26 THENEWYORKER, AUGUST 26, 2019
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TABLESFORTWO
PHOTOGRAPH BY AMANDA HAKAN FOR THE NEW YORKER; ILLUSTRATION BY JOOST SWARTE
L’Accolade
302 Bleecker St.
At L’Accolade, a new French restaurant
and wine bar in the West Village that
focusses on natural wines from small pro-
ducers, laissez-faire service meets pas-
sionate oenophilia. The level of freaking
out about wine was high during a recent
happy hour, when a man who was already
a regular (L’Accolade opened in June)
sampled a white and declared, “If I was
blinding this I’d be screaming Muscat.”
The ponytailed bartender, who had
poured himself a taste, too, said, “It is, in
a way.” What that might mean is anyone’s
guess (there was no Muscat on the list),
but they seemed to be having a great time.
Dreamy French pop seeped through
the speakers while two other men intently
analyzed a bottle of sparkling Le Petit
Beaufort (“A hundred per cent Char-
donnay,” one of them said, in awe) and a
couple of snacks. These delightful little
dishes, available for eight dollars each
between 4 and 7 p.m., are artful appetizers
posing as drinking food. They include
a gutsy melon composition—pickled
shaved cucumber, tiny Mexican cucum-
ber, yellow watermelon, honeydew, and
cantaloupe assertively spiced with cumin
seed, coriander, and black pepper—all
brought together by a pool of tangy but-
termilk cream. Fried spheres of cod and
potato, intriguingly named Brandade
Dauphine, sit atop a piquillo-pepper
purée, showered with Parmesan. And, if
gougères weren’t decadent enough, the
chefs, Ben Traver and Nate Kuester, have
fixed that by filling cheese puffs nearly
the size of tennis balls with molten aged
Cheddar infused with smoked jalapeño—
the puffs won’t win any beauty contests,
but it’s what’s inside that counts.
One evening, two women waiting for
friends to arrive sought instructions from
the bartender, who doubled as the host:
“Should we wait at the bar?” “You can do
whatever you want,” he said with a smile,
gesturing wide around the room, which
was dotted with hanging succulents,
wine bottles, and sophisticated young
grownups. There’s a similar generous
flexibility to the dinner menu, offered à
la carte or in two- or three-course sets.
But the ambitious food that Traver (who
worked at the Modern and at Café Bou-
lud) and Kuester (who has cooked at
Aquavit) are making belies L’Accolade’s
nonchalant atmosphere.
That evening, the barbecued carrot,
among the small plates, was too intrigu-
ing to pass up; listed with mustard, sour
cherries, and country ham, like a Ken-
tucky picnic, it ended up seeming like
little more than carrots with barbecue
sauce. The Lettuce and Lentils was half a
head of gem and radish curls tinged with
a sweet bacon-infused sherry dressing.The gooey Parisienne Gnocchi, studded
with thick rounds of red hot chili pep-
pers, was pleasingly confusing. Fluke,
often the least favorite fish in a sushi
combo, was supremely soft in a crudo,
and confoundingly luxurious when
mixed with tart white strawberries and
quinoa. A jar of textbook duck rillette,
with an improvised topping of tart-sweet
plums stewed with black vinegar, was
polished off completely, scooped up with
über-sesame cracker shards.
As the night went on, the music
shifted to early-eighties Grandmaster
Flash, a formidable cheese plate was de-
molished, and there was no sign of the
main course. Eventually, the heretofore
gregarious waiter appeared, abashed, with
an explanation: “I’m sorry, the plate of
chicken fell on the floor. They have to
make a new one.” More wine was ordered.
The entrées, when they finally arrived,
looked beautiful, but there were problems.
Thick slices of duck, a tad too magenta,
straddled an irresistible plank of fried
bread. Beef Flatiron, next to an appeal-
ingly sticky rice cake, was not medium
rare but raw. A silky slab of arctic char,
however, accompanied by sweet tomatoes
and steamed kohlrabi, had a nicely crisp
skin. And that chicken was worth waiting
for: wonderfully tender, in a summery sea
of corn-and-bean fricassée.
The waiter, back to his carefree self,
returned with a parting gift. “The two
glasses of wine I’m taking off the bill.
Due to the chicken story.” (Entrées
$22-$28.)
—Shauna Lyon