Bobo in the West Village is a no-no
Checking in for dinner at Bobo feels like you're checking into a bed and breakfast - in the West Village. Reservationists answer the phone, "Bobo residence." Hosts greet from behind an antique desk. The only thing missing is the little bell on the counter.
Once you pass the hostess desk, you feel as if you've entered a European dinner party or a chic supper club with homespun charms. Chef Nicolas Cantrel's European bistro menu similarly follows suit: bouillabaisse, steak frites and tarte flambee.
Owner Carlos Suarez has also enlisted his cousin, designer Dolores Suarez, and Caroline Grant (Dekar) to decorate this two-story brownstone. The subterranean first floor is quaintly trimmed with brass candlesticks, an antique organ and books from Carlos' personal collection.
I suggest you first make a pit stop for a drink. The dinner party starts as the fashionable swarm around an even more fashionable hound's-tooth-clad bar. There's also an impressive selection of cocktails: The most spirited was the Bobo's Mead, a gin-based libation, fragrantly infused with lavender honey and lemon.
Upstairs, you'll encounter a formal dining room, romantically lavished with red silk curtains, fireplaces and waterfall chandeliers that cascade from the ceiling. It's a notably "see and be seen" crowd, table-hopping between the two floors.
Unfortunately, the food stands in striking disharmony with the attractive ambience. The majority of the Pan-European fare neither looked nor tasted particularly appetizing, which is perplexing considering the chef's impressive pedigree.
After all, Cantrel diligently trained under Alain Ducasse for nine years and recently served as the executive sous chef at Country. Perhaps Cantrel had checked out of this "bed & breakfast" early, or was busy mingling with guests. Or even skipped the dinner party altogether.
A safe start is the tarte flambee. A warm, crunchy flatbread showcases smoky bacon, onion and a rich crème fraiche. But this is as good as it gets - a diamond in the rough - among a very rough run of sub-standard dishes.
The chef couldn't possibly have laid eyes on the emaciated chicken presented to our table one evening, or let such a perilously fishy branzino pass through the kitchen doors on another visit.
To get to the tuna confit in a Mediterranean salad, I had to peel a gelatinous shield off the egregiously salty fish. Even then, I was left with little more than a grim mix of diced tomatoes, celery leaves and a lone anchovy. Steak tartare amassed gamy tenderloin chunks that all but surrendered to unrelenting waves of vinegar.
The chicken grandmere (a classic French fricassee) looked like it had been on a reality show for weight loss - and won. All skin and bones, this floppy-skinned bird was easily upstaged by a side of buttery whipped potatoes.
Stiff almond pappardelle wore a gloppy cloak; lamb chops were tough; and chestnut soup panned out to be no thicker than water. Unappealing plates were par for the course and even mediocre ones were too few and far between.
If you're not the eating type - or particularly hungry - then Bobo's beguiling setting is a perfect way to spend the evening in someone else's home. For those more concerned with culinary matters, you may want to eat before you check into this house of style.
http://www.nydailynews.com/lifestyle/food/..._is_a_nono.html
let's see: to treat exhaustion?
