Tuesday at Bernie’s; Sasabune lead in; Fall round-up

Le Bernardin, Tuesday, January 8^th, 9:30 p.m.

Of course Chef Eric Ripert's reputation preceeds him. Yes, it is acknowledged that Le Bernardin is one of a select few top rated New York City restaurants. In New York, in most major cities, and perhaps just about anywhere, one is able to get a great meal, approaching the quality of a three star Michelin restaurant. True, you may not get the five Mobile gas cans or the Home and Country stamp of approval, but great meals are available. I had one of the best meals in St. Thomas this post-Christmas season. This dinner wasn't at any of the forty an entree ersatz gourmet places scattered throughout the island that cater to the tourist trade, it was held in the home of the owner of Bill's Texas BBQ. Bill can really cook and I had a wonderful spread consisting of collard greens cooked in ham hocks, rice, black eyed peas, corn bread, and bar-b-cued chicken. The barbeque sauce was exquisite, a forward palate-consuming hot that gave way after several minutes to a subtle, persistent sweetness. On his porch, I treated myself to a few Grey Goose and tonics and looked out at the harbor and beyond to St. Croix. The sun set on the beautiful scene.

But this isn't about home cooking, it isn't about great meals, it is about perfection. Ripert's meal was stellar, absolutely the best meal of my adult life.

The night before, at Sasabune (401 E 73rd St), I was promised excellent omakase. It wasn't until Tuesday until my friend delivered, picking up the check on the Chef's Tasting Menu at Bernie's. No, the night before, I was the subject of a prolonged torture, featuring the combined efforts of the chef and my friend's girlfriend. It was a numbing repetition of perfectly fresh fish and cell phone interruptions. I will admit to a near priggishness when it comes to etiquette. But I don't enforce my policies, and as such my rules become mere pronouncements to the, if you will, stolid air, hollow with reverberations against emptiness. To wit, drink less before dinner, stay off the fucking cell phone (text if you must), focus up and pay attention, and please, for the love of all that is still left holy in this world, stop drawing attention to yourself. Yelling above the din, in other words, is not recommended. And cigarette addictions are passe. You just don't need a cig that badly--really, you don't. At least at Sasabune, they don't stop coursing you when you get up for a cigarette. Otherwise, I would have been really pissed to sit through that big bunch of bullshit.

The basic issue was for me not so much the company, which I actually quite enjoyed, but the prep executed on the food. Citrus vinaigrettes and soy marinades predominated. No matter how much I enjoyed the duo of cod cheek and ground cod shoulder, everything looked and tasted the same. I was desperate for a cute little squirt of jalapeno emulsion, reduction, or cream as I might experience at another neighborhood omakase joint. The Upper East may kind of suck, overall, for being able to differentiate great Italian fare from average, for a dearth of affordable fine dining establishments, or great third world ethnic fare, but it does provide a couple of good omakase joints. Seki dwarfs Sasabune in terms of creativity and variety of presentations, and until a much later hour. At 8 o'clock I was bored to near desperation by a monochromatic series of color and textures. So much white, off white, bone white, light brown, tan, etc... so much soy, so much citrus. Not all bad, mind you, and all of it quite fresh, so very fresh.

The money shot was, of course, the crab roll. Great. It's like the bad sex that never ends--thank god it's over, and okay, the orgasm wasn't that bad (indeed, it was good), it just came after what seemed like two hours of nothingness. A restaurant that can reduce the potential excitement of a platter of fresh white albacore to an exercise in banality is one that will keep its one Bruni star for lack of trying.

Flash back to earlier in the day. I was in the city for a meeting about website maintenance, with a great client, and then for a Tuesday dinner. A reservation had been made at Sasabune, a surprise omakase for Monday night. But I still had my obligation to provide a Tuesday 9:30 p.m. reservation. Thus far, I've gone for a mix of foodie classics and modern fare, e.g. Frank's near the meat market (glory days have faded completely), more promisingly wd~50 (my persistent favorite), or Spigolo. Spigolo, I liked--I like solid two star Italian fare that doesn't stray too far from the idiom and doesn't make me sick. Spigolo's front of house staff and their sous chefs deliver the goods, with an extensive (if not a little expensive) Italian wine list.

I say to the famous lady, "I'd like to eat where the chef's on the line. Like, owner/operator."

"Brenda" rattles off a few choices, stuff I dutifully take down in the notebook. Something in my manner must have clued her in. There was a challenge, a gauntlet had been thrown, I had a real dinner to provide for a food initiate. She says, "Oh, Eric just got back to down. He just called me to give me his cell phone number."

I was reviewing web site details with one of Brenda's employees just five minutes earlier when Eric Ripert called to give her his new cell phone number, and to say he was back in town. And I missed it. First, Brenda can't find Eric's number. She's written it on a piece of paper that's disappeared, and she wants to call him back to get me the reservation. I wish it were all part of the game, where she then gets to call Le Bernardin and get his cell phone number, as an exercise in or a play on New York City restaurant power. But I think she just misplaced the number. She calls the restaurant, and then, "Hello, Eric, this is Brenda. My friend would like to get a reservation tomorrow night. He wants to eat where a chef's in the kitchen, isn't that sweet? Well, he'd like to eat at, what time? Tomorrow night at 9:30."

So, immediately, almost unbelievably, it's set. I have a reservation at Le Bernardin and Brenda just said my name into Eric Ripert's cell phone. Life is at that moment is bursting with potential, exploding with excitement. And I scored a short-notice reservation at a four star restaurant, typical wait two months.

Words are in inadequate to describe the total perfection of my experience at Le Bernardin. It was a relatively affordable meal of chef's tasting menu with wine pairing.