Bloomingdale Highway

“The menu is designed for sharing at the table,” announces our waiter at the new Bloomingdale Road.

I look at the list of “snacks” just above “small plates and sandwiches” and “soup and salads”. “How many smoked deviled eggs are on the plate?” I ask.

“Three,” he says.

But we are four.

“You can always get two orders,” he replies.

“I don’t need six eggs.”

“Well, they are big and you can cut them in half.”

“But then I’ll have six halves. How about the 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 comfort food line. It’s playground time. It’s homey and rare time. We have buffalo-chicken lollipops with blue cheese fondue. Country ham is roasted with Coca-Cola. fries every day? Not here. Smoked 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 that are on the countdown stage across the city (especially Fatty Crab and Tom Valenti’s West Branch, looming not far down the road). Broadway, once called Bloomingdale Road).

I wouldn’t be talking about all of this today if I hadn’t liked some of Chef Ed Witt’s dishes as, I must confess, I accidentally walked into Bloomingdale’s Road on its first night, thinking it had opened a week earlier. And I wasn’t the only trigger happy Upper West Sider crowding in the doorway like he was starving. The duplex, bar and sidewalk tables are packed with yuppies and yippies, old and young in startling juxtaposition.

Had I hated every 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 your shot glass, we had to ask for spoons), sensational smoked fries with not too much cheddar, and Road Food Warrior’s whole grain fettuccini with spicy shrimp, grilled butternut 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 brioche baked in a tin: “Careful,” the waiter says, setting down a small mold of butter drizzled with herbs, black pepper, and honey. “That is very hot.” Joicks! I find he’s not kidding when I try to get the puffy 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 carbophobes want more. A second pouf comes in a fiery hot mold (easier to remove without injuring yourself). “I’m leaving this used lard because we’re running short,” says the runner, the same one who assures us that the soup shots are “chicken.” The first night is almost fun. (Even Sarah was having fun 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 horseradish cream-slathered potato wedges with unabashed relish). ).

The tiny suckling pig meatballs are lost in a chipotle tomato sauce and not worth saving anyway. Witt style mac and cheese is silly: mac 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 pass your macaroni over the condiments,” we are instructed. No. No. No. Impossible. (But save the croutons. They’re wonderful.) I’m not sure if it was something my grass fed cow ate, but the barely chewy tenderloin steak smells and tastes bad. 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 from 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 testing the food 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. 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 whatever you want me to eat,” pleaded our friend Harvey. “I can’t read the menu.” My boy handed him the flashlight.

Sweet syrupy 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, although, like Elvis, I was once addicted to peanut butter and bacon with banana. Guess I’ve gotten that monkey off of me. This is my neighborhood after all. We’ll be back.

2398 Broadway near 88th Street 212 674 7400

buzzing apiary

As a privileged first child in an ambitious family with great connections, Apiary has a top-of-the-line nursery: a sleek modern design from partner Ligne Rosset, starring whimsical trompe l’oeil sconces and the company’s 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 hotel and restaurant school, then venture arbitrage on Wall Street, and finally following her true passion for Daniel’s restaurant box as Boulud’s executive assistant, finally a stop at Eighty One, even as he hatched 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 (alternative heavy-duty 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 swivels in the front window, a designer lamp suggestive of radioactive tulips, are sure to stop you in your tracks. But tonight, at my first tasting with friends, I see the first fork-tongued foodies gathered at bare black tables that have cleared a few places for the curious. The talk is magnified under the low ceiling. There will be noise when the nomadic cries come, but tonight we can get closer and hear at least half of what we say.

Lining up slices of sensational heirloom tomatoes on a thick toasted crostini with feta and arugula doesn’t make crostini bites easy, but all the parts are delicious, just like the saltiness of the prosciutto contrasts with the sweetness of fresh roasted peaches. ​​with shaved goat cheese in mustard and sherry vinaigrette. But the squid is lost in too thick a 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 classics. 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 gravy spoons to a service team that’s still in training camp. While we wait for silverware, I can pick up some of these citrus pools with mussel shells.

I can’t say that the rather juicy smoked paprika-dusted pork loin or the chimichurri-marinated hanger steak are faulty. It’s just that the night before we had sensationally feisty hanger steak at Morandi and the memory makes this version seem pretty ordinary. Of course, I’m not surprised that an over-age chef in Flay’s aura goes overboard on 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 cheese cake (yes, I hate lavender too). But the chocolate cashew cake 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?

Although I bet East Villagers will be hit by prices that would seem wonderful downtown, I’m not going to judge a chef with these credentials at one dinner. It is never easy to leave home and a sheltered adolescence. I want to believe that the man Flay thinks he’s good enough to run his kitchen will become his own.

60 Third Avenue between 9th and 10th streets. 212 254 0888