BlackBook Magazine

Luring us to Midtown with the promise of fresh meat.

By Ethan Wolff

Steak night in New York is all about excess. Spaces are cavernous. Prices are targeted toward masochists. Brusque service is part of the package. And some people dig it, no doubt. You made the long trip in to the city, you deserve to wave around your unlit cigar while bitching about the headaches of closing up the place on Amagansett for the season. That scene doesn’t do it for me, however. So it’s nice to know there’s an alternative. Gaucho Steak, an Argentinean upstart in Hell’s Kitchen, bucks the steakhouse cliches with intimate digs and a personal touch in the kitchen.

Nuevo Latino savant Alex Garcia, of Calle Ocho renown, is behind the cooking. Argentina is the focus, but Pan-Latin influences slip in, along with the odd left-field touch. The white sangria, for example, is flavored with coconut and plump lychees. The combo creates a subtle honeying effect and makes the drink almost impossible to put down. Chicharron is available, but with calamari filling in for pork rinds, reflecting Argentina’s Italian influences. The breading is crisp and not overdone, and the honey in the sauce steers tart instead of cloying. Sprouts, carrots, and cukes are mixed in, too, in a good-faith gesture that Gaucho Steak isn’t about to go all kamikaze on your arteries.

The menu isn’t huge, but it’s very well edited. For apps, empanadas are a big step up from nearby Mama’s. Golden, flaky, and surprisingly light crescents of dough pack around sweet corn, chicken, or a quadruple cheese blend. I was really into the oxtail version, thick in texture and earthy in taste. For entrées, vegetarians get a little love with wild mushroom paella. There’s also grilled chicken and pork, and a potato-crusted salmon dressed up with a mango-mustard sauce.

Of course, most folks are here for the meat.

The steak comes out sizzling on hotplates, the dark char in stark relief against a white bed of onions. The plates fill the room with that classic savory scent that even in my vegetarian days I could never resist. I ordered the skirt, a long strip of grass-fed Patagonic free-range beef. It had so much character that the accompanying chimichurri sauce seemed superfluous. A combo platter bookends the steak with short ribs and chorizo. The ribs are tender and topped with a smoky chipotle that carries the barest hint of orange. I loved the chorizo, too. It’s taut and flavorful and nothing like the greasy and garish chile-loaded Mexican version.

On the side, the char effect carries over with the cauliflower, which somehow stays moist through the heat. Medium-cut fries are laced with parsley and garlic and served with chipotle ketchup. My favorite was the mushrooms, a deft mix of varieties sautéed in garlic. Dessert circles back to the appetizers, with empanadas (filled with chocolate in this go-round) and flan (topped in the same guava sauce as on the chicken croquettes), plus plenty of dulce de leche. At lunch, sandwiches and salads take care of the worker bees, and a chorizo eggs Benedict highlights the new brunch menu.

From the outside, a red neon arch and rustic stone suggest nouveau Tenth Avenue. Inside, the aesthetic is Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia. And I mean that as a high compliment. Cowhide cushions, leather tablecloths, and iron fixtures are framed by charred-wood walls. When the lights go down, the white stucco walls foster a romantic mood. Pre-theater foursomes, Hell’s Kitchen yuples, North Chelsea boys, and even hip hop kids from the hood all seem equally at home. Come late night, theater hands fill the seats. With the grill firing on all cylinders and an upbeat Spanish soundtrack, who’s to miss a hangar full of suits and condescending waiters?

752 Tenth Ave. (51st and 52nd Sts.) 212-957-1727 Hell’s Kitchen