In the end it came down to the frites.
Faced with hundreds – thousands? – of New York restaurants, Mr. Food Musings and I had to make some tough choices for our first meal together in the Big Apple. We settled on Anthony Bourdain’s Brasserie Les Halles. Oh, you could argue that carnivorous lust or curiosity about the place Bourdain immortalized in Kitchen Confidential drove us there; Mr. Food Musings and I both get a kick out of Bourdain-the-writer’s irreverence, bawdy sense of humor and brusque determination to tell it like it is. But the proverbial straw was the frites, considered by many to be New York’s finest.
Our left-coast stomachs surprised us by rumbling an hour ahead of our 11 pm reservation, so we set off for dinner early, fingers crossed. Outside on the streets of the Flatiron district, a handful of people, their backs hunched against the wind, trudged home after a long day at the office. We ducked inside, thankful to be out of the blustery night. Globe lights that could have been stolen from a Parisian sidewalk cast a dim glow, and we grabbed stools at the battered bar while the hostess readied our table, graceful about the last minute change in plans. The décor was so French I was surprised not to see a cloud of cigarette smoke hovering above our heads, and the noise was a steady, unapologetic roar.
As we sat down, glasses of the house Sancerre in hand, snatches of conversation in German, French and Spanish bubbled up from the din; keeping us company was an international crowd out for a comfortably late dinner. I knew what I wanted without even glancing at the menu: frisée aux lardons and steak frites. The bed of crunchy frisée, pale at the roots and green at the lacy tips, hid fatty nuggets of bacon, enough that I could scoop them up three to the forkful rather than mete them out parsimoniously bite-by-bite. I missed the softly poached egg that traditionally sits ready to spill its golden guts over the lettuces, but made do with the “Roquefort crouton” that leaned precariously to one side, no doubt overburdened by its tower of crumbly blue cheese as well as its fussy name. My empty salad plate dispatched to the kitchen by an insouciant waiter, I swayed to the faux-filet Bercy’s siren song of sirloin and red wine butter that slowly leaked over the hot steak as I cut into it, juices pooling next to the frites. And oh, the frites! Glorious frites! They looked as though they’d spent the afternoon in a tanning booth, so bronzed and crisp were they on the outside, still soft and fluffy inside. Tart mountains of ketchup helped me lap them up. I seem to recall a small salad on the side of the plate, but shrugged it off as garnish. Why bother?
Mr. Food Musings was in the throes of a nearly epileptic duck craving that night, but a stern glance from me was enough to steer him back to steak. (You see, I, er, we had romanticized that our first night in New York would take place over platters piled high with nearly rare beef and hot fries; one silly little duck was not about to get in the way of that memory-to-be.) He slaked his duck thirst by ordering a salade landaise instead. A leg of duck confit and toast smeared with duck pâté accompanied the lettuce. He allowed me a nibble of the pâté, and it was everything a pâté should be: creamy, slightly smoky, the deep, throaty bass note in the culinary symphony. Then he tucked into the ribeye, appropriately cross-hatched on the grill, all thoughts of duck banished for good. We washed it all back with a 2000 Chateau Redortier Gigondas from the Rhone Valley.
Groaning, we pledged to skip dessert, but Mr. FM’s natural gluttony got the best of us. (What? I’m just a dainty little girl. Blame him.) He was about to vote for crème brulée when our waiter told us about the special, a strawberry rhubarb tart. I’ve been eyeing the fresh rhubarb at the market for weeks, and with the assurance that a scoop of vanilla ice cream could be added, Mr. FM gave his blessing. The tart, cutely miniature, was circled by a moat of crème anglaise that, even without the ice cream, was much too sweet and we left it on the plate.
Next time we go, if I’m feeling truly decadent, I’ll order the hamburger. Ground to order in the butchery next door, it’s grilled and topped with slices of foie gras and truffles, then shoved onto a plate next to a pile of frites. Oh, Anthony, how could you?
Like its chef, Les Halles does not apologize for its ways – you either love it or you get the hell out, and tant pis for you. But what is not to love?
Brasserie Les Halles, New York, 411 Park Avenue South, 212-679-4111
Oh please, you MUST try the hamburger next time! It's wonderful! Best meal of my life, bar none.
Posted by: rachel | December 03, 2007 at 08:45 AM