BlackBook Magazine

Fresh from Sona and Boule, David Myers sets up shop with a communal brasserie on Melrose.

By John Vorwald

Reason number 2 to like the French: They consider vegetables garnish. Reason number 1: They can make just about any food taste like butter. Liver. Oxtail. Bone marrow. Leave it to the Gauls, and they’ll make it dissolve in your mouth like it was God’s own cream. David Myers is definitely channeling that French superpower, as I discovered on a recent trip to L.A. Visiting my sister in Santa Monica, we made the trek up Wilshire to West Hollywood to hit up Comme Ça, Myers’s newest French brasserie.

The L.E.S. gets yet another destination playground.

By Ethan Wolff

When it comes to style, nobody beats the Italians. Flair, creativity, suavity—I found them all in long supply at L.E.S. newcomer Trē. To start, they’ve nailed the interior. The circa-1900 tenement brick is whitewashed, original ceiling beams exposed. Dangling bulbs cast flattering light. Coarse niches pried from the walls flicker with candlelight. A contemporary ceramic bust recalls Rome and updates it. The result is both romantic and rustic, thoroughly exorcising the vaguely-’70s-porn vibe of former tenant Pizzeria de Santo.

Adding to the (short) list of white things we actually like.

By Katherine Faw Morris

White has a bad rap. It’s the color of bad dancing, yodeling, printer paper. Yet there does exist a select list of enjoyable colorlessness: Snow. Polar bears. Wifebeaters. You get the drift. Add to this bunch Bar Blanc, a new French of bleached walls and banquettes in the the W.Vil. As my latest unguilty pleasure, Gossip Girl, has taught me, living off interest just gives you more time to party.

XOXO. Bring on the baby pig head terrine.

As an early April Fools' Day joke, bring all your lactose intolerant friends to this gorgonzola gridiron.

By Katherine Faw Morris

I do love an animal print. A gold glitter shoe. A hot pink faux fur. All together—even better. But often, ’tis a gift to be simple. Smith’s, a new G. Village upper American with a pronounced Italian accent, has already learned this lesson. Driving a path of maturity straight to the heart of what elegant, unfussy adulthood is all about—cheese.

Braving the L.E.S. for some lascivious French. Or so we thought.

By Ethan Wolff

Le Lupanar takes its name from French slang for “brothel”, but the new L.E.S. space isn’t exactly a Turkish cathouse. Lines are spare. There are no pillows or settees. “Brothel” is printed on the business cards, though there’s no smuttiness there either. Just clean design and an L-shaped corporate logo. The logo reappears on the black napkins, which look lifted from the Baltimore Ravens commissary. You get the feeling this place is thoughtful. They’re trying. A couple of weeks in, though, the disparities have yet to fully coalesce.

We heart duck hearts at this stylish Vietnamese offshoot of Bao 111.

By Ethan Wolff

I heart duck hearts. It just took B’un to enlighten me. This chic new Vietnamese hang has some adventurous stuff. There’s wild boar blood sausage, guinea hen, and duck bacon. Once I saw the duck hearts, though, I had to know. Pop the lid on the Le Creuset pot and the hearts are nestled together like so many little amphorae. There are twiggy things mixed in, too. Those would be the, um, duck tongues. A seven-spice brown gravy supports the organs, which taste just like regular duck, only richer. The texture pops on the hearts and gets downright squishy on the tongues. Presentation is lovely, as it is with everything here. A squared-off banana leaf holds a grilled lime. You squeeze the juice onto orange salt, which is tricked out with flakes of chili. The result is savory and citrusy and everything’s ducky. 

Mexican in the Meatpacking: Who you tryin' to get crazy with, esse?

By Katherine Faw Morris

My high school Spanish intuition tells me that “los dados” translates as “the dice,” preferably the red fuzzy kind that are meant for the rearview mirror of a 1986 Camaro. Not that I could spot any at Los Dados, a homey Mexican addition to Meatpacking’s après-shopping scene. Nor after a soothing dip in the margarita and tortilla chip ocean did I care. That whole name connoting meaning thing is way overrated.

Spinning the Bohemian Bourgeoisie slur in a positive direction.

By Ethan Wolff

I don’t have the personality that notices ice cubes. At home, once the freezer burn and the stray sesame seeds have been scraped off, that bourbon rocks is good to go. Not so with bobo owner Carlos Suarez. When I arrive he’s at the bar, nodding toward the perfect squares in a cocktail glass. The cubes are finally the way he wants them. This is a place where the details matter.

Eating healthy on the E.Vil—and actually liking it.

By Katherine Faw Morris

Eating healthy is not always fun. Lentils are the librarian to pizza’s punk rocker. But not feeling like a bloated grease elephant is super exciting, too, and if I have to eat my brussels sprouts I’d rather it be at Back Forty, the stylin’ new farmhouse shaping up Avenue B.

Batista-era Cuba aging gracefully on Avenue B.

By Ethan Wolff

Pork shoulder with dulce de leche. It just sounds wrong. A South American dessert in a mashup with the other white meat? I couldn’t stop eating it, though. The sauce feints sweet and then beelines to savory. In the background, chilies gradually rise to give a subtle kick. A little added cilantro, and you’ve found the meat’s perfect, if unexpected, complement. At Cantina, a hopping Nuevo Cuban spot on Avenue B, sleights like this abound.