They Tell Me It’s the Place to Be
by Jeff HarrisArticle Tools
The Place
310 W. 4th St, 212-924-2711
Price Range: $25-35
Going out to eat in this city of 10,000 restaurants is a daunting task. To pare down this number, we chase the buzz. New York, NYT, TONY, The L and countless email newsletters tell us what’s hot. The new, the hip, the fabulous, the “conceptual”, the Adam Tihany-designed. Most of these places, whether visited by Brangelina or A-Rod, will be gone in a year, forgotten, replaced by more Flavorpill-approved mediocrity. They want you to feel lucky eating their swordfish sorbet with hazelnut foam, push their $24 Icelandic spring water, and rush you out when your card clears.
You don’t have to eat this way. On a charming tree-lined stretch of West 4th lies a romantic rambling retreat with a silly name — The Place. Entering its second decade — there may not be a third if the landlord gets his wish — a rich patina has formed on the 200-year-old beamed ceiling, capping a spaced dressed in yellow and burgundy, flickering in candlelight, a Provençal auberge in the heart of the village.
Yeah, yeah, enough atmospherics; what about the food? Appetizers are the stars of the menu here, so my partner and I shared a few over a reasonably priced Malbec. Arugula Salad ($9), lightly dressed with shaved Parmesan and mustard seed vinaigrette, burst with farmers-market freshness. Likewise, the Roasted Tomato Risotto ($12) had that summer-tomato lusciousness, texturized with crunchy spears of asparagus. Diver Scallops ($14) were some of the best I’ve ever tasted. Fresh and meaty, they were seared like steak, still pink and quivering inside, their oceanic notes highlighted with blood orange vinaigrette. Skewers of spicy char-grilled Calamari and Shrimp ($12) were the lone fusion offering, but none the worse for lacking company. Meltingly tender, fiery hot, with a yielding black char, they were soothed by a wash of peanut broth. Better suited to a Thai beach than a French chateau, they worked as an interlude between the rich, acidic dishes of the rest of our meal.
Our only entrée, a seared Long Island Duck Breast ($21), made for a fitting savory finale. Gamey red slices of duck, adorned with crunchy slivers of fat, were paired with a tooth-aching sweet potato puree, like a carnivore’s dessert. A supremely unpretentious dessert-menu called out to us — especially the Homemade Pistachio Ice Cream with warm chocolate sauce and toasted pistachios ($9) — but our bodies wouldn’t allow it. After paying our personable server, the candlelight twinkling in our eyes, we basked in the comfortable space, neither rushed out nor impinged upon by other tables. In New York, that’s a rare luxury indeed.
310 W. 4th St, 212-924-2711
Price Range: $25-35
Going out to eat in this city of 10,000 restaurants is a daunting task. To pare down this number, we chase the buzz. New York, NYT, TONY, The L and countless email newsletters tell us what’s hot. The new, the hip, the fabulous, the “conceptual”, the Adam Tihany-designed. Most of these places, whether visited by Brangelina or A-Rod, will be gone in a year, forgotten, replaced by more Flavorpill-approved mediocrity. They want you to feel lucky eating their swordfish sorbet with hazelnut foam, push their $24 Icelandic spring water, and rush you out when your card clears.
You don’t have to eat this way. On a charming tree-lined stretch of West 4th lies a romantic rambling retreat with a silly name — The Place. Entering its second decade — there may not be a third if the landlord gets his wish — a rich patina has formed on the 200-year-old beamed ceiling, capping a spaced dressed in yellow and burgundy, flickering in candlelight, a Provençal auberge in the heart of the village.
Yeah, yeah, enough atmospherics; what about the food? Appetizers are the stars of the menu here, so my partner and I shared a few over a reasonably priced Malbec. Arugula Salad ($9), lightly dressed with shaved Parmesan and mustard seed vinaigrette, burst with farmers-market freshness. Likewise, the Roasted Tomato Risotto ($12) had that summer-tomato lusciousness, texturized with crunchy spears of asparagus. Diver Scallops ($14) were some of the best I’ve ever tasted. Fresh and meaty, they were seared like steak, still pink and quivering inside, their oceanic notes highlighted with blood orange vinaigrette. Skewers of spicy char-grilled Calamari and Shrimp ($12) were the lone fusion offering, but none the worse for lacking company. Meltingly tender, fiery hot, with a yielding black char, they were soothed by a wash of peanut broth. Better suited to a Thai beach than a French chateau, they worked as an interlude between the rich, acidic dishes of the rest of our meal.
Our only entrée, a seared Long Island Duck Breast ($21), made for a fitting savory finale. Gamey red slices of duck, adorned with crunchy slivers of fat, were paired with a tooth-aching sweet potato puree, like a carnivore’s dessert. A supremely unpretentious dessert-menu called out to us — especially the Homemade Pistachio Ice Cream with warm chocolate sauce and toasted pistachios ($9) — but our bodies wouldn’t allow it. After paying our personable server, the candlelight twinkling in our eyes, we basked in the comfortable space, neither rushed out nor impinged upon by other tables. In New York, that’s a rare luxury indeed.
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