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Tuesday, September 18, 2007
New Look at Jean Georges, Jonathan Waxman Cooks
The minute I walked into the new smartly sedated Jean Georges back room at the Trump International, I suddenly couldn't remember what it looked like before this determinedly grey-beige rehab by Thomas Juul-Hansen. Maybe it's that both before and after are equally, shall we say, quiet. I have always loved sitting in the room by daylight-- loved the intensity of light on a sunny day or the blue-grey cool when it's overcast. I vaguely remember cushy leather chairs. Cushy leather chairs have arms now. I recall gorgeous flowers. Apricot roses and burgundy calla lilies are a blaze of color today on each table. Discreet carts still trundle by with fat apothecary jars of pastel marshmallows.
 I am guessing Jean-Georges and whomever he listens to seek this expensive blah because Jean Georges is really ALL about the food. I'm okay with that. It just makes me nervous that the powers of Jean Georges, the people I talk to, his brother Phillippe, the manager here, actually think something dramatic has happened.
"Do you like it?" Phillippe Vongerichten asks.
I mumble: "Hmm Oh, it's all new."
"Everything is round," he exalts. "The banquettes are round. The chairs. All the chairs are armchairs now. Remember the plates were rectangles. Now they're round. Look at the new wooden frames on that alcove. And at night we draw the curtains and light glows from the floor."
It's not that important, as I say, it's about the food.
No one but me is going to stare dejectedly up at the tendrils of the overhead fixture as it curls around below the silver-leaf ceiling debating why. Not with today's marvelously baroque amuse-bouche in their mouth - rich buttery toast enfolding a slow cooked egg with a salty plop of caviar on top. Sweet, salt, fat..the essential food groups. "Oh good lord." The two of us stare at each other. Can it be this good? Yes, it is really that astonishing. And the friendly exchange rate has not blinked. It's still just $28 for any two dishes and $12 per plate after that.
The delayed flavor blasts of sea trout sashimi with a seduction of lemon sauce and the sharp dissonance of horseradish sets off more little bleats of pleasure. My friend Nancy and I stare at each other, marveling. I pretend I don't mind sharing one of my three little sea urchin canapés wreathed in yuzu and jalapeño heat. The tiny squares of charred corn filled ravioli with sweetly acid little tomatoes in a fragrant basil fondue sets off another flavor whiplash.
Since Jean Georges is my neighborhood lunchroom of choice I am not surprised at one or two oh-my-god-I-don't-believe-how-good-this-is moments. But four of them! So much sensation: it's dizzying. Like speed. Still I can't help noticing that the lobster could use some seasoning. Or that the bowl of Isreali cous cous with cockles meant to jazz up the char --always on the menu, always differently dressed, often my choice -- doesn't quite do the trick. I'm actually too stimulated for dessert. Two or three of Johnny Iuzzini's sublime dark chocolates seal the glow.
"The leather is pale taupe, a custom color I had made, Juul-Hansen emails me." Ohhh kay.
1 Central Park West between 60th and 61st Streets. 212 299 3900
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Dinner with Wizards
 I thought I'd wait till Waverly Inn was officially open. A telephone number for mere mortals to reserve would signal a little give in the invisible velvet rope that girdles the rickety old townhouse that used to be Ye Waverly Inn. Of course there was also the expectation of unwanted rejection if I actually attempted to get in that kept me from trying too hard.
Some people don't care to go where they're not wanted. Others would be wary about joining a club that would have them. Of course, I want to be loved and fussed over. But I also need to be anonymous. Finally I just tagged along with a friend who scored a table where we ordered from a one page listing stamped PREVIEW MENU twice in red. Does this mean Waverly is not ready for prime time reviewing? Well, as the last of the critics to have the thrill of sighting Harvey Weinstein while chomping my frisee, I confess my night at Graydon'a party was actually fun. Did you think you'd hear that from me? Go to Let's Do Dinner at Hogwart's.
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Duplex Glamour at Rayuela
I agree with most of Frank Bruni's reservations about Rayulela, the pan-Latino duplex in the ambitious new busyness of the Lower East Side. So many ceviches, all of them striking, the six that I tasted, really good. But I loved the place more than he did. I love a genuine overreach so I was amused to think they'd imported river stones from Peru. If you missed my review on InsatiableCritic, take time to read Rayuela's Labyrinth in BITE.
Books I Recommend
A California restaurant is all white with bright borrowed paintings on the wall. That's what we learned when Jonathan Waxman moved to New York and opened Jams in 1984 with the English wine importer Melvin Master at a moment when Manhattan's imported Nouvelle Cuisine had exploded into ridiculous shtick. Waxman's signature was simplicity itself as in his charcoal grilled free range chicken buried under a mountain of crisp fries on a big white plate. As might be expected there are many recipes and special shopping tips for chicken and other birds in Houghton Mifflin's A Great American Cook, recipes from Jonathan's home kitchen. The "less is more" of Jonathan's food is what brings me back again and again to Barbuto where he seems to have found fulfillment with his wood burning oven and an eager crew turning out his near-Italian cooking.
Phoebe Damrosch's Service Included (William Morrow), about her rise from dining crew innocent to captain at Per Se, could have been a little less discreet. As I read, I kept looking for the juicy gossip. But it's still good reading for chowhounds and restaurant addicts hungry to know more about the four star kitchen confidential.
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I Do. I Do. I Do
My nephew Gabe and his love Mia from Chicago decided to get married at his mother's lakeside home in Maine. They wanted a small wedding. I had some moments of New York Auntie Mame doubts which I never mentioned to Gabe but shared with my brother who said he was mostly out of the decision loop. I did want to commend them for choosing the weekend after Labor Day. So many holiday weekends in my lifetime have been stolen by wedding obligations. Turns out the weekend after Labor Day meant lower prices at the B&B. Auntie Mame appreciated that.
We picked up the rented Chrysler at Portland, settled into Long Lake Inn in Naples surrounded by real and faux Victoriana and dove into sensational fried whole clams with astonishingly crisp fries at Sandy's Restaurant- "It's the fat we use." the waitress responds with great pride to my question.
"You mean you open the box and pop them frozen into the fat?"
"Yes."
I never had a lobster roll like Sandy's - nothing but lobster meat, no mayo, no celery, just a pile up of lobster nubbins in a toasted bun with undistinguished tartare sauce (optional) in a squeeze bottle.
The wedding. I remember weddings where families went for broke and over-the-top celebrations where the cake cost more than Gabe and Mia's entire Maine event.  And we all know brides and grooms and inlaws so stressed by the demands of ritual and glam they are no longer speaking by the time guests hear the sounds of the processional.
But this modest exchange of vows was incredibly sweet and intimate. Gabe's friends from grade school and high school and university and graduate school in Dublin gathered. Mia's hockey team sorority was all there. The wind blew down the wedding arch that has been set up on the rubble in front of the lake so a neighbor fashioned a rustic replacement from quickly collected tree branches.
There were readings and personal vows written by the bride and groom, a quick dip in the lake for some. Then dinner: a very large steamed lobster for each guest, corn on the cob, cup cakes instead of a wedding cake, lobster shaped sugar cookies, and "Moose Droppings (chocolate covered almonds) in a red china mug to take home. And dancing on into the night. And no mosquitos. I found it very moving.
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