THENEWYORKER, APRIL 18, 2022 9PHOTOGRAPH BY MOLLY MATALON FOR THE NEW YORKER; ILLUSTRATION BY JOOST SWARTE
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TABLESFORTWOThe Commerce Inn
50 Commerce St.The other night at the Commerce Inn,
a diner squinted at his phone and com-
plained, “I have no service in here. Liter-
ally no bars.” On the one hand, this felt
apt: the self-described “Shaker-inspired
Early American tavern and cookery,” on a
tucked-away corner in the West Village,
adheres quite faithfully to its theme. On
the other hand, the situation illustrated
the tension inherent in opening an Early
American restaurant two decades into
the new millennium: How does one pull
it off without tipping into Epcot terri-
tory? Sturbridge Village, but make it chic.
You could argue that the Zeitgeist is
ripe for this aesthetic, or, indeed, that the
Commerce Inn, which opened in De-
cember, is helping drive the Zeitgeist. It’s
the fifth restaurant from Jody Williams
and Rita Sodi, the married chefs and
proven tastemakers behind neighbor-
hood mainstays including Via Carota
and Buvette. Shaker furniture—highly
functional, beautiful without ornamen-
tation—has been having a long moment.
A source in Los Angeles has reported
sightings of young women wearing, ap-parently without irony, bonnets. Only
after I arrived at the Commerce Inn did
I realize that I was carrying a tote bag
patterned like a quilt Betsy Ross might
have stitched, and then my date showed
off her brand-new shoes: chunky-heeled
loafers that wouldn’t have looked out of
place on a Pilgrim. From our perch on
a spindle-backed bench, we could see a
broad-brimmed felt hat hanging from
a line of pegs (a Shaker signature); my
friend was certain that it was a prop, as
carefully chosen as the menu’s mixed-
case antique typefaces, until a man put
it on as he got up to leave.
Does it follow that rarebit will be all
the rage? What about jugged rabbit? I
ordered both, after slinging my tote onto
a high peg, where it made sustained, if
gentle, contact with my hair all night.
Though rarebit may have once been
rabbit, linguistically—there’s evidence
that the British standard was originally
named after the animal, for reasons un-
clear—there’s nothing leporine about
the dish. Here it’s a thick, soft slab of
fermented porridge bread spread with
a thick, soft mixture of melted Ched-
dar, dark ale, and dried mustard, scored
and splashed with Worcestershire, more
comforting for its mono-texture.
The jugged rabbit—among the spe-
cials scrawled onto hanging chalkboard
menus, which are a bit hard to read in
eighteenth-century lighting—featured
the real thing, an interpretation of ar-
chival recipes that require marinating a
whole animal in a jug that is placed in
a pan of boiling water. A leg had beensteeped in mulled wine, then confited
with shallots, garlic, thyme, black pep-
per, juniper, and allspice before it was
slow-cooked in a Dutch oven and
served with parsnips and prunes, just the
ticket for a brisk almost spring evening.
Roasted bone marrow sent me back
to a more recent era, fifteen or so years
ago, when bartenders wore handlebar
mustaches and suspenders. There were
moments during my meals at Com-
merce—which, to be fair, was ten years
in the making—that felt a little dated as
opposed to historical, let alone timeless.
Still, the luscious marrow was in such
spectacular conversation with the crispy
mushrooms heaped atop it that I saw stars.
I loved the pickled oysters, too, at once
creamy and piquant, paired with a spiced-
rye clarified milk punch. I was charmed
by the spoon bread, a cornmeal pudding
believed to have Native American roots,
souffle-like and scooped tableside from
a ceramic pie plate; by the tender, shaggy
slices of salt beef piled with simply dressed
shredded beets and red cabbage; and, es-
pecially, by the leeks draped in a doily of
horseradish cream and pickled shallots.
A slice of warm ginger cake for des-
sert—pitch dark, dense, sticky-edged,
charged with spice, and dolloped with
unsweetened fresh cream—drove home
that the way to pull off a place like this
is to have the culinary chops and the
playful curiosity of Williams and Sodi.
I’ll follow them down any rabbit—or
rarebit—hole they’re called to explore.
(Dishes around $12-$42.)
—Hannah Goldfield