Moira Hodgson

When Drew Nieporent opened Montrachet on these premises in 1985, he turned New Yorkers’ idea of a fancy French restaurant on its head. The setting was a stark industrial space, with tin ceilings and overhanging pipes, in a desolate neighborhood of cast-iron buildings and scruffy warehouses. Instead of elderly French waiters in black tie, there was a young staff dressed entirely in black; the menu was in English, not French, and the wine list gave American vintages equal billing. The chef was an unknown named David Bouley.

Montrachet established a cool downtown style that has been widely imitated ever since.  read more »

“The Ancient South American Secret Is Now Yours,” read the label on a mysterious package delivered to my door last week. “Drink. Think. Live. Love. Top Leaf Maté.”

It was a selection of teas sent by a Chilean friend who lives in Oregon. He had added a note: “Maté is pretty good with bourbon too.”

Maté is a tea made from yerba buena, a mintlike herb believed, among other things, to boost the immune system, soothe digestion and calm nerves. I didn’t try it with bourbon (never having acquired much of a taste for that whiskey), but I discovered that it was pretty good with pisco, a grape brandy.  read more »

I remember an old ditty from my childhood:

I eat my peas with honey

I’ve done it all my life

It makes the peas taste funny

But it keeps them on the knife

There’s plenty of time to recall your own ditties at the ostensibly honey-themed Apiary, in the East Village, while waiting for your drinks. One night we sat empty-handed for nearly half an hour, even though the place was gearing up for dinner and there were plenty of waiters and waitresses milling around—deftly managing not to catch our eye. Once our server established herself, she was helpful and nice.  read more »

On my way into Allegretti the other night, I passed a young woman who was shouting into her cell phone. “Everyone I know in New York is, like, on suicide watch!” But the financial meltdown hadn’t made much of a dent in the number of customers dining at the new French restaurant, just west of the Flatiron district. Many of them looked as though they had come here for the occasion (I counted six men in striped shirts), and appeared undeterred by the prices ($38 for halibut, $36 for veal steak). They seemed right at home.

And why not? The small dining room, with its teak blue bar, navy banquettes, low ceiling and white-paneled walls, feels like the inside of a yacht.  read more »

It was bad news for Silvano Marchetto when Graydon Carter decided to go into the restaurant business. For over 30 years, Da Silvano was something of a downtown Elaine’s, with celebrities, artists, writers, and gallery owners packing its noisy rooms for lunch and dinner. But when the Waverly Inn opened, Mr. Marchetto lost not only his best customer, but many of his boldface names as well.

Still, the restaurant is hardly empty, even at the end of summer. On a warm evening, the east side of Sixth Avenue between Bleecker and Houston feels like an Italian piazza. Da Silvano’s linen-topped tables and chrome chairs spread out over the wide sidewalk; further up are the tables of its neighbor, Bar Pitti.  read more »

“Where’s the noodle man?”

When my son was a boy, he loved to watch the noodle man at Honmura An, the only authentic soba restaurant in the city. The noodle man worked in a glass booth in the dining room, where he’d pummel the dough, toss it in the air and roll it out, never once making a hole. Then, using an enormous carving knife, he’d slice the dough into perfect, foot-long strands that he hung up to dry.

Honmura An closed last year, leaving its fans bereft. But now soba cuisine has returned with Matsugen, Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s new Japanese restaurant in Tribeca.  read more »

When the owners of the restaurant Provence, which had been a Soho fixture for over 20 years, changed its name to Hundred Acres, I wondered if they were being sardonic. A century ago this area was known as Hell’s Hundred Acres because the wooden floors of its factories and warehouses kept catching fire. Today, many longtime residents feel that Soho is worthy of the name once again, but for a different reason: crowds.

When the tourists and suburban shoppers aren’t in Prada or Louis Vuitton, they’re on the street buying T-shirts, jewelry, film scripts, designer handbag knockoffs and, since they’re in Soho, “art.  read more »

Ten years ago an Englishman, Keith McNally, opened a fake French bistro in Soho. Every detail had been carefully researched, from the red leather for the banquettes to the Gauloise-smoke patina on the ceilings and the shellfish display, where names of the oysters du jour were scrawled in soap on distressed mirrors. From opening day, the place looked as though it had been around for a hundred years. When you walked into Balthazar, you entered another world.

So there was much anticipation when Alain Ducasse announced he was going to open a New York branch of Benoit, one of the last authentic bistros in Paris, dating from 1912, and which he took over two years ago.  read more »

After a mediocre dinner at Bobo last fall, I decided not to go back. Let them sink without my help, I thought.

I was sorry because the restaurant, which is on two floors of a Village brownstone, has a quirky charm. I liked the cozy subterranean bar, with its low beamed ceiling and bare brick walls, and the candle-lit dining room upstairs, hung with crystal chandeliers and filled with knickknacks, books and old family photographs. I felt as though I were eating in a private house.

So when I learned recently that Bobo had replaced its chef, I returned for another look.  read more »

Here’s a novelty item to toss on the grill this summer: tuna ribs. At Bar Q, they’re coated with a paste of yuzu and green chili before they’re grilled.

“Don’t worry, dear,” said our waiter, sounding like a hospital orderly as he set a plateful down in front of me. “The cucumber salad will cool them off nicely.”

I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d given me a pat on the back.  read more »

The waiter set a martini glass on the table. Instead of gin, it contained a thick mushroom soup. Two slices of pancetta had been inserted on top, like slices of lemon for a cocktail. When I dug in my spoon, a poached egg melted into the soup and onto a bed of spinach underneath. A rustic, down-home soup in a martini glass: a fitting dish for a restaurant that describes itself as an “urban tavern.”

South Gate, in Jumeirah Essex House on Central Park South, has replaced Ducasse as the hotel’s signature restaurant.  read more »

If this restaurant were in France, you would be driving across the country to find it, your dog-eared Guide Michelin on the dashboard. The journey I made from downtown to Eighty One was also long, but rather different. I took the subway, where I sat opposite some French tourists who were reading the Guide Michelin to New York. But at 81st Street, they headed for the Hayden Planetarium, and I strolled on past the gardens of the Museum of Natural History to the Excelsior Hotel, where Eighty One opened in February.

It’s an odd space.  read more »

Back in the ’60s, when it was the 8th Wonder club, Jimi Hendrix played here. Now, there’s an open kitchen where the stage used to be, all bright lights, green tile and polished chrome, manned by cooks in white jackets and black baseball caps.

At the white bar in front, which has a picture window giving onto the corner of Macdougal Street, a glamorous young crowd knocks back cocktails named in honor of the rock star who died long before they were born. Electric Ladyland is a heady mix of pisco, rose jam and Champagne; 8th Wonder blends bourbon with sweet vermouth and cardamom chai. Hendrix, who was prone to wrecking his hotel rooms after a hard night out, would probably have gone for the Zombie Punch: three rums, with a jolt of absinthe to steady your hand.

In addition to the mixed drinks, Elettaria has an interesting and unusual wine list, which was created by co-owner Noel Cruz. Many bottles are under or around $40, and they’re not the predictable ones that appear on so many lists. A fine bottle of Potel Aviron julienas costs $43, and a Mezzolombardo turoldo, a light red from northern Italy, is $36. The wines by the glass are reasonably priced, too, such as a Jean Rosen pinot blanc at $7, and Marc Aurel, a saint laurent from Austria, for $10.  read more »

What would Frederic Edwin Church make of the landscapes that dominate Olana’s main dining room?

In the late 1800s, the painter built the restaurant’s namesake, a landmark mansion upstate with famously spectacular views overlooking the Hudson. Olana, the restaurant, sits on a less than spectacular stretch of lower Madison Avenue. The landscapes, on huge illuminated light boxes, are done in harsh computer-generated colors that cast a flat, eerie glow: Church on acid. But like many things in this restaurant, they have a quirky charm.  read more »

A waiter placed a shallow white bowl before me. On the bottom, making the corners of a square, lay four pastel-colored florets: yellow, ivory, pink and green. He poured in cauliflower soup and set down a bagel. “The topping on the bagel is ‘Dubarry’: chopped cauliflower and Comté cheese,” he explained. “In Escoffier, dishes made with cauliflower are called Dubarry, after Louis XV’s mistress.”

Bagel “Dubarry”? Alain Ducasse may have a sly sense of humor, but up until now New York hasn’t given him much to smile about. Mr. Ducasse has more Michelin stars than any chef in the world, but his first restaurant here, which opened eight years ago in the Essex House, was not particularly well received. The price (a $235 prix fixe) was met by outrage, as were such excesses as the selection of scary knives for carving your squab, the embroidered footstools provided for the ladies’ handbags and the choice of Mont Blanc fountain pens proffered for signing the bill. The Michelin Guide awarded Ducasse three stars, but nevertheless, it closed a year ago.  read more »

Commerce Street, a secret, twisting couple of blocks in the West Village, is so quiet you can hear your footsteps echo on the pavement. But the white building that has stood at the corner of Commerce and Barrow Streets for nearly a century has had anything but a quiet past. During Prohibition, it was a speakeasy. For 50 years it was the Blue Mill Tavern, and then for over a decade, Grange Hall, a much-beloved Village hangout serving blue-plate specials such as succotash and broiled steak.  read more »

Before I sat down to dinner at the refurbished One if by Land, Two if by Sea, I had a drink by the fireplace in front of the bar. A pianist was tinkling away at Chopin, and two couples, ensconced in leather armchairs, sipped glasses of Champagne. A handsome young Japanese man, dressed in a dark suit and blue striped tie, strode through the front door and sat down on a bar stool. He declined the bartender’s offer of a drink; instead he consulted his watch and pulled out a book.  read more »

“Your amuse bouches,” the waiter said, setting down a plate of white plastic spoons whose filling glistened like a display of jewels. “Vodka gelée with sour cream, salmon roe, fried capers and chives.”

So much going on in one tiny mouthful! Our minds were racing. Yet each element of this fleeting palate teaser was precise and distinct.

The spoons were served along with confit shrimp pinned to the end of long wooden skewers, and a crusty, moist corn bread made with white cheddar. We hadn’t even looked at the menu yet.  read more »

“Sheep Dip is a blend,” said the waiter at Belcourt. “Pig’s Nose is single malt.”

He was talking about the unusual whiskies on offer at this new East Village bistro. Whatever they were called, my companion badly needed a glass, and not just because of the bitter cold outside.  read more »

I was barely 7 when my family moved to Beirut, but I still remember the food: the fried kibbeh (meatballs with bulghur), the kefte (meatballs again, cooked on skewers over charcoal in our kitchen) and the vine leaves that I was allowed to help stuff with rice, wrapping them into small, untidy packages.

We spent two years there, before the city was torn apart by war, back when it was known as the Paris of the Middle East and one of the loveliest cities in the world. So why, then, in New York City, where you can trip and fall into, say, a Uighur joint, are there so few full-blown Lebanese restaurants?

Al Bustan, near the United Nations, has until now been the standard-bearer of the cuisine, which is similar in many ways to the cooking of Greece, Turkey, Syria and Egypt. Ilili, which opened two months ago in a former carpet warehouse on a desolate part of lower Fifth Avenue, aims to fill the gap and largely succeeds.  read more »

“Bring me a cup of Ovaltine,” Jackie Gleason once told a waiter. “I want to be asleep when the bill comes.”

Tell me about it. The cost of eating out rose dramatically in 2007. Food prices went up faster than at any point in the past 15 years, according to Food Arts magazine, partly due to the high demand for ethanol, which raised the price of corn used to feed livestock and poultry.  read more »

“Are you still working on those?”

The waiter surveyed our table, which was littered with small dishes of Greenmarket vegetables.

Yep. Still workin’.  read more »

Is Irving Mill another Gramercy Tavern manqué, or is John Schaefer onto something?  read more »

A veteran of Gordon Ramsay’s kitchen hints at the Lower East Side’s past while embracing its present—but sorry, no egg creams!  read more »

Salty and sweet do a tango on your tongue at pastry chef Sam Mason’s new SoHo joint. That eel is swimmin’ in chocolate!  read more »

The Umbrian Giant, fan club in tow, settles into a cozy storefront on the Upper East Side.  read more »

Alex Ureña’s second attempt is both less expensive and more welcoming than last year’s foray into cutting-edge Spanish cuisine.  read more »

Clang, clang, clang: An Iron Chef alum tries out ‘creative-authentic’ Italian in a loud but friendly spot on Barrow Street.  read more »

Rayuela attracts pretty women and hungry hombres to a bleak stretch of the Lower East Side.  read more »

Seasonal cuisine goes one step further, courtesy of the Quality Meats crew.  read more »

A Southern sushi specialist dazzles with creative combinations—just don’t try to order a Diet Coke.  read more »

Vongerichten’s erstwhile exec chef also does fusion food.  read more »

Marc Murphy’s bistro is just what the Upper West Side has been waiting for.  read more »

Classic Italian, modern interpretations and an an eccentrically annotated wine list at Paul Grieco’s restaurant.  read more »

New owners bring charm and local seasonal fare to a neighborhood fixture.  read more »

Despite a cold and windy spring, the taste of summer in Maine shows up in Soho.  read more »

Greek food and haute cuisine are not phrases you often see in the same sentence. But at Anthos, a sleek new restaurant across from the “21” Club, chef Michael Psilakis is serving dishes such as hamachi with ouzo-marinated cherries, rabbit hilopita with snails and black truffles, and a “deconstructed” baklava. I doubt anyone eats like this in Greece (nor, I imagine, have many of the patrons on the other side of the street, where Rome still rules the day with steak Diane).

Anthos takes its name from the Greek word for “blossom.” It’s co-owned by Donatella Arpaia (a partner at David Burke & Donatella) and is located in the space that used to be her brother’s restaurant, Aqua Pazza.  read more »