FireBird navigates the frozen tundra of the Theater District

“There is no such thing as Russian food,” says FireBird executive chef Paul Joseph. And while there are entire neighborhoods in Brooklyn that would take jingoistic offense at such a suggestion, over the course of a meal at FireBird (365 W. 46th St.; firebirdrestaurant.com), this starts to make a sort of existential sense. There is no Russian food; everything is Russian food. There is no Matrix; we are so deep within the Matrix we can no longer see it.

Or, more plainly, there is no Russian food in the same way there is no American food, and to write a menu of such would by necessity include dishes that are actually Southern and Midwestern, or of Italian or Hungarian origin. With a few exceptions, the foods we love are sloppily borrowed from other traditions, while the ones we can claim to have originated are fiercely regionalized (try putting a hot dog on that menu and just wait for the New Yorkers and the Chicagoans to start the next civil war).

But while our culinary history is one of the poor, the tired, the huddled masses bringing their mom’s recipes west to be misinterpreted for the next three or four generations, the Russians did this cultural appropriation dance with style. OK, style and a hearty dose of the old iron fist: When they weren’t copying the grand style of the French, the tsars were taking an interest in the cuisine of their neighbors by invading and forcing some poor serf to keep cooking it for them.

Style is where FireBird excels. If you’ve ever walked the side streets west of Times Square and lamented the number of beautiful old townhouses turned rather unceremoniously into restaurants, FireBird will set those doubts to rest permanently. With grand, curtained doorways and plush, padded banquettes providing an air of opulent coziness even when empty tables outnumber the occupied, there is no way the restaurant could exist anywhere else. It is a warren of these rooms, each encrusted with ancient daguerreotypes of men in fur coats, paintings of wintry street scenes, sepia-faded books and glass-enclosed suits of clothing, culminating in a parlor stuffed with settees situated around a fireplace under a grand crystal chandelier, marble busts looming.

The menu is similarly lavishly appointed, with less clear results. Succumbing to trend, every ingredient in every dish is listed along with its provenance, whether local from the Hudson Valley, as the wild boar, or Armenian, as the lamb. While it makes for interesting reading, it is only occasionally useful. Do we need to be told what a kulebiaka is (it’s a thrillingly Old World dish of puff pastry enclosing salmon, mushrooms and rice)? Absolutely. Do we gain anything from the knowledge that the chicken Kiev comes with a rocambole garlic sauce, which, it can only be presumed, was the demi-glace-ish pool in the bottom of the unwieldy bowl in which the cutlet is balanced? Not particularly.

The dishes that sing best are those left in their natural state. The menu begins with a page of caviars served with blini and “traditional accompaniments,” and if budget allows, they are a necessity, along with any selection from the two-page spread of the vodka list. There are a number of salads that illustrate the European fascination with mayonnaise; the best of these is the Olivier, which combines cubed carrots, cornichons, kielbasa and potatoes to bizarrely tasty effect. It’s served on top of a thin black bread toast and topped with a beautifully poached quail egg, and it tastes of hardship and luxury all at once, like it originated in an isolated palace on the frozen steppes.
While there may not be any such thing as Russian food, there is a Russian attitude: oversized, gilt-edged, slightly out of touch, proud. Too many restaurants in New York manage only to capture a few of these contradictory impulses; by these standards, FireBird is the most Russian restaurant in New York.

Photo Courtesy of Alissa Fleck

By Alissa Fleck

Country Brunchin’ at the Nitehawk Cinema in Williamsburg is easily one of the most enjoyable things I’ve ever done in the City. It’s also just the latest variation on the Brooklyn theater/restaurant’s weekend brunch series, celebrating the “sweet sweet South and all its goodness.”

This event is 100% ideal for people whose attention spans are best suited to imbibing multiple forms of overlapping entertainment with little-to-no lull in the action. The excitement begins as soon as audience members file into the cozy dinner theater, where a live band mingles relevant tunes with casual small talk.

This past weekend, the Gentleman Callers, a “60s-era country classics” band, set the mood, rocking out with mariachi tunes against a backdrop of grindhouse Western clips. When the band was finished, the house dimmed the lights, and served up delicious Southern fare (in addition to the usual menu) while Smokey and the Bandit played on the big screen.

Each brunch features a different Southern-style special, whipped up just for the occasion. This weekend it was mouthwatering chicken-fried steak and, fittingly, a can of Coors Light. The menu also boasts unique concessions, extravagant desserts and several vegetarian options.

One of the most incredible things about Country Brunchin’ was how smoothly the shindig went down. When a live band meets food served in the dark, you might expect hiccups, or at least a drunken Coors Light-fueled ruckus, but everything went off without a hitch, and each aspect was incredible. The Gentleman Callers even managed to work in the film’s theme song, performed impromptu alongside an audience member celebrating one heck of a birthday party at the venue. Nitehawk has this event down from Coors to curtain, and I will definitely be back next month.

Country Brunchin’ takes place the first weekend of every month for $16. Each weekend features a different “high octane, emotionally moving, six shootin’, car chasin’, down and dirty [movie] set below the Mason Dixon line,” with a unique and appropriate culinary special.

By Shani R. Friedman

Many fried chicken devotees believe that you have to travel south of the Mason-Dixon Line or north to Harlem to have your bird cooked as God intended. Chef Charles Gabriel, of Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken fame, brings a little of that Southern flair to Midtown’s Aretsky’s Patroon with his latest creation. On Friday nights for a fixed $25, diners feast on three pieces of chicken, two sides and dessert, with live jazz accompaniment.

Get your soul food fix at Patroon Friday nights, with live jazz accompaniment.

I’d postponed eating there until my friend was able to come, so by the time we finally met up, I was practically drooling. She, with a Southern family, considers herself a soul food connoisseur with strong opinions on how it should be cooked. Fortunately for us, judging by the unobtrusiveness of the restaurant’s Gibson Room, the emphasis is clearly on the food. Even the musical interludes from the piano player and bassist receded into the background.

I deliberated over the sides because, really, how can you choose between macaroni and cheese, candied yams, black-eyed peas and collard greens? I went healthy with the peas but then killed the whole notion by ordering the macaroni and cheese. My friend opted for the greens and yams.

The chicken was moist, juicy and meaty, and the pieces were well sized. But onto the true test: the skin. Instead of being heavily breaded, it was thin and crispy with a little spice. Following my tablemate’s lead, I tried the chicken with hot sauce, which was a novel way for me to eat it. I liked it that way, but the bird had more than enough seasoning for my tastes without the extra kick. Though a tough critic, my friend gave the signature dish strong marks. She was less won over by the sides, saying the kitchen should use more butter for the yams and add cinnamon and nutmeg. She also wanted more heat in the greens. The macaroni was light on cheese, which worked for me because we were eating such heavy foods. I stuffed myself on that and the peas so that I could have some leftover chicken and cornbread to savor at home.

Dessert was banana pudding. It was small and light after a big meal, which was definitely a good idea. But for me, a Southern dinner ends with peach cobbler, so hopefully the menu will have at least two items featured for summer.

Now that I have tasted the legendary Charles Gabriel chicken, I must head uptown to Harlem. Life is too short for just a one-night-a-week indulgence.

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Aretsky’s Patroon
160 E. 46th St.
Between Lexington and Third avenues
212-883-7373
Fried chicken dinner: $25