Bloomingdale Highway
“The menu is designed for sharing at the table,” announces our server at the new Bloomingdale Road.
I look at the list of “snacks” right above “small plates and sandwiches” and “soup and salads.” “How many smoked deviled eggs are on the plate?” Asked.
“Three,” he says.
But we are four.
“You can always get two orders,” he replies.
“I don’t need six eggs.”
“Well, they’re big and you can cut them in half.”
“But then I’ll have six halves. How about suckling pig meatballs?”
“Three,” he says, smiling. “I could bring you four anyway.”
“Bring us four and charge for the extra meatball,” I instruct. And we’ll also have four shots of soup.
This is not just another line of comfort food. It’s playground time. It is homely and rare time. We have chicken-buffalo lollipops with blue cheese fondue. The country ham is roasted with Coca-Cola. French fries every day? Not here. Smoky fries, Old Bay fries and marrow fries. Tuna ribs are glazed with chili and honey. The field fried quail comes with biscuits and gravy. This insatiable exuberance and desperate need to fry something that has yet to be invented could be inspired by the number of restaurants in the countdown phase across the city (especially Fatty Crab and Tom Valenti’s West Branch, looming not far away in Broadway, once called Bloomingdale Road).
I wouldn’t be talking about all this today if I didn’t like some of Chef Ed Witt’s dishes since, I must confess, I accidentally walked into Bloomingdale’s Road on his first night, thinking he had opened a week earlier. And I wasn’t the only trigger-happy Upper West Sider crowding at the door like he was starving. The duplex, bar, and sidewalk tables are packed with yuppies and yippies, old and young in startling juxtaposition.
If I had hated every single bite, I would have left the place to die of terminal nonsense and possibly return eventually if I recovered, just to be fair. But the fabulous chowder shooters (not exactly drinkable in their shot glass, we had to ask for spoons), the sensational smoky fries with not too much cheddar, and the Road Food Warrior whole wheat fettuccini with spicy shrimp, grilled squash and marjoram in actually live up to Witt’s resume: Rubicon in San Francisco, Restaurant Daniel, Il Buco and the ambitious but doomed Varietal.
We’re all crazy about baked-in-a-tin brioche: “Watch out,” says the waiter, setting down a small pan of butter drizzled with herbs, black pepper, and honey. “That’s very hot.” Joicks! I find out he’s not kidding when I try to pry the swollen top out of his baking pan, a lawsuit in a can in this litigious city. “Do you want more bread?” asks the runner. Even devoted carbophobics want more. A second bean bag comes in a fiery hot mold (easier to remove without injuring yourself). “I’m leaving this used butter because we’re running short,” says the broker, the same one who assures us that the soup shots are “chicken.” The first night is almost fun. (Even Sarah was amused for 24 hours.) And the scallops sprinkled with anchovies, corn and wild mushrooms are small but good (at least our picky friend is impressed and her husband attacks the trout with potato wedges smeared with cheeky horseradish cream). ).
The tiny meatballs of suckling pig get lost in a chipotle tomato sauce and aren’t worth saving anyway. Witt’s style of mac and cheese is silly: macaroni and cheese soup. It comes with a tripartite plate along with the crispiest croutons I’ve ever tasted, bacon bits and chopped jalapeno. “You can run your macaroni over the seasonings,” we are instructed. No. No. No. Impossible. (But save the croutons. They’re wonderful.) Not sure if it was something my grass fed cow ate, but the barely chewy strip steak smells and tastes off. Still, those fries. The kitchen has them dominated. Well, I hope. Who knows what day 2 will bring?
More crowds, says owner Jeremy Wladis, who knows the neighborhood’s consumer fervor from his two other businesses, Nonna (Columbus and 85th) and Campo (Broadway at 112th Street). But even he is reeling with demand, walk-ins and reservations: “We fed 200 last night. We’re fully booked for the weekend.” And yes, the menu continues to evolve. “We’ve been food testing for two months,” he confesses, “but it’s one thing to make cedar-roasted sockeye salmon for five tasters, and another when all the tables are packed. Some of our dishes are controversial. One table hates it. To the next table loves it. You don’t know what to do.”
At six o’clock on the fourth night of the house, Wladis has just received the sixth version of the menu. I hope they realize how bad it is for middle-aged people to have such a small, pale gray typeface. “Order what you want me to eat,” pleaded our friend Harvey. “I can’t read the menu.” My boy passed him the flashlight.
Syrupy Sweet Apricot and Bourbon Glaze on Brioche doesn’t mean “bread pudding” in my book. And I probably shouldn’t have ordered a peanut butter and jelly pie with marshmallow ice cream, even though, like Elvis, I was once addicted to peanut butter and banana bacon. I guess I’ve got that monkey off me. This is my neighborhood after all. We’ll be back.
2398 Broadway near 88th Street 212 674 7400
buzz apiary
As a privileged first child in an ambitious family with excellent connections, Apiary has a top-of-the-line nursery: a sleek modern design by partner Ligne Rosset, starring whimsical trompe l’oeil sconces and the company’s own elegantly square upholstered side chairs. in deep jewel colors. – garnet, amethyst, graphite, cat’s eye, or rather, beetroot, eggplant, beef stew and chocolate. Managing partner Jenny Moon left Korea at age 15 for this fate: an American education, a finance degree from Cornell’s school of hotels and restaurants, then risk arbitrage on Wall Street, and finally following her true passion for the box at Daniel’s restaurant as Boulud’s executive assistant, finally a stop at Eighty One, even while incubating Apiary.
With Moon as managing partner, Neil Manacle, Bobby Flay’s partner of sixteen years, at the stove and Cellar consultant Nick Mautone lining up the bottles (heavy-duty alternative action on New York State labels and craft beers), Apiary brings remarkably good bones to the creeping gentrification of Third Avenue below 10th Street.
If you’re a novice local homeowner passing by, the illuminated metal twists in the front window, a designer lamp that suggests radioactive tulips, are sure to stop you. But tonight, at my first tasting with friends, I see the first fork-tongued foodies gathered at the bare black tables that have left a few places free for the curious. The talk is magnified under the low ceiling. There will be noise when the nomad cries come, but tonight we can get closer and hear at least half of what we say.
Lining slices of sensational heirloom tomatoes on top of a thick toasted crostini with feta and arugula doesn’t make for easy crostini bites, but every part is delicious, just as the saltiness of prosciutto belies the sweetness of fresh roasted peaches. with shaved goat cheese in a sherry-mustard vinaigrette. But calamari is lost in too thick breading. Stacked coleslaw on top of crab cake distracts from the simplicity of the perfect crab. Okay, the cake looks good, like Sarah the Warrior, with her col updo. Steamed mussels with chorizo in a citrus broth are classic. And there’s an elegant purity to the jumbo prawns and scallops with bean cannelloni in a spicy seafood broth. I rule out not sending sauce spoons to a service team that is still in training camp. While we wait for silverware, I can pick up a bit of these citrus pools with mussel shells.
I can’t say the rather juicy smoked paprika dusted pork loin or the chimichurri-marinated hanger steak is faulty. It’s just that the night before we had sensationally feisty hanger steak at Morandi and the memory makes this version seem rather ordinary. Of course, it doesn’t surprise me that a chef of legal age in Flay’s aura would overdo the sweetness. And after all, this is Apiary. I personally hate honey and fruit vinegars in my vinaigrette. And I’m not going to be happy with sweet and sour fruit sauce contaminating my spice-crusted lamb. A side of spicy eggplant comes cold. This is a surprise.
The blueberry compote turns out to be gooey purple streaks along with the lavender honey goat cheesecake (yes, I hate lavender too). But the chocolate cashew tart with cashew ice cream is a hit and the vanilla ice cream on top of the peach crisp is just perfect. Not sweet at all.
Now how was that?
While I’d bet the East Villagers will be hit with prices that would seem wonderful downtown, I’m not going to judge a chef with these credentials on a single diner. It is never easy to leave home and a sheltered adolescence. I want to believe that the man that Flay thinks is good enough to run his kitchens will become his own.
60 Third Avenue between streets 9 and 10. 212 254 0888