BlackBook Magazine

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.

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. 

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.

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. 

Lower East Siders, you can go home again.

By Ethan Wolff

Okay, obviously the L.E.S. jumped the shark long ago. But two kebab dudes on Rivington? I have to pass through a street-meat miasma just to get to my door? And these guys are bookending Thor. You’d think one of the black-clad fauxhawked doormen there would be running them off the sidewalk. Can souvenir t-shirt and balloon venders be far behind? Sigh. I miss the old, half-abandoned, pre-Li-Lo L.E.S. Which is maybe why stumbling into Café Katja felt so much like coming home.

Katja is the anti-Thor. They’re serving Austrian food, but taking the homey angle. Co-owner Erwin Schrottner comes from an Austrian farm and that goes a long way toward explaining the vibe. The place borrows its name from one of his daughters. The materials inside are clean: exposed brick and glass fixtures, maroon banquettes, a bouquet of sunflowers. Despite the full liquor license, a low-key familiarity justifies the café in the name.

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.

A night in Tunisia on the L.E.S.

By Ethan Wolff

My buddy J. has been a bad-luck charm for restaurants. Lately I’ve taken him out for E.Vill sushi, W.Vill Italian, and Harlem Latino, and all of them have been dogs. Last week I met him on the L.E.S. He had a sixer of Brooklyn and a newly purchased Statue of Liberty bottle opener. Maybe the latter turned our luck. In any case, BYOB plus Elyssa Dido equaled a great night out.

Theme-restaurant anxiety aside, we're feeling all warm and sunny.

By Ethan Wolff

Theme restaurant. I cringe just thinking about it. If you can’t plate grub without hiding behind floating Martian heads and autographed guitars, maybe you should just stick to operating gift shops. This was the anxiety I carried to Park Avenue Summer, which come September will be known as Park Avenue Autumn. Yes, the Quality Meats peeps who have revamped the Park Avenue Café space have taken on the Sisyphean task of reinventing and re-launching a restaurant every three months, with a hardcore adherence to the season in play. New menus. New napkins. New matchboxes. New wall panels. Servers trading in their summery lemon-yellow shirts and white jeans for earthier tones. Banquette cushions flipping over from their current buttery colors to their auburn backsides. And before you know it, Park Avenue Winter is here.