I've been converted. Not that I ever was a sacrilege, anti-Ssam heretic, I just simply had not taken the time to wait out the lines, the crowds and ever-buzzing, hard-slammed press of the spot. But now I will.
Especially since a fanatic hype swarmed over Momofuku Ko, I was literally scared to go near any of the restaurants in David Chang’s growing empire. But, on a random Saturday afternoon I was the victim of a hangover-induced cancellation. I found myself wandering around the East Village exhausted and nauseous from non-stop shopping (ahh…someone’s gotta do it). I lingered on the corner of 13th and 2nd, noticing the telltale, jubilantly hued peach on the front door of Momofuku Ssam. I peered inside, and at five o’clock the place was mostly empty. So I set aside my snarky, New York, “this can’t be as good as everyone says it is” attitude long enough to open the door and seat myself at the sleek, wooden-slab bar. And praise be the Lord, I’m glad I did.
Surrounded by tattooed, quasi-hipster/quasi-model-but-I-smile staff, the space has that truly cool cache that many other trendy spots only pretend to have. Aside from the adult slip and slide bar, the communal tables are sexy planks that lead to an open kitchen towards the back. Hip-hop mixes with hard rock and reggae overhead. But the impish vibe of the décor was balanced by the knowledgeable waitresses and bartenders who led me to food heaven.
That heaven is a place filled with Ssam steamed pork buns. One of many smaller plates on the menu, the dish was recommended by my personal angel, Stella, in the form of an ultimatum: the buns or a three-terrine sandwich, the bánh mi. I chose the first mostly out of shameful adolescent humor.
Thick slices of tender, luscious pork belly are packed in a bun with tangy hoisin sauce, refreshing cucumbers and tiny bits of sharp scallion—what could be bad. But the bun itself, the namesake of the dish was truly the transcendent star. A classic Korean item, the buns are smooth and slick on the outside. Essentially, they are a five-year-old’s dream come true—the sweet, spongy texture of good old Wonder Bread, the crusts nowhere in sight. Cake-like in both density and flavor, they not only highlighted the pork, but also were prey to my fingers pinching off bits to savor alone.
Although I was still in deep revere for said buns, the rest of the menu has treasures too, even if not quite as equal. The coconut milk stew with shrimp and calamari that was offered that day stood for an admirable battle. Upon first spoonful I got a swift wing in face, from the powerful, pungent Thai-Bird spice that heats up the creamy liquid. But the coconut flavor and tender seafood quickly calmed my shocked mouth and this balance remained throughout the rest of the bowl. And, the restaurant’s namesake, Ssam (meats to be rolled in lettuce, with ample condiments) was presented in three options. Most appealing is the beef ssam, with thick slabs of beef and sloppy, tangy sauces.
A terse list of desserts made the cut on the modified-daily menu, among them an orange and cream crumble cake and brownie pie. But with all that meaty goodness available, and a reasonable and even-sensed wine and saké list present, I might just go ahead and do the unthinkable. One more steamed bun, please.
Momofuku Ssam: Buns
Rating (of the buns that is): To Die For
Address: 207 2nd Avenue
Phone: 212.254.3500
Monday, October 27, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
Bar Milano
I want to like Bar Milano so badly. No, scratch that. I want to love Bar Milano. Fresh Italian ingredients, inventive combinations, a thoughtful wine list and unique cocktails always sound just right to me. Plus, adding a spot to the sporadic smatterings in the area makes a trip to see one my Gramercy friends that much less painful. But most importantly, I was instantly drawn to Bar Milano more by the lure of the Denton brothers’ other spots, Lupa and 'inoteca, than by the restaurant itself. If they can open those favorites, how could anything they do be bad? Both have always delivered that great warmth and conviviality that almost peaks above the vividly delicious flavors they serve up. Just almost, but not really.
But that’s why I was slightly disappointed with my time at the sleeker, stiffer Bar Milano. Like a dapper but slightly dour uncle of daring young bon vivants, the space is well designed and stylish, but almost to the point of a plastic parka where I had hoped for a down comforter. Marble counter tops, sparse white flowers and low lighting create a glamorous, cougar-sexy ambience, and the spot’s name is splashed in gold across glossed wood behind the bar like a swanky set from the 1970s. Beautiful, yes—it almost feels like Bianca Jagger might come out of the bathroom and sit down next to you in a fabulous, floor-length Halston. But inviting? Not quite.
The Denton warmth can be felt however in the friendly and knowledgeable staff, who are eager and happy to explain dishes, answer questions and tend to the diners’ needs. But it gets lost again in the tasty but sometimes overly-complex food and uber-mature atmosphere that appears slightly out of place with the younger neighborhood and vivacious proprietors. Truth be told, my let down was possibly more of my own fault than theirs: The brothers made it clear that they wanted to create a grown-up joint, and why wouldn’t they? Maybe they are growing up, too. But like that cousin you hope will never lose his impish bounce, the two seem to have replaced their joie de vivre with a streamlined taste of the high life.
That high life does its best in the bar. The cocktail list is creative and sophisticated. The 323 with rosemary-infused gin, balsamic vinegar, strawberries and basil is a snappy delight that’s refreshing but heady enough to last you until your entrée. The Muller Thurgau is spot on for any of the fish dishes, and whatever you choose, the bartenders are helpful but not pushy.
Once you sit down, an uneven, if at times exhilarating, ride awaits. The appetizers do their best in two seafood forms. The octopus soaked in Meyer lemon was eye-closing good, with crunchy fennel and treviso soaked in orange adding some sweetness to an often overly-salted item. A thin disk of scallop carpaccio was painted with nutty olive oil, sea salt and shards of Meyer lemon rind to create a fresh, summery bite even when the citrus flavor overpowered the meek mollusk.
The land items on the small plates are less inspiring: patata imbottita reminded me of a hot-pocket, with a skin of potato covering eggs and fontina cheese. It sounds delicious, but the sum of the parts was mushy and unctuous. Even the tiny dollop of caviar could not convince me that the indistinguishable flavors were anything other than a hangover breakfast bite.
Moving on to pastas is a similarly two-sided affair. Pinci with cuttlefish, calamari and squid was an elegant plate of luscious carbohydrates highlighted with well-cooked seafood. Garlic and a hint of heat from chili peppers enhanced their briny flavor. But, the Cuscini all Osso Busco was a meager showcase of the less-is-more slant. While the meat’s tenderness came through, its flavor was lost. The sprinkle of breadcrumbs did little to enhance any flavor, and I sat wondering what this dish’s highlight was intended to be.
The entreés offer more hearty compositions, with the exquisite monkfish one treat of the lot. The delicate, mild fish is accessorized with a luxurious medallion of foie gras plus crunchy pears to ensure that the richness is kept in check. A thick pork chop also does well with mustard fruit.
Truth be told, by dessert time at each meal, I was so baffled by the highs and lows that I opted out. And, with prices squeaking up into the $40s for some entreés, I felt it better to enjoy my wins and cut my losses.
On my most recent visit a popular buzz had firmly taken root in the restaurant, as patrons in the area were clearly relieved to have a gourmet option. Upon leaving, I looked back into the sexy enclave with slicked wooden panels and the happy faces so indicative of a Denton restaurant. I thought that like a luxurious but chilly hotel, I’d enjoyed my stay, but wouldn’t be there all the time; only on specific, adult occasions. Mostly, look for me at Lupa. But when my parents are in town, I’ll surely be in Milano, where I’m guessing the warmth of the family fire will soon heat up the chill.
Bar Milano
Rating: Great
Address: 323 Third Avenue
Phone: 212.683.3035
But that’s why I was slightly disappointed with my time at the sleeker, stiffer Bar Milano. Like a dapper but slightly dour uncle of daring young bon vivants, the space is well designed and stylish, but almost to the point of a plastic parka where I had hoped for a down comforter. Marble counter tops, sparse white flowers and low lighting create a glamorous, cougar-sexy ambience, and the spot’s name is splashed in gold across glossed wood behind the bar like a swanky set from the 1970s. Beautiful, yes—it almost feels like Bianca Jagger might come out of the bathroom and sit down next to you in a fabulous, floor-length Halston. But inviting? Not quite.
The Denton warmth can be felt however in the friendly and knowledgeable staff, who are eager and happy to explain dishes, answer questions and tend to the diners’ needs. But it gets lost again in the tasty but sometimes overly-complex food and uber-mature atmosphere that appears slightly out of place with the younger neighborhood and vivacious proprietors. Truth be told, my let down was possibly more of my own fault than theirs: The brothers made it clear that they wanted to create a grown-up joint, and why wouldn’t they? Maybe they are growing up, too. But like that cousin you hope will never lose his impish bounce, the two seem to have replaced their joie de vivre with a streamlined taste of the high life.
That high life does its best in the bar. The cocktail list is creative and sophisticated. The 323 with rosemary-infused gin, balsamic vinegar, strawberries and basil is a snappy delight that’s refreshing but heady enough to last you until your entrée. The Muller Thurgau is spot on for any of the fish dishes, and whatever you choose, the bartenders are helpful but not pushy.
Once you sit down, an uneven, if at times exhilarating, ride awaits. The appetizers do their best in two seafood forms. The octopus soaked in Meyer lemon was eye-closing good, with crunchy fennel and treviso soaked in orange adding some sweetness to an often overly-salted item. A thin disk of scallop carpaccio was painted with nutty olive oil, sea salt and shards of Meyer lemon rind to create a fresh, summery bite even when the citrus flavor overpowered the meek mollusk.
The land items on the small plates are less inspiring: patata imbottita reminded me of a hot-pocket, with a skin of potato covering eggs and fontina cheese. It sounds delicious, but the sum of the parts was mushy and unctuous. Even the tiny dollop of caviar could not convince me that the indistinguishable flavors were anything other than a hangover breakfast bite.
Moving on to pastas is a similarly two-sided affair. Pinci with cuttlefish, calamari and squid was an elegant plate of luscious carbohydrates highlighted with well-cooked seafood. Garlic and a hint of heat from chili peppers enhanced their briny flavor. But, the Cuscini all Osso Busco was a meager showcase of the less-is-more slant. While the meat’s tenderness came through, its flavor was lost. The sprinkle of breadcrumbs did little to enhance any flavor, and I sat wondering what this dish’s highlight was intended to be.
The entreés offer more hearty compositions, with the exquisite monkfish one treat of the lot. The delicate, mild fish is accessorized with a luxurious medallion of foie gras plus crunchy pears to ensure that the richness is kept in check. A thick pork chop also does well with mustard fruit.
Truth be told, by dessert time at each meal, I was so baffled by the highs and lows that I opted out. And, with prices squeaking up into the $40s for some entreés, I felt it better to enjoy my wins and cut my losses.
On my most recent visit a popular buzz had firmly taken root in the restaurant, as patrons in the area were clearly relieved to have a gourmet option. Upon leaving, I looked back into the sexy enclave with slicked wooden panels and the happy faces so indicative of a Denton restaurant. I thought that like a luxurious but chilly hotel, I’d enjoyed my stay, but wouldn’t be there all the time; only on specific, adult occasions. Mostly, look for me at Lupa. But when my parents are in town, I’ll surely be in Milano, where I’m guessing the warmth of the family fire will soon heat up the chill.
Bar Milano
Rating: Great
Address: 323 Third Avenue
Phone: 212.683.3035
Monday, October 6, 2008
Morphoses at City Center: Program 1
Christopher Wheeldon returned with his new troupe to City Center in October and I was thrilled to see what the whiz kid of shape and grace would offer this time. Wheeldon is one of my favorites because I think of him as a writer and photographer's choreographer: Unlike many other dancemakers who seem to taunt the audience with a movement---here it is, did you miss it? too bad!--Wheeldon's work always seems to have a certain generous consciousness of watchers. Particularly beautiful poses or phrases are repeated just in case you were looking down the first time: While I'm usually nervous to take notes during a show for fear of missing the immediate experience, I always feel relaxed when I see Wheeldon. He presents his work as a gift without strings—for your pleasure and thought, and he doesn't mind making it approachable and comprehensible.
And he's said as much, too. In a pre-show short chat at the performance I saw, Wheeldon came onstage to explain his programming choices in his signature affable manner. His talk is an olive branch of sorts, a symbol that this is meant for you, and he doesn't want anyone to be left out. (I've noticed more and more artists taking this approach, possibly vying to become a personal reason to cough up dwindling patron and audience dollars).
For much of the program, his zeal is well-founded, for some, not so much. Unsurprisingly, a hit from 2001, Polyphonia, was dealt the king's ransom of my own applause. With dancers clad in deep purple leotards, in an elegant round of dips, stacatto shapes and feathery boureés, Wheeldon moves through various groupings for a piece that is delicate but emotionally compelling somehow. A repetition of a bend from the waist like a drunk flamingo into an elongated extension to the back adds that dash of humor and levity, along with new shapes that define Wheeldon to me. Yes, it's been compared to a Balanchine-style leotard ballet (along with many other ballets that focus on choreography not narrative, so who knows how valid that is). But whereas sometimes I'm left cold by a stark, even if outstanding Balanchine piece,Wheeldon sprinkles subtle emotion: In a hand gesture, a slow tip from a straight and narrow relevé into a walk tilted forward, a slow brush from a battement forward and back while partnering in the most tender way.
While the entire team glowed in this piece, all the talk of the town was Beatrix Stix-Brunnel, and it was well-merited. Although when she first came onstage, I wasn't yet convinced, and her understandable shakiness at 15 years old made me worry for those malleable feet and ridiculously lithe body. But as the piece continued, she strengthened her stance. And when she came to her solo, a faint shimmer shone on her and she stepped into the praise that's been given to her. Light and airy but regal with a quiet smile, she skimmed the stage in the simplest, but most breathtaking boureés. Her willowy arms and legs leave traces of the shapes she draws on the air, but her turns are razor sharp: There's power beneath her pretty. As she reached into her glide offstage, a slow, confident walk, I found myself looking forward to more from this phenom. Regal at 15. Icon at 18?
While the work found me intrigued by Stix-Brunnel, I was even more mesmerized by the true queen of the night(and any Wheeldon night for that matter), Wendy Whelan. Although she hadn't been a particular favorite of mine at NYCB, Wheeldon's movement fits on her like the perfectly draped evening gown of silk. Whelan's power, integrity of movement and unshakable precision is a true joy to watch. And somehow, even in the safety of her grace her daring spirit breaks through in moments of nymph-like merriment; a queen with a hearty laugh. When she finished a pas de deux with elegant partner Tyler Angle I tried to will more time from them.
With Polyphonia's glorious start—equal thanks to the movement and movers—Emily Molnar's jarring, brash and at moments exhilarating and at moments problematic Six Fold Illuminate shook me out of my reverie. Set to multi-rhythm, cacophonous tunes by famed composer Steve Reich, I got the feeling Wheeldon chose this piece to make the troupe a bit edgier. Point taken. Molnar's aggressive splices, unapologetic dips and swirls, compass-point foot work, gun-shot jumps and fierce stylistic undertones were even more hyperbolic on the force that is Drew Jacoby. Tiny Celine Cassone from the Ballet du Grande Theatre looked equally fearless and fiery. But in the end, all that talent from choreographer and dancer alike didn't amount to a comprehensible sum. Then again, this in itself is sometimes the point.
The last piece, Commedia by Wheeldon and with music by Stravinsky, swung the pendulum the farthest into narrative territory. With a backdrop of masks from the era of farce, Wheeldon creates a fun romp with flex-footed lifts, fanciful twirls and mischievous partnering. Leanne Benjamin of the Royal Ballet stood out for her joyous quality: bounding jumps, endless stamina and precision of footwork. The piece ended enjoyably with clever twists and turns, but the genius I had craved, and was teased with in Polyphonia was not all there.
And maybe that's ok. Along the rocky climb to idol status, there are moments of glory and moments of good. Wheeldon's program that night exhibited a steady rate of ascent, even if not a rocket shot.
Morphoses at City Center, NYC
Rating:To Die For for Polyphonia and Great for the evening in total.
And he's said as much, too. In a pre-show short chat at the performance I saw, Wheeldon came onstage to explain his programming choices in his signature affable manner. His talk is an olive branch of sorts, a symbol that this is meant for you, and he doesn't want anyone to be left out. (I've noticed more and more artists taking this approach, possibly vying to become a personal reason to cough up dwindling patron and audience dollars).
For much of the program, his zeal is well-founded, for some, not so much. Unsurprisingly, a hit from 2001, Polyphonia, was dealt the king's ransom of my own applause. With dancers clad in deep purple leotards, in an elegant round of dips, stacatto shapes and feathery boureés, Wheeldon moves through various groupings for a piece that is delicate but emotionally compelling somehow. A repetition of a bend from the waist like a drunk flamingo into an elongated extension to the back adds that dash of humor and levity, along with new shapes that define Wheeldon to me. Yes, it's been compared to a Balanchine-style leotard ballet (along with many other ballets that focus on choreography not narrative, so who knows how valid that is). But whereas sometimes I'm left cold by a stark, even if outstanding Balanchine piece,Wheeldon sprinkles subtle emotion: In a hand gesture, a slow tip from a straight and narrow relevé into a walk tilted forward, a slow brush from a battement forward and back while partnering in the most tender way.
While the entire team glowed in this piece, all the talk of the town was Beatrix Stix-Brunnel, and it was well-merited. Although when she first came onstage, I wasn't yet convinced, and her understandable shakiness at 15 years old made me worry for those malleable feet and ridiculously lithe body. But as the piece continued, she strengthened her stance. And when she came to her solo, a faint shimmer shone on her and she stepped into the praise that's been given to her. Light and airy but regal with a quiet smile, she skimmed the stage in the simplest, but most breathtaking boureés. Her willowy arms and legs leave traces of the shapes she draws on the air, but her turns are razor sharp: There's power beneath her pretty. As she reached into her glide offstage, a slow, confident walk, I found myself looking forward to more from this phenom. Regal at 15. Icon at 18?
While the work found me intrigued by Stix-Brunnel, I was even more mesmerized by the true queen of the night(and any Wheeldon night for that matter), Wendy Whelan. Although she hadn't been a particular favorite of mine at NYCB, Wheeldon's movement fits on her like the perfectly draped evening gown of silk. Whelan's power, integrity of movement and unshakable precision is a true joy to watch. And somehow, even in the safety of her grace her daring spirit breaks through in moments of nymph-like merriment; a queen with a hearty laugh. When she finished a pas de deux with elegant partner Tyler Angle I tried to will more time from them.
With Polyphonia's glorious start—equal thanks to the movement and movers—Emily Molnar's jarring, brash and at moments exhilarating and at moments problematic Six Fold Illuminate shook me out of my reverie. Set to multi-rhythm, cacophonous tunes by famed composer Steve Reich, I got the feeling Wheeldon chose this piece to make the troupe a bit edgier. Point taken. Molnar's aggressive splices, unapologetic dips and swirls, compass-point foot work, gun-shot jumps and fierce stylistic undertones were even more hyperbolic on the force that is Drew Jacoby. Tiny Celine Cassone from the Ballet du Grande Theatre looked equally fearless and fiery. But in the end, all that talent from choreographer and dancer alike didn't amount to a comprehensible sum. Then again, this in itself is sometimes the point.
The last piece, Commedia by Wheeldon and with music by Stravinsky, swung the pendulum the farthest into narrative territory. With a backdrop of masks from the era of farce, Wheeldon creates a fun romp with flex-footed lifts, fanciful twirls and mischievous partnering. Leanne Benjamin of the Royal Ballet stood out for her joyous quality: bounding jumps, endless stamina and precision of footwork. The piece ended enjoyably with clever twists and turns, but the genius I had craved, and was teased with in Polyphonia was not all there.
And maybe that's ok. Along the rocky climb to idol status, there are moments of glory and moments of good. Wheeldon's program that night exhibited a steady rate of ascent, even if not a rocket shot.
Morphoses at City Center, NYC
Rating:To Die For for Polyphonia and Great for the evening in total.
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