TABLES FOR TWO
Frenchette
241 West Broadway (212-334-3883)
If you can’t get a reservation at French-
ette, in Tribeca—and you probably
can’t—you’re welcome to try your luck
as a walk-in. But “walking in” here might
be better described as “waiting in line.”
On a recent Wednesday, before the
restaurant had even opened, a couple of
dozen people were already snaking down
the block. A group of German tourists
didn’t seem to know quite why they had
queued up, but were happy to be there.
Two carefully groomed young women
toting toddlers pushed their way to the
front, insisting that they were just check-
ing on the high chairs they had called
about earlier. By five-thirty, the tots were
bouncing on a leather banquette, red-
faced and shrieking.
It’s not clear why anyone would bring
children to Frenchette, or why anyone
would work so hard to have dinner at
five-thirty. The restaurant, which opened
in April, is exceptionally glamorous, per-
fect for mid-century “Mad Men” Martini
cosplay and for people-watching—on
another night, I saw an elderly woman in
a pink pillbox hat and actual rose-colored
glasses. The chefs, Riad Nasr and Lee
Hanson, are impressively pedigreed—
they cooked together at the Keith Mc-
Nally restaurants Balthazar, Pastis, and
Minetta Tavern. Natural wines—partic-ularly fizzy pétillants naturels, or “pét-
nats”—are having a moment, and French-
ette has seized it. But doth the froth
machine froth too much? Do we need
another self-consciously luxurious bras-
serie, in a city so full of them?
Thanks to a boon of early press and
virulent social media, certain dishes at
Frenchette became status symbols almost
overnight. Much has been made, espe-
cially, of the brouillade with escargot, a
plate of vigorously scrambled eggs topped
with buttered snails. The texture of the
eggs, I’d read, was like that of polenta. My
question both before and after eating
them was: why? Duck frites, on the other
hand, was more deserving of reverence,
the duck as gloriously meaty as beef, with
the added excitement of crispy, fatty skin
and star anise. But N.B.: in what feels like
a sadistic and surrealist twist, the knife
that comes with the duck is a bit of a
safety hazard, bizarrely designed so that
the straight side of the blade, rather than
the curved edge, is the sharp one. Finger
pads beware. You can get away with a fork
on the rotisserie lobster, bathed in a lus-
cious curry beurre fondue, and with a
butter knife on the much humbler, ropy
but tender bavette (the French term for
flap steak), finished with anchovy butter
and herbs. I might go back and have that
at the bar one night, around eight o’clock,
if I thought there was any chance of
claiming a stool. (Entrées $21-$103.)
—Hannah GoldfieldFßD & DRINK
El Kallejón
209 E. 117th St., at Third Ave. (646-649-4795)
On a recent Sunday afternoon, a young man
in a yellow-striped tracksuit was ambling to-
ward Third Avenue, in East Harlem, when a
storefront tucked between a heating-and-
plumbing-supply shop and a Mexican restau-
rant caught his attention. Maybe it was the
music—fast-paced norteño rhythms followed
by Argentinean ska iltered through the open
doorway. Perhaps it was the décor—framed
black-and-white pictures, cheeky signs urging
patrons to drink more, a leopard mask ixed in
a rictus grin. Or maybe it was simply the prom-
ise of tequila, mezcal, and even sotol, a smooth
spirit from Chihuahua that is distilled from
the juice of a spiny plant called the desert
spoon and is rather diicult to ind in New
York. Inside the warmly lit bar, a clutch of
couples were meeting to ring out the weekend.
Another group of young folks discussed recent
visits to Mexico around a wooden table. “He’s
a charro, basically like a Mexican cowboy,” a
woman said of an acquaintance, as she ladled
guacamole, crab, and shrimp from a long dish.
“He took us to an event where they had to lasso
the front feet of a bull!” A waiter brought a
Maria Sabina, a steaming latbread pizza with
goat cheese, herbs, and wild mushrooms. A
jazz drummer inished of a plate of autas de
pensamientos, made with pork brains and
roasted chili. “I don’t know what I just ate,” he
muttered. “But that was delicious.” Outside,
the man in the tracksuit continued to peer in.
Was it any good? he seemed to be asking. “It’s
excellent,” a patron uttered, stumbling out.
“Fantástico.”—Nicolas Niarchos1
BAR TABPHOTOGRAPH BY FRANCES F. DENNY FOR THE NEW YORKER; ILLUSTRATION BY JOOST SWARTE