e a t e r y R O W

THE SMITH • 55 Third Avenue • New York, NY 10003 • (212) 420-9800 •

"It's where the cool people brunch" someone once told me about The Smith. Well, I explained to her, I don't blog about brunch. That's for the restaurant blogs written by the high heel set. I do dinner, drinks, the occasional sandwich. "It's too far away." You live in Manhattan, I said. You even have a car. "I don't wanna go. Let's get dinner in Meatpacking." I hate Meatpacking. It's filled with transient vermin. "How about Chelsea?" In the end, we went somewhere near Madison Square Park and I wound up going to The Smith with Bro and his girlfriend, Nunu.

Bro was in a foul mood. It seems that the friends he was planning to see before meeting me pulled a few too many schedule changes at the last minute and, good friend that he is, held in his rage rather than throwing up his hands with a great big "to hell with this!". Luckily, one of the things that The Smith does well is cocktails and once he'd sucked one down, calmness ensued.

The Smith is one of the more popular of the generation of NYC restaurants that evolved out of the speakeasy scene. Lots of cocktails and lots of wood contrast with the industrial lamps and white tile walls. It's like eating on a renovated subway platform from the 1940s. The place, at 7 on a weekend, was crowded, but not such that I wasn't able to get a reservation or find a spot at the bar to wait for Bro and Nunu. It's a little loud and the food is standard American comfort food, by and large. Burgers, pot pie, mac and cheese - standard gastropub; no groundbreaking menus here - so maybe it shouldn't be a shock that there were a fair number of kids. I guess that if mom and dad want a drink, and the kids want a burger, and nobody wants boring, The Smith is a pretty good choice.

Nunu and I split a quick starter, sharing a half dozen Oysters. The selection varies by what's available and they basically had three to choose from. Small, medium, and large. That's literally the extent of my oyster knowledge. I should take a tasting class. We went with for the Goldilocks option and neither complained. I also ordered an appetizer. A nice healthy Kale and Quinoa salad, topped with dried cherry, ricotta, and almonds. In a few months, scientists will discover that kale and quinoa is somehow deadly, but for the moment, I basked in my seemingly healthy decision. It was a good salad. Hipsters, for as much as people love to denigrate them, hit this one on the head. 

Nunu ordered the Seared Tuna, served over sunchokes, mushroom, and spinach. I didn't end up trying it, but she said it was very very good and I'll take her word for it. Bro ordered the Tagliatelle, made with black pasta, shrimp, and scallion. This entree I did get to try and it was delicious. So filled with flavor. So smooth. I've been a big one for shrimp and pasta, but this really was incredibly good. Bro was the winner this night. He was also the loser, having ordered a side of Sicilian Cauliflower, which was all but inedible. I don't know who decided that drowning cauliflower in vinegar was a good idea, but he needs a stern talking to. My entree was the Chicken Pot Pie, a favorite dating back to colonial days when road weary travelers would come arrive at the inn in need of a warm meal, a pint of stout, and sturdy chair upon which to sit. This one came with a cheesy crust. Cheddar, specifically. I don't know that making the crust with cheese did anything other than differentiate it slightly from your average Joe pot pie, but it was indeed a fine pot pie with lots of thick vegetables, big hunks of chicken, but eat it slowly. It's boiling hot inside that shell. I learned that the hard way. Or maybe it was the very easy way.

We couldn't really get interested in the dessert list, which was exactly what you'd expect it to be. Ice creams, chocolate cake, some sort of apple pie/crumble/strudel... So we decided to get that someplace else (although in the end we actually just walked into a supermarket to get coffee beans for the morning and completely forgot about dessert). 

The Smith was fun. It wasn't too crowded. Entrees average $25 so while it's not cheap, it's not too badly priced. The service was very good. The was no age group that it seemed to cater to specifically. The food and drinks were good. If I was meeting someone who was a picky, not-very-adventurous eater who wanted to go someplace that was hip without being pretentious, or if you're just in the mood for comfort food, The Smith would be a good, safe choice.

Two appetizers, three entrees, a side, and a couple rounds of drinks came to about $180 before tax and tip. So $60 per person on average. There are two other locations. One is in Midtown East, and the other is near Lincoln Center.

BEAUTIQUE

8 West 58th Street

New York, NY 10019

• (212) 753-1200

If an expensive prostitute was a restaurant, she'd be Beautique. It's seductive, makes you feel sexy, is wrapped in velvet lingerie, is mostly fake, attracts businessmen, being inside costs a lot of money, and at no point will it be the best you've ever had.

Entering Beautique means walking in past the first of many characters pulled straight from central casting, a bouncer/doorman/linebacker, down a flight of mirrored stairs stolen from a Russian oligarch's yacht, into a loungey dining room filled mostly with men in suits talking about money or sports. The bartender occupied his time wiping glasses with a white napkin, Love Boat style. He was either extremely devout about keeping his glasses spotless or was ignoring me. I'm going with the latter. No way was I willing to cough up $19 for a martini, so I nursed a beer and took in the atmosphere while I waited for the arrival of Sparkles. Beside me sat a middle-aged woman, well into her second glass of wine. "I mean really! Look at this!" she said to her friend, pointing with not a little disgust at the fraying cushion of a bar stool. "This is unacceptable." 

Once it dawned on us that we were at a theme restaurant, Sparkles and I thoroughly got a kick out of the place. Our waiter was had a French accent so thick that he could make "rancid scallops served in a sewage broth" sound appealing. It almost didn't matter that he wasn't a very good waiter, dropping forks and getting the wine order wrong, because he was such a fun character. This was a show.

Every time I tried, a waiter walked by.

Sparkles ordered the Red and Yellow Beet Salad, lightly seasoned beets over a yogurt creme. What did the waiter think? "Eet eez amazeeng." I chose the Beautique Salad, radicchio, endive, Gorgonzola, candied pecans, apples, and figs. The sweetness of the figs and apples and candied pecans worked well with the bitterness of the radicchio and endive. I liked it more than Sparkles did and I don't know that I'd order it again, but it felt healthy and it certainly wasn't awful. We both enjoyed the beet salad and decided, for no real reason, to order a third appetizer to share, the 18 Month Prosciutto Di Parma & Burrata. A plate of meat. A slab of cheese. Some overly toasted bread. Did we enjoy it? Sure. Was this prosciutto better than other prosciutto I've had? Not really.

For her entree, Sparkles asked for the Branzino, served with leek, artichoke, and potato. "Amazeeng." I ordered the Chef's Beef Cut of the Day. What kind of steak is the cut of the day, we asked. "Beef. Eez delicious." Sparkles and I looked at each other. Yes, but the cut? "Eez like a filet, but not. Eez regular. And we slice for you. You weel love it." It arrived over a bed of corn, mushroom with an au jus sauce for dipping. It was fine, but not more than fine. The meat was particularly tough and I found myself fantasizing out loud about Morton's. The Branzino was much better. Crispy skin, very light. At the table next to us sat a couple who saw me snapping pics of the food. The couple had both ordered the Chicken entree, a skin-on breast with vegetables and a pea-puree. Once I mentioned the blog, the woman lit up. "Take a photo of my chicken! Want a bite? You should have a bite." Yes. Yes, I in fact did want a bite. Very much. But I held back and I will take her word that it was quite tasty.

Desserts usually stink, but this one, the Oreo Cheesecake with Oreo ice cream, was pretty good. Sure, it's small and I've had creamier cheesecakes, but it meant that you didn't leave feeling like you were about to explode.

Up to this point, Sparkles and I were had genuinely enjoyed our time at Beautique. It was a fun theme restaurant, where the theme is sugar daddy fakery; an over-the-top cliche of style over substance. Then the manager (or at least someone I assume was the manager) came up to me and broke one of the cardinal rules of being a business. Don't be an asshole to your customers. See, this whole time, I had taken Beautique to have been a gilded lily. I had assumed that it was in on the joke, a winking participant in the gag of excessive excess. That's why the average food and mediocre service was acceptable.

But no. The escort in the Prada gown confused herself with the socialite. Beautique had been taking itself seriously the whole time. As though dressing up as an admiral meant that one could automatically command an aircraft carrier, Beautique thought by putting on the uniform of a classy restaurant, that it somehow actually became one. That seriousness became apparent on my walk upstairs to the street when that manager sternly insisted that I delete all of the photos I'd taken of my meal.