Fight Alongside Warriors Sporting The Same Color latest 2023

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First Tastings of New Fall New York Restaurants

Bloomingdale’s Way

“The menu is designed to be shared at the table,” announces our server in the new Bloomingdale Road.

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

“Three,” he said.

“But there are four of us.”

“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 some suckling pig meatballs?”

“Three,” he said smiling. “I could just bring you four anyway.”

“Bring us four and charge for the extra meatball,” I ordered. “And we’ll also have four shots of chowder.”

It’s not just another comfort food line. It’s time for the park. It’s the intimate and bizarre hour. We have Chicken-Buffalo Popsicles with Blue Cheese Fondue. Country ham is roasted with Coca-Cola. Everyday fries? Not here. Smoked fries, Old Bay fries and marrow fries. The tuna ribs are glazed with chilli and honey. The peasant quail is accompanied by biscuits and sauce. This insatiable exuberance and desperate need to fry something that has yet to be invented could be inspired by the number of countdown restaurants across the city (especially Fatty Crab and Tom Valenti’s West Branch, imminent not far from Broadway – which was formerly called Bloomingdale Road).

I wouldn’t be going through all of this today if I hadn’t really liked some of Chef Ed Witt’s dishes since, I have to admit, I accidentally walked into Bloomingdale Road on the first night thinking that it had opened a week earlier. And I wasn’t the only happy Upper West Sider trigger piling up at the door like he was starving. Tables in the duplex, bar and sidewalk are filled with yuppies and yippies, seniors and young people in a surprising juxtaposition.

If I hated every bite, I would have left the place to exhale from the terminal stupidity and possibly come back eventually if it rallied, just to be fair. But the fabulous chowder shooters (not really drinkable in their shot glass – you had to ask for the spoons), the sensational smoky fries with not too much cheddar and the Road Food Warrior whole wheat fettuccine with spicy shrimp, grilled squash and marjoram actually living up to Witt’s resume – Rubicon in San Francisco, Restaurant Daniel, Il Buco and the ambitious but doomed Varietal.

We love brioche cooked in a tin – “Attention”, says the waiter, taking out a small ramekin of butter drizzled with herbs-pepper-black-honey. “It’s really hot.” Yoicks! I find out he means business as I try to squeeze the puffy top out of its mold, a box trial in this contentious city. “Do you want more bread?” asks the runner. Even staunch carbophobes want more. A second pouf is delivered in a hot ramekin (easier to extract without hurting yourself). “I’m going to leave that butter stale because we’re running out,” says the runner, the same guy who assures us chowder shots are “chicken.” The first night is almost fun. (Even Sarah was fun for 24 hours.) And the ancho-dusted scallops with corn and wild mushrooms are small but good (at least our picky friend is impressed and her husband attacks the trout on chunks of potato covered in horseradish cream with shameless enthusiasm).

The little suckling pig balls are lost in a layer of chipotle tomato sauce and not worth keeping anyway. Mac and Cheese Witt style is mindless – mac and cheese soup. It comes with a three-way dish that comes with the crispiest croutons I’ve ever tasted, bits of bacon, and chopped jalapeno. “You can run your macaroni over the condiments,” we’re told. No. No. No. Impossible. (But save the croutons. They’re wonderful.) I don’t know if this was something my grass-fed cow ate, but the barely chewable steak smells and tastes spoiled. Still, those fries. The kitchen masters them. Well, I hope. Who knows what Day 2 will bring?

More crowded, says owner Jeremy Wladis, who knows the neighborhood’s all-consuming fervor from his two other businesses, Nonna (Columbus and 85th) and Campo (Broadway at 112th Street). But even he is in shock at the demand, appointments and reservations: “We fed 200 people last night. We are full for the weekend.” And yes, the menu is still evolving. “We tasted the food for two months,” he says, “but it’s one thing to make cedar roast sockeye for five tasters and quite another when every table is packed. Some of our dishes are controversial One table hates it The next table loves it You don’t know what to do.

At 6 p.m., on the fourth evening at the house, Wladis has just received the sixth version of the menu. I hope they realize how nasty it is for middle-aged people to have this small, pale gray type. “Order what you want me to eat,” pleaded our friend Harvey. “I can’t read the menu.” My guy passed him the flashlight.

The sweet apricot syrup and bourbon glaze on the brioche doesn’t mean “bread pudding” in my book. And I probably shouldn’t have ordered peanut butter and jelly pie with marshmallow ice cream, even though, like Elvis, I was once addicted to peanut butter and banana bacon. Guess I threw that monkey on my back. This is my neighborhood after all. We will return.

2398 Broadway near 88th Street 212 674 7400

apiary hum

As a privileged first child in an ambitious family with great connections, Apiary has an upscale nursery – a sleek modern design by partner Ligne Rosset, featuring whimsical trompe-l’oeil sconces and own chairs company square accent accents covered in deep colors. – garnet, amethyst, graphite, cat’s eye, or should I say, beetroot, eggplant, braised veal and chocolate. Managing Partner Jenny Moon left Korea at age 15 for this destiny – an American education, a finance degree from Cornell’s Hotel and Restaurant School, then risk arbitrage on Wall Street, and finally , following her true passion for the Daniel restaurant skybox as Boulud’s executive assistant, finally, a stop at Eighty One, even during the apiary hatch.

With Moon as managing partner, Neil Manacle, Bobby Flay’s sidekick of sixteen years, at the stove and cellar consultant Nick Mautone lining up the bottles (heavy alternative action in New York State labels and micro-breweries ), Apiary brings remarkably good bones to the creeping gentrification of Third Avenue below 10th Street.

If you’re a wandering local novice landowner, the illuminated metal twists in the front window – a designer light fixture suggesting radioactive tulips – would surely stop you. But this evening, during my first tasting with friends, I see that the first gourmet evenings with forked tongues leagued at black and bare tables have left a few places free for the curious. The chatter is amplified under the low ceiling. It will be loud when the wandering criers settle in but tonight we can lean over and hear at least half of what we say.

Lining up sensational heirloom tomato slices on a thick grilled crostini with feta and arugula doesn’t make crostini bites easy, but every part is delicious, as is the salty taste of Serrano ham played against the sweetness of freshly baked peaches. roasted with shaved goat cheese in a sherry-mustard vinaigrette. But the squid gets lost in too thick a breading. Summer coleslaw piled on top of the crab cake distracts from the simplicity of the perfect crab. Alright, the cake looks good, like Sarah the warrior, with her cabbage bun. Steamed mussels with sausages in a citrus broth are classic. And there’s an elegant purity to the jumbo shrimp and scallops with cannelloni beans in a tangy shellfish broth. I dismiss the failure to send sauce spoons to a service team still in training camp. While we’re waiting for the silverware, I can scoop up some of those citric pools with mussel shells.

I can’t say the rather juicy smoked paprika-dusted pork tenderloin or the chimichurri-marinated steak are faulty. It’s just that we had a sensationally fiery hanger steak the night before at Morandi and the memory makes this version seem pretty ordinary. Of course, I’m not surprised that a chef who has come of age in Flay’s aura abuses the sweetness. And after all, it’s Apiary. Personally, I hate honey as well as fruit vinegars in my salad dressing. And I’m not going to settle for the sweet and sour fruit sauce tainting my spice-crusted lamb. A side of spicy eggplant comes cold. It is a surprise.

The blueberry compote turns out to be sticky purple streaks alongside a lavender honey goat cheesecake (yes, I hate lavender too). But the chocolate cashew pie with cashew ice cream is a hit and the vanilla ice cream on the peach crisp is just perfect. Not sweet at all.

Now, how did that happen?

While I bet Easterners will be dazzled by prices that would seem extortionate downtown, I’m not going to judge a chef with those credentials on a single diner. It’s never easy to leave home and a protected adolescence. I want to believe that the man Flay thinks is good enough to run his kitchens will become his.

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

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