The New Three Star Is The Old Two Star

I'm not sure what it means these days, the vaunted three star rating handed down to a restaurant from the powers that be at The New York Times (most recently, those "powers" are the provenance of one man, Pete Wells). Three star used to signify a certain dining dignity, a certain excellence not only of food but also of service. It used to connote white tablecloths and, on a good night, crystal. Not these days. I wasn't disappointed by the actual food at Il Buco Alimentari e Vineria, the most recent recipient of a fine three star review, but I was disappointed about what such a review means for the future of restaurants. The plate of in-house cured meats that arrived at our table was subtle, nuanced, slick with soft fat, and quite possibly the best plate of such that I have ever enjoyed outside of Europe. My agrodolce cocktail lived up to its namesake, both sour and sweet. The chewy, dense, full-flavored bread that came--only after we asked for it, of course--was rich with raisin and whole grain and ten times better than the best of the saltless Tuscan varieties.

But a server who delivered our charcuterie could not name the meats on our plate and it took an inordinately long time for said cocktails to arrive at said table. We asked for share plates twice and finally they arrived, but by then we were mostly done eating the things we had so carefully ordered. A server kept asking, "are you still working on that?" even when there was still visible food on our plates. She might as well have told us that she had been cut and wanted to go home.

For me, baccalao missed the mark. I got nothing but flaky fish beneath the flaky exterior, as opposed to the milk/cream/salt cod mixture I was expecting. And baked eggs, taken a minute too far in the oven, were overrun by shavings of bottarga that turned the dish into a fishy mess. Not so with the slick spaghetti with bottarga, though, which was a complete marriage of texture and taste. Also perfect was the porchetta sandwich--roast pork, crisp skin, chewy bread, salsa verde, and a side of pickled carrots. And desserts, generally not the highlight of any Italian meal, were surprisingly impressive. A bitter orange polenta cake kept its moisture from a nearby scoop of amaretto gelato and a roasted pear tasted better with a scoop of creme fraiche gelato. I was happy, too, that I had splurged and ordered a separate cup of salted caramel gelato, as creamy and unctuous as it is on the streets of Umbria.

The food is delicious; about that I have no question. But does the elevation of peasant food to three star cuisine do anything for New York restaurants that David Chang hasn't already? To that I offer a resounding no.

*

Il Buco Alimentari e Vineria

53 Great Jones Street

New York, NY 10012

212.837.2622

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

Happy Italian

For years, I have been meaning to eat at tiny, rustic, romantic Il Buco on Bond Street. But the place almost never has a reservation available. So imagine my surprise when I snagged a prime table during the busiest part of the evening, one half of a communal table under shelves of ceramic bowls and hanging copper pots. It might be one of the loveliest dining rooms in New York, with its dim lighting and candles and Tuscan feel. I remembered a trip to a ski chalet in the Valley d' Aosta and bowls of warm polenta. One of the greatest compliments I can pay Il Buco is that it took me back to Italy.

But then, the food. I had limited expectations, but a mackerel crudo blew me away. It was salty and spicy and thick, without even a tinge of the fishiness that mackerel so often imparts. It arrived on a puree of sunchokes. We cleaned the plate. Ditto for a creamy burrata with paper-thin persimmons and a juicy Mangalista pork sausage over toothsome white beans with mushrooms.

Then: a handmade pasta with thick strands of rabbit and parsnips that tasted exactly like my mother's chicken soup, in the best way possible. The noodles came just al dente, the rabbit rich and earthy. I would go back for seconds, but Il Buco's dinner menu changes nightly.

Porchetta did not disappoint, either. Sliced thin and served with a plume of crispy skin, we ate through the tangle of salty Swiss chard and the accompanying beans with as much gusto as the meat itself. The first time I saw porchetta was at an open Tuscan market, where a man sold it sliced directly from the pig and where, in the summer sun, I ate that meat with my hands from a wax paper wrapping. Il Buco was an experiment in recreating my fondest Italian memories.

Finally, the creamiest panna cotta I have ever eaten arrived, decorated with a splash of balsamic vinegar. A grape cake with creme fraiche and almonds tasted of a holiday cake my grandmother used to make. For these things, I would go back again and again.

*

Il Buco

47 Bond Street, #1

New York, NY 10012

212.533.1932

Terrible Twos

Well, maybe not terrible. But not great, either. I hit the East Village twice this week, once for a pricey meal at Hearth and once again for a steal at Apiary, even though we splurged on wine. At Hearth, we ordered a massive charcuterie board for a staggering $45, but most of the offal offered was a little too livery for my taste. By the time my delicious quail appetizer arrived--over a vinegary bed of grains--I was almost too full to enjoy it. A spatlese riesling to begin left me wanting more great wine, but a premier cru Burgundy disappointed, as did a dormant 2000 Bordeaux suggested to me by an enthusiastic sommelier. My main course--a selection of meats of which I can only clearly recall a smooth and lovely tongue--was too rich and ineptly composed. I couldn't figure out how to eat it or what to compare it to, besides a hard-up pot au feu. I had wanted the spaghetti and meatballs; next time, I'll go with my gut.

Donuts were average. I left very disappointed and a little broke. Apiary broke my heart a little less. Our seven-course tasting included a bright and clean tranch of hamachi, served with micro greens and hearts of palm. But, like so many of the following courses, it was undersalted. Hake had a perfect crust and came in a creamy pool of razor clams and potatoes and bacon. Papparadelle with rabbit and tomatoes and basil was toothsome and satisfying, even if it defied the season a little (who garnishes with fresh basil in January, anyway?). Sweetbreads, though overcooked, came bathed in a sticky, salty, and sweet sauce and over a fine puree. Duck was perfectly cooked, but the accompanying cabbage had no seasoning whatsoever.

A composed cheese plate offered three cheeses, fruit bread, and a trio of honeys. It was nice, sure, but a little basic for a full course of seven. And the chocolate lava cake was reductive, as was the overwrought and chewy apple puff pastry provided at meal's end.

But Apiary has an enviable wine list, something it has in common with Hearth. Both lists can bring a person closer to Bordeaux with some funk and age than any of New York's other prize places. A 1982 Prieure-Lichine was actually in our price range, believe it or not. And so we escaped tough puff pastry on the back of old Bordeaux. Next time, maybe I'll stick to the bars at both haunts.

*

Hearth

403 East 12th Street

New York, NY 10009

646.602.1300

*

Apiary

60 Third Avenue

New York, NY 10003

212.254.0888

Brooklyn Rustic

These places are opening all over now: local, sustainable, rustic, small. The restaurant is tiny and equipped to handle minimal crowds. We lucked out in scoring a three top right when we came in.

Cocktails are delicious, if a little too small. A tart, red drink tasted like sour cherries or currants, or a mix of the two.

A crispy kale salad was filled with crunch and salt and sweet (and a noticeable tang of fish sauce), but was, regrettably, overdressed and beginning to wilt. A cauliflower soup was thick and rich and bettered by candy sweet Nantucket bay scallops.

Veal sweetbreads a la meuniere was my favorite dish of the night, perfectly cooked and crispy outside with a grenobloise and crunchy romaine lettuce on the side, along with a caesar-y dressing. Pici with mushrooms and pea shoots brought me back to Tuscany and I could have used a bigger plate. But linguine with crab, though fine in its execution, didn't bring much to the table.

Desserts were kind of a failure. A fennel panna cotta was overrun by lemon rind that provided too much texture in a grainy, gross kind of way. A pear clafouti was overcooked and beaten to death by cinnamon cream. Next time, I'll go for the standard chocolate caramel tart.

*

Battersby

255 Smith Street

Brooklyn, NY

718.852.8321

Daniel

The dining room is large for a four-star, with a raised platform around the perimeter featuring Grecian columns. A cocktail at the bar came with a round ice cube filled with flower petals. Nice touch.

We were VIP-ed.

A six-course tasting menu was actually twelve, since my companion and I each chose one of the two options. A duck liver terrine with marcona almonds, apple confit, and a glazed date was a perfect example of foie done well. A mosaic of duck and parsnip with poached quince and Champagne grapes was an equally well-conceived match. The dishes came with a Prum Kabinett Riesling from the Mosel.

Then: a trio of tuna (tartare with caviar, cured with compressed celery, en confit with anchovy dressing and a small puck of white anchovy); a delicious cured fluke with shiso and beets and an edamame coulis that was too difficult to eat. With it, we drank a Gruner Veltliner from Domaine Wachau.

A sea scallop, crusted in Buddha's hand and pine nuts meshed well with the accompanying celery mousseline. Artichoke and squid ink raviolini--neither a favorite ingredient of mine--surprised me with their character, delicacy, and depth. The wine pairing, a white Chateneuf-du-Pape from Chateau Monpertuis, was a small failure in pairings, overriding the delicacy of the food.

A white truffle course! Tiny pasta pockets stuffed with porcini mushrooms in a cream sauce with a quarter ounce of truffles shaved on top. We drank an impressive 1993 Heredia white Rioja.

Bacon wrapped swordfish was next, with spaghetti squash and cipollini onions. It wasn't my favorite; I felt a poached monkfish tail with toasted cashews worked better. A single vineyard Copain Pinot Noir from Sonoma was a lovely pairing.

Four Story Hill Farm squab may have been my favorite dish, cooked medium rare and served with a crisp top skin and sunchokes. With it, we enjoyed a pretty little Barolo from Sperino Lessona.

Our main courses underwhelmed me. A duo of beef (short rib and tenderloin) with chanterelles and cauliflower was ordinary. A veal plate of cheeks, sweetbreads, and tenderloin disappointed me entirely; the sweetbreads were woefully overcooked. But we drank with these my favorite wine of the evening, Chave "Offerus" Cornas from the Rhone.

Four desserts were next: apple, pineapple, chocolate, and coffee. They were fine, but better were the Chateau Pajzos Tokaji and Rivesaltes that we drank with them. Petit fours included chocolates and warm madelines. And then the night was over.

It was an impressive spread and, in some ways, more manageable than dinner at per se. Alcohol portions were too big, and I had to get out of my own way a few times. My memory is not as clear as it should have been. Alas.

*

Daniel

60 East 65th Street

New York, NY 10065

212.288.0033

Chinese Two Ways

It started on Sunday night with a trip to Chinatown's Peking Duck House. This venerable duck spot is always crowded, never has reservations available, and allows patrons to bring their own wine (Riesling and Burgundy for us). Really, there is only one thing that you must get here: Peking duck (duh!).

Soup dumplings were a misstep, with a flavorless filling and an over boiled dumpling wrapper. Chinese broccoli--closely resembling broccoli rabe--in oyster sauce was good enough, fulfilling the need for something green. But the real star was the duck, carved away from our table and brought back in clean, lacquered slices. It was fatty and chewy and crispy and arrived with a julienne of cucumber and scallions, along with thin pancakes and hoisin sauce. We ate the whole duck.

Later in the week, I had a dumpling craving that required satisfaction and so found myself at the recently renovated (but still dirt cheap) Nom Wah Tea Parlor on Doyers Street, where a truly overabundant meal set me back twenty-five smackers--and where I should have shown restraint and ordered less. House special dumplings, pork and shrimp, came in a crisp, pan seared package. Shrimp and pea shoot numbers were in a thinner, gooier rice paper wrapper, equally delicious. Vegetable dumplings were the size of hacky sacks. Shrimp filling wrapped in bacon came deep fried and impossibly crunchy. Rice rolls--one with vegetables and one with beef--surprised us with their incredible texture and depth. A pork bun the size of two adult fists gave way to chunks of real, toothsome pork. And turnip cakes with Chinese sausage and dried shrimp were crisp outside and soft inside, a welcome departure from that old stand-by, scallion pancakes. I never even made it to the fried crab claw, which came with shell intact (a minor turnoff, to be honest). The evening's only real disappointment was a plate of "sweet and sour" spare ribs, more closely resembling a withered, soggy tonkatsu.

But for dumplings, well, it's worth the trip.

*

Peking Duck House

28 Mott Street

New York, NY 10013

212.227.1810

*

Nom Wah Tea Parlor

13 Doyers Street

New York, NY 10013

212.962.6047

Corton

Surprisingly, Paul Liedbrandt's highly recognized TriBeCa haunt was nearly dead on a recent--though rainy--Wednesday night. The dining room is spare anyway, in varied shades of white, so the emptiness feels even more obvious when the place isn't full.

Corton strives to be a four-star restaurant, but sometimes it misses its mark. Service is scattered and servers don't know the answer to obvious questions (like where their proteins come from, for instance). Utensils were often ill-suited for the task at hand (and I had to use my butter knife to scoop the sauce from one small bowl, left spoonless). My wine glass was near empty until a sommelier deigned notice. A series of amuse bouche--pastry filled with Sauce Mornay; a warm croquette; an egg custard with black truffle gelee that needed salt; a weirdly smoked quail egg; and a successful albacore tuna skewer with charred lime--underscored the ambition of the evening, even if they didn't all work.

Our first course of a puck of foie gras wrapped in beet, was dainty and beautiful, but not the best I've ever had. A course of monkfish was admirable cooked and sparely plated, with an accompanying warm oyster laced in foam and a lentil and onion soup.

A Wagyu beef course was a painting in black: a circle of beef crusted in black toasted brioche; a black oval of sunchoke; black truffle sauce on the plate; a square of short rib in more brioche; charred sweet onion; and a side of potato with a melting sauce inside.

Next: a gorgeous sesame custard with concord grape sorbet that surprised me in its elegance and restraint. Caramelized sesame on top offered the necessary crunch. Finally, an apple composition arrived, puff pastry filled with apples and a side of white coffee ice cream. It might not last forever in my dessert memory, but it was nice while it lasted, as was the parade of final notes: pate de fruits; chocolates; and macarons. I held court with a perfect glass of 1982 Coteaux du Layon.

The food is good, if a little too conceptual for its ilk. We'll see if it grows or shrinks with age.

*

Corton

239 West Broadway

New York, NY 10013

212.219.2777

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

The Next Momofuku

Ok, not really, but it does seem like Asian small plates with a Korean bent are all the rage. Danji, a minimalist space with 30 something seats in midtown west, fits in just fine. Aside from the wait, which wasn't nearly as long as that over at RedFarm, service was pleasant enough. I started with a beverage of watermelon-infused tequila and a background heat I couldn't identify. On one side of their menu, Danji offers traditional Korean fare; flip the sheet and arrive at a group of selections entitled "modern." Both sides do the country justice.

A riff on steak tartare, complete with a jardinere of daikon radish and perfect cubes of fatty meat, comes with the requisite quail egg yolk. It doesn't disappoint. Neither does a salad of chewy whelks, arugula, and red onion, paired with a tangle of buckwheat noodles, all cold. A trio of kimchis--Napa cabbage, daikon, cucumber--though tasty, left me wanting more. No, really. It just wasn't enough food.

That was the theme as a whole, actually. Bulgogi sliders, so rich they actually dripped fat, came in a tiny duo. I could have crushed five more. Crispy, spicy chicken wings came five to a plate. But bacon paella (a bit of a misfire, actually) with a fried hen egg was enough for two people and then some. Too much fat in the skillet prevented the rice from assuming the caramelization endemic to a good paella.

Still, the food is worth the hunger pains. And anyway, you can always order more.

*

Danji

346 West 52nd Street

New York, NY 10019

212.586.2880