Surprise of the Year

I am so frequently let down by New York restaurants that a genuinely delicious experience often sends me reeling. Twice now in the past two weeks I have found elusive culinary grandeur in humble Italian roots. Two weeks ago, it was Il Buco on Bond Street. This past week, I found a similar transcendent experience at Maialino.

Maialino divorces itself from the pomp and circumstance that is the Gramercy Park Hotel, where the rustic, full, and comfy restaurant lives. If the hostess takes you toward the back, know that you are in capable hands and are heading to a row of low, linen-backed banquettes, which make a person feel like she is eating in someone's really nice and comfortable Restoration Hardware-outfitted apartment.

Immediately, cheesy and crispy breadsticks arrive, along with crusty bread that is nothing like the saltless version offered up in Tuscany. Maialino has a wide selection of charcuterie, and on the night we were there they were offering a recently cured bresola, thin sliced-beef that usually has the consistency of rubber tire. But not at Maialino, where the careful plate came with olive oil and lemon juice and salt--nothing more. The tender beef, more akin to a lovely roast than an old steak, required no more frill than that.

A plate of fried things included brains, sweetbreads, and artichokes. Artichokes, rarely my favorite, sang through the light batter and bright squeeze of a lemon. Brains were regrettably gooey and undersalted and reminded me why such things should only be served at their best (I was brought back to a memory of eating them fried in a wine cellar in Spain). But sweetbreads redeemed the plate.

Then a pasta duo, one with a starchy sauce of salt and pepper and cheese and one of stuffed shells with Italian sausage and deep green kale. The plates are small enough to keep a calorie count intact and encourage sharing in favor of ordering other dishes on the menu. We wiped our plates clean, breathless by the time our final course--the restaurant's signature suckling pig--came out. Pressed under the weight of a crispy shingle of skin, the meat was tender and juicy, complimented by a side of crispy Brussels sprouts.

We attempted two desserts, donuts with apple glaze that were delicious if ordinary, and a bread pudding made from chocolate croissants. The latter stole my heart, as did so many things at Maialino.

*

Maialino

2 Lexington Avenue

New York, NY 10010

212.777.2410

Rose Water

It has inhabited a space on the corner of Park Slope's Sixth Avenue for over a decade and so, on a rainy autumn Tuesday, I finally went. The room is intimate and spare, bolstered by a lovely little protected patio that, in summer, provides plein air seating. I started with a surprisingly deep dry sherry--to find a restaurant that even serves a dry sherry as an apertif is a minor victory--and followed with a half bottle of Willamette Valley pinot noir. Half bottles! Sherry! Such sophistication does not exist in my own home borough. (And both, by the way, should be de rigeur in today's changing restaurant climate.)

We shared two appetizers, a by-the-book but competent pork belly, served with a cabbage and apple slaw and a fried triangular pasta--trenne--with a duck ragu. The pasta had the crisp consistency of good French fries, nothing to complain about (fried pasta is kind of an inspired idea, by the way). Next, a chicken with crispy skin but a little too little breast moisture; thick cut duck cooked a perfect medium rare; and a side of completely addictive fried Brussels sprouts served with an equally hedonistic mayonnaise. Why eat Brussels sprouts any other way?

Dessert did not disappoint; apple slices arrived in a thick, crisp batter and with cream cheese ice-cream and caramel. Perhaps it wasn't the most original meal out there, but there's a reason Rose Water has overcome the New York test of time.

*

Rose Water

787 Union Street

Brooklyn, NY 11215

718.783.3800

Market Fresh

The food at Market Table reminds me of most of the other food coming out of New York kitchens these days--seasonal, homey, ingredient-focused, and lacking a little bit of fire. That's ok. Sometimes you just need a tasty meal and, for me, last night was one of those times. Anyway, who could pass up sitting in such a pretty little restaurant, with its floor-to-ceiling windows facing snowy Carmine Street, with its colonial Christmas wreaths on the doors and windows, with its string of precious little white lights running up the bar's central wood column? I love Christmas as much as any Jewish girl ever could and I love sitting in a warm and glowing restaurant on a December night wrapped in a soft sweater and a wisp of red wine.

Speaking of wine, the Market Table by the glass list isn't deep, but it is thoughtful. I had an inexpensive (by European standards) Corbieres from the south of France, followed by an Olga Raffault Chinon, one of my long-standing favorites. It was a little young and not as dirty as it gets with age, but I appreciate any restaurant that sells a Chinon by the glass.

And so, the food.

My hamachi crudo starter came with the obligatory sliced fruit--in this case, julienned pears. The dish hit all the right notes, with clean acid and sweet fruit and a slight hint of the ocean, but it was a dish I had tasted before on another night in another farm-to-table restaurant. No spark, no fire.

Next came a generous pork porterhouse, bone-in, cooked to a perfect medium and topped with a red onion and vinegar slaw. The meat was surprisingly underseasoned, forcing me to reach into our complimentary bowl of Maldon salt for some pork triage. It helped. The meat itself was leaner than I had expected but still possessed of the perfect texture of well-cooked pork. The creamy, cheesy spaetzle underneath, dotted with fine leaves of Brussels sprouts, went down easily indeed. So did the crispy, crunchy Old Bay fries with their horseradish ketchup (which really tasted of nothing but cocktail sauce). And so did our two scoop gelato finish, a rich dark chocolate and a nutty bourbon pecan.

It all tasted good and I left nothing for the waiters to scrape into the bins out back, but I still have to wonder if good tasting food is enough anymore. Maybe I miss the fire.

*

Market Table

54 Carmine Street

New York, NY 10014

212.255.2100

Sprouts

Last week, I stumbled into a nearly empty Sorella, a pity on a Thursday night. Only a block away, Mary Queen of Scots, the LES newcomer who denied us a table, was filled to the gills with hipsters and mock foodies, leaving poor Sorella to fend for herself. Why would anyone pass up the dense, generous beef carne cruda, or the slick pici with its economical pool of creamy sauce? What misinformed eater would have chosen an overdone burger over the flash-fried and bacony Brussels sprouts, or the potatoes with speck that arrived crusty and lacquered with mayonnaise in the style of fine patas bravas?

I couldn't say. I felt sad for the lonely, crispy, salty, herbaceous breadsticks, which assuaged my hunger before our food arrived. My sweetbreads were a touch overcooked, but their crust--it must be cornmeal--lingered. Even our desserts, scoops of gelato laced with chocolate and caramel and banana and a host of other secrets belied a restaurant that should be remembered and isn't. The food is delicate and modest in its portions. There are no disappointments, aside from the spare following. I hope they keep their doors open through another long winter.

On to other sprouts. In Astoria, on another cold night, I found myself at Vesta, a wine bar with Italian inclinations that opened a year or so ago. Upon first glance, one might think their pizzas a hair too large, but the crust is cracker-thin and so the slices go down easy. I could have used more blue cheese and less sauce on my pie of blue and caramelized onions, but never mind. The fusilli, while too large a portion for sure, came with crisped sweet Italian sausage and a sauce that boasted an old Italian secret: starchy cooking water from the pasta pot. It was a stick-to-your-ribs bowl perfectly suited to the weather. The grass-fed rib-eye is a steal at $25. I would have liked to have sliced it myself, but never mind. It came rare, as ordered, and well seasoned, which says something about the diligence of the kitchen.

For dessert, I allowed the server to talk me into Baby Jesus Cake, which is really just a toffee steamed pudding adorned with fresh whipped cream. My server was right; I was glad I had listened.

*

Sorella

95 Allen Street

New York, NY 11201

212.274.9595

*

Vesta Trattoria & Wine Bar

21-02 30th Avenue

Astoria, NY 11102

718.545.5550

Downtown Is For Hipsters

And I'm no hipster. Maybe the lack of a truly entrenched "hipster scene" is what left Village Tart empty at eight o'clock on a balmy Friday night. Who knows. Surely it isn't the tasty food that's keeping the masses away.

The food really is tasty. Ok, the parmesan popcorn, served in a wax paper sleeve, tastes little of cheese and a lot of drippy movie butter (and I mean that in a good way). I'll take my butter where I can find it. A salad of golden and red beets comes together with the help of unctuous Greek yogurt. And while the enormous Wagyu pig in a blanket, shrouded in buttery croissant, needs no help, the spicy mustard it comes with would be delicious even on toast.

Brussels sprouts with bacon and honey were too heavy-handed and sweet and not charred enough to my liking. I was hoping for some salt from the bacon, but sugar was the name of that veggie game, and next time I'll pass. I will order, however, the mushroom tart, thin sliced cooked beauties over another flaky open-faced croissant. The arugula salad that joins it, full of lemon and pepper, is just an added bonus.

Village Tart is the handiwork of pastry chef Pichet Ong, so one would expect pastry to reign supreme. We took our strawberry tart to go, and by the time we ate it, over an hour later, the cream had redistributed and the pastry was hard to get at. I'm not sure if that was a reflection of a chef's misstep or ours, so I'll make my way back, eventually, to indulge my sweet tooth.

*

Village Tart

86 Kenmare Street

New York, NY 10012

212.226.4980

From The Makers Of The Harrison...

...Comes Braeburn, a small-but-cozy spot on Perry Street, west of Hudson. My memories of The Harrison are dim, but I do remember a pleasant atmosphere, pleasant wines, and pleasant looking and tasting food. Pleasant. I remember seasonal American cuisine and a dining room that was warm and open. Most of these definitions apply to The Harrison's West Village sibling, Braeburn.

Take, for instance, a cornbread biscuit served with sweet butter at the meal's beginning. Perfectly pleasant, but somewhat predictable in the age of newfangled bread plates. The 'quail sausage' (their quotation marks, not mine) was actually a pressed torchon of breast, stuffed, rolled, and sheathed in quail skin, seared until crisp. It was innovative in its inception and it was pleasant enough, but something about the spaetzle disrupted the originality. Haven't I seen this dish a million times before?

Other appetizers were similarly quaint: seared sea scallops over a walnut puree, short rib pastrami over sauerkraut. The limited menu and its few entrees (six, I believe) followed suit. The usual suspects (duck, steak, pork) came with the usual suspects (Brussels sprouts, cippolini onions, savoy cabbage). The duck breast was rich and somewhat stunning, though a few pieces came overcooked. The steak, billed as a rib eye, looked and tasted more like a filet. And the pork was not nearly fatty enough to arrive medium well, which it did.

Desserts were good. More than pleasant, even. Banana pudding took the traditional route, a parfait layered with nilla wafers, slices of banana, whipped heavy cream. An apple 'hand pie' looked a lot like a McDonald's number, though it tasted better. Pumpkin cheesecake had been left too long to set and donut holes with a cider dipping sauce were good but... didn't I just have fresh donuts yesterday? I loved the petit fours, slivers of dark chocolate topped with marshmallow kisses and blow-torched, an homage to the s'more (sans graham cracker, of course), but all in all the meal served expensive comforts that reminded me of, well, other expensive comforts served elsewhere in this same large city.

It's no repudiation. Sometimes we all need a bit of comfort.

*
Braeburn
117 Perry Street
New York, NY 10014
212.255.0692