restaurantgirl

Address: 100 E. 63rd. St., at Park Ave.
Phone: 212.644.1900
Cuisine: Summer-inspired American
Scene: Mixed bag
Hours: Dinner, Sun-Thu, 5:30-11pm, Fri & Sat, 5:30-11:30pm; Lunch, Mon-Fri, 11:30am- 3pm; Brunch, Fri & Sat, 11am-3pm.
First Bite Impressions:  Splendidly summer
Don't Miss Dish: Soft shell crabs with strawberries, soy & avocado
Price: Appetizers, $16; Entrees, $32.
Reservations: Accepted & recommended for prime-time.

Park Avenue Cafe had fallen into the category of steadfast old-timers, wrestling with the demands of a new generation of diner, who eat as stylishly as they dress, while still trying to appease seasoned regulars.  That is, until Alan Stillman's son recently took over the restaurant's reigns.  Michael Stillman first tempted fate when he transformed the seafaring Manhattan Ocean Club into Quality Meats, a chic new steakhouse species. 

At Park Avenue Summer, he's again ventured out on a limb with a restaurant that takes the notion of the four seasons quite literally.  Presently, Park Avenue embodies summer: the space wears sunny yellow-lacquered panels, dressed up with tortoise shells, white leather banquettes and beachy whitewashed wood boards.  Park Avenue Summer will fall into autumn, then winter and spring; so will the menu and the decor.  AvroKO has admirably broken out of their signature industrial chic rut, shaping a beachy, yet polished atmosphere that can be taken down and re-imagined four times a year.  There's the elephant in the room that begs the question: how financially viable could building a set for every season be?  Time will soon tell.  But one thing's for sure...

There's nothing more fashionable than being new, and that's exactly what Michael Stillman is banking on: the perpetually virginal restaurant.  As for the menu, Craig Koketsu, who will also maintain his position at Quality Meats, has devised an appropriately seafood-streaked menu with a generous sprinkling of summer's best: sea scallops with peaches & granola, grilled langoustines and lamb chops paired with barbecued cherries.

Summer arrives in the crusty form of warm, sea salt-coated semolina rolls delightfully stocked with fresh corn kernels.  Man could live on bread and water alone here, but best not as the menu reveals Craig Koketsu at his best, arousing the most bewitching subtleties from creatures of the sea.  Petals of fluke, simple and clean, sneak surprisingly potent blasts of flavor from dabs of intense plum & cilantro paste, each perfectly capped with a crispy wisp of sunchoke.  A crunchy green & yellow bean salad terrifically benefits from chewy chunks of dried apricot & crushed almonds.  Soft shell crab gets downright dreamy when flash-fried in a white soy-infused batter, brightened by the gentle sweetness of strawberries & passion fruit, then immediately mellowed by smooth avocado and peppery slivers of jicama.

You could easily drift among appetizers and find yourself perfectly content, but if you do venture into entrees, you'll be richly rewarded with a juicy filet mignon sandwich; apricot becomes the perfect foil for intensely rich lamb tenderloin; and properly creamy lobster salad is polished off with a zesty kick of orange-lemon vinaigrette.

The only true disappointment I happened upon were bland medallions of yuzu-infused tuna, all but overwhelmed by gluey puddles of aioli.  Amidst an exciting collection of inspired dishes, it fell remarkably flat. 

Dessert redolently reeks of summer as well. Veteran pastry chef, Richard Leach, expertly executes on original interpretations of sweet classics.  (He also engineers the perilously addictive bread basket).  The most enticing of all, was a velvety blueberry ice cream that accompanied a fluffy semolina cake & silky-smooth panna cotta with aromatic undercurrents of lemongrass.  Leach's grown up riff on thin mint cookies arrives as a trio featuring an airy chocolate & peppermint custard, an ice cream pop robed in dark chocolate shell and a decadent chocolate bar.  Leach makes it impossible to skip dessert and even more so, to pick just one when delivering fried corn pudding fritters draped in juicy in roasted peaches and an uncharacteristically light sweet corn panna cotta. 

It's pricey.  But then again, you wouldn't expect anything less when dining on Park Avenue.   

Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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Address: 165 Allen St., btwn. Rivington & Stanton Sts.
Phone: 212.253.8840
Cuisine: "Freestyle" Latin American & Spanish
Scene: Island chic
Hours: Dinner, Sun-Thu, 5:30-11pm, Fri & Sat, 5:30-12pm; Brunch, Fri & Sat, 10am-5pm.
First Bite Impressions: An admirable work in progress with a truly inspired cocktail menu
Don't Miss Dish: Ecuadorian seafood stew
Price: Appetizers, $13; Entrees, $25.
Reservations: Reservations accepted.

Chef-owner Maximo Tejada (Patria & Lucy) & restaurateur Hector Sanz couldn't have chosen a more favorable season to introduce New Yorkers to their sexy, tropical oasis with a freestyle menu that liberally wanders through Latin America & Spain.  While Allen Street's only just beginning to reap the benefits of a Lower East Side dining boom, this Latino-bent newcomer has undoubtedly made aesthetic strides on this otherwise bleak street.  Rayuela's airy, two-story space is furbished with natural wood tables, exposed brick walls, breezy linen curtains, stone floors & earthy green banquettes. 

You aught make a pitstop at the generous, slate-topped bar for Rayuela's main attraction: Junior Merino's vibrant cocktail menu.  An impressive selection of fresh-squeezed concoctions, stylized classics and made-to-order red, white & rose sangria, Merino takes creative liberties with exotic ingredients and liquors of the pisco and tequila sorts.  Open only two weeks and neighborhood locals had already claimed bar stool territory and made a commendable dent in the cocktail list.  Me, I was suddenly whisked away from the madness of the city to the tropics, lounging poolside as I sipped on a luxurious, lemongrass-infused watermelon juice muddled with fresh mint and limes.  While perhaps more appealing to the eye than the tongue, "coming up roses" appears a perfectly romantic, rose petal-tinged tall glass of champagne, rose water, lime juice and Bacardi Razz.  Instead, the men seemed to gravitate toward the pisco sour, served straight up, in a stylized martini glass with a bright splash of bitters. 

Come time for dinner, the hostess guided us passed an olive tree (imported from California) that stretched its limbs up to the second floor dining room, as if we were happily ascending into an urban tree house.  There, we were left to explore an ambitious and all too complicated menu that ambles through the Carribbean, Latin America, South America and even into Spain.  Our well-intended, but overeager waiter, debriefed us on Rayuela's (hopscotch in Spanish) freestyle philosophy, encouraging guests to "skip" around an overwhelming list of ceviches, empanadas and embrace Tejada's contemporary interpretations: ham-wrapped scallops in a kiwi citrus sauce, a duck breast with a foie gras-topped arepa and a side of truffle-scented white asparagus.

The tropical juices aren't bound to the downstairs cocktail lounge, but also spill into the savory side of things, especially the ceviches.  Tejada splashes tuna & calamari with watermelon juice and marinates corvino (a whitefish similar to sea bass) in a blood orange & carica bath.  Unfortunately, the ones I sampled weren't served by the weightiness of the sugar.  The corvina ceviche might as well been served in a shotglass, or at least with a spoon, an overly sweet, citrus soup that swallowed any traces of flavor the corvina might've once claimed.  Even a hefty dose of cilantro & red onion couldn't balance out the flavors.  The red snapper was a more successful pursuit: buttery dominoes of snapper, blissfully soaking in a sesame-dotted soy sauce, capped off with a crunchy julienne of peppers, cucumbers & avocado.  But truth be told, the snapper was more grounded in Asian tradition than Nuevo Latino.  This was curiously also the case with the hamachi ceviche, tasty, and the "tuna rellena" - which wasn't.  It was like searching for lost treasure as I dug through a bland & clumpy mound of avocado in search of a few scarce strands of crab and shrimp. 

Rayuela's kitchen performs at its best when Tejada sticks closer to home.  An Ecuadorian seafood stew was generously stocked with superiorly moist scallops, briny clams, mussels and octopus, all wading in an aromatic coconut and yellow chile-laced broth that snuck a subtle heat.  Beyond supple strips of sepia were elevated by a garlicky white wine sauce and a faintly sweet, manchego was elevated by a rich pocket of wild mushrooms.  But the most delightful arrival to the table was the bread basket.  Warm doughy nibbles of Colombian "pan de bono" - made from yucca flour & a hint of queso - were perfectly paired with a creamy blend of butter, honey & roasted garlic.  Indulge at your own risk. 

Alas, when you attempt to cover this much territory, it's bound to result in inconsistencies and a few misteps.  While Rayuela would benefit from paring down its menu, this Lower East Sider is worth a trip if not for the cocktails alone. 

Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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If opening night is any indication of Hill Country's big city debut, New Yorkers are rolling out the welcome wagon for the newest in barbecue.  This generous bi-level space on the outskirts of the Flatiron District, embraces its down & dirty southern roots with Western accoutrements, unfinished wood floors, communal tables and Americana signage.   First-time restaurateur Marc Glosserman, an ambitious Jew from nowhere near the Lone Star state (Maryland), has wisely recruited Queens pitmaster Robbie Richter and "lady of the grill", Elizabeth Karmel, to run three high-tech Hickory smokers and a well-endowed assemblage of southern-stamped sides and desserts. 

Pass your wait at the front bar, where you can buy a round of tequila shots, browse the all-Texan wine list or elect for a cocktail.  I kept returning to an addictively refreshing caipirita, a cilantro-spiked blend of tequila, lemon & lime juice, until we were finally handed a meal ticket, then called to take our place in a line that impressively spanned the length of the first floor.  First up, all things barbecued and dry-rubbed of course.  The supply of chicken had long since run out, so we ordered pork spare ribs, boneless prime rib, & Texas-imported Kreuz sausage (jalapeno cheese and regular).  Served up cafeteria-style on plastic trays, all meats were delivered on sturdy brown paper, then plopped onto a scale.  Finished there, we moved right along to the hot & cold sides station, where we had a choice of cheddar mac & cheese, sweet potato bourbon mash, campfire baked beans & green beans casserole.  While barbecue loyalists may turn their nose up at the very notion of dessert, I dare suggest you hit up the sweets station.  Bypass dried-out pecan pie tartlets and beeline it for the pb & j cupcakes.  I promise you won't regret it.

We dined like savages on the subterranean second floor with its own cowboy boot-crowned bar & live music stage.   Austin legend Redd Volkert and his band Heybale were in the house to kick off the finger lickin' opening night ceremonies.  As the band played on, we gnawed on blissfully sweet and fatty pork ribs.  Chubby string-in sausages were kicked up a notch by fresh bits of smoky jalapeno and gooey melted cheese, but the real find at Hill Country hands-down is the prime rib.  Don't let the brown paper platform fool you: this refined, unusually supple and flavorful cut of cattle warrants no more than a simple butter knife. 

As far as sides go, savory campfire baked beans intermingled with smoky chunks of pork, were the perfect complement to any of the above barbecue opportunities.  Ditto on a vinegary cucumber salad.  I was less impressed by an overly chewy mac & cheese, but the green beans casserole, sprinkled with bread crumbs & mushrooms, proved a tasty & worthwhile vegetable accompaniment.

Last but not least, the pb & j cupcake holds its own in a city ravaged by a hefty stockpile of cupcake competitors.  While I was content nibbling at the rich, peanut buttery frosting, my companion urged me to dig deeper into the perfectly moist cake, where I discovered a rich grape jelly filling.  On Hill Country's behalf, I'm challenging Magnolia to a duel. 

Hill Country is anything but sophisticated, but that seems to be exactly the point.  A surreal mix of barbecue fanatics, Texans nostalgic for home and friends of Marc Glosserman, Hill Country's energy is contagious.  Though you might want to practice your two-step game face or else prepare to face your painfully obvious East Coast upbringing.

Address: 30 W. 26th St., near Broadway
Phone: 212.255.4544

Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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Address: 9 Jones St., near W.4th St.
Phone: 212.929.6868
Cuisine: Asian-influenced American
Scene: Irresistibly bustling gem
Hours: Dinner, Mon-Thu, 5:30-10:30pm, Fri & Sat 5:30-11pm, Sundays, 5-10pm.
First Bite Impressions: Ethereal experience
Note to Self: Order spicy duck meatballs
Don't Miss Dish: Langoustines in sweet peppercorn sauce
Price: Appetizers, $11; Entrees, $25.
Reservations: Reservations essential.

The secret's indisputably out on Top Chef Harold Dieterle and his gracious partner Alicia Nosenzo's first restaurant endeavor as prime time reservations at this month-old restaurant have become preciously scarce.  Tucked away in a quiet Greenwich Village nook, Perilla has quickly found itself a destination audience.  Rotating on an American-bent axis, Harold wanders into Asian, Italian and even South American territories.  Clearly a stage for the confident young chef to make his real world debut, but the real question on everyone's minds -- can a reality tv show winner live up to the hype?

The short answer - absolutely.  But you wouldn't assume as much upon first glance at Perilla's elementary setting.  A row of orange banquettes with homey swivel lamps are the only vibrant markings in this otherwise nondescript space.  (I had the impulse to barter artwork in exchange for my dinner.)  Bare stucco walls, twirling ceiling fans and wood accents serve as a functional backdrop for an unusually affable staff and most importantly, the ambitious menu.

I snagged a banquette, immediately slipping into the warm hue eminating from the swivel lamp above, to judge the Top Chef for myself.  I might suggest they slow down the pace as the appetizers appeared only seconds after my glass of wine.  The food belies the decor: anything but elementary, each dish arrived surprisingly polished and well-plated.  While delicate upon entrance, each snuck a decadent, pause-worthy finish.  Our server swirled a satiny quail egg into an enchanting yam gnocchi-dotted broth, which cushioned superiorly moist duck meatballs and bit back as it crossed the finish line of the tongue.  Likewise, seemingly straightforward slabs of buttery mirin-induced hamachi luxuriated in a cool bath of yuzu-infused tomato water.  But the plot thickens as crunchy pickled cucumbers & avocado bits bathe in the wildly drinkable tomato water.  Even a salty, grass-fed beef carpaccio is rendered unusually moist, brightened by a lemony vinaigrette with a zippy sprinkling of caperberries. (My raw meat averse companion couldn't resist devirginizing his palate after our collective oohs and aahs).  A supple vanilla-laced pork belly benefits from yellow raisins, trumpets and wonderfully bright pea tendrils, giving new meaning to my previously conceived notion of sweet-and-savory. 

While not reinventing the wheel, chef Dieterle manages to muster up originality in every dish.  Thrillingly sweet peppercorn langoustines stand elegantly atop a crunchy bed of fried red rice mellowed by soft eggplant; crispy skin reveals hyper-succulent chicken, deftly matched up with flavorful chunks of chinese sausage and earthy mushrooms; and a dreamy black bean-glazed cod, marinated in sake & mirin, are cushioned by silky squash spaghettini with a hidden layer of crushed toasted almonds.

But just like the handsome, "rough around the edges" chef with a perpetual pencil tucked behind his ear, he exhibits a few plates with rough edges.  He makes the occassional mistep as gentle lamb chops are sadly suffocated by an overpoweringly bitter muck of dandelions.  The same goes for underdressed strands of peekytoe crab cloaked by a distracting fried egg net concoction that we mistook for an oversized potato crisp.   Taylor bay scallops seasoned with a poppy seed mignonette also fall flat. 

Dessert quickly erased the the less impressive memories as tangy vinegar-soaked, roasted cherries arrived with a gooey, barely cooked (in a very good way) chocolate cake - much like eating warm deep brownie batter, equipped with a creamy vanilla ice cream & pistachios.  Sugar-coated donuts were pleasingly plumped up with a creamy lemon curd, vibrantly married to a fresh black plum sorbet.

Perilla has clearly captured some of The Little Owl's lightning in a bottle as Dieterle manages to unveil the best of all worlds: a serious restaurant that doesn't take itself too seriously.  Nearly every dish delights beyond expectations while still embracing an unfussy quality.  You may even resist the urge to move on to the next big thing, surrendering to the reservation game and perhaps taking the only 5:15 spot available two weeks from now.   

Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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Address: 71 Spring St., btwn. Crosby & Lafayette Sts.
Phone: 212.966.5050
Cuisine: French-bent global
Vibe: Modern swank
Scene: Euro crowd
Hours: Dinner, Mon - Thu, 5:30pm - 10:30pm; Fri & Sat, 5:30pm - 11pm; Lunch, Friday, 12pm-2:30pm.
First Bite Impressions: Lost in translation
Price: Appetizers, $14; Entrees, $30.
Reservations: Reservations recommended.
www.frognyc.com

Chef Didier Virot & his partner Philip Kirsh are testing their luck at NYC's restaurant roulette again.  While Virot's first venture notably brought refined French to the Upper West Side, he's decided this time to tempt fate in Soho with a mixed bag of nearly every cuisine under the "French sun" (Lebanon, Morocco, Vietnam, & Africa to name a few).  The two-level space also happens to be in throwing distance from Balthazar, which makes it nearly impossible to avoid side-by-side comparisons to McNally's French tour de force.  But unlike Balthazar's worn-in brasserie decor, FR.OG looks nothing like France.  From a white marble bar to pink ultrasuede banquettes & disco ball-mirrored stairwell, the sleek setting feels more like a swanky nightclub than a restaurant. 

While the setting implies frivolity, both the menu and prices suggest an aggressive reach toward destination status.  It's difficult enough to master one region's cuisine, but upwards of four countries is ambitious to say the least.  But Chef Virot attempts just that with a global brew: braised lamb shank with roasted duck breast with cinnamon & Moroccan couscous, monkfish in tajine and foie gras sauteed with ginger crust.  Moroccan spices even make their way onto the cocktail menu, implemented by mixologist Robin Lewis, who concocts saffron-perfumed champagne & Vietnamese herb-infused rum.  I sampled a ginger rose, a honeyed elixir of gin, litchi & ginger - a drink that's pleasing on its own, but unfortunately clashed with my curiously plated seared lamb loin (note the photo).  Unsettling, no?  This long, tasty rope of lamb snuck a lemony kick from a dusting of sumac (nonpoisonous red berry), but went sadly unserved by a tasteless taboulee, apparently just for show.  Ditto on a mess of shredded cabbage & carrots that accompanies cardamom & cane sugar-crusted scallops to the table. 

Mismatched plates seem a running theme at FR.OG, again rearing its head in an entree of colossal shrimp - indeed enormous - but practically upstaged by a phallic-looking & remarkably tasteless, eggplant roll.  But once tossed aside, the deliciously juicy, coriander-spiked shrimp cushioned by the cool pillow of celery root & coconut puree.  Likewise, a springy melange of fresh corn, carrots, cabbage & bacon, was the perfect interplay of smoky and delicate textures.  If only it weren't served with an overcooked & chewy pork loin fell flat, seasoned with a barey discernible caramel-ginger sauce.

Chef Andres Vasquez pulls off a luxuriously moist coffee-tinged sponge cake with a naughty mound of Bailey's ice cream.  A prim riff on peanut butter & jelly, the peanut butter bomb itself delights, but strikes discord against a "salad" of strawberries, pine nuts & olive oil.  The word salad should never ever appear on a dessert menu.  Alas, most diners, were too busy texting or scamming to appreciate Virot's overly precious plates.  FR.OG suffers from an identity crisis: it strives toward chef-driven stardom while simultaneously luring a scenester clientele. 

Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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Address: 357 Sixth Ave., at Washington Place
Phone: 212.414.3088
Cuisine: Japanese/sushi
Vibe: Unadorned serenity
Scene: Serious sushi endeavors
Hours: Dinner, Mon - Sat, 5:45pm - 11:45pm.  Closed Sundays.
First Bite Impressions:  Transcendent tryst
Inside Scoop: Omakase service begins later this month
Note to Self: BYOB (If you forget, Waverly Liquors is nearby)
Don't Miss Dish: Steamed lobster with uni mousse
Price: Appetizers, $10-20; Entrees, $20-30.
Reservations: Reservations recommended.

After eleven years of sushi service in an Atlanta strip mall, chef Sotohiro Kosugi has shut his doors and set off for the big city.  The notoriously temperamental, "sushi nazi" wrangled a Food & Wine Best New Chef in 1997 for his masterful way with creatures of the sea.  But after one too many tantrums, the chef wanted to start with a clean slate.  And that's exactly what designer Hiro Tsuruta (Chickalicious & Momofuku Noodle Bar) created for him - a naked studio to experience the artist's work.  Cleanly accented with slate tile floors, a maple sushi bar & cloth banquettes, the serene space appears blatantly out of place amidst the tattoo parlors, head shops & raucous bustle of Greenwich Village's 6th Avenue.   

But Soto seems completely unconcerned with his surroundings as well as the patrons.  Isolated behind the sushi counter, he remains distant, far off his own world - just him and his glass case of gleaming raw fish.  Don't disturb him and definitely don't touch the glass.  As if acting as an aquatic medium, he mysteriously summons the most enchanting subtleties from all his fish. 

Take glossy strands of nearly translucent stripe jack - while delicate to the eye - it boldly unravels in a truffle-perfumed cloak of ginger & soy, rendering its blissfully savory essence.  Or the most enchanting of all, a barely steamed lobster layered with uni mousse in a lotus wrap.  The culinary equivalent of an orgasm - this dish was a miracle of sweet, delicate bits of lobster brilliantly played against the lush, briny sea flavors of a custardy uni, all gloriously complicated by smoky uni & salmon caviar garnish. 

I'll concede to snobbery when in the face of puffy inside-out concoctions (that often muddle or even mask mediocre fish), so it was nearly shocking to discover one on Soto's daily-changing menu of the fresh fish from around the world.  But my companions insisted on sampling this spicy tartare tuna roll.  Encased in perfectly cooked rice, luscious toro bewitchingly mingled with diced cucumber, crunchy pine nuts & honeyed pears.  Soto's take raises the inside out roll to a refined plane.  I'm aroused just thinking about a beyond fresh sea bass that renders even the most well-traveled palate weak in the knees.   

He leaves the cooked dishes & the kitchen to his wife, Soho, whose delicate hands evoke the feminine undercurrents of a gently braised black cod.  Bathing in an earthy & faintly sweet dashi broth, tender sable embraces earthy accompaniments, highlights being a barely bitter turnip and vibrant fuki (a green rendition of rhubarb). 

But Soto does have an occassional flaw: an overly chewy flounder from Long Island; a dried-out sea eel topped with a mucky puree of uni & shitake.  And then there was a chutoro tartare (tuna belly), which while artichecturally exceptional, seemed unremarkable and all too common for such a gifted chef.

There's no dessert.  That would be sacriligeous in this holy fish grail.  While there are rumors of fits & ejections from the mere mention of a coke, Soto seems curiosly content in his new home.  So did Barry Wine & Paul Liebrandt, who were also in the house Friday evening as well as a couple of long-time Soto devotees.  And me, don't think I didn't toy with the notion of getting Soto tattooed on my stomach as I headed back out onto 6th Avenue, past the neighboring tattoo parlor. 

Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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Address: 137 MacDougal St., btwn. Prince & Spring Sts.
Phone: 212.475.7500
Cuisine: Provencal French
Vibe: Country charm
Scene: An unassuming romantic
Hours: Dinner, Mon - Sat, 5:30pm - 11:30pm.
Inside Scoop: May 1st, Sunday night dinner begins.  Come mid-May, lunch 7 days a week.
Don't Miss Dish: Salt cod fritters
First Bite Impressions: Neighborhood gem
Price: Appetizers, $10; Entrees, $23.
Reservations: Reservations recommended.
www.provencenyc.com

In this freakishly fast-paced dining climate, restaurateurs often resort to convoluted fusion tactics & garish gimmicks to garner attention.  It's easy for diners to get caught up in the rat race, too busy sampling the latest in foie gras powder or Italian-Japanese fusion to revisit our neighborhood favorites.  We take steadfast spots like Provence for granted.  And then one day, owner Jean Michael & his restaurant shutter after nearly twenty years. 

But Marc Meyer and Vicki Freeman have graciously rescued Provence from near death, handsomely reviving the Soho institution.  With Cookshop & Five Points under the couple's belt, Provence seems an unlikely next move, but this project was personal (the two were engaged there).   

Provence returns to us with a much-needed facelift and its Mediterranean roots very much intact.  It's true the waiters no longer greet you in French and there's no rabbit paillard to be had, but the decor & fare are as inviting as ever.  Newly revived with sunny yellow accents, country french patterns, antique mirrors and original wood paneling, the space is perhaps better than new. 

Marc Meyer has partnered up with chef Lynn McNeely (formerly of Barbuto) to implement a Provencal-inspired menu with a signature sprinkling of garlic, olives & onions.  Of course, seafood's plentiful: provencal fish soup, grilled whole fish and a generous raw bar.  There's also a regional dose of housemade pork sausage, lamb daube & rabbit rillettes. 

Considering the current fashions of food, Provence's simple & bright cuisine is a fantastical feat.  There is nothing particularly revelatory or even exceptional - Meyer & McNeely are in no way trying to reinvent the wheel - which is exactly what makes it so irresistible.  Take the salt cod fritters; crunchy puffs of luscious salt cod elevated to another plane by an addictive, garlicky aioli, which merits slathering on a French baguette once the fritters disappear from their basket.  The fallen goat cheese souffle, eggy & tart, was an admittedly more refined endeavor, but no doubt a pleasing one.  The appetizers seem to outshine the entrees, as was further proved by a supple tangle of sauteed calamari & octopus, playfully peppered with currants & pine nuts, all simmering in a currant-sweetened puddle of white wine, garlic & parsley.

The only blatant disappointments I stumbled upon was a deflated & salty chicken liver mousse and a bland halibut served in a watery, artichoke barigoule (stew), rendering its accompanying carrots & leeks mush.  But the pan-roasted cod embodied the consummate Provencal dish; a green olive-crowned codfish, flaky & moist, arrived in a pool of aigo boulido (boiled water), stocked with garlic, sage & bay leaves.

Though most of the desserts were slightly uninspired - just like the former Provence - it's worth lingering over the delightful almond-specked meringue drizzled with a vanilla bean sauce. 

Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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The latest in a series of tapas joints to grace Manhattan kicked-off Tuesday evening after a number of setbacks and massive speculation (myself included).  Of course I had to see this with my own eyes.  Opening night and Noho's newest resident was abuzz, brimming with tapas loyalists, gourmet groupies and trendy types.  Every chair was taken in the narrow 90-seat space, industrially-outfitted with unfinished wood tables, brick walls and an eating counter with a view into a white subway-tiled open kitchen: think Casa Mono meets Boqueria on a dimmer.  But Mercat's most inviting accessory was a centerstage ham-and-cheese station, which will no doubt allure potential loiterers (myself included).   

Owner & native Barcelonian, Jaime Reixach, has enlisted chefs David Seigal (Bouley) & Ryan Lowder (Jean Georges) to employ his Catalan-inspired vision of small plates, which take the form of snails & chorizo skewers and sepia ink-stained noodles. While the menu's peppered with the usual suspects - padron peppers, patatas bravas & salt-cod fritters - some dishes weren't as markedly Spanish on paper: guinea hen with wax beans & cranberries and grilled hanger steak with roasted vegetables & horseradish.  The wine list is entirely Spanish, hosting five white & red wines by the glass as well as a vivacious strawberry-red cava that makes for the perfect you-can-wait-at-the-bar aperitif.

While the fare's not as boldly seasonal as Boqueria or relentlessly authentic as Tia Pol, Mercat will likely succeed in the clamorous pursuit of tapas.  For starters, the house-cured salt cod fritters prove atypically light & fluffy: battery, salt cod-spiked pillows emit an irresistible and undeniably funnel cake-like fragrance (in a good way).  I received further funnel cake confirmation from a neighboring table.  A platoon of "stringy potatoes", cradling a fried egg, also whisked me back to the potato stix of my youth. 

Dusted in cornmeal, crispy sweetbread nuggets were pleasingly set on a vibrant backdrop of shaved fennel, capers, oranges & red onions.  The real standout was the monkfish a la plancha.  Simple but brilliantly flavorful, the monkfish proved flaky and moist, strewn on a forest-green bed of terrifically fresh ramps and further elevated by a paprika-tinged romesco sauce.  The only thing missing from the dish was a hunk of bread to lap up the remains of the smoky romesco. 

But neither a bouillabasse nor a stew, the Catalan fisherman's stew sadly ran adrift in a shallow bowl of mussels with one lone, head-on shrimp, wading in an overly garlicky, oil-drenched sauce.  While the churros suffered a sugar-coated death, the melted chocolate was dangerously drinkable.  Though there are some noticeable kinks, Mercat holds much promise.  Besides, the hip masses pouring through the door certainly didn't seem to mind any opening night wrinkles.

45 Bond St., btwn. Lafayette & Broadway
212-529-8600
OPEN FOR BUSINESS

Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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Ladies and gentlemen, this is delivery at its finest.  Behold, what I ate for lunch...

What was once a delivery ghost town just may have changed forever this fine Nor'easter afternoon as Landmarc was transported to my midtown doorstep in just under forty five minutes.  Not bad for opening day.  While I've never had tartare of any kind delivered, I tempted a chunky salmon tartare, washed in a lively dijon mustard and handsomely speckled with zesty lemon confit & fleur de sel.  Monday's rigatoni alla genovese arrived blissfully sauced with an unusually soothing walnut-spiked pesto. 

I'd say the real estate value in these parts just went up.

Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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Address: 137 East 55th St., btwn. 3rd & Lexington Aves.
Phone: 212.755.7055
Cuisine: French-Moroccan
Vibe: Exotic Arabian escape
Scene: Euro crowd
Hours: Dinner, Mon - Sat, 5:30pm- 12am.  Lounge hours, Mon - Fri, 5:30pm - 4AM, Sat. 10pm - 4am. 
Scoop: Multitask - shop while you imbibe in the downstairs store filled with Moroccan wares
Price: Appetizers, $5-11.  Entrees, $22-34.
Reservations: Reservations accepted.
www.azzanyc.com

Ever wonder what happened to Fizz, that members-only supper club & lounge in midtown, which suddenly lifted its exclusionary policy to fill the swanky void within?  Neither did I, but apparently it "fizzled" into the night, not shocking considering the allure of downtown Lotus, Marquee and Stereo.  In its wake, Restaurateur Djamal Zoughbi and his partner Thierry Pomies have ambitiously revamped the space, unveiling French-Moroccan Azza.  Gone are the moneyed namedroppers and impossible Fizz guest lists, replaced by a kindler, gentler Euro-centric crowd. 

If you happen to be in midtown east, Azza merits a visit on aesthetics alone: What could've potentially looked like Epcot's Moroccan Pavillion (yes I've been), manages to eclipse kitschy artifice.  The palatial space is exotically festooned with gold & burgundy accents, vibrant lanterns and pillows, all amassed by Djamal himself on trips to Morocco.  Upon entering Azza, mismatched antique rugs line a lengthy candlelit front hall, draped in shimmering blue tapestries.  Wander left and you'll happen upon the restaurant, but continue down the stairs and you'll find yourself wandering through a subterranean series of moody lounges equipped with hookahs, wireless and a rotating cast of DJ's. 

Naturally, I veered left toward the wireless-free dining room, which was furbished with Gustav Klimt-like wall murals and gilded chairs.  While cuisine tends to be an afterthought at lounges involving DJ booths & dancing, the French-Moroccan menu is so much better than it has to be.  Even more unexpected than the simple, yet polished offerings, is that chef Stephen Ferdinand (Le Zoo & Aquavit) employs only organic ingredients in a flurry of mezze, couscous & tagines.

The best of the offerings are the mezze, liberally sprinkled with fresh mint, lemon, harissa and cinammon.  The seared yellowfin tuna, perfectly rare and tender, packed a laden harissa heat offset by a drizzling of honey.  Well-charred octopus was nicely posed on barely blanched chickpeas with mint, but I was uncharacteristically more taken by a gently sweet, baby carrot salad, crowned with diced mango & fresh dill.  While I usually skip over all things fried when judging the merits of a menu - because almost anything tastes good drenched in hot oil - the fried cigars, rolled in a phyllo dough then stuffed with supremely fresh spinach & melting goat cheese, are not to be missed.  Unfortunately, a heaping bowl of bland & tough falafel is.

If not for the theatrics alone, order a tagine which arrives tableside in traditional clay pots.  A moist tagine chicken came stewing in a blissful puddle of orange flower-perfumed demi glace and dotted with marcona almond-stuffed dates.  We bid adieu to Azza with warm sugar & spice donuts accompanied by a honeyed dipping sauce, a refined take on Dunkin Donut's munchkins.

Limited by not only its midtown locale, but also its clubby vibe, DJ and French Tuesdays, Azza is destined to exist as a Euro-bent nightlife destination that just happens to have good food.

Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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