florent evolved alongside the neighborhood it helped define, for better or for worse.

Just like other things associated with Florent, its loss will be felt for some time, even if physically the place will remain.

Take the A train to ... Mamajuana Cafe

Though the charms of way upper Manhattan are many, there are some drawbacks. My sister can't help but rant with raging jealousy of how even in some unlikely corner of Brooklyn you can find a stellar bakery and cool bar.
We all love Inwood, with the great parks, lively residential vibe, Revolutionary War era historic sites and many mofongo houses, but it has a long way to go in the eating department.

Some fine things in one's backyard, however, can go unnoticed. So good thing we finally took a walk down to Mamajuana Cafe on Dyckman.

The scene is jumping on a Wednesday night. Watching the crowd and live music are the best things going here, which is an eclectic hybrid of vaguely Spanish/ Caribbean rustic sensibilities meets a northern Manhattan nightspot. Some design details are sort of puzzling, but they're definitely not off-the-rack Home Depot type materials. Despite the big city location (granted not on the Sex and the City tour route), Mamajuana feels welcoming as a small village watering hole.

Garlic fries, ceviche, and octopus dishes aren't anything to write home about. (Note to the kitchen: it's not very difficult to make fries with fresh potatoes.) It's best thought of as tapas to absorb the good booze offerings. A mojito with tamarind puree rounds out the tartness to make a robust cocktail. And they don't skimp on the rum either -- meaning the namesake drink will be for the next visit.

Mamajuana Cafe
247 Dyckman Street
New York, NY 10034
212.304.0140

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.

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

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    

Lightly dressed on top at 5th and 57th: BG

Because I treat department stores like museums, my baby has so far seen more Marni than Matisse, more Prada than Picasso, and more Lanvin than Léger.  Our time in New York offered a not-entirely-yet-balanced mix of the above (thanks, Poiret at the Met!).  But I'll gradually right that wrong by kicking up the fine art museum-going a notch to make gawking at unattainable art more edifying, I promise.   

One afternoon, we braved the posses of Tory Burch flats-wearin' bitches and charged into the ultimate temple, the best venue to enjoy fashion as a spectator and sociological sport.  And like museums, you can eat there, too.

Bergdorf's now boasts its own Kelly Wearstler-designed dining room where the old ladies are pleased as punch that some things they liked decades ago are  hip again, and the young 'uns can get their (kind of) ironic retro crusty groove on. 

BG on the seventh floor is my least favorite of the KWID spaces.  I'd much rather look out at the views of Central Park laid out like a carpet below than the Disney Haunted Mansion-like echo chamber creating chairs, or the Sputnik chandeliers (yawn), or the speckled mirrors that my grandparents and all their friends had in their Dallas houses circa 1970.  And Chinoiserie-inspired roundels emblazoned on the window valences echo that fucking Tory B. medallion. But I gotta hand it to her -- Kelly has a uncannily prescient sense of what the socialites want.

OK, so get to the food already, you groan.  I've procrastinated because there's not a whole lot to say.  Eileen and I both went for salads, since, well, that's the obvious choice with this Wexler-treated crowd.  Our keesters were occupying some pricey Manhattan real estate, which means the "rent" is steep, and we overpaid for a piles of iceberg and romaine lettuce, deviled eggs, ham slices, and a couple types of not terribly special cheeses.  Yet at $25, the BG salad is among the cheapest -- I mean most modest -- priced items in the whole store.   Plus it comes with a couple of complimentary macaroons with your check. 

Should you like your salads very light on the dressing, there's no need to make a special request at BG.  Those dishes are as bare as a stick thin figure in a Cavalli gown, which is why they can offer potentially super fattening thousand island on the Gotham salad.  But if you want your stuff a little heavier or fuller they can accommodate, just like those other Upper East Side professionals.

Spring Vacation Time: Grom Gelato

Here we are in New York while our neighborhood could be burning soon.  I'm trying not to freak out from afar, since there's not much I can do. So I'll obsess over other things. 

Easy enough to do in New York, because as usual I'm overwhelmed by food and restaurant desires.  Yet things are a little different now.  It's hard not to get frustrated because the baby limits how much we can take on.  It's dinner at 7, then home by 9 or 10.  And that's even with our relatively flexible kid.  Still, we're already having a blast with him here.

After dinner at the well-priced and delicious Celeste on Amsterdam, where unfortunately the crowds and dickish personnel factors were challenging, the artisanal gelato shop Grom was our first Big Food Destination.

The lines in front of the Broadway storefront already rival those at Pinkberry in WeHo when it was first hot hot hot.  At this location, folks want their traditional authentic gelato, not high tech fakey fro-yo.  (I can't speak to what's going on further downtown at the City's first P.B.) Grom is pricey -- a small cup, while just the right amount, costs five bucks -- but is the finest gelato you'll find this side of the Atlantic.  Even on a chilly night the density, consistency and ingredients all ring true.  The stainless steel freezer case with round metal covers is old school, like at San Crispino.  And you don't need a hot day to quickly shovel away small plastic spades full of chocolate, gianduja, straciatella, and pistachio gelato. 

This isn't the place for people who like to take a walk on the wild side when it comes to their ice cream.  Instead the Wynton Marsalises of the gelato world will be pleased by the store's dedication to traditional methods, ingredients and flavors.  Actually, Grom will make just about everyone who walk through its doors happy.