Meatpacking District
November 2, 2009
**Two Stars
Address: 409 West 14th St., btwn. Ninth & Tenth Aves.
Phone: (646)289-3930
Occasion: Group Dinner: Night out
Hours: Dinner, mon-Wed, 6p.m.-11:30 p.m., Thu-Sat, 6p.m.-1:30a.m., Sun, 6p.m.-11p.m.
Don't Miss Dish: Tuna tacos; Strip steak, Apple cobbler
Average Price: Appetizers, $ Entrees, $ Dessert, $12.
Reservations: Highly Recommended.
Capsule: Carnivores in Clubland.
Maybe I'm getting old, but I like a little separate between church and state at dinner. I don't care less about who's sitting at the next table than what they're eating for dinner. I was definitely in the minority on the nights I dined at Abe & Arthurs, a new restaurant that opened over a month ago in the old Lotus space.
The Meatpacking District is much better known for its nightlife than its dining scene, but there are a number of wonderful exceptions, like Scarpetta, Bill's Bar & Burger, and The Standard Grill. In fact, The Standard Grill is a perfect example of a restaurant that's mastered the art of being everything to everyone. There's a distinct separation between church & state -- an upfront bar with trendy cocktails & charcuterie, a bistro, civilized dining room, beer garden, and swanky new lounge currently called the Boom Boom Room.
The propietors of Abe & Arthur's own nightclubs, like Tenjune and nightclubs that also play restaurants like STK. Their newest venture aims to be an American grill that also serves as a hot late-night lounge. Abe & Arthur's is named for the owners' grandparents and so is the Symone Lounge just below the dining room. The chef is Franklin Becker, a veteran of the NYC dining scene, who's worked everywhere from Brasserie to Capitale. He's a good chef with a string of bad luck over the past year, including Sheridan Square and Delicatessen.
His latest menu features standard American dishes with an emphasis on steakhouse classics. There's a raw bar with oysters, clams, shrimp, lobster, and one of those seafood tower. Guests can choose from an array of salads, roasted chicken, seafood, three different cuts of steak with four homemade steak sauces. As for sides, there's some creative riffs on traditional sides, like sweet-garlic mashed potatoes, corn succotash with bacon, and a delicious version of mac & cheese crowned with brown butter and breadcrumbs.
It's impossible to hear a word anyone says in the dining room. Our server had to shout descriptions of dishes at us one at a time. Apparently, the steaks our "soaked in butter." Now, I love Peter Luger and I'm not naive about what goes on behind kitchen doors, but "soaked" is not really what I'm looking for in a steak. I ordered it anyway.
Have you ever had that delivery experience where you're too lazy to go out or cook, so you order take-out and it's at your order in five minutes. Most of us have. It's one of those
don't ask, don't tell" phenomenons. You're hungry and it gets the job done. But I'd never had that experience in a restaurant, nevermind a fashionable new eatery. No more than four minutes had passed when out from the kitchen came our appetizers. We all looked at each other in disbelief. The crab cakes were cold and soggy and so were the supposedly "exploding" blue cheese croutons on a salad of field greens. (But who sends back a salad?)
Of course, I had to investigate further. Our server swore the kitchen had just made our crab cakes. "In three minutes?" I asked. She insisted they did and we insisted on new ones. Second time round, they were terrific. There was hardly any breading, just blue crab meat held together by curried mayonnaise and with roasted corn and a tangy red pepper sauce. The tuna tartare in the tacos were impeccably fresh, dabbed with avocado and a red chili aioli, but the taco shells just detracted from the dish.
On two occasions, the strip steak was well-charred and cooked to order. But I wasn't a fan of a tough pork chop or a seriously overcooked entree of Chatham cod on a muck of cabbage with puffed rice. I did love the spiced sweet potato fries and the mac & cheese.
Desserts were too gimmicky to take seriously, especially the "Carnival for Two" -- a ferris wheel of lukewarm donuts that came with plastic bottles to "inject" a strawberry-raspberry sauce and a funky lemon curd into the center of each. There is a good wine by the glass selection and cocktail list. If I were you, I'd give up on surrender to the noise level and people-watch. I just hope Franklin Becker finds the right stage for his cooking because no one's paying any attention at Abe & Arthur's, including the staff.
August 11, 2009
The Standard Grill: High life on the High Line - at a reasonable price
- Cuisine: American
- Vibe: Bustling High Line haunt
- Occasion: Night on the town, date, group dinner
- Don't Miss: Octopus with sweet potato & chilies, lamb chops, rainbow trout with currant and pine nut relish, shaved lime-mint ice
- Price: Appetizers, $9; entrees, $18; dessert, $7
- Reservations: Recommended
- Phone: 645-4646
- Location: 846 Washington St., at 13th St.
Hip usually comes at a cost. When a restaurant's hip, you can't get a reservation or you can't afford one. If you somehow manage to get a table, it's too noisy to hear yourself eat or too early to eat. The Standard Grill's different. It's undeniably fashionable and entirely affordable. The dining room's filled with celebrities and everybodies.
The restaurant opened in the Meatpacking District, right underneath Andre Balazs' Standard Hotel and the High Line Park. On warm nights, I like the sidewalk seating or the breezy, bistro-style barroom with tile floors and a white oak bar.
The best seats are definitely in the main dining room — a beautifully appointed space with vaulted ceilings, roomy maroon booths, bay windows and a shiny floor covered in 480,000 pennies.
It's the little things — the checkered tablecloths, brown-bagged bread, and bowls of baby radishes and chunks of Parmesan waiting for you on the table — that make it feel warm and accessible, even when Cameron Diaz and Cindy Crawford are sitting at the next table. A side dish, "on the house," brings delights like crispy potatoes with paprika aioli, compliments of the kitchen.
The chef, Dan Silverman, ran the kitchen at Lever House, a place for power meals in the middle of midtown. The Standard Grill is dressed-down food for a downtown crowd. It's an American grill menu with offerings like raw oysters, rib eye, pork chops and a porterhouse. The lamb chops aren't your average chophouse chops. They're smartly marinated in lots of lemon and spices, flash-seared and served with polenta and a basil mint sauce. The burger was good, not great, and the New York strip was so unevenly cooked — cold in the middle and overcooked at the edges — it had to make a round trip right back to the kitchen.
Seafood is really Silverman's forte. He creates wonderfully light, subtle dishes with tons of texture and flavor.
There's
a terrific starter of seared squid, stuffed with Merguez sausage,
brightened by a side salad of frisée, radish, fennel and tart bits of
grapefruit. Even simple dishes stand out — like grilled rainbow trout
perfectly paired with a currant and pine nut relish or corn-studded
potato bellinis drizzled in Béarnaise sauce. My favorite dish on the
menu is the charred octopus tossed with a vibrant mix of sweet potato,
onion, lime and chili.
I always get a kick out of dishes with confident names. The Standard Grill's got a "Million Dollar" roast chicken and a dessert called the Deal-Closer. The chicken was good, but for a million dollars, I would've liked the skin to be a lot crispier, and moister meat. The Deal-Closer for two lived up to its name — a decadent bowl of chocolate mousse with a layer of rich chocolate cake, whipped cream and a salty, crunchy fleur de sel foil. It's playfully served with plastic spatulas, and it's the kind of dessert you'd prefer to enjoy in privacy. There's also a first-rate sour cream cheesecake with a blueberry compote and a jolting lime-mint ice.
I'm not sure whether it's the High Line Park or the Standard Grill, but there seems to be a new way of looking at and eating in New York. You might say the Standard Grill is the first great, culinary landmark in the new High Line District.
January 13, 2009
A little like Le Bernardin in blue jeans.
Address: 85 10th Ave., near 15th St.Phone: (212) 929-4948 Seven days, 5 p.m.-2 a.m.
Cuisine: Seafood
Vibe: Kitschy fish shack
Occasion: Posh counter dining, date, group dinner
Don’t Miss Dishes: Razor-clam ceviche, chorizo-stuffed squid, oyster pan roast, sautéed cod milt:
Average Price: Appetizers, $16; entrées, $28; desserts, $10
Reservations: Highly recommendedThe John Dory
If you could draft a fantasy restaurant team, who would you pick? It depends on what's on the menu, of course.
Italian? I'd take Mario Batali and Joe Bastianich. British pub? I'd take Ken Friedman and April Bloomfield. (Have you eaten the deviled eggs, devils on horseback or Roquefort burger at the Spotted Pig?)
These people are first-round draft picks,
in my opinion. Together, they could open a restaurant called Dumpster,
serve trash, and people would probably line up.
So I'm not surprised that there's a month-long wait for a table at the John Dory, which Friedman and Bloomfield opened in the Meatpacking District six weeks ago.
Picture a hybrid of every fish shack you've ever been to - a little Laguna, a little Key West, a little Jersey Shore, even a little Lancashire. There's a giant saltwater fish tank, a long bar with fishing lures embedded in its resin, shell-studded mirrors, trophy fish on the walls, swimming-salmon tiles, and stools upholstered in lobsters and palm leaves.It looks like a scene from a Jimmy Buffett hangover. At the heart of the room, there's a diner-ish open kitchen packed with line cooks feverishly at work. It's tight quarters - for them, for the servers, and for customers trying to edge their way into the bathroom.
Really, the John Dory is the complete antithesis of Le Bernardin, the consummate and highly formal fish restaurant in midtown.
The complete antithesis, that is, except for the quality of the cooking. But this isn't a fish-shack menu. And the superiority of the fish here is surprising, considering the fact that April Bloomfield is best known for her way with pub food. She has completely changed genres. It's like giving up the novel for lyric poetry.
Too many chefs think of fish as a faceless protein. She understands that texture and flavor are equally important. I didn't know that a swath of green-onion purée is just what razor-clam ceviche needs.
Or that yellowtail sashimi deserves a dab of ginger purée. Or that scallops crudo want fennel franz, a grassy olive oil and a few pomegranate seeds.
To grasp the inventiveness of Bloomfield's cooking, order the pan-seared squid. She stuffs the body with a wonderful mix of cured chorizo, chili, paella rice, onions, cannellini and saffron. Then she sears the squid on the plancha and serves it over a cannellini stew of sorts.
But what makes it live in your memory is the intense smokiness of the tomato - part of the cannellini stew. The smokiness is almost contagious. Everything catches flavor from it.
The oyster pan roast is a mind-blowing cup of soup. It tastes naughty. And I haven't even mentioned the sea urchin-buttered crostini that comes with it.
There are a couple of other things on the menu that I really like - the whole mullet with clementines and puntarella, the sautéed cod milt and the beer-steamed shellfish. Oddly enough, I wasn't crazy about the whole-roasted John Dory. And the Dungeness crab had been peppered to death.
Those two dishes aside, the John Dory is a little like Le Bernardin in blue jeans. The Spotted Pig is April Bloomfield's take on the British pub. But at the John Dory, she takes to the sea, triumphantly.
This might explain the hurly-burly at this fish shack. I know one of the owners, and I still had to wait an hour and a half to get that cup of soup. Would I wait again? Oh, yeah.
June 28, 2008
The second coming of the Meatpacking District.
355 W. 14th St., at Ninth Ave. (212) 691-0555
Seven days a week, 5:30 p.m.-11:30 p.m.
CUISINE Southern Italian.
VIBE Grown-up Meatpacking.
OCCASION Trendy date; group dining.
DON’T-MISS DISH Spaghetti with tomato & basil; scallop crudo; roasted capretto.
PRICE Appetizers, $12-$17; entrees, $22-$37; dessert, $11.
RESERVATIONS Highly recommended.
In the past three weeks, I've eaten at Scarpetta three times. And every time, I ate too much. I ate polenta and panna cotta. I ate borlotti bean soup and imported burrata, braised short ribs and boneless veal shank. I ate scallops seared and as crudo. I ate cod and capretto. I ate ravioli, raviolini, tagliatelle, spaghetti, stromboli and lots of mascarpone butter.
Wait, there's more. I ate "pie" and "cheesecake." Not to mention yellowtail, octopus, tuna and fritto misto. And all the homemade bread I could get my hands on.
I probably went up a size, which is not something I want happening every week.
I blame Scott Conant. He has a wonderful way with the simplest ingredients. Polenta, after all, is just boiled cornmeal. Until you add milk, cream and Parmesan and layer it with preserved truffles and a couture mix of mushrooms.
Then it becomes almost opulent. Or the spaghetti - just eggs, water and flour. But the spaghetti at Scarpetta embraces its humility. It wants nothing more than a wash of fresh tomato sauce and basil. It costs $22 and earns it.
So many chefs in New York are busy serving arguments. Conant serves conclusions.
And to think, all this happens in a room that was once The Village Idiot - a place where you could buy a five-dollar pitcher of beer, spill most of it on your waitress, listen to the jukebox and gamble at the worn-out pool table.
How do you get from The Village Idiot to Scarpetta? That's what the Meatpacking District is asking. Florent is about to close after 23 years. Mark't was replaced by an Apple Store. Sascha quickly became Merkatto 55. Nothing lasts forever in this trendy corner of town.
Scarpetta suggests the direction the Meatpacking District might be heading, bringing an uptown crowd downtown for an uptown esthetic. The mirrors in the dining room wear orange leather belts and lean forward, so that diners facing the wall get a panoramic view of the room. The roof retracts.
I prefer dining in the cafe, next to the bar. The tall, wood-strip walls give it the feel of an urban sauna. But Scott Conant could open a halal stand and his uptown following - remembering his success at L'Impero and Alto - would flock to it.
In
a way, Conant seems to be cooking from an idealized barnyard full of
fat, contented animals. His goat - capretto in Italian - is caramelized
on the outside, soft inside. His roast chicken is soothing, crisp and
baptized with a sauce of chicken livers, currants and almonds. The veal
shank - in too many restaurants, a Neanderthal hunk of meat - is
surprisingly feminine, brightened by a lemon gremolata and reclining on
a saffron-scented chaise longue of orzo.
As for the so-called "pie" and the so-called "cheesecake," order both. The apple pie crust is made of polenta and the caramel sauce has a pronounced bite of pepper. The cheesecake is indeed cheese-deficient. It tastes like Key lime cake batter topped with torrone, a convincing substitute for Marshmallow Fluff.
I have fond memories of The Village Idiot from the days when I was underage. But now that I'm overage, I'm quite content to find myself sitting in front of a bowl of spaghetti at Scarpetta.
April 1, 2008
A splashy and unlikely outpost for African cooking.
55 Gansevoort St., between Greenwich & Washington Sts. (212) 255-8555
Dinner, Mon.-Sun., 5:30 p.m.-midnight
CUISINE Pan-African
VIBE African chic brasserie
OCCASION Trendy group dining; casual date.
DON'T-MISS DISH Lamb tartar; octopus with cured beef; jerk pork belly.
PRICE Small bites, $4-13; appetizers, $10-17; entrees, $18-30; desserts, $4-10.
RESERVATIONS Recommended
Opening a Pan-African restaurant in the Meatpacking District doesn't exactly sound like a sure thing. After all, this is a part of Manhattan where the scene outshines food as a nocturnal crowd ricochets from one nightclub to the next. But chef Marcus Samuelsson has never been afraid to take chances. At Aquavit, he earned praise for a thoroughly innovative approach to Scandinavian fare. With his newest endeavor, Merkato 55, he strives to recast African cooking in an equally modern and prominent light.
It's surreal to enter this splashy brasserie and discover a sea of stylish diners spreading aromatic chutneys and sambals onto homemade African breads. Taking a cue from the exotic cuisine, the sprawling, two-story space is embellished with woven basket lamps, ebony tabletops and sheer curtains with illustrations of African faces. Likewise, the menu is colored with the vibrant flavors and seasonings of the African diaspora.
There's a lot of territory to cover on this vast culinary road map, and it can make for an exciting night out, not to mention a welcome reprieve from the blitz of seasonal American eateries this year. Merkato 55 is Ethiopia by way of a splendid, butter-spiced lamb and South Africa by way of mustard-spackled venison skewered with apricots and smoky chunks of bacon. It's a quick trip to Mozambique via meaty, head-on shrimp sauced with a pungent piri piri (chili pepper).
For the most part, Samuelsson tones down the spiciness for a broader audience than this kind of regional cooking usually attracts. So if you're craving a fiery doro wat (Ethiopian chicken stew) that turns your mouth numb, you won't find it here.
Instead of piling on the heat, Samuelsson flavors the stew with just enough berbere spices and red onions to produce a tingling sensation without rendering your taste buds useless. It arrives in a cast-iron pot with a cooling lump of cottage cheese and sour injera flatbread.
The jerk pork belly is tamer than traditional Jamaican jerk, but this is just as satisfying and more intriguing. It gets a crunchy tangle of green mango and chocolate-chili sauce that coaxes sweetness from the pork.
Samuelsson's creative interpretations also produce an unforgettable appetizer of octopus so generously portioned it's an entrée in disguise. A blissful marriage of flavors, the aggressively seasoned octopus is paired with cured beef and a chewy date jam. Just as unique, a dish of savory-sweet plantains and bananas amplifies the delicious nuances of a cardamom-scented duck leg.
The kitchen does turn out its share of flubs. Spicy links of Merguez sausage sparred with a salty corn porridge that lay beneath it. With such boldly flavored cooking, the chicken soup seemed like it belonged to a different restaurant altogether. It arrived as a vapid broth with mismatched accoutrements: a dollop of peanut butter, celery, avocado and diced apples. And though "foie gras chutney" advertised foie gras, I couldn't detect any traceable amounts of it.
While dessert wasn't nearly as interesting as the rest of the menu, there was a wonderfully sticky malva pudding served with rum raisin ice cream. The house-infused rums are apparently "still infusing" and the menu seems to be evolving, with stronger dishes replacing weaker ones. Authentic or not, Merkato 55 might just have you craving African cuisine.
October 17, 2007
73 Gansevoort St., near Washington St. (646) 810-7290
Hours: Dinner, Sun.-Thurs., 5:30-11 p.m., Fri. & Sat., 5:30-midnight
CUISINE Regional Mexican
VIBE Dimly lit, cavernous space
OCCASION Festive group dinner, night out
DON'T-MISS DISH Grilled shrimp & Yucatan pork achiote tamal.
PRICE Appetizers, $7-$17; entrees, $13-$19; desserts, $7-$10.
RESERVATIONS Recommended.
Baskets of tortilla chips and kitschy Mexican shrines might be the last thing you would expect from the Meatpacking District, especially from David Rabin and Will Regan, the pair responsible for such exclusive clubs as Double Seven and Lotus.
Here, no clipboard-wielding hostess or velvet rope stands between you and the entrance of Los Dados, the district's first Mexican eatery. Parties and clusters of strangers congregate over Margaritas along a communal table in a dimly lit dining room.
Regan and Rabin have enlisted chef Sue Torres to execute "Mexican home cooking." Having earned respect for her sharp regional cooking at Suenos and Rocking Horse Cafe, Torres delivers a comfort-food menu with an authentic selection of tacos, enchiladas, quesadillas and tamales.
But this is Meatpacking Mexican, overpriced plates in designer sizes.
Meatpacking inflation translates to an $8 guacamole appetizer - a meager portion that prompted my companion to order another. "We can't share this," she declared, though we were grateful for the complimentary tortilla chips - salty, addictively crunchy, still warm - as well as two peppy homemade salsas.
Mini-beef-tacos are anything but small on flavor. Soft tortillas are stuffed with smoky beef, finely capped off with queso fresco and mildly spiced pico de gallo. Coriander-crusted tuna tostadas arrive neatly layered with a feisty pineapple salsa and a cooling smear of guacamole.
Tilapia Veracruzana makes a commendable appearance: pan-seared and strewn with garlic, capers and green olives atop a white bean puree. On my first visit, the seafood of choice was skate, a dry and obstinate platform for such a heady mix of seasonings. Upon successive returns, Torres had smartly switched out the skate for a moist, rewarding tilapia.
She has a wicked way with tamales. The best was a Yucatan pork achiote tamal: ground corn laced with supple strands of pork and lush crema that comes wrapped in a banana leaf. Accompanied by grilled shrimp, heated with ancho chili sauce, the dish bites back practically on cue.
The menu hits as many low marks as it does high ones. Shrimp ceviche was overboiled in a thick muck that recalled canned tomato sauce. Bland halibut tacos were utterly forgettable; beef enchiladas encased dried-out shreds of beef; and chicken quesadillas were overwhelmed by chipotle and under-serviced by gooey cheese.
For dessert, the only way to go out is the churros, authentic, crispy doughnuts in a puddle of chili-spiked chocolate sauce. Los Dados translates literally as "the dice." Which is convenient, considering the uneven kitchen yields a gamble - you never know what you can expect.
July 25, 2007
I'll admit: The Meatpacking District has most recently evoked unfortunate memories of emasculated steaks at STK, inebriated hordes swarming Tenjune and many a wintry night battling for a taxi. Revel has revived my hope for sanctuary in the midst of the madness. Once known only as the "Bar With No Name", this spot has recently gotten an actual name, a menu and a phone number to boot. Call me old-fashioned, but personally I'm partial to the reservation system and food. A girl's gotta eat. Owner Paolo Secondo (Barolo & I Tre Merli) has implemented an international menu with delicate Mediterranean undertones. With a backyard garden that seats 80 and dishes, the likes of spaghetti with lobster and bay scallops with chestnut honey & bacon, the Meatpacking District suddenly doesn't seem so daunting. That is, until you try to hail a cab at the end of the evening. In fact, it feels a little like Europe in the summertime.
Address: 10 Little West 12th St., btwn. Ninth Ave. & Washington St.
Phone: 212.645.5369
Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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October 24, 2006
26 Little West 12th Street (btwn. 9th & 10th Aves.)
(646)624-2444
website
After visiting Porter House New York and STK, two of New York's newest steakhouses, I've come to the conclusion that some things are meant to be feasted upon in all its gritty glory, the sacred cow being at the top of my list. Given its location, one could say that STK practically rubs elbows with Old Homestead, a tried-and true steak institution and a pioneer of the Meatpacking district when it was still a culinary and social wasteland. However, in striking contrast, STK tries to take steakhouse chic to a whole new level, attempting to merge this newfangled genre with a downtown lounge scene, DJ and all. Designed by Icrave, the posh space is sleekly accented with creamy leather banquettes, dangling light fixtures, black crocodile and a lavender glass fireplace.
Eponymously named STK, the steaks here come in small, medium and large portions,
suggesting perhaps that you order according to your dress size. Chef Mark Miller, formerly of Steven Starr's Philadelphia restaurant empire, endeavors a fashionably modern interpretation of American cuisine, concentrating much of his efforts on seasonal salads and fish fare, clearly a female-friendly menu gesture.
At my waiter's suggestion, I started with the shrimp rice krispy's, grilled tiger prawns with crushed shrimp chips and cilantro, that supposedly made a "snack, crackle & pop" as a watery and lifeless shrimp bisque was poured tableside (note the action shot to the right). I'll just have to take his word for it, since I couldn't possibly hear a snap, crackle, or even a pop over the blaring music from the nearby DJ booth. Though I would've preferred a bowl of rice krispies and milk to the gimmicky shrimp offering, the lump crab appetizer - a generous portion of unadulterated, fresh crab meat - was worth its $12 weight in gold.
I made a mid-meal trip upstairs to scout out the second floor, equipped with a bar and series of private dining suites, cutely named for burlesque stars, like "The Tempest Storm" and "The Candy Barr". Peeking into the "The Betty Page" suite, I observed banker types voyeuristically eyeing diners in adjacent suites through smoky-mirrored walls, as if engaging in some sordid food peep show.
On my way back downstairs, I was stopped by a table of men, who tried to lure me to sit for a drink. I was now faced with a dilemna: a drink with strangers or a t-bone steak. Clearly, they had no idea who they were flirting with, as I only have eyes for food. After graciously declining, I slid back into my booth just as the entrees arrived. Pristinely poised on a greaseless plate with a dainty cherry tomato
garnish, the kitchen might as well have put earrings and high heels on this poor
emasculated cut of cattle, though it did fit in well with the
fashionably dressed crowd. I always order my steaks medium rare, so you can imagine my despair when I cut through it and discovered it to be medium to well-done. Though I enjoyed the zesty salsa verde sauce, the steak itself was tough and severely lacking in the juices department. Likewise, the STK sauce, an additional $2, was an overly cloying accompaniment. An overcooked Maine lobster, soaked in butter, brought me back to summer, right down to the overwhelming Citronella notes.
Instead, I attended to the sides, all suprisingly well-executed. I could've eaten the entire bowl of sweet corn pudding, a savory and sweet pool of lush pudding, laced with cornmeal, and dotted with fresh corn kernels; if it weren't for the seductive aroma of truffles wafting from a brick-like stack of parmesan truffle fries. Enchantingly infused with parmesan and truffle oil, these thick potato wedges were defiantly crispy on the outside, undeniably tender on the inside. Even the asparagus, springy and plump, are worthy of mention.
As the music grew louder and trendy Meatpackers poured into the space, it became clear that STK was rapidly transitioning from a restaurant into a noisy nightclub. Still, I pressed forward to dessert, which in retrospect, may not have been a worthwhile endeavor. While the raspberry linzer cookies were pleasingly warm and buttery, the raspberry float they accompanied, was just a glass of fizzy raspberry-flavored soda, doused with almond extract and mint. Ditto on the molten cake, which unfortunately was only a lukewarm distraction from a lovely mound of chocolate wafer crumble, that added a nice crunch to the hazelnut ice cream.
More of a pick-up joint than a serious steakhouse endeavor, the crowd and the noise level undoubtedly muddle the meal at STK, a sceney spot that might be better positioned for Vegas. Sleek to a fault, I found myself missing the brash accents and worn decor of napkin in your shirt dining experiences, where you finish your meal with a good cigar instead of a lap around the DJ booth to check out the scantily clad women.
Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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September 19, 2006
243 West 14th Street (betwn. 7th & 8th Aves.)
(212)620-0077
TYPE: Global cuisine
Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
***Don't forget to subscribe for Restaurant Girl updates***
August 10, 2006
355 West 14th Street at Ninth Ave.
(212)691-0555
www.ginlanenyc.com
Savory NY video
TYPE: Continental/Raw bar
VIBE: 30's supper club
OCCASION: Let them lure you to linger over dinner or stumble in for a late-night bite
Tucked into a nondescript, barely marked storefront in typical speakeasy fashion, Gin Lane draws little attention to itself, at least not from the outside. But step foot inside, and you'll feel as if you've accidentally wandered onto the set of The Great Gatsby, 1930's style. This former Village Idiot space has been transformed into a grandiose supper club, decked out in burgundy leather banquettes, retractable skylight, mammoth oak bar and wrought-iron chandeliers. Nothing like its ultra-trendy neighbors (Spice Market & Sascha), Gin Lane is a throwback to the past, a time of excessive drinking and eating.
Wearing tucked-in ties, plaid pants and converse sneakers, the subversive schoolboy-clad waitstaff were eager and willing to deliver mixologist Dale DeGroff's latest cocktail list. In the spirit of the restaurant's namesake, I tempted the gin-laced French 75 classic, a refreshing concoction with the perfect balance of champagne, Hendrick's gin, lemon juice and a touch of simple syrup. And while the grapefruit julep was equally as pleasing, both the Strawberry Nirvana & Bees Knees Classic were too syrupy sweet to be taken seriously, never mind paired with such savory classics as onion soup and filet mignon, leaving me to suspect that the bartenders were taking liberties with DeGroff's recipes.
In keeping with the old school theme, the chef from the Plaza Hotel's now defunct Oak Room, now presides over Gin Lane's classic continental kitchen. I began with an unusually moist & meaty crabcake, playfully perked up with a grain mustard remoulade and a touch of paprika oil. Then, plump oysters frolicked in a puddle of bechamel sauce, spiked with parmesan and sauteed spinach. The organic heirloom tomato salad was a disappointing and tasteless display of less than mediocre tomatoes with little trace of balsamic vinaigrette. Thankfully, the golden brown French fry flight made up for the tomato incident. Hand-cut belgian fries arrived wrapped in paper, seasoned three ways: blue cheese with garlic & chopped parsley (my favorite), chipotle with salt & pepper, and caramelized shallots with parsley.
While I should've wanted to linger over dessert and recline further into the banquette, two things were conspicuously missing from Gin Lane; cozy seating and cozy desserts. Though the mango tapioca pudding was a lovely and delicate gesture, I wanted to eat something I would regret. I wanted to sink into a banquette filled with pillows, perhaps plaid ones, while I engaged in some heavy foreplay with a hot fudge sundae or gooey chocolate cake. Alas, creme brulee just seemed too civilized after a sordid night of bar-hopping in the Meatpacking district.
Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
