It's really my fault...I know. I scan for great spots and then try them on a regular, slightly-addicted basis. And as you'd imagine, while doing so it's not uncommon for my hopes to rise—way too high. Then, I'm often slightly, or very, disappointed by my experience at said spot. But every once in a while I find one that fulfills and even exceeds my optimism in decor, food and service. Scarpetta has proved time and again it's just this sort of place, and when I go there my happy anticipation's always rewarded in full form.
Not that my expectations were low to begin. I had tried chef Scott Conant's food while he cooked at L'Impero (now Convivio) and found his food thoughtful, filling and full of gusto. But when I first visited his new, sleek joint two weeks after opening, I wasn't sure if his presence would be a cure-all for the meat packing restaurant scene which is heavily inundated with over-hyped, under-enjoyable restaurants.
Upon first visit, before I had even tasted a bite I was hit with the contrast similar to other area restaurants like Spice Market: Outside at the sidewalk tables, thin models glared at pasta while older men gazed at their legs. Next to the hostess stand, a table overflowed with the chef's book. But when I looked at diners' faces at the bar, there was a ruddy grin on pretty much every single one: food euphoria is hard to disguise. An MP hot spot being one and the same as an actually worthy restaurant? Unusual, but this time, true.
The first sign of this actuality is the inviting, old-school cherry bar that balances the clean-lined cafe area at the restaurant's entrance. In the main dining room farther back, a similar seesaw between stylish and comforting matches Conant's approach to upscale, but approachable food. The room is softened by white and purple orchids and mirrors are anchored to the wall by bright orange straps. On balmy nights the glass roof retracts for a view of starry skies seen best with a red, like the raisiny Cannanou.
But before you start drinking, save your attention for the saliva-inducing menu. Instead of dealing in small plates as is the fashion, Conant goes old school with appetizers, pastas and entrees. In the former, you pretty much can't go wrong anywhere you turn. For fresh and light try the raw yellowtail with sea salt and oil for clean flavors and crisp contrast. The scallop tartare fares similarly well, with added zest from avocado and citrus chunks—a fun, colorful explosion of flavor for a diet-conscious customer...foodie lite. For heavier, heartier tastes, the braised short ribs with farro and vegetables is a sweet, beefy mouthful and the risotto has a satisfying, dense texture similar to tiny gnocchi. The stewy sauce is perfect when using an appetizer as a meal, without dipping into overwhelming. For a true taste of heaven that asks for every inch of scarpetta (heel of bread used to scoop up leftovers) head straight for the fluffy pillow of buratta. A mound of the highest quality of mozarella, it's intense and light at the same time, with a rich flavor that swaths your mouth in creamy but not cloying taste. It's accompanied by shoestrings of eggplant in a marinara sauce and super-buttery, crunchy toast. After this appetizer, and nibbles from the incredible bread basket—the stromboli with goat cheese and salumi wrapped in buttery dough is TDF on its own--you might just want to call it a night in stuffed bliss.
Instead, try to move on to the pasta for a Conant showcase. The spaghetti with tomato and basil has been all the talk of the town for its dense texture and velvety sauce with a real punch from simple ingredients. And while I agree with the buzz—the pasta's a purist's favorite—I like a little more pizazz for my money. The agnolotti with mixed beef has just the right amount. Sham-shaped rectangles are filled with doses of pork, chicken and beef and swim in a naughty bath of cream. But even with all the saturated fat(shhh don't tell), it's light and airy.
By now, you're eyes might be watering with indulgence realized, but the entrees aren't to be missed-fortunately or not. The flaky, skin-on black cod swims in a stock and tomato-jus and crunchy, caramelized fennel breaks through the soupy rest. The sliced sirloin of beef is a confident classic, with expertly cooked meat that yields to a surprising touch of parmesan and mushrooms—here Conant is able to combine his zealous talent with the ability to please grandparents visiting their youth in Manhattan.
Every time I ate at Scarpetta, by the time I got to dessert, I honestly wanted to say no (versus nights when I pretend to say no, only to push someone else to order something sinful. Don't lie ladies...you do it, too.), but gave in a couple of times. The Chocolate and Vanilla parfait is well worth the stretch, with a shooter of saturated hazelnut milkshake and snappy biscotti. And with servers swooping in when needed to clear or refill water (sometimes a bit too quickly), I had them remove the evidence of my debauchery asap.
What truly makes Scarpetta special to me (besides, obviously, the food) is its malleable nature. For a girls' night, five of us sat at the bar and enjoyed being hit on by handsome suits while drinking wine-list hits like a spicy Tempranillo and elegant Muller Thurgau. When my father was in town and wanted a post-show stuff-fest, we closed the restaurant with oohs and ahhs and my father's special smile that he only gets from truly great meals. For date night, the just-dim-enough lighting and friendly service made us feel romantic but comfortable, and when it was time for a special occasion—my best friend's birthday—the festive flavors and special attention paid to us for the evening amped up the spot's value. Light meal? Scarpetta. Celebration? Scarpetta. Fun? Scarpetta. So rare to find a place that fits the mold for many nights, all in its own specific, lip-smacking way. And it's TDF.
Scarpetta
Rating: To Die For
Address: 355 West 14th Street at 9th Avenue
Phone: 212.691.0555
Monday, November 3, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Momofuku Ssam: Buns of Bliss
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
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 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.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Allen & Delancey
Growing up in Florida, things like basements, cabins, chunky sweaters and chilly fall evenings made me literally gaga. I'd watch movies with summer camps in the Berkshires or romantic getaways at a lakeside house and think...Why is it so damn hot here? Why are there mosquitoes the size of my dog? New England looks cozy, cool...and sexy. All that candlelight. All that snuggling. All that red wine.
Once while I was in college, a friend of mine spent a phenomenal and secret weekend with her boyfriend at her aunt's lakeside cabin in Upstate New York—obviously I was ridiculously jealous. When she returned, she showed me all her (appropriate) pictures as a lame consolation prize. They were filled with brick-a-brack, wood plank ceilings and tons of velvet. I couldn't get enough.
So every time I visit Allen & Delancey in the Lower East Side, I have a strange, fantastic feeling that I'm in her photos. After sweeping through velvet curtains, my eyes need a moment to adjust to the dimly lit, narrow hallway of a bar. Beamed ceilings have that shabby-chic, not-quite-finished-but-who-cares feel and bulbs twinkle in a neat row above the dark bar. Behind the bartenders, shelves are filled with makings for cocktails galore—and porcelain dolls, art-class successes (and failures) and tzatchchis picked up on road trips somewhere in the Midwest, or maybe Provence. The same is sprinkled through the two main dining rooms, contrasting brassy chandeliers, opulent rugs, slick tables and luxurious booths. If I had a rich, wacky aunt myself (I've named her Aunt Zelda in my imagination for some reason) and threw a Jay-Z-style sexy/grown party at her vacation pad it would look like this—mischievous and playful but luxurious nonetheless. Aunt Zelda may paint with water colors, but you can tell from looking around she's got diamonds somewhere, too.
Through the seasons, Chef Neil Ferguson flits from menu to menu as market-ready produce cycles through. He keeps a few signatures throughout, though. From this bunch, is the hamachi with grapefruit beads. It's sleek and neat, a proficient palate opener, with all the zing you want without any superfluous decoration. Another perennial favorite is caramelized bone marrow. While the dollop of caviar is pretty ostentatious (and unnecessary in my mind), the sweet shallot puree and drippy succulence get me every time. Too bad a choice from the seasonal menu doesn't equal the two mainstays: Peeky toe crab ravioli lacks punch, and is swallowed in a salty crunch from pistachios and a too-thick green foam. The crab meat gets overpowered, even though underneath it all, it's sweet and lush with a tasty pasta wrapping.
To find Ferguson's real talents, the entreé section is where his heat hits the top. Although last time I visited it wasn't on the menu, when it is, the tersely and aptly titled "cabbage beef and onion" fills that hearty need the wintry digs call for. A huge chunk of tender beef sits beside its condiments, each requiring equal, quiet attention, but still a no-muss-no-fuss meal. The lamb chop is a more festive dish, with salty, tender meat dressed up in olives and eggplants for an unusual snap. For a real treat (again when/if they put it back on the menu), the lamb chop and neck is succulent with a potato puree to highlight the rosy meat's perfection. Surprising for a hibernation-inducing ambience, the real flavor explosion comes from a lighter dish: the snapper with braised celery is elegant and flaky, with a sultry whip of sugar from the wilted vegetable. A fork-licker for sure.
Dessert is relegated to the after-party and doesn't share the sparkle of the rest of the meal. Only a devilish take on snickers is chewy and intoxicating—honey ice cream seals the deal with a swath of freshness. For a more adult end, check out the diverse selection of cheese.
Sometimes I wonder if I like Allen and Delancey even more for the grown-up treehouse vibe than the savory, hearty food. Either way, I go back time and again, and I always love the feeling that at any moment I might have to pull out a lantern and long-lost fake ID to get in. Bring on the candles, vino and tight cardigans.
Allen & Delancey
Rating: Excellent
Address: 115 Allen Street at Delancey
Phone: 212.253.5400
Once while I was in college, a friend of mine spent a phenomenal and secret weekend with her boyfriend at her aunt's lakeside cabin in Upstate New York—obviously I was ridiculously jealous. When she returned, she showed me all her (appropriate) pictures as a lame consolation prize. They were filled with brick-a-brack, wood plank ceilings and tons of velvet. I couldn't get enough.
So every time I visit Allen & Delancey in the Lower East Side, I have a strange, fantastic feeling that I'm in her photos. After sweeping through velvet curtains, my eyes need a moment to adjust to the dimly lit, narrow hallway of a bar. Beamed ceilings have that shabby-chic, not-quite-finished-but-who-cares feel and bulbs twinkle in a neat row above the dark bar. Behind the bartenders, shelves are filled with makings for cocktails galore—and porcelain dolls, art-class successes (and failures) and tzatchchis picked up on road trips somewhere in the Midwest, or maybe Provence. The same is sprinkled through the two main dining rooms, contrasting brassy chandeliers, opulent rugs, slick tables and luxurious booths. If I had a rich, wacky aunt myself (I've named her Aunt Zelda in my imagination for some reason) and threw a Jay-Z-style sexy/grown party at her vacation pad it would look like this—mischievous and playful but luxurious nonetheless. Aunt Zelda may paint with water colors, but you can tell from looking around she's got diamonds somewhere, too.
Through the seasons, Chef Neil Ferguson flits from menu to menu as market-ready produce cycles through. He keeps a few signatures throughout, though. From this bunch, is the hamachi with grapefruit beads. It's sleek and neat, a proficient palate opener, with all the zing you want without any superfluous decoration. Another perennial favorite is caramelized bone marrow. While the dollop of caviar is pretty ostentatious (and unnecessary in my mind), the sweet shallot puree and drippy succulence get me every time. Too bad a choice from the seasonal menu doesn't equal the two mainstays: Peeky toe crab ravioli lacks punch, and is swallowed in a salty crunch from pistachios and a too-thick green foam. The crab meat gets overpowered, even though underneath it all, it's sweet and lush with a tasty pasta wrapping.
To find Ferguson's real talents, the entreé section is where his heat hits the top. Although last time I visited it wasn't on the menu, when it is, the tersely and aptly titled "cabbage beef and onion" fills that hearty need the wintry digs call for. A huge chunk of tender beef sits beside its condiments, each requiring equal, quiet attention, but still a no-muss-no-fuss meal. The lamb chop is a more festive dish, with salty, tender meat dressed up in olives and eggplants for an unusual snap. For a real treat (again when/if they put it back on the menu), the lamb chop and neck is succulent with a potato puree to highlight the rosy meat's perfection. Surprising for a hibernation-inducing ambience, the real flavor explosion comes from a lighter dish: the snapper with braised celery is elegant and flaky, with a sultry whip of sugar from the wilted vegetable. A fork-licker for sure.
Dessert is relegated to the after-party and doesn't share the sparkle of the rest of the meal. Only a devilish take on snickers is chewy and intoxicating—honey ice cream seals the deal with a swath of freshness. For a more adult end, check out the diverse selection of cheese.
Sometimes I wonder if I like Allen and Delancey even more for the grown-up treehouse vibe than the savory, hearty food. Either way, I go back time and again, and I always love the feeling that at any moment I might have to pull out a lantern and long-lost fake ID to get in. Bring on the candles, vino and tight cardigans.
Allen & Delancey
Rating: Excellent
Address: 115 Allen Street at Delancey
Phone: 212.253.5400
Monday, September 22, 2008
Fall for Dance; Program 1
Dance, theater and food are my holy trinity of things for which I'll shell out money...even though sky-rocketing prices and my light pockets make me do so begrudgingly sometimes. Regardless, I find a memorable, thoughtful, knock-my-ass-off-the-seat night worth way more than a new pair of shoes (though when I'm rich I'll have both). But that's why I—and every other artist in the city—run wildly to the box office or online page to try and get tickets to Fall for Dance, a fantastic New York dance festival held...well...every fall. While there are festivals all over the place, and you can get me to go to pretty much anything for $10 dollars, the quality and breadth of companies, artists and genres is what makes these shows a true steal.
Unfortunately everyone in the arts world knows it—and tickets are hard to come by. This year I was at least able to snag seats to one program, and every diverse minute made me wish I could see all the rest, too.
But since regret isn't helpful, I sat back and tried to digest every bit I did get for my ten bucks. First up was the slamming powerhouse Ballet Jazz de Montreal, now known as [bjm_danse]. When I was training at Ballet Florida as a teenager, one of my jazz teachers was a former dancer with this company: She was all legs, ridiculously strong and sassy. I found out this was a pretty good estimation of the company as a whole—a fierce, jazzy group full of unique flavors with a similar vibe as Hubbard Street Dance Chicago (a high compliment in my mind). The talented troupe performed Les Chambres des Jacques, a two-year-old piece by innovator Aszure Barton, set to a huge range of music including Antonio Vivaldi and Alberto Iglesias. It fit neatly into the jazz/contemporary category with an edge of animalistic quirkiness in a more conventional way than I've seen Barton's work be. As a row of dancers stood in the back in pedestrian-on-crack poses with angular arms and twitchy leg, one dancer took a downstage spotlight to writhe, wiggle and essentially krump. As the others joined in, Barton weaved regular gestures between whacked-out versions of the same moments, full on dance explosions and impressive floor work with Russian-like heel walks done in a squatted position. On the whole, the piece is entertaining and energetic, but I also found it to be a typical offering versus Barton's more intriguing challenges.
With a great stroke of programming, Rush by Christopher Wheeldon was next, taking the frantic tone down to tranquil. Oregon Ballet Theater's delightful Alison Roper danced with knightly Artur Sultanov with delicacy and humility. A breather for the audience, the piece's classical undertones and subdued but lovely lifts stood to affirm ballet's presence on the Festival's increasingly contemporary roster.
Swirling the audience across the world (one of my favorite aspects of the festival which continues to include many traditional, ethnic varieties and styles of dance), Odissi: PRAVAHA was then performed by mother and daughter, Madhavi and Arushi Mudgal. Their obvious family connection made the piece mesmerizing in it's offering nature: Yes, they danced for us, the audience, but an offering pyre at the front of the stage also made it clear there were greater recipients in mind, too. This is always the case with spiritually based Indian dance and I find this important aspect one of the most fulfilling; true rapture shone on the dancers' faces as they twirled into exaggerated poses, rhythmic foot stomps and indicative face/eye and hand sequences. The accompanying sitar and singers added extra spice of exotic lands.
Jane Dudley's Harmonica Breakdown was another ritual piece of a far different genre. To the sounds of banjos and harmonicas, Sheron Wray flew around the stage in a long blue dress, her arms reaching toward the heavens. Short and brief, the interlude wasn't startling in the moment, but left a lingering trace of humility and thanks after swan like arm movements and skyward glances.
For dessert, the programming left the best for last, well knowing that once the audience devoured Hofesh Shechter's Uprising they would neither want more, nor be able to handle anything else. Point being...I was left panting, even salivating, for seven of the hottest and strongest male dancers I have ever seen command attention onstage. It was if Fight Club had been remade into a dance-only event. Aggressive and daring, humongous jumps, flying-into-floor work and wrestling with each other, the guys made machisimo and testosterone something I actually wanted to watch. Their palpable commitment to just those twenty minutes or so—and each other—was a comraderie I've never seen before.
Once, in a dance class I took from master teacher David Marquez, he mentioned a strange difference when he separated groups into men and women: Women seemed to compete with each other, even just in a dance class, while the men seemed to cheer each other on through their rousing energy. In class, I wasn't sure if it all was true. But onstage, I could see the latter part in clear light. One particularly emotional moment was one I'd seen many times while watching boys play on a field: After an exhausting group sequence, lunging and flinging themselves, the dancers met in a circle in the back of the stage. Each one patted the next on the back...until it rapidly deteriorated into a full-on slapfest, the way that all boys' harmless rumbles start. To see the manly, or actually boyish, energy build into a good-attitude explosion was incredible.
While I'd never seen the newly formed Hofesh Schechter company perform, or even heard of its namesake founder, FfD did what it intended: It made me fall in love with a new artist, one I'm sure to follow and patronize again. And all just for 10 bucks. Amen.
Fall for Dance
Rating: Excellent
New York City Center
Unfortunately everyone in the arts world knows it—and tickets are hard to come by. This year I was at least able to snag seats to one program, and every diverse minute made me wish I could see all the rest, too.
But since regret isn't helpful, I sat back and tried to digest every bit I did get for my ten bucks. First up was the slamming powerhouse Ballet Jazz de Montreal, now known as [bjm_danse]. When I was training at Ballet Florida as a teenager, one of my jazz teachers was a former dancer with this company: She was all legs, ridiculously strong and sassy. I found out this was a pretty good estimation of the company as a whole—a fierce, jazzy group full of unique flavors with a similar vibe as Hubbard Street Dance Chicago (a high compliment in my mind). The talented troupe performed Les Chambres des Jacques, a two-year-old piece by innovator Aszure Barton, set to a huge range of music including Antonio Vivaldi and Alberto Iglesias. It fit neatly into the jazz/contemporary category with an edge of animalistic quirkiness in a more conventional way than I've seen Barton's work be. As a row of dancers stood in the back in pedestrian-on-crack poses with angular arms and twitchy leg, one dancer took a downstage spotlight to writhe, wiggle and essentially krump. As the others joined in, Barton weaved regular gestures between whacked-out versions of the same moments, full on dance explosions and impressive floor work with Russian-like heel walks done in a squatted position. On the whole, the piece is entertaining and energetic, but I also found it to be a typical offering versus Barton's more intriguing challenges.
With a great stroke of programming, Rush by Christopher Wheeldon was next, taking the frantic tone down to tranquil. Oregon Ballet Theater's delightful Alison Roper danced with knightly Artur Sultanov with delicacy and humility. A breather for the audience, the piece's classical undertones and subdued but lovely lifts stood to affirm ballet's presence on the Festival's increasingly contemporary roster.
Swirling the audience across the world (one of my favorite aspects of the festival which continues to include many traditional, ethnic varieties and styles of dance), Odissi: PRAVAHA was then performed by mother and daughter, Madhavi and Arushi Mudgal. Their obvious family connection made the piece mesmerizing in it's offering nature: Yes, they danced for us, the audience, but an offering pyre at the front of the stage also made it clear there were greater recipients in mind, too. This is always the case with spiritually based Indian dance and I find this important aspect one of the most fulfilling; true rapture shone on the dancers' faces as they twirled into exaggerated poses, rhythmic foot stomps and indicative face/eye and hand sequences. The accompanying sitar and singers added extra spice of exotic lands.
Jane Dudley's Harmonica Breakdown was another ritual piece of a far different genre. To the sounds of banjos and harmonicas, Sheron Wray flew around the stage in a long blue dress, her arms reaching toward the heavens. Short and brief, the interlude wasn't startling in the moment, but left a lingering trace of humility and thanks after swan like arm movements and skyward glances.
For dessert, the programming left the best for last, well knowing that once the audience devoured Hofesh Shechter's Uprising they would neither want more, nor be able to handle anything else. Point being...I was left panting, even salivating, for seven of the hottest and strongest male dancers I have ever seen command attention onstage. It was if Fight Club had been remade into a dance-only event. Aggressive and daring, humongous jumps, flying-into-floor work and wrestling with each other, the guys made machisimo and testosterone something I actually wanted to watch. Their palpable commitment to just those twenty minutes or so—and each other—was a comraderie I've never seen before.
Once, in a dance class I took from master teacher David Marquez, he mentioned a strange difference when he separated groups into men and women: Women seemed to compete with each other, even just in a dance class, while the men seemed to cheer each other on through their rousing energy. In class, I wasn't sure if it all was true. But onstage, I could see the latter part in clear light. One particularly emotional moment was one I'd seen many times while watching boys play on a field: After an exhausting group sequence, lunging and flinging themselves, the dancers met in a circle in the back of the stage. Each one patted the next on the back...until it rapidly deteriorated into a full-on slapfest, the way that all boys' harmless rumbles start. To see the manly, or actually boyish, energy build into a good-attitude explosion was incredible.
While I'd never seen the newly formed Hofesh Schechter company perform, or even heard of its namesake founder, FfD did what it intended: It made me fall in love with a new artist, one I'm sure to follow and patronize again. And all just for 10 bucks. Amen.
Fall for Dance
Rating: Excellent
New York City Center
Monday, September 1, 2008
Mia Dona
After a delicious and simple dinner at Kefi two years ago, I admired Michael Psilakis and his crystal-clear flavors and obvious food-joy. So, after reading about his other ventures, I thought it wise to find out firsthand what all the newer fuss was about, despite recent unappealing/hunky photos of the chef floating around online. I chose his more casual, Italian-based restaurant, Mia Dona, where he partners with constant chum Donatella Arpaia, as my initial expedition.
My first try was a pre-theater dinner, and walking into the fairly empty, dim restaurant during the no-mans land of six pm felt odd and lonely, especially in the nether dining region of the east 60s. The low lighting eerily reminded me of cocktail waitressing with a shift starting at four pm—getting to a place of nighttime pleasures while the sun was still blazing always felt awkward. Without the booze and lust it all just seemed so… wrong. Sort of like seeing a distant aunt in huge panties and a girdle by mistake—disrobed.
Despite the perplexing anxiety this produced, once I sat down and looked at the mouth-watering menu with comforting prices (appetizers between $9–$16, pastas between $11–$18 and entrees between $19–$25), I felt better. And while the meal that followed that night and one other didn’t quite summon up the smile that Kefi did, the food and ambience did provide homey and stylish comfort suggested by the laid-back atmosphere.
Although the wine list is a terse affair (but reasonably priced to match with glasses between $9–$16), a crisp, tangy Ferrari-Carrano Fumé Blanc was the right start to my early evening, and the lights started to seem more appropriate as I gulped it down. Plus the artfully displayed black and white plates on whitewashed brick, and Palm Beach-inspired wallpaper took me home to the balmy beaches of Florida.
Looking over the menu, my friend and I decided to dabble in all of the sections, starting with the diverse appetizers. We chose well. The octopus was tender and sweet, an anchovy vinaigrette laced under the tentacles with salty feta and olives served as obvious but tasty accessories.
Crispy fried rabbit with translucent fingerling potato chips was the star of the small plates list though. The slivers of starch had me at first salty bite. Before I even glanced at the hunks of rabbit breaded with crumbs and hints of parmagiano-reggiano, I instantly dug into the shimmering take on good old Lays. The vinegar, hidden in a thin slick on the chips, rang sharply in my nose, and the flash-fried parsley mingled with the basket of crunchers made them more than irresistible—they were addictive. Add a creamy cucumber remoulade (which was probably more for the rabbit, but who’s checking), and you’ve got something deadly here.
Thankfully I was able to rip myself away to concentrate on the worthy main component. I’m not always a fan of rabbit, the gamey meat often curling my tongue back. But this rendition was sweet and crunchy without being overly fried, and the game quotient was somehow subdued and delicate. After polishing off the tasty starters, we moved on to a delicious skate dish, the stringy fish gently holding to a thin pan-fry, crunchy ramps and surprisingly crisp (in a fantastic way) escarole—an unexpected plate-licker.
My second visit didn’t fare quite as well. The pasta I chose from the well-edited list, chitarra with clams, was gloppy with sticky cheese and too much oil, making the starch overwhelm the hidden, tiny clams. Only a blast of garlic and chile heat made its way through the mess.
The Spiedini from the starter list served as a mildly pleasing, filling entrée. On a gleaming white rectangle, five tiny bites were presented like gifts for a newborn…on skewers: a well spiced but severely undercooked lamb polpetti (meatball), mushy sweetbreads with too-little crunch, a tender but boring tiny quail, a classic bite of merguez sausage and the one prize of the dish—pork involtini made of sweet pork meat wrapped around dripping mozzarella. Although the dish packed a stuffing wallop for a small plate, I would have preferred more flavor, less meat.
While the décor and food whisper comfort—if not excitement or seduction— I did find the service almost rude and certainly haphazard. When I sat at a table, the waiter kept insisting I was done with my wine despite a couple of sips left. At prime time, I can understand the need for a table, but so early (and with nobody waiting in the wings up front), it seemed not only inappropriate, but also amateurish for the pedigree of a restaurant run by Psilakis. While the bar fared better, with an affable bartender, many questions I asked went unanswered, usually with a friendly shrug.
But you don’t come to Mia Dona for those points—you got to Anthos apparently. Instead, you visit this spot for an amiable vibe, tasty if not mind-blowing food, more than decent prices and a haven where you can wow yourself with a few favorites or simply enjoy your time with wine, pitchers of beer and the rest of the middle ground.
Follow Up: Mia Dona is no longer serving the fried rabbit starter to rotate more seasonal dishes. I’ll keep you posted if something can match the crunchy delight.
Mia Dona
Rating: Good
Address: 206 East 58th Street
Phone: 212.750.8170
My first try was a pre-theater dinner, and walking into the fairly empty, dim restaurant during the no-mans land of six pm felt odd and lonely, especially in the nether dining region of the east 60s. The low lighting eerily reminded me of cocktail waitressing with a shift starting at four pm—getting to a place of nighttime pleasures while the sun was still blazing always felt awkward. Without the booze and lust it all just seemed so… wrong. Sort of like seeing a distant aunt in huge panties and a girdle by mistake—disrobed.
Despite the perplexing anxiety this produced, once I sat down and looked at the mouth-watering menu with comforting prices (appetizers between $9–$16, pastas between $11–$18 and entrees between $19–$25), I felt better. And while the meal that followed that night and one other didn’t quite summon up the smile that Kefi did, the food and ambience did provide homey and stylish comfort suggested by the laid-back atmosphere.
Although the wine list is a terse affair (but reasonably priced to match with glasses between $9–$16), a crisp, tangy Ferrari-Carrano Fumé Blanc was the right start to my early evening, and the lights started to seem more appropriate as I gulped it down. Plus the artfully displayed black and white plates on whitewashed brick, and Palm Beach-inspired wallpaper took me home to the balmy beaches of Florida.
Looking over the menu, my friend and I decided to dabble in all of the sections, starting with the diverse appetizers. We chose well. The octopus was tender and sweet, an anchovy vinaigrette laced under the tentacles with salty feta and olives served as obvious but tasty accessories.
Crispy fried rabbit with translucent fingerling potato chips was the star of the small plates list though. The slivers of starch had me at first salty bite. Before I even glanced at the hunks of rabbit breaded with crumbs and hints of parmagiano-reggiano, I instantly dug into the shimmering take on good old Lays. The vinegar, hidden in a thin slick on the chips, rang sharply in my nose, and the flash-fried parsley mingled with the basket of crunchers made them more than irresistible—they were addictive. Add a creamy cucumber remoulade (which was probably more for the rabbit, but who’s checking), and you’ve got something deadly here.
Thankfully I was able to rip myself away to concentrate on the worthy main component. I’m not always a fan of rabbit, the gamey meat often curling my tongue back. But this rendition was sweet and crunchy without being overly fried, and the game quotient was somehow subdued and delicate. After polishing off the tasty starters, we moved on to a delicious skate dish, the stringy fish gently holding to a thin pan-fry, crunchy ramps and surprisingly crisp (in a fantastic way) escarole—an unexpected plate-licker.
My second visit didn’t fare quite as well. The pasta I chose from the well-edited list, chitarra with clams, was gloppy with sticky cheese and too much oil, making the starch overwhelm the hidden, tiny clams. Only a blast of garlic and chile heat made its way through the mess.
The Spiedini from the starter list served as a mildly pleasing, filling entrée. On a gleaming white rectangle, five tiny bites were presented like gifts for a newborn…on skewers: a well spiced but severely undercooked lamb polpetti (meatball), mushy sweetbreads with too-little crunch, a tender but boring tiny quail, a classic bite of merguez sausage and the one prize of the dish—pork involtini made of sweet pork meat wrapped around dripping mozzarella. Although the dish packed a stuffing wallop for a small plate, I would have preferred more flavor, less meat.
While the décor and food whisper comfort—if not excitement or seduction— I did find the service almost rude and certainly haphazard. When I sat at a table, the waiter kept insisting I was done with my wine despite a couple of sips left. At prime time, I can understand the need for a table, but so early (and with nobody waiting in the wings up front), it seemed not only inappropriate, but also amateurish for the pedigree of a restaurant run by Psilakis. While the bar fared better, with an affable bartender, many questions I asked went unanswered, usually with a friendly shrug.
But you don’t come to Mia Dona for those points—you got to Anthos apparently. Instead, you visit this spot for an amiable vibe, tasty if not mind-blowing food, more than decent prices and a haven where you can wow yourself with a few favorites or simply enjoy your time with wine, pitchers of beer and the rest of the middle ground.
Follow Up: Mia Dona is no longer serving the fried rabbit starter to rotate more seasonal dishes. I’ll keep you posted if something can match the crunchy delight.
Mia Dona
Rating: Good
Address: 206 East 58th Street
Phone: 212.750.8170
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