1/17/2024 0 Comments Cobalt restaurant reviewsRobins is certainly not the first to marinate chicken in a Thai sauce, or cod in miso. Or how cocoa dust can make venison taste richer, but ignorance can be bliss. I’m not sure what the Algerian spices are that perfume his roast rack of lamb on an airy bed of couscous with dried figs, but they called to me. Unless someone is on one knee holding a ring box or pushing a blank check across the table, why be distracted? But frankly, not much will take anyone’s mind off his mango chili-dabbed crab cake slyly hiding out in a crispy fried-squash blossom. Over and over, as a tart sumac coating on grilled quail contrasts with a pumpkin risotto spiked by apple-smoked bacon, as tataki of bluefin tuna is set between the heat of cayenne-pepper oil and the zing of cucumber-ginger sorbet, as an untapped lightness is released in cured salmon with both chili and lime, Robins seduces all conversation to hover around his nearly twinkling plates. Instead, here’s a delicious reminder of how much fun it is to eat. More important, there is nothing cerebral about the experience. The tastes are not merely harmonious, they’re electrifying, like sequential fireworks. Since many chefs are unwitting slaves to their obsessions, one marvels at a sense of balance worthy of Cirque du Soleil when devouring a forkful of giant prawn swiped through mint-tinged mango and beets marinated in a ginger vinaigrette tempered by honey. And because Robins possesses such a spirited yet evenhanded gift for instilling dishes with sparks and tingles never to be found under merely one flag, yet exhibits such an enviable discipline at controlling each exotic passion so none ever spirals into indulgence, it would be lovely if he would finally hang around long enough to garner the praise and attention his easy-to-appreciate skills deserve. So vivacious and invigorating are Gary Robins’s flavors, so global his gleaning of them and distinct his intent, that his talent is as pronounced as a first blush. No particular demographic pie slice holds court-yet.īut someone does dominate the room. And thanks to its unglamorous address, there is a constantly shifting but saucy mix of Manhattanites. The seating is always a comfy banquette or slipper chair that sinks just low enough to adjust the room’s proportions to something less stentorian than you thought on first impression. Your welcome is so gracious you’ll swear they’ve confused you with the editor of Food & Wine. Obviously knowing something way before we did, they have operated with enough self-assurance to humble Tony Robbins. Yet, from the beginning, the Biltmore team opened jitter-free. And the chosen chef is one of the industry’s often pursued but most persistent runaway brides. Its crystal chandeliers are more discount Bowery lighting store than salvaged Biltmore Hotel (where the polished slabs came from). The darkly handsome bar-and much of its fervent crowd-has zip in common with the glory-that-was-Rome, veined-marble-walled dining room behind it. Nice try.) The entrance is up an ungainly concrete slab that looks like a loading dock. (One broker christened the area North Chelsea. It’s at one of those bleak no-other-reason-to-go-there locations. In fact, nothing about the Biltmore Room’s rapid ascent to perpetual-busy-signal reservation line appears to have been anticipated by its now-eager-to-be-regulars. Repeatedly, all return aglow with the same response, “I am so loving that!” Who knew such civility could be found in a part of town that doesn’t even rate a name? If you haven’t been here yet, you’ve no idea what a pleasure it is to lean over as someone at the next table is bellowing for an incoming caller to talk louder and graciously inform her (or him-we’re no better) that there is a place where one can not only effortlessly hear but scream to one’s oblivious heart’s content. All plushly tufted, nearly soundproof, resembling a prime set piece from some fixed fifties quiz show, this former coin booth stands ready and waiting for the profusion of calls that ring around the Biltmore Room that obviously just can’t wait. You’ve got to love a restaurant that has its own cell-phone booth. North Chelsea? The dark and handsome Biltmore Room.
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