The Insatiable Critic’s Favorite New Restaurant of 2007
Every year New York Magazine asks its kaboodle of culinary critics to name the best restaurant that opened since the previous “Best of New York” issue. Last year it was a snap. No brooding or back-and-forth wavering. Both Adam Platt and I picked Sfoglia and that was that. The small storefront kitty-cornered from the 92nd Street Y with its whimsical Miss Haversham décor was already sardining folks in and frustrating to book. It soon became impossible. If I’m lucky, I get somebody’s cancellation every once in a while when I crave Colleen’s incomparable just-out-of-the-oven bread, the house’s splendid vegetables in clever guises, the luscious monkfish, the too-rich and buttery bread pudding. They even let us come one evening at 10 just for dessert.
And I take any flub personally – feeling that in my passion for Sfolgia, I have as much to lose as its owners do. Nothing makes a New York gourmand crankier than a stumble or two at a table they waited six weeks to claim. If I am shocked and depressed by a flavorless pasta or normally adorable gnocchi afloat in an ugly excess of butter, what must the reservation-bruised first timer think? Proof alas, that even a “Best” can have a bad moment.
Anyway, it was time to choose again. I tortured myself for a week trying to decide. Bar Boulud was my first thought. I was excited by the deliciously retro notion that Boulud would bring a whole world of charcuterie to New York months ago, the first time I tasted a sample at a cocktail party catered by Boulud’s Feasts et Fêtes…and again, at a dazzling buffet he staged in the unfinished space across from Lincoln Center months before opening, when I filled my plate twice and still hadn’t tasted everything. My first dinner in the just-launched space was a tad uneven, but a lemony seafood pasta was sensational and I loved the charcuterie tasting. What if you don’t eat charcuterie? Idiot, don’t go to Bar Boulud. It’s not that large and we covet your seat. Yes, it could be Bar Boulud
My second thought was Bocca di Bacco, the dark and rustic wine bar on Ninth Avenue. Everything works together here to pull me back again and again. (Except perhaps the excellent bread being cut too far ahead and having to remember to bring cash, though the handy house ATM does not charge a fee.) The pleasure builds: The lively welcome at the door. The waitress that remembers you from a week ago. The cozy feel of piled stone and bare brick, massive wooden tables, rolled dish towels for napkins. Nora Jones crooning. The accessible list of wines. The mostly wonderful cooking of partner Roberto Passon. His creamy fava bean soup has a surprise float of mascarpone. Lush penne gorgonzola needs to be shared. The pici with string beans, artichoke and asparagus is a rare find. Yes, the gnocchi were overwhelmed by a too intense oxtail sauce. And on my last outing, someone had dared to spoil the splendid octopus by overcooking. This will be the place I go to again and again from now on, affordable and just beyond my zip code. Is this the “Best?”
I consider yet another wine bar. If only my dinner at Adour had been decisively thrilling. It would have made me smile to give the Big Apple-battered Alain Ducasse a dose of self-esteem. But the thrill of the sophisticated complexity and richness of the room, and the desserts to swoon for did not make up for a certain primness in the dishes we tasted on our only visit. I felt most of what we ate was a product of thought, rather than exuberance or passion.
I wrote a list on the back page of the little notebook I hide under my napkin in restaurants I’m reviewing:
And Anthos. I scribbled that in at the top in alphabetical order. I’d almost forgotten Anthos. And I brooded and obsessed. I put the list away. But in the end I knew.
It has to be Anthos.
Yes, Psilakis characteristically goes a step too far, an ingredient or two too many that might not spoil a dish but adds a bit of clutter. Sweetbreads with white chocolate and candied pear salad sounds like an inspiration that came on a sleepless night. But at my last dinner, the chef sent out an unexpected intermezzo, a big bowl of Greek risotto studded with crab, sea urchin, lobster and caviar. The server piled it on an uncooked egg yolk. The total was so sense-searingly sublime, I don’t recall exactly what happened afterward. Our guest cancelled her entrée. For me something weird followed, I barely recall, but it didn’t matter. Not for a minute. That’s why it's Anthos.
Visit Gael Greene's web site at www.insatiablecritic.com.
About Gael Greene
Photo: Steven Richter
In her role as restaurant critic of New York Magazine (1968 to January 2002) Detroit-born Gael Greene helped change the way New Yorkers (and many Americans) think about food.
"Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Ice Cream But Were Too Fat To Ask," "The Mafia Guide to Dining Out." and " Nobody Knows the Truffles I've Seen" were early pieces. In more recent years her annual roundup of New York City's dining favorites, Ask Gael, was a gourmand's collectible for many years and she continues to write a weekly Ask Gael column for NYM. Earlier she worked at the New York Post.
As co-founder with James Beard and a continuing force behind Citymeals-on-Wheels as board chair, Ms. Greene has made a significant impact on the city of New York. Citymeals, the largest public/private partnership in the country, has raised $200 million in its twenty-six-year history to help feed the city's frail elderly shut-ins.
Ms. Greene's memoir, "Insatiable, Tales from a Life of Delicious Excess" was published April, 2006. Earlier non-fiction books include "Delicious Sex, A Gourmet Guide for Women and the Men Who Want to Love Them Better" and "BITE: A New York Restaurant Strategy." Her two novels Blue skies, No Candy" and "Doctor Love" were NY Times best sellers.
Gael Greene
I love the much-maligned décor, the dark carpet, the charming repeat of the cherry blossom theme that inspired the name, the huge explosion of flowers, the chatty maitresse d’hotel making up for the seeming indifference of the usually absent partner Donatella Arpaia. Once you put yourself in the hands of Chef-patron Michael Psilakis and his impassioned celebration of Greek cooking, I never felt anything else mattered. The generous mezze tasting, a gift of the kitchen. The goat butter beside the usual manna of cow. An anthology of crudas. The transcendent sardines en escabeche with its sooty black olive swath, the sea urchin drenched Tasmanian crab alongside a bowl of shrimp in a dizzyingly intense tomato consommé (on the same plate)…the rapture of that first meal. The goat burger on the $25 lunch.
Anthos
36 W. 52nd St. nr. Fifth Ave. 212 582 6900
"Anthos means blossom, but it ought to mean anthem, embracing as it does the fierce passion of chef-partner Michael Psilakis for the Greek kitchen: his bravura of crudo, raw shrimp “cooked” in a thrilling tomato elixir, crab finding its soul mate in sea urchin. Yes, such manic creativity can boil over, and it sometimes does. But then a transcendent uni-touched seafood risotto appears, and excesses are forgiven."
Gael Greene, New York Magazine
Anthos chef Michael Psilakis cooks with fire and exuberance. Photo: Steven Richter
Articles used with permission of Gael Greene, Copyright 2008. All rights reserved. Steven Richter's photographs may not be used without permission.
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