When I decided to go abroad the summer after my tumultuous freshman year of college, I tried to pick the most festive place I could imagine. I chose Barcelona, Spain, and the decision landed me right where I had hoped—in an endless fiesta. The seaside city is magical, sexy and filled with the adventures I craved as a 19-year-old. Humongous raves with throngs of strangers, hot men with long hair and ridiculous tans, a dizzying market on the hectic Las Ramblas called Boqueria, grilled octopus and tons of sangria on the side.
That summer I also ate one of the best—and simplest—meals of my life: One late afternoon I found myself still on the beach right before sunset. I was starving and couldn't fathom walking all the way back to my flat. When I saw a mid-beach shack/restaurant, I seriously considered the absinthe I had tried the night before; I've heard it causes hallucinations. But as I got closer and smelled the salty air mingle with grill smoke, I couldn't help but laugh and run toward it despite my broken flip flops wagging in the sand.
The friendly, lone waiter had exactly three teeth, and I almost got scared away by his scraggly smile. Good thing I'm a tough chick. He took a liking to me, grabbed my hand and plopped me down on a plastic, orange chair. At this point, I thought, awesome! Hellish year capped off! He disappeared behind a plastic curtain and as I was contemplating an overdue escape, he brought me the freshest, most succulent grilled, head-on shrimp. They were brushed with garlic and accompanied by a sugary Mango cocktail with contents unknown. As I bit down on the plump critter, I didn't even stop to wipe the juice streaking down my ridiculously-blissful face. And right there in that dirty hut, as the sun dipped down to the sea, I fell in love with Spain—its food, celebration and sultry attitude—and never missed a moment of the party the rest of my time there. I slept a total of three hours each night. Ah, being 19.
When I returned to the states, I gave up trying to find any approximation of my experience after eating a gummy take on paella in Florida: fiesta as a messa. So when I visited Boqueria in Chelsea for the first time, I was suspicious to say the least. I was probably even a little bitchy about it; a friend asked me to go with her three times before I obliged. (What? In Judaism, if someone asks for your forgiveness three times and you don't accept, the burden is on you, mister. I figured this might be the same type of situation, and I didn't want to mess with the big guy on high.) To my delight, owner Yann de Rochefort and chef Seamus Mullen's slim spot fiested me right out my mood. And even though nothing will ever match that evening on the beach, when I need some Spanish spice, Boqueria on 19th street does the trick.
The key for me here is the seamless mix of sexy and smiley. The bustling, tight hall of a restaurant is tolerable thanks to low lighting, tons of wine and a general grin—even on the waiters. And as someone who's served around NYC, this in itself is a gigantic deal. With this free-for-all attitude, it was initially easy for me to assume that the food would take on a similarly laid-back attitude. No, señor. It's all gourmet seriousness here, but with Spanish sass and saturated flavors bursting from many dishes.
Reminding me of the set up of alleyway joints in Barcelona, the menu is divided into tiny tapas plates (only 5 or 6 bites in true Catalan fashion, which I love. I'm a sampler.), raciones which are larger but not a deluge of food and embutidos, a lovely selection of meats and cheese.
Because of the crowded quarters, drinks are definitely in order to handle the rush of people: the fizzy Reymos Moscatel is the perfect start (or finish), with flirty, peachy notes. The rest of the wine list offers a reasonable selection of well-considered Spanish wines . And while the glass selection isn't enormous, daily specials help to supplement for those who want to try out new flavors. For heavy terrain, the Torres "Gran Sangre de Toro" is a bold mix of Garnacha, Cariñena and Syrah that can handle the spice of the food. For this richness the $39/bottle price seems tolerable. Or a glass of the snappy Verdejo is always just right for a Spanish sit-down.
Once well-hydrated, I head straight for the thinly sliced jamon serrano—slick and fatty with a unique flavor I crave. If you want to splurge, pony up for the luxurious Iberico ham. It's a pretty, posh pig with an equally impressive tag. But the pedigree comes through in powerful tang. The meats are served on snappy white toast that yields to the bite but not without a crunchy fight, and are complimented with subdued jams and preserves.
From the tapas list, a feast awaits in separate takes. First up, the pan con tomate has serious zip from basic garlic, olive oil and tomato. Skip over the classic but tame patatas bravas to the healthy-with-heft sauteed spinach, jazzed up with dense garbanzo beans, pine nuts and garlic. Unexpected raisins make this dish a surprise treat. Even a four-year-old would eat this soft spinach: it's nutritious and tastes heavenly. Next, the seared lamb chunks. While the squares of the sweet meat don't look like a huge amount, they actually do satisfy a carnivore craving, and the herbacious seasonings make it a killer choice. The txipirones, octopus with a tangy black-olive vinegarette, really take me back to my summer of craziness with a swift ring in the nose from the vinegar. A special twist on the traditional dish is octopus with cocoa nibs, a gentler, richer use of the seafood that balances right between fresh and filling.
Then, even though it's on the tapas list, the escudella is right for a a bigger appetite. The braised lamb shank is intense, while garbanzo, white beans and chard restore some amount of restraint to the dish. But, the meat's salty, fatty slink, matched by totally unnecessary (and thus more wonderful) sausage wins the battle between good and evil here. The carne asada is a more direct serving of meat that clearly asserts itself as an entree, but it's less impressive in effect and innovation.
However I create my Spanish smorgasbord here, I've noticed three things happen on each and every occasion. 1. I'm stuffed and satisfied in a way that often evades me at small-plates/tapas spots, both in quantity and flavor. 2. I am tipsy from a fine choice of friendly wines presented with thoughtful but down-to-earth explanations by cheerful waiters. 3. I am happier, more bubbly and more optimistic than when I arrived, similar to how I felt in Spain.
There are swerves and hiccups from the hustle and crowd, broken glasses from arms flung in wide hugs and dishes that aren't always astounding. But mostly, there are smiles and giggles and yums and can I have another. And as I learned to say in Spain for anything with which I heartily agree, when asked if I want to go to Boqueria, I now always say "Vale."
Boqueria
Rating: Excellent
Address: 53 West 19th Street
Phone:212.255.4160
Note: I'm looking forward to trying out the new Boqueria in Soho (on Spring and West Broadway) once they've gotten settled in. I'll report back soon about whether the team's started an equally boisterous fiesta at the branch downtown.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Gottino: The Great Taste of Tiny
Though I love wine and try to learn about it as much as possible, I also try equally hard not to turn into a wine snob in the process (or an obnoxious version of one, at least). I do try to pronounce the complicated French and Italian names for practice and out of respect for a language not my own, but I don't wince when someone corrects me. I also don't try to argue, as in, 'no, no it's Muller Thurgau with a soft "th" like "thought."' I'm malleable. I want to learn. I. Am. Not. Perfect.
At Jody William's Gottino sometimes I wish I was, for wine-brilliance finds a home here. Fortunately, it's snuck into a good-humored, country setting, along with a fantastic array of small plates with their own unpronounceable names (I tried, to the chagrin of my bartender Kevin).
Much of the spot's contrast is due to the daper bartenders who scuttle behind the long white and gray marble bar: Their recommendations are always spot on even if they raise an eyebrow here or there. A seesaw between comforting enclave and hectic hotspot is also created by the thin narrow space with a plain brick wall on one side facing the L-shape counter. It's perfect when you want to slide by that oh-so-hot lawyer doing his crossword puzzle, but not so much when a fourth-date twosome is eye-molesting your chairs in that crazy, hovering way only New Yorkers have perfected.
Soft, happy accordions chime in from above and mix with happy, tipsy talk and the festive farmhouse vibe is punctuated with bountiful baskets of pomegranates, apples and gleaming pears, jars of jam and bottles of olive oil—a veritable cornucopia. Smaller bowls of hazelnuts fill in the rest of the space, crackers at the ready, provoking my always-present 13-year-old humor. With this the place begins to lighten up and the grins start coming as you start cracking and perusing the ridiculously awesome wine list.
But before the wine, comes the food. While Gottino drifts away from the money-spot with a few plates, most of the miniatures are tasty treats. Separated into sections including salatini, verdure, crostini , pesce and carne, the dishes within each area are uniform in price, only hitting the $40 mark for a full plate of meat and cheese, and otherwise staying in the $5–8 range. This is clear comfort in a restaurant-sphere with menus that often provide two bites for 30 bucks.
Of the crositini, pesto di noci serves up a powerful and even nutritious (nuts are full of protein, yay!) punch. Crusty, crunchy toast is slathered with a layer of chunky walnuts, zesty from a shake of basil and garlic goodness. Although by the end of the dish dryness is an issue, the saturated flavor makes it worth the necessary few sips of water. The carciofi e mentuccia (can you pronounce that??) is an even lighter toast with artichokes, mint and pecorino. It's a thoughtful combination of flavors with a bright burst from the mint, but turns mediocre after just a few bites.
From the verdure category, the shaved brussel spouts in tiny strands are roughage with spice, but move on to the meat and fish for a better use of calories: save the salad for lunch. The crespelle, a slightly fried, very crunchy crepe is filled with a tiny bit of prosciutto and fontina. Unfortunately the meat and cheese are overpowered by the carb, but that's pretty good all on its own. If you want to create a heavier meal, try the luxurious prosciutto di parma. The dry speck wrapped around caramelized endive doesn't take advantage of the vegetable's snappy, sweet assets: perhaps use the prosciutto here as well?
If you’re feeling a bit more adventurous, the head-on sardine with crunchy fennel, pine nuts and raisins packs a salty/sweet delight. But the most impressive and inventive item tastes like a fantastic holiday meal mish mashed inside the mouth: Heirloom apples stuffed with sausage ooze a heavenly fruity/meat liquid. Eating these orbs, it's hard not to feel just the tiniest bit celebratory.
At Gottino, it's a flavorful, if at times uneven, course. All along though, it's fun and educational with a staggering wine list that will take you many visits to tackle. With choices from old standbys like Primitivo and Pinot Grigio, to knockouts like the intense Cannonau and a fragrant Mujas (at reasonable prices ranging from $9–18 per glass), the hiccups get swallowed down with way too many gulps of delectable tipple and finger food to even be noticed.
Gottino
Rating: Great
Address: 52 Greenwich Avenue
Phone: 212.633.2590
At Jody William's Gottino sometimes I wish I was, for wine-brilliance finds a home here. Fortunately, it's snuck into a good-humored, country setting, along with a fantastic array of small plates with their own unpronounceable names (I tried, to the chagrin of my bartender Kevin).
Much of the spot's contrast is due to the daper bartenders who scuttle behind the long white and gray marble bar: Their recommendations are always spot on even if they raise an eyebrow here or there. A seesaw between comforting enclave and hectic hotspot is also created by the thin narrow space with a plain brick wall on one side facing the L-shape counter. It's perfect when you want to slide by that oh-so-hot lawyer doing his crossword puzzle, but not so much when a fourth-date twosome is eye-molesting your chairs in that crazy, hovering way only New Yorkers have perfected.
Soft, happy accordions chime in from above and mix with happy, tipsy talk and the festive farmhouse vibe is punctuated with bountiful baskets of pomegranates, apples and gleaming pears, jars of jam and bottles of olive oil—a veritable cornucopia. Smaller bowls of hazelnuts fill in the rest of the space, crackers at the ready, provoking my always-present 13-year-old humor. With this the place begins to lighten up and the grins start coming as you start cracking and perusing the ridiculously awesome wine list.
But before the wine, comes the food. While Gottino drifts away from the money-spot with a few plates, most of the miniatures are tasty treats. Separated into sections including salatini, verdure, crostini , pesce and carne, the dishes within each area are uniform in price, only hitting the $40 mark for a full plate of meat and cheese, and otherwise staying in the $5–8 range. This is clear comfort in a restaurant-sphere with menus that often provide two bites for 30 bucks.
Of the crositini, pesto di noci serves up a powerful and even nutritious (nuts are full of protein, yay!) punch. Crusty, crunchy toast is slathered with a layer of chunky walnuts, zesty from a shake of basil and garlic goodness. Although by the end of the dish dryness is an issue, the saturated flavor makes it worth the necessary few sips of water. The carciofi e mentuccia (can you pronounce that??) is an even lighter toast with artichokes, mint and pecorino. It's a thoughtful combination of flavors with a bright burst from the mint, but turns mediocre after just a few bites.
From the verdure category, the shaved brussel spouts in tiny strands are roughage with spice, but move on to the meat and fish for a better use of calories: save the salad for lunch. The crespelle, a slightly fried, very crunchy crepe is filled with a tiny bit of prosciutto and fontina. Unfortunately the meat and cheese are overpowered by the carb, but that's pretty good all on its own. If you want to create a heavier meal, try the luxurious prosciutto di parma. The dry speck wrapped around caramelized endive doesn't take advantage of the vegetable's snappy, sweet assets: perhaps use the prosciutto here as well?
If you’re feeling a bit more adventurous, the head-on sardine with crunchy fennel, pine nuts and raisins packs a salty/sweet delight. But the most impressive and inventive item tastes like a fantastic holiday meal mish mashed inside the mouth: Heirloom apples stuffed with sausage ooze a heavenly fruity/meat liquid. Eating these orbs, it's hard not to feel just the tiniest bit celebratory.
At Gottino, it's a flavorful, if at times uneven, course. All along though, it's fun and educational with a staggering wine list that will take you many visits to tackle. With choices from old standbys like Primitivo and Pinot Grigio, to knockouts like the intense Cannonau and a fragrant Mujas (at reasonable prices ranging from $9–18 per glass), the hiccups get swallowed down with way too many gulps of delectable tipple and finger food to even be noticed.
Gottino
Rating: Great
Address: 52 Greenwich Avenue
Phone: 212.633.2590
Monday, November 10, 2008
Smith's: Sidecar Boite
When I was 8, my Nanny showed me two of my now-favorite movie musicals: Gigi and Hello, Dolly. Yes, cliché. But yes, true. As she swanned around in her spotless white pantsuit in her spotless white apartment, she also tried to convince me to watch other classics like Casablanca and the Philadelphia Story. I resisted, thinking no dance, no deal.
Only when I was about 15, in my melancholy years of black turtlenecks and endless Ella Fitzgerald, did I take the time to follow her advice. After that...forget it. I couldn't get enough: fedoras, masculine pant suits on gorgeous women, Audrey OR Katherine Hepburn. And that's because there's nothing quite so glamorous or enthralling as that speak-easy vibe, especially to a 15-year-old who can do nothing but be awkward and well...15. Hidden nooks, chandeliers and velvet, beaded dresses and red lipstick, that whole idea of a femme fatale with cigarette smoke swirling overhead...hot.
No wonder I was instantly drawn to Smith’s. While you won’t always find a glitzy glamour puss there, you will find that same lively, sneaky vibe so reminiscent of the jazz age, with a layer of hospitable manners.
Like an actual (worthy) movie star that has the gift of effortless ease, the three rooms of this West Village haunt are a similar combination—studied shabbiness with sprinkles of class to remind us, this deb’s no dud. Mirrored tabletops in the front jewel-box room, a stark black and white palette and a red runner down the aisle of the railway-car middle room whisper cinematic sophistication. The hidden bar in the back is low-lit and outfitted with a tattered Persian rug and creaky stools for close chatting and sideways glances.The pedigree suggested by the décor is no coincidence. Smith’s is the newer baby of Danny Abrams of the successful Mermaid Inn, with partner Cindy Smith.
This legacy comes across intact as the gleaming white plates neatly reach the tiny tables. Although the space feels tight due to its design, Chef Justin Smilie's food is anything but, and it finds a friendly balance between haute-cuisine and haute down-home.
From the second category comes one of the spot’s best appetizers offered in the winter: A healthy portion of Anson Mills polenta is set atop gooey Gorgonzola, finished with a drippy sunny-side egg. Use a spoon to scoop up all of the components in one bite for a breakfast-turned-dinner dish you’ll never want to finish. Equally satisfying, if more standard dinner fare from that same season is the artichoke tagliatelle, with earthy black truffle, crunchy bits of prosciutto, slivers of salty parmigiano reggiano and a slick of olive oil and garlic that melts away with the al dente pasta.
From the summery menu, a jubilant heirloom salad is a seasonal luxury that lets the fruit's flavor do all the talking. Mussels with harisa, fennel and creme fraiche is zesty and soupy with just the right kick of heat. But the grilled quail is the tiny knockout of the bunch: Sweet meat from what I usually find to be a boring bird is spiked with pancetta and softened by peaches and a pecan pesto. All together, the dish hits every note of tasty...done and done.
When available, crisp sautéed brussel sprouts are a perfect side to any of the forthcoming entreés, but the shaved zucchini is a waste of the vegetable; the amount of oil adorning the poor strips makes the healthy option anything but.
Of the main courses, there are more wows than flops, and the food has a clear elegance that translates into flavor combinations that aren't extravagant. Instead, they're a nod to tried-and-true winners with a splash of pizazz.
For a special, succulent lobster was matched by a sweet, but not overpowering butternut squash puree and a few leaves of garlicky brussel sprouts—a blissful dish that left me wanting to lick the plate. Equally satisfying is the roast lamb saddle. Although the scarlet cut looked undercooked, one bite highlighted magnificently tender meat, with a tangy parmigiano purée served underside to reduce the fat's power. Less thrilling, the grilled dorade was uninspiring, with a simple vinaigrette for diners of the more conservative brand. The swordfish was an easy classic that my diet-conscious friend enjoyed, especially the zucchini and basil accessories that filled her green quota. The surprising, sleeper hit of the bunch, though, was the whole trout. The tender flesh was paired with killer friends, ham and pine nuts, that emboldened the purist dish in a more decadent approach than fish usually gets.
Desserts are a restrained but enjoyable affair. Old-school affogato makes an appearance for those ending on the classy note. But for those of us who want to dig in with nose in whip cream, the peach shortcake would make a girl from Georgia proud.
The wine list is inclusive and broad, with plenty of half-bottles (like the crisp Pouilly fume) for those not willing to dunk into pricier pools. If you are, check out the healthy choice of stunners like the velvety Kunin Zinfandel or Pape Star that the spot sometimes stocks.
For each part this balance is how Smith’s approaches your experience: Surprises if you’d like, simple pleasures if you don’t. Like an old black-and-white that makes you want to smoke a European cigarette as you watch it over and over, the young Smith’s makes it easy to return, and quickly becomes an old favorite.
Smith's
Rating: Excellent
Address: 79 MacDougal St.
Phone: 212.260.0100
Only when I was about 15, in my melancholy years of black turtlenecks and endless Ella Fitzgerald, did I take the time to follow her advice. After that...forget it. I couldn't get enough: fedoras, masculine pant suits on gorgeous women, Audrey OR Katherine Hepburn. And that's because there's nothing quite so glamorous or enthralling as that speak-easy vibe, especially to a 15-year-old who can do nothing but be awkward and well...15. Hidden nooks, chandeliers and velvet, beaded dresses and red lipstick, that whole idea of a femme fatale with cigarette smoke swirling overhead...hot.
No wonder I was instantly drawn to Smith’s. While you won’t always find a glitzy glamour puss there, you will find that same lively, sneaky vibe so reminiscent of the jazz age, with a layer of hospitable manners.
Like an actual (worthy) movie star that has the gift of effortless ease, the three rooms of this West Village haunt are a similar combination—studied shabbiness with sprinkles of class to remind us, this deb’s no dud. Mirrored tabletops in the front jewel-box room, a stark black and white palette and a red runner down the aisle of the railway-car middle room whisper cinematic sophistication. The hidden bar in the back is low-lit and outfitted with a tattered Persian rug and creaky stools for close chatting and sideways glances.The pedigree suggested by the décor is no coincidence. Smith’s is the newer baby of Danny Abrams of the successful Mermaid Inn, with partner Cindy Smith.
This legacy comes across intact as the gleaming white plates neatly reach the tiny tables. Although the space feels tight due to its design, Chef Justin Smilie's food is anything but, and it finds a friendly balance between haute-cuisine and haute down-home.
From the second category comes one of the spot’s best appetizers offered in the winter: A healthy portion of Anson Mills polenta is set atop gooey Gorgonzola, finished with a drippy sunny-side egg. Use a spoon to scoop up all of the components in one bite for a breakfast-turned-dinner dish you’ll never want to finish. Equally satisfying, if more standard dinner fare from that same season is the artichoke tagliatelle, with earthy black truffle, crunchy bits of prosciutto, slivers of salty parmigiano reggiano and a slick of olive oil and garlic that melts away with the al dente pasta.
From the summery menu, a jubilant heirloom salad is a seasonal luxury that lets the fruit's flavor do all the talking. Mussels with harisa, fennel and creme fraiche is zesty and soupy with just the right kick of heat. But the grilled quail is the tiny knockout of the bunch: Sweet meat from what I usually find to be a boring bird is spiked with pancetta and softened by peaches and a pecan pesto. All together, the dish hits every note of tasty...done and done.
When available, crisp sautéed brussel sprouts are a perfect side to any of the forthcoming entreés, but the shaved zucchini is a waste of the vegetable; the amount of oil adorning the poor strips makes the healthy option anything but.
Of the main courses, there are more wows than flops, and the food has a clear elegance that translates into flavor combinations that aren't extravagant. Instead, they're a nod to tried-and-true winners with a splash of pizazz.
For a special, succulent lobster was matched by a sweet, but not overpowering butternut squash puree and a few leaves of garlicky brussel sprouts—a blissful dish that left me wanting to lick the plate. Equally satisfying is the roast lamb saddle. Although the scarlet cut looked undercooked, one bite highlighted magnificently tender meat, with a tangy parmigiano purée served underside to reduce the fat's power. Less thrilling, the grilled dorade was uninspiring, with a simple vinaigrette for diners of the more conservative brand. The swordfish was an easy classic that my diet-conscious friend enjoyed, especially the zucchini and basil accessories that filled her green quota. The surprising, sleeper hit of the bunch, though, was the whole trout. The tender flesh was paired with killer friends, ham and pine nuts, that emboldened the purist dish in a more decadent approach than fish usually gets.
Desserts are a restrained but enjoyable affair. Old-school affogato makes an appearance for those ending on the classy note. But for those of us who want to dig in with nose in whip cream, the peach shortcake would make a girl from Georgia proud.
The wine list is inclusive and broad, with plenty of half-bottles (like the crisp Pouilly fume) for those not willing to dunk into pricier pools. If you are, check out the healthy choice of stunners like the velvety Kunin Zinfandel or Pape Star that the spot sometimes stocks.
For each part this balance is how Smith’s approaches your experience: Surprises if you’d like, simple pleasures if you don’t. Like an old black-and-white that makes you want to smoke a European cigarette as you watch it over and over, the young Smith’s makes it easy to return, and quickly becomes an old favorite.
Smith's
Rating: Excellent
Address: 79 MacDougal St.
Phone: 212.260.0100
Monday, November 3, 2008
Scarpetta
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
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, 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.
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