Gastro Chic New York City Entry #107 Spotted Pig

One of shocks to the Gotham culinary mind was the awarding of a Michelin star to New York's first - and perhaps only - "gastropub." Here was the cute little Spotted Pig in Babbo's rarified company (Chef Batali is reported to be a silent partner at the Pig, along with Ken Friedman and London Chef April Bloomfield). There was no doubt that the Pig was a convivial neighborly place, but could a saloon be anointed for its haute cuisine?

It is said that there is no accounting for fashion, and somehow the Pig has transcended its West Village neighborhood to become a "phenomenon." When we arrived at 6:00, the bar had a pleasant Cheers-like feel; by the time we left, two hours later, we had to push our way to the exit, and the night was still in its infancy - a good six hours left to play. Indeed, arriving in time for the Senior's Discount, we missed the true Pig experience.

With its wood floors, exposed brick, and inviting bar, the Spotted Pig (which last year expanded to a second floor) is homey, if in a somewhat generic way. Emptied of customers, one would have no idea that this space will become the center of the downtown universe. The staff, as befits a generous community center, moved with verve and humor. Whether their joy derives from images of tips to come or from the pleasure of being a part of a happening is hard to tell, perhaps both.

The menu, beginning with such bar routines as Chicken Liver Toast, Marinated Olives, Pickles, Roasted Almonds, and Duck Egg, suggests modest satisfactions. However, further reading suggests Chef Bloomfield's ambitions. Having six entrees and desserts and ten appetizers the kitchen is not overtaxed. With its signature chargrilled burger and ricotta gnudi with pesto, the dishes avoid the fussy or challenging. Whether the Pig used to indulge in "modern English cuisine," the British influence is muted; the menu has a vaguely Italianate feel with its Mozzarella with Fava Bean Bruschetta; Gnudi; Pork Tonnata; and Squid and Fennel.

Despite the odds, the Spotted Pig provides early diners pleasure. We began with a pair of appetizers, Radish Salad with Parmesan and Arugula and an order of Sheep's Ricotta Gnudi with Pesto (a cross between gnocchi and ravioli).

The Salad was the star of the evening, one of the most potent salads that I have ordered. Radish are a vegetable less often seen in Manhattan than durian, but I recall it fondly from my childhood, sharing a chilled bowl with my radish-relishing dad. The parmesan cut some of the bitter edge of the radish. It was both gentle on the eyes and zippy on the tongue.



The Gnudi did not live up to its billing as a key offering. I found the gnocchi blanketed by a salty sauce and rather mushy dumplings. It was rich and filling, but not of star quality.



We shared an entree, Pot Roast Rabbit with Green Garlic. The dish was unpretentious but compelling. This is not complex cuisine, but is undeniably well-made. The garlic-based sauce did not overwhelm the pieces of hare, but bolstered its rural charm. This dish, like the others tasted, didn't require extensive culinary acumen, but it evoked a blessed moment before cuisine became finicky (repeat in unison, "what splendid food in a pub!"). With our entree we chose two sides: the Pig's famous Shoestring Fries with Rosemary, as delicious as it was impossible to eat daintily. Bits of spud flew everywhere. Thank goodness this is a pub where no one examines the floor. The heirloom beans were stewed, passable with a subtlety of color, even if the tastes were indistinct.







Dessert was what the Pig labels Banoffee: Banana-Toffee Tart. What a sweet tart: luscious and sugary with strong flavors of ban and offee. A Sundae pie for those who take their calories straight up.



The Spotted Pig works nicely as a modest restaurant that is both joyous and serious, but of course it is more. The Pig combines community center, dating bar, tavern, and nosherie. That the kitchen has ambitions makes it a dining destination for the beau monde. Whether this tiny, crushed, and charming pub can shuffle its audiences is for time to sort. Today this piglet is a spot of alright.

The Spotted Pig
314 W. 11th Street (at Greenwich St.)
Manhattan (Greenwich Village)
212-620-0393

For My Money New York City Entry #106 Sushi of Gari

A few days ago I had a reservation for dinner at Masa. I couldn't pull the trigger. My New York dinner adventures have dented hopes for retirement, and, even for you dear readers, I chose not to put myself on the street, begging seal-style for raw fish. With two days and counting, I canceled. A sushi banquet whose tariff would have landed on the far side of half-a-G was too lush for this working stiff.

For a sliver of Masa's charge, I could indulge in Sushi of Gari's omakase. Gari is the compact outlet for contemporary sushi on the Upper East Side. If Jewel Bako is a paragon of purity, Gari toys with the genre.

The space itself is comfortable if close. The restaurant is dominated by a sushi counter behind which five black-clad chefs labored. While one chef seemed to have greater sway, the lines of authority are not tightly drawn. During the late evening, there was little interaction with the customers. This is a restaurant where efficiency rules. Around the center space were placed some dozen small tables. The room is not startling austere or elegant, but pleasant in a somewhat nondescript fashion: black tables, flowered carpet, airy white hanging light fixtures, and the ever-present oak accents. More nice than noticeable.

Omakase at Gari is a straightforward matter. For $79, I received a dozen carefully prepared sushi. Dining solo, the meal lasted an hour. It wasn't exactly rushed, but the twelve pieces of sushi appeared together and it was time to chow down (without miso to conclude).

The quality of the fish was excellent (and the otoro exquisite), but it was the twists and turns that made the meal so filled with fun. And, for all the virtues of Japanese cuisine, playfulness is not a label that often gets attached to these repasts. (Some vegetables or fish paste in miso can appear in cunning shapes). As is proper, soy sauce is not provided, but is incorporated in the preparation (the variation is part of the taste contour of the meal).

The image below depicts the plate. Read the selections in three rows. I begin with the diagonal row nearest the front and read from upper right to lower left (three, five, and four):



1) Bluefin Tuna with Creamy Tofu Sauce. This is, in effect, the chef's amuse, waking the palate. Of all the pieces, Gari uses soy sauce most assertively with the bluefin to contrast with the creamy tofu. Simple and thrilling.

2) Red Snapper, Baby Greens, Lotus Root, and Olive Oil. Of the snappers, this was my favorite, perhaps the most glorious creation of the evening. The lotus root gave a lovely crunch, and the greens (or vinegar) had a compelling sour taste.

3) Salmon covered with sauteed tomato and onion. Here was a heated piece, almost a sushi pizza. Very rich and flavorful, a textural surprise.

4) Mackerel, Daikon, Scallion, and Caviar. This was somewhat chewy in consistency. The oily texture played off the previous fish, but this was one of the least compelling creations.

5) Golden Eye Red Snapper with toasted seaweed. A simple and rich preparation. In its simplicity it contrasted the more complex preparations that had come before.

6) Seared Salmon. Another simple presentation, and stunning in reminding me how buttery fresh fish can be.

7) Miso Marinated Grilled Yellowtail. Subtle and good. Less memorable than some other pieces, although the purity of the fish was satisfying.

8) Fatty Tuna (Otoro) with Mashed Daikon. The daikon puree was too wet for my taste. A relatively unsuccessful piece.

9) Fatty Tuna (Otoro) with Garlic and Ginger Jelly was brilliant in its contrasts. A dance of complex tastes and beautiful fish.

10) Mackerel. I missed the waitress's description, but the taste of the sauce reminded me of coffee. Whatever it was, the combination was odd, more curious than brilliant.

11) Pike Eel with Plum Sauce. I loved the slightly sweet, salty, and smoky taste of the eel and the plummy drop of red atop. Here was a traditional sushi transformed in a fashion that delighted. A treasure of the kind in which Gari specializes.

12) Snow crab. A simple, straightforward close to the dozen pieces. Although this was not the finest crab I've had, it made a sweet, pure contrast with its predecessors.

This omakase intrigued and provoked, but it was one that would have been more satisfying had pieces been served in three courses, row by row, forcing a more intense focus on each piece. One had to fight against the temptation to treat them as Sushi McNuggets. These nuggets demand consideration bite by swallow.

Negotiating the way to the washrooms reminds diners that Gari is not Masa, and, as creative as Chef Masatoshi "Gari" Sugio reveals himself to be, Chef Masayoshi "Masa" Takayama may win the battle of the Sushi Masa's (just a hunch). Yet, for my money - and it IS my money - Sushi of Gari does just fine. And as Chef Gari is my namesake, this is a lagniappe too delicious to ignore.

Sushi of Gari
402 East 78th Street (at First Avenue)
Manhattan (Upper East Side)
212-517-5340

Pleasant Dreams New York City Entry #105 Rao's

Rao's - the old school Southern Italian clubhouse, founded in 1896 at what is today a rare Italian corner of "Spanish Harlem" - is stuffed with "mystique." New Yorkers joke about the networking necessary to snare a reservation, six degrees of culinary separation. And those who are not so blessed (and some who are) turn up or look down their noses at a restaurant that represents, in this view, the "hysteria of hype." As Groucho realized, if Frank Pellegrino were to select YOU, is this really the place you would wish to dine? Rating restaurants by the effort to get a table, Rao's deserves three Michelin stars, but how would they know? Those Gallic judges surely didn't make the cut: Rao's is not listed.

When I arrived in Manhattan, I tried to get a reservation the old-fashioned way. I soon learned that the phone number was never answered (could it be caller ID?). It was a jape played on hopeful hicks. And in time, I came to believe that I was no more likely to meet Mickey the Vest (Rao's legendary sommelier) than I was to meet Mickey Mouse. And like a childish fantasy, I pushed Rao's from my mind, satisfied with Dominick's, Roberto's, Falai, and Marioland.

A few weeks ago, a deus ex machina occurred, implausible had it been scripted on Broadway. A colleague to whom I confided my fantasy informed me that a friend of a friend of a friend (and so on) who was supposed to dine bowed out. Let no seat be wasted; I was invited, warned that sometimes even reservations do not come to pass. And there I was - on leafy corner of Pleasant Avenue, a congenial lane if there ever was one. Being on my best behavior meant no flash photography, so a thin gruel of words must suffice (Bouley and Boulud don't seem to mind, but why chance it?).

From the street, Rao's resembles an upscale English pub, and the front bar dominates the room. (Rao's website needles hopeful applicants that "If you do not have a reservation, you can always have a drink at the bar." I am slightly dubious of this happy welcome, fearing the challenge of crowd control, but perhaps it is so). The room, walnut booths and circular tables, is of modest size with its most distinguishing design feature the excess of framed photographs on the wall. Of course, one no longer finds people strategizing to get into Sardi's, so that can't be all there is. The room is tight enough that gazing at the pictures is not likely. They reflect a surfeit of celebrity, rather than a visual guestbook. Life in Bloombergia insures that Rao's is smoke-free, but with enough imagination one can still smell those pungent Havanas.

Some trattorias trade on the celebrity at the stove - the auteur in the kitchen. Rao's is not among them. Anne Pellegrino Rao (the beloved "Aunt Anne"), the wife of then owner Vincent Rao, used to work the burners, but those nights have passed. Neither the website nor the gossip mill mentions the chef de cuisine. Whoever is cooking has much talent, but the food requires quick hands more than a nimble mind. Unlike Arthur Avenue's Roberto's, which chalks up its specials, suggesting the value added of kitchen inspiration, the verbal recital of dishes at Rao's does not advertise any offering as newly emergent from the gustatory brain.

What is crucial, what makes us all fighting fish, is the company. A possibility exists of being "where the action is." The restaurant is a cioppino of mugs, molls, toffs, cops, pols, profs, players, and the odd immortal Scientologist. But the heart of Rao's are Frankie (Frank Pellegrino, the co-owner), Joey (the maitre d'), and Mickey the Vest (the sommelier, outfitted in one of his 156 vests). Our night all three were present, and perhaps it was the sweet summer air or their innate charm, but we could hardly have been more accepted. Frank greeted us - and sized us up - at the door, and Joey and Mickey each visited the table. Joey pulled up a chair to explain the dishes and Mickey seconding our choice of a smooth, deep Banfi Brunello di Montalcino (I believe this was the Banfi we finally selected). From whatever random act of a chuckling God, we received a prime table, able to observe the community at the bar and in the booths. To insure that the evening was proceeding apace our reservation broker appeared to check on our good behavior, validating our bona fides (Rao's is the kind of place where that matters, a tactic less evident at Chez Panisse). We felt fuzzy, warm, and welcome, and were ready to spend on the dubious assumption that the size of our bill and our repetitious enthusiasm might at the end of this honeysuckle eve translate into a candied, "you'll come back now, boys."

So, we live to eat, no? Point one, no. My Dinner at Rao's was among my most memorable evenings through the Theater of Being There. For a few hours I belonged, and was damn glad. That night is recorded on the DVD of my DNA. Granted Woody Allen, Tony Bennett, Harry Potter, or the cast of South Park were not about, but we could imagine whom our fellow diners might be. And we were treated as if we might be them.

Point two. The food was, given its genre, impressive. I can't imagine traditional Southern Italian cuisine prepared with more mastery and panache. If Socrates were Bruni, he might label Rao's roasted sweet peppers as Platonic. Recall the sad tomatoes at Luger's. After tasting Rao's tomatoes, matched with mozzarella, I suspect some fiendish vegan gavage. Purists might have groused that the baked clams had gone missing under a mound of luxuriant buttered crumbs, but thinking of these bivalves as a oceanic stuffing made it lovely.

We selected two pastas, each perfectly prepared. Orecchiette (Shells) with Broccoli Rabe and Sausage and Penne with Tomato Sauce. I loved the mild, sweet spice of the tomato sauce, and the shells were as buttery as any. With two dishes split among four, we were on the right track.

As entrees, we chose herbed filet of sole, lemon chicken, and veal chop with peppers. The lemon chicken was simple, astonishing, and simply astonishing. The broiling of the chicken, browned to a moist blackened perfection, was matched by its snappy citrus marinade. No steamed yuzu, not even candied kumquat. The veal was juicy and tender, and the pepper, contributed a sweet-sour-spicy relish. I was less impressed by the sole, no danger of this fish being undercooked. It was fish of the old-school. The flavor was evocative, but the texture lacked bounce.

With our entrees, we ordered sides of escarole and spinach. I particularly treasured the slightly bitter bite of the escarole, but these were straightforward greens, boiled and buttered.

Tartufo, a bombe with vanilla and chocolate ice cream with a bit of raspberry jam, was surrounded by a rich chocolate shell. This dessert was as direct and immediate as a sweet can be, but none the worse for that. My friend's cheesecake was smooth, rich, and sweet. It was less the traditional New York slightly sour, slightly dry, slightly dense cake than how cheesecake is currently served throughout the land.

So, how was Rao's? If I claimed that it was a once-a-lifetime experience, I might falsely be on record that I have no desire to return. I lack the street cred to cadge a table without strings, but if I had to choose a place at which to be a benevolent patron, I can think of no sweeter spot than this starry venue on Pleasant Avenue.

Rao's
455 E. 114th Street (at Pleasant Avenue)
Manhattan (East Harlem)
212-722-6709

Scoops 6: Italian Ice Edition New York City Entry #105

With summer fully in place, I have been scurrying through the boroughs, tracking down the premier Italian ices: specifically Staten Island's Ralph's (with two outlets in Queens), Brooklyn's L&B Spumoni Gardens, and Queens' Lemon Ice King of Corona. Although it would be nice to report a race to the finish, in fact the outcome was never in doubt.

It is said that Frank Sinatra used to have his driver trek to Corona for Lemon Ice. Ol' Blue Eyes sure knew his ices. LIKC makes the Italian Ice of one's dreams. The ice is finely pulverized, leaving no chunks. The only texture comes from tiny bits of fruit, not so large as to become frozen. Whether one is consuming lemon, melon, peach, vanilla chip, cherry, or strawberry, the flavor is intense and pure. On any day, there are likely to be two dozen choices. As LIKC is about ten blocks from the nearest subway line (the 7), one works up a sweat that only a LIKC ice can satisfy. Famously the Lemon Ice King does not permit mixing of flavors, so it has become my habit (and it is becoming a habit) to purchase three small cups.

If getting to LIKC is a hike, Ralph's requires a car, taxi, or a Staten Island bus. Like LIKC, ices are served through the front window. And like LIKC, Ralph's has some two dozen (some water-based - the one's I tried - and some milk-based). I was impressed by the depth of flavor - I ordered Sour Cherry and Cantaloupe. The intensity of the cherry was remarkable. However, small chunks of ice remained in each. Should one prefer an ice that edges toward a snow cone, Ralph's will surely suit.

Most disappointing was the watermelon ice that I had at Brooklyn's L&B Spumoni Gardens (the spumoni ice cream was just fine, although the Sicilian square pizza slice was a bit salty for my taste. L&B is more a restaurant than an icery - but they, too have a front window to make one's purchases). Neither the flavor or texture made my trip to Gravesend worth repeating. When one describes the flavor of an Italian ice as "subtle," one knows trouble is afoot. I give L&B credit for providing something cool on a hot day, but I'll stick with spumoni.

Lemon Ice King of Corona
52-02 108th Street (at Corona Avenue)
Queens (Corona)
718-699-5133

L&B Spumoni Gardens
2725 86th Street (at West 10th Street and Avenue V)
Brooklyn (Gravesend)
718-449-6921

Ralph's Famous Italian Ices
501 Port Richmond Avenue (at Catherine Street)
Staten Island (Port Richmond)
718-273-3675

Great Expectations New York City Entry #104 Falai

My night's quest for the perfect Italian restaurant continues. Halfway through a recent dinner at Falai, I thought that the contest might have reached its finale, but, alas, not quite yet. Paradise requires astonishing entrees, not only bravura performances in the preliminaries.

Falai is a small, vest-pocket restaurant, owned and operated by Iacopo (YA-capo) Falai on the Lower East Side's rendition of restaurant row along Clinton Street, near Rivington. The restaurant is compact although not precisely jammed, and is nicely decorated in shades of white, gray, and brown. The space feels more open than it has any right to be architecturally, although the noise level from neighborly yolps is challenging. Falai's service is cordial, the staff comely, and the atmosphere a cross between Downtown and Milan. The space does not feel luxe, so much as energized, and on a Thursday evening the small restaurant was packed and somewhat humid. Falai has become a destination. (It is a destination with a nearby bakery - Panetteria at 79 Clinton. If my roll with flavorful black kale was typical, the bakery is a destination, too).

Our meals began with confidence and brilliance. Chef Falai presented one of the most startling amuses around. We were served a small cup filled with white: a danger of judging a cook by his cover. Here was apple mousse, mascarpone cheese, bits of red onion, and black caviar. It was splendid. The apple and mascarpone transformed what might otherwise have been a tired caviar cliche into magic. Fruit and caviar are no longer an unheard of pair.

My antipasto matched the amuse in style and zing: Polenta Bianca with Chicken Liver, Dried Dates and Chanterelles. What insight into the possibilities of food! Let no man fear chicken livers. The dates and chanterelles added a rich and startling fruitiness to the crisp polenta and pillowy liver. A companion's Polipo (Octopus) with Cannellini Bean Puree, Candied Celery, Olive Oil, and Fried Sage was evocative as well.



As pasta I selected Foiade: short strips of pasta, wild mushrooms with beef jus, and baby spinach (with a few fig slivers). Here was another admirable dish that was less startling in its flavor combination - although the strips of fig added surprise - but no less sturdy for that. The al dente pasta had the rich, buttery flour that one expects in such a creation, and the mushrooms - a theme of Chef Falai's cuisine - were a dusky plus.



But then we reached the Carne course, that moment in the evening when chefs from Batali on down seem to lose their map. My Manzo - Short Ribs with Chanterelles, Parsnips, and Scallion Brulee - was unfortunately dry. I admired the bravery of a scallion brulee, which, if it was not a true brulee, made a nice pudding. Yet, the ribs lacked a distinct flavor. This was not entirely a failed dish, yet not an ethereal one, and a fair distance from what had appeared previously. There seemed no flair in technique to balance the heavy solidity of the beef. The consensus of my dinner partners was that their courses - pesce and carne - added no "extra" to the ordinary.



Dolci are classed as "Classici" and "Non Classici." Celery Cake with Strawberry and Rhubarb with Milk Gelato was among the latter. The dish was strongly reminiscent of Strawberry Shortcake; any celery taste had been muted. This was not a dessert that showed the same spark of the antipasti, although it was conventionally sweet and fruity.



Does Falai's early courses reveal the true vision of a grandly small restaurant or whether the final courses better depicted an establishment that belongs in the solid middle of the tangle of Italian joints on this tempestuous Isle.

Falai Cucina Italiana
68 Clinton Street (near Rivington)
Manhattan (Lower East Side)
212-253-1960