A Chef's Plea for Half-Stars at the Times

Frank Bruni delivered a shock this week — deliberately, I am sure — by awarding three stars to Corton just seven days after awarding three stars to Momofuku Ssäm Bar. Three-star reviews are pretty rare. There have been just 32 of them in Bruni’s 4½ years on the job. So to give out two of them in a row is unusual. He has never done that before.

Now, the Ssäm Bar review was totally discretionary. No particular event compelled him to write it. By doing so when he knew Corton was coming the following Wednesday, he was clearly trying to make a meta-statement about the very different paths to excellence that these two restaurants have followed.

But the Ssäm Bar review upsets many in the industry, not just because David Chang is ridiculously over-exposed, but because it makes nonsense of the rating system. The same chef’s Momofuku Ko, which is clearly more ambitious and accomplished by any measure, also carries three stars from Frank Bruni. What is the point of a rating system, if it fails to distinguish different levels of excellence and accomplishment?

Over at the Feedbag, an anonymous chef suggests that the Times should add half-stars to its system, to better distinguish between different levels:

The grading of restaurants lately does not make sense. How can a restaurant as refined as Eleven Madison Park, Picholine and Corton fit on the same level as restaurants as casual as A Voce, Scarpetta and the very baffling Momofuku Ssam? I am not saying they aren’t all great restaurants in their own right, but they are not equals. By installing a half star, one could differentiate between them. In my opinion, Blue Hill, Scarpetta and Craft should be 3 stars, Corton, Picholine, and Eleven Madison, 3 and a half, and Momofuku Ssam, 2 and a half. By grouping all of these establishments under the same 3 stars, they are misleading patrons. Isn’t that supposed to be the idea of these reviews? By awarding three stars to restaurants so disparate, they’re making the Times review system meaningless, and that hurts everybody.

We agree that half-stars allow the critic to discriminate better between different types of restaurants. That’s why reviews published on this blog use half-stars.

But ultimately, whether your rating system has 4 grading levels or 100, it can be no better than the person assigning them. I have no idea what ratings Bruni would have given out if his system allowed for half-stars. However, it is poor judgment that has created this mess in the first place, and poor judgment is not rectified by adding levels to the system.

Bruni seems to be applying a bizarre “quality divided by price” formula to assign stars. On that line of reasoning, Ko and Ssäm Bar are rated identically, for although Ko is better, it also costs more. In his defense, Bruni can point out that the Times rating system expressly states that prices are “taken into consideration,” though no past critic has done it quite the way he does.

The same perverted logic allows Bruni to justify awarding three stars to the Bar Room at the Modern, when the obviously superior dining room at the same establishment has just two. We strongly suspect that if the Times had half-stars in its rating system, Bruni would nevertheless have made the same error.

Our own view is that ratings should reflect excellence, period. The fact that excellence costs more is utterly irrelevant to the rating. It may be that some diners either cannot afford the best restaurants, or that they prefer to spend their time and money in other ways. But if Momofuku Ssäm Bar is inferior to Momofuku Ko—as it clearly is—the fact that one is cheaper does not make them equal.

Flatbush Farm

Flatbush Farm is yet another entry in the farm-to-table movement, an idea that wasn’t exactly new when the restaurant opened in Park Slope in 2006. This haute barnyard sure is dark—not quite like the photo above, but close. Those with middle-aged eyes might struggle to read the menu.

That menu features modestly priced starters at $7–14, mains mostly $16–22, bar snacks $6–12, and desserts $7–8. Dry-aged steak for two is an incongruous $70.

The server recited a long list of specials—enough of them that it was hard to keep track of the choices. Reprinting the menu daily would reinforce the restaurant’s greenmarket cred. and would make ordering easier.

Crispy Pig’s Head (above left) was one of those daily specials. According to the server, “It’s great. Just forget about how they made it.” That was pretty good advice. Little balls of slightly gooey pig flesh were coated in spicy breadcrumbs and deep fried. I would order it again any day.

A pork terrine (above right) with quail eggs wasn’t bad either, but it was a touch on the cool side, as if it had sat in the fridge too long.

The Roasted Pork Chop (above left) was tender, with a nice smoky char on the outside. My girlfriend had asked for a substitution in lieu of sweet potatoes. The kitchen forgot (or hadn’t been told), and the dish had to be re-plated. Her vegetables were fine, but mine weren’t warm enough.

There were other service glitches too. A perfunctory bread service came with a vat of herb butter that looked good, but turned out to be hard as a rock. We asked for tap water. The server pointed at a bottle already on the table, and said, “There you go.” But she didn’t pour it, and it wasn’t cold.

I asked for a bottle of 2004 Cabernet, but the server apparently did not notice that she had returned with a 2006. When I pointed it out, she had to consult with a manger before replying, “The wine list is out of date. Our current vintage is 2006.” Anyhow, I rejected that and requested a 2003 Tempranillo (above right) at the same price, $38.

The mistakes seemed mostly forgivable at this restaurant’s price point. But they were enough to put Flatbush Farm at a disadvantage when compared to Manhattan restaurants offering similar fare with greater polish.

Flatbush Farm (76 St. Marks Avenue, Park Slope, Brooklyn)

Food: *
Service: uneven
Ambiance: *
Overall: *

Frank Bruni, Failed Food Blogger

Frank Bruni’s New York Times blog, Diner’s Journal, has been with us a bit less than three years. It is a failure.

In February 2006, his inaugural post promised:

I spend an insane, glorious amount of time in restaurants. And of course I see and taste more than I get to recount within the confines of weekly Dining section reviews, each based on multiple visits to a given restaurant, each boiled down to about 1,000 words from hours and hours of observation and tens of thousands of calories.

This new blog is an attempt to capture and share more of my notes from the field. To provide, in something closer to real time, a sense of what’s being served in the city’s newest, oldest, most delightful and most frustrating restaurants and of how those restaurants are serving it. To flag trends and, less often and more selectively, flog underachievers. To report moments of real significance and incidents that just happened to be interesting. To keep a journal, and to keep the tone of that journal light, casual, accessible.

Just as the “Diner’s Journal” in the Friday newspaper did, this “Diner’s Journal” on the web will offer quick, early peeks at restaurants that have just opened but aren’t yet ready to be reviewed. In the spirit of that weekly feature, it will also present critical perspectives on restaurants that probably won’t be reviewed, given the limitations of space in the newspaper and the limits of those restaurants’ charms.

But it will be more frequent and more flexible. I’ll post new entries several times a week.

What is the reality? Bruni seldom uses the blog to write about food. In the last six months, there have been just nine posts about food. I’m being generous by including his Nov. 24 post about Waterfront Ale House, which is mainly about his craving for chicken wings. If Frank was auditioning for the “$25 & Under” job, let me be the first to congratulate him: he passed.

The promises to “share more notes from the field” in “something close to real time,” to “flag trends,” “report moments of real significance,” “flog underachievers,” and offer “early peeks,” have largely not been kept.

Bruni does post a couple of times a week, on average, but usually not about food. He writes about Top Chef, getting reservations at inaccessible spots, allegations of poor service, Chef Q&A’s, industry news, and so forth. But he seldom writes about the thing he presumably spends most of his time on: restaurant meals.

Bruni has vitiated the whole point of having a blog—the ability to report in real time, rather than saving up his thoughts for one big weekly review. What’s more, the restaurants he reviews are just a small fraction of his meals out. The typical review requires three visits to the restaurant, but he probably dines out 10 times a week. That means about 70% of his meals aren’t explicitly reported on.

Now, if the Times is willing to pay Bruni to report on just 30% of his meals, that’s their business, not mine. But if the reason for starting the blog was to provide “more frequent and more flexible” coverage of restaurants, then he ought to do it.

More importantly, isn’t the Times overdue for a re-think of the long-form review? With only one review per week, many very good restaurants go years without any comment from the Paper of Record. Bruni’s crazily premature re-review of Momofuku Ssäm Bar last week—even though the restaurant’s many charms are basically the same as they were two years ago—deprived plenty of more worthy places that haven’t been reviewed in years, or perhaps not at all, a chance at exposure. Yet, in the review, Bruni said:

In the last year and a half, I’ve found myself returning to Ssam again and again…because eating at Ssam feels so unencumbered, honest and joyful, and because I can’t stop reflecting on the daring and importance of Mr. Chang’s work there.

If Bruni had used his blog to report on even a fraction of those visits—and as far as I can recall, he never did—then perhaps the newspaper review last week could have been used to direct attention to someone other than the ridiculously over-exposed Mr. Chang.

The Times should overhaul its reviewing system, so that ratings and recommendations can evolve gradually as the critic makes his rounds over the course of his tenure. There are plenty of restaurants that Bruni has visited but never reviewed, because he hasn’t paid the minimum of three visits that the paper requires. But a running journal of those visits could, over time, provide valuable perspective—perhaps even more so than the Wednesday reviews, which offer, at best, point-in-time snapshots.

As print reviews continue their slide into irrelevance, Bruni or his successor ought to consider how his online journal could become the primary medium for reporting on restaurants, instead of the very distant afterthought it is today.

The John Dory

 

Note: The John Dory closed in August 2009. A similar, but much more casual version of the concept, re-opened in 2010 in the Ace Hotel as the John Dory Oyster Bar.

*

Five years ago, The Spotted Pig was an overnight sensation in the West Village. If chef April Bloomfield and her partner Ken Friedman had followed the usual path, by now there’d be Pig clones all over town, and a couple more in Vegas and Atlantic City. But Bloomfield stayed focused on the Pig, which earned an improbable Michelin star and has held onto it for four years running.

Nothing lasts forever: Bloomfield and Friedman now have their second restaurant, The John Dory, which opened two weeks ago in Southwest Chelsea, on the same block as Del Posto and Craftsteak. (Del Posto’s Mario Batali and Joe Bastianich are investors in both the Spotted Pig and the John Dory.)

Friedman has an eye for witty design. At the Spotted Pig, the theme is “pig art.” Here, it’s “fish art,” and he arrays it even more deftly than at the earlier restaurant, from fish lures embedded in a countertop, to fish tiles in the floor. A large tropical fish tank stands sentry over the bar.

There are just two small dining rooms. The first one, with about eight tables, rests on a narrow elevated platform and offers a terrific view of the open kitchen. The second one is in a side room with a view of the fish tank. There is ample counter seating facing the kitchen.

Bloomfield has wisely kept the opening menu short and focused, with just seven appetizers ($14–20) and eight entrées ($24–35). There’s also a few raw bar choices and five crudi ($16–20). Side dishes ($8–10) are excellent, as they are at the Spotted Pig.

It was obvious that many of the patrons were friends of the management, but Bloomfield never once left the kitchen to schmooze (she left that to Friedman). We saw one critic in the house (GQ’s Alan Richman), and the staff seemed to think Frank Bruni was coming too, but we didn’t spot him.

We started with a cute amuse-bouche of arctic char pâté (above right) with chips for spreading. There should probably be a bit more, as it disappeared rather quickly.

Sardines “A La Plancha” (above left; $18) had a nice cruncy texture and were nicely seasoned with almonds, raisins and paprika. My girlfriend pronounced the Fish Soup (above right; $16) a success.

There is, of course, John Dory on the menu. On some nights, they seem to offer it for one, but when we visited it was available only for two ($50). Instead, I had the Whole Grilled Sea Bream (above left; $26), which was presented tableside and then filleted. This was a lovely preparation, with a rosemary-anchovy pesto on the skin. Pan-Roasted Cod (above right; $28) was just as good.

Sweet Potatoes (above left; $8) were dusted with bone marrow and served in hefty beefsteak slices. Our second side dish was much delayed, but I give the server credit for how she handled it. Instead of just leaving us staring at dirty dishes, she cleared the table and re-set it with fresh plates and flatware. Jensen’s Temptation (above right; $10) works perfectly well as a separate course, though it clearly wasn’t intended that way. It’s a Swedish preparation of scallopped potatoes, with onions, heavy cream, and an anchovy crust.

As we were leaving, it dawned on me that the coat-check attendant hadn’t given me a ticket. Despite that, she seemed to know who I was, and had my coat ready for me. It was just one of many points, both little and great, that made me feel like these people know how to run a restaurant. My girlfriend had the same thought: “They’re going to do just fine.”

The John Dory (85 Tenth Avenue between 15th & 16th Streets, Chelsea)

Food: **
Service: **
Ambiance: **
Overall: **

The State of the Bouley Empire

David Bouley’s growing empire fascinates me. What is it like to build seven restaurants at once? Not seven clones, but seven one-of-a-kind places?

One of the seven, Secession, is an early failure. It got zero stars from Adam Platt this week. If it gets much better than a weak singleton from Frank Bruni, I’ll be surprised.

I walked by the others last night for a brief look-in. Here’s a report:

Bouley Bakery. The bakery has now moved into the old Bouley restaurant. It’s a work in progress, with signs of unfinished construction. David Bouley himself was wandering around inside. They’re selling baked goods and soups, in what appears to be a makeshift space. My understanding is that there will eventually be a wine bar in here, but that part isn’t ready yet.

Upstairs. With the bakery gone, Upstairs has the whole building to itself. I saw four lovely tables on the ground floor with — gasp! — white tablecloths and formal glassware. It actually looks like a pleasant place to dine, certainly not the case when I visited three years ago, and promptly crossed it off my list. There is no longer a menu posted outside, but a sign on the door announces various prix fixe sushi specials, presumably still available on the second floor.

Bouley Restaurant. This is now open in the old Mohawk Atelier building, on a scale of unprecedented luxury. There’s a private dining room on the lower level with a separate entrance. The kitchen features panoramic windows facing the street. If you can’t afford to eat at Bouley, you can press your nose to the glass and watch him (or more likely, his minions) cook for those who can. It’s a gutsy move—a new take on the idea of an “open kitchen.” There’s no menu posted, at the restaurant or online. I’m in no rush to visit until I read a few more reports, but I may stop in for a drink sometime soon.

Mr. Jones

Note: Mr. Jones closed in June 2009.

*

It was the day after Thanksgiving, and we wanted something casual. I decided on Mr. Jones, the new Yakitori restaurant on the northern edge of the East Village. If Jones doesn’t sound familiar, you haven’t missed anything: he’s fictitious. What he has to do with Yakitori, or Japanese food served on skewers, utterly eludes me.

Restaurant Girl nailed the décor: George Jetson’s bachelor pad. Someone dropped major coin to build it, but the design betrays some indecision about the mission. The inconspicuous exterior looks like a garage door. Inside, it looks more like a party lounge than a restaurant, with its tightly-packed tiny tables and low-slung chairs. “Japanese” isn’t exactly what comes to mind. I’ve been to a few Yakitori restaurants in Tokyo. They look nothing like this.

Neither do the staff: our server was a busty Brazilian girl, dressed in a low-cut frock. The manager looked like the Russian mafia. The chef, Bryan Emperor, isn’t Japanese either, but he has some serious cred., with stints at Nobu, Megu, Bouley, and a kaiseki restaurant in Japan. His job is more boring than a Maytag repair man’s: we found his restaurant almost totally empty. I hope for his sake that the day after Thanksgiving was atypical.

You can have some fun here. The cocktails are a diverse lot, many of them classics,and well made. Most of the food follows the food-on-skewers theme, though with some ingredients I’ve never seen in Japan, like pork belly, foie gras, and chicken wings. There are some misfires, but most of what we tried was enjoyable.

We spent just $114 for two before tax & tip, and that included two cocktails apiece. At that price, one is loath to complain. Nevertheless, several dishes came out not quite warm enough—an odd mistake, given that we had the place to ourselves.

The small-plates format encourages communal ordering, though some items weren’t well designed for it (e.g., why three meatballs?), and when we asked for plates to divide our food, the little dishes they produced were only slightly larger than a cigar box. Like most small-plate restaurants, the kitchen tosses out the food at whatever pace and in whatever order suits the chef. Sometimes you have nothing, and at other times you have two plates at once.

They were also out of several things, on a small menu of about 35 appetizer-sized items in various categories (chicken, beef, rice, soup…), most of them $10 or less. With some help from our server, we chose eight items to share, which proved to be about right. They were all $5–9 apiece except for the Kobe meatballs, which were $12.

The menu has been changing. Those meatballs were originally listed at $16, and some other items shown on the bill don’t agree with the online version.

Berkshire Black Hog Belly ($5; above left) is usually a safe bet, but this skewer was lukewarm and adorned with not much more than a bit of sea salt. Tori Tatsuta Age ($9; above right), or Japanese style chicken wings, were a hit, with a generous allotment of six to the portion.

Chicken is probably the most authentic of Mr. Jones’s Yakitori ingredients. Naturally, it is “Organic Free Range Chicken,” but when it’s drowning in spicy Yuzu sauce ($7; above left), I doubt its pedigree matters very much. It was actually one of the better items on the menu, in an unsubtle way.

I liked the Kobe Meatballs stuffed with foie gras ($12; above right), though as noted above, it wasn’t easy to divide 3 meatballs among two people.

Wagyu Short Ribs ($8; above left) were tender, and the kitchen wisely went easy on the sauce, letting the superior beef speak for itself. The next item was a bowl of mushrooms and rice ($9; above right) that I don’t recognize in the online menu. The mushrooms were a tad under-cooked.

Vegetable tempura ($8; above left) was perfectly done: six pieces in a light and greaseless tempura batter. Calamari tempura ($8; above right) suffered from an excess of sauce. Any calamari beneath all that batter was undetectable.

There are some slips-ups on the menu at Mr. Jones and some faulty execution in the kitchen, but we enjoyed most of what we tried. With most of the items priced under $10, you don’t feel cheated if one or two of them are less than satisfying. For a diverting bit of fun, Mr. Jones is worth a visit.

Mr. Jones (243 E. 14th Street between 2nd & 3rd Avenues, East Village)

Food: *
Service: *
Ambiance: *
Overall: *

End of Dayz for Grayz

Crain’s reports today what many had already guessed: Grayz will close at the end of the year. Kunz was pushed out of the restaurant six months ago, and it made no sense to continue operating a place named for a guy who’s no longer there. On our last visit, we found Grayz less than half full. There was some terrific food, but the whole misguided concept was designed for an economic climate that no longer exists.

The owners will re-open as “Gneiss” (“nice”) in the same space, with Kunz’s former chef de cuisine, Martin Brock, still in place. We don’t have much hope for this reincarnation, starting with one of the dumbest names we’ve seen. The story of Grayz is that of one fumble after another. These owners still don’t know how to run a restaurant.

Along with the doomed Café Gray, this is Kunz’s second failure this year. We strenuously disagree with Cutlets, who exonerates Kunz in both of these failures:

While technically true, neither Cafe Gray nor Grayz was really Kunz’s restaurant. The first was a gilded deathtrap, that not even Fernand Point himself could have broken out of, and Grayz, with its strange corporate concept, was a similarly Sisyphean struggle.

Café Gray was Kunz’s concept. He is as accountable for the failure as anybody. (We’re not sure if “gilded deathtrap” accurately describes Café Gray in any case; Cutlets, the ultimate cheeseburger guy, is probably not the one to understand such places.) Kunz was very much the minority partner in Grayz, but in signing up for the concept, he must take some knocks for its demise.

Kunz is one of this town’s best chefs, but he has turned out to be a terrible business man. Both Grayz and Café Gray suffered from conceptual flaws that Kunz either failed to see or couldn’t correct. Kunz needs a backer with better business instincts—a Drew Nieporent or a Danny Meyer—so that he can concentrate on the one thing he does well, which is to cook.

Back Forty

Note: Back Forty closed in late 2014, due to “a difficult landscape and lease uncertainty.” Its sister restaurant, Back Forty West, remains open.

*

When I reviewed Savoy two years ago, I noted my amazement that chef–owner Peter Hoffman had remained satisfied with just one restaurant after sixteen years in business. These days, any reasonably successful chef feels the itch to open a second place, and soon after, a third.

Sure enough, a year later came Back Forty, a more casual restaurant than Savoy, but in the same haute barnyard style that Hoffman made popular before everyone was doing it. Actually, the décor feels a bit like a gussied-up barnyard, with hefty wooden tables and farm implements hanging from the walls.

In the Times, Peter Meehan reviewed Back Forty a year ago today, finding it inconsistent but promising. Reviews turn up regularly on the food boards, suggesting that this restaurant is pulling in much more than just the East Village neighborhood crowd. Then again, these days practically any good East Village restaurant can consider itself a destination.

The menu is extremely inexpensive for a restaurant of this quality, with starters $4–10, entrées $10–20, sides $3–7, and desserts $7–8. Most of the wines are under $50 per bottle, with ample choices below $40. A quartino of the house red was just $5.

I had come for the burger, which I knew would be quite filling, so I ordered just a small appetizer for my son and me to share, the Pork Jowl Nuggets ($4; below left). Had the server told us that it came with just three extremely small “nuggets,” we would have ordered a second starter. They were extremely good, with just a touch of spice supplied by Jalapeño jam, but after we divided the middle nugget in two, all we had were two tiny bites apiece.

We debated whether to order something else, but we figured our burgers would be quickly on the way. Alas, we waited quite a while for them. At another table that was seated after us, their burgers came before ours did. (The burger seems to be a popular choice; we saw quite a few of them come out.)

This being an haute barnyard, Back Forty doesn’t serve merely a burger, but a Grass Fed Burger (above right). It’s $11 on its own, $2 for cheese (only Farmhouse Cheddar is offered), another $2 for Heritage Bacon (which we skipped), and another $2 for Rosemary Fries on the side.

Meehan at the Times felt that the grass-fed beef “lacks something,” but we thought it was pretty damned good, with a delicious buttery softness, although a tad too small for the bun. The fries were terrific, too. My son, who isn’t easily pleased, thought this was a restaurant he’d happily come back to.

Avenue B is a considerable distance out of the way, so I probably won’t be returning quite as often as Back Forty deserves. There’s a whole pig roast on Monday evening, and I’d certainly love to come back for that.

Back Forty (190 Avenue B at 12th Street, East Village)

Food: *
Service: *
Ambiance: *
Overall: *

The Bobo Burger

Ah, Bobo…poor Bobo…the restaurant that could never catch a break.

When last we saw our poor suffering hero, Bobo was on its second chef, soon to be deposed for a third chef. Alas, that wasn’t good enough to impress New York’s Adam Platt or Frank Bruni of the Times, both of whom awarded one star, finding the food too uneven to earn two.

For our part, we are still betting that Bobo will succeed. The new chef, Patrick Connolly, comes with a successful stint at Boston’s Radius to his credit. We still love the space, the prices are reasonable for the neighborhood, and the service is better than you find at many restaurants in its peer group. There are some conceits that a cynical reviewer would call precious, but we still want to give Bobo a big hug.

Many restaurants are serving gourmet burgers these days, and one day I decided on impulse to give Bobo’s a try. I hadn’t written down the address, and I very nearly couldn’t find the place. The graphic on Bobo’s website, shown above, seems to be making a joke about the restaurant’s secluded and unlabeled location in an old townhouse on W. 10th Street.

In the casual downstairs bar, old albums are the theme. The bar menu is pasted onto the center label of an old 33rpm record, and the wine list is pasted inside a double-album cover. (You can also order the main restaurant menu downstairs.)

Even though I was only having a burger, there was a full bread service with soft butter. The wine I ordered was a very reasonable tempranillo at $10 a glass, and the server offered a taste before I committed to it. These are small points, but plenty of more expensive restuarants get them wrong.

What about that burger? Owner Carlos Suarez described it on Eater.com:

The development/thinking on the Bobo burger is all about simplicity, though. Its five key ingredients: a potato roll, gruyere cheese, crispy fried leeks above the meat, house-pickled leeks underneath, and the meat. There’s a spice to the meat—it just has a slightly different flavor profile. Plus, we’re doing a finer grind on the beef than you usually see. We did 20 dif variations—added pork, pancetta, guanciale, toyed with an egg, different rolls—and this was the one most well received. It’s straightforward, not trying to add unnecessary expenses. All familiar flavors.

I am so sure that a burger served with leeks is “straightforward.” It worked, though if we’re being picky, the bun didn’t quite stand up to the gooey mess inside it. The fries, spiced with salt, pepper, corn starch and chives, were surprisingly good, and I finished them all.

The bar was doing good business at around 6:30 p.m. on a Thursday evening, though it was not full. Bobo remains a fun place, and I suspect we’ll be back.

Bobo (181 W. 10th Street at Seventh Avenue South, West Village)

Food: *½
Service: **
Ambiance: **
Overall: *½

Le Bernardin

Note: The photo above pre-dates a 2011 renovation of the dining room.

*

I hit a milestone this year. No, it’s not my 48th birthday. It’s that I’ve now visited every one of the city’s four-star restaurants at least once. Of the five restaurants currently holding that distinction, Le Bernardin is the one to which I’m most eager to return.

It’s not that Le Bernardin is the best of the bunch—though it very well may be—but that it’s the most versatile. I loved my meals at Per Se and Masa, but both are crazily expensive, and their long tasting menus don’t change much. Daniel and Jean Georges are both excellent, but neither one impressed me quite as much as Le Bernardin. On top of that, there are enough menu options to dine frequently at Le Bernardin without repeating anything. Based on the sustained quality of the Chef’s Tasting Menu we had, it appears you can’t go wrong here. If I could afford it, we’d be here once a month.

Le Bernardin is the oldest of New York’s top-rated restaurants, having won four stars from Bryan Miller of the Times in March 1986, when it was less than three months old. It was a near-clone of a Paris restaurant run by chef Gilbert Le Coze and his sister, Maguy, who watched over the front-of-house. They closed their Paris restaurant in December 1986 to focus on New York full-time. Bryan Miller awarded four stars yet again in February 1989. (In those days, the Times re-reviewed major restaurants far more quickly than it does today.)

Gilbert Le Coze died in July 1994 of a sudden heart attack. He was only 49, but a youngster named Eric Ripert, then 29, had already been in charge of the kitchen for over three years. Times critic Ruth Reichl took another look in April 1995, finding Le Bernardin still worthy of four stars. The paper’s most recent review came from Frank Bruni in March 2005. You guessed it: four stars.

How has Le Bernardin remained on top of its game for more than two decades? Few restaurants in its class would have survived the death of the original chef, and most seem to rest on their laurels after a while. Even fans of Jean Georges admit that the menu has hardly changed in ten years. But Vongerichten now leads a worldwide empire of almost twenty restaurants. Eric Ripert has taken on the occasional consulting gig, but Le Bernardin has his nearly undivided attention.

And he is still innovating. As Bruni noted, “Asian accents are scattered throughout a menu that bears scant resemblance to the one in 1995.” In a recent Feedbag post, Ripert noted that the staff have meetings every week to try new recipes, and “Maybe one in three dishes makes it onto Le Bernardin’s menu—if that.” Grub Street published a list of the maître d’s 129 Cardinal Sins for Waiters, an admirable opus that every new employee at Le Bernardin must study, and that ought to be mandatory reading at most other restaurants.

The atmosphere is lovely, but it certainly isn’t as romantic or as picturesque as the city’s other four-star restaurants. Frank Bruni exaggerated when he compared the dining room to “a first-class airport lounge.” I wonder what airports Bruni’s been visiting; I’ve never seen one like this. But the space certainly lacks the serenity of other restaurants in its class. On the Le Bernardin website, the background sound is the hubbub of diners chattering—accurate enough, but an odd choice. (I don’t like restaurant websites with a sound track anyway, but if you’re going to have one, why that?)

The format here is a four-course prix fixe at $109, nearly all seafood. The savory courses are in three groups: Almost Raw, Barely Touched and Lightly Cooked, with about a dozen choices for each. There’s also, “upon request,” squab, lamb, Kobe beef ($150 supp.) or pasta. It’s hard to imagine that anyone would come here for the steak, but Ripert told Grub Street that he sells 50 orders of it a night—an astonishing total at a seafood restaurant.

There are two tasting menus: seven courses for $135 or eight more luxurious ones for $185. As it was my birthday, we had the latter, along with wine pairings for an additional $140 per person. The wines were certainly very good, but in terms of real value you could probably do better by the bottle or half-bottle.

The amuse-bouche (left) was a mushroom soup of startling clarity, with hunks of succulent lobster at the bottom of the cup. The bread service was excellent, with several house-made varieties.

 

The first course was a remarkable thinly-pounded salmon carpaccio with a dollop of caviar tucked inside, all perched on a wafer-thin toasted brioche (above left). You don’t get much closer to perfection.

Seared Japanese blue fin tuna (said to be the world’s first of the species that’s “sustainably raised”) was beautifully balanced with parmesan crisp, sun-dried tomato, and black olive oil (above right).

 

The fireworks continued as the kitchen somehow managed to fill sautéed calamari with sweet prawns and shiitake mushrooms (above left). Lobster was paired with asparagus a hollandaise-like sauce (above right). As an aside, this was one of the few dishes that prominently featured a vegetable. Most of Ripert’s dishes put vegetables, if he uses them at all, far into the background.

 

The closest thing to a letdown was the Escolar, or white tuna, poached in extra virgin olive oil with sea beans and potato crisps (above left). It had a flat, bland taste. But crispy black bass (above right) was excellent, as was the surprisingly good parsnip custard that came with it (below left). Who knew parsnips could be so good?

 

Each dessert seems to revolve around a simple idea, beautifully executed. I loved the roasted fig with goat cheese parfait, hazelnut, red wine caramel, and bacon ice cream (above right).

 

A chocolate ganache (above left) brought approving nods from across the table, but I’m not fond of chocolate, so I asked for a substitute. They gave me a choice of anything on the dessert menu, and I chose the carrot cake (above right), which I’d be happy to have any day. You can’t read it in the photo, but that’s “Happy Birthday” written in chocolate in front of the tiny cake (below left). We concluded with the usual petits-fours (below right).

 

Service was first-rate: If any of the maître d’s cardinal sins was violated, we didn’t notice it. There are more romantic settings in New York, but everything on the plate was extraordinary.

Le Bernardin (155 W. 51st St. between Seventh Ave. & Broadway, West Midtown)

Cuisine: Modern French seafood, possibly the best in the universe
Service: Classically elegant
Ambiance: A slightly old-fashioned fancy room (remodeled since this review)

Rating: ★★★★