Garment District Dinner

The NoMad. Will Guidara and Daniel Humm's latest joint foodie project. A dark bar leads to a formal host stand, where a maitre'd with an anemic sense of humor takes my coat and leaves me to fend for myself to meet my guest: through the carpeted dining room, into the back bar, and back into another room aptly called The Library, where books line the walls of a dark-paneled room. Instantly, it's a scene. Ben Leventhal of Eater saunters in; the black-clad cocktail waitress will not let us sit at a table for two, since tables "with books on them" are reserved. Except, it's a library. There are books everywhere.

Cocktail lists come in books, but the system is flawed, with pages sticking out every which way. Cute idea, if you can make it work. Cuter is the mythic bottles of booze, hiding in fat books on The Library's walls. Find one, and it's yours, but it's gauche to look with so many people staring into cocktails.

We are exported back into the dining room, which feels empty and full at the same time. Too many staff members. Too few diners. Too many people tripping through the room and knocking our chairs. We order a three course meal: two snacks, a seafood tower, and an entree for two with another appetizer in lieu of a side. Snacks arrived in seconds, thin pastry cigars stuffed with sweetbreads and a rillette jar of beef tartare with brioche squares. Our wine came. Seconds later, the seafood tower--a staggering $25 per person--came, too. It was, perhaps, the star of the evening. Uni in a sweet gelee with a brunoise of apple hit all the right notes, as did a clean oyster with a similar apple garnish. The fat from cubed hamachi was cut by shaved fresh white horseradish. King crab benefitted from lemon and lobster benefitted from just a hint of mayonnaise and fresh tarragon. A scallop shell played host to a chopped raw scallop with crunchy accoutrement.

But we still had another bottle of wine to tackle and food was coming with a surprising ferocity. And so we tacked on an additional course, which arrived shortly after our bread service, a soft and salty onion and potato flatbread. Next, tagliatelle with more king crab and perhaps a bit too much butter, mitigated only by a salad of chiffonaded sugar snap peas with pancetta and parmesan.

Then the entree arrived, a whole chicken brought for us to see first--lacquered brown skin, and a plume of fresh herbs. Minutes later, the chicken reemerged as a butchered, plated thing, a breast apiece, a smear of truffled pommes puree, three spears of white asparagus, and a medley of morels and chicken thighs in butter for us to share. A bone marrow appetizer, topped with croutons and anchovy paste, provided the heft necessary to sop up all that spare fat.

We reached the end and ordered dessert, a weird if impressive rumination on milk and honey (milk ice cream with honey, crisp meringue) and a peanut butter bar that brought to mind a sophisticated s'more. NoMad is still negotiating sea legs--uneven service, an abruptness when it comes to pushing food out--but the food itself isn't the problem. Nor should it be.

*

The NoMad

1170 Broadway

New York, NY 10001

212.796.1500

Boulud

Cafe this time. The scene is vastly different from that of Daniel: a bustling, busy dining room with men in suits at every available table. Our server bills it as a "neighborhood restaurant," but that's probably only applicable if you own an 8 million dollar townhouse on Park. Which, I determine by a quick glance around the room, some of these guys do.

Our amuse bouche is a tiny, hot arancini filled with black truffle. It does its job. Bread service, like that at Daniel, is precocious and I convince myself to stick to just one roll this time around. Spring has finally sprung, which means ramps and white asparagus and snap peas. I start with an appetizer of thick white spears with a scotch egg and creamy unpasteurized cheese. A take on Hollandaise, our server tells us. Another appetizer of artichoke tortellini was as delicate as the version served ten blocks downtown. A midcourse of foie gras torchon was a minor misstep--too much liver and too little accompaniment. It begged for something more crunchy than the measly helping of rhubarb batonettes and pistachios that dotted our plates.

An entree of truffle-stuffed squab was crispy and delicate and medium rare and came with two tiny empanadas filled with ground offal. The highlight of a duck entree--a breast over black rice--was a confit leg in a rich sabayon. It could have functioned as its own appetizer. Roasted radishes with sugar snap peas were bathed in a sauce that also tasted a lot like Hollandaise.

A cheese board was fine, with no real memorable touches. What was memorable, though, was a dark chocolate mousse with brandied cherries. I could have skipped the rum bananas and the gratis almond biscuit with raspberries and mango entirely. It was a precious meal, and from the looks of things, the Upper East Side appears to be doing quite well, indeed.

*

Cafe Boulud

20 East 76th Street

New York, NY 10021

212.772.2600

I Hate Saturdays In NYC

And yet I somehow manage to put myself in the middle of the fray. I don't want to go to restaurants on Saturdays, I really don't. But sometimes that's just the way things go--battle the Bridge and Tunnel for a decent bar spot, while you wait an hour for a "table," no bigger than a nightstand. Ugh.

Well, anyway. Saturday snobbery aside, Txikito was a decent place to spend the night. Sure, three people at that nightstand of a table was a little ridiculous, but the menu just about made up for it. Gluttony, I have not left you behind. Small plates are the downfall of any good foodie, and this was no exception. We started with white asparagus with black truffle olive oil and chopped egg, served cold. Spring is on our heels. Next up: miniature mushroom and shrimp grilled cheese sandwiches. Meh. I couldn't really taste the ingredients, aside from the cheese. The sandwich of chorizo hash was more successful, pretty much the tiniest baguette I have ever seen in my life.

Then: shredded chorizo and a sunny side up quail egg on toast, perfect in its execution. Followed by: blood sausage-filled eggrolls (more eggroll than blood sausage, but still delicious), lamb meatballs with "minted broth" (more lamb than mint, but I don't tend to badmouth meatballs), cross-cut braised spare ribs with red and green peppers (very delicious), and salty head-on shrimp (no surprises here, but who really cares?). Finally, the highlight of the meal arrived, a suggestion from our waiter, who recognized our meat-heavy order--seared veal jowl terrine with a sweet onion vinaigrette. Imagine the fattiest rib-eye fat, pressed into a terrine mold and then pan seared and that's pretty much what we ate. The consistency vacillated between unctuous fat and crispy sear and the onions offered a sweet respite from all that density. I wouldn't have ordered the dish without being pushed in that direction, mostly because veal is something I try to eat very little of. But I would have missed the point entirely if I had left without eating it.

For dessert, we shared a very average cheese plate, all sheep's milk, all sliced a hair too thin and served with pedestrian quince paste. Fine. The blue satisfied my cravings, even if the dish as a whole failed to impress me. Ditto a chocolate pudding with sherry whipped cream, though I would eat that again simply because I love pudding.

*

Txikito

240 9th Avenue

New York, NY 10001

212.242.4730