Pain Quotidien: What is it?

Dara writes:

Le Pain Quotidien, the Belgian bakery chain with international outposts and many branches in New York City, is never as good as it should be. It *is* a go-to place, as it offers light, fresh, tasty lunch and breakfast fare. Apparently its croissants are award winning. And yet, recent experiences there have made me wonder: is the ambience that of an artisanal restaurant or Ikea cafeteria?

PQ's prices and decor say artisanal. A nice blond wood comprises the chairs and tables, the menus are appealingly in French, and the international waiters--today I counted Russians, French, Africans, and West Indians among them--register a degree of aloofness often seen in haute establishments. And yet, the communal tables and slackness of service say cafeteria.

Then there's the food. It tastes quite good. I very much like the curry chicken on pain levain with cranberry chutney and little slices of cucumber. But why is this lovely meal kind of all spread out on a charcuterie board and more importantly, why did a very quick dish so easy to plop on a platter take 25 minutes to arrive a la table?

I think I might prefer PQ if it actually were a kind of upscale mess hall. I would prefer to speed up to a counter and order the chicken salad, and then quickly pace to my countertop for my feed. OR, I would like to sit in a smaller room at a more well-appointed table built just for me and my companion(s), and place my chicken order with an accommodating and patient staff member.

With lower prices and faster service, I wouldn't mind sitting with 32 strangers. But at these prices and with this service, I expect a slightly calmer, more intimate experience.

Freemans: If Mom were a guy with hip facial hair

Dara writes:

I love the reviews by Frank Bruni, the restaurant critic for The New York Times. He's smart and a great writer. What some call overwriting, I call a gift with metaphor.

Last week, he panned Freemans, writing in the Dining section of the hip Lower East Side hideaway:

Twice I had poached chicken with celery and carrots, and twice it tasted like the remnants of a stock that was supposed to have been the promising genesis of a dish, not the sorry conclusion.

Baby back ribs longed for succulence, while grilled trout with thyme and lemon cried out for a dash of excitement and a dew drop of moisture.

As for service, well, let’s get there by way of one of Mr. Somer’s pre-Freemans commercial enterprises. He designed T-shirts with cheeky messages. One said, 'My girlfriend is out of town.' Another: 'Emotionally unavailable.' That’s the shirt that should be worn by some of the servers.

I can see why Mr. Bruni didn't like the place, a two-year old restaurant tucked down an alley off of Rivington Street and just east of the Bowery on New York's Lower East Side. He didn't like it because he's paid to review restaurant cooking, while what's presented at Freeman's is essentially costly home-cooking. My mother could have cooked the EXACT same meal, and it wouldn't have cost $100/person (price raised because we occupied a FULL room, as part of a gathering. That's prime Losaida real estate, yo). But I see the restaurant's point, in a way, because the mothers of the Oklahoma hipsters who frequent Freemans are far, far away and sorely missed by their modish offspring.

As Bruni notes, the artichoke dip is excellent, though again, my mother makes a slightly better version, because less salty, which she found in a cookbook my grade school put together in 1983 for a fundraiser. Bruni writes that "the people jamming the entrance, eager to see what the fuss is about, need to know that what awaits them isn’t a memorable feast. It’s iceberg with ranch dressing under a stuffed boar’s head." True, but, the iceberg they use isn't exactly a plastic-wrapped bulb of Foxy from Met food. It's a kind of, I'm sure, boutique iceberg and the ranch is ungloppy buttermilk ranch. Plus, fresh, thinly sliced radishes, grace the dish, thereby elevating it. The filet mignon with horseradish cream that Bruni called "fine" was indeed so, though again, it was kind of what a friend could put together for a dinner party, and again, when you're paying a lot, you anticipate more.

James pointed out that the appeal of the current craze for anti-glamour has its limits. Used to be that dining out meant luxury and gracious service, whereas now the aloofness of the staff increases with the price of an entree. I dig the taxidermy animals on the wall, and having a room for our party was private and nice. But to get there I had to walk through a room of people who are kind of my worst nightmare: younger than I and with exactly the right facial hair (men) and raised ponytails , dark eyeliner, and stovepipe jeans (ladies). Though I have to say turning onto Freeman's Alley, at the end of which the restaurant is located, is cool, if disorienting. For one thing, I try not to make a practice of walking down alleys in the city, so doing so is breaking a taboo. For another, when do stucco walls adorned by crucifixes (an art project I assume sponsored by an adjacent gallery) grace a city alley? I felt like I could be walking down a street in Italy--well, no, maybe--Poland.

Pastis: Wish I Knew How to Quit You

Dara writes:

I submit to dining at that chestnut of meatpacking milieus, Pastis, Keith McNally's French bistro on 13th and Hudson, (only) because my cousin works down the street. But actually I love McNally's creations--from the ginger iced tea at Balthazar to the toffee pudding at Schiller's--and think he does an expert job with city restaurants.

Just when my cousin and I sit down, in comes, yes, the hunk who uttered those now-famous words in Ang Lee's Brokeback Mountain, Jake Gyllenhaal. Whoa, right? As I'm telling cuz about it, he saunters over and sits right next to us.

My cousin and I were supposed to have a serious talk and 'twas a tad tough to concentrate thereafter. He ordered sardines and mentioned to his companion--who also looked familiar and seemed, in his seriousness and absence of hunkishness, to be a director or writer--that she'd stayed at his place all week. She going unnamed.

Director/writer and I each ordered the chicken palliard, which I recommend. The frisee on top is dressed just right with vinegar and salt, and the kitchen sprinkles crispy fried shallots on top.