The Upper West Side’s Left Bank

Written by Andrey Slivka on . Posted in Breaking News, Posts.



Water World
What
if one of the most stylish restaurants in Paris were an elaborate simulacrum
of a generically American eatery?



Maybe a Left Bank approximation
of a Memphis barbecue place, complete with pulled pork sandwiches and Dixie
beer on tap. Also plywood-paneled walls cluttered with phony VFW banners, George
Wallace posters, Vols pennants, scuffed-up license plates, photographs salvaged
from estate auctions of possum-country sheriffs, crewcutted local high school
hoops stars, beauty pageant queens, rib-gobbling chubby guys pushing back at
eating contests and touring bluesmen. Also a soundtrack comprising nothing but
jump-blues and floral-bosomed gospel belters. And also the French waitstaff’s
smeared with blackface, wears padding underneath its Sonia Rykiel-designed barbecue-waiters’
smocks in approximation of middle-American heft and hangs out by the bar, smoking
Kools and trying to get their French mouths around their imitative waitstaff
spiels, practicing their down-home shuffles and American dialects in insulting
mimicry of the imperious old men at that great Memphis barbecue institution
the Rendezvous–Nawwww suh, in Memphus, we eats ah poke drah, wif the
sauce on’a sahd.
.. An American would smirk at the place.


The French don’t tend
to perpetrate such cultural misdemeanors (for objectionableness on that level
you’d have to visit Eastern Europe). But Americans certainly do. And what’s
a restaurant like Balthazar but a real-life analogy to that theoretical Memphis-Parisian
barbecue place? I love Balthazar–but I’m an American, and a vulgar
one. I’d love to hear what a smart French person had to say about Balthazar;
love to see how he responded to that wonderfully luxurious piece of fin-de-siecle
Parisian bistro/brasserie trompe l’oeil that dominates the corner
of Crosby and Spring Sts., so exhilaratingly complete in its baffling of reality
that even the paint looks as if it’s been smoke-stained from a million
cigarettes over the course of God knows how many governments. (It’s as
if they passed a blowtorch over every inch of the paint job, in the same way
a food designer chars the top of a creme brulee.)


Up here in Morningside Heights,
where I’ve got occasion to visit once in a while, I’m sitting in a
newish restaurant called Le Monde–its owned by the same people who run
downtown’s good, cheap French Roast eateries, as well as L’Express–and
orienting myself. Le Monde’s a sub-Balthazarian restaurant. It’s an
imitation of an imitation, and one the conception of which hasn’t been
informed by Keith McNally’s bankroll. There’s a huge brasserie-style
dining room; a pastry counter in the middle of the room and a bit off to your
right when you walk through the door; a high ceiling; burgundy banquettes; vast
expanses of square footage, with fin-de-siecle appointments, like French advertising
placards, framed and tacked up on the walls.


We’re way uptown
here, in a neighborhood that caters to college students and corporate beginners.
Anna Wintour’s got nothing to do with this. And so Le Monde’s
gone halfway when it comes to the pastiche glamour. The floor’s brown contemporary
tile, and the sweet college-girl waitresses are as yet unacquainted with the
seamless professionalism of a Parisian waitress (or for that matter of a waiter
or waitress at Balthazar). Ours, for example, cheerfully lays the dessert card
on us right after the busboy’s cleared our appetizer plates. A copy of
a copy.


Meanwhile, our dinner there
was an expression of midweek, late-summer lassitude. Man–this surreal gray
season called September that’s neither here nor there, but that’s
suspended between life and death. The trees in Riverside Park bow over the paths
with a tremendous weariness, as if they’re looking to get on with it already–they
just want to pass. So a restaurant with a halfway-worked-through identity (even
the name’s vague) in a neighborhood north of 110th St. that neither has
yet been thoroughly colonized by moneyed refugees from the south, nor remains
quite the fun, gross student slum and old smoke’s shot-and-a-beer paradise
that it was 10 years ago. A fine, large dark-wooded bar on the far side of the
vast room; a darkling plain of tables lit by votive candles so that you’re
looking into indigo distances speckled with flames that gutter from the wet,
rain-scented air drifting in through the thrown-open front doors. Since the
place is so spacious, people are always moving across it. Humans passing through
time: There’s the romantic, forlorn atmosphere of Grand Central Station
at the straggling end of a wet, autumn day. Rooms branch off in dark directions
from the corners back here where we’re sitting–holding, I guess, secret
banquettes and places where things would happen, if in fact this were the sort
of place in which hopeless assignations, minor tragedies, things in general,
happened, instead of a serviceable restaurant for college kids and their visiting
parents. Elements from the Parisian bistro pastiche decor insinuate themselves
through this rosy-dark murk: French signs for tonics and juices, half-seen on
walls on the other side of the room; the glass pastry counter aglow like a cruise
liner against a black sea; framed covers of old French newspapers…


The food’s not bad
for the prices they’re charging: student-neighborhood prices here, with
all of the entrees under 20 dollars, and many in the low-to-mid teens. We eat
an underflavored, though huge, piece of beef slathered in a pepper sauce the
color of liver and more creamy than peppery. Three silly molded mashed-potato
bulbs accompany the steak–three oblong, more-or-less football-shaped sculptures
in starch. A starter steak, for a starter neighborhood in which freshmen squire
girls for their first dinners out. Our six escargot in parsley butter–an
appetizer–were baked to the point where the tiny shards of parsley that
turned the melted butter a deep green, like a river-water green, had browned–caramelized–around
the edges of the six concave snail cups the escargot were served in. The snails
themselves were shrunken and desiccated from the heat, and tasted less like
fresh seafood than like a bar snack, like popcorn shrimp–bits of protein
comprehensible only as vehicles to which garlic and salt can adhere.


A potato-and-goat-cheese
cake was more reasonable. It consisted of chunks of potato, each about the size
of your thumbnail and stuck together to form a squat cylinder a little bigger
than a hockey puck, and topped with a layer of white cheese with the consistency
of that half-dried paint you find on the underside of a paint-can lid. But the
cheese crumbled into appealing, moist crumbs at the fork’s pressure, and
it tasted fine: its creaminess buffered the potatoes’ faint vinegar flavor.


Our cod entree was lousy
with chives, just as that little cake was. But that was fine, because a chunk
of cod’s generally an elemental, fulsomely alabaster hunk of protein–so
wide-grained that looking at it can turn you off–and it needs a little
estheticizing, a bit of prettying up around the edges, before you want to eat
it. All stringy and vast, this chunk of cod sat atop a mound of olive mashed
potatoes that could have used some of those snails’ garlic–or maybe
more salted butter. There was just too much heavy, white, underflavored food
on that plate, despite the inconclusive puddle of tomato coulis that surrounded
the potatoes.


Like other restaurants in
places that exist to one extent or another out of the flow of New York sophistication–and
the Upper West Side is one of those places–Le Monde relies a bit on gimmicks.
There is, for example, a long list naming the sorts of foreign beers served
in goblets. Midlevel restaurants spring beer lists like this one on you when
they want to distract you, soften you up some–after all, it’s easier
to create a beer list than a really good cod dish. There’s also a nice,
large wine list with a whole bunch of bottles in the mid 20s and low 30s.


And the whole retro-bistro
thing is a gimmick, too. It’s a facade that shows its seams. Eating at
Le Monde is like seeing the sweat on a stage actor’s brow; there isn’t
the sophistication, the money, the perfection, to make the ambience unforced
and seamless. Actually, I’m surprised they bothered with the frippery,
given that the same ownership’s French Roast restaurants are such straightahead
models of quality at their price level.


But I’m still glad
Le Monde is there. It’s possible that it’s the best restaurant on
the upper end of the Upper West Side (excepting of course the Terrace, which
you don’t just walk into). That’s a respectable, useful thing to be,
and no one should think anything different.


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