Bar Stuzzichini

Dara writes:

Just in time for Frank Bruni's review in the Times today, we ate at Flatiron newcomer Bar Stuzzichini last night.

I agree more with the Times' one star review than with New York magazine's two stars. In fact, I may be even a bit less forgiving than Bruni.

Admittedly I dined there once, but I was not that impressed. First of all, the room leaves a lot to be desired, as many have said already. It's big and I agree with Adam Platt of New York mag, looks like a Pizzeria Uno. It's cheesy. It looks middle-aged and middle-brow--cue the odd photos on the wall of graffiti in Italy, I guess to youth-up the joint.

The meal started off promising, as our server chose an odd but mead-like white wine (honey notes) that was lovely. But then the bread basket was very Penn Station Zaro's (an outlet of which is just down Broadway from Bar Stuzzichini). James and I split the "five little plates for $22" as an appetizer. These little plates are the "stuzzichini" in Italian. We ordered zucchini, spicy soppressata, ricotta with saffron and honey, meatballs, and fried artichoke.

As readers of this column know, I tend to find zucchini in its natural form--meaty and squishy--repellent, so I asked the server how it was prepared. When he said grilled with olive oil, garlic, and mint, that sounded promising. But in fact what came to the table were castoffs from Au Bon Pain's "grilled veggie" sandwich, those horrible thick zucchini rounds with black char marks that are the stuff of food nightmares. The artichoke and meatballs were delish. The meatball is tiny, crispy on the outside, and really tender and well-seasoned on the inside.

James and I split the orecchiette with cauliflower and breadcrumbs, and a chickory salad with anchovies. We ordered the latter because it sounded exactly like a dish we had at Bebel's in Milan: tender bulbs of fresh chickory decorated with cut anchovies, lemon, sea salt, and olive oil. Fab. The Bar Stuzzichini version though was chickory leaves--lettuce, essentially--with a caesar-salad like dressing. Eh. Fishy. The orechiette tasted like gourmet mac and cheese. Not enough cauli to flower it. Our friend got the tuna; it looked a tad overcooked, but the pesto garnishing it was nutty.

A word about the service: not so hot. An odd thing happened as we were chowing on our appetizers; our server came over and said, "it would be great if you could consolidate your plates, because your entrees are coming." He literally took away my plate from which I was still eating and kind of moved my silverware out of the way to make way for the mains.

That would have been odd but OK if steaming plates then immediately were set down in front of us. But no. We waited fifteen minutes. So why on earth did he clear our apps so precipitously?

I agree the size of the place isn't right; it doesn't jibe with the little-plate feel. Moreover, while it's in my neighborhood, it doesn't feel neighborhoody. Not too expensive, but not sure I'll return.

Wild Salmon

Dara writes:

James and I ate a late-night meal at the new restaurant Wild Salmon by Jeffrey Chodorow, he of food-fight-with-Frank-Bruni fame.

In the Times recently, Bruni took the high road and reviewed the new place fairly. He didn't like it that much, and neither did I. This is a deathwatch on the joint, which I don't think is long for this world.

Nearly no patrons occupied the restaurant when we dined (admittedly late, 9pm). It is a gigantic space, and was so empty it kind of seemed like an airport hangar. Indeed, while the salmon passed through a hangar on its way from the Pacific Northwest, that doesn't mean the salmon's final resting place should evoke United.

I sat down to a dirty water glass, which I had to send back. Our waiter was out of it. The flat bread, served in lieu of a bread basket, dusted with olive oil, sea salt, and rosemary, was crunchy on the outside and really soft on the inside, and performed well the function of being my appetizer, since I wasn't hungry enough, or intrigued enough by the appetizers on the menu, to order one. The problem was this: I'd heard the cured salmon platter was a great starter, but if I ordered that, what would I order for my main, since this was, afterall, a salmon joint? And alas the hostess-recommended dish, the black cod, was finito for the evening.

I ended up ordering cedar-planked salmon, which Bruni recommended. It was good. The cedar plank smells delightful, awakening your taste buds. The pinot noir morel sauce accompanying it was buttery and super rich and slightly funky from the morels. Three asparagus spears decorated the fish.

Fine. But that was $30. And that was the cheapest of the salmon options (I ordered coho, but one could request sockeye or king). I'm not n the mood to pay thirty bucks for an average-sized piece of fish with no accoutrements. Especially when I recall the $16 I paid for the supremely incredible snapper at Momofuku that came equipped with remarkable sides, assembled with mucho care. From the assemblage of my fish at Wild Salmon, I get the sense Chodorow's target audience wouldn't know a pickled ramp from an exit ramp.

Speaking of average, isn't salmon the chicken of fish? I like it, but who ever thought to build a restaurant around it?

Won't be returning, and by the empty looks of the place when I went, other patrons feel the same.

Bacony Fish

Dara writes:

I have written about chef David Chang's Momofuku empire before. No surprise, I'm a fan. Just to add to the adulation, I had a chart-topping, show-stopping fish dish there tonight.

As usual, James ordered the house special Momofuku ramen, which is succulent, toothsome noodles in a porky broth with, indeed, two kinds of pork--belly and shredded--and soft-cooked egg, peas, green onion, nori, lotus root, and deliciousness. James always gets it. He's obsessed. But I ordered something new: crispy red snapper. Not usually my fave fish. Slightly funkier than bass or trout. The fish was delish, but it was the sides I died for. What graced the dish? Summer squash. I don't often love squash because it's squishy and meaty in an unpleasant way. Surprisingly, Chang's staff didn't slice the squash extra-thin. But because, like all things Chang, the veg floated in a salty, porky broth, it ruled.

Two things lifted the dish into the stratosphere: the best chunky, pancetta-y bacon ever, and pickled ramps. Now, I saw Chang's recipe for them in New York mag in May, but whatever, not something I'd make at home, so I didn't think more about it. Holy mackerel: I could make a meal of them. Imagine wilted, kim-chee-y onions. Yes please.

I should mention we started with an heirloom tomato salad with Asian vinaigrette and shiso leaf, with soft tofu. And, the kicker, we walked right into the place. Why? Three ideas: August; early; outside it was hot as hell.

Dining at Momofuku is hectic. It's loud and cramped and hot. But you get to see your dinner assembled in front of you by pros. It's like you're on the set of a cooking show. You get to listen to the Stones' Gimme Shelter and remember those violent scenes in Scorsese's Mean Streets and The Departed. And you get to have an ass-kicking, fresh fish dish for $16. Worth it.