Eating our way through NYC: Part one

After Christmas we took the train down to New York for a few days, spurred on by the deeply discounted room rate at the Roosevelt that I won in a Twitter contest (and they say Twitter is pointless! Ha!).

Previous experience of Amtrak food had made us wise, so we combined the pernil that The Boy roasted for Christmas Eve and the baked ham I'd done for Christmas Day, and lunched on Cuban sandwiches while watching snowbound New England zip by.



We settled in at the hotel, rested for a short while, and then headed out to our first stop: a bar at a railroad station.

Okay, it was nicer than that. The Campbell Apartment used to be the office of a 1920s railroad tycoon, and was furnished in the style typical of rich men of the time ("Make it look as though I plundered it all from Europe!").

As we were there early on a Sunday evening, we'd expected it to be quiet. But the place was almost full, so we squeezed into a space at the bar. The solo, overwhelmed bartender was Andy Dick-level clumsy; while we sat there, he broke, spilled and knocked over more barware than we own.

Still, he muddled a lovely combination of Bourbon, fresh ginger, lime and rosemary:



And then to dinner at Benoit, an Alain Ducasse joint. Our previous encounter with the Ducasse brand had been at the then-newly opened Adour, which was incredible.

Benoit, by comparison, was not so outstanding (and a comparison of menus shows just an average $10 difference in entrée price between the two).

Not to say it was bad; just that the food seemed made with a heavier hand. The escargots (which, though ordered as an appetizer, came out slightly after the mains) were largely tasteless, and the boudin noir wasn't as bold as it could have been.

On the other hand, The Boy got a lovely selection of magical animal in his choucroute:



And dessert was baba au rhum, served in an adorable domed silver dish:



Time to roll back to the hotel and rest up before the next day's lunch.

First, a morning at MoMA, to check out the Tim Burton exhibit.

Then a brisk walk of a couple of blocks (coatless, because the line for MoMA's cloakroom was too damn long) to Le Bernardin.

As it's one of only four three-star restos in New York, and not a place for a cheap nosh, we expected the place to be hushed, refined; populated by the kind of people who respect the chef's art and the sanctity of a great meal. And, for the most part, that's who we found.

Apart from the old broad at the table behind us.

"Why is it all fish? You know I'm allergic to fish ... I can't eat anything on this menu. Oh, lobster, that I can have. Can you ask them to do me plain lobster, with butter, and just some steamed vegetables? I don't know why they have to have so much fish ... don't put your fork in my food, what are you doing? I can't believe this ... oh, I can't eat anything on the dessert menu, I'm allergic to everything ... just some vanilla ice cream, maybe two scoops."

I have no problem with people who have food allergies. I just don't understand:

a) Why someone would go to a seafood restaurant if they can't eat the central ingredient;
b) Why someone would go to a place known for exquisite, creative, thoughtful dishes if they have no interest/ability to try them;
c) Why someone can't KEEP THEIR DAMN VOICE DOWN.

I just had to get that out. Sorry. I feel better now.

Apart from that, the meal was fantastic, and I wish the photographic evidence had come out better.

I started with the freshest sea urchin I've had, served in a citrus broth:



The Boy had raw tuna, pounded thin and layered over foie gras:



then lightly breaded monkfish with a ginger-turnip purée:



and I had skate wrapped in nori, served with oysters and winter greens:



And then. Oh, and then.

Dessert.

See this?



Grapefruit, vanilla, tarragon. Soft, crisp, creamy, tart, cold.

And this?



Okay, yes, the first word is "blurry." But then: cinnamon, caramel, pear, salt, fromage blanc. The green spheres are liquid pear. Liquid. It involves some molecular gastronomy magic, and results in a sphere of poached, puréed pear encased in a delicate skin, which bursts in the mouth, releasing sweet, spicy juice. Completely amazing.

Even made me forget the loud, allergic lady.

Adour-able!

Remember how I had a dream that we missed our Ardour reservation and all they could offer us was a cheese sandwich?

When we turned up last night, we found our reservation had been cancelled.

Oh, it all turned out okay; I think my look of horror must have been enough to convince them it was a terrible mistake, and they were lovely and apologetic. But still--spooky, no?

And remember how I'd expressed concern that the website's bad design was a reflection on the restaurant itself?

Completely unfounded. Every detail was perfect.

Let's start with the room, all high silver ceilings and tall wine cabinets, the whole thing enshrouded in frosted glass walls engraved with leaves and vines--warmth and light, with just a hint of sleek cool. The chairs have wooden platforms that slide out from under the seat. Why? So your purse has a little place to rest, of course--no dumping it at your feet in this place!

The service was friendly, unpretentious, accessible; the wine list included unexpected selections from Spain and Greece; the food ...

Oh, the food ...

I started with the foie gras and tapioca ravioli with a truffle foam; the pasta was like melty-in-the-mouth soft pillows stuffed with dark, complex pâté.



The Boy went for sweetbreads, served with a single, perfectly poached, strangely molded egg:



Extra points for providing an insanely light brioche to mop up the yolk.

Thence to the entrees: for The Boy, duck breast with roasted shallots and a creamy, buttery polenta:



Note to self: start roasting shallots at home. Immediately.

I went for the pork, mainly because the dish included boudin noir, at which they had me:



To the left of the three thick slices of moist pork: a baked lady-apple. To the right: a square of pork belly, with sweet fat that dissolves on the tongue. Above: the most insanely delicious boudin noir I've ever tasted. Not too peppery, though still with a deep bloodiness, but most remarkable was the texture: light, airy, as though whipped until fluffy.

We decided to skip the cheese course, lovely though it sounded, and go straight to dessert. It was a tough decision, but we settled on the pear clafoutis with honey-lavender ice-cream. It was an unusual take on the traditional fruit-and-batter pudding:



Here, actually, was the only thing that didn't quite work; the ice-cream had a strange, almost musty flavor. Maybe honey wasn't the best addition (lavender on its own would have been nicer).

The chocolates and meringue cookies were complementary; they were also lovingly made (the former intense and complex; the latter light and decadent at the same time).

So my fears about missed meals and dismissive detailing were unfounded by a long shot. We'd go back in a heartbeat, though I suspect tables will quickly become harder to come by; we were lucky to snag a 5:30 slot on a Friday.

On our way out, the maitre d' apologized for the cancellation mix-up again, and we chatted briefly about how Adour has been doing in its first month. He mentioned that it's an attempt to broaden the Ducasse brand to a younger, hipper clientele, which explains the coolness of the room (as well as the bar with iPhone-like menus embedded in the counter and the just-louder-than-necessary techno-jazz-lounge Muzak).

It will be interesting to see how Adour does on that front; our fellow diners were mostly moneyed-casual and older than us. And most definitely unlikely to end the evening as we did: at a hipster bar on the Lower East Side, cheering on my friend J's band Rotary Club and staying on for the next act, Gram Rabbit, a grunge-electronic-disco act fronted by a singer who channeled Grace Slick, Stevie Nicks and Siouxsie Sioux.

What a way to end the night.

Restaurant website design: bad, but oh so beautiful

I hate to bring up another example of bad restaurant website design (no, really, I do), but I couldn't let this go unnoted.

On Friday night, we're eating at Adour, the newest restaurant in Alain Ducasse's empire.

This guy is at the top of the league. Has multiple Michelin stars. Knows his stuff.

And yet the site for Adour ... well ... c'est pas bon.

Oh, it's gorgeous, for sure. Check out the eight time-lapse movies: iconic images, all movement and light, they're New York in a nutshell.

And now (after turning off the intrusive lounge-jazz soundtrack), I want to find a menu.



Hmm ... my choices are "Reservations," "Map," "Facts" and "About"; I can probably dismiss the first two, but what's the difference between the last two?

Oh, and there's a typo on the map.



Am I being picky? Should I learn to back off? Frankly, no. While I don't pay too much mind to prices (especially for special occasions), it's worth noting that Adour's least expensive app is $19. The cheapest main (olive oil-poached cod) is $32.

Adour is intended for diners who expect impeccable service, excellent ingredients, flawless presentation. And yet the message I get from the site is: lovely to look at, but don't expect us to be too concerned about the details.

I guess I'll just have to hope that the kitchen staff pay more attention to their work than the site designers did ...